Hello! I’ve been on Tumblr for a while now but I haven’t been allowed to post before. I can now though! So introduction time.
What to call me: Any version of my main username can work (Pyra, Rayn, Pyrarayn) or you can call me Alex. I go by they/them.
What I post about: KOTLC, DSMP, and maybe some OC stuff (usually I call it the story in my head or SIMH). In particular I like Bronte and Oralie from KOTLC. I might end up having a special tag for each fandom but at the moment I don’t.
Tagging: I will do my best to tag things properly but if I missed something just message me and I will fix it.
Uhhhhhhh, I think that’s it.
Wait no,
Rules: No hate speech and be nice. I’m also a minor so don’t be weird. I can and will block you.
Pspsps Bronte and Tiergan fans, new fic about them-
Title: Candor
Wordcount: 5219
Summary:
noun: candor
the free expression of one's true feelings and opinions
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“It-“ under Bronte’s icy stare, Tiergan finds his usual lies slip away. “Fine, it’s not fine. What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing in particular. I just wanted your honesty.”
Tiergan considers snapping at him and finds that he has no energy left to do so. He sighs. “It should be better now that Sophie’s better, shouldn’t it?”
“I regret to inform you that that is not how elven minds work.”
-
Or, Bronte and Tiergan talk in the aftermath of Sophie's shattering and subsequent healing.
(Sequel to Ancillary)
Warnings: death mention, mentions of injury, referenced deadnaming, discussion of homophobia and transphobia
-
It's a Tuesday.
It’s a Tuesday, and Tiergan should probably be grading assignments or talking to the rest of the Collective about their next move against the Neverseen or any of the infinitely many other things he has to do, but all he can think is that he should be at Foxfire, in one of the cramped rooms they use for telepathy sessions, two prodigies sat in front of him.
No one wants to make Sophie go back to Foxfire after the events of last week. And no one can muster the energy to argue with Sophie’s friends, who are insistent on spending as much time with her as possible. So Fitz and Sophie are both home this morning, and Tiergan, for all that he’s always hated working for the Council, finds himself lost without the obligation of mentorship.
His imparter dings, and he scrambles to grab it, expecting to see Prentice or Wylie’s name.
Instead, displayed on the screen is
Councillor Bronte:
Do you want to go to lunch today? I find myself (against my better judgement) almost missing your tendency to snark at me. Besides, I think we should discuss some of what happened last week.
Lunch with Bronte would normally sound horrible in all ways. Today, it’s a blessed distraction.
Tiergan Alenefar:
Where and when?
Councillor Bronte:
12:00 in Eternalia, Arty’s Café (24 Favriel Way, in the historic district). It’s a nice place. Run by a friend of Oralie’s from a while back.
Tiergan Alenefar:
I can’t believe I’m saying yes to this.
Councillor Bronte:
Trust me, I can hardly believe I’m asking this.
Tiergan sets his imparter down and debates if it’s acceptable to go to lunch with a Councillor in his pajamas. Probably not, though, as Livvy would say, it would be funny.
Ultimately, he does pick out a decently nice (but comfortable) tunic and even manages to pull his hair back before he sets out. Though he’s never been to this particular café before, the historic area of Eternalia is the part he feels most comfortable navigating, at least. Not that that’s a high bar. Tiergan generally avoids crowds and loud places to the best of his ability, which consequently means he doesn’t spend a lot of time in any of the elven cities. Combine that with a below-average sense of direction, and you get the incredible ability to get lost approximately thirty seconds after leaping just about anywhere.
It's fine. He has time before he has to meet Bronte, and wandering Eternalia is better than sitting at Solreef and trying not to remember how the vacant expression in Sophie’s eyes was a perfect mirror of Prentice’s.
He should feel better. By all rights, he should be okay now. He got Prentice back. He got Sophie back, against all odds, against all that they had known to be possible. But once the initial relief faded, he just felt…. empty. Tired. Exhausted, even. There’s so much still to be done, so many battles to be fought and wars to be won. It all feels like too much.
