what makes you so special?

Zion de Paor || 35 || he/him || human seer All my life I've been changing lanes, I'm so bored of taking my chances, of making mistakes...

[ziondepaor]

gcriffith‌:

Griffith feels his stomach begin to unsettle as soon as Zion begins to talk. In response, he continues to shovel food down his throat, mostly to give his mouth something else to do instead of revealing the chaotic thoughts percolating in his head. He knows, despite Zion’s claims otherwise, how dire the situation was, what was at stake. His ability to soldier on despite the looming threat was more for maintaining a sense of normalcy rather than something born of stubborn ignorance. He does not say any of this, aware that Zion knows him well enough - despite his contrary words - to parse out Griffith’s motives for himself. After all, he wouldn’t have gone to Griffith if he thought he had no hope in convincing the other man of his plans. 

“Organizing.” Griffith repeated, eyeing Zion across the table, cataloguing every jerking movement, the slight twitch in the corner of his eye - clear signs of exhaustion, and yet his fool of a best friend continued to march on. “Are we to be the troops then, and you our celebrated Captain?” And though his words sounded sarcastic, there was no real bite to them. By gods, if Zion did not believe Griffith would not follow him through hell and high waters, then he did not know him one bit after all. 

“What will you have me do, Zion?” Griffith cuts to the meat of the matter. “What will you have our friends do? These murderers, these killings - I know how to fight but I also know my limitations. How sure are you that we won’t be in over our head?” 

The initial response wasn’t much of a surprise. This sort of thing had come up multiple times in their friendship, perhaps never quite so seriously, but enough for them both to understand where the other stood on matters like this. But he also knew that if anyone else could see how important it was to do this, and actually get shite done in response, it would be Griffith, even if he wished he wasn’t that person. The issue, of course, was getting him to move past that fear, that innate need for separation, which was much easier said than done. But he wouldn’t feel at ease until he had at least tried. Zion could hear the sarcasm, but he knew it wasn’t out of any malice. Still, it wasn’t going to stop him from responding, raising an eyebrow as he looked back at Griffith. “No, our captain is Ailis. I’m just helpin’ in the places I know best. Which would be the likes of you,” he nodded.

It was a mercy of sorts that he was actually willing to get right to it. Zion despised nothing more than beating around the bush. He’d never been that type to try to butter someone up. No, if they couldn’t see his side of things when he laid out facts, then it wasn’t on him to try to change that with trivial shite. “I’d have us all fight. We’re dyin’, too, Griff, what are we gonna do, sit back and wait until it’s someone we’re close to?” he asked, with a big shrug. 

“I’m not sure we won’t be in over our heads. In fact, we likely will be, at least at the start while we’re still searchin’ for information. But we need all the help we can get, and we can do things the fae can’t to keep all of us safe. I couldn’t even fathom thinkin’ the response to something being hard would be to sit back, and not do anything, while people are dyin’ around us. I’m asking everyone to fight, for themselves, for everyone else, for this bizarre and beautiful world we’re a part of, too.”

[ziondepaor]

africosullivan‌:

Now, theres a motto she can get behind. She knows all about taking the creative way out of a problem, after all. Taking the system the world built for humanity and cheating her way out of it. She’s learned to survive with unfair advantages, luck on her side in a way that other humans couldn’t achieve, unless they knew the right people and the right things to say and do. 

“Well, that’s the spirit.” She says, leaning closer, a hint of excitement in her voice. She feels unsure, she feels uncertain, but she feels ready to take a leap of faith and potentially get herself in trouble. What she has is a plan, almost. The bones of one, at the very least. She has favours owed to her and an ideal time to collect. 

“So –– The Dagda Institute doesn’t really vibe with the hard-hitting journalist types. They’re pretty private. There’s this bloke who works for the Irish Times that’s been trying to get an interview with their higher ups for years.” It comes out quick as she combs through her mental notes on the topic. That had been her first idea, lie her way in, say she was a reporter, say she had an appointment. “But we don’t really need to do that. We just want a better look at whats happening inside, what they’re doing in there.” She moves, pulls up a page on her laptop, turns so Zion can take a look. “Well, they’re hiring three new interns in their communications and marketing department, and I’ve got enough stored up luck to get me in to NASA at this point.”

This was exactly the sort of thing he had been raised around, and sitting here, ready to hear a wild plan others would probably scoff at, well, it had him excited. If he thinking about it too hard, which he rarely lets himself, maybe it would be clear as day to him that the whole reason this sort of thing feels so right is because of some fucked up desire to do what his da couldn’t, to prove that this is how things get done, and that people don’t have to die because of it. But that’s neither here nor there, especially not now, with Afric seemingly just as excited at the prospects of her plan being the route.

Zion listens closely as she goes through the information. No surprise that they’re not the sort of place keen on reporter types; from the little he has seen, it seemed like even the police had a bit of a time getting any real or helpful information from them. She’s beyond that, though, and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face when she finally gets to her idea.

