ONE SHALL STAND, ONE SHALL FALL TILL ALL ARE ONE! What is up Dawgs, my name is Vash, 26, she/her/he/him/they/them/it, and as you can tell I love Transformers (Bayverse). I randomly attach any trash I love.
btw while people continue to fight the system don't forget about Undue Medical Debt (formerly RIP Medical Debt), a charity that buys and forgives medical debt. on average a donation of $10 will forgive $1,000 of medical debt.
I'm fairly confident that this is now the one original post I've made that has gotten the most notes, and I honestly couldn't be happier. the more attention we give this, the higher the chances that someone will see this and donate. medical debt is both one of the most crushing things a person can deal with and one of the stupidest things humanity has invented. and if you live in the US, I have no doubt that you've had to deal with medical debt in your life, either for yourself or a loved one. even a small donation can do so much good, and now is the time of year when we are encouraged to think of others.
Synopsis: In which, Michikatsu Tsugikuni tries to be a better boyfriend for her. (High school AU)
[Author's Note] : This is going to be a small fic— a small continuation idea that is taken from one of @echantedtoon ‘s oneshots called 'Presidential Vise' from her book 'Demon Slayer Posts', which I had requested her to write a long time ago. ^^.
It may not be well written— I had only decided to write it because I felt like doing so. It's mostly for fun. So please do not criticise.
Also, Michikatsu may seem a bit out of character because in this book he's 18. His personality would be affected by his teenage— he would be acting like a teenager.
Sorry, but the widow scenario/headcanons with the Hashira were really good, so I wonder if you could do it with the uppermoons as well, when you're able though? I don't know why I like the trope of a widow, who can't let go of their first love, and now the new lover who's trying to get the widow's attention to them.
𝕬 𝖒𝔬𝖚𝔯𝖓𝔦𝖓𝔤 𝔴𝖎𝔡𝖔𝔴
This has been sitting here for a while lol sorry for taking long I hope you enjoy!
Douma
For Douma, your grief was a mystery that he couldn’t understand, but he found it utterly fascinating. He was used to people worshipping him, hanging onto his every word, or even fearing him. But your heart was caught somewhere he couldn’t reach—a place he couldn’t control. And it infuriated him in ways he couldn’t admit.
“Why so glum, my little flower?” he’d chirp, leaning in far too close as his colorful fan danced idly in his hand. “Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about them. They’re not here anymore, you know.”
His words carried an edge, cloaked by his usual cheerful tone. Douma’s solution to your grief was to smother you with his attention, constantly distracting you from your thoughts. He’d sit you on his lap, brush your hair, and chatter endlessly about anything and everything—anything to keep your mind from wandering back to the person you’d lost.
When his attempts at distraction failed, his tone would shift. “You’re wasting your tears on someone who doesn’t matter anymore,” he said one evening, his usual smile faltering. “Don’t you see? I’m right here. I can give you everything they couldn’t.”
But no matter how much he tried to replace them, your heart remained elsewhere. That realization drove him to dangerous extremes, and his jealousy turned into obsession. He would destroy anything—any memory, any object—that connected you to the person you lost, all while insisting he was doing it for your own good.
Akaza
Akaza’s obsession was driven by his need to protect you, but your grief left him feeling helpless in a way he despised. He had strength, power, and the ability to destroy anyone who posed a threat to you. But he couldn’t fight the ghost of the person you loved.
“You deserve better,” he told you one night, his fists clenched at his sides. “They couldn’t protect you, but I can. I’ll never let anything hurt you again.”
Akaza’s frustration grew with each passing day. He hated seeing you sad, but what made it worse was the way your sadness wasn’t for him. No matter how much he tried to comfort you, your thoughts always drifted back to someone who wasn’t there.
One day, as you sat quietly, gazing at the ring you still wore, Akaza crouched in front of you. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” he asked, his voice softer now. “They wouldn’t want you to be like this. They’d want you to be happy.”
But what Akaza didn’t say—what he couldn’t admit—was that he wanted to be the one to make you happy. He wanted you to see him, to love him the way you loved them. And every time you looked at him with sadness instead of love, it chipped away at his patience.
Kokushibo
Kokushibo’s obsession was a quiet, simmering thing. He didn’t express his emotions openly, but the intensity of his feelings was unmistakable in the way his golden eyes followed your every move.
At first, he told himself that your grief didn’t concern him. You were alive, here in the present, and the person you mourned was not. Yet, no matter how much he tried to push those thoughts aside, he couldn’t ignore the way your sorrow consumed you.
“You cling to the past,” Kokushibo said one night, his deep voice breaking the heavy silence. “It will not bring them back.”
His words were blunt, but they carried a weight that spoke of his own regrets. Kokushibo saw too much of himself in you—clinging to memories, unable to let go of what was lost. It made him want to keep you close, to pull you away from the pain that haunted you.
Though he rarely spoke of your grief, Kokushibo’s actions spoke louder than words. He would destroy anything that reminded you of your past love, believing that cutting away the ties to your old life would free you from your sorrow. But his protectiveness often felt like a prison, leaving you isolated and unable to mourn in peace.
Hantengu Clones
The Hantengu clones each reacted to your grief in their own distinct ways, their fragmented personalities pulling you in different directions as they fought for your attention.
• Sekido was furious at your inability to move on. “Why do you keep thinking about them?” he snarled, his tone laced with irritation. “They’re gone. Forget them already!” His anger wasn’t born from malice, but from jealousy. He couldn’t stand the thought of someone else occupying your heart.
• Aizetsu was the complete opposite, his sadness mirroring your own. “It hurts to see you like this,” he murmured, his voice heavy with melancholy. “I just… I want you to feel better. But I don’t know how to help.” His gentle demeanor made him the easiest to be around, but his sorrow often made your grief feel even heavier.
• Karaku tried to distract you with flirtation and charm, his mischievous grin never far from his face. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, draping an arm around your shoulders. “Why waste time crying when you’ve got me here to cheer you up?”
• Urogi took a more chaotic approach, laughing off your sadness and trying to drag you into his games. “Stop being so serious all the time!” he exclaimed, swooping down beside you. “You’ll forget about them faster if you start having fun with me!”
Their conflicting approaches left you overwhelmed, each clone vying for your attention in their own obsessive way.
Gyutaro and Daki (Platonic for Daki’s pov)
For Daki, your grief was something she couldn’t understand but desperately wanted to fix. She’d cling to you like a child, her possessiveness growing with each passing day.
“You don’t need them,” she said one evening, her voice trembling with emotion. “I’ll be your best friend now. I’ll be everything you need!”
Daki loved the way you treated her with kindness and patience, something she rarely experienced. But her jealousy over your lost friend burned brightly, and she hated that she couldn’t completely fill the void in your heart.
Gyutaro, on the other hand, took a harsher approach. “Why are you still crying over them?” he asked gruffly. “They’re not coming back. You’ve got us now. That’s all that matters.”
Though his words were blunt, Gyutaro’s actions spoke of a quiet protectiveness. He’d keep a watchful eye on you, ensuring no one else could hurt you again. But his possessiveness, combined with Daki’s need for constant attention, left little room for you to grieve in peace.
Nakime
Nakime’s obsession was silent and calculating. She rarely spoke, but her control over the Infinity Castle gave her complete power over your surroundings.
Whenever she sensed your thoughts drifting back to your lost love, she would subtly manipulate the castle, leading you away from places where you could dwell on your memories.
“You will not find solace in the past,” she said one day, her voice calm but unyielding. “This is your home now.”
Nakime believed that if she controlled your environment, she could control your heart. She removed any reminders of your old life, leaving you surrounded only by the cold, shifting walls of the castle. Her obsession was suffocating in its subtlety, a quiet force that slowly stripped away your ability to mourn.
Muzan Kibutsuji
Muzan was enraged by your inability to let go of your past love. To him, your grief was a weakness—one that tarnished the perfection he sought to create.
“You are mine now,” he said coldly, his crimson eyes narrowing. “There is no need to dwell on something as insignificant as the past.”
Muzan’s solution to your grief was absolute control. He would strip away every trace of your old life, erasing any reminders of the person you had loved. But even as he tightened his grip on you, he couldn’t completely extinguish the memory of your spouse.
“You will forget them,” he commanded one night, his voice low and dangerous. “You belong to me, and me alone.”
But no matter how much he tried to control you, Muzan’s frustration only grew. His obsession wasn’t just about owning you—it was about breaking the part of you that still loved someone else.