He knows he’s been avoiding people. There are three unanswered hails on his imparter from Livvy, and he counts himself lucky she hasn’t run out of patience and showed up at his door yet. Wylie hasn’t found the time to yell at him over the events of last week yet, and for that too, he’s grateful. Prentice, as well, has been a victim of Tiergan’s unwillingness to interact with people; though he made such sweet promises and held Tiergan so softly in those fragile moments after the healing, there’s still a part of Tiergan that screams at him to run and hide from the raw vulnerability of Cognatedom. He’s almost ashamed to find himself still afraid after all these years.
It's something a lot like shame as well that he can’t bring himself to talk to the people who love him yet is happy to meet with a grouchy Councillor who he absolutely detests. Maybe it’s the freedom of knowing that he doesn’t have to measure his words carefully around Bronte- he can be raw and cruel and honest, and Bronte will still come back the next week to be bitter and blunt and honest right back.
Tiergan slows to a stop, realizing that, lost in thought, he walked straight past the café he’s supposed to be meeting Bronte at.
By the time he winds his way back, Bronte is already standing by the entrance. It’s strange to see him so dressed down in a simple dark grey tunic and cloak, clasped with a silver pin. No circlet, no glimmering jewels. Just Bronte, as unbreakable and unyielding as steel.
The knot in Tiergan’s chest loosens a bit.
“You’re late,” Bronte says dryly.
“I got lost.”
“Of course you did.”
“Asshole,” Tiergan huffs, because he can, because he’s not afraid of Bronte, much as neither of them likes the other.
Bronte snorts, very undignified for a supposedly perfect Councillor. “Rude.”
“As if you’ve ever known me to be anything but rude to you.”
“True that. Let’s go in, shall we?”
“Sounds good to me.”
The door makes a gentle clinking noise when Bronte pushes it open. Inside, though he’s never been before, the interior appears intimately familiar. Cozy armchairs and booths, the scent of fresh mallowmelt, and elves with balefire jewelry glinting from their ears and wrists, phoenixes shining from around their necks, long hair and beards, short hair and dresses.
Oh. The sense of safety creeps in slowly at first, then all at once, and Tiergan lets out a long breath. “You would take me here, of all places.”
“It can be nice to be among others who are alike us.”
He can’t argue with that. “I didn’t know this place existed.”
“There’s not a lot in Eternalia, but there’s this, and a few ballrooms. You get to know the scene well when you live in a city for a few thousand years.”
“I wasn’t aware Councillors were supposed to sneak around so,” Tiergan says, raising an eyebrow.
“And I wasn’t aware that Foxfire mentors were supposed to join rebellions or pine for their best friends,” Bronte snipes back. “Yet here we are.”
The words stir emotions Tiergan has been trying very hard to forget about, the ache that steals his breath when Prentice’s hands brush his. “Careful, Bronte.”
“Would you ask me to pull my punches with you now, after all that?”
“As if you and I have ever pulled punches with each other.” His own words echo in his mind. He was right, he knows, but…he’s tired. “Fine, you’re right. I’d be a hypocrite to ask for your kindness.”
Bronte halts abruptly and turns to him. “Are you alright?”
“What?”
“I could have sworn I just heard the words ‘you’re right’ pass your lips.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Bronte doesn’t quite grin, but the edges of his lips curl up with undeniable smug amusement.
The person in front of them in line gives them a very odd look but is just as soon distracted by ordering their pastries.
Then, it’s their turn. Bronte orders mallowmelt and strong coffee for himself, and then glances back at Tiergan. “You want anything?”
“I-“ deciding sounds like far too much energy. “I’m fine.”
“Three strawberry ripplefluffs and some mint tea,” Bronte tells the employee, who grins at him.
“Coming right up!” She punches in the order, grinning. “How are you doing?”
“Well enough, all things considered. Yourself?”
“Oh, same old, same old, you know how it is. Who’s this, by the way?” She gestures at Tiergan with her free hand.
“A-“ Bronte looks at Tiergan, who shrugs back at him. “A coworker of mine from Foxfire. His name is Tiergan. Tiergan, this is Zelda. She and her husband are old friends of Oralie’s.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Zelda chirps brightly. “I hope this old grouch has been nice to you.”
“Well- he’s been grouchy,” Tiergan settles for, not really sure how to reply.
Zelda laughs. “As always!” She takes Bronte’s birth fund cube and swipes it, handing it back to him. “You two are good to go sit down. I’ll have El bring out your order in just a moment.”
