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The wedding had gone as well as such things could. The bride was radiant, and the other bride looked pretty good too. And sure, John was biased, but who was going to ask his opinion?

The bar had been open, and generous, and there had been some very fine whiskey, rich and dark and smokey. (Had been. He wasn't the only reason it was gone, but he had done his share.)

The reception was cleared, the dances were danced, the newlyweds were off doing their thing.

He stood, picked up the last bottle, and flipped the lights off.

Salud, Lily.

“Hold me back!”

Rimmer waggled his fists at the giant woman in front of him. She crossed her arms across her chest.

“I mean it! Nobody insults me like that and gets away with it. Call me tinchy little smeghead, will you? Impugn the size of my manhood? Suggest that my taste in music is infantile? Diagnose me, with absolutely zero rationale, as a self-centered malignant narcissist? Accuse me of having no more than a ten-year-old’s reading level? Of being a virgin?”

He glanced back nervously at Lister. "Uh... hold me back?"

Lister shook his head with a gleeful smile.

"I know you had your reasons. I know he could be headstrong, and not always as sensible as would have become a King."

Anora took a careful breath. Everything she did had to be careful and thought-out. She didn't have the same leeway to be brash and impulsive as a man would. As her husband had. As her father did.

"And I know you didn't love him like I did." She met her father's steely blue-eyed stare with one no less steely. "But would you do something different, if you could replay the day?'

The silence that followed was deafening.

“I don’t understand!” Rimmer groused, pacing their small quarters.

“Of course ya don’t,” Lister replied with a resigned sigh.

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about!” Rimmer protested.

“Doesn’t matter. Ye don’t understand things generally. What is it this time?”

“Look at me!” Rimmer spread his arms. “Pink Mohawk. Faux piercings. Ripped leather clothing. This is peak punk! But they laughed and turned me away at the door.”

“Yeah.” Lister turned onto his stomach, gazing at his roommate. “Punk isn’t a look, Rimmer. It’s an attitude.”

Somehow, as a boxer-clad Lister cuddled his contraband cat, he was peak punk.

“Awww yeah!” Cat preened, looking at himself in the wall mirror, then admiring himself in his hand mirror. He spun to look at the back of his head via the reflection of the wall mirror. “I’m so gorgeous I don’t know how you people restrain yourselves from having sex with me.” He grinned, showing his sharp canines. “But I’m glad you do!”

“We somehow manage,” Kochanski replied, blandly, turning another page in the Technical Manager handbook.

She couldn’t believe Rimmer had given the fellow a haircut, and actually done a decent job of it. Cat would be insufferable for days.

The scout looked a bit nervous. The Inquisitor was impressed it was only a bit nervous.

"I think the calculations are right. But I'd feel a lot better if we tested with stones first..."

Krem laughed brightly. "This is supposed to be a sneak attack!"

"You're making a lot of noise for a sneak." Bull's laugh was deep and low in response. "Grab your knives, your balls, and your socks, and hold tight!"

He leaped down onto the platform, and the basket of Chargers flew through the sky, landing in the middle of the enemy camp with a pleasing thud.

The Mabari's eyes were fixed adoringly on the Hero as she spoke. Sit. Roll over. Play dead. He obeyed, and a cheese rind was his reward.

"He's a war dog." Loghain's sullen face made its appearance. "You should be training him for battle, not parlor tricks."

"He's a smart dog," she replied, coolly. "He can do war and fun. You should try it sometime." She waved a finger at him before he could respond. "Eat your dinner. We have a mission tomorrow."

He rolled his eyes, but picked up his wooden bowl and obeyed.

Old dogs could be trained, too.

“I’m sorry.” Nick’s ears flared backwards. “Did you just say let’s fight?”

“Yes!” Judy replied, enthusiastically, pulling her shirt-sleeves back to reveal her thin arms. She then bent down to pull up her long blue trousers, revealing thick, sturdy legs and broad feet. They looked like they could do some damage.

Still.

“Those are stoats,” Nick noted. “Their teeth aren’t blunt.”

“Neither are mine!” She grinned. Her teeth were usually used for carrots, but they were sharp and long.

