miitgaanar

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt!

No. 21: BODY HORROR

Body Horror | Tattoo Gun | Spirit Possession | “Let the bedsheet soak up the tears.” (Apparat feat. Soap & Skin, Goodbye)

Okay. So. Hear me out. This is an incredibly self-indulgent crossover/AU. I started writing it back in December of last year, and slowly chopped away at it. When I saw that there was a Whumptober prompt that (loosely?) applied, I forced myself to get to the finish line.

And so this was borne of my friends and I saying "Surely Lemuel would allow a sadistic, hedonistic demon to share his body if it meant he got all of the power that came with it?"

Anyway. You can read this if you want. But. Yeah. <3

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There was a shift in the air as Addilyn approached him.  She had no talent for pymary, no sense for the khert and its delicate intricacies—and yet the air felt heavier here, thicker in a way she could not explain.  It was as if the khert had shrunk away from this place, unwilling to be tainted by the slaughter that had occurred.  Blood and viscera had turned the earth to mud, her every step sounding with a revolting squelch as her boots sunk into the fetid sludge.  

And in the middle of it all stood Lemuel Adelier, drenched in gore and bits of flesh, a grotesque grin splitting his features.

A laugh then pierced the quiet, the sound grating and manic, and Addilyn froze.  It was not at all the charming chuckle she’d become so familiar with.  Even when dancing on the edge of madness, she’d never heard Lemuel emit such a shrill cacophony.

“Oh, what a day,” he said, the laughter tapering off into an almost euphoric moan.  He sounded wrong; that delightful tenor dipping into a sinister baritone.  Had she not known any better, she would have sworn that an entirely different man stood before her—but his golden hair shone bright in the light of the setting sun, Ataret and Kossaul in hand and streaked with Gefendur blood.

And yet her blood turned to ice in her veins as she watched him, her skin prickling with unease.

“Captain,” she tried, her voice low, hardly even a croak as her too dry throat forced the simple word from her lips.

Almost lazily, Lemuel turned to face her, a strange expression crossing his blood spattered face.  It was akin to irritation, but with the slightest undercurrent of curiosity.

Her confusion only mounted as he stared at her, unrecognizing.

“If you’ve come to grovel, your head’s a bit high for my liking,” he said, the words cold and lacking any playful bite.

“Sir,” she tried again, her heart stuttering out a staccato rhythm as a thin trickle of fear began to slither its way down her spine.  Wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  “We’re regrouping to the north.  We need to head out if we’re going to link up with the battalion.”

He stared at her for a beat longer, his annoyance seeming to momentarily morph into something closer to anger, but it quickly vanished, and at last there was a flash of recognition in his eyes.

“Ah,” he said simply, that monstrous grin returning, and Addilyn had the brief thought that she rather preferred his ire.  “The Lioness.  And here I thought I’d never have the pleasure of a formal introduction.”

A nervous laugh was all she could muster, her body going rigid with the inexplicable urge to flee.  “Very funny, sir.  Never heard that one before.”

“You haunt his every thought,” Lemuel continued, stalking forward with the preternatural grace of a predator on the hunt.  “It was fairly fucking irritating that he worked so hard to keep me at bay where you were concerned.  You and his doe-eyed brat.”

The sun hung low in the sky, but still painted the area in a bright, crimson glow.  The shadows grew long and deep and dark as dusk loomed, and so Addilyn had not questioned the shadows that seemed to fall over Lemuel’s features.

But as he drew closer, she realized it was neither shadows nor streaks of quickly drying blood that coated his face, but solid black markings.  They lined his jaw, symmetrical in their placement, starting from the corners of his eyes and ending at his chin.  A single slash of ebony crossed the center of his nose, while a strange symbol sat painted upon his forehead.

It left her speechless, and she fought the urge to step back as he closed in.

“But it looks like he didn’t account for how hard it would be to shove me back in my cage once he deigned to set me loose,” he drawled, his voice entirely unfamiliar.  At this proximity, she realized that his eyes glowed an insidious shade of red, their warm, golden hue entirely absent.  “Such is the usual gambit borne of human desperation.”

Addilyn moved to draw her blade, muscle memory taking hold as alarm bells rang out loudly in her mind.

WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG

The sword was scarcely out of its scabbard when he moved, nearly too fast for her eyes to register.  One moment her blade was in hand, the next a loud clang resounded through the piercing silence, a sharp pain shooting up her arm as the weapon was knocked free of her grip.  It fell to the earth with a dull splat a few feet from where she stood, the heavy steel sinking slightly into the putrid mixture of mud and viscous fluid.

And all the while, she stared up at Lemuel in horror.  She knew how he fought down to her very bones.  There was strength behind each movement, though there was always a thoughtless precision that came with each slash and parry, drilled into him from decades spent on training grounds and battlefields.

But there had been no finesse in how he had disarmed her, no elegant violence, merely raw power.

A horrifying realization dawned, and it left her near paralyzed with utter terror.

“What are you?” she demanded, a pathetic tremor undercutting her words.

The creature wearing Lemuel’s face grinned lasciviously and raised Ataret to her throat.  Just beneath each eye, a second pair of smaller, crimson colored irises stared back at her.  “A question your dear captain probably should have asked, Lioness.”

Not him.  Panic gripped at her lungs tight enough to burn.  Not him, not him, not him.

Addilyn didn’t think, couldn’t allow herself to think.  She ducked back and out of reach of the blade’s tip, knocking the scarlet stained steel away with her armored forearm.  She turned to bolt, unsure of where to go, only that she had to get away.  Away from this thing that had claimed Lemuel’s visage as its own.

But it hardly mattered, a deranged cackle splitting the air as the creature reached for her.  Her head jerked back as she felt its fingers bury themselves in her hair, the clawed tips of its gauntlets digging painfully into the flesh of her scalp.

“Now, now,” it chided, tugging her back toward it.  She latched onto its wrist, desperate to wrest herself from its grasp—but its hold remained solid, immovable.  Even without Lemuel’s plate armor in the way, she doubted her feeble attempts would have amounted to much.  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  I haven’t dismissed you yet, Private.”

“Where is he?” she ground out, her jaw clenched to the point of aching.  Tears welled in her eyes from the pain along her scalp, blurring her vision.  “What have you done to him, nuofhen?”

“Ever the loyal little soldier,” it crooned, its free hand coming up to grip at her chin.  “More sacrificial lamb than fierce lioness.”

Belatedly, Addilyn realized it no longer wielded Lemuel’s blades.  It had likely discarded them when she tried to run.  In a stroke of hysteria induced insanity, all she could think about was how furious Lemuel would be to see his prized swords festering in a pool of blood and entrails.  

“Answer me.”  Her voice continued to tremble as she glared at it, warm rivulets of blood beginning to soak into her hair where the gauntlets had cut through skin.  Nausea ate away at her gut as she met its gaze.  She had never seen such gleeful malice etched into Lemuel’s face before.

“He lurks,” the creature said, the claws at her chin digging into the sensitive flesh as it angled her face upwards.  “He’s been quiet since the culling began.  Willing to sit back and let me have my fun.”  It chuckled darkly, the sound an ugly and repulsive thing.  “Oh, the sins etched upon his soul, Little Lamb.  So ready to do whatever is necessary, the consequences be damned.”

It pulled her closer, its nose nearly brushing her own.  It smelled of death, of sickly sweet rot and the metallic tang of blood.  There was no lingering scent of vliegeng musk, no heady aroma of sweat and hodo.  It was as if the creature had snuffed out Lemuel entirely, like a flame smothered beneath a woolen quilt.

“Though every human has a line they won't cross.  No matter their resolve.”  The creature licked its lips, and Addilyn’s stomach turned, the urge to rip the flesh from its face all consuming.  Anything to tear away the depravity etched into Lemuel’s features.  “Why don't we find his?”

A fresh agony burst to life at her scalp, ripping a strangled cry from her lips as the creature forced her to her knees.  The panic that had curdled within her veins melted into white hot fury as thick, pungent muck soaked through her trousers.  Fury at the debasement, at the shame that flooded her like a burst dam.  And all at this creature’s hand—this hellish thing that appeared to her wearing Lemuel Adelier’s face.

The throwing dagger was in her hand before she even thought to reach for it, torn from the sheath built into the armor at Lemuel’s hip.  Rage clouded her mind, her eyes unseeing as she drove the knife into its thigh, relishing in the give of flesh beneath a freshly sharpened blade.

But the creature did not cry out, nor did it so much as loosen its hold upon her.  A low chuckle instead filled the silence, fiendish and foreboding in its tenor, chilling the fire that had sparked to life within her.

“And so the claws finally come out,” it rumbled, its gaze never wavering.  Its eyes unblinking.  Addilyn’s hands began to shake.  “Brazen little wretch.”

It struck fast, swift as an adder as it sent her sprawling with a backhand that made her vision go white.  She fell to the ground, her ears ringing with the force of the blow as she struggled to push herself to her feet.  Her cheek burned like hellfire, and she realized it had likely sliced at least one sizable gash in the skin.

But then there was a sudden weight at her back, pushing her down into the putrid muck.  Pressing the air from her lungs.  Dragging a pitiful mewl from her throat.