Hi! I don't know if you're willing to do none-yandere (?), but I wanted to ask if you could do just some fluff and platonic Kokushibo with his lowermoon adopted daughter when she's insecure and started to not like herself because her bda is starting to affect her appearance in a way?
((Also sorry for the gender thing, but I just happened to find it easier to explain like that, you can do it as gn!child though!))
Shifting Reflections
In the soft glow of twilight, Kokushibo’s secluded home exuded a gentle warmth—a haven away from the tumult of the world. In one quiet corner of the residence, their adopted child lingered before an aged mirror. The reflection staring back was different from what they remembered: subtle shifts in familiar features had begun to emerge, a physical reminder of the mysterious changes brought on by their evolving abilities. These changes, linked to their BDA, were beginning to affect their appearance in ways that filled them with uncertainty. Where once the mirror had reflected a confident, joyful self, it now whispered doubts and insecurities.
The child’s eyes, usually alight with a spark of inner strength, now looked downcast and troubled. They traced the unfamiliar contours of their face, feeling as if they were losing touch with the person they had always known. A knot of worry twisted within, and every glance at the mirror deepened the feeling of estrangement. The changes were not just physical; they resonated deeply with their inner self, challenging their sense of identity and worth. In that quiet moment, self-doubt began to overshadow the confidence they once held dear.
Kokushibo, ever watchful and tender despite the weight of their own burdens, noticed the lingering silence and the troubled posture. Approaching with measured steps and a heart full of quiet understanding, they rested a gentle hand on the child’s shoulder. “I see you’re troubled by what you see,” Kokushibo said softly, voice resonating with warmth and reassurance. “Sometimes, change feels like an uninvited guest. But remember, the essence of who you are is not confined to the surface alone.”
The child turned, eyes glistening with vulnerability, and for a moment, words faltered. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, they admitted, “I feel like I’m losing myself. These changes—I can’t help but wonder if I’m becoming someone I no longer recognize.” Their admission carried a heavy mix of fear and sorrow, as if each altered line of their reflection was erasing pieces of their past self. It was a confession born of deep insecurity, a plea for understanding amid a storm of internal conflict.
Kokushibo knelt beside them, ensuring that their gaze met that of their adopted child. “Every mark and every change tells a story,” they explained, their tone both gentle and resolute. “Your reflection might shift, but the kindness in your heart and the strength in your spirit remain unchanged. These changes, though unexpected, are not a loss of who you are—they are a testament to your growth and resilience.” Their words wove a comforting tapestry of acceptance, reminding the child that beauty could be found in transformation.
As the evening deepened into night, the room filled with a tender silence—a moment of shared introspection and quiet solace. Kokushibo continued, their voice imbued with quiet determination: “I understand that change can feel overwhelming, and it’s natural to fear what it might mean. But every part of you, even those that seem unfamiliar now, holds value. They are proof of the journey you’re on, a journey that I will walk with you every step of the way.” The promise in Kokushibo’s words wrapped around the child like a soft blanket, offering security in the midst of uncertainty.
Slowly, the child’s gaze shifted from the mirror back to Kokushibo, where they saw nothing but unwavering acceptance and care. In that moment, the fear began to ease, replaced by a gentle recognition: that while appearances might shift, the heart’s true essence was steadfast. The child allowed a tentative smile to break through the gloom—a small sign of hope that they were still, undeniably, themselves.
Together, in the quiet of that night, they sat side by side. The mirror no longer held dominion over the child’s perception of worth; instead, it became a silent witness to the evolving beauty of a spirit growing ever stronger. Kokushibo’s steady presence reminded them that every transformation was not a betrayal of who they were, but a step toward the person they were meant to become. And in that shared understanding, both found comfort—a promise that, no matter the changes that time would bring, their bond and the truth of their inner beauty would remain unaltered.
Warnings : Religious themes. Murder. Mention of Suicide.
Please note that these warnings are not exhaustive due to potential spoilers. Reader discretion is advised, as the work explores mature themes.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒
(Y/N), having suffer the grievous misfortune of losing one most dear to her heart, resolved with unyielding will not to lose the second closest. She set forth to find him only to fail in her search. Yet fate, ever cruel and curious, return him to her doorstep, hale and whole… and bearing with him the very harbinger of a future that would unravel all she believed her quiet life to be.
“Fair one,” the man call down, his voice smooth and lace with the authority of nobility, “do you know aught of a man who goes by the name Balian de Ibelin ?”
The woman turn her face upward. Poorly clad in the tattered remnants of what might once have been garments, she looks half-ghost, half-beggar. Her skin is wind-worn, her lips chapped near to bleeding, and her frame shudder beneath a shawl that has long since cease to offer warmth. Still, she look upon him— this mounted man in gleaming silver, his armor catching what meagre light the sun could scatter through the clouds with no reverence at all.
“Aye,” she rasp, her voice the scrape of bark on frost. “What sins weigh upon your soul that you’d go seeking that devil ?”
Her scowl deepen and she clutch the foul shawl tighter at her throat, a poor shield against the winter’s cruel breath.
The man’s grip upon the reins stiff, leather creaking beneath his gauntlet. He shift in the saddle, boots brushing the flanks of his mule to keep the beast steady. “Answer what you are asked,” he said, his tone sharp now, no longer courteous, but clip and commanding.
She scoff, gaze turning aside to the snowswept path. “Fine lords never do heed the words of the old and weathered not till death’s fingers brush their collar,” she mutter, more to herself than to him.
He exhale hard through his nose, jaw clench. A curse nearly escape his tongue, but he bite it back, allowing only a long, weary sigh to leave his lips.
“And why is that ?” Come a voice, soft yet clear. “What great sin has he committed to deserve such scorn ?”
The beggar woman turn, the brittle edges of her shawl rustling with the motion. It is of another woman who has spoken— her tone not cruel, but inquisitive, lace with the calm assurance of one unaccustom to fear. From within the shadowed interior of a carriage, she peer out, and the beggar caught the only sight of her (S/C) hand.
“He slew a priest,” the beggar answer, her voice now hush. “And not as a man, but as a beast— possessed, they say, by a devil his own wife called forth.”
The noblewoman’s brows drew together faintly. “You mean to say she sold her soul to the devil ?”
“Indeed,” come the answer, follow by a grim nod. “Bartered her soul to the fiend for the child she could not bear to lose, and as bargain she cast herself into death.”
The silence that follow is long and reverent, like a chapel abandon in storm. Then the beggar add, with a bitterness she made no attempt to hide, “Is it not the most wretched tale you’ve ever heard, my lady ? Surely, he is marked for Hell’s gate, and no prayers shall unbind him from it.”
“And tell me,” the noblewoman murmur from within the gloom of her carriage, “does the devil now reap what he has so wickedly sown ?”
Though concern soften the lines of her face, her voice did not wane.
The beggar sneer, a dry and bitter sound. “Devils, my lady, live longer than any mortal man. And this one. He walks free, at somewhere on earth no one aware".
Disgust curl her mouth, as though the very telling had foul her tongue. She turn her head and spit upon the cold earth, the gesture crude but cathartic. “Pardoned, they say. Pah. As though mercy could cleanse blood from a man’s hands.”
Within the carriage, the noblewoman give a quiet hum of thought. Her hand withdrew, and the heavy curtain is close again across the gap, shutting out the breath of wind that had crept in like a thief. A moment later, the curtain part once more and in her palm is a small pouch, neat and unblemish, bound with a silken cord.
“I would reward your candour,” The beggar’s eyes brighten, glittering with greed. With no pretense of modesty, she rush forward, seizing the pouch in both hands. Her grip is fierce, as though afraid it might vanish. Within, the coins clink and groan, their weight protesting the sudden violence.
A grin split her face wild, toothy, and full of triumph. Under the pale kiss of sunlight, her smile gleam. With the faintest flick of her wrist, the noblewoman signal to the armored man beside her— a gesture as slight as a falling petal, but understood well enough. It is time to leave this decay village behind.
She withdraw her hand at last, drawing it back into the warmth of the carriage as the curtain fall once more. The coldness outside latch now on her skin bleeding into the hollow of her lap too, where the weight of the news lay heavy and unyielding. Her gaze turn down, lashes dampening with unshed tears.
He is out there wandering, perhaps starving, pockets empty and soul weary. she pray to heavens they show mercy to him as far as she knows him. He is no killer without a moral reason.
