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kitkat1003 · 3 years ago

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When the Tide pulls away and the Earth Sharpens to Steel

Chapter 2: But He Burns All the Same

HUGE Warning for this chapter -Temporary Suicide -Graphic Depictions of Violence -Blood and Gore Nothing too crazy imo, but still enough cause for an alarm I imagine. Just want y'all to know what you're getting into. Enjoy!

AO3 Link

In the end, very little changes. Tang still continues through the days, as winter turns to spring turns to summer turns to fall. Almost lazily, Bajie and him fall into a routine just a little different, where they no longer have to dance around their feelings. Lingering touches can mean something, can lead to something. Tang can blush and get teased and not be terrified of being found out, of ruining anything.

The days are very much a routine. He goes out to meditate, and comes back to help Bajie cook. He’s not actually much help, considering that of the two, Bajie has far more experience in cooking, but he certainly does try.

Bajie seems to enjoy teaching Tang, regardless of Tang’s missteps. Tang thinks Bajie likes feeling like the smart one for once. Likes seeing Tang fumble around awkwardly.

Bastard.

The other monks notice Tang’s chipper mood, but no one was ever that interested in anything Tang has done or been, unless it’s to admonish his misconduct. So, they leave well enough alone.

All save for one.

Tang is coming back from meditation to see what wonderful concoction Bajie is cooking up for dinner when a hand grabs him by the shoulder. He whips around, startled, and comes face to face with

“Bao,” he grinds out. “Have you taken up stalking?”

“You’ve been a ghost in the monastery for months,” Bao argues. “I just wanted to see what you were up to.”

He steps around Tang and towards the doorway. “Collecting occult objects? Sneaking in meat?”

Tang runs so that he’s back in front of Bao, trying to stop the monk’s advance. His face is bright red, a mix of rage and embarrassment. If Bao finds out about Bajie-well, the whole monastery will. The one thing that brings Tang joy will be thrown into scrutiny, until he can’t enjoy it anymore.

“I wanted some privacy.” It’s not exactly a lie. “And besides, no one liked living near me anyway! Shouldn’t you be happy I’ve found a space far away from the rest of you?”

“Why hide it then?” Bao argues, smiling when Tang cringes away from him. “Clearly, you’re doing something you know is wrong.”

“That-that isn’t-why won’t you leave it?” Tang clenches his fists, voice quieting as he speaks, as if the thoughts turn everything to a hiss. “If you know I’m doing bad things, then why do you care? Everyone already thinks I’m a bad person! What, you just want to satisfy your curiosity?”

His voice has more hurt in it than anger, because he’s spent his entire life knowing his life’s features were segmented into categories. There was the place he lived, the people who lived there, and him. He could never be part of that whole. He’s the outlier, always has been, and he’s learned to live with that.

It still hurt, when he thought about it.

But Bao was a reminder. Bao pushed. Tang could take the neglect, the snide looks, but Bao would talk. Would intrude into the space Tang carved out for himself and himself alone, and prod at Tang’s sore spots until he snapped. And Tang was so tired of that, nowadays, because he finally had someone that made him believe he might not deserve it.

A shadow falls over them and anything Bao was going to say doesn’t come out, silencing into a squeak. Tang watches Bao’s gaze rise up, up, up, before locking onto something.

Bao’s eyes quickly fill with fear.

A very familiar hand rests on Tang’s shoulder, though Tang is surprised to feel Bajie’s grip tighten. The claws dig just a little into the fabric of his shirt, though Bajie’s grip is always careful not to damage Tang or his clothing.

A growl comes from Bajie’s throat, too. When Tang looks up, he’s surprised to see Bajie’s eyes glowing, his teeth bared.

“Tang is my mortal.” Bajie’s voice is cold. Rage is painted in his posture, as he leans down so he’s eye level with Bao. He huffs a breath through his nose, one that ruffles Bao’s hair. “Mine.”

Bao flinches.

“You stay away, or I’ll find you. You say a word about this, and I’ll find you. Got it?” Bajie pokes a claw into Bao’s chest every time to punctuate each ‘You,’ eyes narrowed to dark slits.Bao nods, very quickly. His head is a blur.

Bajie leans in even closer, so that his snout is touching Bao’s nose.

“Now, start fucking running.”

Bao stumbles back, trembling. He turns on his heel and sprints down the hall, disappearing behind the corner.

Tang blinks and looks up at Bajie. Bajie continues to stay in a battle stance, free hand splayed out with claws bared, fingers twitching. Likely for his rake, Tang surmises.

“Bajie,” Tang reaches up and places a palm flat against the side of Bajie’s face, gentle. As much as it is charming to have a strong demon as his protector, Tang much prefers his Bajie when he’s off the battlefield. Bajie responds best to touch, regardless. Sometimes words don’t reach him.

“Dinner will run late if we stand out here all night.”

Bajie blinks a few times and shakes himself off, lifting his hand from Tang’s shoulder carefully. His shoulders slump down as he relaxes, a little weary after being so tense. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and smiles, a little strained.

“Right. Uh, sorry.”

He ducks beneath the doorframe and heads back into their room. Tang follows.

They make dinner in relative silence. Tang has gotten rather proficient with a knife, and he chops up the vegetables as Bajie sets up the broth. Bajie’s started making the noodles himself. Apparently it’s far cheaper if you do, even if it takes longer to complete.

When they’re done, and when Bajie pours out their servings so they can eat, Tang speaks up.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. “I could have handled it.”

Bajie sets his bowl down with a heavy sigh, hands clenched into fists in his lap.

“He shouldn’t talk to you like that,” Bajie says slowly. “No one should.”

“Bajie,” Tang starts, a sad smile of acceptance already on his face. “Plenty of people here are like that. I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be!” Bajie explodes. “You shouldn’t have to deal with all that, it’s none of any of their business what you do! People shouldn’t expect the worst from you!”

Bajie stares down at him with a plea in his gaze, like he’s begging for Tang to understand, but Tang looks away. Something about what Bajie is saying, some part of Bajie’s expression, makes his chest twist something painful. Maybe Tang has always known, deep down, that being treated the way he is is wrong, maybe he just buried that part down so it wouldn’t hurt so much. The earnest look in Bajie’s expression, the desperation-that digs that part back up, and Tang struggles to bury it again.

“It doesn’t matter. People think what they will of me. I just don’t want their opinion to be any worse,” he sighs. “I can handle what they throw at me. I can prove that I’m better than they are.”

Bajie’s reaches over, tilting Tang’s head up and forcing Tang to look at him again.

“You don’t have to hold yourself to such a high standard, you know. You’re allowed to be angry. I get mad enough, and you never tell me not to be. Why can’t you get upset? Why do you gotta handle it all?”

Tang blinks, and his vision blurs. When had anyone, before now, told him that he was enough? Just as is, without need for a perfect posture, unbreakable composure. When he was young there were times where he could almost say he was liked, but soon the other children pulled away and Tang was forced to climb his way up to somehow reach their level again.

But here Bajie is, on the same level as him, telling him the view is just fine right here.

Bajie pulls him forward, and Tang holds Bajie as tight as he can, hiding his tears in Bajie’s chest.

When he finally lifts his head up, Bajie is smiling down at him.

“See? Nothing wrong with gettin’ upset. Better to go through it and come out better for it than to let it sit and grow.”