It’s dangerous, of course, anything they could plan around this place will be, but they’re not just anyone. And he doesn’t doubt that favors and luck owed would be plenty to get in and get out with what they’d need. “Well, I’m bloody impressed, you’ve got the whole thing worked out. And I’ve gotta say, seems like the right route to me. They’re not gonna let outsiders have anything important. We get someone, you, in there long enough to grab more information, and maybe we can finally get this ship going.”

[ziondepaor]

africosullivan‌:

Her grin sharpens, just a little bit, at the returned joke. “Oh, hon. If I want something, I’ll lay it on thicker. Not subtle.” She shakes her head at herself, brushes her hair behind her ears as she focuses back in on him. 

Part of what she likes about Zion is how straightforward he is. She always knows where he stands, she can always guess what he’s going to be focused on. Planning, that’s his sweet spot. He’s like fucking Batman or something –– he seems more in control when the world is falling apart, even if it isn’t true. 

Her cheeks puff out a little bit in response to his answer, a breath held, a small show of shared frustration. She’s nodding, though, because it’s pretty much what she had expected. “There’s the fucking rub, eh? I’ve been digging around online, but it’s all the same vague bullshit. Genetics, bio-medical engineering, and they talk like they’re gonna fecking change the world. Whatever, I’ve seen Orphan Black and it all sounds shady to me.”

Which brings her to the stopping point of planning, so many different paths leading off in so many different directions. It’s clear that they’re only going to learn so much from the outside. It’s clear that they need some kind of foot in the door if they want any more clues as to how the Institute might be involved in all of this. Her mind is moving a mile-a-minute still, the coffee hitting her hard. She picks up her pen just for something to do, twirls it through her fingers with practiced ease. “But –– Listen. I might have kind of a crazy idea about getting in.”   

Zion nods along with her assessment of things, letting out a little sigh of his own frustration, before taking a deep drink of his coffee, hoping it might bolster him. There just wasn’t ever going to be an easy way to find what they needed to know, and perhaps worse, there was no cut and dry way to find it. Hell, there wasn’t even anything to say they would find anything.

That was always going to be the problem with this sort of thing, even before anything like this had started up in the otherworld. He had been acutely aware of the differences in doing the same thing on this side of the veil and that side when he had first come to Dublin, when he had first been brought over into the fairfolk’s world by Declan all those years ago. He’d tried to do the same thing on both sides. In more ways than one, he realized how much more straight forward what his father had been trying to do was, than what he had been suddenly sucked into. And, in more ways than one, that had been why he’d chosen to give that up, and try to help this side instead. Nothing was cut and dry, as straightforward as the natural rules seemed. They needed all the keen eyes they could get.

She keeps going, though, before he can even think of replying, brainstorming where to go from her. Knowing she’s got a plan does more instantly than the coffee does, he’s already leaning forward even before she’s told him anything more than that.

“I’ll be frank with ya, from what I’ve seen in this world and that, crazy ideas are the only way to get anything done. What’ve you got?”

[hyacinth-s]

    time. june 27, late evening     place. an alley not far from Temple Bar          ( @ziondepaor​ )

She had come herself, as soon as word had made it’s way to court that another body had been found, same as all the others. Another changeling—not someone she knew herself, but surely someone who was known, someone who was loved, someone not different at all to the friends she had already lost. A part of her knew it was a bad idea, to come herself, to see it for herself, but another part of her knew that she needed all the information she could get, and this was a better opportunity than any other to understand what had happened, to find any hint of who had been there left behind.

She’d asked Zion to meet her there, but she got there first, and stood a few meters away. The body gone but everything else left untouched. She needed to be quick, to get everything she needed before the Detective she’d been hearing about turned up and took it all away; she and Zion both needed to be gone before he came and found them there and assumed the worst, that they had some connection to it. 

But she found herself paralyzed, for a moment, looking at it all. Taking it in. Ash’s crime scene had hurt, to look at, but it had been cleaner than this, looked over and cleaned up by other eyes before her own. She had been spared the worst sights of Ash’s final moments. This, though… it was fresh, in a way that gave her pause, that made her freeze, made her feel like she might shake apart if she kept looking for too long. 

[ziondepaor]

He got the message when he had finally sat down to decide whether or not he was going to have to move or not. There was so much to do, he had scarcely had a thought about his own personal decision until that moment. And he had nearly convinced himself it was worth it to stay in the face of danger, on the chance he might be able to attract whatever was hunting them all. But then the message came.

Another killed, a changeling, the name familiar but not overly so. He’d abandoned his list immediately pulling on his boots, grabbing his always ready bag, and headed to meet Ailis at the scene. Pure adrenaline had gotten him there, but something changed when he turned down the alley, seeing Ailis standing a little ways off from the mess, not yet fully picked over by the authorities.

It wasn’t the first crime scene that he had seen in his life, but for some reason it drew up memories no other had in the time since he was a child. Maybe part of it had to do with seeing it with her. He hasn’t known Ailis long in the grand scheme of things, in the grand scheme of her life or his, but he had already spent more time with her in the time since she first came in through his window than he has with many other people at all. Still, he had never felt this energy from her. Not fear, no, but an unease, an apprehension that would probably have anyone weaker turning and leaving. Instead, though, she was stark still. And as he came to a stop just at her shoulder, seeing the scene through her eyes and his own, he felt a lot like he was five years old again, like he was seeing another crime scene.