“Lady (Y/N), we have arrived at the destination.” The guard’s voice broke the silence, low and solemn, as though the weight of their arrival press as hard upon him as it does upon her.
She exhale slowly, the breath trembling as it left her. It is not quite a sob, but a shudder. Her fingers clench in her lap, bracing against what she is about to brace again.
Pain, they told her, dulls with time. Liars, all of them.
“You may open the door,” she said. Be strong, she remind herself, a command spoken inwardly, as sharp and cold as the air that await her. She is no longer a village girl. She is a noblewoman now, wife to a titled man, foolish though he may be. Yet a man of name, nonetheless.
The carriage door groan upon its hinges, the sound mournful as though it, too, recoil from what lay beyond. The wind greet her immediately— unforgiving, indiscriminate. It lash at her face, tangle her hair, press against her ribs. Weather, she thought bitterly, is the only thing that grants true equality; it spares no soul, no matter their blood or birth.
With measure breath, she place one foot down into the snow, then another. The first is cautious. The second— heavier, burden with a grief that bent the spine and ache through the marrow. Her eyes sweep the whiten earth, spying for the suppose grave but her will that pull her forward no longer could and she sink, her knees into the snow, soft and pitiless. Her fingers touch the bare snow. Her breath caught, and the silence wrap around her like a shroud.
Immediate hands come upon her, gentle, trembling. Her lady’s maid knee beside her, arms steadying her from behind. "My lady,” The young girl's brows furrow real tight and pale like she is in grief when it is (Y/N) is who lost.
Her (E/C) eyes glistening with the sting of wind and grief found the face of her maid beside her. So young, so pale, and yet steady in the storm of another’s sorrow. The noblewoman’s tears swell and fall no longer withheld, no longer solemn. They slip down her cheeks in rivulets, uncheck, unabash, as though her very soul has split and the sorrow leak free through every fracture.
Behind her, the guard turn his gaze aside. It is not for his eyes to see.
She weep and weep and the sound is not soft but strangle, raw. A sorrow contort by rage and heartbreak, as if her body itself is torn between mourning and protest. Her sobs broke like waves against her chest, crack and uneven. Dying things, desperate things. And all the while, the wind move around her of a indifferent god, howling low and cold and heartless.
“Monsters". She gasp, her voice hoarse, barely louder than the wind that threat to drown it. “They didn’t even grant her a grave.”
Her fingers claw into the snow. The white beneath her knees is already stain with her presence.
“What had she done,” she cried, voice trembling with fury, “to deserve such humiliation ? Was her grief so great a crime ? So monstrous a thing that they could not forgive it ?”
The wind offer no answer. Nor did the dead.
“All because she took her own life ?” Her voice wail, sharp with fury. “All because her sorrow outweighed her will to breathe another day ? Imbeciles. Cowards. Blind, cold fools.” The maid let her madam release the populated thoughts, silently beside her in the cold.
For the living must grieve in sound when the dead are denied even a stone.
━━━━━━━━
“So,” Inquire her mother-in-law unkindly. “have you at last finished mourning your sister’s death ?”
The Marchioness spoke with all the warmth of frost upon glass. There is no comfort in her words, no softness, only a scolding edge polished by years of rank and expectation. “It has been several months. You must compose yourself. It is time you turn your grief toward purpose toward the cultivation of new life within you. The body is meant for more than tears, it is meant to bear.”
Across the long, candlelit table, Lady (Y/N) incline her head with grace she has learn to wear like a veil. The rebuke did not sting—it is too familiar for that. A wife’s duty. A womb with eyes. She has been told this all before.
Her gaze, however, drift to the man at her side. Her husband, Thomas, who sat in idle silence, chewing steadily, as though his mother’s words did not fill the air, not a peep out of his mouth or a hasty glance. His mouth work tirelessly through his meal while hers had yet to taste a single bite.
“Dear Mother,” she begin at last, her tone smooth and almost sweet, the smile she offer. “I understand your wish for me to fulfill my station. But alas, it is difficult to bear fruit when the tree is never visited by the gardener. Thomas, I fear, is seldom home long enough to make such things possible.”
The room chill. Her mother-in-law’s fork pause halfway through her venison, and the glint in her eye shift sharp now, hawkish and narrow. Still, she master herself, lips twitching before settling into a strain, regal smile.
“Of course,” she murmur, voice taut. “How remiss of me to overlook his responsibility.”
Then, tilting her head ever so slightly, she turn to her son. “Thomas.”
He flinch just slightly and look up as though rouse from a fog.
“Yes, Mother ?”
“Do remember to spare your wife some time". she said, each word deliver with force delicacy.
(Y/N) sip her wine then, slow and unhurried, letting the taste sit heavy on her tongue. She relish at those words coming out unwilling and tight. Her husband nod. See, Fools are handy, he could have easily call out her lie because for it is in her bed he curl each night in her arms like a babe.
But he said nothing.
And for that silence, she adore him— just these moments.
The door open and her maid enter, bowing deeply to the assembled nobles whose silks and jewels glitter beneath the chandelier's flame. With careful steps and lower gaze, the girl approach her mistress and bent subtly, as though adjusting the fall of her gown, before speaking just above a whisper, lips grazing the air beside Lady (Y/N)’s ear.
“My lady, a man with no prior appointment has come to meet with you".
(Y/N)’s brow arch, a flicker of surprise crossing her expression, but she smooth it away swiftly at her mother’s gaze, ever watchful is beginning to drift in her direction. With a calm turn of her head, she angle her face just behind her maid’s shoulder and reply in a hush of her own.
“Turn him away. I have no desire to entertain strangers.”
But the girl linger, eyes hesitant, as though reluctant to obey. “He insisted still, my lady,” she said softly. “Said you would be… astonished to see him.”
At that, (Y/N)’s gaze sharpen. A stranger who knew she would refuse him and yet came still, embolden by the certainty that his face would undo her ? The very notion prick her curiosity like a thorn.
Suspicion stir, but so too did a quiet intrigue, slow and sinuous.
She said nothing for a moment, only cast a glance aside, lifting her glass once more. A smile then bloom upon her lips— serene, graceful, practice toward her mother, as though the interruption has never occur.
“I shall see him,” She murmur the sentence to her maid, beneath the rim of her goblet, voice as soft as the wine’s ripple within. The maid nod.
“Well,” Lady (Y/N) said, rising from her chair with a gentle rustle of her silk, “it seems an unexpected guest has arrived. I must extend the courtesy of a proper host.”
With deliberate grace, she pluck the napkin from her lap and let it fall beside her untouched plate. Her hands move to smooth the faint wrinkles in her gown, a habitual gesture, refine and compose.
She has just turn to leave when her mother-in-law’s voice cut sharply through the hum of conversation.
“Who is it?” the older woman demand, her tone clip, almost affront.
(Y/N) pause, her back straight, then slowly glance over her shoulder. A polite smile curve her lips.
“Far too lowly, I’m afraid, for your esteemed knowledge to bother remembering, dear Mother,” she reply smoothly, voice wrap in velvet and irony.
That seem to satisfy. With a curt nod, the matriarch turn back to her meal and resume her repast, the silver fork gleaming in her fist like a weapon.
(Y/N) laid a light hand upon her husband’s shoulder— a brief, courteous touch. He look up, meet her gaze, and give a small nod, accompanied by a single, fleeting glance.
It is enough for her to turn from the table and depart. Her steps quicker than the decorum of her station allow, drawn forward by a mix of weary irritation and mild curiosity. Whoever this man is, should best make swift his business, for all she truly long for is the sanctuary of her chambers and the relief of solitude.
But when the door to the estate open, and the chill meet her once more, her stride falter.
A figure of a man stand there in the winter-bitten yard. At first confusion press on the lady's lips but just as quickly as recognization brighten her pupils, filling her chest in a single, gasping breath. Her heart surge, wild with joy and disbelief. Of course.
Of course she would be astonished. Who else could move her so ?
And without a word, without care for propriety she run.
The years slip from her limbs as she lift the hem of her gown and broke into a sprint, the kind of reckless dash she has not made since she was a child chasing after her younger late sister. Her maids gasp, hands reaching too late. The guards stiff, fingers curling around the hilts of their swords, eyes wide as the lady of the house abandon all dignity and hurl herself across the yard.
She throw herself into his arms.
The man stagger beneath the sudden weight of her, but his arms come around her all the same, strong and sure. A low, muffle chuckle escape him and it is that sound, more than anything, that undid her entirely.