“Bleat away, Little Lamb,” the creature said, its breath tickling the shell of her ear as it dug its knee further into her spine.  Addilyn clawed at the earth, trying not to think of what slimy bits were tangled between her fingers.  “He’s yet to stir.”

“Maafit!” Addilyn bit out, only for a ragged scream to leap from her tongue as it stabbed the throwing knife through her hand, piercing the meager armor lining her glove.

“Careful, girl,” it purred, the tips of its clawed gauntlets dancing up the length of her arm.  Addilyn could only sag where she laid, her fingers twitching helplessly as the dagger continued to cut through muscle and tendon with each minute movement.  Bile churned within the depths of her stomach and she swallowed the urge to vomit.  “You’d do well to mind who you bare those teeth to.”

The crushing pressure suddenly lifted as the creature rolled her onto her back, allowing her a brief moment to suck in a greedy breath—only for its weight to settle at her hips.  Straddling her.  Trapping her.

And then its hands were at her neck, its teeth bared in depraved delight.

Logic fled as instinct took hold.  Addilyn thrashed beneath it, her feet struggling for purchase in the slippery mud.  Her back arching in a vain attempt to escape.  Her fingers tearing at its steel bracers.  Desperate to dislodge its grip.  Desperate to get away.  Desperate to breathe.

“Writhe all you like,” it said, its voice like honey.  Deep and sultry.  Though its eyes were wild.  Manic.  Addilyn dimly thought of how frighteningly familiar the expression seemed on Lemuel’s face.  “It seems he’s left you to your fate, Lioness.”

A soft wheeze was all she could manage, her lungs spasming violently within her chest as her vision narrowed.  The hands at her neck were cold, the armor like ice against her feverish skin.  She tried to pry them away, but her fingers had grown numb, her limbs like unwieldy lead blocks as that dark void loomed, pulling her under…

“... —ilyn!”

“...dilyn!”

“Addilyn!”

Addilyn jolted upright with a gasp.  The earth seemed to tilt beneath her as she choked and gagged and heaved, only adding to the vile concoction of bodily fluids seeping into the ground.  Her throat throbbed in time with the erratic beating of her heart, the muscles beneath the abused flesh aching with an intensity that could only suggest severe bruising was yet to come.

And then there was a weight upon her back, the touch gentle and tentative—and she immediately knocked it away with a strangled yelp, moving to scramble back from it.  She had to get away.  She had to—

“Addilyn!”  Lemuel grabbed for her, keeping her in place.  “Addilyn, it’s me.  Stop it.  Stop!”

Addilyn froze, daring to meet his gaze, her hands trembling as she tried to keep herself from crying.  From begging and pleading.

But his eyes were a warm, welcoming gold, and his face devoid of the black markings that seemed to signify the presence of the creature.  The only sign it had been there at all were a pair of small scars below each eye.  Where that extra set of scarlet irises had stared back at her.

She gaped at him, shaking like the last leaf on a dying tree.  Her horror must have been clearly written upon her face, as Lemuel’s gaze softened, his brow furrowed in what she could only assume was concern.

“Are you all right?”  he asked, his voice soft, thick.  A far cry from the malicious drawl that had come from his lips before.  “Say something, da lledeol.”

Lemuel reached up toward her face, as if to brush the hair from her eyes or to wipe the blood from her cheeks, but she flinched back, a pathetic whimper leaping forth unbidden.  He froze, something like hurt flashing across his features.  Hurt, and maybe the slightest hint of guilt.

“Addilyn, I—”

“What—” she rasped, a violent coughing fit wracking her body.  It hurt to talk.  It hurt to breathe.  Each breath akin to a thousand shards of glass shoved down the length of her throat.  But still she stared at him, unwilling to rein in the fear.  The anger.  The revulsion.  “What did you do.”

His face fell, and he let his arm drop back down to his side.  She expected shame to be reflected back in his gaze.  Shame for what he had done.  For what he had almost done.

But his eyes only darkened, his mouth set in a firm line as he pushed himself to his feet.  And in that moment, she could see a shadow of the creature that had so delighted in her torment.

“What was necessary.”

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt! Requested by @serpenthyne!

No. 20: EMOTIONAL ANGST

Shoulder to Cry On | Giving Permission to Die | “It’s not your fault.”

Do not read this <3 I cannot stress that enough <3

***************

Winter’s bite had begun to fade by the time Mikaila was well enough to be out and about.  Patches of green poked through the slowly shrinking piles of snow, and once near absent songbirds could be heard even within the densely populated streets of Durlyne.  It was as if Ssael himself wished to welcome his favored daughter back to the land of the living with a splash of color.

But Addilyn couldn’t help the frown that pulled at her lips as she spied the girl’s pallid features, her tell-tale Soud green eyes dull and lacking that familiar mischievous gleam.

“Oi, lass,” Addilyn said, forcing a playful lilt into her voice.  “Don’t you be scheming over there.  I won’t have you spelling my sword soggy when I have to assist in training later.”

Mikaila looked up from where she sat on one of the stone benches lining the temple’s pathways, the barest smile painted upon her pale lips.  Even so, it didn’t quite reach her eyes.  Addilyn’s heart nearly split at the sight.

She hadn’t seen the little spellwright since the weeks following that harrowing night, and even then Mikaila had spent much of it in a fitful slumber, burning with fever and writhing in terrible pain.  Addilyn had felt so helpless, the vibrant little troublemaker at death’s door with naught but prayers to be said in the hope that the doctor could keep her from the khert’s grasping hands.

But the wee lass was strong, a fighter if she had ever seen one, and she’d beaten back the very same khert that had taken her father.

And yet the sight before her left Addilyn at a loss.  It wasn’t grief or fear that lined the girl's features.  She seemed… troubled.  Haunted.

Addilyn hadn’t known what to expect when Lemuel announced that he’d be bringing his newfound daughter to the temple, but this somehow felt worse than a hysterical child’s weeping.  

A sigh escaped her as Addilyn moved to sit beside Mikaila, the stone’s cold surface seeping into her trousers and making her shiver.

“You’ve been awful quiet since your doting uncle left you in my care,” Addilyn said with an air of levity.  “And here I’d been ready to be wowed by tales of your valiant victory over the Crescian invaders.”

Mikaila’s small, gloved hands clenched into tightly balled fists, her gaze averted to the ground.  “Can I ask you something, Addie?”

Addilyn blinked in surprise, her brow raised.  “Of course.”

A quiet moment passed, one in which Addilyn could hear the distant sounds of a hound’s baying.  “Do you think I did enough?” Mikaila finally asked.

“Enough—?”  Addilyn was struck speechless.  Among the short list of things she expected her to ask, that was not among them.  “What do you mean?”

“Everyone talks about that night like I did something special.  Like I fought them off and saved the day.”  Her voice was low, but sharp as a knife’s edge.  “But I could have done more.  I know I could have.  But Papa was hurt and there were so many of them and—”

Mikaila trailed off then, her little shoulders trembling.  Addilyn thought she had begun to cry, expected to see tears streaming down her pale cheeks as hiccupping sobs built up in her chest—but her eyes were dry, and there was a deep anger and frustration in her brilliant green gaze.

“It’s all my fault,” she said darkly, and it was with that that she sniffled softly, though Addilyn suspected she would blame it on the still brisk air.  “Had I not been there, Papa would still be here.”

“Miki—” Addilyn tried, but Mikaila cut her off.

“Had I been born a boy, Papa would have taught me how to fight.  He wouldn’t have told me to run.  He would have told me where to aim.”

She said it with such rancor, such bitterness.  Addilyn had thought the girl would be wailing for her lost Papa, but instead she harbored a profound guilt for his demise.

“Miki,” she tried again, reaching out to place a hand upon Mikaila’s uninjured shoulder.  There was little she could give her in the way of comfort, and even this felt like a paltry offering.  “Your Papa didn’t like me much.  Especially when your uncle would bring me around you.  But even I know that he loved you so very much.  Fiercely enough that he fought to the death to keep you safe.”

Mikaila sniffled again, her eyes still trained on her hands.  The gloves were new.  A darker blue than her old pair.

“And,” Addilyn continued, sensing a rebuttal building upon the little wright’s lips, “I would never dare say that he’d have done anything differently had it been a lad at his side that night, rather than his beloved daughter.  He’d have told that boy to run to find help, to find the guard, to get home.  Just as he did you.”

It was then that a stray tear finally spilled over Mikaila’s lashes, and her hands began to shake.  Addilyn did not hesitate to pull the girl toward her in a tight embrace.

“It wasn’t your fault, Miki,” Addilyn said gently, but with an edge that brokered no argument.  “You scared off a horde of Crescians all on your own.  And you fought your way back to us.  You are strong and bright and so very brave.”

Addilyn pulled back slightly, a small half-smile upon her lips as she brushed the stray tears from Mikaila’s cheeks.  Mikaila met her gaze with a watery smile of her own.

“Never doubt that you did more than most lads older than yourself would have managed,” Addilyn continued.  “You sitting here right now is proof that you did more than enough.”

