Hi, I'm Ottopilot. You may know me from my NSFW main blog @ottopilotreturns, my writing blogs @ottopilot-wrote-this/@ottopilot-wrote-this-txt, my SFW blog @ottopilot-sfw, my AI image blog @ottopilot-ai, former blogs such as "ottopilot" and "opcaptions," or any of the many shadowbanned blogs I had before I figured out Tumblr hates VPNs.
I had been toying with the idea of a SFW blog for non-adult writings, but decided to go for it and extend it to other types of posts after the 2024 U.S. election. I have thoughts and I didn't want to hide them behind a NSFW 18+ blog. Still gonna swear like a mutha though. This post is a living document and is subject to change.
I generally reblog humor and memes, food pr0n, travel photography, disability advocacy (late-dx autistic and ADHD), and hopefully, some writing.
Also, I'll just block you if I don't like your vibe. This is not the federal government, you aren't entitled to free speech and I don't have to give oxygen to your dumpster fire of an existence. This applies, but is not limited to: actual racists, TERFs, misogynists, ableists, right-wing nutjobs (RWNJs), et. al.
Frequently used tags:
#my text: old man yells at clouds, but in Tumblr form
#actually autistic: thoughts on living with, and constantly adjusting to, autism
#actually adhd: sorry, did you say something?
#otto's jukebox: put in a quarter and pick a song. Sometimes with additional commentary.
#just tag me next time: I begrudgingly admit this post reflects my existence
#it's true: used in Dwight Schrute voice, in which I agree with the hot takes of fellow Tumblrites
The Valkyrie is a work of serial fiction, told in eight chapters. It is intended to be suitable for young adult readers. Content warnings for the series: mind control, corruption, fantasy violence.
The Valkyrie, Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Tahrapi picked themselves up off the dirt. Their arms felt heavy, but not as much as their aching legs. They left their practice blade on the ground and took a pull from their canteen. "I need a break," they gasped.
Sanija sheathed her practice sword, and let out a small laugh as she reached for her own water. The valkyrie veteran wore her full armor, shiny and maintained with diligent precision, even after all these years. It was considerably heavier than Tahrapi's leather armor, which was pared back for better agility and freedom of movement, yet Sanija had barely exerted herself.
"You're getting better, Mouse," she said. "Ya got a couple good shots in. But it'll be harder against a woman half my age—or a man who’s faster and stronger."
Rukhan sat on a stump nearby, finishing off an apple. "I've been watching you two for an hour," he said. "Do you want some friendly advice?"
Tahrapi glared at Rukhan and scowled. Why do I let him get under my skin?
"No. I'll figure it out myself," they said.
"I said, I can take care of myself."
Tahrapi stood askance, arms crossed, glowering at Sarima. "I know you were trying to help, but we're not kids anymore."
Sarima sighed in frustration. "Why are you mad at me? There's no justice for you in Jathruk, and you know it. I was protecting you, Tahra."
Just like my mother. Tahrapi swallowed hard. They growled, "The people were on my side. No one ever stands up to these vultures. I'm tired of staying in the shadows so others can live in the light." I thought you'd understand, Sarima.
Sarima blinked, her mouth open, then she frowned. "I don't understand."
Draeven sat across from Sarima in a plush oversized chair. Recently, the two had been spending more time together, alone, in the archon's private sanctum, as she secretly learned magic under his tutelage.
He leaned forward, fingers tented, his grey eyes betraying no malice. "When you first arrived, you seemed frustrated by Prince Valerian's unwillingness to share power with you and treat you as a partner. Why do you think that's changed?"
Sarima took a sip of tea and set the cup and saucer on a side table. "It's true, I was. But he's the prince. Soon he'll be king, with or without me," she said with resignation.
Draeven looked down, stirring his own tea with a silver spoon. "A forbidden magical parasite has been stolen from my laboratory. Called a mind leech, its larvae can be ingested by an unknowing subject, making them susceptible to mental manipulation by the person who administered it."
Sarima's brows were knitted. "Are you suggesting..."
Draeven continued. "I don't know when it was taken, I only found it missing this morning. The only persons with access to my laboratory, other than myself, are the royal family. And the king is not leaving his bed to steal a forbidden magical artifact."
Sarima stared at the teacup on the side table, her eyes narrowing. Lashing out with her nascent powers, Sarima's thoughts propelled the delicate china cup across the room, where it crashed into a stone wall and shattered. "That cretin."
"You're right to be angry, Princess," Draeven said, reclining in his chair, tenting his fingers. "And your abilities have improved quickly. You're a natural mage. But the prince has crossed a moral line, and his willingness to do that makes him dangerous. The question, my dear," he said, pausing for emphasis, "is whether you are willing to do the same."
Sarima's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying, Severian?"
"You have struck me, Princess, since your first day here, as a woman who understands that the only thing power respects," Draeven said, "is greater power."
Sarima fidgeted with the hem of her dress. "Tahra, I know you're angry," she said softly, trying a different tactic. "I wasn't trying to prevent you from speaking up for yourself. But I had to step in to prevent retaliation. I hate that I have to use my privilege like a weapon, but if it's to protect you, so be it." Sarima reached out a hand, gingerly.
Tahrapi recoiled, stopping just short of slapping Sarima's hand away. Sarima withdrew, hurt. "He accused me of stealing, Sarima!" they exclaimed through tears. "If I couldn't prove my innocence, I'd be rotting in a cell right now. I had every right to make him pay."
"You pick the fights you can win, Tahra,” Sarima pleaded. “This wasn't one of them."
Tahrapi snarled, "When will you learn, Sarima, that I don't pick fights I can't win?"
"When you learn how to accept help!" Sarima snapped back.
Rukhan rose from his stump. "Suit yourself. But since you're taking a break... Sanija, are you up for a challenge?"
Sanija laughed heartily. "Oh, I've been looking forward to this for a while."
Rukhan picked up Tahrapi's practice sword. Tahrapi watched as he sauntered, leisurely, in front of Sanija. "Oh wait, I have to tie my boot," he said, putting the apple core between his teeth and dropping to one knee.
Rukhan tied his boot and, without looking up, hurled the apple core from his mouth at Sanija's left ear. Unsure of what he had thrown, Sanija reacted quickly, swinging her sword with her left arm to deflect the apple core.
Rukhan leapt up from his crouch, and brought the short sword down square on Sanija's left hand. His aim true, Sanija yelped out in pain and surprise, dropping her sword. She grabbed her crippled hand with the right, just in time to feel the practice blade at her throat.
"Dragonspawn," Sanija snarled.
Rukhan gave Sanija a sardonic wink before withdrawing the sword. "Don't swear at me just because you lost, Valkyrie." When he turned to an astonished Tahrapi, the playfulness had dissipated. He addressed them in a measured tone, but with a hint of exasperation.
"Tahrapi, your strategy is correct. You know your opponent is bigger and stronger, so you evade and hit quick strikes. But you let her bide her time and tire you out."
Rukhan pointed at Sanija. "Valkyries are predictable. You've been trained in their tactics, so exploit them. She wasn't ready for my attack, because you both play by arbitrary rules of decorum. There are no rules in life and death. Your best weapon is not in your hand, it's in your head. So watch your enemy, and break them down. I watched her favor her left side, and I didn't have to see her left hand to know she doesn't trust it."
Sanija scoffed. "That worked against one old lame valkyrie. It won't work against a squadron."
Rukhan nodded. "You're right. But it's not meant to. If Tahrapi has to fight through an army, they're dead. People like us, we have to pick our battles."
Tahrapi sighed. I've heard that one before. "Any more lessons for me, teacher?" they said, their voice thick with sarcasm.
Rukhan closed the distance between them until they could practically feel his breath. Am I blushing? I'm blushing, they thought, trembling slightly.
"Yes," Rukhan said softly, holding the blade up horizontally, offering it back to Tahrapi. "Doing it your way doesn't mean doing it alone."
Tahrapi looked into his eyes, their lips parted. There it was, that glimmer again in his eyes. Then it was gone. They looked down at the sword, taking it in their hands.
They nodded in acceptance. "Break's over, Sanija. Let's go again."
It won't happen, not again.
Sarima wrote furiously, with conviction, like a woman possessed. Fitting, she smirked, because, thanks to my darling prince, I am one.
I was a fool to think I could change things from within the system. The only way to defeat power is to seize more of it. And if that means having the will to go where others will not, then so be it.
The mind leech, gestating inside Sarima, was changing her physically, as well as mentally. Her auburn hair, bright and fiery when she arrived in Ryshanam, had turned the color of bronze. Her skin had paled, her once-rosy cheeks drained of color, as the darkness thrived within her.
I see now the opportunity within my reach. And I see that past attachments will only hold me back from my destiny.
I need now only the courage to cast the rules aside, and forge my own path ahead. I learned that from you.
The Valkyrie is a work of serial fiction, told in eight chapters. It is intended to be suitable for young adult readers. Content warnings for the series: mind control, corruption, fantasy violence.
The Valkyrie, Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Tahrapi picked themselves up off the dirt. Their arms felt heavy, but not as much as their aching legs. They left their practice blade on the ground and took a pull from their canteen. "I need a break," they gasped.
Sanija sheathed her practice sword, and let out a small laugh as she reached for her own water. The valkyrie veteran wore her full armor, shiny and maintained with diligent precision, even after all these years. It was considerably heavier than Tahrapi's leather armor, which was pared back for better agility and freedom of movement, yet Sanija had barely exerted herself.
"You're getting better, Mouse," she said. "Ya got a couple good shots in. But it'll be harder against a woman half my age—or a man who’s faster and stronger."
Rukhan sat on a stump nearby, finishing off an apple. "I've been watching you two for an hour," he said. "Do you want some friendly advice?"
Tahrapi glared at Rukhan and scowled. Why do I let him get under my skin?
"No. I'll figure it out myself," they said.
"I said, I can take care of myself."
Tahrapi stood askance, arms crossed, glowering at Sarima. "I know you were trying to help, but we're not kids anymore."
Sarima sighed in frustration. "Why are you mad at me? There's no justice for you in Jathruk, and you know it. I was protecting you, Tahra."
Just like my mother. Tahrapi swallowed hard. They growled, "The people were on my side. No one ever stands up to these vultures. I'm tired of staying in the shadows so others can live in the light." I thought you'd understand, Sarima.
Sarima blinked, her mouth open, then she frowned. "I don't understand."
Draeven sat across from Sarima in a plush oversized chair. Recently, the two had been spending more time together, alone, in the archon's private sanctum, as she secretly learned magic under his tutelage.