He is alive and whole.
“Brother,” She breath, her voice breaking into the curve of his shoulder, her arms clinging tight, as though the wind itself might steal him away again. Tears swell anew, but these are not tears of sorrow.
These are tears of joy— pure and unpoiled.
After returning empty without him at the village she sent men riding by day and night, order to beg answers of strangers and ghosts alike. And now, at last, here he is. In flesh. In breath. In her arms.
And for the first time in many long months, her heart meet peace.
“You are here,” she whisper, as though her heart has spoken before her mind could catch up. Her fingers cling to the fabric of his worn coat, and the warmth of him soak through her bodice and sleeves, too real— far too real— to be anything but cruel illusion. She fear it still. Fear she might wake any moment in a cold bed, clutching only air.
And yet, his hand is firm at her back, his breath real against her cheek.
“I am,” he reply, his voice roughen— gravelly and hoarse from travel or wear, or perhaps from the silence he has kept too long. Yet it is his voice, unmistakably so, and with it come a familiar, low laugh.
“If any were to witness this sight". He said, amusement threading through his words, “They would never believe you were not born of my own blood—let alone that you are my elder.”
She draw back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes bright with mirth and something else— something deeper, almost fierce.
“I became your sister the moment mine chose you,” She reply with calm conviction, her tone lace with fond reproach. “And affection, you great halfwit, knows nothing of age or blood.”
He laugh again, fuller this time, and slowly, gently, he let her go. She slide down from him, only now aware her feet had not touched the earth since she had flung herself into his arms. Her boots settle in the snow again, Heaven, she is overjoy and do not steal that away from her.
━━━━━━━━
"You must come and see my home". Balian urge, sat beside her amidst the quiet bloom of her private garden. The late sun paint gold over petals and leaves, though most flowers save the ever-stubborn rose were bowed in sleep, their heads drooping like weary courtiers at twilight. A shame, she thought inwardly, that he could not witness the garden in its full glory, for she pride herself as its most attentive caretaker.
"Your home ?" she repeat softly, with a gracious smile, then tilt her head. "Yes, of course. But pray tell, you—" Her words falter as her gaze caught on the fine embroidery that thread along his sleeves, the supple richness of the cloth that adorn him. "You are dressed like a nobleman," she observe at last, the question finally finding its shape.
At that, Balian give a quiet, almost bashful laugh and nod. "Because I am one now."
Astonishment wide her eyes, and her posture shift subtly, a curious thrill pricking at her skin. He could see the questions bloom behind her gaze.
"You see," He begin, and she fall silent, giving him her full attention— no interruptions, no breath too loud to distract. As he spoke, she listened with a growing awe, her fingers curling softly against the folds of her gown. His tale unfolded like silk unraveling—touched with marvel, and threaded through with quiet struggle and impossible fortune. The kingdom he now called home sounded less like a place of men and more like a daydreams spun from pages of fairytale. A land born of wonder.
And the king of the kingdom sounded, in her eyes, no less than sainted. Even more so, she when she learned he was younger than herself, and yet had accomplished what not even the holiest of popes could dare claim.
A strange place indeed, she mused. But a better one.
"So… would you ?" he ask again, voice low but urgent, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile hope he held. His breath come uneven, chest rising with each inhale—fear laid bare in the tremble of his posture. He is afraid, she saw. Afraid that the only soul he could call kin in all this wide, indifferent earth might turn him away.
Her smile wide. "Yes," she said, softly but with certainty. "I would love to."
At her words, the invisible serpent of dread that has been coil tight around his ribs seem to unknit itself, retreating back into shadow. She notice how his shoulders slack, how air finally move through him—and she reach forward to embrace him in a brief, tight hug. One of quiet joy, of promises made without pomp.
And so it is settle. They departed soon, bidding farewell to the lingering winter of her kingdom and journeying toward the sun-kissed lands spoke of in awed whispers— the kingdom of called Heaven by those who knew it. A fitting name, she thought. Her husband accompany them, of course, for propriety’s sake; it would not do for a married lady to travel unescorted across realms he said. Not that she minded alone, truth be told yet she welcome the gesture and obeyed without protest.
And when they arrived, she feels herself, for a moment, returned to the wide-eyed wonder of childhood. The kingdom stretched before her a place where harmony had taken root, improbably, among peoples so different they ought to have clashed.
“So, tell me do you find it favorable to your eyes ?” Balian ask gently, standing just beside her, hands clasp behind his back. The ever-kind smile touch his face as his gaze follow her movements with quiet admiration. (Y/N) has taken to exploring every corner and crevice of his home, her fingers brushing over carved mantels, her eyes trailing the delicate latticework on the windows.
She hum, tilting her head ever so slightly— a fox’s expression cloak in mischief. “Mm. It is… something,” she reply, the words drawn out like silk, neither truth nor lie, dancing somewhere in between.
“She must, do not fret” Thomas interject too quickly, stepping forward. “It’s a.... good place.”
Her smile dim, just a shade, the corners of her lips losing their luster. Balian’s gaze flick to Thomas, then back again, something sharp and silent passing behind his eyes. There it is— discord. The air between the pair is tuned to different strings, and Thomas, for all his devotion, could not hear the dissonance.
Then (Y/N) turn, suddenly, her skirts rustling as she face her husband. She smile— broadly this time, all teeth and brightness but beneath it lay strain. "Correct".
Thomas unwittily return it with a brighter smile.
━━━━━━━━
“Be truthful with me, did you wed for love ?” The question come quietly, a fit for the hushed opulence of the hallway, their steps soft by velvet runners and the shade of pillars. With her husband resting from the long and wearisome journey, Balian has seize the rare moment of privacy.
At his words, (Y/N)’s eyes wide —startle not by the question itself, but by the precision of it. Then, slowly, they become soft, as though recognizing he is her soul brother and her husband has never been a good pretender, and the cracks in their union were the sort only a blind man could miss. Balian, least of all, is blind.
She turn her face toward him and the smile she give him of a melancholy. Has she not found comfort in his presence, she might have tear up right there in the corridor.
“Tell me,” She said. “which girl is so fortunate as to find both love and title within a marriage ?”
It is answer enough. It explain the quiet strain between husband and wife, the affection that look more like endurance, the closeness that did not quite fit.
She look forward again and, after a pause, add lightly, “Besides, he is tolerable enough.” Then, with a smile that belong to no one and everyone, she slip between the pillars, gliding ahead like a fish upon a pond left, then right and repeat.
Suddenly a noise of animal enter though the entrance revealing a horse in it's owner sat startling (Y/N) throughly while Balian sigh.
"Be at rest. Her highness has a fascination with dashing entries".
"Her highness ?" (Y/N) skirt to him quicker as concern and confusion lead heavy upon her face. "You mean lady Sibylla of Jerusalem ?" A grasp fill her mouth and she almost choke on it in surprise that the man pat her back.
"She is a kind lady. You would love her as much as I have a feeling she would". Her (E/C) eyes trace his face, it...change, she can't express how but the tenderness he speaks of her name has awful resemble to how he speak of her late sister. Before she could dwell in the thoughts, the lady in question appear in front, as lovely if not lovelier than the description he gave her.
(Y/N) bow low, following Balian’s lead with a hurried grace, though the fabric of her gown pool deeper with each inch she descend. A faint tremble course through her from uncertainty as no instruction has been given, no protocol taught of even how to greet the royal family. He had not thought to prepare her, and she had been too indulgent in her own ignorance to ask whether an audience with the royal family was ever to be expected— let alone with the king’s own sister.
“You may rise.” The voice is warm syrup with sweetness, yet thread with command and at its bidding (Y/N) straight slowly, lifting her gaze to meet the emerald eyes of the woman before her. Eyes so vividly green that even the finest stones (Y/N) has ever glimpse seem dull in their shadow. “You must be lady (Y/N) Edwards". said the lady, a smile curving her lips.
"Indeed". (Y/N) reply with a gentle nod, rising fully to her stature. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.”
“The pleasure is mine, to finally behold the woman of whom I have only heard whispers. And I must speak plainly, he did not do justice in the telling.”
A flush bloom on (Y/N)’s cheeks, soft and swift. “You honour me, Your Highness,” she said, lowering her eyes before daring to lift them again. “And I daresay the same of you, for words could scarce match your presence.”
“Thank you,” Sibylla said, a small smile playing upon her lips. “It always feels different, somehow, to be complimented by a fellow lady.” Her gaze bold in the meeting.