“Thank you, Zelda.”
“No problem. Next!”
They go find a seat in a warm, cozy corner. Tiergan sinks gratefully into the softness of the chair, marveling at how this odd little café is just the right kind of quiet and dim. There’s a faint hum of background chatter, but the abundance of fabric is enough to absorb some of the noise, and the gauzy curtains filter the light into soft shades of purple, pink, and blue. Across from him, Bronte is lit in a gentle rose, softening out his harsh features and making his dark hair gleam like copper.
For once, Tiergan finds himself without anything to say.
“So. How has your life been going? Better than mine, I hope,” Bronte says dryly.
“It’s been…fine.”
“That makes me think it has not been fine.”
“It-“ under Bronte’s icy stare, Tiergan finds his usual lies slip away. “Fine, it’s not fine. What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing in particular. I just wanted your honesty.”
Tiergan considers snapping at him and finds that he has no energy left to do so. He sighs. “It should be better now that Sophie’s better, shouldn’t it?”
“I regret to inform you that that is not how elven minds work.”
“I know.” He knows better than anyone. Nightmares of Cyrah’s death and Prentice’s shattering still haunt him, even to this day.
Bronte sighs as well. “I have to admit that I find myself not unaffected by it as well. Even with all the millennia I have seen, there are some things that are impossible to forget.”
“Such as?”
“Seeing your brother’s mind broken, how a burn from Everblaze feels, the sting of an ogre’s rusted blade, your prodigy collapsed and vacant-eyed.”
Tiergan shudders. He’s never going to get that image out of his mind either.
“You-“ Bronte starts, and then looks away.
“What?”
“There were… several minutes between you losing your connection with me and Prentice’s arrival.”
Oh. Was that…worry in Bronte’s voice? “I was unaware.”
“You were essentially dead to the world, I’m not surprised. But yes, there were several minutes where you were not responsive, and I was unable to act effectively.”
“You did help,” Tiergan tells him. “Your inflicting was part of why I was able to hold on as long as I did.” It rankles his pride to have been so reliant on Bronte, but not nearly as much as it would have before.
A glimmer of surprise flickers through those icy eyes. “Were it anyone else saying that, I would be confident it was a reassuring lie.”
“But you believe me?”
“I don’t believe you of all people would ever lie to spare my feelings.”
A small laugh spills from Tiergan’s lips before he’s hardly aware of it. “True, I wouldn’t.”
“Exactly.” Bronte’s lips quirk in a wry smile. “I suppose I should have known that I was capable of positive inflicting when even you believed I was. I just assumed you were in denial about the reality of our situation.”
He doesn’t like to admit this, but- “I was, to some degree. I was right, in the end. But I had no real reason to believe you could, only that you had to be able to or all was lost.”
“Desperation is a powerful motivator.”
“It is.” He has to swallow the sudden lump in his throat, recalling those horrible, desperate hours when he thought Sophie was gone forever. The grief, the rage, the dreadful, agonizing guilt. She was gone, and it wasn’t fair, and he should have protected her.
Tiergan knows better than most the fragility of the elven mind and consequently, the danger of allowing yourself to dwell on the past. Yet some days it seems like looking backward is all he can do. Ever since Prentice’s mind break, the future has seemed too daunting, too terrifying and exhausting, to even consider. Even now, even with Prentice back, there’s the Neverseen to fight and a cognate bond he’s been avoiding and a thousand worries about Sophie, her friends, Wylie, Tam, Linh, Leto, Prentice- the list goes on. It’s easier to look at the past, whether with yearning or regret, than confront how the lingering fear that all he’s gained is only temporary has carved itself into his very bones. Will he ever be able to look at Prentice without fearing he’ll break apart before his eyes? Will he ever not see Cyrah in the curve of Wylie’s jaw and the quirk of his brow? Will he ever look at Sophie without seeing a mirror of his own, younger self and how he saw no way to go on, no happiness in his future? He could drown in those aches, those fears, hearing Wylie’s pacing on sleepless nights and Sophie struggling in the throes of the same despair that once took him.