“You’re the worst rabbit I’ve ever seen,” he replied with a laugh. They ran towards the stoats with a lusty yell.

"The people will love you if you're kind to them, protect them."

Her clear eyes were beautiful in their beseeching. But it was her words that compelled. They rang true to him - he was not clever or wily, but he was physically strong, and to stand against evil felt right.

The difficulty came in defining evil. It had felt so clear, when the Sheriff had explained it. Outlaws, those who eschewed lawful society.

"She's not to be trusted. Come now, Gisborne. The people? The ones who support the law have been cowed into silence. Intimidate the lawless..."

How to decide?

I just flew in from Io, and, miladdos, my thrusters are sore!

Silence

Well. Erm. How about these Third Level Technicians? Isn’t it strange that all the pretty women want to be with those louts? Is there something about space that affects eyesight?

A cough, very loud in the silence

Tough crowd tonight…

A bray of a laugh. “Oi! Isn’t that the bloke what asked for his gazpacho to be heat up? Classless lout I might be, but I know fresh veg soup is supposed to be cool and refreshing!”

The audience joins in the laughter. Rimmer shuffles off, red-faced.

Why don’t you meditate? It’s good for your brain, Tony, not to mention your blood pressure.

Steve had looked so earnest and sincere. It was a look that Tony usually loved to tease, but something about how concerned Steve looked… Tony had found himself agreeing to just try. Yes, Steve, I’ll give it a try tomorrow morning. Yes, thank you, this app will be very helpful. And your playlist. Right. No, not tonight, I have a date with a bottle.

It was the next morning. Tony sat down, closed his eyes, breathed, and opened himself up.

To a terrifying void.

“It’s not funny, you know!” Bigman’s stub nose wrinkled as he glared at Lucky. Anyone else would have gotten much worse than just a glare.

“Well.” Lucky smiled at Bigman. Why did the man have to be so disarming? So charming? Bigman knew well to keep such thoughts to himself, of course. He knew what the man thought of him. He was no Councilman, no great scientific mind. Not like Lucky, not like Wes. “It is a little bit funny.”

Lucky put the lid on, and rolled the pot full of Bigman into the kitchen the Council needed to infiltrate.

The Queen was the most powerful piece on the board.

It was true in real life, as well. The King was the focus of attention, the key to the game, limited and vulnerable. He had to stay behind the front lines, protected by his knights and foot soldiers and mages.

When he insisted on running out in front of all of them, what hope was there? A king sacrifice was not a winning move.

Yet all metaphors must fall apart at some point. The game continued, the pieces continued to move.

When the Queen was freed to act, Ferelden won.

They took away his name. Dehumanized, branded like a cow. His identity reduced to a number.

Charles didn’t understand. He had always been Charles; nobody had tried to take that away from him with a tattoo.

They had to. In order to make themselves seem superior, in order to make himself seem like an other who was not worthy of the rights and dignity of being a human, they had to deny the ways in which he was a human. That he bled, that he loved and suffered, that he shared the same DNA.

That he could thirst for revenge.

Dead, unmourned, remembered as a cautionary tale – a warning that commoners could not be trusted, that only the bluest of blood deserved titles.

“Father?”

Dead, redeemed, his last act slicing deeply into a mighty dragon’s neck. His death once more an inspiration to those he had come from, the commoners.

“Father…”

Alive, with accented Orlesian falling from his lips, battling Darkspawn and, for the first time in his life, researching. Reading. Bettering his mind.

“Father! It’s time.”

Loghain snapped back to himself, looking at his daughter with a small smile. “I’m sorry, my dear. I had strange dreams last night.”

“Influence.”

“Yes,” Steve replied, leaning back against the wall. Tony often spouted random words at him; the man would get to a point eventually.

“Oh.”

“Oh what?” Steve asked, mustering all of his patience.

“Vessel,” Tony replied, tossing a wrench on the workbench, his features annoyed.

“As in, the thing I’m about to burst? Get to the point!”

“Incentive?” Tony asked.