“And tell me,” Her voice dip in light amusement as her eyes shift slyly toward Balian, “has he been the proper host, as he ought to be?”
Balian offer only a modest smile, inscrutable as ever.
“Yes,” (Y/N) answer truthfully, warmth rising in her voice. “Very much so.”
The reply seem to please Sibylla. She hum in approval, nodding gently before returning her gaze to (Y/N), eyes glinting with fresh interest.
“You see, I had only intended to pass the afternoon in idle leisure,” she said, “but having met you now... it would be quite the shame not to extend an invitation. You must dine with me at the palace.”
(Y/N)’s lips part slightly, caught off guard as she cast a glance toward Balian, uncertain if she should accept so freely. At his quiet nod, her reply come soft and certain: “I would be honoured once again, Your Highness.”
━━━━━━━━
“I still find it difficult to believe,” (Y/N) murmur, her gaze drifting along the intricately adorn walls as she walk beside Balian. “That Her Highness would so easily invite me to dine as though I were an old friend— no, a bosom friend.” She shake her head softly, wonder still clinging to her words. “And not merely in any her husband's estate, but within the royal palace itself".
Balian’s hands are clasp neatly behind his back, his step steady beside hers. “Her Highness has always delighted in the art of impressing others,” He said, a mirth note in his voice. “She enjoys displaying the finery she commands.”
“If I were her,” (Y/N) reply, a quiet awe in her tone, “I believe I would do the same.”
At that, Balian let out a low chuckle, inclining his head with a smile. “Fair enough.” His gaze follow hers when it shift, startle, toward a figure approaching and in an instant, he bow. (Y/N) notice the motion at once and follow suit, her own bow seamless, without so much as a curious glance. Respecting one of higher rank is a rule she learned early at her first stage of wearing the noblewoman's skin.
Only the sound of multiple footfalls mark the approach. From the edge of her vision, she caught a glimpse of white— so pure, so sweeping— it veil even the feet beneath it. A noblewoman ? she wonder, careful to drink in what details she could without raising her head, shifting only her pupils in their sockets.
“Rise.” The voice is male— gravel-lace and weighted, not the lilting tone she has been expecting. She obey, lifting her head as instructed, and a chill trace the path of her spine when her gaze fall upon the figure before her.
It has to be the king— just as he had been described by Balian. His face is obscure by a mask of polished silver, gleaming like forge moonlight. Every inch of him is cloak in garments the color of snow, untouch and ethereal. Behind him stand a man, broad, bearded, with a faint scar trailing from beneath one eye to the corner of his mouth. A knight, perhaps. Others stand further back, silent shadows in armor and steel.
She did not dare meet his gaze. So piercing and fuller in attention she shy away to the ground a much safer to gaze as much as she like, how she likes without the fear of breaking a unspoken rule. Yet the heat of his gaze remain loom over her head.
“May I know who this lady is ?” His tone gentler than any man she ever heard without the need of command, it's even soft-spoken she would sooner expect from a poet than a king.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Balian said at once, with the practice calm of a man who has long served. “She is my sister-in-law. Lady (Y/N) Edwards.”
He said no more, leaving the words to stand as they were. (Y/N) slid her gaze to her soul-brother, studying the rigid set of his jaw, the rigid mask he wore in place of grief. He still struggles to speak her name aloud, she thought. "To say my sister is gone". The wound in him has not close no more than it has in her.
Her attention return forward at the soft rustle of robes perhaps the king has incline his head, perhaps merely shift. It is hard to say.
“Well then,” He said, mild amusement threading into the smooth timber of his voice, “I was taking a stroll. Would you and Lady (Y/N) accompany me, for a touch of conversation ?”
The question, though shape as such, allow no room for refusal. Balian agree without hesitation, and the soft chorus of movement follow— cloth shifting, footsteps distancing.
She and Balian move in step, passing beneath carve arches into a quieter corridor, one that led, she presume, toward his private chamber. Or perhaps his study she could not tell.
He turn, and at once her eyes flee below again. His eyes catching the notion, though he offer no remark.
“Do you play chess, Lady (Y/N) ? Because I believe it to be the most important skill as it mirror the real life too well". He ask, his voice measure, neither pressing nor idle. He stand before the marble board where the pieces has already been arranged, the hem of his white tunic brushing against the seat he has yet to claim.
"Heaven help me". She draw in a shallow breath, the weight of her regret tightening her chest. She should have listened. It’s her own fault. Her father had urged her once, more than once, to learn the game called it noble, sharpening, essential even. But she had refused, citing the endless boredom, the complex tactics that knotted her thoughts until her mind wore thin with the effort.
“Pardon me, Your Majesty,” she said, carefully compose. “My father believed chess to be a game best suited to men, and so I was never given the chance.”
Balian’s eyes flicker toward her at once— sharp, knowing. The silence that follow is not empty but taut. She keep her gaze fix ahead, though she could feel it, the slight tilt of the king’s head, the weight of his study on her.
“However,” The king said after a pause. “you wish to learn, do you not ?”
How quick he was. How precise. She swallow. No, she did not wish to learn. To her, that game is no pleasure rather of eternal inner torture that has manage to get a piece of hatred towards, reserved for it only.
“I’m afraid I am in no condition to begin learning chess,” She offer lightly, folding her voice in modest resignation. “I have heard it must be taught young or not at all.”
Balian close his eyes at that. Her protest is feeble, transparent in its aim. The evasion is clear, and yet she press it nonetheless. It is, of course, fruitless.
The king exhale through his nose, a breath neither impatient nor indulgent, and take his seat with a fluid motion that made her spine tight instinctively.
“You both, as well,” He said, his hand making a brief, effortless gesture toward the two empty velvet chairs. Balian move first, taking one. The other sit just across from the king directly before his gaze, and closest to where she stood.
(Y/N) smooth her gown, her fingers trailing the fabric as if the act could lend grace to a moment she could not flee, then lower herself onto the chair.
“That,” Said the king, his voice cool but not unkind, “is only half true.” He lean forward slightly, eyes watching She straight her back, chin poise, hands place one atop the other in her lap.
“Whoever said such a thing is only half-learned in the matter. It is true that young minds take more easily to strategy, they are pliant, eager. But age is no obstacle to intellect. Anyone, at any age, may learn".
"But of course, they have to wish to learn it too". He add and she almost bite herself in refusing the instinct to meet his eyes, giving him any signs of lies. She should have just said yes. "Ignoramus". she scold herself.
“But I could not possibly trouble his Majesty with something so trifling as teaching me,” (Y/N) said with a polite laugh, lifting her voice just enough to sound harmless, evasive. “I know nothing of the rules, only that one colour house always survive.”
Baldwin turn his head, slowly, eyes drawing away as a quiet nod follow, before his gaze return to her. "You wouldn't". Her eyes wide at the vague implication but it hasn't flicker to meet his. Shame he thought. She clench her jaw and her fingers subtly dig in her lap's cloth.
She nod yet her heart sour in protest.
“Let us begin, then,” the king said. His hand rose and from her lower gaze, she glimpse the movement. The glove caught the light in a dull gleam. Every inch of him is covered she saw. Not a sliver of flesh, not a breath of vulnerability visible. He is encased—desperate to hide the sickness that haa turn unkind to him.
He place his knight forward, a single step into the quiet battlefield.
She swallow. “The rules, Your Majesty ?” Quitely she ask but it echo the room grand as it could for others to clear clear.
“Simple, you know.” Baldwin's words come lightly, but something in the pause that follow sent a ripple of unease through her. He point his fingers toward her. She caught it from the corner of her eye. Confusion stir in her chest. “If you answer truthfully I shall not force you to play.” Her throat dry, dust against dust and she could only sit there, spine stiff. Balian glance at (Y/N) and click his tongue within.
Caught out loud.
"Whatever you mean, your majesty ?" A feign of ease and confusion with she question. Her voice under wraps of fear and nervousness.
But not proven.
Another thing her father said to her frequently and she did take it to her heart is that regardless how guilty you are, despite caught never bow or admit the lie you said because it's never over until you admit it yourself. Never guilty until proven.
The king said nothing for a beat and unseen by others, he arch a brow at her resolve under his mask, slow and amuse, before reclining in his chair. The back of his robe whisper against the wood.
“You still insist on pretending ?” He ask, voice smooth as velvet, line with something sharper.
“I am not.”