(The call had come on a Sunday, his mother had been about to put the roast in the oven. She’d left it sitting out on the table, there was no one else in the house to watch it, or him. By the time they got there, they were already taking him away in the ambulance, but mostly his eyes could only focus on the destruction around the street, the blood, so much blood.)

It took more effort than usual to brush the image away. Instinctually, his hand moved to her back, the touch light, but grounding, as much for him, as her. When he spoke, his voice came out thinner than he wished.

“We should get what we can, before anyone comes back.”

[ziondepaor]

gcriffith‌:

His first instinct was to parrot his words back in an irritating tone, “You can multitask, Griffith.” but one look at the exhaustion that lined Zion’s face, the sallow cast of his skin had Griffith biting his lip and getting down to work. He liked to cook, found it soothing - the sound of cracking eggs beneath his fingers, the sizzle of oil as it hit the pan, the scrape of his spatula and the smokey flavour that fills his mouth as he samples the food. He watches Zion out of the corner of his eye, weariness waring with impatience, and he adds a second helping of food onto his plate. 

“Here you go, princess.” Griffith places plates of steaming food onto the table, giving a small nod of thanks to Zion for setting the table. Sometimes, he misses things like this, starting off his day with another presence filling up his space; one that knew him, intimately, without words, a melding of like minds and dispositions. Though they had thousands of petty disagreements, the decision to move to separate apartments had not been easy on the two of them. Till this day, Griffith finds himself crashing over at Zion’s and vice versa every few weeks, their individual units just an extension of a shared home. 

“So-” The clink of cutlery and flatware, Griffith adjusting his chair slightly, the scrape of wood against wood. He bites back a smile slightly at Zion’s look of exasperation, knowing exactly how to push his best friend’s buttons, before continuing “-I call this meeting to order, then. What do you have to say for yourself, Zion?” 

If he wasn’t so completely stressed out, brain firing on all cylinders working out how to keep everyone safe, how to keep building their army, and how to track down the murderer all at once, this would’ve been a nice relaxing moment in its familiarity. Griffith cooking expertly, while he did the very little he could, setting the table a little rougher than need be this morning, out of his own impatience to say what needed to be said, fighting against the very real hunger growing at the smell of eggs. This sort of thing was nice, after all, and if it had all been like this they probably wouldn’t have had to make the choice to move instead of murdering each other over socks left on the floor.

“Thanks, arsehole,” he scoffs, although the gratitude is genuine. Zion lets himself have a few bites of food, mostly just to take his mind off of his own growling stomach, before getting down to it. Griffith, it seems, is on the same page. He rolls his eyes at the words very clearly chosen to push him, and instead chooses to plow forwards. “What I’ve got to say is that I’m not sure how thick the rock you’re intentionally living under is, but I’m here to pull you out of it.”

A pause, a regrouping. That’s not the way to go about this if he wants to stand any chance of his friend actually even considering helping out the cause. “What I mean is, things are gettin’ dire, on the other side. And they’re bleedin’ over into this world, too. A lot of people got their fingers in a lot of pots, and it’s time to start organizing,” he starts, a little more calmly. He knows Griffith will know what he means, not only in terms of what’s happening, but also the organizing in relation to Zion’s own history. And he hopes that it means he’ll consider hearing him out.

[ziondepaor]

hyacinth-s‌:

She was surprised, when he pulled his own food out of bag, even more surprised when he admitted to having made it; Zion didn’t exactly strike her as the home baker type. But it made sense, that he would be cautious with what he ate, made sense that he would have come with something he could offer if he needed to. And as he unwrapped it, she could smell it, sweet and earthy, and she found herself smiling.

      ‘I didn’t know you baked,’ she answered. This many weeks of working so closely with Zion, spending at least some small part of nearly every day with him—it was strange, that he could still surprise her, that she didn’t somehow know everything there was to know about his little life. But then again, that was a part of why she had left the court, a part of why she had spent so much time among humans and changelings instead of her own kind. They contained such magnitudes in their brief existences. 

     ‘Thank you,’ she added, and then settled into silence by his side.

[africosullivan]

cafe flux / june 25th / @ziondepaor​

Afric is going to have to consider, someday soon, that she’s living on the wrong side of a coffee addiction. She’s a grad student, sure, but this is getting excessive. Between her work and the half-crazed flighty plans and ideas that keep her up at night, she needs as much of it as she can get. Cafe Flux, therefore, has become her home away from home. They make the good shit. 

She has her books and notebooks sprawled out over one of their tables, tucked away in the back corner. Her laptop is open too, endless tabs that worryingly have nothing to do with her thesis. 

She perks up when she sees Zion come in, starts clearing away a space for him to sit before she can think better of it. She’d asked him to come, hopes she hadn’t sound too unhinged when she did it. She doesn’t exactly want to sound like a sleep deprived weirdo right now, though she supposes that thats usually when she’s at her most genius. 