Mikaila sniffled again, nodding stiffly as she buried her face in Addilyn’s tunic, her voice muffled as she simply said, “Thank you, Addie.”

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt!

No. 11: SEEING DOUBLE

Convenience Store | Loneliness | “Leave no trace behind, like you don’t even exist.” (Taylor Swift, Illicit Affairs)

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Looking up at the night sky, Saya tried to find something familiar in the stars.  In their patterns, their alignments—hell, even in the twinkling gleam that so taunted her from the surface of this strange planet.

But there was nothing.  She double and triple checked the constellation maps she always kept on hand, looked through numerous systems and their suns and moons, and yet she could not find a single thing to indicate that this was the same sky she had grown up learning to navigate.

She sighed heavily, sitting against a tall, sturdy tree on the edge of a clearing.  At least this felt familiar.  Many a night was spent on watch leaning against a tree just like this one, her squad fast asleep and oblivious to the world around them.  All because they trusted her to keep them safe, to do her duty should someone come upon them as they dozed beneath a moonlit sky.

Saya’s throat burned with the threat of impending tears, and she could only sniffle loudly as she shut her eyes tightly, willing the tears to recede.

“Are you all right, Guardian?”

The kind, tinny voice of the droid—no, Ghost, he called himself—broke through the silence, and another sigh left her as she did her best to rein in the anger blooming within her chest.

“Stop calling me that,” she snapped, the briefest flicker of guilt clutching at her heart as the small, droid-like creature seemed to flinch back where he hovered in the air before her.  “We’ve been over this.”

“Sorry, Guar—Saya.”  He hovered silently for a moment, a soft whirring noise coming from whatever servos kept him aloft.  His shell shifted a few times, something that Saya had come to associate with the Ghost being deep in thought, until he finally said, “You’re sad.  What can I do to help?”

“Find a way to get me home,” she bit out without hesitation.  There was no point in pretending there was anything else on her mind.  “I need to get home to my clan.”

He was quiet for a beat, his shell shifting a few more times.  “You know that’s beyond my capabilities, Saya.”

“You claim to be able to raise the dead,” Saya said with no small amount of scorn, “and yet a bit of interstellar travel is beyond you.  What good are you to me, then?”

The Ghost did flinch back at that, his single glowing eye downcast as his shell seemed to actually sag.  Saya immediately wished she could take it back.

“I’m sorry, ad’ika.  I didn’t mean—”

“You miss your family,” he said suddenly, though his eye still seemed to be pointed toward the ground, casting a faint blue glow on the grass laden earth.  “You’re worried about them.”

She swallowed thickly, her voice hoarse as she said, “Yes.”

He seemed to nod in understanding.  If bobbing in the air indicated such a motion.  “I can’t get you back to them—at least, not right now.  Not on my own.  But…” He trailed off, as if considering his words.  Then he looked up at her, his voice gentle and sure.  “I’m here for you, Saya.  No matter where you go or whatever happens, I’m here for you.”

Saya felt her lips quirk upwards, her eyes stinging with the burn of fresh tears.  She was grateful for her buy’ce in that moment, hiding her expression from her little companion. 

“And I’m glad for that, ad’ika," she said, reaching out to pull the Ghost to her chest. He trilled softly, as if happy for the embrace, and Saya realized that she needed the contact more than she had known. "Truly.”

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt!

No. 10: BLOW TO THE HEAD

Slurred Words | Passing Out from Pain | “I can’t think straight.”

Don't read this one <3

**********

Addilyn tried to bite back the scream.  She focused on a point across the street—a faded advertisement for Farold’s pasted up on the side of a building.  It was ripped and peeling, with the simple word PISSMOPS written across it in a hasty hand—

She bucked against the sudden pressure applied to her middle, accidentally biting her tongue as she fought to contain the pained yelp that sat at the back of her throat.  Though the yelp might have been better than the pathetic, broken cry that escaped her instead.

“I’m sorry,” Lemuel said, his voice hard.  Focused.  But she could hear the ragged edge in each word.  “I called for a healer.  We just need to slow the bleeding until he gets here, all right?”

He shifted his weight slightly and a piercing pain shot through her abdomen, causing an abrupt white flash to engulf her vision.  She didn’t even get to scream that time.

It wasn’t until Addilyn felt a less than gentle slap at her cheek that she realized she must have blacked out.  And, even then, her line of sight had grown frighteningly narrow.

“Hey,” Lemuel snapped, all of the authority of an officer in that single word.  “Stay with me, Theron.  You’re not off duty yet.  Not even with a hole in your gut.  Eyes up.”

A weak laugh escaped her—which she instantly regretted, her hand clutching at the fabric of his sleeve as she struggled to keep the encroaching abyss at bay—and managed to croak, “Sorry, sir.  Won’t happen again.”

Lemuel looked over his shoulder, the movement causing her to whimper.  Absently, she realized his cape was missing.  Glancing down between them, she saw that he had ripped it off to stem the considerable flow of blood from her abdomen.

Damn, Addilyn thought dully.  There’ll be no getting that stain out.

“Where are they?” Lemuel called out to someone she couldn’t see.

“They should be on their way, sir,” a man answered.  Probably someone on the patrol.  She didn’t recognize the voice, though she didn’t really try to recall its owner.  “We sent up the signal.”

“Send up another,” Lemuel said, no small amount of frustration present in the order.  He turned his attention back to her, wincing slightly as he looked her over.  She tried not to read too much into the way his brow furrowed in obvious concern.  “Just a bit longer, Theron.  Keep your eyes on the streets.”

Addilyn felt him apply more pressure, the sickening squelch of wet cloth reaching her ears just as her vision faded once more, coupled with an overwhelming nausea that had her gagging violently.  The spasm was enough to leave her gasping as she struggled to stay conscious.

She tried not to notice the coppery tang of blood coating her tongue.

“Easy.”  Lemuel reached up to brush a lock of hair from her face.  The cool metal of his gauntlets against her clammy skin teased the ghost of a smile from her lips.  “Just a bit longer.”

They’re not coming, she thought.  How she wanted to say the words to him, to warn him.  Prepare him.  The Lions would never pass up an opportunity to rid themselves of Addilyn Theron, not when the blame could easily be shuffled off onto Gefendur miscreants.

But, try as she might, the words never came, so focused was she on fighting against the inky blackness clawing at the edges of her vision.  The pain was constant, unbearable.  As if the blade that had run her through was still lodged in her gut, twisting and cutting and slicing at her innards.  Though she doubted the constant pressure Lemuel applied to the area helped much.  Had she the strength, she might have even tried to push him off of her, if only for a moment’s reprieve from the agony scuttling beneath her flesh.

“Anything?” Lemuel called out, though his eyes didn’t leave her.

“Nothing yet, sir.”

“Goddamnit,” he muttered softly.  She could see the desperation beginning to creep into his golden gaze.  And perhaps just the hint of a dawning realization.  One that he clearly did not want to consider.  “Send someone to the temple.  Bring back one of their healers.”

“But, sir—”

“That’s an order,” he snarled, leaving no room for argument.

He pressed just a bit harder on her stomach, leaching the last of the self-control from her body.  She cried out, loud and uninhibited as a broken sob wrenched itself from her throat.  The hand clutching at his sleeve grew weak, her fingers uselessly numb as she finally lost her futile battle with the looming darkness.

And it was the anguished cry of her name that followed her as she at last fell into the rapacious void.

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt!

No. 9: OBSESSION

Broken Window | Bruises | “Frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble.” (Fall Out Boy, Irresistible)

**********

“You truly have the most charming smile,” said Zaresh, a charming smile of his own curling at the corners of his mouth.

The girl giggled prettily, a faint blush coloring her pale cheeks.  “Must you say that every time you come by my stall?”

“And deprive myself of that delightfully musical laugh of yours?”  He leaned forward over the stall’s display, gaze intent upon her.  Her rounded, human ears grew pink in embarrassment—yet she did not move to step back from him.  Zaresh only just managed to keep his smile on the right side of civil.  “Perhaps you’re a crueler woman than I had assumed.”

“So dramatic,” she said, though her eyes twinkled with mirth.  A dull hazel color, more honey gold than deep green.  A twinge of annoyance flickered in his chest.  “And such a charmer, at that.  How often does that line work?”

Zaresh shrugged, a practiced cavalier veneer falling over his features.  “Often enough.  Though never used with such candor, my dear.”

“Is that so?” she teased, smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle in her apron.  A lock of her hair fell over her forehead—a bright, coppery red.  Not the deep burgundy he so cherished.  He felt a muscle in his jaw twitch.  “Quite the ladykiller, aren’t you?”

A deep, throaty chuckle escaped him.  The first genuine thing to leave his mouth.  “Oh, you’ve no idea, darling.”

“And does this ladykiller have a name?”  She crossed her arms over her chest, a smirk painted upon her soft lips.  Her brow was raised, as if expectant, though undercutting a genuine want.

And Zaresh knew he had her.

He extended a gloved hand to her, the fine, black leather creaking slightly with the movement.  “Zaresh,” he said.  “A pleasure.”