He lean forward again, and the motion, subtle though it was, drew her taut as string. His one hand lift slightly, his index finger loosely point at her. “And that,” he murmur, without missing a breath, “is also a lie.”
The hand descend, landing near the edge of the board, soft as snowfall.
Balian's lips quiver at the atmosphere bleeding low and he part his lips but the king's eyes quicker than any wielding sword turn to him in a warning and the weight he always carry in that gaze alone is undefying. Thus Balian fall silent, afraid to worsen what begin with a question of chess.
"I have nothing to offer in my defense but my word, Your Majesty. I did not lie. How could I when I am unaware of what part did I even lie ?"
"Good question but poorly timed". The king remark. "The part where you claimed your father never taught you chess".
She did not blink. “He indeed did not teach me.”
"You never learn hence never taught".
"Untrue again, Your Majesty with all due respect.”
"Lying to the crown is a grave sin, You do understand one could be beheaded for it.”
"Then I should have no fear for I have not lied". She hold herself firm and the line of her lips remain as thin as a violin string. She fears death thus she is insisting upon her one lie she made. She is wife of a titled man, hence she might not be convicted without proven the reason at least.
Silence clung to the chamber like the scent of death— thick, unmoving. The guards exchange glances, swift and uneasy, as though the stillness itself might lash out. Tiberias shift, his weapon drawn but angle down across his torso. And Balian hold his breath without knowing he had, lungs coil tight, chest rigid with quiet dread.
A sigh broke through it all. Audible, almost loud in its solitude. Baldwin exhale with a sound that scrape the edge of weariness, pale fingers rising to press against his temple layered beneath his sliver mask.
No other dared move. Not a whisper stirred the air.
“You are,” he said at last, voice low and resignation, “an astoundingly stubborn person.”
Her gaze lift for the first time, directly to his. His fingers twitch, a minute falter at that. She hold his eye unlike ealier and a strange glint bright her pupils as her thin press lips release itself from it's captive and curve slightly. He could only stare obtusely, for some unknown cause that look stole his breath.
She lean slightly, the curve spreading her corners of lip. "I admit, I lied, your majesty".
He did not move. Could not. His breath left him in a hush, the question spilling forth without thought. “Why ?”
“Because,” she begin, her voice steady with a peculiar grace, “in your opinion, chess is not merely a game, it is a philosophy, a mirror to life itself. Had I spoken the truth that I had never played— you would have asked why. And if I answered again with honesty—that I found it tedious and unworthy of my attention—would that not have insulted Your Majesty’s convictions ?” Tiberias, ever the cautious mind, weigh her words and found their logic sound. Inwardly, he nod. Balian, meanwhile, pray mercy for lenience from the saint king known for his composure, not wrath.
Baldwin concurrently could only trace of her eyes hue. Mapping them carefully to see her true color not the pale shade cast by torchlight, nor the one the dusk had dull, but the true color dwelling beneath all that.
Yes, he did heard and process her confession yet he can not connect her reasoning to reveal herself. Just like that ? For what ? Because the line he used of beheading, he would not had used on her however she does not know that. Truthfully he was not upset, not even enraged. He just had this urge to not be lied and watching how she stacked lie atop lie in her poised hands, he had wanted to see how many she could carry before she cracked.
"And why did you reveal yourself ?" He utter.
"Because you said I am an astoundingly stubborn person. Not woman. A person and even if it was but a slip, such words are not born of error if they are not first born of thought. You regarded me as equal before woman.”
He considered her, still as stone, though something move in his chest. “That is all ?”
"Indeed. You respect me and I do you by admitting my lie". A neat nice smile she form.
"You gambled your life for thus ?" (Y/N) nod.
"Your majesty, you are known for your benevolence. You would not wound the innocent over a mere lie. I believe". She straight then, spine drawn tall as a pine, and compose herself. The men gather in the chamber could only blink. They had never seen a odd woman quite like her. A fool, perhaps. Or brilliant beyond measure. Perhaps both. Could a soul not be both ?
For a moment, nothing stir but breath.
Then Baldwin laugh.
It strike the room like a bell tolling out of turn—bright, unexpected, and full of life. It ring clear and deep, startling even the stones in the walls, and for a heartbeat, it seem the very air lean forward to listen. It is a sound none has heard in years and it pour from him like sunlight breaking through cloud.
In his mirth, he raise his fingers swiftly to the edges of his mask, trying to still its trembling. The laughter has set it quivering, and he is force to muffle the sound behind his glove hand, lest it shake free entirely.
Even veiled, his joy is unmistakable. It roll from him unguard, warm, and alive.
And all the while, she watch him with the faintest glint of wonder, as though she had not expect her words to coax such life from a man cloaked in death.
"You are". He chuckle softly, his voice smooth and golden with amusement. "Truly something". He search for a word to define her, but found none that would suffice. Instead, the remnants of laughter linger in his chest like a warm draft of wine, and when at last he look upon her again, she met his gaze unflinching and the satisfaction comes with it fold pleasantly around his him, grabbing his lips to curl upwards, to fit the shape of smile.
His head dip slightly, a tilt borne not of weariness but quiet ease and in that motion, the light caught his eyes just so stealing (Y/N)'s attention to finally see his eyes properly, the only part unconceal from the rest of world and enthralling color they are, of deep yet brightest blue she ever seen press upon a person let alone a man. It shares both the dept and light within them that she can't decide if it's mirrors the bottom of the ocean or shore pulsing within them. It does not matter she suppose as they are diamonds. "Like sister, like brother". She thought, both have been bestowed the beautiful features.
“I am glad to have invited you for conversation,” The delightful peal of his voice lean into is of completely serenity. “For I fear, had I not, this moment might have slipped through my fingers… and I would not have even known enough to ache for its absence.” The words, though address to her, seem to fold inward as if meant more for his own keeping than hers. Yet she answer all the same.
“The pleasure is mine,” she murmur, dipping her head in a modest bow and frown return back to him on his face gather lines between his brows.
“Ah, yes,” He said, his tone lilting as though catching himself in a thought half-finish. The music of his voice soft, and something in it waver between wonder and regret as if the very act of sharing space with her has disturbed a stillness he has long mistake for peace.
━━━━━━━━
“For heaven’s sake,” Balian’s voice is quiet, yet not without a fray of upset. His face, pale as marble, has gone rigid with concern. “Do not ever frighten me like that again. He is not merely a man you may quarrel with, he is a king.”
“Precisely because he is king,” she answer, her tone cool but not cruel, “I was compelled to fight for my life for the price of a lie is never small when offered to a crown.” She step ahead, unconcern with whether he wish to walk beside her, her pace swift and sure beneath the gilded glow of the palace pillars. The light skim her features like water, outlining the sharp conviction of her profile.
“If he were only a man,” she add, glancing at him briefly before setting her gaze forward once more, “I would had declined as easily as I have done with my mother-in-law’s endless accusations.” There was no heat in her words only weary poise.
They near her carriage, waiting patiently beyond the gates, its windows glinting in the torchlight to return home after the generous supper hosted by Lady Sibylla of Jerusalem herself. The memory of the dishes lingered on her tongue, but oh, how exquisite those delicacies were. She might have feasted more had she not feared the quiet tyrannies that followed indulgence.
For what else could a woman offer the world, if not the careful preservation of her youth and beauty ?
She must remain exactly as she was.
"What accusations ?" At his question she stop. A slip of tongue but she stitch a smile easily onto her lips and face him.
"Oh, nothing worth fretting over. Merely the usual blame for not being a good enough wife to her noble son. You aware of the brainless shenanigans.” His brown eyes narrow with what could she perceive suspicious and she chuckle at that as she embrace him, surprising him a little and he slicing through those multiplying theories on his mind with his hands he lean to embrace her back.
She is no longer his only soul sister. She is of someone's wife and that of a noble.
"When are you returning from the palace ?"
"Not much than few hours later". He thoughtfully said.
"Shall we meet tomorrow morning then. Sweet dreams". She let go him so does he and he watch her ride up on the carriage with his hands she lean her hand on and the moment she sit, he is force to let go her hand too. She withdraw her hand.
"I wish you the fondest dreams too, sister". Her brows melt and her smile blooming wider, rising to touch the fullness of her cheeks and she nod as he close the door and curtains fall allowing her head sink on the cushions behind. Back to her husband where she has to belong.
━━━━━━━━
“Have you at last arrived ?” Thomas ask, his voice lilting with ease as he lay stretch upon the bed, eyes following her quiet movements. “Decided to spare a moment for this husband of yours ?”