He leaned forward, fingers tented, his grey eyes betraying no malice. "When you first arrived, you seemed frustrated by Prince Valerian's unwillingness to share power with you and treat you as a partner. Why do you think that's changed?"
Sarima took a sip of tea and set the cup and saucer on a side table. "It's true, I was. But he's the prince. Soon he'll be king, with or without me," she said with resignation.
Draeven looked down, stirring his own tea with a silver spoon. "A forbidden magical parasite has been stolen from my laboratory. Called a mind leech, its larvae can be ingested by an unknowing subject, making them susceptible to mental manipulation by the person who administered it."
Sarima's brows were knitted. "Are you suggesting..."
Draeven continued. "I don't know when it was taken, I only found it missing this morning. The only persons with access to my laboratory, other than myself, are the royal family. And the king is not leaving his bed to steal a forbidden magical artifact."
Sarima stared at the teacup on the side table, her eyes narrowing. Lashing out with her nascent powers, Sarima's thoughts propelled the delicate china cup across the room, where it crashed into a stone wall and shattered. "That cretin."
"You're right to be angry, Princess," Draeven said, reclining in his chair, tenting his fingers. "And your abilities have improved quickly. You're a natural mage. But the prince has crossed a moral line, and his willingness to do that makes him dangerous. The question, my dear," he said, pausing for emphasis, "is whether you are willing to do the same."
Sarima's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying, Severian?"
"You have struck me, Princess, since your first day here, as a woman who understands that the only thing power respects," Draeven said, "is greater power."
Sarima fidgeted with the hem of her dress. "Tahra, I know you're angry," she said softly, trying a different tactic. "I wasn't trying to prevent you from speaking up for yourself. But I had to step in to prevent retaliation. I hate that I have to use my privilege like a weapon, but if it's to protect you, so be it." Sarima reached out a hand, gingerly.
Tahrapi recoiled, stopping just short of slapping Sarima's hand away. Sarima withdrew, hurt. "He accused me of stealing, Sarima!" they exclaimed through tears. "If I couldn't prove my innocence, I'd be rotting in a cell right now. I had every right to make him pay."
"You pick the fights you can win, Tahra,” Sarima pleaded. “This wasn't one of them."
Tahrapi snarled, "When will you learn, Sarima, that I don't pick fights I can't win?"
"When you learn how to accept help!" Sarima snapped back.
Rukhan rose from his stump. "Suit yourself. But since you're taking a break... Sanija, are you up for a challenge?"
Sanija laughed heartily. "Oh, I've been looking forward to this for a while."
Rukhan picked up Tahrapi's practice sword. Tahrapi watched as he sauntered, leisurely, in front of Sanija. "Oh wait, I have to tie my boot," he said, putting the apple core between his teeth and dropping to one knee.
Rukhan tied his boot and, without looking up, hurled the apple core from his mouth at Sanija's left ear. Unsure of what he had thrown, Sanija reacted quickly, swinging her sword with her left arm to deflect the apple core.
Rukhan leapt up from his crouch, and brought the short sword down square on Sanija's left hand. His aim true, Sanija yelped out in pain and surprise, dropping her sword. She grabbed her crippled hand with the right, just in time to feel the practice blade at her throat.
"Dragonspawn," Sanija snarled.
Rukhan gave Sanija a sardonic wink before withdrawing the sword. "Don't swear at me just because you lost, Valkyrie." When he turned to an astonished Tahrapi, the playfulness had dissipated. He addressed them in a measured tone, but with a hint of exasperation.
"Tahrapi, your strategy is correct. You know your opponent is bigger and stronger, so you evade and hit quick strikes. But you let her bide her time and tire you out."
Rukhan pointed at Sanija. "Valkyries are predictable. You've been trained in their tactics, so exploit them. She wasn't ready for my attack, because you both play by arbitrary rules of decorum. There are no rules in life and death. Your best weapon is not in your hand, it's in your head. So watch your enemy, and break them down. I watched her favor her left side, and I didn't have to see her left hand to know she doesn't trust it."
Sanija scoffed. "That worked against one old lame valkyrie. It won't work against a squadron."
Rukhan nodded. "You're right. But it's not meant to. If Tahrapi has to fight through an army, they're dead. People like us, we have to pick our battles."
Tahrapi sighed. I've heard that one before. "Any more lessons for me, teacher?" they said, their voice thick with sarcasm.
Rukhan closed the distance between them until they could practically feel his breath. Am I blushing? I'm blushing, they thought, trembling slightly.
"Yes," Rukhan said softly, holding the blade up horizontally, offering it back to Tahrapi. "Doing it your way doesn't mean doing it alone."
Tahrapi looked into his eyes, their lips parted. There it was, that glimmer again in his eyes. Then it was gone. They looked down at the sword, taking it in their hands.
They nodded in acceptance. "Break's over, Sanija. Let's go again."
It won't happen, not again.
Sarima wrote furiously, with conviction, like a woman possessed. Fitting, she smirked, because, thanks to my darling prince, I am one.
I was a fool to think I could change things from within the system. The only way to defeat power is to seize more of it. And if that means having the will to go where others will not, then so be it.
The mind leech, gestating inside Sarima, was changing her physically, as well as mentally. Her auburn hair, bright and fiery when she arrived in Ryshanam, had turned the color of bronze. Her skin had paled, her once-rosy cheeks drained of color, as the darkness thrived within her.
I see now the opportunity within my reach. And I see that past attachments will only hold me back from my destiny.
I need now only the courage to cast the rules aside, and forge my own path ahead. I learned that from you.
The Valkyrie is a work of serial fiction, told in eight chapters. SFW. Series content warnings: mind control, corruption, fantasy violence, character death, and queer romance.
The Valkyrie, Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Tahrapi clawed at the dirt as they tried to catch their breath. Their ribs hurt where Korima's practice sword had skillfully landed at the seam of Tahrapi's leather plates. Not as much as their kidneys, though, which throbbed from the underhanded punch to their back that Vurdan, their instructor, did not see.
Or, chose not to see.
"Stay down, mudrat," the larger valkyrie taunted. Tahrapi seethed at the slur, directed at their brown skin and Uldaran heritage. They looked up through dusty bangs and tears at the blonde valkyrie towering over them. Korima was almost a foot taller than Tahrapi, outweighing them by at least seventy-five pounds. Months in the sun training to be a valkyrie meant her tanned skin was nearly as dark as Tahrapi's, but that didn't matter—she didn't have mongrel blood in her veins, like the rockbaby she'd just defeated.
Tahrapi pushed themselves onto their hands and knees. They'd gotten a couple licks in, even surprised their more experienced "sister" with a feint to their left, and a well-placed strike to her shoulder. But it hadn't been a fair match. It was never intended to be. Korima used her reach advantage expertly, attacking the weakest points in Tahrapi's armor and exploiting her younger opponent's slight build. Tahrapi knew this was not a sparring match; it was a message. Quit while you're behind.
All the more reason they wouldn't.
You see, some women enlisted in the valkyrie order for valor. Some were desperate to escape the confines of a life pre-ordained. Some did it to avoid being married off to some misogynist oaf from another hamlet. Some, a surprising number of them, just really needed to fight someone.
None of these reasons mattered to Tahrapi Ruhaka.
This is a story about a valkyrie. A story about treasure sought, trials faced, terrible costs paid, and a curious and unorthodox choice. To understand that choice, you must know that every story has a catalyst. A beginning. A seed.
This story begins with a stone.
Not unlike the one that Tahrapi's dirty fingers closed around. It was not smooth, though not particularly jagged either. It didn't contain precious metals, nothing about it would catch a discerning eye. It was just a plain rock. Hefty, a good weight in their hand. Smaller than their fist. Rather, the size of... a mudrat, they supposed.
That thought made Tahrapi smile a bit, as the rock hurtled through the air, catching Korima square in the back of her pretty little head.
The stone that changed the course of history was much smaller, thankfully. Tahrapi was much smaller then, too: eleven years old, in that awkward period growing out of childhood and into adolescence. A rock the size of the one that struck Korima Ugalde, giving her a slight concussion and a nasty bruise, would have ended young Tahrapi's story quite early.
Instead, this was a small stone, a river rock. Gray, polished, with minuscule dimples. Despite its smooth surface, it still stung when it struck Tahrapi in the back of their right shoulder. They winced, but they didn't yelp or cry out in pain. As a young mountain girl, Tahrapi had been bullied enough to know not to give their assailants the satisfaction.
That was, of course, a delicate balance. Ignore bullies, and eventually they get bored. But in the meantime, the three fair-skinned, blue-eyed boys were going to hurl both insults and rocks. Even at eleven, Tahrapi was well-versed in Uldaran social politics. Keep your head down. Don't cause trouble. Don't trust outsiders. We have but one lifetime, child, their mother would say. Protect it at all cost. The boys would escape a confrontation relatively unscathed, but for Tahrapi, the consequences could be dire.
A second stone missed its mark, falling short. Tahrapi had taken a shortcut through the pines to the lower village, a choice they were now regretting. Under their breath, they cursed the wrap skirt their mother made them wear, a warm orange sarong decorated with spirals. What it had in feminine style and demure beauty, it lacked in utility and mobility, as Tahrapi could neither flee nor fight in it. They loved their mother, but not her stubborn insistence on dressing Tahrapi like a child's doll. I'm never wearing something like this again, they fumed.
With their back turned, Tahrapi could not see one of the boys draw his arm back to throw another stone, which also meant they did not see what happened next... though they definitely heard it.
"Leave her alone. What's wrong with you?" It was a female voice, high in pitch, but not soft or deferential. Instead, it was stern, and powerful. Tahrapi turned, and their jaw fell slightly agape.
It was indeed a girl, roughly the same age as Tahrapi, but a few inches taller than the diminutive Uldaran. Her left hand had caught the boy's wrist mid-throw, and he appeared frozen in shock. A mask of scornful disapproval on her face did nothing to dispel her classical beauty. With her flowing auburn tresses, held back by a headband, she looked like a goddess from an ancient fable. Someone to be both venerated... and feared.
"She's just a mudrat," a younger boy protested, devoid of conviction. Tahrapi saw the bullies were younger than they were—nine, maybe eight years old. But the boys weren't intimidated by the other girl because of her age, or her slight size advantage. They were unaccustomed to a girl who didn't naturally yield to them, and that made them uneasy.
The fire-headed girl twisted the wrist she had in her grip until the boy attached to it dropped the rock. "My father knows your fathers," she said, with a touch of menace. "Leave this girl alone, and others like her, or answer to me. Now, get out of my sight."