He only realizes that he’s been staring at the worn wood table for far too long when a cheerful elf with a wide, easy smile comes to give them their drinks and sweets. “Mallowmelt and strong coffee for you, Bronte?”
“As ever.”
The elf beams and sets the plates down before levitating two more around to set in front of Tiergan with a flick of their wrist. “And mint tea and strawberry ripplefluffs for you?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“No problem. I hope you two are having a good time.” They pair that with a slight wink.
Bronte sighs. “It’s not like that, El.”
“Ah, sorry for the assumption.” El cracks another easy grin. He reminds Tiergan a little bit of Prentice before the mind break, all warmth and smile lines.
“Easy mistake to make.”
“Do you make a habit of taking guys you’re flirting with here?” Tiergan has to ask.
“Not in particular.”
El laughs. “This café just generally sees a lot of that sort of thing.”
“Indeed, and not the least from myself and my friends over the years,” Bronte says dryly.
“True that. You’re our best customer,” El jokes.
“Please, that title absolutely goes to Albert.”
“Oh, true that. Speaking of which, I need to get goin’. It’s busy today.”
“We won’t keep you any longer, then,” Bronte agrees.
El beams once more before turning to take another table’s dirty dishes.
Meanwhile, Tiergan blinks at Bronte, baffled by how comfortable he seems around this near-stranger, particularly when it comes to secrets so large and life-ruining as what they are.
“El is one of us,” Bronte explains, seemingly anticipating his questions. “I’ve known him for many years.”
“You’re very open here.”
“I am.” He pauses to take a sip of his coffee, setting the cup down again with a gentle clink. “Em- someone I know once asked me how I could stand knowing that there were so many people who knew what I am. I gave him the same explanation I’ll give you: there are numerous things that I am forced to hide, and numerous elves who would depict me as things I am not. I have played this part for too many years to deny myself the opportunity to be seen for even a small part of who I truly am.”
“Does it not scare you to be seen?” It scares Tiergan. He never wanted Bronte to know the truth of him, shies away from even Prentice’s kind gaze.
“Of course it does. I simply find that when one grows accustomed to perpetually playing the part of a perfect Councillor, being seen more truly becomes more a relief than a burden. I suppose that’s part of what Oralie and I see in each other: someone who can look past all our facades.”
Tiergan watches Bronte’s slim hand curl around the cup and tries to breathe. “You think it’s worth it, then?”
“I like to think so. Though I’ll admit that it can be…difficult.”
“It can be.”
“It’s easy to grow so accustomed to hiding parts of yourself in order to survive that secrecy begins to feel like safety. It is, I suppose, for elves like you and me.”
It’s like Bronte’s struck him, head reeling with the unpleasant feeling of his longest-buried griefs being brought to light. “It is,” he manages to rasp.
“It is,” Bronte agrees. “Yet I find that it can be a hindrance as well. The fear of that secrecy being overturned follows us even in places of safety; it prevents us from finding one another.”
Tiergan can’t breathe. His heart is stripped bare, fears and pains laid out under Bronte’s discerning gaze. “You’re not an expert on my fears.”
“No, I wouldn’t imagine I am.” He says nothing more than that, allowing the quiet chatter and clink of dishes to fill the silence instead.
Tiergan takes a sip of his tea. It’s still warm, sharp and fresh and minty. The band around his chest loosens a little.
“I knew someone who would swear by mint tea as a cure for any emotion, you know.” Bronte’s tone is strangely melancholy, eyes focused somewhere behind Tiergan’s head.
“Oh?”
“Anxiety over school? Mint tea. Angry at your brother? Mint tea. Heartache? Mint tea.”
Tiergan manages to smile. “Did it work?”
“Unfairly often.”
“Is that why you bought it for me?”
“It was the first thing that came to mind.”
He sips at his tea again and decides that whoever this person of Bronte’s was, they were at least a little bit right. It doesn’t quite wash away the fears that are carved into him or the ache that’s nestled in his chest, but it soothes the sharp edges a little bit.
Across from him, Bronte takes a bite of mallowmelt. Tiergan is struck by how similar and yet how different this feels to their time at Foxfire; instead of the uncomfortable chairs and gleaming light of the mentor’s cafeteria, there’s the soft glow of blue through the drapes and plush fabric on his seat, but the core of it remains unchanged. Him and Bronte, Bronte and him. Forever opposite one another, even as, on some fundamental level, they’re a little bit the same.