She said nothing at first, only remove the last of her earrings those delicate remnants of ceremony and turn toward him, her steps slow, deliberate, as she near the edge of the bed.
“Impatient, are we?” she murmur.
He nod, lips press into a soft pout, though there is more mischief in the expression than mirth.
“Shouldn’t be,” She said, “when I already belong to you.”
But something shift in her at those words, a small shadow flicker across the face and though she smile, it did not reach her eyes and sour the ease of his own. He away his gaze to the ceiling, puffing his cheeks as though to dispel the heaviness between them.
"You do not share the same degree of fear as mine of losing you".
At that, she said nothing. Her eyes drift downward, tracing the curve of the sheets as she seat herself at the end of the bed, her thoughts elsewhere.
“Is that so ?” she ask, voice calm but far away.
Thomas nod.
She nod too once, simply and without further word, slid beneath the covers, her movements soundless as mist. Turning her face into the pillow, she close her eyes and let the weight of weariness pull her under.
“You know nothing of me,” she whisper into the linen, quiet as breath. He heard her. And though he continue to stare upward, his eyes hold the cold ceiling unmoving for hot seconds, he eventually turn softly and reach for her, folding himself into the shape of an embrace.
Even if she never reach back.
━━━━━━━━
“I confess, I feel most uneasy, wandering so freely through the royal court— twice now, no less,” (Y/N)'s mouth shape as crescent, the smile reaching all the way to her shining eyes and it is very familiar grin, Thomas could recall when he first laid eyes upon them, all the promise that had lain in the line of that grin. The brilliance that pierce the cloying, lonely darkness he had come from. He had known then— without doubt—that he must have her.
“Twice, counting today, sister,” Balian remark with a touch of mischief, falling into step beside her, around the walls and floors of the court Thomas yesterday was not invited by his wife. He does not mind, he was grown among by these meetings he felt no bitterness of being left out. “Hardly enough to draw concern, from my perspective.” Balian end with a chuckle.
“It would certainly seem little to a royal knight, you jokester” she reply, flicking him a glance over her shoulder. Her voice carry a note of mirth, but none of it reach Thomas.
She walk so near him he could feel the warmth of her shoulder through her sleeve, yet she feels leagues away. The wife he hold beside him is not the woman who once look only at him. She has always become something softer, livelier, in the presence of another.
And far too distant from him.
"Please to meet you yet again". Baldwin said alerting his coming presence beside his sister and follow by several of guards. (Y/N) and the knight bow immediate at his prescene and a heartbeat later, Thomas follow delay by the slow dawn of realization that the veiled figure before him is the King of Jerusalem.
(Y/N) toss a vex glance at her husband who remain untouch by it and when the king command rise did they all did. "Brother, it is because I called them". Sibylla explain lightly, the words slipping from her lips before he even need to ask. Of course he has sensed it. No one wander the palace grounds unbidden.
His azure eyes soon fall on the handsome man beside (Y/N) and Sibylla notice, dart her eyes from both men and despite unable to see his expression conceal by the sliver mask. She could feel the awareness tightening in of recognizing just who Thomas is to (Y/N). Something she share yesterday.
"So do I, your majesty". (Y/N) standing with quiet poise, her voice light, almost musical in its sweetness.
Unseen by all, the king too mirror her smile, though smaller one in size. "Good to know and". He said softly, before turning his veiled head toward the man at her side "Who this gentleman might be ?" The question give (Y/N) pause. She thought he already knew. Mayhap not.
"My husband. Thomas Edwards, your majesty". She introduce yet all he focus the distant between the pair. No linked arms or similar. Even the glance she tossed to her husband was not unnotice by him. He wonder how well their relationship are.
“Ah, of course,” Baldwin said, the words slow, as though musing aloud. “A lady of such elegance as Lady (Y/N)... it would be unthinkable for her to go unwed.” The sentiment hang in the air a beat too long, and though it pass as flattery, both Sibylla and the knight exchange a glance. Something in the king’s tone is off, not cruel, not mocking, but... curious. Especially the former.
"Thank you, your majesty". (Y/N)'s voice soft with courtesy, and Thomas offer a respectful nod at her side.
"Well". The king begin, tone idle, gaze drifting upwards to where the heavens hang heavy with pale clouds. The sun, mute behind their layered veil, give only a dim glow— warm enough to coax breath from the land, yet not enough to burn.
“The weather, I believe,” Baldwin continue, “is suited for riding. Do you ride, Mr. Edwards ?” At the mention, he turn back toward the man, his silver mask tilting.
Her (E/C) eyes wide at that and look at his majesty, something he notice. He always does. Thomas smile at the question, bright and agreeable, though a thread of uncertainty tug at the corners of it. He nod nonetheless.
“Excellent, Let us go, then,” Baldwin said, lifting his hand in a quiet, imperious gesture toward the grounds as horror descend through (Y/N)'s face but she speaks nothing.
━━━━━━━━
Reputation is everything.
Even the false ones. It matter little whether the stories were true, only that they were spoken—whisper behind fans or weighed aloud in the halls of power. What linger in the mouths of others became truth enough.
And now, with the clarity of a morning strip of mist, the king understand the quiet dread that had shadowed Lady (Y/N)’s gaze.
How could she not feel it ? When these truth could reach his reputation ?
Her husband so eager, so proud—had readily agreed to ride, even boasted of his skill with an enthusiasm that bordered on bravado. But the moment he mounted the horse, it crumbled. His confidence dissolved in spectacle. He had slipped not once, but thrice, fumbling as though the saddle were a foreign throne he could not claim.
His grip is too tight, his posture untrained. He wobble like a child on stilts.
And yet, even astride the animal like a man barely holding onto dignity, Thomas manage to throw his wife a smile—wide, beaming, absurdly triumphant.
She return it with something that resemble one. A stretch imitation. A smile in structure, not in spirit as she sit beside Baldwin in the shade where the sun dare not intrude, (Y/N) hands fold neatly in her lap.
The king, ever merciful, spoke no word of mockery. But even he could not silence the thought stirring within him.
“How does a woman like you come to marry a man such as that ?” he ask aloud, the question falling with the softness of velvet and the weight of stone.
She turn her head toward him, eyes widening faintly. And Baldwin, ever so compose, did not look away.
I'm sorry but it's way too sketchy to have to "sign up" for a protest. There's no reason you should have to give anyone your full name, email, phone number, and/or address in order to march in the streets. People are getting arrested left and right because cops have access to information that connects people to the protests they were at. If an organization is having people "sign up to join the fight," all the cops need to do is access that list.
- Wear a mask. It protects you and others and means you will be harder to identify in photos.
- Do not post online about attending/having attended a protest unless you are vague about details and your account can't be tracked to your real name. Especially don't post any personal photos.
- Do not talk about attending a protest over text unless you are using an encrypted messenger.
- If you drive, park farther away and walk.
- Write the number of a local lawyer on your arm (local protest organizers can usually give you that information). If you are detained, show it to the cops and do not speak other than "am I free to go?" or "I want to speak to a lawyer". You can also write the number of an emergency contact.
- If you see someone with cop boots, a wire going to their ear, and/or the outline of a bulletproof vest under their clothes they are an undercover cop who's there to get you to confess to crimes and/or incite violence. Avoid them.
- Leave your phone at home, or wrap it in a ton of tinfoil (with no gaps!) or get a faraday sleeve.
- If you bring your phone, turn off biometrics (and keep them off forever please). Cops are allowed to open your phone using those but cannot legally make you give them a passcode.
- Really, really, be careful about your phone. Cops/government agencies use cell site simulators all the time and can identify all phones in their scan radius (and intercept traffic from them and sometimes even see what's on them) which can be up to 1,600 feet away. That's usually the entirety of a protest. Turning your phone off or on airplane mode does not help, you need to remove the battery or shield it. Yes, it is illegal for them to do this. That's why they hide that fact that they do it anyway.
Someone asked me for more protest primer info, so:
- Let someone who is not attending the protest know where you'll be either verbally or over encrypted message so they can check in with you later to make sure you made it home.
- Bring snacks, water, and any medication you cannot skip a dose of (in its bottle but not more than you'll need for 24hrs).
- If you have a severe medical condition that would impact you if you are detained have that information on you, like on a bracelet.
- Know what kind of protest you are going to. Showing up prepared for the wrong kind will mess up both situations.