Two of the boys looked down, then at each other, before silently turning back up the path to the upper village. The third, the youngest, tried to resist, but without a spine of his own, ran to catch up with his friends.
Tahrapi could only watch the exchange in awe and bewilderment.
Once the fire-headed girl made sure the boys had retreated, she turned back towards Tahrapi. She looked like a different person entirely now. No longer angry, her features softened. She had beautiful light brown eyes, the rich color of honey. Her cheeks shone with the rosy hue of adrenaline, as her mouth formed a kind, friendly smile. And oh, what a smile it was. Tahrapi thought it the most beautiful thing they had ever seen—radiant, and bursting with life.
Tahrapi blushed as they realized they were staring. "Thank you," they blurted. "My name, um, I'm Tahrapi."
...Dearest Tahra, I sometimes fear I've made a grave error. I've seen the moon grow, showing itself brightly, before shrinking again to complete the cycle, in my time at Ryshanam Castle. I believed by being betrothed to the prince, I could improve the station for our sex, and for the good people of Jathruk.
But it may have been a miscalculation. Prince Valerian, I hate to say, is a lecherous egotist, and I shudder at the thought of marriage to him, much less bearing his children. His apathy towards my ideas is rivaled only by his eagerness to lay with me. Where I thought I might have a seat at the court of our kingdom, I have instead been trained in etiquette and decorum. I have not given up on our mission, though I admit my morale has taken some bruising.
I'm so frustrated, my friend, and I sorely miss someone with your brilliance to confide in, and your fire to keep me going. The only person who seems remotely interested in me as anything other than a figurehead is Severian Draeven, the royal archon. He may be the only man who respects me in the entire castle.
I look forward to your next letter, Tahra. I know valkyrie training has been arduous. But I believe in you, and your tenacity. And yes, your stubbornness as well.
Forever Yours,
Sarima
Sarima Dahnam folded the letter and sealed it with wax, a heavy stamp marking it as official correspondence of the royal family of Ryshanam. She sighed deeply and looked out the window of her quarters. From the tower she had a view of the mountains, far off in the eastern horizon. Her home, where she was born, where she met her best friend, seemed immeasurably far.
Her friend. Sarima scoffed as she ruminated over that word. Friend. Wasn't Tahrapi, her dearest Tahra, worthy of more than that? Sarima's fingers lightly traced the wax seal, feeling the slight warmth of parchment beneath her fingertips. Her beloved. A more fitting term, yes; though one left unspoken. A word pregnant with promise, but also clouded with uncertainty.
"Are you alright, Princess?" called a voice from the doorway. In the frame stood Archon Severian Draeven, the royal mage. He was a slender man, fifty years or more, with brown hair and graying temples. His robes, regal purple and black velvet, were neatly hemmed to the perfect length. His shortly trimmed beard gave him a stern, aristocratic demeanor, though with Sarima, he was generally friendly. In his hands he carried a fine teacup atop a saucer.
Sarima gathered herself and offered a friendly smile. "Thank you, Severian, I'm a little homesick, but I'll manage. Also, I'm not a princess yet."
Draeven walked across the room and handed the saucer to Sarima. "Of course, Madam Sarima," he said, courteously. "I know you have had some trouble relaxing of late, so I brought you some tea. It's a medicinal blend, mostly herbs from the kingdom's garden, meant to sedate you so that you can get some rest tonight."
Sarima sipped the tea. It had a mild but distinct flavor, with hints of anise and peppermint, that was not unpleasant. "Thank you. I suppose you are right, the training has been taxing."
"Think nothing of it, my lady. I could tell earlier you were... frustrated with Prince Valerian," Draeven mused, diplomatically pausing to choose the right word.
Sarima huffed. She opened her mouth to respond but, thinking better of it, sipped her tea instead. Her steely gaze peering over the porcelain cup conveyed her disdain.
Draeven let out a slight laugh. "The prince chose you for your beauty, thinking it your greatest asset. But I know better." He pointed a gloved finger to the envelope. "Is this another letter? To your friend from home?"
Sarima nodded with the teacup up to her thin lips. "It is. We have been friends since childhood." She paused to take another sip. "They're training to be a valkyrie."
Draeven raised an eyebrow. "Oh? That's a difficult but noble path."
Sarima finished the tea and set the cup on the saucer, offering it back to Draeven. "Yes, I think someday it might be nice for us to cross paths again." She looked away from Draeven, her mind wandering to a less complicated place and time. "Thank you for the tea, Severian. Do have a good night."
"My lady." Draeven bowed slightly, then took his leave, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.
Sarima stood and floated toward the window. She looked across the expanse, towards the snow-capped mountains she called home. She looked at the envelope on the table, thought of the Dun Varrek Bridge, and let out a wistful sigh.
For the holidays Valentine's Day Pride Month, a queer fantasy romance in eight parts. Intended for young adult readers, though disclaimers are up top and in the tags.
Shout-outs to @subliminalbo and @thesmuttylibrarian for beta reading for me! Greatly appreciate it.
October 2024
Coven, parts 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5. liner notes
November 2024
The Accidental Domme
December 2024
LooseChange
March 2025
The New Model
Flex Hours
June 2025
Backend Support
Generational Trauma
July 2025
Right to Repair
August 2025
饺子 (Dumpling), liner notes
November 2025
Check for Doneness (Hypnovember 2025 Day 30, Button | Time)
March 2026
Influencer
April 2026
April 15
Non-Smut
January 2025
A New Year, liner notes
A Nudge and a Wink
October 2025
Liquor Store (Fictober Challenge)
Dissonance
November 2025
Patina (Hypnovember 2025 Day 14, Voice | Song)
December 2025
The Valkyrie, Chapter One: Stones and Seeds
Auld Lang Syne: A Bailey Castillo Story
June 2026
The Valkyrie, Chapter Two: Comrades and Confidants
The Vault (2014-2018, all smutty)
Amazon Primed
Vault of Horrors, Part 1
Maid to Order
Vampire Weekend
Bitch
Whore
Series
Coven
- parts 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5. liner notes
Bailey Castillo
1. Generational Trauma
2. Backend Support
3. Auld Lang Syne: A Bailey Castillo Story
The Valkyrie
Chapter One: Stones and Seeds
Chapter Two: Comrades and Confidants
The Valkyrie is a work of serial fiction, told in eight chapters. SFW. Series content warnings: mind control, corruption, fantasy violence, character death, and queer romance.
The Valkyrie, Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Tahrapi clawed at the dirt as they tried to catch their breath. Their ribs hurt where Korima's practice sword had skillfully landed at the seam of Tahrapi's leather plates. Not as much as their kidneys, though, which throbbed from the underhanded punch to their back that Vurdan, their instructor, did not see.
Or, chose not to see.
"Stay down, mudrat," the larger valkyrie taunted. Tahrapi seethed at the slur, directed at their brown skin and Uldaran heritage. They looked up through dusty bangs and tears at the blonde valkyrie towering over them. Korima was almost a foot taller than Tahrapi, outweighing them by at least seventy-five pounds. Months in the sun training to be a valkyrie meant her tanned skin was nearly as dark as Tahrapi's, but that didn't matter—she didn't have mongrel blood in her veins, like the rockbaby she'd just defeated.
Tahrapi pushed themselves onto their hands and knees. They'd gotten a couple licks in, even surprised their more experienced "sister" with a feint to their left, and a well-placed strike to her shoulder. But it hadn't been a fair match. It was never intended to be. Korima used her reach advantage expertly, attacking the weakest points in Tahrapi's armor and exploiting her younger opponent's slight build. Tahrapi knew this was not a sparring match; it was a message. Quit while you're behind.
All the more reason they wouldn't.
You see, some women enlisted in the valkyrie order for valor. Some were desperate to escape the confines of a life pre-ordained. Some did it to avoid being married off to some misogynist oaf from another hamlet. Some, a surprising number of them, just really needed to fight someone.
None of these reasons mattered to Tahrapi Ruhaka.
This is a story about a valkyrie. A story about treasure sought, trials faced, terrible costs paid, and a curious and unorthodox choice. To understand that choice, you must know that every story has a catalyst. A beginning. A seed.
This story begins with a stone.
Not unlike the one that Tahrapi's dirty fingers closed around. It was not smooth, though not particularly jagged either. It didn't contain precious metals, nothing about it would catch a discerning eye. It was just a plain rock. Hefty, a good weight in their hand. Smaller than their fist. Rather, the size of... a mudrat, they supposed.
That thought made Tahrapi smile a bit, as the rock hurtled through the air, catching Korima square in the back of her pretty little head.
The stone that changed the course of history was much smaller, thankfully. Tahrapi was much smaller then, too: eleven years old, in that awkward period growing out of childhood and into adolescence. A rock the size of the one that struck Korima Ugalde, giving her a slight concussion and a nasty bruise, would have ended young Tahrapi's story quite early.
Instead, this was a small stone, a river rock. Gray, polished, with minuscule dimples. Despite its smooth surface, it still stung when it struck Tahrapi in the back of their right shoulder. They winced, but they didn't yelp or cry out in pain. As a young mountain girl, Tahrapi had been bullied enough to know not to give their assailants the satisfaction.
That was, of course, a delicate balance. Ignore bullies, and eventually they get bored. But in the meantime, the three fair-skinned, blue-eyed boys were going to hurl both insults and rocks. Even at eleven, Tahrapi was well-versed in Uldaran social politics. Keep your head down. Don't cause trouble. Don't trust outsiders. We have but one lifetime, child, their mother would say. Protect it at all cost. The boys would escape a confrontation relatively unscathed, but for Tahrapi, the consequences could be dire.
A second stone missed its mark, falling short. Tahrapi had taken a shortcut through the pines to the lower village, a choice they were now regretting. Under their breath, they cursed the wrap skirt their mother made them wear, a warm orange sarong decorated with spirals. What it had in feminine style and demure beauty, it lacked in utility and mobility, as Tahrapi could neither flee nor fight in it. They loved their mother, but not her stubborn insistence on dressing Tahrapi like a child's doll. I'm never wearing something like this again, they fumed.
With their back turned, Tahrapi could not see one of the boys draw his arm back to throw another stone, which also meant they did not see what happened next... though they definitely heard it.
"Leave her alone. What's wrong with you?" It was a female voice, high in pitch, but not soft or deferential. Instead, it was stern, and powerful. Tahrapi turned, and their jaw fell slightly agape.