“You’re just saying that because you liked going ‘protective demon’ on Bao,” Tang mutters, grinning despite himself.

“Hey—well, maybe, but that’s not the point!”

Tang presses his face into Bajie’s chest to muffle his chuckles. Soon enough, Bajie is laughing too.

At night, when they lay together, Bajie likes to pull Tang close. Tang will pepper Bajie’s jaw with kisses and lean his head against the demon’s chest, listening to the rumbling purr of delight Bajie is unable to stifle, along with Bajie’s heartbeat.

Being in love is something Tang finds unexpectedly warm and comfortable. Like slipping into a slipper fitted perfectly, he stands taller and walks with far better purpose than he had before. Even the whispers of how he isn’t a proper monk do little to stifle the swell of elation sitting in his heart, each breath making his ribs creak with strain, as if his heart couldn’t fit it all.

It’s a good type of pain, to be in love.

One night, though, Bajie presses Tang so tightly against him that Tang startles. He’s about to ask when his lips are stolen in a kiss, and, well, he doesn’t mind that at all. He leans into the heat, making his cheeks blush.

But a hand creeps up his thigh, beneath his clothes.

Tang is suddenly consumed by panic.

He pushes away, quickly, wide eyed and trembling. Glancing at Bajie’s eyes show no anger, more confusion and hurt. They’re both breathless, but Tang has to take an extra minute to get his lungs to cooperate, to be able to breathe at all.

He knew this would happen. This was the whole point of the challenge, was it not? He just...he hadn’t thought of it, between the shock of Bajie actually loving him and the fluttery feelings he had for the demon as well.

“I-I’m sorry,” he sputters, embarrassed. Ashamed, even.

He’d known that women were expected to perform for their husbands, and while Tang wouldn’t call himself a wife, he knew that there was always the expectation to perform if he began this sort of relationship. To be unable to...it’s shameful.

Bajie looks very much like he wants to reach for him, but he keeps his hands pressed against his chest, away from Tang. Worried. Nervous.

“I-it’s okay. I’m not-I want you to be comfortable. Did I do something wrong?” Bajie assures. Soothing. The lack of anger makes Tang relax a little.

“No-no, you didn’t, I just…,” Tang doesn’t know how to explain. “I-do we have to?”

Bajie blinks a few times, confused, and he rubs the top of his head in thought, looking around before his gaze settles back on Tang.

“I thought…,” Bajie starts, haltingly. So very careful. “I thought that this is what mortals do. Anyone does. You know? Is this about the monk thing?”

“No,” Tang replies again, firm. “It’s hard to explain, I just…,” He takes a breath. Shuffles a little closer.

Bajie’s hand settles on the bedroll. Tang places his own on top of it, like an olive branch. He feels Bajie relax, a little.

“What do you like about me?” Tang asks.

Bajie tilts his head to the side, at the question. It’s an odd one, but Tang has heard time and time again that consummation equals the truest love. And yet, if that were true, why love any other part of your partner? Why think of anything besides this moment?

Tang has a plethora of things he loves about Bajie. He hopes that Bajie is the same.

“I mean it literally,” Tang clarifies. “Why are you in love with me?”

Bajie shifts, laying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. His hand does not move from where it is, in Tang’s, so he rubs a circle into the back of it with his index finger. He turns it into a spiral. Bajie’s hand is big enough for it, after all.

Bajie’s voice starts soft. “I like the way your hair looks. It’s windswept, almost.

“I like how your face looks. It’s very soft, and comes to a nice point, you know? I like your eyes, because they’re a brown red I haven’t seen before, and I like your smile, because it’s kind of cheeky but mostly just kind, and I like that look you get on your face when you read, or when I make you something to eat, and I like that your hands are soft, and—”

Bajie stops, for a moment. His eyes are wide, face flushed, like the more he talked, the more affection burned him.

Tang thinks he’s nearly a cherry tomato himself, with how much he can feel his face steaming.

Bajie shifts to face him again.

“I love that you can talk to me about things like this.,” Something warmer enters Bajie’s voice, right then. “Most people either tell me to go or don’t tell me anything. You stand your ground, but you don’t just shove me away. You tell me why the things I do upset you, so I can fix it. Most people are too scared to bother.”

“I am scared of you, sometimes,” Tang whispers. He’d kept that fact a secret, afraid of the look it would put on Bajie’s face, to know that Tang, even with all his love, fears Bajie even a little.

“But you still try and stop me if I push too far. That’s trust. That’s bravery,” Bajie rebuffs, steadfast even with the hard truth laying between them. “I love that about you. You’re brave. You trust me.”

The way he says that takes Tang’s breath away. It takes Tang a few moments to even collect himself, and when he does he still feels like he’s going to melt into a puddle.

“Right,” he starts, and Bajie chuckles before he continues. “And what does that, any of that, have to do with,” He gestures vaguely to the whole concept they’re avoiding. “Sex?”

Bajie opens his mouth, and then closes it. Tang watches the thoughts bounce around Bajie’s brain with a fond smile, until Bajie finally looks back at him.

“I guess it doesn’t,” Bajie mutters, and then laughs, incredulous. “You’re so smart, you know that? Sometimes I wonder if you’re wasted, here.”

He reaches over and brushes a hair back behind Tang’s ear. Tang chuckles, both at the sentiment and at the motion. Perhaps laughing will help the butterflies out of his stomach.

“This place is my home,” he says, and he shrugs. “I belong here.”

Bajie’s smile flattens into a straight line for a moment, but he doesn’t argue. Silence falls upon them, as Tang’s fingers trace shapes into Bajie’s hand and arm, until Bajie speaks up again.

“I uh-I thought for a second it might be because of, uh, this,” Bajie gestures vaguely at his person, and Tang raises a brow.

“You just gestured to all of yourself,” He says.

Bajie flushes, embarrassed, before huffing out, “The biggest hurdle most mortals have to get over is that I’m not exactly conventionally attractive, by mortal standards.”

Bajie doesn’t look him in the eye. It’s said matter of factly, and there’s an undercurrent of hurt that has Tang’s brow furrowing. Tang doesn’t know about the partners Bajie’s had before, but he does know Bajie has been chased out of many towns. He wonders how much of it was because of Bajie’s attitude and how much of it was his appearance.

“That’s true. You’re not,” Tang replies bluntly.

Bajie seems surprised, before Tang continues.

“You’re not mortal. You’re not human. It would be ridiculous to use those standards to classify you as attractive or not. By my standards….”

He trails off for a moment, and when he continues, his smile is coy. “Well, you’re quite outstanding.”

“Tang,” Bajie starts, and it comes out choked out, the blush moving from embarrassment back to attraction.

Tang scoots closer, and reaches up to Bajie’s face.

“You have lovely ears. Perfect for hearing anyone who would dare attack you. They blush like your cheeks, did you know? I always love that about them. Gorgeous blue eyes. Two different shades, even. Most mortals are stuck with one, but I suppose this was a treat from the gods for me,” Tang fiddles with the ears for a moment, before his hands trail down.

Bajie doesn’t seem to know how to handle this much affection. His eyes are locked on Tang’s, and his lips are slightly parted in shock.

“You have such strong tusks. Very imposing,” Tang wraps his fingers around them, grips them for a moment. “Perfect for biting through most anything. A strong jaw.”