“I’ll come back when you have a coherent sentence. How’s that for incentive?” Steve turned and stalked back towards his room, irritated.

Five minutes. A new record. Tony tapped his earpiece with a smile, resetting his random word generator.

There were advantages to being tall, and those compounded when a youth spent drawing a bow and swinging a sword gave breadth to the shoulders. So a weaponless brawl was a fine place for Guy.

“Oi!” The owner of the booming voice stood above the rest of the crowd, easily as big and broad as Guy was. The difference was, a charmingly broad smile was spread across his face. “Pick on someone yer own size, why doncha?” Little John bellowed.

A less charming grin spread across Guy’s own face. “Have at you!” he barked. Fists flew with joy and abandon.

"Tony! You're cooking!" Wait, no. Just warming up leftovers, with that setting.

Tony ran over, putting his hand over the oven controls. "Don't turn it up!"

Steve frowned, bending down to look inside. "Tony... there's a hedgehog in there."

"Yes, well." Tony crossed his arms and leaned against the appliance. "I saw it in the snow while I was out walking. Just thought I'd warm her up a bit before tossing her in that." He nodded at a small blanket bed in the corner.

"Tony." Steve smiled indulgently. "You went for a walk?"

"Well... I was drunk," Tony replied, defensively.

"You're shorter than I expected."

Niall could have sung along with the comment. It was how people who had met him first on vidcall reacted. He laced his hands behind his back. "The good lord made up for it in other ways," he replied, laconically.

An act, a persona. Insufferable, Helva had scoffed. Yet it worked.

He never asked his parents why he hadn’t been shelled. His stature was written in his genome, his epigenetics, from the getgo. He would have qualified.

But he’d rather stand on his own two feet. Even as close to the ground as they were.

The Waking Sea was often not quiet. It roiled and raged, storms of winter howling impotently over frothing waves.

Yet it had moments of calm. Rare moments, usually in autumn – the time of transition, the moment of serenity between the ragings of winter and summer. It was such a moment that Maric had relied on to deliver him safely to the Free Marches. You worry too much. I’ll be back before you know it.. A tender smile.

November delivered a storm like no other, unexpected, brutal. Swallowing Ferelden’s king, his dear friend, in the deep.

Silent mourning over calm waters.

The wine was deep and rich, red and warm, inebriating, like blood in battle.

“You really should consider beer.” The Hero of Ferelden looked at him over the rim of a tankard. “It doesn’t get you quite as drunk. At least, not as fast.” The accusation was clear. You drink too much and make bad decisions.

The Hero was young, after all. She didn’t have decades of loss and regret to drown. She had never known the alewives, the women who brewed beer full of knowledge and history. “I’ll consider it.”

Wine becomes you, old goat.

Beer retained too much.

“I was the black sheep in the family,” Lily blurted.

John looked over, raising his eyebrows. It was a cold and somewhat dangerous prospect to be out on the Avenger’s deck, but the view was well worth the risk.

“Really. They were all popular kids in school. Athletes. I was the nerd.” She looked at him enviously. “They were like you.”

John barked a laugh in response. “Everyone in my family was smart. I was the black sheep.”

Lily grinned back at him. “Then stop bleating and teach me how to throw this.” She tossed the football in her hands.

The Sheriff was angry.

People unfamiliar with him wouldn't notice. His normal anger was not subtle; he raged, he fumed, he indulged in a hanging or torture of prisoners, or some light physical abuse on Guy. It burned brightly, but burned out quickly.

This anger, however, was a more insidious thing. It simmered, it seethed, presenting almost as calmness. Rationality. Objective detachment.

"Gisborne!" he said, and ice flowed through Guy's veins. "We need to talk about Lady Marian's latest slip in manners. Her recent behavior is a bit... incompatible with life."

Talking him out of this would not be easy.

Celia's fingers found the lines around his mouth, tracing them delicately. "Age becomes you, old goat."

Loghain could not help smiling, the smile that was just for her, the smile that had given him those particular lines on his increasingly lined face. "Flatterer," he grunted.