     “Ah, there’s that handsome face I adore.” She says, when he gets close enough to hear. It’s a tease of a thing, just the way she talks. “Sit, sit. Don’t mind the mess.” 

She’s shoved some notebooks away to clear space on the table, thrown the most vital one down on the keyboard of her laptop. She leans in close, voice low and secret and quiet enough to go unnoticed but not so obviously discreet that people start to wonder what they’re hiding. “Right, boss. Talk to me about the Dagda Institute.” 

[ziondepaor]

The restlessness is something that he’s learning how to live with. Even less sleep than usual, if that’s really possible, more time spent pouring over the same notes again and again, trying to see something he might’ve missed. Mostly it’s waiting for the right time to move to action. Now more than ever, he’s prepared to be ready at a moment’s notice. With more hands in the pot, there’s more room for error, and suddenly working to make sure the others who want to help are actually prepared to help is his task.

It’s not anything he could have foreseen himself undertaking, knowing full well he’s not necessarily the first thought when it comes to people skills, but if there’s one thing he can do, it’s make sure no one else fucks up what they’ve started building. So when he gets a message from Afric asking him to meet to go over some of what he’s already found, he agrees much quicker than he normally would. All the better that coffee’s involved. 

He grabs a drink––dark roast, black, bitter as they come––and then looks around, spotting Afric surrounded by a mess of notes and books.

“Handsome? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you want something from me,” he says gruffly, a hint of amusement spilling in, as he takes his seat across from her.

If there’s one thing he does appreciate greatly, it’s someone who gets right down to business, no beating around the bush, no skirting the subject, just exactly what they met up to do. There’s no time for anything like that nowadays. The more time they waste, the more likely they’ll lose someone else before they can find any way to stop it.

“Wish I had more to give you, but it’s only a whisper of anything helpful. Easier said than done to get anything on them, apparently. Saw the name in a few police reports I had a peek at when Ailis first asked for my help. Some kind of genetics shite, something bigger masked as simple science, from what I found.”

[ziondepaor]

gcriffith‌:

Griffith has come to a staggering conclusion while stumbling out of bed; one that he thinks he should have come to realize a long time ago, if it weren’t for silly sentimental feelings of friendship and affection.  

Zion De Paor was a fucking ass. 

“You better have a good reason for this, De Paor.” Griffith hisses as he opens his door, grabbing the other man by the shirt front and hauling him inside. He apologizes mentally to his neighbors, couldn’t help but think back to the time when they had the same neighbors and mentally apologized to those people too. While he took the brunt of the impact, being Zion’s roommate back then, he couldn’t discount their own experiences living with this train wreck of a man in the same damn building. 

Griffith, despite his outward irritation, feels the beginnings of dread creep up as he drags Zion inside. He’s not an idiot, nor is he an ignoramus. For years he’s tried to separate his life from that of the Fae, but recent happenings have underlined the fact that for people like him, it’s near if not completely impossible. He did not tell Zion about the sheer, helpless rage that enveloped him the moment he heard about them, the deaths, the killings. Zion had enough on his plate without having to deal with Griffith’s whirlpool of emotions. His first instinct to help, to protect, was immediately countered by his finely-honed sense of self-preservation, of caution. He knows how selfish it is of him to want to gather his friends close and make sure they’re safe, damn the rest of the world. He cannot tell these things to Zion, not yet, so he settles for shoving him towards the kitchen, muttering that he’ll prepare them some food before he gets down to detailing his so-called plan.  

Because knowing Zion De Paor, there already was a plan. 

The question was if Griffith would choose to be a part of it. 

He hears the familiar grumbles from the other side of the door just before being pulled inside himself, with a rather annoyed greeting. Fair, sure, considering the time, but it’s not his fault that he’s hardly been able to sleep a wink himself since the hunt became official, and their work became a lot more real. He lets himself get manhandled into the flat, and Griffith should also be thankful for that, too, knowing full well if anyone else tried to do it, they’d receive a nice, fat kick in the arse.

“Why the hell would I be here if I didn’t have a good reason? Nah, I just came round for a bit of breakfast, that’s it,” he scoffs. As soon as he’s in, and the door is closed, though, he pulls himself out of Griffith’s steel grasp, and straightens his shirt, immediately pulling his bag off and letting it fall haphazardly near the door. There’s a normal chain of events that happens whenever he comes to Griffith’s place, a sort of habit since they went their separate ways after nearly killing each other over how to load the dishwasher one too many times. First, throw his stuff down, then look around to assess his friend’s mess. Not even his mission gets in the way of that, as he stops and glances around the flat, but that gets interrupted by another push towards the kitchen, and the flow is broken.

Zion lets out a very audible sigh at the idea of having to wait to get into things, but that’s only outweighed by the rumble of his stomach hearing the word food. Maybe breakfast and a conversation wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

“You can multitask, Griffith,” he notes pointedly, as he hops up to sit on the counter. “Business and breakfast. You hear about the hunt?”