He trails the shape of it with his finger. “To show you mean business. Powerful vocal cords.”

Tang smooths a hand down Bajie’s neck. Bajie shivers. “To shout at anyone who would challenge you. Broad shoulders so that you loom. Sharp claws to cut through any obstacle. Strong arms to lift that rake of yours.”

“Burly legs so you can move faster than any mortal would dare, and,” Tang has to laugh. “An adorable tail that you can’t stop from wagging when you’re happy.”

Bajie just stares, as if no one has ever said something like that to him in all his years of life. The tragic thing, to Tang, is that it’s likely that that’s the case. He pulls himself up, so that he and Bajie are eye to eye.

“I almost forgot your lovely snout,” he leans forward and places a kiss there. “Perfect for kisses. All of it makes you the most beautiful demon I’ve ever seen. My Demon. My Bajie. My Pigsy.”

Each phrase is punctuated by another peck. The last title snaps Bajie out of his haze, and he grins, lopsided and gorgeous.

“Pigsy?” he asks.

Tang flushes a little. “Do you not like it?”

Bajie lifts Tang up and shifts so he’s on his back, placing Tang on top of him.

“I love it,” he murmurs.

Tang smiles and curls on top of Bajie like he’s always belonged there.

They lay there for a moment, until Bajie opens his mouth.

“Did I still win the challenge?”

Tang laughs so hard he cries, tickled by the memory of a conversation what feels like a lifetime ago finally coming to its close, leaning down until his forehead is resting against Pigsy’s.

“Of course you did. You got me, didn’t you?”

They have arguments. Disagreements, really. Arguments imply real hatred and they never have that, not for each other, but they do disagree.

Bajie wants Tang to come with him, to leave the monastery and go out into the world. But Tang can’t. Not when everyone here already expects him to fail, to be the worst of them, to fall away from the religion and be the lesser monk they think him to be. What would they say, if he disappeared into the night, never to be seen again?

“I don’t understand why that matters,” Bajie stresses, during one such disagreement. “You know they’re never gonna be satisfied. And what about when they find out about me, huh? How are you gonna swing that?”

“I know!” Tang cries, head in his hands from the frustration. “I know, I know that, but what can I do, Bajie? I can’t just leave, they’re my family, this is my home. What don’t you understand?”

Family is difficult to handle, and Tang knows his isn’t perfect, isn’t terribly kind, but it’s his. It’s so hard to imagine disappearing. Could he even come back? Obviously not, they already dislike him, so there’s no way he could leave. How could he keep in contact? The mail moves so slow, and how would they write him back when he’s moving around so much? Would they even write to him?

Bajie doesn’t get it. Bajie doesn’t have a family like Tang does. Hecan just salt the earth and leave and lose nothing. Tang could lose everything. He needs his foundation. He needs something to go back to.

“Tang,” Bajie starts, soft and gentle, but unrelenting.

Tang raises a hand to silence him.

“Stop asking,” He says firmly.

His voice takes on a more desperate edge as he adds a quieter “Please.”

He needs to figure this out for himself, and if he’s constantly being pressured one way over the other, how can he make an informed decision? He just needs a little more time.

Bajie’s brow furrows, eyes going dark for a split second before his expression empties, like everything has been poured out of him. Tang stiffens, because the lack of reaction is frightening, somehow, like he’s been pushed to the edge of a cliff, and isn’t sure how long the precipice can hold him.

But then Bajie leans down, and presses a kiss to his forehead, soft.

“Alright,” Bajie whispers. “I love you, you know.”

“I love you too,” Tang whispers, promises, hopes.

Bajie starts leaving. At first, it’s only for a few days. Then, the trips become longer. A week. Two.

He’s never gone longer than a month, and he always tells Tang the night before that he’ll be gone in the morning. Tang will wake up to the feeling of a soft kiss to his forehead and he will watch Bajie trudge out of their room as sunlight peeks over the horizon.

Tang hates every second that Bajie is gone. Hates that the monotony of his normal life is no longer satisfactory. He had forced himself to be satisfied with the mundane, the normal, the expected. Then Bajie had come in and smashed all his expectations and made Tang yearn for more again.

At the very least, Bao is no longer a problem. Tang feels a sense of satisfaction that when he enters a room, Bao is quick to leave it.

“I wish you wouldn’t leave so much,” he says, during a night when Bajie is here, and close, and Tang can lay with him. “You never seemed bothered before. You never went anywhere for this long.”

“I had a goal, then,” Bajie rumbles, voice soft. “You’d be surprised by how easy it is to forget about other stuff when you have a task. But I’m a demon, with a nine toothed rake that isn’t for tilling land. I’m not made for domestic life. Not when I’m just getting started.”

The explanation feels almost like a farewell, and something in Tang’s chest squeezes tight in a panic. Tang isn’t a demon, he isn’t a fighter. He’s the definition of domestic, isn’t he? If Bajie isn’t made for domestic life, maybe Tang isn’t made for him.

“Can’t you stay?” Tang whispers, interlocking his fingers with Bajie’s. His hand is dwarfed by Bajie’s large palm. “Just for a little while. Just—am I not enough?”

“Can’t you come with me?” Bajie rebuffs, voice almost too pointed. “Aren’t I enough?”

And, well, there’s no winning the argument there. Unstoppable force meets immovable object, and Tang’s afraid of the crash.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “It’s never because you aren’t enough.”

He needs Bajie to know that, to know that Tang isn’t doing this because Bajie failed, in some way. Tang wishes he could feel secure enough to jump ship, to leave everything behind like Bajie wants.

But, regardless of what Bajie thinks, Tang has never been brave.

Bajie says nothing. Tang wonders what the silence means.

As Tang wrestles with himself, his wants, his life, he finally comes to his conclusion. He rethinks life, his own, from beginning to present, and like any good story he wants a happy ending. Who doesn’t?

And he realizes, at the center of it all, that a happy ending isn’t possible if Bajie isn’t there. That in every path Tang’s life leads him down, Bajie has to be there if it's to end with a smile.

And if Bajie needs Tang to leave, then Tang will swallow his terror and take the leap. He has to at least try. If it doesn’t work, if Tang fails, then...then he’ll only have himself to blame, won’t he?

He has to try.

There’s preparations to be had. He researches. While Bajie is out on trips to who knows where, Tang learns about the marriage methods of demons. Apparently, when a demon takes a mortal’s hand in marriage, they kidnap the mortal, steal them away. There’s an exchange of courting jewelry. A physical claim.

He doesn’t have the money for jewelry, but he thinks he could do something else. So he buys some paper, some leather, some twine, and carefully, he constructs a book. A journal. Something that they can write in for years to come, something they can share. Maybe it’s unorthodox, maybe it isn’t good enough, but Tang wants to be able to look back. He wants to see Bajie’s scrawled sentences, words written comically large next to Tang’s smaller, tighter script.

Maybe it isn’t the right way, but it’s Tang, in every sense of the word. If Bajie rebuffs that, then there’s nothing to be done.

He writes out a script. The next time Bajie leaves, Tang works on his speech, writes and rewrites. He memorizes until every line is burned into his head, and then goes over it again, because he knows that when he says it he’ll stumble.

He plans, and strategizes, and hopes.