Which reminds him-
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, actually.”
“Do tell.”
“The one day at Foxfire that I snapped at you and told you that you were worse than a monster. You didn’t sit with me that Thursday, but the next week you came back. Why?” It’s a bold question, but here, in the little café where Bronte is so open, almost unguarded, seems like the right time for bold questions.
“I didn’t lie to you, if that’s what you’re asking. That Thursday I did genuinely have a Council meeting that ran over into lunch. As for why I came back… I will repeat what I told you before. I have hidden for too long to deny myself the opportunity to be seen truly.” He sighs, setting down his fork. “You have to understand that I have been spoken of as a monster for longer than you have been living, Tiergan. From the moment I manifested as an inflictor, those whispers have followed me, and I am ashamed to say that I’ve proven them right, at times. Though I am not proud of it, there comes a point when even you start to believe yourself a monster, incapable of being anything else. You saw through that. Though you have ample reason to hate me, you still saw me for an elf capable of good or evil as opposed to the monster I’ve so often been said to be. That is worth more than you can imagine.”
“Even if that meant I hated you more because I knew you could have acted differently?”
“Even then. Your hatred matters less than the truth of your perception.”
“That cannot be a healthy way to handle that,” Tiergan informs him.
“I’m well aware.”
For once, Tiergan doesn’t understand. He’s grown used to seeing a mirror of his own pain, not just in Sophie but in Bronte as well. Twin reflections of the trauma of a life lived in forced secrecy. This, though, is something completely different. “I don’t understand you sometimes.”
“I would be concerned if you always understood me, honestly.”
“I understand how you can be open about some things. That’s the point of signaling. What I don’t get is-“ the words stick in his throat.
“Is?” Bronte prompts.
Tiergan lets out a breath. “It doesn’t scare you to have someone look at you and see the truth- not just a piece, but all of it?”
Bronte’s eyes are, in that moment, unimaginably ancient. “You ask that as if anyone has ever looked at me and seen the entire truth.”
“Has no one?”
“Oralie comes close, some days. Fintan was closer.”
Another breath. He can taste mint at the back of his mouth. “I shouldn’t be afraid of him. He loves me.”
Bronte is silent.
“Secrecy has always meant survival for me. For us. How do I unlearn that?”
“In my experience, you don’t.”
“You don’t, but-“ But he’s given Prentice everything he was ever able to give, save for one thing: himself. “But I owe him more than secrecy and avoidance.”
“Do you?”
Tiergan can’t answer that. “I love him. I want to trust him.”
“Love doesn’t always mean trust. I’ve certainly loved men who I couldn’t trust as far as I could throw them, or however the saying goes.” Bronte takes a long drink of his coffee.
“That sounds…”
“Like a bad idea? It was.” Tiergan must look startled, as Bronte snorts. “Don’t look so surprised. Even I was young and foolish once. And I find we are all often proven fools when it comes to love.”
If the brief curiosity of wondering just who Bronte loved had banished the ache in his chest, now Bronte’s words return it tenfold. A fool is certainly what Tiergan is, to hope and grieve and rage and yearn all these long years, and yet to run from Prentice now that he’s finally returned.
The edges of his fork are digging into his hand, and he makes an effort to relax his grip. “And if someone deserves your trust but you can’t seem to give it to them? Does that make you a fool?”
“Not a fool. Cautious, perhaps. If I were more poetic, I might call it scarred.”
“Like a solider coming home.”
“Exactly.” Bronte’s gaze is far away, eyes watching something no one else can see, as he says “You’ve been at war for so long that you don’t remember what peace felt like.”
“You can’t be the same as you were. Not even elven medicine can erase some scars.”
“You’ve become what you needed in order to survive. But there is no coming back from that.” Bronte’s balefire earring flashes in the light when he turns his gaze away from the window.
Tiergan’s breath rasps in his throat. “How can you be soft again after you’ve been asked to be brave for so long?”
“I don’t know if you can. Not entirely.”
“No. Not entirely.”
“You’ll never be the same as you were.” The twist of his mouth says that he speaks from bitter experience.
“How could you be?”