She hesitated for a beat, watching him, her eyes piercing.  For but a moment, Zaresh thought he might have overdone it.  That he had pushed too hard too fast.  But then she extended her hand toward him, any lingering uncertainty vanishing into the beckoning twilight.

“Amalié,” she said.  He took her hand within his own, bringing her knuckles to his lips in a long rehearsed gesture of gallantry.

And, like all the rest, he heard the soft intake of breath as he kissed the back of her hand.  A familiar thrill rushed through his veins, and he was unable to smother the wolfish grin that began to take shape.

“Lovely,” he purred, releasing her hand after gently caressing the feverish skin with his thumb.  A visible shiver shot up her spine, and Zaresh thought of how easily she could be made to come undone.

Ah, yes.  She would do.  She was no Vaela, not by any stretch.  Pale as a ghost with hair the color of a flickering flame—to compare her to his most precious trinket would be an insult to his carefully curated collection.

But she would do.  For now.

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt!

No. 8: SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Isolation Chamber | Forced to Stay Awake | “Leave the lights on.” (Coldplay, Midnight)

**********

Vaela sat at the edge of their little camp, her knees drawn up to her chest as she stared out into the inky darkness.  The dying embers of the campfire glowed a pale orange, casting eerie shadows upon the cavern walls as she kept watch.  Riven had offered to take first watch, Vaela’s haggard appearance eliciting no small amount of pity—but Vaela had waved it off with a weak smile and a solemn promise to wake her friend for the next shift.

But that time had come and gone, and Vaela couldn’t bring herself to move from that spot, her fingers tightly curled around the ornately carved wood of her bow.

She ground her teeth until her jaw ached, the pain shooting up into her temples and making her wince.  Gods, fuck the Underdark.  And everything in it.

She had known that this little trip would be hard—hells, she’d been dreading it from the moment this insane plan had been hatched—but now she was beginning to wonder if she hadn’t made an enormous mistake.  Zaresh was barely in the ground a week, and already she was being dragged into the very abyss that had birthed him.

And all to find the bastard’s father.

Angry tears burned at the corners of her eyes, undercut only by the terror that ran rampant through her veins.  The mere idea of facing the man that brought that monster into the world made her chest tighten to the point of breathlessness.  Erosen claimed he was the reason he and Riven were able to escape the drow city of Cicecta, but Vaela had her doubts.  Zaresh had never done anything out of the kindness of his heart.  Everything had an ulterior motive.  Why should his father be any different?

Vaela dug the fingers of her free hand into her forearm, only just barely holding back the tears that begged to be released.  She just wanted to get out of here.  She just wanted to go home.

A sudden weight upon her shoulder nearly ripped a scream from her lips, muscle memory taking hold as she moved to draw her bow—

Only to be met with the steady, soothing gaze of Erosen.  Even in the dying light, she could see the sympathetic frown that pulled at his lips.

“When did you sleep last?” he asked softly and without preamble.

Vaela shrugged, averting her eyes.  “I’m fine,” she lied.

Erosen said nothing, staring at her silently for a beat before he came to sit beside her.  “Would you be opposed to some company?”

She kept her eyes averted, ashamed of the tears that spilled down her cheeks.  She shrugged again.

A thick silence fell over them, broken only by the shifting of a rock or the distant cry of an unknown creature.

“You need not shoulder this burden alone,” he said after a moment, his tone gentle.  Understanding.  “Remember that.”

Vaela simply rested her chin upon her knees, her gaze steady on the dark cavern before them as she sniffled softly.  She offered him no reply—and yet still Erosen sat quietly by her side for the rest of the night, steadfast in his vigil.

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt!

No. 7: ONLY FOR EMERGENCIES

Unconventional Weapon | Magic with a Cost | “It’s us or them.”

**********

Bright spots flashed in Saya’s vision as she fell to her knees, her lungs seizing in her chest from the force of the blow.  Nausea immediately curdled within the depths of her stomach, the acidic tang of bile burning at the back of her throat as she fought the urge to vomit.  That she hadn’t been immediately paralyzed was a good sign, but the tips of her fingers were numb, and the spot at the back of her neck where the trooper had smashed the butt of his rifle was screaming in agony.

Not good, she thought dully, trying to force herself to her feet—but she didn’t get far before someone shoved her forward.  She lost what little sense of balance she had and wound up face first in the snow, the cold quickly seeping into the fabric of her kute as she tried to push herself upright.

But the scout trooper was already there, a boot planted on her back to keep her in place.

“Where are they?” he snapped.  Saya heard the faint whine of a blaster rifle being prepped to fire.  If it didn’t feel as if her skull was being bashed open from the inside with a sharp rock, she might have laughed.

“Utreekov,” Saya muttered, the word slurring slightly on her tongue.  She fought to find the words in Basic, but her brain simply wouldn’t supply them, as muddled as it was.  “Usen'ye.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Mando.”  He applied more pressure to her back, forcing a slight wheeze out of her.  Beskar’gam was good for many things, but having its considerable weight pressed into your spine was not among them.  “Where’s the rest of your patrol?”

This time Saya did laugh, a sad and pathetic sound that could have been mistaken for a hiccup.  Ayala had warned her about covering up her tracks when scouting the area, especially on a day like today.  The wintery gales had worked to their advantage so far, scrambling Imperial sensors and comms, leaving them blind in near white-out conditions.  

But they had an added bonus, as well.  

The near constant snowfall meant that any tracks left by scouts were gone in mere hours, sometimes even minutes, depending on the conditions.  Ayala had always been careful to plan their patrols around the weather whenever it was feasible, ensuring that any tracks left by their verde were wiped away long before any Imperial troopers could catch sight of them.

But things had grown desperate as the siege wore on, and they couldn’t wait for another storm to come around to run the necessary recon for the next push.

And so today had been still and clear, the ground covered in a pristine white coating of undisturbed snow.  And Saya had fucked up.

She had thought her section of the forest clear, having scoured every inch of it for signs of an Imperial presence.  She had thought it safe to head back, giving no thought to the tracks she left in the snow.

She had not stopped to think that maybe she herself was being tracked.

The weight at her back lifted, giving her but a brief moment to breathe uninhibited before she was hauled up to her knees, the world spinning violently on its axis with the sudden change in perspective

And just as she had started to reorient herself, the barest assessment of her situation forming at the edges of her mind, her buy’ce was ripped from her head.

“I won’t ask again,” the scout trooper snarled, pressing the muzzle of his blaster rifle to the back of her head.  “Where. Are. They.”

The piercing ache at the base of her skull faded to a dull throb as a white hot anger surged within her, all sense of reason fleeing the moment he dared to lay his aruetii hands on her sacred armor.

And so Saya didn’t think twice as she spun around, quick as a whip as she grabbed for the barrel of his blaster rifle and pressed the muzzle to her armored sternum.  In his shock, the scout trooper pulled the trigger, the recoil causing him to stumble backward and onto his backside in the snow.

Saya only just barely managed to keep herself upright, the force of the blast nearly laying her out on her back.  But, worse than that, her ears rang with a violent intensity, leaving her near deaf as she fought to get her bearings.  She hadn’t fired a blaster without her buy’ce in years, and she had forgotten how loud the sound was when not filtered through her armor’s audio system.  A fierce dizzy spell took hold once more, her equilibrium well and truly fucked as she scrambled to pull herself up onto all fours.

She nearly fell over as she attempted to push herself to her feet, the earth seeming to tilt and teeter beneath her with increasing intensity.  The scout trooper was still sprawled on his back, his shoulder armor cracked and splintered where the butt of the blaster rifle had shot back with the force of the recoil—but he still had a firm grip on the weapon itself.

Staggering forward, Saya caught sight of a smudge of green out of the corner of her eye—her helmet, discarded and forgotten by her captor.

She grabbed for it, moving to place it back over her head.  To fully ensconce herself within the safety and security of her beskar’gam.  

But then the scout trooper stirred, trying and failing to aim his blaster rifle once more as he struggled with an undoubtedly dislocated shoulder.  The sight made her pause in her movements, her grip upon her buy’ce tightening—and something dark sparked to life within her.

With the ferocity of a hungry strill, she leapt upon him, pinning the hand still holding the blaster to the ground with her knee, and brought her helmet up and over her head.  It was then that the ringing in her ears began to quieten, the muffled sounds of the world around her trickling back into her awareness.

Along with the desperate pleas from the scout trooper beneath her.

"Wait!" His voice was muted, as if shouted from under a thick quilt—though the panic in that single word was as clear as the blue sky looming over them. "Please, wait—!"

And yet all she could do was smile as she brought her pure beskar helmet down upon the trooper’s head, bashing at the plasteel armor of his own helmet again and again.

And again.

And again.

Until the desperate pleas faded into a thick silence, and the pristine sheet of snow beneath her was stained a deep crimson.

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt! Requested by @editoress!

No. 6: NOT REALISING THEY’RE INJURED

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong | “It’s not my blood.” for Zack

This is probably the most self-indulgent thing I've written so far. A very specific AU in which the Jenova cells took root in Zack, and a Sephiroth who knows what is to come decides to get a jump on things.

**********

He could feel it inside him.  Squirming, pushing, prodding—driving him forward.  Through the Wasteland.  To Midgar.  To the church.