It was indeed a girl, roughly the same age as Tahrapi, but a few inches taller than the diminutive Uldaran. Her left hand had caught the boy's wrist mid-throw, and he appeared frozen in shock. A mask of scornful disapproval on her face did nothing to dispel her classical beauty. With her flowing auburn tresses, held back by a headband, she looked like a goddess from an ancient fable. Someone to be both venerated... and feared.
"She's just a mudrat," a younger boy protested, devoid of conviction. Tahrapi saw the bullies were younger than they were—nine, maybe eight years old. But the boys weren't intimidated by the other girl because of her age, or her slight size advantage. They were unaccustomed to a girl who didn't naturally yield to them, and that made them uneasy.
The fire-headed girl twisted the wrist she had in her grip until the boy attached to it dropped the rock. "My father knows your fathers," she said, with a touch of menace. "Leave this girl alone, and others like her, or answer to me. Now, get out of my sight."
Two of the boys looked down, then at each other, before silently turning back up the path to the upper village. The third, the youngest, tried to resist, but without a spine of his own, ran to catch up with his friends.
Tahrapi could only watch the exchange in awe and bewilderment.
Once the fire-headed girl made sure the boys had retreated, she turned back towards Tahrapi. She looked like a different person entirely now. No longer angry, her features softened. She had beautiful light brown eyes, the rich color of honey. Her cheeks shone with the rosy hue of adrenaline, as her mouth formed a kind, friendly smile. And oh, what a smile it was. Tahrapi thought it the most beautiful thing they had ever seen—radiant, and bursting with life.
Tahrapi blushed as they realized they were staring. "Thank you," they blurted. "My name, um, I'm Tahrapi."
...Dearest Tahra, I sometimes fear I've made a grave error. I've seen the moon grow, showing itself brightly, before shrinking again to complete the cycle, in my time at Ryshanam Castle. I believed by being betrothed to the prince, I could improve the station for our sex, and for the good people of Jathruk.
But it may have been a miscalculation. Prince Valerian, I hate to say, is a lecherous egotist, and I shudder at the thought of marriage to him, much less bearing his children. His apathy towards my ideas is rivaled only by his eagerness to lay with me. Where I thought I might have a seat at the court of our kingdom, I have instead been trained in etiquette and decorum. I have not given up on our mission, though I admit my morale has taken some bruising.
I'm so frustrated, my friend, and I sorely miss someone with your brilliance to confide in, and your fire to keep me going. The only person who seems remotely interested in me as anything other than a figurehead is Severian Draeven, the royal archon. He may be the only man who respects me in the entire castle.
I look forward to your next letter, Tahra. I know valkyrie training has been arduous. But I believe in you, and your tenacity. And yes, your stubbornness as well.
Forever Yours,
Sarima
Sarima Dahnam folded the letter and sealed it with wax, a heavy stamp marking it as official correspondence of the royal family of Ryshanam. She sighed deeply and looked out the window of her quarters. From the tower she had a view of the mountains, far off in the eastern horizon. Her home, where she was born, where she met her best friend, seemed immeasurably far.
Her friend. Sarima scoffed as she ruminated over that word. Friend. Wasn't Tahrapi, her dearest Tahra, worthy of more than that? Sarima's fingers lightly traced the wax seal, feeling the slight warmth of parchment beneath her fingertips. Her beloved. A more fitting term, yes; though one left unspoken. A word pregnant with promise, but also clouded with uncertainty.
"Are you alright, Princess?" called a voice from the doorway. In the frame stood Archon Severian Draeven, the royal mage. He was a slender man, fifty years or more, with brown hair and graying temples. His robes, regal purple and black velvet, were neatly hemmed to the perfect length. His shortly trimmed beard gave him a stern, aristocratic demeanor, though with Sarima, he was generally friendly. In his hands he carried a fine teacup atop a saucer.
Sarima gathered herself and offered a friendly smile. "Thank you, Severian, I'm a little homesick, but I'll manage. Also, I'm not a princess yet."
Draeven walked across the room and handed the saucer to Sarima. "Of course, Madam Sarima," he said, courteously. "I know you have had some trouble relaxing of late, so I brought you some tea. It's a medicinal blend, mostly herbs from the kingdom's garden, meant to sedate you so that you can get some rest tonight."
Sarima sipped the tea. It had a mild but distinct flavor, with hints of anise and peppermint, that was not unpleasant. "Thank you. I suppose you are right, the training has been taxing."
"Think nothing of it, my lady. I could tell earlier you were... frustrated with Prince Valerian," Draeven mused, diplomatically pausing to choose the right word.
Sarima huffed. She opened her mouth to respond but, thinking better of it, sipped her tea instead. Her steely gaze peering over the porcelain cup conveyed her disdain.
Draeven let out a slight laugh. "The prince chose you for your beauty, thinking it your greatest asset. But I know better." He pointed a gloved finger to the envelope. "Is this another letter? To your friend from home?"
Sarima nodded with the teacup up to her thin lips. "It is. We have been friends since childhood." She paused to take another sip. "They're training to be a valkyrie."
Draeven raised an eyebrow. "Oh? That's a difficult but noble path."
Sarima finished the tea and set the cup on the saucer, offering it back to Draeven. "Yes, I think someday it might be nice for us to cross paths again." She looked away from Draeven, her mind wandering to a less complicated place and time. "Thank you for the tea, Severian. Do have a good night."
"My lady." Draeven bowed slightly, then took his leave, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.
Sarima stood and floated toward the window. She looked across the expanse, towards the snow-capped mountains she called home. She looked at the envelope on the table, thought of the Dun Varrek Bridge, and let out a wistful sigh.
For the holidays Valentine's Day Pride Month, a queer fantasy romance in eight parts. Intended for young adult readers, though disclaimers are up top and in the tags.
Shout-outs to @subliminalbo and @thesmuttylibrarian for beta reading for me! Greatly appreciate it.
The Valkyrie, Chapter Two: Comrades and Confidants
The Valkyrie is a work of serial fiction, planned for eight chapters. It is intended to be suitable for young adult readers. Content warnings for the series: mind control, corruption, fantasy violence.
The Valkyrie, Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
"It's not fair," Sarima huffed, fifteen and indignant.
Tahrapi let out a hollow, cynical laugh as they ascended the steep dirt path. Their wiry frame was more athletically suited for this terrain. Reaching a slight plateau, they slung their pack around their back and turned and offered Sarima a hand up. "I could've told you that. It's the story of my life, Sarima."
Sarima took their hand, her cheeks flushed with exertion. At least, that's what she told herself. "Why can't I take science? Because it's for boys? It's not like I don't already know everything in that class anyway." Using her friend's leverage, she ascended the loose rock of the trail. Reaching the plateau, she stumbled a bit into an awkward semi-embrace with Tahrapi. Then it was their turn to blush. "Is it much further, Tahra?" Sarima asked.
Tahrapi helped steady their companion, and dusted off their trousers. "No, just through those trees." The pair continued onward.
After a pause, Tahrapi spoke in soft, measured tones. "Sarima, I am Uldaran. You're a girl, yes. But you have privileges I do not. Someday, you'll leave Jathruk due to your family's influence, I'm sure of it. People like me though..."
"Tahra." Sarima’s warm hand closed around Tahrapi’s wrist. They didn't have to say it. They never did with Sarima. Long ago, Sarima chose to know Tahrapi, and Tahrapi, contrary to their instincts, chose to let her. Sarima's hand, gentle and reassuring, surely felt Tahrapi's pulse quicken from... the exercise, they thought.
"You're right. This is one unfair thing happening to me right now, but you must be treated unfairly several times a day. I don't agree with you though. If you want to leave Jathruk, it will happen. You are the smartest and most resourceful person I know, Tahra. And the most obstinate."
Tahrapi playfully shoved Sarima in the shoulder, drawing laughter from their companion. "I'd be offended if it weren't so true," Tahrapi said, grinning. You make it sound so easy, Sarima. When it's in my blood to do what's safe. When I've been told to fear what's beyond this village. When I've been told to fear you. "Ah! We're here."
Sarima walked into the clearing and stood next to Tahrapi. They stood at the top of a grassy cliff, facing west and overlooking the valley. As she squinted into the setting sun, Sarima thought she saw something in the distance. "Is that... is that the kingdom, Tahra?"
Tahrapi was kneeling, getting out a small blanket, some snacks wrapped in cloth, and jugs of water from their pack. "Yes," they said, without looking. While Sarima was looking off into the horizon, Tahrapi was looking at the light of the setting sun shining on her face, making her look like her skin was made of pure gold. They couldn't take their eyes off her.
Sarima pointed at Tahrapi's right arm. "Tahra, you're bleeding."
Startled out of their daydream, Tahrapi looked at their elbow. "Must've scraped it on a branch," they muttered. "It's nothing."
Sarima removed the purple headscarf that was securing her hair. Her auburn locks cascaded down her shoulders, and Tahrapi swallowed a little gasp. Sarima dabbed the fabric with some of the water. "I told you, I'm fine. Hey, that stings!" Tahrapi yelped, as Sarima dabbed at the cut.
"Tahra, quit being a baby," Sarima said, rolling her eyes and smiling. She tied the scarf around Tahrapi's arm. "There," she said, stepping back, a satisfied look on her face.
Sarima sat on the blanket. Tahrapi joined her, their shoulders barely apart. They were so close they could each feel the precarious warmth of the other's body, though neither dared say a word about it. Tahrapi unwrapped the snack they brought, a dense, fermented cake made of roughly ground bulgur and wheat.
"What is it?" Sarima asked.
"It's called graznah," Tahrapi said. "It's hearty, for the hike home. It's a bit sour though, you might not-"
"I like it!" Sarima beamed, her rosy cheeks stuffed with the chewy cake. "It's tangy, like yogurt. Oh! I have something special for you!" Excitedly, she unwrapped a thin napkin to reveal eight bulbous, green fruits. "These are figs. My father brought some home from the market. They grow in warmer climates. They're so precious to me; someday I want my own fig tree."
Tahrapi bit into one of them, as Sarima watched them excitedly. It was juicy and sweet, with a beautiful, rich, dark pink center. "Oh," Tahrapi remarked with surprise. "I've never had anything like this."
They sat together, sharing a snack and watching the sun set. Her gaze focused on Tahrapi, Sarima remarked how the fig and graznah strangely complemented each other: sweet and sour, coarse and soft. As Tahrapi sucked the sticky tips of their fingers, Sarima hurriedly diverted her eyes, her cheeks flushed and burning.