“You couldn’t.”
“You can’t,” Tiergan agrees. He’s no longer sure if he’s talking about Prentice’s mind break or Cyrah’s death or Sophie’s shattering or the war against the Neverseen or even just growing up as himself in this world where he cannot be anything but brave. He carries so many losses and scars, the sharp edges of his heartache pricking at his soft skin like so many thorns.
The lines of Bronte’s face and the scars on his hands as he lifts his cup tell a tale of his own silent griefs, wars waged and won under the cover of darkness and closed doors. “I suppose I should have faith that any struggle can be overcome, given sufficient time. However, I doubt that certain things can ever be undone.”
He’s right. He’s right, and that makes it even worse that he’s done all that he has. “You can’t undo some things. Even if you reverse it, the damage is done.”
“The damage is done,” Bronte repeats. His face should be shadowed with regret, twisted by guilt. Instead, he just looks tired.
Tiergan’s grief burns like hot tea in the back of his throat, aches like a broken rib above his heart. “He’s still gone in my head. I’m still at war.” It should be euphoric to have Prentice beside him again and Sophie healed, to be surrounded by people he knows he can trust with the truest, most fragile parts of himself. But he can’t seem to stop running.
“Some days, I’m still sixteen and called by a name that was never mine,” Bronte answers. A grief for a grief, vulnerability laid out on the table between them like a quilt.
Here, in this quiet little bakery, they are both utterly exposed; if he takes this chance to strike Bronte where it hurts, Bronte will find the chink in his armor just as easily. Mutually assured destruction. Maybe that’s why Tiergan says “We once said Sophie was just like you and I at fifteen.”
“Scared and alone in a world that wasn’t built for us. I remember.”
“I sometimes wonder if we’re like that even now.” Sometimes it feels like the shadow of that fifteen-year-old follows him still, overlays his every word and action.
“Not exactly like that. For one thing, neither you nor I are entirely alone.”
“True.”
“Still, you may be right- though don’t tell anyone I said that.” He sets his cup down with a soft clink. “Once you’ve been that child, you will never quite let go of that part of you. I’d imagine you know that better than anyone.”
He bristles at the assumption, balks even more at the fact that it’s correct. “Don’t act like you know that about me.”
“I’m only extrapolating from what you’ve told me.”
Tiergan lets out a breath. “Then I’d imagine you also know that very well.”
“I was just like you were at fifteen,” Bronte reminds.
“And Sophie is just like I was at fifteen.”
“And even I was like how you are now, once.”
Tiergan doesn’t want to be alike Bronte. But he is tired of denial, of fear. “I wonder if I’ll end up how you are now.”
“I hope not.”
“Me too.”
“Like my brother, I am the way I am because the world has written me into this role. I hope that you won’t allow yourself to be twisted into bitterness the same way.”
“I would argue you haven’t let yourself be twisted as much as he has.”
“No, perhaps not.” Bronte sighs. “Still, I have become more bitter and resigned than I ever wanted to be. There was a day when I struggled against the world like you; now, I find I have become the person you and others like you struggle against.”
“That’s not the end of it, you know,” Tiergan tells him. “You could choose differently. Even now.”
“Some things cannot be undone. But yes, I can do differently today, and tomorrow, and all the days that will come after.”
“Some things can’t be undone,” he agrees. “But it’s worth trying to do better the next time.”
“I suppose so. And I will remind you of the same- whatever regrets you carry, you can always start afresh.”
It’s a marvel, really, Bronte’s ability to tell what Tiergan needs without it ever being spoken aloud. The words can’t quite put together the fractured glass of his soul, but they soothe the jagged edges just a little. “I know. I should…I should talk to him.”
“Probably.”
“You don’t even know who I’m talking about.”
“I could guess. And besides, Emery insists communication is important to any relationship. Admittedly, I don’t usually listen to Emery, but he might have a point about that.”
“It is, as I’m always telling Fitz and Sophie.” It’s ironic, really, that he’s teaching the teenagers how to handle their Cognate bond while his own is something he’d been avoiding for years even before Prentice’s mind break. Still, he’s been given a second chance, something he never really let himself believe that he would be able to have. He would be a fool to waste it, he knows. He’s going to get it right this time.