To Aerith.

He stumbled through the streets of the Sector 5 slums, kicking up dust and dirt with each shuffling step, his body moving of its own accord.  This is wrong, he thought, even as the church steeple came into view, even as an end to his torment seemed to be within reach.

But still it pulsed within him, pulling at his limbs with the precision of a master puppeteer.  It whispered to him at times, the words nonsensical, but its tone soothing.  Alluring.  There was a promise of freedom somewhere in its sweet nothings, the chains that bound him to Shinra’s might rusted and brittle with this newfound power coursing through his veins.

And yet still he resisted, tugging at the strings that drove him ever forward, wrestling for control over his own body.

A pain like a dagger piercing flesh lanced through his skull as he yanked at those strings, causing him to cry out.  He nearly fell to his knees, his already hazy vision going white—but it wouldn’t allow him even a moment’s reprieve, locking his limbs in place to keep him from tumbling face first into the dirt.

This is wrong, he thought again.  The burst of white dulled to black spots that danced before his eyes, but even then he could see the droplets of blood that had soaked into the ground beneath his feet, the crimson streaks that lined his bare arms.

Huh.  It was the only word to break through the fog engulfing his mind.  Had he fought something on his way into the city?  Had a monster taken him for easy prey?  His memories were a muddled mass of snapshots, and to try to parse them only made that dull ache in his head flare to a searing agony

It wasn’t until he stood before the church doors, his hands pressed against its sturdy wooden surface, that a sudden clarity overtook him.  The shroud that had so encased him lifted, and as he stumbled through the doorway and over the threshold, found himself staring at the one person he had so yearned to see again.

“Zack?”  Aerith came to her feet with a start, her bright green eyes wide in disbelief.  The front of her dress was smeared with light brown stains.  Dirt, from her garden.  The flowers always did love her so.  “Zack, is that you?”

His eyes came into focus, gaze intent on her dress.  On the jacket she wore.  On the ribbon in her hair.  Pink, he thought.  Just like she promised.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, his voice weak, though with a forced note of levity.  He lurched forward, leaning heavily against one of the empty pews.  “Guess I got tied up at the office.”

Aerith ran toward him, her arms shooting out to catch him before he could topple over onto the hard stone floor.  Funny, he didn’t feel this unsteady before.

“Are you all right?”  Her voice was even, composed, though he could hear the tinge of panic beginning to color each word.  She was always so calm, so brave.  Even when the worst came barreling through her front door.  One of her hands fell away from him, and he watched as she stared at it.  Watched as her brows shot up in alarm.  “You’re bleeding.”

“Not my blood,” he bit out, swallowing down a coughing fit that threatened to rack his body.  Even as he said it, he realized it was a lie.  He could feel where a bullet had ripped through his abdomen, where a rib had shattered.  Maybe he’d gotten into a fight after all.  “You know how it is, being a First Class SOLDIER and all.”

“Zack,” she tried again, slowly lowering him to the floor.  Her hands were shaking.  “I’ll go get help.  Just stay here—”

“No.”  He grabbed for her wrist, holding her in place as he knelt before her.  “Please, just wait.”

“You’re hurt,” she pleaded, her voice cracking slightly.  He could see the tears welling in her eyes.  A terrible ache that had nothing to do with the blood soaking his uniform tore through his chest.  “You need help.”

“Just—just wait a minute.”  He reached out for her face, his gloved hand cupping the soft flesh of her cheek.  “Just let me say something real quick.”

Her free hand came up to cover his, her gaze fixed on him.  He’d always loved her eyes.  As green as the lush jungle that surrounded his hometown.  A reminder of what he’d left behind for the gray, industrial monstrosity that was Midgar.

Maybe that was why he’d always felt so at home at her side.

“I—”  A pained yelp erupted from his lips, his eyes wrenching shut as he doubled over.  It pulled at him again, wresting back control of the strings it had allowed to go slack.  He had thought it gone, banished to whatever corner of his mind it called home—but now he felt himself slipping away, his vision narrowing as it pulled him under the black abyss that had birthed it.

And that voice—once so strange, yet so comforting and beguiling—was suddenly all too familiar.

Let me take it from here, it said, a rich and deep timbre flooding his mind.  His eyes shot open, a mocking chuckle echoing in his ears.  The briefest flash of slitted, venom-green eyes overtaking him.  You’ve played your part.

“Aerith.”  He forced her name out through gritted teeth, panic like he’d never felt before sparking to life in his gut.  “Aerith, I—”

She leaned over him, tears spilling forth with abandon.  He vaguely noted that he had smeared blood on her cheek when he’d touched her, and a wave of shame washed over him.  

“Zack, what’s wrong?”  Her voice was pitched slightly higher, her hands searching his body for some wound she had missed.  The strings tugging at him pulled taut.

He reached out to her, his body moving of its own accord.

I love you, he thought desperately.

His hand inched toward her. A hair's breadth from the delicate curve of her neck.  The burn of fresh tears stung at his eyes, her angelic features becoming nothing but a faint blur.

I love you.  I love you.

IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou

“Aerith,” he ground out, his vision narrowing to a pinprick.  And Zack Fair felt as the creature within him finally dragged him under.  “Run.”

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt!

No. 5: SUNBURN

Healing Salve | Heatstroke | “If my pain will stretch that far.” (Lottery Winners, Burning House)

This is for me and @editoress and that is all.

**********

“You’re hurt.”

A gruff, familiar voice stopped her dead in her tracks. She cursed softly.  She didn’t have time for this.

“I’m fine,” she bit out and moved to continue on her way up to the cliffs above Malleolus’ villa.  She had to get there before Ulpius jumped.  She had to save someone today.  Already she had failed Iulia, and Fabia lay crushed beneath the stone pillars of a collapsed temple.  Again.  She couldn’t handle another failure, another wasted attempt to set things right.  She couldn’t handle another death.

She felt a hand grab for her forearm, ripping a pained yelp from her lips.

“Apologies,” Horatius said, quickly releasing her, though his eyes remained fixed on the fresh burns marring her skin.  She gently cradled the arm against her torso.  He frowned.  “You must go see Lucretia.  A burn that severe will only fester.”

Nausea gripped at her gut.  If she had to see Iulia’s lifeless body one more time, she might very well cast herself into the chasm. 

“No—!” she snapped, and Horatius flinched slightly at the outburst.  A familiar guilt clawed at her chest.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to—I just have something I need to do.”

She tried to leave again, only to have Horatius block the way.  She stared up at the sky—what she could see of it, at least. The sun had yet to crest the top of the cliffs that trapped them all in this hell.  She still had time—but just barely.

“Please—” she tried again.  Horatius stood firm.

“I’ve seen men live through fearsome, bloody battles, surviving blade and spear and arrow, only to be felled by a fever caused by an untreated wound.”  His gaze softened ever so slightly, the severity of his words giving way to something gentler.  “We’ve lost enough people in this little community.  To lose another—a newcomer, at that—would be a blow that we’d never recover from.”

Her heart splintered at the earnest entreaty, undoubtedly borne of Sentilla’s disappearance.  It weighed heavier on him than she had realized.  But still the sun rose higher, and Ulpius’ demise drew ever nearer.

“You don’t understand, Horatius, I—” She froze, realizing her mistake too late as he stared at her, his eyes wide.

“How do you know my name?” he asked, uncharacteristically bewildered.  He stared at her openly, his brow furrowed.  “Have we met before?”

She winced, his scrutiny nigh unbearable.  “Galerius,” she quickly said.  “He said there was a legionary by the name of Horatius in town.  I just assumed…”

She trailed off, holding her breath—though there was no need.  Horatius immediately relaxed, a look of vague irritation written into the lines of his face.

“Galerius,” Horatius muttered, a note of vexation in his voice, though that was all he said on the matter.  He looked her over with the calculating eye of a soldier, a sigh escaping him as he appeared to come to a decision.  His hand drifted to a small pouch hanging off his belt.  “If you won’t go to Lucretia, at least take this.”

He held out a small object, smaller than even the palm of her own hand.  Tentatively, she reached out to take it with her good hand, studying it closely.  It appeared to be a clay jar of some kind, the cover sitting loosely atop it.  It felt frighteningly fragile in her rather clumsy hands.

Unable to contain her curiosity, she asked, “What is it?”

“My girl—she never did trust the gods with my life.”  A soft, fond chuckle escaped him.  “She gifted me that bit of salve the last time I saw her.  Couldn’t bring myself to tell her that it wouldn’t amount to much if I were to be gutted by a barbarian’s spear.”

“I can’t take this,” she immediately said, but Horatius held up his hands, taking a half a step back from her.

“She’d want it to be put to good use,” he said, a small smile pulling at his lips.  “Not collecting dust in a forgotten pouch on my belt.”

She wanted to argue that it had clearly been far from forgotten, not with how fast he reached for it, but the sun continued to climb, and the minutes continued to slip through her fingers.

“Thank you,” she said simply, gently tucking the jar into the front pocket of her pants as she sidestepped the legionary.  “I gotta go, Horatius.  I’ll see you around, okay?”