Sarima shifted her weight and, drawn by unseen forces, her hand found Tahrapi's. Neither looked at the other, both oblivious as to the social rules of budding romance. Tahrapi thought of how often they felt like a stranger in their own culture, in their own house—in their own body—but that didn't seem to matter right now.
"I want to make it right," Sarima said finally. "I want to make the world—our world—a fair one. Gradually, one step at a time." She turned to Tahrapi. "I hope we can do it together. Would you like that?"
I'm ashamed to be giving up, Tahra.
Sarima held the quill in her hand, thinking of what to write next. It should bother her more, to put those words to paper. Yet there it was. Indelible in ink, and so it must be true.
I feel so odd of late. So many of the things that were important to me when I arrived here have lost their appeal. I can't decide if I've changed, or I've just accepted this is the way it will be here. But I don't think I can keep fighting for change. And the more I think about giving up, the more it feels...
Sarima paused, looking for the correct word.
Right. It feels right.
Even Prince Valerian, I've started to warm up to him. Because I was wrong to oppose him. He was born into power, and he will die holding it. The best I can hope to do is be at his side, and accept what power he chooses to share. It was naive to think otherwise.
He's not an especially attractive man. But I feel strangely attracted to his station. I now feel like it's not my place to challenge that, and now that I realize that, we've gotten along much better.
Oh, Tahra, I have heard you are struggling with your training. Perhaps you should also learn to cut your losses. Maybe it's time to comply with your instructors, or maybe it's time to go home. I worry for you that your rebellious nature will hurt you in the long run.
Sincerely,
Sarima of Ryshanam
Sarima sighed as she sealed the letter. She hoped Tahrapi would take her advice and just... comply. It would all be so much easier, and pleasurable, to comply.
A knock sounded at the doorway; it was Severian. Sarima's lips curled into a sleepy smile, she was glad to see him. It was good to have someone she could trust in the castle. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"No, not at all, Severian. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Sarima replied.
Draeven came and sat across from Sarima. He took her hands in his own, which were smooth and free of blemishes or calluses. "You seem not yourself lately, Princess."
She was not a princess yet, Sarima thought, though she didn't feel she should correct him. "Perhaps," she managed, deferentially. "I just feel powerless to change things like I had hoped I could. Though I'm struggling with how easy that is to accept."
Draeven smiled slightly. "I can understand how that must feel," he said. "For an idealistic woman to be confronted with the realities of her place in the world."
Sarima nodded, expressionless.
Draeven smiled. "Princess, what if I told you there might be a way for you to carve out some power of your own?"
Sarima nodded again. That seemed logical. It was what she wanted, or something close to it.
"I could teach you magic. You could be my apprentice."
Sarima looked at Draeven skeptically. "I thought that wasn't allowed."
"Technically it's not," Draeven said. "But I am Archon of Ryshanam, the ultimate authority on magic in the kingdom. It's up to me who I share it with. And you will soon be queen. Who is going to complain about that? Who would even dare to challenge you, other than the king?"
Sarima considered Draeven's words. He was sensible. Maybe there was still hope for her vision of a new Ryshanam. Severian was, after all, a powerful man. Even a fraction of his power, plus the weight of the throne, could give her leverage to make a difference in the kingdom.
"I trust you. When do we start?"
Sanija Chamrath, valkyrie captain turned local barfly, let out a contented sigh before addressing her moody drinking companion. "I'm halfway through my third pint, Mouse, and you've barely gotten started. Try to keep up."
Tahrapi rotated their half-full stein of mead, staring down at the amber liquid. They regretted telling Sanija about the mudrat insult; the elder valkyrie teasingly, though fondly, called the diminutive Tahrapi "Mouse" at every opportunity.
The Broken Wing was the social hub and drinking hole of Kethram Ford, though no one called it that. The idea that some aristocrat thought renaming Kethram would make it respectable rubbed the working-class locals the wrong way. Kethram hosted the valkyrie training ground, up the hill across the river. The only thing valkyries liked better than drinking was fighting, making them a double-edged sword for the local economy. Still, Tahrapi treated the locals with respect, because they knew what it was like to grow up in a place you were either passing through, or never leaving.
Sulking, Tahrapi drank from their mead. What had gotten into Sarima? The intoxicating effect of the sweet brew did nothing to wash away the bitter helplessness and resignation Tahrapi felt from having read that letter.
"Hrrm. I know a troubled soul when I see one. Ya know, I mighta been a grunt, and my hand may be weak nowadays," Sanija said, holding up her scarred left hand. "But my eyes, and my mind. Still working." She pounded her mead, putting the empty stein next to the others in front of her. "Usually."
Tahrapi gave a faint smile. Sanija might have been double their age, but Tahrapi always felt like the adult in the room around her. Stocky and busty, Sanija was once the idealized valkyrie—disciplined, fearless, strong. Nowadays, she hung out at the tavern too often, and drank too much when she did.
Tahrapi changed the subject. "Last day of latrine duty was today."
Sanija laughed, a deep and heavy bellow. "Ha! Don't be so sad, Mouse. Piss off the brass again, and you'll be right back at it. Branek! Another." Sanija motioned to the bald, portly barkeep for another mead. "Though ya ask me, Blondie had it coming. Good for ya ta stand up for yourself."
"They told me warriors show restraint. Breaking ranks to fight an enemy that calls me names will get us all killed."
"True—but in war, your sisters don't usually sucker-punch ya in the kidney, do they?" Sanija spat the word like it was snake venom on her tongue. "Plus, ya get to kill someone says that to ya in war."
Tahrapi chuckled. "Suppose that's true." Their wan smile faded. "I've been thinking,” they said in a hushed, somber tone. "The rigid strikes, the formations, the heavy armor. Didn't it ever strike you as limiting?"
Sanija tossed back her salt-and-pepper hair. "That style's all I've ever known, and it kept me alive many times. It's tradition, but y'think ya could do better?"
Tahrapi leaned forward. "Look at me, Sanija. I'm not built to be a grunt. But I'm quick, and I can scrap. Instead of standing shoulder to shoulder, marching straight at the enemy and waiting to get shot at with arrows, why not split up? Hide and get the jump on them? I—"
"Cheating bitch!"
A valkyrie, blonde, drunk, and roughly the size of a bear, hurled a goblet at the head of a brunette valkyrie. The brunette overturned the heavy wooden table, spilling playing cards and beers across the stone floor. Brankek, the barkeep, rolled his eyes as he dried a clean stein with his towel. Chaos ensued in the boisterous tavern as the two bulky women squared up.
But that's not what caught Tahrapi's eye.
A man in a red cloak, not much taller or heftier than Tahrapi, with dark hair and a trimmed beard, was standing near the blonde valkyrie. An instant before the brunette turned the table, the man nicked a pouch from it and stuffed it into his cloak. He did it so quickly and stealthily he was surely undetected—except by one Uldaran valkyrie trainee, who followed his movement to the door.
"Sanija, I forgot, I have to be somewhere. Don't drink too much tonight, okay?" Tahrapi threw some coins on the bar and gave chase.
Once outside, Tahrapi looked left and right for the man, who wasn't to be found. They needed a better vantage point. They spied a stack of firewood along the side of the tavern and scaled it quickly, using that to get up to the roof. From there, they saw the man in the red cloak approach someone in an alley. They crept along the ledge, unsheathing their dagger from their thigh, holding the blade away from their body as they leaped off the roof.
They landed on their feet, in a low crouch. Startled, the man in the cloak turned to face them, shielding the other figure with his body.
Tahrapi assumed an offensive stance, the dagger's blade gleaming in the moonlight. "Gotcha."
From behind the red cloak, a figure emerged. Dirty. Emaciated. Barefoot, in tattered clothes. He looked half the size of even the slight Tahrapi, and his eyes reflected an emotion they weren't used to seeing. Terror.
A kid. A damn hungry kid. And he was scared to death. Of me.
Their eyes drifted from the boy to the man. He was strikingly handsome, slender, with straight black hair, an olive complexion and a tightly trimmed beard. But what caught Tahrapi's attention were his eyes. Yes, there was a gentle weariness masked by resolve. But they could swear the man's eyes were almost iridescent.
Tahrapi relaxed their posture, sheathing their knife. They saw the man's eyes follow their hand to their thigh holster. They slowed their movements slightly, allowing his gaze to linger just a bit. They were willing to let this play out.
"Told ya you couldn't hide," Tahrapi said, adopting a playful grin. "After you're done talking with your friend, it's my turn to hide."
The man smirked, nodding slowly. "That's okay, he was just on his way," he said. He had a strange accent, hard to place, when he spoke. He squatted to speak to the boy at eye level. "You'd better get going. Remember, if anyone asks, you found that on the ground."
Tahrapi watched as the boy, clutching the valkyrie's satchel, scampered off into the night.
"Thank you," the man said to Tahrapi. "I owe you, for sparing me in front of the child."
Tahrapi paced the entrance to the alley, their eyes never leaving the stranger's. "Hm, no one said anything about sparing you. You're not from these parts, are you?"
"Ah, I could say the same about you." Despite being cornered, his demeanor stayed cool. "You wear the clothing of a valkyrie cadet, but something tells me you know what it's like to be an outsider."
"True," Tahrapi scoffed, "but I'm also supposed to uphold law and order, not steal from drunk soldiers."
"Those valkyries spent the day collecting taxes from peasants," the man said, gesturing first at the tavern, then at the businesses lining the road. "The coins in that purse are but a small fraction of them. The king will still get fat and rich off the backs of his subjects," his voice rose slightly. "This pittance is going to feed a poor orphan and his sister tonight, and the king will never know it was missing. Surely you know the difference between doing what the law says, and doing what's right?"
Tahrapi looked away from the man, suddenly realizing what bothered them the most about the letter from Sarima. She had always been passionate about making the world a just place. Now she was giving up on that—from the throne, no less. Not only was it unlike her, it was wrong. Morally. Their stomach churned. They couldn't put a finger on it, but something was not right with Sarima.
Tahrapi's hand closed into a fist at their side. They weren't about to give up on that dream, and they weren't about to give up on Sarima, either.
"Yes, I do," Tahrapi said, their chestnut eyes like saucers in the moonlight. "And I know what I saw." Their aloof expression softened into a knowing smirk. "You gave that boy money out of your own pocket."
"Thank you," the man in the cloak smiled, dropping his cautious posture. "I am Rukhan Srayun, at your service. I'm in your debt, Miss...?"
"I'm Tahrapi Ruhaka," Tahrapi said, extending their hand and blushing slightly. "The 'miss' isn't necessary."