This time, when Bajie returns, Tang can tell something is off. Bajie is….distracted. He spends more time off to himself, staring out the window, than he does interacting with Tang.

It makes Tang anxious. It feels like the moment before an explosion. He wants to broach the subject, but he’s afraid of being caught in the blast zone of whatever Bajie is hiding.

So he sets the plans aside and focuses on lifting the terrible fog that makes Bajie stare at him like Tang is already gone. Like Tang is some far away place that Bajie cannot reach.

It seems to work. Tang complains uproariously about different texts he’s been reading in the interim of Bajie’s stay, and he gets Bajie to laugh. He helps make dinner and remarks on how invaluable he is to Bajie’s cooking process. Bajie rewards him with a few stories of some customer service issues he had to resolve when he worked as a cook.

“She had to get thrown out by the owner, she was screaming so loud,” Bajie laughs. “It’s a good thing he settled things with her and not me. I woulda given her the what-for, if she’d screamed at me.”

“I have no doubt,” Tang giggles.

It settles, as they become comfortable with each other again. Every time Bajie leaves and comes back, it’s like they have to slowly get back in sync with each other. Sometimes it takes longer than Tang likes. Like now, where it feels like it takes weeks.

Bajie stays for an entire month and it takes most of that to get back to that comfortable place their relationship should always be in. A month full of Tang making excuses to wait to propose, making excuses to be patient, to give it a little more time.

But, after a month, things seem comfortable. Tang swallows his fears. Bajie called him brave once and Tang has to live up to that, right?

Except, after a week of things seeming okay, Bajie suddenly closes himself off again. Goes quiet, empty. Pensive and secretive in the worst way.

“Don’t shut me out,” Tang whispers, a hand against Bajie’ cheek.

Bajie’s sitting down, staring out the window, and Tang is standing, as he slowly turns Bajie’s face toward him. “Is something wrong? Tell me, please. You’ve been...different.”

Bajie still stares at Tang as if Tang were the world, except now it’s as if the world is crumbling in front of him.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Tang promises.

He leans in, so his forehead rests against Bajie’s. Bajie leans into the touch, eyes shut.

“I’m sorry,” Bajie’s voice is soft. “I—nothing’s wrong. I’m just...I’ve been thinking too much.”

“That’s a first,” Tang smiles, trying to joke.

Bajie’s lips twitch upward, but he doesn’t smile.

Tang glances back, towards the book hidden, and thinks of the speech burned into his brain. He could let everything out, right now.

But Bajie looks like he needs more time. Looks as if Tang were to push, he’d crumble. And Tang is terrified to see Bajie break, so he decides to wait a little longer. To stall, a little longer.

It takes far too long to coax Bajie to lay down that night, pulling his gaze away from the starry sky and back to the ground, back to Tang’s eyes. Tang searches for something familiar in Bajie’s, but the picture is too blurred to be recognizable.

“You look tired,” he hears himself say. “You should get some rest.”

Bajie doesn’t reply, but he does lay down, and Tang curls up against him, like he always has. Like he always should.

“I love you,” he whispers, promises, hopes.

Bajie must say it after Tang is already asleep. He must.

That’s the only reason Tang wouldn’t hear it said back to him.

Tang does not see Bajie sit up in the night, knees pulled to his chest. He does not see Bajie turn to look at him, eyes watery. He does not see Bajie run a hand over his head, shaking, glancing between the door and Tang over and over. He does not see Bajie reach a shaking hand over Tang, a breath away from touching down, from shaking Tang awake. He does not see Bajie pull away with a choked breath so quiet it’s almost unheard even by Bajie’s ears. He does not see Bajie cry into his knees for far too long, and he does not see Bajie wipe his eyes, look over, and press a feathersoft, gentle kiss to the top of Tang’s head. He does not see Bajie stand, slowly, and walk out the door, never to return.

Tang sees none of this. He wakes up the next morning to see Bajie gone, with nothing but the indentation he left in the bedroll to indicate he was ever there.

It’s odd, because typically Bajie says something before he goes, but Tang chalks it up to the odd mood Bajie was in. He must have simply forgotten. The alternative is of course laughable. Impossible.

So Tang moves on, continues with his life, and waits for Bajie to return.

Because he has to.

Right?

It takes three months for Tang to start doubting.

It takes six for it to start to hurt.

A year passes.

Tang feels the shelter he’d given his heart cave in as he buckles under the weight of heartbreak.

The cliff has crumbled beneath him. He’s fallen over the precipice, and the worst part is that no one, absolutely no one, would ever think to reach and catch him.

Heartbreak feels like grief. Tang has felt grief before, when his beloved masters would eventually fall to time. Loss of a person and loss of love are equally painful, because once something is gone it can never be reclaimed.

He goes through the motions. Moves slow, but moves regardless, like every step is through mud. He gets up, gets breakfast, gets some new scrolls. Meditates, waits.

He just keeps on waiting. He refuses to get rid of the fire pit Bajie made, nor the kitchen utensils, nor the pot. He cleans them, scrubbing them all until they shine in the sunlight, polished and pristine, and then he places them back in their spots with a reverence reserved for the gods.

When Bajie gets back, he’ll want them to look nice.

Another few months pass, before logic kicks in. Of course Bajie would leave. Why stay with a nobody, why stay with a mortal, a monk? There are far too many cons against the few, if any, pros. Tang should have known that this was an eventuality.

Sure, he’d dreamed of them growing old together, or spending eternity together, or any number of things. But those are all that those thoughts will ever be, dreams.

Tang is a fool, to dream.

The utensils collect dust. Tang does not read books. He doesn’t do much of anything. He meditates, more to give himself an excuse to sit, with his eyes closed, and forget existence.

He settles again. He must. Logic holds him together like cheap glue, and while his cracks drop pieces as he forces himself to continue to move on, move forward, it holds enough. Enough that he can breathe.

“Have you heard?”

Tang is eating lunch in the common area, idly chewing on rice, and he only hears the conversation because he’s not focusing on anything else.

“The monk Triptaka is going on a journey!”

“Isn’t his name Tang Sanzang?”

“Yeah, but he goes by Triptaka. Maybe wants to get away from a name shared by…”

Tang ignores the glances thrown his way. He’s dealt with them plenty.

“Anyway, he’s going on a journey to get holy scriptures. I’ve heard Bodhisattva Guanyin is even overseeing the journey herself! She amassed a group of demons to protect him.”

“Wow, who?”

“Sun Wukong-she had to release him from under a mountain. She also got, um, I think a dragon prince to be his steed, a demon named Sha Wujing, and one named Zhu Bajie!”

Tang freezes. Logic starts cracking.

“What?” he finds himself saying, turning to the group. They seem startled by his intrusion into their conversation.

“Uhhh,” one of them goes, cringing away from Tang in confusion.

“Who is on the journey? The last name you said.” The words keep coming out of him, and Tang doesn’t have the time to figure out where they’re coming from.

“Zhu Bajie?” The name falls out of the other’s lips, and Tang recoils.

No. No, it must be a mistake. It couldn’t be.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

The thought is acid in his brain. It burns, and he feels his hands shake. The bowl drops to the floor, and shatters against stone. Rice is wasted at his feet.

“Tang?” someone says.