High-visibility protests are the ones you see posted online, they are intended to make a public statement. The press will be there to take photos and the local police know about it and will be monitoring. These are generally safe and peaceful, and people often bring their kids or dogs. You should wear "nice" clothing (think business casual) because it elevates the perception of the protest.
More action-oriented protests are not advertised anywhere except word of mouth, they are intended to be secretive and usually involve doing some sort of illegal action as a group, such as vandalism. Be very prepared if you go to one of these, and fully obscure your face. Wear drab, nondescript clothing.
- Some visibility protests have planned peaceful arrests, like a die-in (where people lie in the road and obstruct traffic). If you have not planned ahead to be arrested, do not join in. Everyone participating knows what they're doing and there is a bail fund. In these situations the cops also know what's up and will (generally) warn everyone when the point of "I will arrest you if you don't stop right now" passes.
- This Substack post about April 5th has a bit more general safety info and stuff about legal council/how to interact with cops.
It should also be pointed out, Roosevelt was a Police Commissioner, he created the policies, reforms and overall had an oversight of New York Police. Not to mention he fired officers that were corrupt and played the system.
I’m Noha Ayyad from Gaza, Mother of martyr and wife of martyr 💔
17 people of My family was forcibly displaced from their homes to the southern Gaza Strip, and they now live in samall tent , The occupation completely destroyed our house and our business and we no longer have anything that we used to own.
MY mother suffers from joint pain and back cartilage pain. Also, she had surgery before the war to remove a tumor in the intestine 💔!!️ and she needs to continue her treatment from cancer
As for my middle brother, Darwish,He has a family of 10 people, he is paralyzed in his right leg, he suffers from severe leg pain. Two months before the war, he had surgery in Egypt to implant a joint in his leg, and he was supposed to return to Egypt to continue his treatment, but the war prevented him from doing so, so he urgently needs to go to Egypt to continue his treatment.
As for me, I lost my small and beautiful family in the 2014 war, which consists of my husband and my only child, whom I gave birth to after 7 years of deadly waiting and a very long and expensive treatment journey. He was only two and a half years old. I lost him and did not hug him enough to forget the agony of waiting for him to come. I also suffered injuries, which resulted in several operations on my right leg and other parts of my body, the effects of which I still suffer to this day. So, I don't want to experience what it's like to lose someone I love again. It's a very painful feeling. Please save my family.
Life here is unbearable, especially tent life is very difficult, and the situation is getting worse every day.
I urge you to support us to save our lives, Your support is our only hope for survival after losing everything.🚨🚨
We hope you will continue to support us by donating or sharing to help save and rebuild our lives. Every contribution matters, much appreciated🙏😢
Harry Potter isn't J.K. Rowling. Can we not generalize things just to antagonize people? So many people grew up on the franchise and it's not fair to demonize something because one person involved turned out to be a disgusting terf. There are so many reasons to like Harry Potter and next to zero of them have anything to do with politics.
I would argue this isn't "People are just too fucking stupid" rather it's "policing exists primarily to enforce terror on parts of society and our community they deem undesirable"
Naw, I would argue that this is just a Police Officer that's stupid, because there are regular people that would harass disabled people as well. Some Police Officers aren't trained to the level of our European counterparts with years of training and understanding of the communities they serve.
I saw a post the other day that listed a number of facts about La Fayette and while I am more than just a bit skeptical with regards to some of these “facts”, I also hate to correct other people in such a manner. Anyway, there was one remark (well, actually two) that made me think in particular.
First, let us all say it together - La Fayette did not come to America disguised as a woman.
With that out of the way – Slavery. Just like in that post, La Fayette is often praised for his stance against slavery and for raising the topic with prominent slaveholders like Washington and Jefferson. And all that is true. La Fayette was against slavery, he spoke up for enslaved individuals, most notably James Armistead Lafayette, and spoke against the institution of slavery in general. He also let actions follow his words. Now, were all of his actions crowned with success – no. Where his ideas and approaches always the best ways to handle the problem – no. But he took an almost lifelong stance at a time when many people were content with saying nothing or even outright profiting from slavery.
Now, here is a point that brings the complexity and that many of these “have some random facts about La Fayette he was so great” posts not quite capture – and to be fair, that is also not what they are aiming for.
Slavery and the participation in the system were for La Fayette not necessarily deal brakers.
What do I mean by that? La Fayette owned land in Louisiana and was one day approached by John Gravier, who owned land nearby and wanted to buy some of La Fayette’s land. He offered La Fayette to pay either in “real” money or in enslaved people. La Fayette was frankly disgusted by the second proposal – and he wrote so in a letter to James Madison, a slaveholder and someone who, most likely, I am not an expert on Madison, also sold and bought enslaved people and maybe even used them as “barging chips” in some form of financial transaction. La Fayette urged Washington to join him in his plantation project because he was keenly aware of the mojo Washington’s participation could have. Washington refused and La Fayette did not seem to hold too many grudges. Was he disappointed? Probably, even likely – but he still looked up to Washington. I do not want to fire up this puppy-love narrative, but the fact remains, that La Fayette, until the end of his life, remembered Washington very fondly, praised, him, considered him a friend, mentor and even father-figure. He certainly was aware of the problem with Washington being a slaveholder, otherwise La Fayette would not have stirred up the topics that he did – but it was in the end no deal breaker for him. Same thing with people like Jefferson, Monroe or Madison. Jefferson is particular interesting since La Fayette wrote Jefferson many letters where he broached this topic. From the way these letters are phrased I often wonder if a) La Fayette thought Jefferson his friend and as such was determined to tell him everything on his mind, regardless of Jefferson’s own opinion on the matter, b) La Fayette believed Jefferson when the latter wrote that he actually was also against slavery, or c) La Fayette knew that he could write about everything and Jefferson could not protest without retracting his own statements.
Anyway, La Fayette could criticize slavery, quite harshly even, he could call enslavers criminals, he could spend a lot of time and money and effort to take actions and proof to the world that it could be done – but he could also call Washington the “patriarch of liberty”, praise Jefferson and assure both of them of his deep and everlasting affection. It also did not stop him from staying at plantations like Mount Vernon or Monticello. While he always travelled with a number of servants who were in his employ, free, and well paid, it is impossible to stay at a place like Mount Vernon, especially for an extended period of time, and not, in some shape or for, profit from the labour of the enslaved workers there. We do not know what La Fayette thought about that, if it maybe even reinforce his views. We do know that he raised the subject of slavery and abolition when he met Jefferson and Washington in person – but when it came to his friends, it was not a deal breaker for him. He definitly used his friendships to be an influence on Washington, Jefferson and the likes and we can not look into his head to see what his motives or thoughts were in regards to this topic. Human relations are often a web of complex emotions.
I do not want to downplay what he did, but we should also not forget that his engagement was not perfect, he was not perfect – and with that I thank you all for listening to my little rant. :-)
The perspective that Lafayette chose to use his rapport to persuade and influence his closest friends about important topics is so valuable. It's easy to say "he should have cut them off", but how many of us would be prepared to do that to our parental figures and dearest friends? And, frankly, is that even always the best approach? If Lafayette had managed to shift Washington or Jefferson enough to divest from slavery, that would have had considerable positive benefits.
It should also be pointed out, Roosevelt was a Police Commissioner, he created the policies, reforms and overall had an oversight of New York Police. Not to mention he fired officers that were corrupt and played the system.
What exactly does the law say?
It authorizes people to protect themselves or their property by using deadly force in response to "unlawful intrusion" by a "public servant." The measure is essentially just a public-servant-specific amendment to the state's 2006 so-called Castle Doctrine bill, which allows people to do whatever they have to to stop someone from illegally entering a home or car. Indiana is reportedly the first state to specifically allow the use of force against police. The new rule was passed with a nudge from the National Rifle Association, which has pushed permissive gun laws around the country.
"It just puts a bounty on our heads," Downs tells Bloomberg. Sergeant Joseph Hubbard, for one, says he now worries that every time he pulls over a car, the driver might shoot him and cite the law as justification. "Somebody is going get away with killing a cop because of this law."
MAKE SURE YOU DO YOUR RESEARCH, THIS LAW IS IN AFFECT, BUT THE INDIANA SUPREME COURT RULED THAT YOU CANNOT RESIST POLICE EVEN IF THEY ENTER AND SEARCH UNLAWFULLY.
Personally I would just fight it out in court, the state has the money to pay me ten-fold for the damages.
turnnoffyourmind
dededos
kianamaiart
tangentwithtanner