"A man of many words, as always." Her eyes glittered. She was a force to be reckoned with, had been ever since she showed up outside of his tent one morning, berating him for being an awful Teyrn. "Those lines had better stay, old goat."

"As long as you're here," he kissed her, "they will."

Captain America had a oilcolor budget.

It was one of those things that Tony automatically signed off. Yes, painting was therapeutic, from everything he had read. Bob Ross, all of that. But did Steve really need this outlet?

Apparently so. When Tony came to visit, Steve was deeply engaged in painting. A painting of... Tony, as Iron Man, lying helplessly on the ground, surrounded by the Avengers,

"Does that make you happy?" Tony asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "Seeing me so helpless?"

"Not happy," Captain America sighed. "I just wish... I could have helped you sooner,"

She had deactivated the hologram. It wasn't healthy, after all, to continue with this ersatz Niall, as if he were still alive. He was gone, she had to come to terms with that, and making a hologram of him was not helping.

Helva, are you there?

Strange how his voice still seemed to come to her, as she flew between the stars. It wasn't a dream; she didn't sleep, her blood chemistry was perfect. Perhaps she might be a little mad? She should make a psychologist appointment when she returned.

Please.

No - a remote psychologist appointment, sooner.

I love you.

The muses were supposed to be supernatural, spirits that visited men with full hearts to give their tongues worthy expression. So why would they be afraid of mortal weaponry?

Well, Loghain had little enough reason to believe in benevolent supernatural beings.

All he knew was that sweet words failed him, throughout the war. He had nothing for those he cared for so greatly - for Rowan, for Maric - other than curt words, devoid of the passion he felt.

Yet even after the war, the muses stayed far from him. Did their fear of cold steel persist even when it was sheathed?

The room was too hot, and too cold at the same time. The temperature of a fever, the sweating shivers. He was a doctor - he knew these things. No, he knew them because he was a science officer.

Wasn't he?

This body, lanky and hairy, was familiar. But shouldn't it be taller, the fingers longer? He had grown up so quickly, so abruptly, in the dry heat of a desert... no, in the damp humidity of hot summers with a cold mint julep.

Here, at least, was something he remembered, someone he remembered. Someone his mind could converge on.

"Jim."

The threat of torture was no idle one. The twisted snarl on Robin's face at his demands for a confession was animalistic, betraying his rage. The outlaw would have his due, his answers - and after that, would that be his justification to be judge and executioner, as well?

His passion was evident - his desire to do right by a King whose passions did not lie with tending to his kingdom - spilling English blood in foreign lands, instead. Robin's inability to justify it was clear in his anger at Guy...

It pleased Guy, to see that his barbs had borne fruit.

"The Orlesian ambassadors are here."

The words could not be less welcome. Orlesians. Ambassadors. He must be superficially polite, swallow down all of his resentment and rage, keep his hands free of weapons and his face free of a scowl.

"They're asking to speak with Teyrna Celia. They feel this would be more," a gentle cough, "productive."

"Yes." Loghain let go of the arms of his chair, sure his fingers would leave dents in the wood. "She is in her office."

The Gwaren lad smiled, not attempting to hide his relief. "Good. We all love her, you know."

He did.

The physical had an undeniable appeal. It was his fortè – jumping, running, crouching, hiding himself in trees and bogs, sending arrows swiftly to their homes in throats and hearts.

But what did it mean for his strengths when the war was done, when bows and swords were put aside, when the world became more complicated than good and evil, enemies and allies? Suddenly, Loghain had to leap and dodge and dance in a way unfamilar to him, for Maric. For Anora. For everyone he loved.

He was no politician, no mental gymnast. But now he had to pretend to be.

The deer were trumpeting, a cacophony that echoed through the forest. Their reputation for being shy, withdrawn creatures was overstated, Sir Guy had found - certainly in the King's forest. With his eyes closed, he could hear the deer more clearly; with his eyes closed, he could feel the sword at his throat, the cold metal of it, the sharp point just barely piercing his skin.

With his eyes closed, he didn't have to watch the outlaws loot the chest he had been tasked with guarding.

The deer were trumpeting in a way that sounded a bit too close to laughter.