It doesn’t matter that this is the first time in months that anyone has spared him a drop of concern, because Tang is running, running to their room, running to the room he’s been waiting in for months and then was grieving in for longer as the pieces of his broken heart started trying to slide back together.

Everything is shattered again, and Tang doesn’t know if he can put himself back together.

He gets to their room and falls to his knees in the center, the thud muffled by a bedroll he hasn’t had the energy in months to fold or move because that would require realizing that one half of the space would never be filled again. He covers his mouth with his hands. He can’t stop shaking.

He can’t.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

He thought it was because he was a mortal.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

He thought it was because he was a monk

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

Gods, he didn’t think it was because of his name, but even that avenue is gone.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

Tang sobs.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

In the end, when you strip away his mortality, you strip away his monk status, when you strip away his name, all that’s left is his character. His personality. Himself.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

And that’s what Bajie ran from, wasn’t it? That’s what he abandoned. He didn’t abandon a mortal monk named Tang, he left Tang. The person he is at his core. Bajie looked, was given Tang’s heart, and decided that wasn’t what he wanted.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

Tang laughs.

It’s funny, he thinks, after hours curled into a ball, heaving sobs and crackling laughs. It’s so terribly funny, so terribly cruel, so terribly poetic. He knew from a young age that he wasn’t enough, that he wasn’t a good monk, wasn’t a good person, but he’d tried. He’d tried so hard.

And then Bajie had come along.

And Tang had hoped. Selfishly, he’d slacked on improvements, believed that he was enough as is. Bajie never seemed to want more from him, never expected anything special, and Tang had grown lax, grown complacent.

No wonder Bajie had left him. Tang was never good enough for anyone.

But maybe he can try to be.

He can’t change who he is. Clearly, his 25 years of failure have shown him that. He can’t change who he is at his core, but if he fixes everything else, maybe that will be enough.

Just maybe, then, he will be enough.

Step one. Get rid of his mortality.

Bajie and him can’t share eternity if he’s dead a hundred years into it. If he’s to reinvent himself into something worthy, into someone worthy, he needs time. Mortality cuts that short.

He is a ghost in the monastery in the sense that he appears in rare bursts and his continued existence leads to whispers and rumors. He leaves and does research in the library. The stares of disapproval no longer stab through what once was pride, because that space in his chest has been torn open. The knives pass right through the hole left in its wake.

He’s fervent. Doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t eat. There is no point in maintaining a body doomed to die, regardless of his efforts. He can care about himself when he’s worthy, when someone tells him he matters.

And no one has told him that. Bajie can’t count anymore. Not until Tang gets him back.

A year of research leads to nothing.

Tang lives in the barest of senses, half dead on his feet as he works. He has to figure it out, he has to. The books he find tell him little. But, then, he remembers the town. The townspeople.

People know plenty, when you know how to get it out of them.

He is a ghost in the town in the sense that he hides in its darkest, coldest corners and listens. Travelers come in and out, always with stories. Slowly, Tang learns how to use a stiff drink and a kind smile to pull the stories out. Slowly, Tang learns how to twist until the people he talks to think that it was their idea, to say what he wants them to.

Tang does this all quietly. He’s always had a way with words, always too afraid to use that power. After all, a true monk wouldn’t be so manipulative, wouldn’t want the knowledge of anything beyond the buddhist texts, much less the ravings of wordly travelers.

Bajie is worldly.

Tang wants.

He has heard, from a million different whispers, of how Monkey King is able to live forever.

Folktales fall from slippery lips and Tang listens. Tang learns and relearns, drags the specifics out with carefully placed drinks and sugary sweet honeyed words that coax out more information. This is important.

Monkey King’s spirit was dragged down to Yama’s realm, he hears. Monkey King blotted out his name from the ledger, so he may never die again.

Die again, he thinks, and realizes you have to die once for such a thing to be true.

He considers the stares aimed toward him. He considers the lingering whispers of how he doesn’t belong, how he isn’t true to his practice. He considers the years of him asking what else? What else is there to learn? He considers cold, disapproving eyes that followed him from youth to adulthood.

He considers blue, beautiful ocean blue ones that looked at him as if he’d hung the stars and he considers blue eyes gone in the night without a word.

Considers dying.

Considers.

Acquiring poison isn’t difficult. He buys it in the market (He used to go with Bajie where’d they’d pick out the vegetables and noodles for the ramen that night and make fun of weird shaped vegetables and laugh) with some coins Bajie left behind (left behind with him, like him, left left left abandoned because Tang made Bajie wait made Bajie lose love Tang ruined everything—) and stuffs it in his pocket. He eats dinner (Bajie made it better he was always the better cook and Tang is nothing isn’t anything just the worst monk in the world—) and carefully pours himself some tea, mixes in the poison, and breathes.

It barely changes the taste. There’s something bitter on the edge of it, but Tang drains the cup and sighs.

He sets up his bedroll and lays down, eyes staring up at the ceiling. He can feel a slight pain in his chest. Likely due to the poison. It’s not a very painful one, slow but not cruel.

Like this, he can practically feel Bajie next to him, a hand over his heart. That must be where the weight on his chest comes from. Must be. Bajie has to be here, beside him, at the end of it all. Where else would his love be?

They were having a conversation. One hard to navigate, but Bajie was trying, so Tang would too.

“Why are you in love with me?” he tries to say, but the black edges take over his vision.

Dying isn’t so bad, he thinks, when it’s like this.

He comes to with little difficulty, laying down on stone. The sky is a dark purple, with blue clouds.

He feels empty. Weightless.

He stands and is immediately shuffled into a line of a million people, all spirits heading in one direction. The dead are the dead, and he is placed with the typical mortals, those without plans.

Some are far older than him, some far younger.

The land of the dead is a palace. He can see the entry gate, a speck in the distance. The dead whisper amongst themselves, but he says nothing, stepping out of line.

He heads down the path away from the gate, off to the right. Occasionally, he ducks out of the way of guards, which only proves that he’s going in the right direction.

Being dead doesn’t change much. If anything, he feels a little lighter, without a physical body to hold him down.

He finds the room he’s looking for after about an hour, a large, seemingly endlessly long book sitting on a table, open on a table. Tang walks over and when he looks down on it, he can see thousands of names. Every second, another changes status. Black for alive, white for dead.

White is a mourning color, after all.

He quickly begins searching for his own name, flipping through page after page with utter abandon and scanning, because time is of the essence. He is fairly certain that there’s a reason only the Monkey King was known to have pulled this off, because it isn’t as though anyone besides King Yama and his attendants are meant to touch said book.

Not that Tang much cares who is and isn’t supposed to be doing this. If he’d cared at this point, then, well, he wouldn’t have bought poison for himself.

He’s finally making headway, recognizing a few names from those who once lived in his town, when he hears footsteps coming toward his direction.

Well, not footsteps. Hoofsteps. The sound of cloven feet on tile.

Tang schools his expression, and continues to flip through the book, even as the steps come closer.

“Hey!” He hears.

He looks up.

Ox head and Horse face were mentioned in the stories detailing Monkey King’s escapade through the land of the dead. They were the ones to drag the Great Sage’s spirit down, after all. Ox head has dark eyes and a shining golden nose ring that accents the gold on his arm and leg bracers. Horse face has golden earrings to match, and his outfit is much the same. They both wear a leather-esque set of armor, ornate in its stitching, but scuffed with dirt from sparring matches or nonsense fights.