She didn’t wait for a response as she took off at a run, her arm throbbing in time with the pounding of her heart.

-----------

"THE MANY SHALL SUFFER FOR THE SINS OF THE ONE."

That terrible, booming voice echoed throughout the small city, signaling the end of yet another failed loop.  Her heart sank as the sky darkened, though she was quickly jolted out of her anguish when the golden statue next to her came to life.

And so she ran.

What had it been this time?  Had it been something she’d done?  Something she hadn’t done?  What had she missed?

Goddamn it.  Goddamn it all.

Tears welled in her eyes as she ran up the stone steps leading to the shrine of Proserpina, all the while ducking golden arrows shot by ghastly golden statues.  The temptation to simply stop, to allow one of those cursed arrows to hit home, was stronger than she wanted to admit.

But she climbed those last few steps to the shrine, leaping over Sentius’ skeletal remains at the entrance as she dove for the portal he had summoned.  Again.

And so she fell through time and space.

Again.

-----------

The shrine was just as she had left it: pristine marble floors and stone pillars, all gleaming in the early morning light.  The sun shone brightly as it rose somewhere beyond the cliffs that encased them within this forgotten little city, casting long shadows along the ground and high, rocky walls.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to stumble down the shrine’s steps, spurning the ever cheerful Galerius and his usual greeting.

She tried to ignore the hurt that flickered across his face as she dismissed him, as much as it pained her to do so.  But she had work to do.  She had people to save.  She had a curse to break.

Her arm continued to throb as she descended the stone steps. She gently prodded at the reddened skin, hissing as it smarted at her touch. If only she’d been more careful.  If only she hadn’t fallen upon that lit brazier.

If only.

If only.

She looked up to see Horatius standing guard outside the magistrate’s villa.  His usual spot at this time on this day.  She could feel the outline of the jar he had given her in her pocket, the delicate little thing somehow having survived a leap through time. A terrible melancholy fell over her as she caressed its rough surface. He had given her something so very precious to him, something that had been gifted to him by someone he clearly loved very much.  Someone he might never see again.

And he didn’t even know that he had.  Not anymore.

His gaze flickered toward her, and, unable to stop herself, offered him a small wave and a smile.  He nodded briefly in acknowledgement, but paused, his eyes fixed on her.

“You’re hurt,” he said, not unkindly.

She froze midstep, staring at him.  His dark eyes were soft, his brow furrowed in concern beneath his helmet.

And then her heart shattered, and she couldn’t help but burst into tears.

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt! Requested by @evecoffn!

No. 4: HALLUCINATIONS

Hypnosis | Sensory Deprivation | “You’re still alive in my head.” (Billy Lockett, More) for Zaresh

**********

Zaresh tried to scream.  He pounded at the door with his small fists, tears streaming down his face as he begged and pleaded for help.  Hoping that someone—anyone—would take pity on him and let him out of that small, dark, utterly soundless room.

And yet there was nothing. No matter how loud he wailed or how hard he cried, no matter how his throat burned with the effort of his empty screams, he was met with a silence so thick it made his ears ache.

The mistress had muttered something before she had shoved him in the room and locked the door, a terrible sneer etched into her fine features.  He hadn't realized what she had done until he began to cry for his father; when his attempts to call out did nothing to break the noiseless veil that had fallen over him.

And then panic set in.

It must have been some kind of spell, he realized.  Something that dampened all sound around him.  No, not dampened—eliminated.  Not even his attempts to bang on the heavy wooden door elicited so much as a soft thump.  As if he had vanished from the world. As if he had never existed at all.

Zaresh was no stranger to darkness.  Cicecta laid deep within the bowels of the Underdark, the drow born of the inky abyss in which it thrived.  But this was different.  So, so different.  He had been locked up in varying rooms and closets before, the candles snuffed out and all faerie fire extinguished, but this—

He started to cry again, his heaving sobs amounting to nothing.  The silence was complete, leaving him imprisoned within what might as well have been his tomb.  Zaresh had heard plenty of stories about hunting parties going missing, only for their remains to be found months later within a caved-in section of a cavern.  

It was also one of the mistress' favorite punishments, to bury people alive in some long forgotten corner of their subterranean home, their pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears as the order to block the entrance was given.

Zaresh only began to cry harder as his mind raced, his throat sore from the strain of his silent wails.  What if she left him in here to die?  Like all of the other houseboys she so loved to torment.  It wouldn't be the first time she did away with one for her own amusement.

Nausea curdled within the depths of his belly, his legs trembling violently as he at last fell to his knees before the immovable door.  His head swam, a terrible dizziness overcoming him as he fought for air.  His lungs heaved desperately, and yet it wasn't enough to chase away the clawing tightness engulfing his chest.  He curled up on the cold, dirty floor of the small, long forgotten room, a frightening numbness seeping into his fingers.

Father would come looking for him, right?  He'd realize that his son was missing.  Of course he would.  He was ever-present at the mistress' side, his scarlet gaze always alert and watching.  He'd notice that Zaresh was not among the servants running about the halls, that he had yet to see a single pair of ice-blue eyes among a sea of crimson irises. He had to.

Father, Zaresh pleaded silently, a hiccup he felt, but could not hear, wracking his body.  I'll never anger the mistress again.  Never ever again.  I swear it.  Please, father.  Just come find me.  Please.

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep until the room was abruptly flooded with light, jolting him awake.  He squinted against the sudden brightness as he scrambled to his feet, rushing forward.  His eyes were bleary and puffy, and his head throbbed fiercely—but he pushed his way through the doorway and over the threshold, and was rewarded with an onslaught of noise.

A kobold hissed loudly as Zaresh barreled into it, the small, reptilian creature hitting the stone floor with a faint thud.  The telltale sound of his bare feet slapping against the floor.  The ragged sound of his desperate breathing.  The rapid, panicked beating of his own heart.

The relief of it all was so overwhelming, he almost burst into a fresh round of tears.

Zaresh pushed himself upright, his bright blue eyes scanning the dimly lit hallway—hoping, praying to see a tall, familiar figure.  Desperate to know that he hadn’t been forgotten.  That he hadn’t been left to die a silent death amongst the roaches and rats.

But, other than the agitated kobold growling softly to himself, Zaresh was completely and utterly alone.

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt!

No. 3: SET UP FOR FAILURE

Fingerprints | Wrongfully Arrested | "I warned you.”

**********

“You tricked me,” Cassandra spat, glaring up at the hooded figure that loomed over her.  Blood oozed from a gash on her forehead and it hurt to breathe, but even still her fury surged.  “You said the path was clear.”

“Ah,” the Dungeon Master said, that single word practically dripping with derision.  She fought the urge to scream.  “I warned you, my dear.  The path was cleared, yes.  But that was some time ago.  Possibly years, if I am to be honest.”  He paused, his grin a slash of white within the impenetrable darkness of his hood.  “Did I not mention that?”

She threw a dagger at him, though he snatched the weapon out of the air with ease.  He could have stopped it with a flick of his wrist, a twitch of a finger—but instead he held it within his hand, his grin still firmly in place.

Show off.

“Fucking bastard,” she snarled, wiping at the blood that continued to trail down the side of her face.  She bit back the hiss that nearly erupted from her lips as the wound smarted, refusing to give him the satisfaction.  “It was a fucking owlbear nest.”

That grin morphed into something snide as he toyed with the dagger.  “How strange,” he mused.  “It was a basilisk nest when last I checked.  How fickle these creatures can be.”

Rage coiled like a viper in her gut, her cheeks flush with an overwhelming shame.  Even after all this time, after all of these years of dancing to the pull of the strings of fate that bound them, he still utterly delighted in her pain and misery.

Traitorous tears welled in her eyes as she closed the distance between them, snatching her dagger from his hands and storming past him without so much as a hitch in her stride.  He remained where he stood, silent and unmoving, though she could feel the weight of his ice-blue gaze upon her back as she headed back toward the main road.

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt! Requested by @editoress!

No. 2: TRUST ISSUES

Amusement Park | Role Reversal | “You got away with the crime while the knife’s in my back.” (Charlotte Sands, Rollercoaster) for Vaela

This one's a bit of a treat for myself and my fellow members of Last Resort Movers Inc.: an AU in which Damak did not kill Zaresh, and our beloved nastyman was locked away, as Erosen had wished.

**********

The guards knew her at a glance, stepping aside to let her through with naught but a polite nod in greeting.  It had unnerved her at first, the recognition their exploits had earned them throughout Aeranth, but this was one area in which she’d quickly learned to be grateful for her tiny slice of notoriety.

Vaela offered them a small smile in thanks as the heavy door creaked open, stepping over the threshold and into the dark cell block.  The sun sat high in a cloudless sky outside these walls, and yet she’d never know it from the sparse light that trickled in through the barred windows.  Even now, the murky gloom made her skin prickle with unease as she walked the deserted halls, the scars at her wrists itching beneath the gloves adorning her hands—but she’d made this trek a dozen times over at this point, and found the sensation easier and easier to ignore with each visit.