Bronte’s dry voice breaks him from his thoughts. “Ah, yes, the young Cognate pair.”
“They’ve struggled with communication at points. And I doubt my advice has been the best, given…everything. Teenagers can sense a hypocrite from miles away.” He realizes his ripplefluffs have been laying abandoned for most of the conversation, stabbing one idly with his fork.
“Oh, certainly. As Sophie is happy to let me know when I attempt to advise her on handling her emotions.”
Tiergan can’t help a small laugh at the idea of Bronte giving advice on emotions to anyone. “I have to agree with her there.”
“Of course you do. At least you listen to my advice on other things occasionally,” Bronte sighs.
“When you have a decent thought, so very occasionally.”
That earns him a glare.
He takes a bite of his ripplefluff, resisting a smile. It would be a lie to say that the lingering grief of Sophie’s shattering doesn’t still lay heavy on his shoulders, that he won’t still fear the intimacy of a Cognate bond, that the shadow of that wounded fifteen-year-old doesn’t still follow him. But all those burdens seem less for having been spoken aloud, the air in his lungs less like shattered glass.
He's going to try again. He and Prentice are going to try again, and Tiergan is going to whisper softly to that wounded child that’s curled up in his heart, it’s okay, it’s alright, we’re safe here. We’re safe with him.
They finish their food, and he thanks Bronte for taking him to lunch. Bronte stares at him like he’s grown a second head, and Tiergan laughs again at his startled expression. “I can be nice, you know.”
“Yes, but the fact that you’re choosing to be nice to me makes me wonder who you are and where the real Tiergan has gone,” Bronte deadpans back.
“This is a nice place. And there are some things you understand better than anyone else.”
“True, I suppose. Well, thank you for coming to meet with me. I’m sure the rest of the Council have managed to cause at least three crises while I’ve been gone, so I should be off, but our conversation was…enlightening.”
“The same for me. I’m sure Wylie and the other kids have broken at least one of my nice vases,” Tiergan jokes, though now that he thinks about it, that has definitely happened before. “I’ll see you at Foxfire, then?”
“Sooner or later, I’m sure.”
Tiergan walks out into the bright sunlight of Eternalia, pulling out his imparter as he does so.
Tiergan Alenefar:
Do you want to talk about Cognate stuff + a few other things this week?
There is a Jewish story about a wealthy man who came to his rabbi and said “I have decided to build an orphanage, can you put me in touch with the relevant people”
The rabbi was delighted to do it, and introduced the man to some charities. After a few weeks, the man came back to the rabbi.
“I have decided not to build the orphanage,” he said. “I realised that I was only doing it because I wanted to be admired as a philanthropist, my motives were selfish.”
The rabbi answered, “do you think the orphans will care what your motives were? Build the orphanage!”
Frequently I encounter non Native folks who tell me they think reservations are some form of reparatoins to Natives from the US government. I even had someone close to me tell me they thought reservations were places to “reserve” our cultures.
Where I’m from (South Dakota) reservations were concentration camps where they sent us to die after they stole and colonized all of the land every US citizen occupies.
In the early SD Rez days our ppl had to get permission from district agents (white settler men) to get food, fix our homes, or even leave our community to travel to another community on our Rez to visit relatives. We couldn’t hunt cuz they killed millions of our buffalo.
If we didn’t get permission from the white settler agent we couldn’t eat, fix our homes or visit relatives because we would be violating US law & could be arrested. Also our cultures & ceremonies were illegal under US law until the Indian Religious Freedom Act in 1978.
So plz educate the ppl you love and care abt because everyone in the USA is living in an illegal settler colony, Indigenous ppl survived their genocide & we’re her to say these settlers never gave af abt us & never will.
"Especially when she factored in the way Bronte's mind had blocked her from his memories. Almost like he had something to hide..."
Okay, so we all know that the thing Bronte is hiding is that he's gay and in love with Fintan, but what was Shannon's intention? We've had 6 books since this one and we still haven't learned any deep secrets from Bronte. Why did Shannon include this?