Tang looks them up and down, and decides immediately that they do not compare to how Bajie intimidates.

“Hello,” he greets, keeping his voice even and uninterested as he glances back down to the names on the page.

Ox head and Horse face stare, clearly taken aback by Tang’s cavalier attitude. Tang is simply glad they can’t see his knees wobble behind the desk. Sweat trails down the back of his neck. He cannot fail.

He won’t.

“Mortals aren’t supposed to touch that,” Ox head growls out.

Tang looks up again, face the perfect picture of confusion, before he smiles.

“Oh,” He laughs a little. “Clearly there’s been a communication error here. King Yama sent me to fix a clerical mistake with this book. I’m just looking for it now.”

He looks back down, and bites his lip to stop himself from smirking. Time is of the essence. If he finds his name before they catch onto the ruse, far better for it, right? He just needs to find his name. He can tell he’s close.

“Nobody told us about this. And we’ve never seen you before,” Horse face interjects.

“Yeah, we’re in charge here. Someone would’ve said something to us,” Ox head agrees.

“If you say so,” Tang replies. “I’m simply following orders. King Yama is a very busy man, and he wanted this completed quickly. If you want to waste his time by dragging me to him just to get the same answer I’ve told you, be my guest.

“But,” Tang shrugs and smiles. “I don’t believe King Yama is very forgiving, when someone is wasting his time.”

He continues to flip through the book, ever patient. When he glances up, for a split second, he can see Ox head and Horse face share a look.

“...You know what, I think I remember being told about, the, uh, clerical thing,” Horse face finally says.

“Yeah,” Ox head agrees, awkwardly.

“Don’t, uh, don’t tell King Yama about this, alright?” Horse face tries for a smile.

“We’ll just keep this between us,” Ox head fidgets with his arm bracers.

Tang smiles, and he doesn’t know what he looks like, but the two demons freeze.

“Of course,” hHe replies.

The pair leaves, rather quickly.

It takes Tang a few more minutes to find his name, written in white on the yellowed pages. There are pens near the book, so clerical changes must be a plausibility. He takes one of the small pens and dips it into the inkwell. He carefully drags the ink across his name, blacking it out.

With a harsh yank, his soul is pulled away from tangibility, and he drops the pen with a clatter as he is rocketed back up, up, up—slammed into his body with utter abandon, weightlessness and emptiness replaced with the heavy feeling of embodiment.

He wakes up with a gasp, and when he breathes he coughs, as if his lungs collected dust in the time he wasn’t using them. He moves his limbs experimentally, and everything moves fine. His senses are a little duller, he thinks. His vision was always poor, but now it’s even moreso. He doesn’t smell much of anything. He can barely taste his own saliva. There’s a ringing in his ears that doesn’t go away, but eventually he gets used to the sound.

He sits up, glancing around. Everything in his room is untouched. He is unsure of how long he was dead.

To the left, he hears the shuffling of footsteps. He turns his head.

Bao is scrambling back, half fallen over, hand gripping the doorframe. His eyes are wide, his breaths are coming out as gasps.

“You—” Bao breathes. “You were dead. I-I checked—you were dead.”

Tang stares.

Bao. Terrible, awful, disgusting Bao. A nuisance that plagued Tang’s life for years, a person who took great joy in Tang’s upset. A person who, at one point, was someone Tang desired the respect of.

Terrible, awful, disgusting Bao, trembling at the sight of him.

Tang smiles, slow, letting his lips curl up to show a flash of teeth, and finally learns the joy that comes from being feared. He winks.

“Only technically,” He says, almost hisses, and he finds a perverse sense of utter satisfaction as Bao pales, turns on his heel, and runs, as fast as he can.

Away from him.

Tang laughs to the disappearing sound of footsteps, and breathes in new air. He thinks Bajie would be proud of him, as he stands and brushes himself off. He’s finally stopped caring.

Immortality achieved. But there’s still more to do. If he’s to be worthy, he needs power.

Which means he needs to learn how to acquire it.

He takes what will be useful, settles it into a pack, and leaves his home of a quarter of a century behind without much thought. So silly of him, to be attached to it. If only he’d left sooner. If only he’d stopped caring sooner, maybe this all could have been avoided.

He leaves the utensils. Leaves his books, the dictionary, and keeps the memories safe in the space where his heart once resided, heading off to the next town.

He becomes a vagabond of sorts, coasting from town to town. He will devour the town library’s collection, searching for something, anything, and perhaps partake in town gossip. People have so much to say, after all. Finding the pearls of wisdom and knowledge beneath the swine tales, so to speak, is something he becomes rather shrewd at.

Some of the people he talks to apparently find him attractive.

“Has anyone told you that you have beautiful eyes?” A woman he met in a small restaurant asks him.

I like your eyes, because they’re a brown red I haven’t seen before.

“No,” Tang replies. “But it’s kind of you to say.”

He’s drawn to a town over whispers of mystic artifacts and knowledge being held there. It’s a rather unassuming town, no different from the others, but the library is a bit bigger than most. He pours over texts, though in the week he spends searching for something of use he comes up short.

Frustration has him nearly tearing the pages, and he lets out a harsh breath through his nose and forces himself to be patient. He has eternity, after all. As does Bajie. The execution of his plan needs to be perfect or it won’t work.

A tap on his shoulder. Tang turns his head to glance up at the librarian, previously absent or seemingly oblivious to his existence. She stares at him with sharp, knowing eyes.

“You seek something?” she asks.

“Knowledge,” Tang finds himself replying. “Power.”

She smiles at him. It’s a wicked type of smile, but nothing cruel towards him.

“Come. I have something for you to see.” She turns, and gestures for him to follow.

Tang nearly trips over himself rushing to her side.

She leads him to a room behind the library desk, a small office with more bookshelves filled with large, old scrolls and books. He watches her trace her fingers across the different scripts, searching, before she slides a book out from the shelf and turns, handing it to him.

“If you want power, this is how you will take it,” she says.

She opens the book in his hands, flipping it to a specific page and pointing at the picture there.

“A gem,” she explains. “You fill it with life, and it grants you power.”

Tang reads over the text. You take a gemstone, one typically one clear in color for better results, and then use the life force of others to power it. After a certain amount of power is added to the gem, you fuse it with your being.

“I’ll have to kill humans?” he asks, glancing up at her.

She chuckles. “If you want, but it would take a lot. Demons are far more...potent.”

Tang nods.

Demons. That may take some work. Demons are a breed far more powerful than humans, and even as an immortal being, Tang is fragile.

And, before even that, there’s the matter of acquiring a gemstone. Those are often expensive.

He snaps the book shut.

“Thank you.” He bows his head in thanks. “I’ll be taking this.”

It’s not a request. He leaves with the book in hand and starts his search for a jewel.

He finds it three towns over. There’s a jeweler there with an assortment of gemstones. All definitely out of Tang’s price range, but now he’s located them.

He thinks of stealing, but that’s a fool’s errand. Taking something that can be bought with hard work is something an idiot would do. Tang wants to be able to move between towns as he pleases, and gaining a reputation of a criminal makes it far less likely that people will speak to him, will tell him the things he needs to know.

So, he gets a job at a restaurant. Bajie did it once and so shall he.