[ziondepaor]

early morning, june 24, griffith’s apartment, dublin       ( @gcriffith​. )

There’s no way around it. With the search for the murderer suddenly turned into something a whole lot more official, too many hands in too many places, and not under their watch, things are dire. More feet on the ground is a good thing, of course, there’s no arguing that they’re more likely to catch the bastard with a dozen more sets of eyes looking out seriously, but if there’s one thing Zion has learned, it’s that more people, mean less organization. It means more room for mistakes, more room for things being royally fucked.

Now’s the time to put his money where his mouth is, and do that fraternizing that he insisted to Ailis wasn’t his strong suit. Because if they were going to manage it, they needed more people looking out in their way, under their instruction, not running around like chickens with their heads cut off looking for things they didn’t fully understand.

In his mind, there’s only one place to start, and that’s with the one person in Dublin he’d call a real friend. The one seer he would trust with his life, if push came to shove. So there he was, banging on the apartment door, at just barely an appropriate hour, trying not to psych himself out over how the hell he was going to go about any of this, knowing Griffith’s feelings on this sort of thing.

“Open up, sleeping beauty, we need to talk,” he calls, giving the door another good hit before pausing to listen for signs of life.

[ziondepaor]

aoibheannagate‌:

Her head cants to the side a little, trying not to so obviously study him. Generally speaking, she likes Zion. Generally speaking, Aoibheann likes most people. It’s just that she wishes different for him than he might wish himself. And, of course, she wishes that he weren’t so set in that path. So set in the path as to try and get others to see it as he sees it, travel down it with him. “Well,” she finally offers, “either way, it’s smart of you. And I’m glad that you won’t be taken advantage of.” That she can say with sincerity – it’s not something she wishes on any of her human friends.

She bites her bottom lip, thinking, eyes casting over the crowd. And not for the first time, she wonders how different she is from the humans. She doesn’t like to dwell on that which separates her from anyone – human or fae. But this is one that can’t be ignored. For the most part, Aoibheann knows she’s safe among the fair folk. She’s one of them, even if many don’t always see it that way. “I’m happy to see that you’re aware. That you won’t…end up as a plaything.”

He’s not exactly used to her specific brand of sincerity. Not that he minds it, but more that it always catches him off guard just enough to put him off kilter. It makes him let out a small, surprised laugh, her saying she’s glad to hear he won’t be taken advantage of. There are so many like her around, young, with rose-colored glasses on, unwilling to see truths that are too important for the world they pass through. It doesn’t matter what he is or isn’t, he’s been around this world for twelve years. He knows a thing or two. “Yeah, well, gotta learn how to survive if you’re gonna stick around,” he shrugs, looking back at her briefly.

Any worry over others’ opinions of him have long faded with age, but he’s well aware from his numerous conversations with Ailis that there’s a certain amount that it has to matter if they want to accomplish what they’re trying for. So he tries to relax, as much as he can while still being on the lookout, of course. “Been there, done that, as they say,” he says with a slight scoff, amused, not annoyed. “Although plaything might be too cruel of a word for my situation. I’d like to think it differed from the poor seers who eat a little too much cake and end up giving their well being to a much crueler fae.”

[ziondepaor]

hyacinth-s‌:

     ‘Mine either,’ she replied. It should have been, would have been once upon a time. That’s what the courts were about, talking and plotting, charm and dishonesty. She had been raised to be the kind of fae who let foolish humans let down their guard because of her pretty face so that she could trick them into giving her what she wanted; the kind who sat in court and courted attention and favor; who used events like this to try to be the most impressive, the center of attention, and who expertly pushed aside anyone who got in her way with a simple word or two to the right person. 

Maeve, it seemed, was well on her way to becoming that, in her place. But she was more comfortable here—on the outside, standing with Zion as he frowned at the entire affair, able to come and go as she pleased. She would have stayed much farther away, if fate had given her a choice. 

But there was a certain amount of plotting that needed to be done when you had to gather an army to help fight your war. The kind of plotting that should have been reserved for Kings and Queens. The kind, she knew, and Declan had reminded her when she returned, that Brín didn’t always have the stomach for. If making nice with the Unseelie Queen, flattering words and pretend allegiance, could help her get revenge on whoever had killed Ash, she would do all the plotting she had to.

     ‘It’ll be worth it,’ she added, after a moment, but before she could think better of it. She didn’t often need little encouragements like that to push through, certainly didn’t ordinarily give them voice. But maybe he needed to hear it too. 

A noise of agreement escaped his lips. Maybe that was part of the reason it had been so easy for him to slip into this familiarity with her in the first place. She didn’t see the world like most of the other fae he had encountered in the courts before her. She saw more benefit in the concrete, in action, than in tricks and games. He appreciated it for what it was worth––he wouldn’t have given up so much in the human world, wouldn’t be here doing everything he could to look out for all of them if he didn’t––but that didn’t mean it was his natural state. An outsider’s perspective, he and Ailis had that in common, even if very different ways.