"Yes," Rukhan said, clasping their hand. "Of course."
Picked up dinner at the taquería tonight. One of the workers there is just my type: not a supermodel, an around the way girl. A tender Roni. Chubby cheeks, long lashes, and clear brown skin, which is something, considering she's around the carnitas all night. Round in all the right places.
I bet when she comes home from work, she smells fucking amazing.
The Valkyrie might be the work that ruins serialized fiction for me. I already was going to dip into Chapter One, which I already posted, and tonight I thought of two more edits to make in chapters one and three.
One of these is really devious, and I'm so thrilled with some of these late developments. It goes to show even if I plan this shit out to a tee, the story and characters have other shit planned. They're like children.
Last time I did one of these 11 weeks ago, I was reflecting on a solid year of actually putting effort into my writing. At the time, I had a couple stories on tap, and was hoping the words would flow freely and effortlessly into the New Year.
Then the following happened:
my youngest son, overachiever that he is, got strep throat and hand, foot, and mouth disease at the same time,
the hybrid battery in the family car died mid-Thanksgiving Day drive, turning a grueling three-hour drive into a grueling six-and-a-half hour experience, and costing me $4000 at the holidays,
my wife caught the flu and gave it to our kids, triggering asthma in each of them. I didn't get it, but I had to hold down the fort, work, and shop for the holidays,
I wrapped up the shopping on Christmas Eve in a torrential downpour, and picked up rice and beans for tamales. I got everyone to sleep and the power went out. I wrapped gifts with a flashlight.
after Christmas we tried to do the traditions we skipped before Christmas, and 2025 kicked us on the way out by giving us norovirus,
I resisted the urge to say, "I told you so about the leather couch," as I cleaned vomit off the couch, when I heard a crash. My son decided to take the Nestea plunge into his loft bed and broke the slats.
went to IKEA on New Year's Day to but bed slats, assembled it in the kitchen, tried furiously to dodge norovirus,
so much vomit, so much poo, so much laundry
managed not to get either virus but the stress caught up with me big time
I don't even think this is an exhaustive list!
I did manage to do a couple pieces I am really happy with and proud of (only Check for Doneness is NSFW):
I did two short pieces for Hypnovember for the first time: Patina, a Kpop Demon Hunters fanfic, and Check for Doneness, an exercise in hypnokink frivolity. Fun, light stuff for me.
I went back to @subliminalbo's Romeroverse as a holiday gift with one of my favorite characters, Bailey Castillo, in Auld Lang Syne: A Bailey Castillo Story . It's a Blade Runner-esque neo-noir, cyperpunk Cinderella short that was a lot of fun to write.
Lastly, dropped the first chapter of an eight-part fantasy story called The Valkyrie, titled Stones and Seeds. This is a pretty ambitious story of mine I've been working on for almost a year: a young adult-level queer romance with (appropriate) mind control/corruption elements, told in a dual narrative using Dan Harmon's Story Circle. I'm really thrilled with the setup here, though the real challenge our heroines face is the author's time and motivation.
This year, expect The Valkyrie to wrap by fall, a Hammer Studios Dracula sequel for Halloween (that I started and then shelved), and hopefully the wheels get turning on Fairlady with some time for side quests on flash fiction projects (I have been itching to do something devious again; writing all this SFW content).
I also would like to collaborate! I have no idea how to do that, though. Hit me up if you are interested.
If you follow this and my main (NSFW) blog, you'd probably notice this one has been neglected.
What I found I was doing was just double-posting a bunch of content, which was a little time consuming, and occasionally I would get them confused.
So just going to make this blog for SFW writing going forward. If you came here for funny memes and stuff but don't want to follow the NSFW main, sorry.
This story references characters from the Obedience by Fleur series by @subliminalbo, and is a sequel to Generational Trauma and Backend Support (both NSFW; this one is SFW).
A holiday gift to the homie @subliminalbo, who didn't get to beta read this one, but I don't think he'll mind.
Having a conscience is going to get me killed someday.
Client didn't return the asset on time. Pretty unusual; no one wants to be on the bad side of organized crime. Tracker says the asset is still on site, though. Now that's peculiar.
Could be an old man who had a heart attack. If so, then I changed into this dress for nothing. But if it's not… someone's going to come soon to recover the asset, and some unsuspecting dope is going to have a very unhappy new year.
The elevator doors open and I step onto the velvet carpet in my Louboutin heels. Had to get dolled up; people tend to raise an eyebrow to hoodies and Air Force Ones. The Ridley is actually a respectable, upscale establishment. Not a shithole front for prostitution, like the Gilead. This is where Romero's powerful bring their mistresses while they still have a little autonomy.
Wonder if Mamá ever stayed here. Focus. I dismiss the thought, double-check the details on my phone, and stop in front of the room.
Room 404. Sure. Why not.
I look for cameras. Finding none, I reach under the slit in my dress and pull my Sig Sauer P365 from its thigh holster. Saying a quick prayer that I won't need it, I rap on the door. "Housekeeping."
The door cracks open, and I move quickly, pushing my way inside. A man on the other side takes a tumble. Once inside, I shove the door closed with my ass. All the while, my piece is pointed at the man as I scan the room. "Stay down," I bark.
I spot the asset right away. She stands by an open window, the hotel's neon sign lighting her face in red. Same black evening dress she was dropped off in; sexy, but not overly tawdry. Red lipstick still applied perfectly. Not a knockout, but pretty. Obtainable. Normally, her standout feature would be her green eyes, but her gaze is vacant, like twin emeralds that had lost their lustre.
Not a hair out of place. An odd state for an escort drone.
I turn my attention to the man, who I'm still trained on. Middle-aged. Balding. Tattered sportcoat. Polyester slacks. Dated fashion sense. He's dressed like these are the only nice clothes he's ever owned. He looks nervous, propped up on his elbows, showing me his open palms. "Am I in trouble?"
"You Henry Robbins?" I ask. The room was in the client's legal name, paid in cash. That made him either terribly naive, or terribly stupid.
"Yes," he says, his voice shaky. "Look, I—"
I interrupt. I'm not interested in his life story. "Stand. Hands behind your head." Henry stands. He's probably 5' 4" and 130 pounds soaking wet. I give him a quick pat down from behind, and he's predictably clean. Not a threat, just some guy. I holster my piece. "She was due back at ten." I point to the couch. "Have a seat while I inspect the girl."
Henry sits, gingerly. Poor guy looks spooked. Probably has never seen a gun in his life. "Ten P.M.? I thought I had until ten in the morning."
I stand next to the drone and pull out my phone. I hook into her interface via Bluetooth and start running a diagnostic. I don't look up. "Probably seems like a lot of money, but you'd need a lot more than that for an over-nighter." Scans look good, which makes sense, since I doubt this guy has even breathed on her in three hours. "I need to bring her back to the shop for processing. You're lucky I had nothing better to do tonight." I compose a quick text to intake. Asset 43 recovered. Call off the dogs. ETA 11:50.
"What? No. Please, I need more time," the man says. He looks like he's on the verge of tears. There's a bottle of champagne on ice on the end table next to him, and two empty champagne flutes.
I sigh, arms crossed. "Look, Henry—it is Henry? Henry, this is an escort drone, and you loaned her out from some powerful and, frankly, very scary people. This is not an overdue book from the public library. You don't just bring her back when it's convenient for you."
Henry's shoulders slump. When he speaks, he ignores my warning, and it's like he's talking to himself. "They told me she'll do whatever I ask. That her name's 'Tiffany.' But it's not."
I look again at the motionless drone, then at the empty champagne flutes. "You knew her."
Henry's eyes are brimming with tears. "Her name is Cindy. Cindy Robbins. She is my wife." The use of tense is intentional. and it's received loud and clear. Not "was my wife." Is. Guess I'm getting the life story after all.
Henry continues, leaning forward, wringing his hands, looking at the floor. "Last year, she was diagnosed with early-onset dementia. She couldn't cope with that. I don't know how she found out about this, but she volunteered."
My stomach churns a little as I think of my mother, but I keep a poker face. "She volunteered? To be a drone?"
He nods. "One day I came home, and all I found was a note. Cashed out my savings and took a second on the house so I could afford tonight." His voice breaks. "I didn't even get to say goodbye."
It's time to go, Bailey. No, it's half past time to go. Right. Time to bring the asset in. It's not time to guess when was the last time I had someone to kiss at the New Year. Not time to think about Mamá, and what I'd give to have another night with her. I look at the drone, her eyes looking straight ahead, and it's definitely not time to think about what choice I would make. Lose myself a little at a time, or do it all at once—with the soothing, cold appliance of a wetwork neural interface. Mental euthanasia.
11:37. So close. I had one foot out the goddamned door. Girl, this life is only going to work if you can compartmentalize, and you keep showing yourself you can't do that.
I break out my phone again, reconnecting to the drone's neural interface.
"What are you doing?" Henry asks.
I lower the personality inhibitors and schedule a job to reassert them. “Don’t talk,” I say. Stop talking, Henry, before I change my goddamn mind. I'm taking an awful risk. My backers tend to frown upon tampering with the merchandise, even from the lead architect.
Those green eyes blink. When they re-open, the haze is lifted. It's replaced by something, possibly confusion, possibly awareness. Whatever it is, it's human. The perfectly painted lips move, possibly for the first time tonight. One word escapes them. "Henry?"
"Cindy. Oh God." Henry looks at her, then at me. Like I'm Baron Fucking Frankenstein. “What did you do?”
"Thirty minutes," I say, dropping my phone into my purse.
I walk to the minibar. Johnnie Walker Blue Label, huh? Think I'll make it a double. I brought his wife back from the dead for half-an-hour, least Henry could do is buy me the good stuff. As the lovebirds have a tearful reunion, my shaky hands dump two of the tiny bottles into a tumbler. Then I sit in the leather cuck chair at the desk, and I watch.
Following some real Nicholas Sparks shit, they've wiped their tears and have moved to the couch. You think they'd be all hands, all over each other. Hell, maybe even move to the bed and fuck. But it's the damndest thing.
At first all they do is talk. But not loud enough for me to hear from ten feet away. Hushed tones, sometimes whispers. He says something and her face lights up like fireworks, and she laughs. I sip my scotch and I peer at them over the rim of the glass. She's beautiful, and while I still think it's insane and dangerous that he went in debt over this night with her, I'm starting to understand. Love makes people crazy.