There was another guard posted outside his cell, a dark haired half-elf with severe features.  He stood at attention as she approached, nodding as the others had in greeting, before making himself scarce.  Yet another perk of the life she had led these last few months.  For all of his faults, Delethil never denied her this, even in the face of Erosen’s pleas to put a stop to her near daily forays into the prison.

“Whatever you like, lass,” Delethil had said, his boots propped up on his desk, bits of dirt crumbling onto the requisition forms scattered across its surface.  “Just don’t make too big a mess of him, aye?”

As the guard’s footsteps faded to a dull echo, she heard a deep, all too familiar chuckle from within the cell.  Despite herself, she flinched at the sound.

“Darling Vaela,” Zaresh purred, standing from where he had been sitting against the far wall.  The rattle of chains accompanied the movement, and a near overwhelming sense of relief flooded her at the sound.  A part of her remained convinced that, one day, she would approach this cell only to see those chains discarded at his feet.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just making sure that you’re where I left you,” she said, her arms folded tightly over her chest.  It was the only way she could keep herself from rubbing at her aching wrists.  “Unwanted things have a nasty habit of disappearing around here.”

“Ah, you honor me.”  His grin was knife-sharp, even after months of captivity.  It was strange to see him without the circlet, his dark elf features on full display.  The white ink of his tattoo stood out starkly upon his violet-hued skin, his ice-blue eyes bright and imperious.  “To think Aeranth’s mighty huntress still holds me in such regard after all this time.”

Vaela bristled.  “It does a girl good to see your ass where it belongs, that’s all.”

Zaresh hummed, a spark of amusement alighting in his eyes.  “Afraid I might appear at the foot of your bed in the dead of night?”

“More worried that one of the guards might get bored and decorate the walls with your innards,” she said, forcing a note of nonchalance into her voice.  “They’re no strangers to a bit of recreational bloodletting around here.”

His grin did not falter, and he moved to approach the cell door.  The chains at his wrists only allowed so much slack, forcing him to stop two strides from the bars.  “And what about you, little moth?” he asked, his gaze intent on her as he clasped his hands behind his back.  She fought the urge to flinch at the old pet name.  “You’ve become no stranger to blood and death, from what I’ve heard.  A far cry from the naive little elf girl I met in the market.”

There was a time when she would have stumbled back and away from the bars as he approached, her eyes averted to the ground, unable to meet his stare—but she remained where she stood, her gaze locked with his.  At this proximity, she could see how his features had sharpened, his cheekbones just a touch more pronounced, and his once silky, snow-white hair laid dull and limp upon his shoulders.

An ugly, dark satisfaction sparked to life in her gut, and a cruel smile of her own pulled at the corner of her lips.

“It seems like we’ve both become rather unrecognizable in that regard, haven’t we?” she replied, and his haughty expression flickered ever so slightly.  Her smile widened.  “Funny how life works sometimes.”

His eyes darkened, and that wolfish grin vanished.  “You’ll always belong to me, Vaela,” he said, his voice low.  Possessive.  A warning—one she had grown intimately familiar with.  “No matter the titles you earn or the feats you accomplish, you will always be my most precious little bauble.”

Vaela’s smile did not even flicker, and she let out a sharp, piercing whistle.  As if on cue, the distant echo of approaching footsteps sounded, announcing the return of the guard.  

“Weird,” she said, turning to leave, her back to the man who had once been the source of her every nightmare, “sure seems like the shoe is on the other foot now.”

And without so much as a backward glance, she took her leave, passing the guard with naught but a polite nod of thanks on her way to the entrance.

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt! Requested by @editoress!

No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK

Search Party | Panic Attack | “If only we could hold on.” (Icysami x Renegaderr, Strangers.) for the brothers Adelier

**********

Smoke billowed high in the starless night sky, the roar of the flames muffled only by the screaming rats that infested the Court.  They scattered, pleading for mercy as he pushed through the throng, only to be run through by his gore soaked blade in reply.

Words had long since failed him, his voice hoarse from the thick, pungent smoke and his grief-stricken cries.  He had tried calling out to her, silencing the rabble with a swift swing of his sword when they drowned him out—but only the hungry crackle of a raging fire and endless bawling answered.

Mikaila.  Her name rang out in Lemuel’s mind like a bell repeatedly struck, loud and constant and inescapable.  She was gone.  Gone.  No—stolen.  Vanished into the night like footprints in a snowdrift, locked away for the sins of his hubris.

A man fell to his knees before Lemuel, his dark hair streaked through with gray and his eyes alight with terror.  He opened his mouth as if to speak—or maybe scream or beg or cry—but only blood surged forth as Kossaul buried itself deep within his chest.

Mikaila.  The bell tolled once more as the man slumped to the ground, his death rattle lost to the distant sound of a building’s collapse.  Mikaila.

“What more must you take from me?”  Duane hissed, his voice undercutting the anguished mantra.  “Was my life not payment enough?”

“I’ll find her,” Lemuel said, his voice low and rough.  He scanned the groups of stragglers that continued to fight the flames, their faces blurred by the unending flow of tears.  One of them moved to strike him, a plank of still burning wood in hand—but he hardly made it three steps before Lemuel slashed at his throat.  Hot, viscous fluid splattered on the ground, mixing with half-melted snow and staining it a deep crimson.  

Lemuel kicked the man to the side, his body hitting the dirt with a muted thud, and continued his rampage through the streets.

“She wasn’t supposed to be there,” Duane said, the words drowning out the wail of a child from a pile of smoldering rubble.  “She should have been safe at home with Leysa and Simon, tucked away from the cold and the snow as guests began to trickle through the door.”

“I’ll find her,” Lemuel said again, insistent.  Desperate.  The dark, smoke filled sky glowed a dull orange, casting the slums in a hazy light.  Shadows grew longer and darker and loomed with menacing intent, as if they too sought his niece.  “I’ll find her.”

“But you had to see her,” Duane continued, the words sharp and accusing.  “You had to see her just one last time, damning her along with me.”

“Shut up,” Lemuel snapped, his voice cracking as his eyes burned with fresh tears.  The flesh of his cheeks stung as a cold gust of wind blew through the alleyways, drying the tears as they fell.

“The spare finally given his chance at worth,” Duane spat, “only to squander it like an untried youth in a whorehouse.”

“Mikaila!” Lemuel called out, wiping at his face with his sleeve.  The bright green fabric came away smeared with scarlet streaks.

“All you had to do was die,” his brother taunted.  Lemuel pushed onward, blind to the slaughter happening around him.  In the flames of a burning home, Lemuel swore he saw the billowing robes of a Ssaelit priest.  

“And yet, even in that simple task,” Duane sneered, unrelenting in his scorn as Lemuel tore through the residents of the Court, “you were still found to be lacking.”

[miitgaanar]

Requested by @sycamorre!! Sorry to answer this prompt with something that will make no sense at all to you lmao

Send me a number and I’ll write a micro story using the word or phrase

This is actually @duperderedere's fault. Since she basically dared me to write something like this. This is based on this ask here, and is entirely just me trying to shake this brain worm out of my skull. I don't promise any grand literature here.

And also this is an excuse to fill another micro-story prompt that has been festering in my inbox lmao

21. collapse

The blackness was eternal. All consuming. Suffocating. His lungs burned for air, but the muscles lay paralyzed within his chest. Raw gasps that brought no relief. Drowning without end, death's grasping claws forever out of reach. Ssael, he thought. A single spark of lucidity in the sprawling dark. A desperate cry into the abyss. Where is He?

--------------------- "What have you done to me?" The voice was entirely unfamiliar, a growling rasp that grated like nails upon slate—though it was his words that were carried into the dense quiet, his thoughts given life on the tongue of a slavering beast. A deep anger bloomed within Lemuel Adelier; an anger fueled by despair. "I see you've yet to retain a single thought set before you, Captain," the Black Tongue sighed. "How tragic." "The khert," Lemuel moaned, a pathetic sound even to his own ears. The chains that bound him rattled with his every movement. "You said—you said I would fall into the khert. That I could find God." "He's a fickle little whore, isn't he?" The Black Tongue did not look up from his desk, his back to Lemuel. "Perhaps the price paid wasn't quite enough to garner his interest." “You—”  A drawn out rasp. The sound of whetstone upon blunted blade. “Prokul Ilganyag.  Diwf.  Difhut—!” “Yes, yes.” The Black Tongue did not so much as spare him a glance. Lemuel’s jaw ached with the desire to rip the man’s pale throat open with his teeth.  “A colorful repertoire of damnation spills forth from your lips with little hesitation.  How tiresome this dance becomes after the first few waltzes.  The hazards of involving a soldier in the loftier pursuits of a scholar.” “The khert calls to me,” Lemuel said, the words a hoarse whisper, leaping forth unbidden.  “I feel it pulling—tearing, ripping, clawing.  God calls me to his side and you keep me here.” “Feel free to heed his call.  I’d gladly relinquish you to his embrace if it would grant me an hour of peace.  Do ask if he has any First Materials he can spare.” “RELEASE ME!” Lemuel roared, springing to his feet.  The chains grew taut as he strained against them.  They groaned in protest, though held fast, the manacles digging into pallid flesh that could no longer feel pain.  How Lemuel yearned for pain.  For anything that could ground him, that could distract from the gnawing hunger in his gut.  “I need to find Him!  He needs to answer for—for…” A sob built up within his chest, though it was a pressure for which he could find no relief.  Tears sat curdled behind his eyes, and each gasping breath did little to palliate the grief and anguish that so filled his very soul. Damned, he thought.  I am damned.  The khert remained beyond his reach, and Ssael safely ensconced within.  Laughing.  Jeering.  All because the little Soud had dared to seek a mightier purpose than the one his caste had dictated. Lemuel collapsed, his knees hitting the floor with a loud thud that seemed to echo through the small space.  Were it not for the barest hint of a jolt through his death-ravaged body, he would not have even noticed. Damned, he thought again.  The Black Tongue finally deigned to turn toward him, a sneer pulling at his pale lips.  His black gaze cold and remorseless.  I am damned.