"well. i'll be honest, i'm not quite sure why i'm here."
there was no response. he wasn't sure why he expected one.
he cleared his throat, shifting his chair a little closer. "errol said this would help. talking. i never really was a big talker. but i guess you know that?"
tiergan sighed, shifting his chair closer to the cot. "i'm supposed to share memories―of the two of us―but i'm not quite clear on what exactly will help. errol said any memory."
he looked up at his friend's still form. "do you remember when we first met? it was a while ago. it's alright if you don't."
"it must have been―what, 30 years ago? we were level 8 i think. you came into the library swearing about sir akito giving you extra universe homework. i was sitting back near the windows and i didn't hear you―you know how bad my hearing is sometimes―and you tripped over me."
"i'm still sorry i never saw you coming. that bump on your head should definitely not have happen, but i just didn't notice you. then you went off at me. we argued right after that, remember? you got us kicked out the library for the rest of term."
"i didn't expect us to be friends after that. but we were. and after that―fuck."
he pursed his lips, stalking away to the stair case. night was slowly falling, stars glittering through the leaves in the sky. blood pounded through his head, eyes pricking with tears. "this isn't going to help. you're gone."
he turned around, glaring back at him. "you're not going to wake up. you're going to be like this forever―and i can't help you. i don't know what they did but i can't fix you. i'm so so sorry."
tears slipped down his cheeks, blurring his vision. "i'm sorry prentice. i'm sorry this all happened. that day―i never knew alden was going to find you. i didn't know. and cyrah―i couldn't save her either. i'm so sorry. i don't know why i came."
he moved back towards the door reaching out and gently flicked off the light. "goodnight prentice."
there was no response. he wasn't sure why he expected one.
due to an unexpected delay (a child), the next keeper book will instead be written by the entire fandom, one person writing a chapter and then passing it the next, who will take it from there and then pass it along to another like those insidious icebreaker exercises in English classes /j
A brief summary of how user engagement is tracked on Tumblr, for the newcomer:
When you like or reblog a post, that counts as user engagement for the person you liked or reblogged from, and shows up in their notifications.
If the person you liked or reblogged a post from wasn’t the original poster (i.e., you’re liking or reblogging a reblog), it also counts as user engagement for the original poster, and shows up in their notifications as well.
This means that user engagement from your likes and reblogs can potential accrue to two different people, the original poster and the person you liked or reblogged from.
Consequently, you cannot “steal” user engagement from someone by reblogging their post.
This is one of the very few areas where Tumblr actually functions more reasonably than other social media platforms.
Note that this is only true if you use Tumblr’s built-in reblogging function. If you save someone else’s content to your local device and append it to a new post, you effectively become the original poster from that point on.
This means that on Tumblr, “reblogging” and “reposting” are two different things; if you see someone complaining about “reposting”, this is not the same as reblogging.
Commenting when reblogging does not affect any of this – unlike, say, Twitter, where quote-retweeting causes user engagement to accrue to the quote-retweet and not to the original tweet – and you can and should do so freely.
However, every Tumblr user can see who exactly you reblogged a post from, which functions as a soft disincentive against making inane comments; if you make a dumb comment on a reblog, people who see your reblog may “back up” one step in the reblog chain to reblog a version of the post without your comment.
Nobody understands tags, and there’s a fair amount of evidence that how tags work changes periodically and without warning.
not inclusive as in "yeah your identity counts as queer" but radically inclusive as in "if you say you are queer, then you're queer. full stop." being queer isn't some privileged position you have to earn or some special secret club, it's an allyship between marginalized identities where we band together to advocate for our rights to exist and live as we want.
the queer community formed before most of the labels we use now were even formed, and you bet your ass there were people a century ago who were nonbinary, or aromantic, or multigender, or, or, or, or! any identity you have an issue with is and always has been queer. as far as im concerned the only thing that revoke your participation in the queer community is causing direct, intentional harm to the queer community. you know like stalking, harassing, and sending death threats to teenagers.
i have SO many thoughts about dream smp and religion but i can't put any of them into words so they're all just fragments of ideas floating around in my brain
something something c!wilbur is the son of the angel of death and of death herself, c!tommy is often drawn as a demon, c!tubbo is frequently drawn as a goat an animal often used in satanic symbolism, and jack manifold escaped hell, something something lmanberg was full of people connected to death/hell and dream believes himself a savior or god of some sort something something purging the wicked