The work gives him something to do. Being immortal means sleep and nourishment are no longer a requirement, and without those time killers the days and nights stretch on longer and longer, Tang made painfully aware of every passing hour, minute, second. His purpose, his goal, remains the same, but with his job now there’s something else to occupy his time as he plans.

Plus, it helps that he learns how to use a knife effectively. Bajie taught him the basics, but when it’s the lunch rush you learn far more how to cut, dice, chop, and slice efficiently. If he’s to kill demons, he needs to be able to fight.

His coworkers do try to start conversations with him, but he is far too focused on the task at hand to join in. They learn, eventually, that he isn’t up for talking. Interacting with people is only useful when there is something to gain from it.

Life has made it very clear that friendships do not come to him, so there is no bother hoping. Tang is chasing the only person who gave him some semblance of respect. He does not need, nor want, anyone else.

No one typically comments on his appearance. His skin is paler than most, eyes dark and shadowed. Still, that’s not enough to raise suspicion of him.

Typically, anyway.

“Do they know?” A man asks, when Tang comes up to the counter to hand him his order. “Do they know what you are?”

Tang glances at the man with a small smile.

The man pales.

Tang smiles wider.

“Here’s your order, sir,” he says.

The man leaves. Quickly.

It takes him a year to accrue enough funds to acquire the gem. It’s a clear white stone, almost in the shape of a teardrop, and it sits comfortably in his palm. The jeweler had asked if it was a gift for someone. Tang chose not to reply.

Now, there’s the matter of finding a demon to power it. Again, not very hard. Demons are well known to ravage towns from time to time. Steal their crops, take the flesh to devour, things like that. The next town over has been struggling with one. Nothing too powerful, or else they’d have had a far bigger outcry, but of interest nonetheless.

He leaves his job without notice. He doesn’t care if they’re bereft of a cook, not when he’s so close. He rushes off, clutching his gemstone and his knives and disappearing into the night.

The demon doesn’t attack during the day, so when he arrives he has enough time to ask around. Gather details.

They’re some sort of rhino demon, evidently. Charging through homes in the night, taking mortals to consume, leaving nothing but demolished buildings and blood in their wake. The townspeople are terrified, spending most of their days fortifying their homes. They’ve neither the money nor support to escape, and sending for help will likely take too long.

That’s fine. Tang can take care of this for them. They get to be saved, and more importantly, he gets the power he needs.

Tang stands at the entrance to the town, the moon high in the sky, patiently waiting for the demon to arrive. His knife is gripped tightly in hand. He has his pants rolled up to his knees, though his sleeves still hang loosely.

He hears the footsteps before he sees them. Charging hoofsteps on the ground, and the glint of blood red eyes. The rhino demon is large, at least twice his height, and is aiming for him, specifically.

Tang side steps, holding his knife out and letting it slice through the demon’s hide as he charges past.

“Sloppy,” he calls, turning around.

Blood drips down the demon’s side. The demon snarls, baring his sharp teeth. He shakes his injured leg out a few times, splattering blood across the dirt, before he stomps it back down onto the ground, readying his stance for another charge.

Tang readies himself. “Not used to a human who fights back?”

Bajie taught him to fight. Well, more how to dodge, because he said if Tang got hit by a demon even once he’d probably die on the spot. Apparently, humans are very fragile.

“Do you have to be careful, with me?” Tang asked.

“A little,” Bajie had admitted. “I mean, you’re not made of glass.”

“I’d hope not,” He’d laughed, sitting on Bajie’s shoulder..

“But I have to be a little careful,” Bajie shrugs the shoulder Tang isn’t sitting on. “Most demons wouldn’t. I, uh, want you to be ready for that.”

Tang scritched the place behind Bajie’s ears that always made a purr rumble up Bajie’s throat, smiling when he heard it right on cue.

“You have a lot of enemies?” he’d asked.

Bajie laughed.

“Something like that.”

The demon charges, and Tang jumps, stepping onto the demon’s large horn and using it as a springboard. He leaves a large gash in the demon’s back when he descends, stumbling a little when he hits the dirt.

There’s a roar of pain from the demon at that.

Tang smirks.

He ducks when a large fist is levied his way.

Jump. Sidestep. Dodge. Slash.

Close quarter combat would be to Tang’s disadvantage, considering one blow would break him into pieces. The demon knows it, refusing to allow Tang an opening to make any more distance. Tang doesn’t let that deter him, using the milliseconds between strikes to slash at whatever part his knife can reach.

By the time he trips, the demon is bleeding in more places than Tang can count. Not bleeding much, the gashes rather small, but bleeding a little from a lot still has an impact.

Of course, getting choked also has an impact, Tang finds.

A large hand grips him by the neck when Tang trips, squeezing tight enough to bruise and then some. If Tang were entirely mortal, well, this would be it for him. Needing to breathe is certainly something required of Tang, in a sense, but he can hold his breath for far longer. He makes his eyelids flutter, sliding them shut to keep the illusion that he’s dying.

As this happens, as he goes limp, the demon huffs. Even relaxes a little, as if the battle’s won.

Tang opens his eyes and smiles. He slashes once more and catches the demon across the throat.

Blood sprays out as if it were thrown out of a bucket, coating Tang’s face before he’s dropped. The demon presses his hands to his throat and chokes, coughing up blood and wheezing for air.

The demon drops to his knees. Tang comes close.

He drives his knife into the demon’s head, right below the horn, and the demon goes limp.

Tang side steps the falling body.

He takes a few deep breaths, watching the blood pour across the dirt in a way he’s never seen before. He’s never watched anyone die like this. He’s never made someone die like this.

All life is sacred, he was told. All life was to be protected, cared for. That’s why he was vegetarian. That’s why he was a monk. He should feel something, staring at the dead body before him. He should be devastated by his actions. He should be horrified.

He should care, but the demon was killing this town. All life cannot be sacred when one life takes so many. And, besides that, he needs the power. If this is how he is to gain it, so be it.

He pulls out the gem, fumbling a bit. His hands are wet from the blood. He presses the gem against the demon’s body and waits.

Sure enough, energy flows into it. The gem warms in his grip, and Tang swears he can hear a rattling scream before the gem begins to glow pink. Reaching towards red, but not quite there.

He holds the gem up in the moonlight, watching the light filter though it. It’s too clear, still. Once it’s near opaque-that’s when it’s ready.

“Look on the bright side,” he says to the body, though his voice is hoarse. His throat is sure to bruise, and it makes it a little difficult to speak. “Now that you aren’t murdering families in the night, maybe you’ll be of use.”

He pockets the gem, and after stealing some hanging clothes from the village—he feels little remorse, considering he saved the town—leaves the body to rot.

He washes himself off, burns his bloody clothing. He’ll have to be smarter, he thinks, about how he kills. Clothes are not easy to come by, and Tang doesn’t enjoy the idea of taking new clothes every time he kills a demon. Far too much work, honestly.

He cleans off his knife once the rest of him is free of blood, staring at his reflection in the water. The knife glimmers in the daylight. The gemstone weighs heavy in his pocket.

He travels on the words of humans towards demons, flitting through the towns of the former and murdering the latter, and finds it a little isolating that he sees himself as neither.

The isolation is nothing new, though. Tang has always been alone.