[miitgaanar]

@niru13 asked: for the micro story: 21

Send me a number and I’ll write a micro story using the word or phrase

21. collapse

The underground bunker was colder than it should have been.  Even with snow piled high on the planet's surface and wintry gales howling through gray and leafless trees, they'd always been equipped to fight back the chill.

But they'd never had to contend with a full-scale Imperial invasion before.

Vys'kydir stalked through the halls, resisting the urge to flex his fingers to work some feeling back into the painfully numb digits.  Their armor was meant to regulate temperature, but only to a point, and never for such a prolonged period.  To do so ran the risk of compromising much more pertinent functions—like targeting systems and comms.

And, right now, he was sure they'd all prefer to suffer the painful ache of winter's ruthless grasp than be caught alone and defenseless before a squad of Stormtroopers.

A soft grunt escaped him, crushing the ever simmering frustration beneath his heel as he approached the makeshift command center.  She didn't need to see him like this.  Not now.

The soft blue glow of a holomap filled the small space, the smooth stone walls almost glistening in the faint light.  Ayala stood at the head of the console, fully ensconced within her midnight blue beskar'gam as she stared at a map of the desolate forest that sat a few dozen feet above their heads.  She was quiet, seemingly lost in thought as she planned the next offensive—though the rigidity in her shoulders and the slight tremor of her lekku gave her away.

His mighty and fierce alor, the future head of Clan Ger'Mana, was crying.

Vys'kydir stood in the doorway, patient.  Awaiting the order for him to enter as his heart silently splintered.  But she remained unaware of his presence, her hands tightening into fists where they laid upon the console's metallic surface.  To intrude now felt akin to insubordination, felt wrong in a way he couldn't put into words, but he forced himself over the threshold, announcing his presence with a cough.

Ayala immediately straightened, her attention snapping toward him.  Even with her buy'ce in place, that T-shaped visor could do little to disguise her dismay.

His heart broke just a little more.

"Ma'am," he said evenly, a respectful nod following the greeting.  "You summoned me?"

She was quiet for a beat, breathing deeply as she drew herself to her full height.  Vys'kydir pretended not to notice how her shoulders still sagged.  "Yes," she said, her voice hoarse.  "I wanted your opinion."

Vys'kydir approached her then, coming to stand at her side as she keyed in a few commands on the console. The holomap shifted, the forest falling away to reveal the high cliffs that laid some twenty klicks from here. A small cluster of glowing red dots appeared at their base, like blood spilled upon fresh snow.

"The Imperials have set up a temporary settlement," she began, the timbre of authority returning to her voice.  "I'd say there's a platoon stationed there, maybe two. But a settlement means supplies, and I can't even pretend to not be tempted by it."

Vys'kydir studied the holomap, his eyes fixed on that scarlet mass at its center.  The winters here were rough, something that Clan Ger'Mana had long since learned to endure with patience and fortitude—but the Imperials hadn't expected them to fight back so fiercely.  They hadn't expected to be fighting on the ground for more than a day or two.

As it stood now, they were up to day nine.

And if there was one thing a fighting army needed, it was supplies—food, water, blankets, ammunition.  Supplies that the Imperials could easily send down to their freezing troops from the Star Destroyer looming overhead.

Supplies that Clan Ger’Mana was running frighteningly short on.

Vys'kydir hummed in acknowledgement after a moment, his head tilted slightly as his gaze shifted to her. "Could be a trap."

"Could very well be," Ayala said sharply, with more than a little contempt.  "But I don't know what else to do.  They've already bombed our generators on the surface, and the ones underground are working far beyond their normal capacity.  They could give out any day now."  A harsh sigh escaped her, and she stooped forward to place her hands atop the console once more.  "We're running out of options, Vys."

A frown pulled at his lips, hidden beneath his own buy'ce.  Despair clouded her words, but more than that, he recognized that catch in her voice for what it was: exhaustion.

“Alor,” he said carefully, “we should send a few scouts to the cliffs before we commit to a raid.  Caed could lead a small squad and gather more intel.”

She shook her head.  “I should be the one to lead it.  I can’t ask any more of him.  Or of you.”

“You can and you should,” he insisted.  “You look fit to drop, and should you collapse mid-assault, I can’t say we’d be any better off against the Imps.  Even if we did manage to snatch a few rations on the way out.”

A thick silence fell over them, one in which Ayala simply stared at the holomap.

“What would you have me do?” She sounded tired. Lost. The confidence and surety he knew so well all but bled from her.

“I would have you rest.” It was almost a relief to say the words, though his chest ached to see her so pained. “Caed can lead a scouting party to the cliffs.  And I'll tell Saya to take inventory.  See exactly how much we might need to make it through another few days.”

Ayala simply nodded, her shoulders slumped.  Defeated.  Vys’kydir reached out to her then, leaning forward to press his helmet to hers.

“K'atinii bal k'edeemi, alor,” he said gruffly, her hand clasped within his.

She returned the gesture, her grip strong and solid.

“K'atinii bal k'edeemi,” she replied softly, desperately.  As if those words were all that were left of her shredded soul.

[miitgaanar]

Requested by @serpenthyne! More indulgences abound!

Send me a number and I’ll write a micro story using the word or phrase

46. shimmer

A light breeze blew through the towering trees of Aeranth, the mighty boughs creaking softly as they shifted with the wind. Vaela breathed deeply, content to feel the cool night air upon her skin as she leaned against the balcony railing. The Arnor manor remained a welcome haven—a second home, at times—even after all of these years. It was the one place she knew she could retreat to when her memories weighed heavily and the scars at her wrists ached. There was no judgment within these walls, only a quiet understanding. "I hope I'm not disturbing you." Vaela turned at the voice, trying to hide the way she startled at the soft, deep timbre. Krelyss stood in the doorway to her room, his hands clasped behind him and his shoulders slightly slumped, as if he wished to make himself smaller. Less threatening. Vaela's heart constricted, knowing too well it was for her benefit. "Not at all," she said, mustering a half smile as she waved him in. "Just doing a bit of stargazing. A city girl like myself never really gets tired of the sight." Krelyss stood motionless for but a heartbeat, seeming to brace himself before he ventured in to join her on the balcony. The moon sat full and bright in the night sky, its light catching on his snow-white hair and causing it to shimmer. Vaela's chest grew tight and her wrists burned, memories of long ivory hair and cruel smiles surging forth—but she managed to smother the images into submission, like a hissing viper beneath her heel. "I see," he said carefully, daring to raise his scarlet gaze skyward. "It is quite a sight to behold. I still can't quite manage to stare for long before I feel as if the earth itself is being ripped out from under me." A more genuine smile pulled at her lips as she watched him. "The Underdark didn't exactly give you many reasons to look up, did it?" A huff of a laugh, and the barest upturn at the corner of his mouth. "That it did not." He paused for a beat. "You seem... happier than when I saw you last. Perhaps a bit solemn, but more at ease." My son's ghost no longer haunts you, his words said, like it still haunts me. "I have my days." Her gaze softened. "As I'm sure we all do." Krelyss simply hummed softly in reply, a heavy sigh escaping him before he turned to face her. An old, repressed grief pulled at his countenance, though he forced a small, gentle smile. Despite everything, Vaela's heart broke for him. "Erosen sent me to fetch you," he said. "It seems Riven's asked us to go for drinks." "Ever the ambassador, our girl," Vaela teased, relieved to see how Krelyss' face brightened. The sorrow that had lined his features vanished, giving way to a muted but profound pride. "Well, we'd best not keep her waiting. Del would never stand for such a slight." An amused chuckle left him, the sound rich and deep, and Krelyss grinned, standing just a bit taller as they made their way off the balcony. "That he would not."

[miitgaanar]

@professorofeljay replied to your post “Requested by @serpenthyne! Thank you for...”:

I am foaming at the mouth, I am FERAL, the energy here, I remember when the Player would have been saying similar things about The Dungeon Master, and now here she is with another foe, and The Dungeon Master is the one comforting her and threatening her foe with a fate worse than death. Chef kiss.

​YET ANOTHER COMMENT I MUST IMMORTALIZE HERE

That you still care enough for this bastard after all this time to read this humble offering is enough to make me weep. I am so glad to see that this man has staying power after all these years. I don't know how or why, but it genuinely warms my heart :')