That was the hard part of all of this, to build the army she envisioned up to something strong enough to take on whatever untold enemy they were facing, they had to take part in those games. If they didn’t, they’d be no more likely to manage it than anyone else. As if reading his mind, she went on, and he looked back at her, giving a small nod.

He wasn’t really sure why, but something about the moment made him reach into his bag, and pull out the cloth bundle, unwrapping it slightly, only then looking down at it, as if he was surprised to find his banana bread in his hands. But it was instinct. She’d offered him something he was all but certain she rarely offered even herself, the nearly idealistic words of encouragement. The sort of thing he might’ve scoffed at if they were coming from any other lips, the sort of thing he would  shrug off any other time. But they meant something from her, made him feel a little more certain, when he hadn’t even let himself realize there were worries in the back of his mind.

“I, uh...” Zion started haltingly, trying not to let himself dwell on the gesture of it all, not to let himself get embarrassed by the instinct. “Well, I made some bread, if you’d like some...”

[ziondepaor]

aoibheannagate‌:

Aoibheann nods, a bit reverently, at the mention of Ailis. She knows the other fae in little more than name, but it’s that reason precisely that garners Aoibheann’s respect. She’s older than Aoibheann cares to imagine, and a bit intimidating. Certainly so to Aoibheann who still, after years, isn’t sure of her footing in the more formal of fae circles. Ranks and royalty and hierarchies. Ailis might not be in that crowd, precisely, but it speaks to a history, a heritage, that Aoibheann has only just scratched the surface of.

“Certainly the leaders will get their due as well, but generals are important as well,” she reasons easily. She’ll be happy to toast anyone once the whole ordeal is solved and over with.

Her eyes dance down to the meal he was making as she came over, a delighted smile on her face. “Did you make that, then?” she asks. “It smells very good. And that’s clever of you, even if it does come from, well, fool me once.” Something in her sinks a little, though, to consider the precautions that must be taken. Like with the far-reaching history, there is a culture here of toying with humans that Aoibheann doesn’t understand. This one, though, she hopes never to grasp. “It is a shame, though. Only, the food and wine are so good, I wish it wasn’t…dangerous.”

He makes a sort of noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, neither agreeing or disagreeing about his own importance in the matter. That isn’t what it’s about for him, anyway, so it doesn’t matter much in his eyes. More than that, though, he’s not sure he can let himself linger on the subject of Ailis at the moment, even just a sip of the wine making him feel a little too warm. He can’t help the way he glances over the crowd in search of her blonde head amongst the crowd.

Aoibheann continues on, and his attention snaps back to her, as he frowns lightly. “I made it, yeah, better not to risk it...” he trails off, realizing now is probably the time he should be offering her some of the bread. That would be the polite thing to do, but there’s only so far he can go before he’ll hate himself for encouraging someone who otherwise frustrates the shite out of him, so instead he just shrugs and tucks it back into his bag. He should save it for later anyway, there’s still a long night ahead.

“It is good. But it’s even more of a shame if you end up a fae’s plaything for the night, because you ate the wrong piece of cake, I’d say.”

[ziondepaor]

hyacinth-s‌:

She didn’t know, really, how Zion had come to this, had become a self-appointed protector for a species he was not and could never be a part of. How he had come to take that duty so seriously. Surely, once, he was a child too, free and full of joy and dreaming of a future that didn’t involve becoming a soldier in someone else’s war. She was just a chapter break, thirty-some years into his story, and though it might seem like such an insignificant span of time to most of her kind, she had lived with and loved enough humans to know how long it was to them. How much he had lived, in his short, short life, how much had brought him to the path that had led him here today. 

Still, he seemed to still somehow, like whatever raced inside his chest that made him feel that this was what he needed to do had slowed enough to let him breathe. Still alert, still at the ready, still with his armor up, but falling into rhythm with the rest of the world around the two of them. 

     ‘Well,’ she said, folding her arms over the chest and joining him in looking out over the tree line. ‘At least they’ve got someone keeping an eye out for them. Have you seen anything of note, since this morning?’

He made a little noise in his throat, agreement without any sort of ego. It was just a fact, after all. This was what he did, it had been what he did for years before any of this even started. Others who heard of his self-appointed position as protector either laughed at the idea of him being able to protect immortal beings, or seemed to think that he was looking for some kind of prize for doing so. The latter bothered him much more than the former. None of it had ever been about being patted on the back for a job well done. No, it was about doing exactly what he said he was, protecting other people he cared about.

Sometimes he wondered what might’ve happened if his path had crossed with hers before the killings happened, if things had been different and she had been at court when he was first figuring out his place. The thought makes him glad it had happened now, with certainty squaring his shoulders, age and experience tempering him. The stillness she brought him probably would’ve scared him away back then. But now, it was welcomed.

“Most seem to be content to play pretend. Every now and then, you see a few heads huddled together, whisperin’, but they could be talkin’ about runnin’ off to have a shag in the woods as much as they could about something more helpful,” he shrugs, with a breathe of a laugh. 

“Too much plotting going on. Dunno if you’ve noticed, but the talkin’ part isn’t my strong suit.”