But eventually, even the talking stops. They're just sitting together, holding hands. In each other's presence, her head resting on his shoulder. Three of us in this room, and the only one talking is Anderson Cooper on the television. When I look at them all I see are my own aborted relationships, and my unwillingness to share space with anyone. If I keep them away, neither of us will get hurt. My anxiety ties knots in my stomach. I stand up and drift to the window.
I send an update from my phone. New ETA 12:25. Something minor slightly off on the asset, running a diagnostic. Need more time. Take it out of my cut if needed. Timestamp reads 11:58.
I turn my back and face the window, pretending to give the couple privacy, but it's a lie. Instead of looking out over the Carpenter State campus, I watch the Robbins' New Year kiss reflected in the window. I feel like a voyeur, like a pervert who looks through peepholes in the public bathroom. Except instead of tits and ass, I'm the weirdo leering at people with a healthy relationship. My eyes shift to my own reflection, and I don't like what I find. Without my tech, none of us would be here tonight.
"TIme's up, Henry. Say goodbye," I mutter.
Henry leaves Cindy, and scurries over to me. He speaks in hushed tones so she won't hear. "Please, I'm begging, can you give us a few more minutes?"
I shake my head. "No. I'm doing you a favor, Henry."
Henry is practically begging. "I'm grateful for what you did, ma'am. but please, I need more time."
I lower my voice. "Henry… You won't want to be around when Cinderella turns into a pumpkin."
The implication hangs in the air, as a twisted look of horror settles on his face. He knows I'm right. He won't—he can't—watch her forget about him again.
Henry and Cindy say their goodbyes as I stand by the door. They hug and kiss for the last time, the hug lingering as neither wants to break it first. It's a good thing I didn't eat tonight, because I want to throw up.
Cindy says, "The price must have been tremendous, baby. You didn't have to do this."
There are hot wet tears running down Henry's cheeks. "Yeah, Cin. Yeah, I did."
Cindy leaves with me, and we walk in awkward silence to the elevators. Never done this. Never had to talk to a sentient drone, and it makes my palms sweat.
Finally, I say something. It's eating me alive from the inside out. "I'm sorry. But we had to go."
"No. Don't be sorry. You did a kind thing for him," Cindy says softly, adding, "for us."
"A kind thing." I push the Down button with a pen. Sure, I created the technology that made you a sex robot, but by all means, let's talk about my good deeds.
"You say it like it's a curse."
"Don't hear that a lot in my line of work." I immediately regret opening my big mouth.
The elevator arrives and the decorated doors slide open. Cindy and I walk inside, facing forward. I pull out my phone and look down at it, pretending to check college football scores. Anything to avoid the uncomfortable conversation I started.
"I never thought… he would do this. Hire me out." Cindy let out a humorless laugh. "I guess I shouldn't be that surprised. He even wore the coat I bought him." I see her warm smile reflected in the elevator doors, then it fades into a frown. "I chose this, you know. I didn't want to hurt him. Him watching me slowly forget him, forget everything I loved about him, all while he had to take care of me… I thought I was doing him a favor."
I can't look this woman in the eyes right now, because I've lived that truth. Mamá might have forgotten my name and that I was her daughter, but she never forgot she loved me. Never. I saw it in her eyes until the day she died.
"You don't sound so sure," I say. There's a wobble in my voice, a vulnerability I'd rather not disclose nor accept. "Maybe it wasn't your decision to make alone."
Cindy swallows so hard I can hear it. A hesitation. "I…"
At the pause, I look up and see Cindy's reflection in the elevator's steel doors. The brushed steel distorts Cindy's features, but there's that same blank, vacant of a drone. A look I've seen a hundred times over.
Heavy sigh. Fuck. Nice knowing you, Cindy Robbins.
The door opens on the ground floor, and I step out, heels clicking on the marble tiles. All business, once again. "Follow me," I instruct the drone. My phone reads 12:06 as I message intake. Asset is secured, bringing it to processing. ETA: Fifteen minutes.
I push through the heavy exterior doors and into the brisk Romero night, the drone following obediently behind. A light snow is starting to fall, but I barely notice. Cindy's words weigh heavily on my mind. A kind thing. I try to tell myself, kindness was the kind of thing that got you killed in Romero, or worse.
A smirk forms on my face. Or maybe… it was the only thing that proved I was still alive.
In the distance, I could hear the crackle of fireworks. Or gunshots. Hard to tell in these parts sometimes.
The Valkyrie is a work of serial fiction, told in eight chapters. SFW. Series content warnings: mind control, corruption, fantasy violence, character death, and queer romance.
The Valkyrie, Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Tahrapi clawed at the dirt as they tried to catch their breath. Their ribs hurt where Korima's practice sword had skillfully landed at the seam of Tahrapi's leather plates. Not as much as their kidneys, though, which throbbed from the underhanded punch to their back that Vurdan, their instructor, did not see.
Or, chose not to see.
"Stay down, mudrat," the larger valkyrie taunted. Tahrapi seethed at the slur, directed at their brown skin and Uldaran heritage. They looked up through dusty bangs and tears at the blonde valkyrie towering over them. Korima was almost a foot taller than Tahrapi, outweighing them by at least seventy-five pounds. Months in the sun training to be a valkyrie meant her tanned skin was nearly as dark as Tahrapi's, but that didn't matter—she didn't have mongrel blood in her veins, like the rockbaby she'd just defeated.
Tahrapi pushed themselves onto their hands and knees. They'd gotten a couple licks in, even surprised their more experienced "sister" with a feint to their left, and a well-placed strike to her shoulder. But it hadn't been a fair match. It was never intended to be. Korima used her reach advantage expertly, attacking the weakest points in Tahrapi's armor and exploiting her younger opponent's slight build. Tahrapi knew this was not a sparring match; it was a message. Quit while you're behind.
All the more reason they wouldn't.
You see, some women enlisted in the valkyrie order for valor. Some were desperate to escape the confines of a life pre-ordained. Some did it to avoid being married off to some misogynist oaf from another hamlet. Some, a surprising number of them, just really needed to fight someone.
None of these reasons mattered to Tahrapi Ruhaka.
This is a story about a valkyrie. A story about treasure sought, trials faced, terrible costs paid, and a curious and unorthodox choice. To understand that choice, you must know that every story has a catalyst. A beginning. A seed.
This story begins with a stone.
Not unlike the one that Tahrapi's dirty fingers closed around. It was not smooth, though not particularly jagged either. It didn't contain precious metals, nothing about it would catch a discerning eye. It was just a plain rock. Hefty, a good weight in their hand. Smaller than their fist. Rather, the size of... a mudrat, they supposed.
That thought made Tahrapi smile a bit, as the rock hurtled through the air, catching Korima square in the back of her pretty little head.
The stone that changed the course of history was much smaller, thankfully. Tahrapi was much smaller then, too: eleven years old, in that awkward period growing out of childhood and into adolescence. A rock the size of the one that struck Korima Ugalde, giving her a slight concussion and a nasty bruise, would have ended young Tahrapi's story quite early.
Instead, this was a small stone, a river rock. Gray, polished, with minuscule dimples. Despite its smooth surface, it still stung when it struck Tahrapi in the back of their right shoulder. They winced, but they didn't yelp or cry out in pain. As a young mountain girl, Tahrapi had been bullied enough to know not to give their assailants the satisfaction.
That was, of course, a delicate balance. Ignore bullies, and eventually they get bored. But in the meantime, the three fair-skinned, blue-eyed boys were going to hurl both insults and rocks. Even at eleven, Tahrapi was well-versed in Uldaran social politics. Keep your head down. Don't cause trouble. Don't trust outsiders. We have but one lifetime, child, their mother would say. Protect it at all cost. The boys would escape a confrontation relatively unscathed, but for Tahrapi, the consequences could be dire.
A second stone missed its mark, falling short. Tahrapi had taken a shortcut through the pines to the lower village, a choice they were now regretting. Under their breath, they cursed the wrap skirt their mother made them wear, a warm orange sarong decorated with spirals. What it had in feminine style and demure beauty, it lacked in utility and mobility, as Tahrapi could neither flee nor fight in it. They loved their mother, but not her stubborn insistence on dressing Tahrapi like a child's doll. I'm never wearing something like this again, they fumed.
With their back turned, Tahrapi could not see one of the boys draw his arm back to throw another stone, which also meant they did not see what happened next... though they definitely heard it.
"Leave her alone. What's wrong with you?" It was a female voice, high in pitch, but not soft or deferential. Instead, it was stern, and powerful. Tahrapi turned, and their jaw fell slightly agape.
It was indeed a girl, roughly the same age as Tahrapi, but a few inches taller than the diminutive Uldaran. Her left hand had caught the boy's wrist mid-throw, and he appeared frozen in shock. A mask of scornful disapproval on her face did nothing to dispel her classical beauty. With her flowing auburn tresses, held back by a headband, she looked like a goddess from an ancient fable. Someone to be both venerated... and feared.
"She's just a mudrat," a younger boy protested, devoid of conviction. Tahrapi saw the bullies were younger than they were—nine, maybe eight years old. But the boys weren't intimidated by the other girl because of her age, or her slight size advantage. They were unaccustomed to a girl who didn't naturally yield to them, and that made them uneasy.
The fire-headed girl twisted the wrist she had in her grip until the boy attached to it dropped the rock. "My father knows your fathers," she said, with a touch of menace. "Leave this girl alone, and others like her, or answer to me. Now, get out of my sight."
Two of the boys looked down, then at each other, before silently turning back up the path to the upper village. The third, the youngest, tried to resist, but without a spine of his own, ran to catch up with his friends.
Tahrapi could only watch the exchange in awe and bewilderment.
Once the fire-headed girl made sure the boys had retreated, she turned back towards Tahrapi. She looked like a different person entirely now. No longer angry, her features softened. She had beautiful light brown eyes, the rich color of honey. Her cheeks shone with the rosy hue of adrenaline, as her mouth formed a kind, friendly smile. And oh, what a smile it was. Tahrapi thought it the most beautiful thing they had ever seen—radiant, and bursting with life.
Tahrapi blushed as they realized they were staring. "Thank you," they blurted. "My name, um, I'm Tahrapi."
...Dearest Tahra, I sometimes fear I've made a grave error. I've seen the moon grow, showing itself brightly, before shrinking again to complete the cycle, in my time at Ryshanam Castle. I believed by being betrothed to the prince, I could improve the station for our sex, and for the good people of Jathruk.
But it may have been a miscalculation. Prince Valerian, I hate to say, is a lecherous egotist, and I shudder at the thought of marriage to him, much less bearing his children. His apathy towards my ideas is rivaled only by his eagerness to lay with me. Where I thought I might have a seat at the court of our kingdom, I have instead been trained in etiquette and decorum. I have not given up on our mission, though I admit my morale has taken some bruising.