[ziondepaor]

aoibheannagate‌:

Being honest, she expects Zion to rebuff her offer. Because he’s not looking to get drunk, because he’s human and fae wine is dangerous, or just because it’s her making the offer. But he doesn’t. He thinks about it for an inordinate amount of time and then takes the cup, takes a swig, and hands it back.

Small as it is, Aoibheann reads the gesture as something like an olive branch. Her face lights up with a smile, brighter than the bonfire.

“It’s my favorite of all,” she replies with a smile. She peers into the cup a little absently. “Midsummer, too, is my favorite of all. So I’m glad you’re here, even if it’s only to…keep watch.” Aoibheann has been looking forward to this part for some time and has had high expectations, but a part of her had worried. What if there were only fae? It’s a worry unique to herself and, perhaps, the other humans. She’s glad she can count Zion among the seers in attendance. 

Again, her expression shudders. “Maybe we’ll all be toasting to you on that day,” she says, a little anemically. That’s not what keeps him preoccupied, she knows, the promise of glory. And while she disagrees with him, and tries not to think of what’s happening at all, she does think that if anyone can stop the pain, it’ll be Zion. “Until then, of course, you best be careful. Fae offering wine might not all be as benevolent as I am.” Her tone is teasing but there’s a steel casing beneath them, a real concern. 

Maybe this is something he’s going to regret the moment it’s over, not just because of the wine’s potential effect, even just a single sip, but mostly because of how she’s going to take the gesture. Then again, despite everything, it is Midsummer, and even if he’s on edge, worried that at a moment’s notice it could all fall to shite, they’re all here together. And part of what he’s been trying to help Ailis do is exactly that; bring everyone together to take this seriously and fight together. 

The first step of that, albeit a first step he hadn’t really considered until to day, is apparently a party together. But drunken revelry is better than hostility any day when you’re trying to bring so many disparate groups together. And if there’s one thing his da’s brothers and sisters-in-arms had taught him besides the power of a good fight, it was the power of a good drink together.

So he accepts this whole thing for what it is, nothing more, nothing less. No need for hostility tonight. He raises an eyebrow when she says she’s glad that he’s there, but lets it pass with a small, noncommittal hum.

Eyebrows arch even further, though, when she says they might toast him. “I’m just a general. If we’ll have anyone to toast, it’ll be Ailis,” he says with certainty, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible when he mentions her. “Oh, believe you me, I’ve made that mistake too many times before to make it again. It’s one of the reasons I brought my own bread. You never know what they’ll try to give you, gods love ‘em.”

[gcriffith]

TIME: 21st of June, midsummer’s eve PLACE: near the loophole @ziondepaor​

He circled the block once, twice - where the hell was Zion, he promised to meet him here at this time -  dodging drunken revelers, either alone or or small groups. The way they clung to each other, exchanging laughter, soft whispers, and intimate touches - a press of lips on bared skin, the graze of ungloved fingertips - Griffith did not know whether to shy away or to be envious.  

He’s long denied himself that type of companionship, in favor of being discreet, inconspicuous. He tried to present an overall good-natured front - solid, dependable, affable - without truly having others delve down too deep into his past and psyche. It was safer. 

It was isolating.

“Ah, this shit is so fucking depressing.” Griffith spoke aloud, more for his own benefit really - at least he still had himself to talk to. Then his attention was diverted by the sudden eruption of laughter right behind him - perhaps in response to his self-depreciating monologue - and a chorus of greetings as a trio of girls marched into his line of vision, the one in the center stepping perilously close, right past his comfort zone.  

A poof of dark curls and limpid grey eyes, set in a small, fine-boned face. He knew this girl. Too rich for his blood, kindhearted if a touch irresponsible, the type of person who trusted that her parents would bail her out of any and all situations. 

“Here Griffith King-” She slurred his name, slightly. “-like you say to us, it’s on the house!” She laughed, a little hoarse, before shoving a bottle of unopened wine into his hands - the really expensive kind. She gave him a sloppy salute before wobbling off on dangerously high stilettos, her friends a giggling trail behind her. 

Griffith watched them go off with a raised brow, bemused. 

“Well, don’t mind if I do.” 

[ziondepaor]

At this point in his life, he was something of a nocturnal animal by pure need. After all, even the activities he had been a part of before falling down the proverbial rabbit hole had been better suited to the cover of darkness. So it was more rare to find him up and awake during the day than in the middle of the night, all in all. A celebration like midsummer, that was difficult. Get up before sunrise to be there just as the light is breaking, then keep alert all fucking day into the night hours when he’d usually just be getting started. So to say he was a bit discombobulated was maybe an understatement. 

Trying to sleep when he normally did his best work had fucked him over even worse than expected, and by the time he heard his fourth alarm go off, he was already going to be late meeting Griffith. And he already knew well enough that was going to be an earful in and of itself. 

It took more time trying to decide what sort of arms he might need to have with him in case things went sour, than actually getting himself ready, slipping on his normal attire of black on black on black, leather jacket and combat boots at the ready. 