I'm so frustrated, my friend, and I sorely miss someone with your brilliance to confide in, and your fire to keep me going. The only person who seems remotely interested in me as anything other than a figurehead is Severian Draeven, the royal archon. He may be the only man who respects me in the entire castle.
I look forward to your next letter, Tahra. I know valkyrie training has been arduous. But I believe in you, and your tenacity. And yes, your stubbornness as well.
Forever Yours,
Sarima
Sarima Dahnam folded the letter and sealed it with wax, a heavy stamp marking it as official correspondence of the royal family of Ryshanam. She sighed deeply and looked out the window of her quarters. From the tower she had a view of the mountains, far off in the eastern horizon. Her home, where she was born, where she met her best friend, seemed immeasurably far.
Her friend. Sarima scoffed as she ruminated over that word. Friend. Wasn't Tahrapi, her dearest Tahra, worthy of more than that? Sarima's fingers lightly traced the wax seal, feeling the slight warmth of parchment beneath her fingertips. Her beloved. A more fitting term, yes; though one left unspoken. A word pregnant with promise, but also clouded with uncertainty.
"Are you alright, Princess?" called a voice from the doorway. In the frame stood Archon Severian Draeven, the royal mage. He was a slender man, fifty years or more, with brown hair and graying temples. His robes, regal purple and black velvet, were neatly hemmed to the perfect length. His shortly trimmed beard gave him a stern, aristocratic demeanor, though with Sarima, he was generally friendly. In his hands he carried a fine teacup atop a saucer.
Sarima gathered herself and offered a friendly smile. "Thank you, Severian, I'm a little homesick, but I'll manage. Also, I'm not a princess yet."
Draeven walked across the room and handed the saucer to Sarima. "Of course, Madam Sarima," he said, courteously. "I know you have had some trouble relaxing of late, so I brought you some tea. It's a medicinal blend, mostly herbs from the kingdom's garden, meant to sedate you so that you can get some rest tonight."
Sarima sipped the tea. It had a mild but distinct flavor, with hints of anise and peppermint, that was not unpleasant. "Thank you. I suppose you are right, the training has been taxing."
"Think nothing of it, my lady. I could tell earlier you were... frustrated with Prince Valerian," Draeven mused, diplomatically pausing to choose the right word.
Sarima huffed. She opened her mouth to respond but, thinking better of it, sipped her tea instead. Her steely gaze peering over the porcelain cup conveyed her disdain.
Draeven let out a slight laugh. "The prince chose you for your beauty, thinking it your greatest asset. But I know better." He pointed a gloved finger to the envelope. "Is this another letter? To your friend from home?"
Sarima nodded with the teacup up to her thin lips. "It is. We have been friends since childhood." She paused to take another sip. "They're training to be a valkyrie."
Draeven raised an eyebrow. "Oh? That's a difficult but noble path."
Sarima finished the tea and set the cup on the saucer, offering it back to Draeven. "Yes, I think someday it might be nice for us to cross paths again." She looked away from Draeven, her mind wandering to a less complicated place and time. "Thank you for the tea, Severian. Do have a good night."
"My lady." Draeven bowed slightly, then took his leave, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.
Sarima stood and floated toward the window. She looked across the expanse, towards the snow-capped mountains she called home. She looked at the envelope on the table, thought of the Dun Varrek Bridge, and let out a wistful sigh.
I wanted to write something poignant about Rob Reiner, and the impact his films had on me as a teen and young adult. But I can't. I just can't do it at the end of a long, tough weekend.
The Princess Bride is one of the most universally cherished films of my lifetime. It is perfect. However...
This is Spinal Tap, Stand By Me, Misery, The American President, When Harry Met Sally... These are all great films, across a range of genres. You should see all of them.
But A Few Good Men was, for many years, my favorite film. I watched it the night before every important final in college. Before I knew what echolalia was, I was reciting lines from it and trying to mimic Tom Cruise's readings. I kept my baseball bat in my closet. At that point in my life, that film made me want to be Daniel Kaffee—smart, funny, damn good at what he does, and maybe just stupid enough to do the right thing instead of the easy thing.
The deaths of Mr. Reiner and his wife are tragic and a loss. I'm not okay about this one tonight. RIP, Meathead.
The cheers had stopped. That was the first clue to Mira that something was wrong. The fans had gotten behind HUNTR/X at they had fought the hordes of demons, together again. They had cheered wildly as Rumi had dealt the killing blow to Gwi-ma. But now there was an uncomfortable silence. She was sure she could hear the fans breathing.
"We did it," Zoey exclaimed, out of breath. Her usual enthusiasm was replaced by a tired sense of accomplishment. "The rainbow honmoon is in place. The demons have been banished!"
Mira gripped her Gok-do tightly, her eyes narrowing as she focused on her bandmate Rumi. Rumi was facing the stage where she had slain Gwi-ma, her sword at her side, her purple braid trailing down her back.
The exposed demonic patterns on her arms and neck pulsed bright pink. The fingers closed around her sword were dark and… inhuman.
"Not all of them."
Rumi turned slowly, and even though Mira feared the worst, she was still shocked. Her friend's eyes blazed yellow, twin suns in the dark arena. Her skin had taken on a sickly inhuman pallor. Worst of all was the smile, a sinister, seductive grin that sent chills down Mira's back.
Zoey gasped audibly. "No, it can't be," she whispered, fighting back tears.
"When did they get to you?" Mira sneered. Despite her tough demeanor, her palms were slick with sweat.
Rumi let out a hollow laugh. "They didn't have to," she said, her voice taking on a stringent demonic tone. "I accidentally took Celine's soul. She reached out for me and it was instinct. Effortless. And she was gone. She was like a mother to us, and I reaped her soul, and I couldn't even cry for her, I couldn't feel remorse. Then I knew you were right about me. I'm a monster, and I always have been."
Mira approached Rumi carefully, holding her weapon high. Zoey flanked her holding her knives, but Mira could see she was scared out of her mind. Mira was too, just better at hiding it.
"We're still your friends, Rumi," Zoey said, her voice shaky. "You can fight this. We can help you."
Rumi laughed angrily under her breath. "Like you tried to help me backstage at the award show? Standing with your weapons drawn, just like now? Funny way of showing it." The smile returned to her face, making Mira uneasy. "Why would I fight this? Though you're right, you are gonna help me."
Rumi began to sing. Her fellow hunters were of course familiar with the sound on a near daily basis. But this was the first time Rumi's voice was being used as a weapon against them.
I broke into a million pieces, and I can't go back
Zoey heard it. All those people who say you're too much for them. Those people who think you're not talented because you're just the rapper, and they don't know you write the lyrics they sing along to. You should show them. Show them what too much really is. We'll do it. Together. She shook her head, trying to clear it, as her thoughts slowed and her pupils dilated.
But now I'm seeing all the beauty in the broken glass
Mira heard it too. Rumi's voice, inside her head. I know all your secrets. You don't have anywhere else to turn to, Mira. You should be at my side. No, you should grovel at my feet. It had been bad enough to have Gwi-ma in her head. But this was Rumi. She was like a sister. And she knew where to thrust the knife, and just how hard to twist it.
The scars are part of me, darkness and harmony
Fans. Dozens of them crawled onto the catwalks, closing in on Zoey and Mira, and getting between them. Their eyes were full of crazed adoration. Their smiling faces chanted Rumi's name. Zoey backed up in horror, her sluggish body refusing to move with the urgency required. These are people, I can't kill them! Rumi's voice boomed through the arena even as it slithered through her mind. I know you're tired, Zoey. Just let it go. The honmoon has sealed the demons, that was always our goal. So why are you still fighting? A hand grabbed her wrist, and Zoey screamed, her mind unraveling.
My voice without the lies, this is what it sounds like
Mira pulled Zoey away from the throng of clamoring fans. She shook her head. Rumi was corrupting this beautiful song, twisting its meaning. But she was already a demon when we sang it — was this always what it meant? What were the lies? With a stiff shoulder charge, she repelled some attackers, clearing a path to her former friend. She needed to get to Rumi, to free her from her demonic side. One way or another. Always so headstrong, sister. I'd like to see you try.
Rumi watched with glee, her eyes blazing, as Mira approached, dragging Zoey behind her. Let's see if you've got the guts, Mira. To kill one of the the only people who's ever loved you. Rumi's words taunted Mira in her head. Stop talking! Mira raised her weapon. She was only going to get one chance at this. "Zoey! Snap out of it, I need your help!"
Mira started to swing the Gok-do. If they timed this right, Zoey could throw a shin-kal to distract Rumi, allowing Mira to get in a blow. And if Rumi deflected it, Zoey could close on her and get in a shot at close range. Zoey stood expresionless at Mira's flank, slightly behind, the shin-kal's blade flashing in the darkness.
The plan seemed solid, until Mira felt pain in her ribs.
Mira dropped the Gok-do with a loud clang as she fell to the ground, confused. She looked up to see Zoey, in tears, her eyes glassy and vacant, holding a shin-kal knife dripping with her blood. "No, Zoey. Don't do this," she said through a pained grimace.
"Zoey's not home right now," Rumi purred. "She heard the song, and now she's joined the chorus, where she belongs."
"Don't do this to her, Rumi," Mira grunted as she held her bleeding side. "Not to Zoey. Let her go."
Rumi cackled. "Still trying to act tough. I'll make you a deal, Mira. You know my kind loves deals. Join me willingly, and I'll release Zoey from my control."
Mira's eyes darted from Zoey, to Rumi, and back to Zoey. The younger girl's hands were shaking with fear. No. With resolve. Zoey was trying to fight off Rumi's voice in her head. And losing.
"Deal."
Rumi rubbed her hands together. "Perfect. It will be good for us to be together again. Zoey, you are free to leave if you wish."
Zoey stopped struggling as her mind cleared. Her blank expression curled into a wicked smile. "No," she said, her voice altered. "I don't want to leave."
The patterns began to appear on Zoe's skin, which was turning a pale blue. The patterns traveled her skin like lightning, a dazzling purple, as pleasure coursed through her body. As she exhaled into a sigh, her dark eyes turned yellow with demonic presence.
"Zoey." Mira cried, as she too abandoned hope.
"Oh, Mira," Zoey said in mock sympathy. "Good news Korea, HUNTR/X is about to get back together. For good." Zoey let out a cruel laugh, as she started to drain Mira's soul, sealing both their fates.