Luckily, though, it didn’t take long to get to their agreed meeting place, and sure enough there he was waiting, seemingly already having begun his night by the looks of the wine bottle in his hand. He marched straight toward him, nearly knocking over an already wobbly group of girls heading the opposite direction in the process, paying it no mind. 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, only fifteen minutes late, and he’s already resorting to drinking straight from the bottle,” he shook his head, giving Griffith a punch in the shoulder as a greeting. 

[ziondepaor]

aoibheannagate‌:

Ah. Not quite in the partying mood then. She should have guessed as much, really. No rest for the wicked, after all… Aoibheann takes a long pass from her cup of wine, letting his words sink between them. He’s keeping watch because there are dangerous things afoot, because there are fae dying. Being killed.

She swallows past it, letting the cherry wine wash that away. It was Midsummer. It was the longest day of the year, the brightest sun. Nothing bad could dare happen today. “Well, it matters to me,” she says earnestly, shoulders thrown back a little. “I’m having a wonderful time. And I think you could too, if you let yourself.” There’s no chastisement in her tone, just light-hearted compassion. It’s a party and, as she said, Aoibheann is having a good time. Everyone should be having a good time.

Her head cocks a little as she surveys that he’s at least eating something. Banana bread, from the smell, and she ventures that the cherry wine she’s drinking would pair well with it. Magnanimous as you like, she extends her cup to him, offering him a drink from her wine.

Focused ahead, willing himself not to think about how badly he’d like another bite of his banana bread at the moment, he keeps his eyes moving over the festivities, not looking at him. He’s mostly expecting that to be the end of the conversation, after all, who really wants to stand with someone thinking about death on the summer solstice? Certainly not someone who refuses to acknowledge the danger, he’d think.

She surprises him, though, and he can’t help but look at her with a frown when she insists that she cares if he’s having a good time or not. Earnestness, it shouldn’t be so unexpected from everything he knows of Aoibheann, but still it catches him off guard. And then she does it again, holding out her glass of wine for him to try.

He stares at the extended cup for a long moment, weighing the options. Up until now, he hasn’t had a drop of anything, best to keep the mind clear when no one else is. Up until now, nothing’s happened. That, of course, doesn’t mean that it won’t change in an instant, but also one sip of wine isn’t going to send him falling over backwards. After a silence, he shrugs, and accepts it, taking a small sip, then handing it back to her. “Cheers, ‘s good wine,” he grumbles, looking back over a nearby group dancing, trying not to think too hard about how beautifully sweet the drink is. “Maybe once we’ve caught what’s causing all the pain, I’ll have a full glass...” he offers, tone unclear if he’s joking or not.

[ziondepaor]

hyacinth-s‌:

She could see the little wrinkle across his forehead, the one that was always there when he was thinking, when he was troubled. So, more often than not. Painted across his skin, a little deeper ever time as his face took shape around it, a slow and steady sign of his body aging, the lasting impressions he left on it. For a moment, a part of her long buried emerged and she wanted to reach out and smooth it over, laugh the way she’d once laughed with Brín as a child and tell him to stop fretting and come celebrate. 

But that was no more her, these days, than it was him. A lightness lost to childhood, lost with the passing of a loved one, the loss of too much to let the goal slip from her sight. She had chosen Zion to be her right hand man because of how seriously he took his self-imposed duty to protect her kind; it that meant he spent the entire day standing at the edges wrinkling his forehead, she wouldn’t be the one to stop him.

She came to stillness just beside him, settling by his side and looking at over the crowd to see what he’d been seeing. Dancing, drinking, making merry. She didn’t have the stomach for it, either, as much as everyone seemed eager to pretend that this was somehow normal, that anything at all was okay. She hadn’t come to dance, or to drink: she’d come to touch base with those who were on her side, and to see if she could seek out anyone else who might want to help. 

     ‘I don’t know how everyone acts as if they feel so safe,’ she admitted, after a moment, voice low enough for just him to hear. 

He had noticed, more and more lately, that whenever he found himself around Ailis, which was slowing becoming more often than not over the past few weeks, something in him relaxed. It was impossible for him to ever completely let his guard down, he’d been raised to be suspicious, after all, to think that around every corner lurked a powerful enemy that would take your power from you the moment you let yourself relax. That paranoia suspicion had proven true for his father, and with every new death, it proved true for him, too, enough so that Zion was even more acutely aware of when he wasn’t on edge than when he was.

And Ailis dulled that edge a little bit. Not in a bad way, though, but one that made him feel... human in a way he couldn’t really remember letting himself feel since before he’d left behind his family. Maybe it should have scared him more than it did, but somehow it was nearly comforting, to be reminded he wasn’t just an idea. 

Glancing over at her, only briefly looking away from the party, he couldn’t help but wonder if that was something she might feel, too. Either way, though, it was welcome, some of the tension easing, even as his eyes swept back over the tree-line for any hidden terrors.

“I know,” he agreed, voice lowering to match hers. “There’ll be those who’re getting pissed, dancin’, and singin’ right up until the bitter end. It’s easier for some to ignore reality. Too painful otherwise.”