It’s after the sixth demon he kills that the gem starts to glow with promise, rattling in his grip as it begs for an outlet. One powerful demon would have brought it to this point easily, but while Tang is no longer mortal, he is still terribly human, which means he is terribly weak. He has to find the scraps of the demon world, those so weak they spend their days with mortals, hiding amongst them while trying to live a normal life. He finds them using sigils that allow him to follow their trails like a scent, and he is silent as the grave in the night, knife steady in hand.

He’s gotten rather proficient with a knife, but he hates using it. Too messy, too close, too personal. He’ll find something more suitable later.

For now, there’s the matter of making sure the power he won (stole is such a dirty word, and is it really stealing if he beat the demon fair and square?) stays with him. Consulting the book he took from the library, he knows he needs to establish a physical connection to it.

That requires effort. But Tang is nothing if not stubborn enough to make it work.

That night, he takes off his shirt and folds it carefully, setting it down beside him. He places the gem on top of the cloth, and then uses his finger to trace the line where he needs to make the incision.

He grabs the knife and follows his finger’s line down the center of his chest with the tip of the blade.

Up and down, up and down.

It starts to burn. He trembles.

It stings, aches, sharp and raw, and the knife slips from his fingers.

It drops, he presses a shaking hand to the wound.

Gasping for air, he coughs on agony. Chokes on it as he wrestles with the pain of the action. The urge to heave makes him shudder.

He isn’t unused to pain. He’d slipped a few times, cut his fingers while preparing dinner with Bajie. The bruises on his neck took weeks to heal and asphyxiation burned.

But nothing like this. Carving flesh, your own flesh, and having to continue regardless of every logical, emotional, and primal part of yourself screaming at you to stop is a challenge Tang didn’t think would be so hard to undertake.

Not for the faint of heart, the book said.

His is already shattered, isn’t it? What’s another break?

He takes a piece of wet cloth and wipes away the excess, patching up his failed attempt and making sure everything is clear. He cleans off the knife, and takes a deep breath.

He raises the blade to right beneath his chest, closer to it than his stomach but still enough below that it isn’t exactly where his heart resides. He hisses a breath in through his teeth as he sinks the blade in again.

Up and down, slowly pushing in deeper and deeper until the blade presses into flesh.

Up and down, like cutting vegetables, steady.

Up and down, deeper with each movement.

Blood wells up and pours down his chest as he slices deeper. The stream buffers with every rise and fall of his chest as he takes deep breaths.

His hand shakes. Pain is all he can think of and he pulls out the knife when he manages to make an incision a centimeter deep.

Deep breaths. Focus.

His teeth are clenched so tight they might shatter in his mouth, as he reaches over and grabs the gem. He sets the knife aside and uses one finger to pull one side of the incision apart, creating more space.

His skin is clammy, sweat dripping down as he fights to keep himself from curling in on himself and screaming.

The blood pools down his legs, dripping toward the ground.

The gem sits comfortably in his palm, as he drags his tired limb up to press the stone into the newly made space. His fingers are slick with blood, fumbling and terribly unsteady, as he forces the gem in deeper, until it pushes apart his flesh even more.

The sound is wet and sticky, as if his flesh were overwatered rice. He swallows back nausea at the thought. His breaths are haggar pants, wheezing gasps as his lungs beg for air below the lump of pain that tightens his throat.

The power hums, as he presses a flat palm against his chest, holding the gem in. It pulses once, twice.

And then everything pitches into white hot agony. Tang screams.

White becomes red in his vision as power surges through his core, the smell of burnt meat rising up to his nose as the gem clings to his flesh and fuses with it. He can feel it touch bone, pressing against it. He can feel veins crawling beneath his skin like worms, forcing their way into him.

He curls in on himself, holding himself up by his forearms trembling against the ground, as something inhuman breaks through any barriers Tang once had and makes a home in his center.

It feels like hours. Like centuries, even, as he twitches uncontrollably with every spark of energy that courses through him. He coughs, and blood splatters onto his knees and onto the ground. He spits a few times, to get the rest of it out of his mouth. The metallic, bittersweet taste lingers on his tongue.

He swallows the urge to vomit up the meager meal he had a few hours earlier and breathes hard through mouth.

And then, as quickly as the pain comes, it vanishes. Warmth spreads through his being, a soothing balm against the agony that threatened to pull him under. Skin and flesh knit itself back together, even his first attempt healed within moments. Where there was once pain there’s adrenaline

Tang pushes himself up and wipes his mouth. A flash has him staring at his palm in surprise.

Crackling red energy twirls around his fingertips. It bathes his skin in warm light, and when he clenches his fist and opens it again the power settles in his palm like a flame. Swaying with the wind, it moves in time with each breath.

His eyes glow with promise, as power surges through him. He throws his arm out towards the firewood and the red energy crashes against the wood, splintering it and creating a blaze that shoots up tall, the flame rising up towards the treetops before it settles.

He lets out a half hysterical laugh, a hand still against his chest. He traces the veins that pulse outward, bright red, and imagines just how powerful he’ll be with more than six demons, more than ten, more than a hundred even. It doesn’t matter how much it’ll take, he’ll make it happen.

“Just you wait, Bajie,” he whispers, grinning, imagining warm blue eyes, imagining the room they shared, imagining a new one.

The journal, the speech, it sits in the forefront of his mind. He hasn’t had a chance to give either, yet, but that’ll change. It’s only a matter of time.

“I’ll catch up to you soon.”

#kitkat1003 #dadswap au #lego monkie kid #monkie kid #monkie kid tang #monkie kid pigsy #gore #blood

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delimeful · 4 years ago

Text

the end of being alone (2)

donation drive commission for @bumblebeekitten for the next chapter of TEOBA, with the prompt: patton & virgil fluff! hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!

chapter 1

warnings: miscommunication, false impression of a very bad situation for like .5 seconds, recklessness, sometimes you just gotta have a good cry

The next sunrise, they set out again, this time with considerably less weaponry and considerably more snacks. Roman held point again, since he was the one with the most practical experience in tracking.

There had been a somewhat tedious argument on whether or not Patton should come, one that Roman had thoroughly lost, since it was Patton’s quick thinking and emotional attunement that kept the previous cycle’s encounter from descending into disaster.

He had acquiesced in the end under the combined force of Logan’s reasoning and Patton’s disappointed look, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. After catching barely a wink of sleep between restless nightmares, he was feeling more grumpy than generous.

Still, his own irritation faded as they grew closer to the rocky cliffs where he suspected the Human was, shifting into an intense concentration on the task ahead. It was a miracle that their initial encounter hadn’t gone sour, a miracle that this Human seemed young enough to be somewhat nonaggressive, and while he hoped that whatever they had said to scare the young kit off hadn’t irreparably damaged their budding acquaintanceship, he wasn’t counting on it.

He had his underarmor on for a reason.

The other two didn’t quite share his concerns. Logan’s arms had been in an excited, information-gathering flurry practically non-stop since they set out, and he and Patton had been discussing the plants and insects in the nearby forest that were relatively non toxic to them (and so would probably be no issue for a Human), and how many nutrients they would provide. None of them knew how much or what a Human needed to eat, but Patton seemed firmly of the opinion that whatever the kid was eating, it wasn’t enough.

“Fledgelings need plenty of food and the proper nutrients to grow up healthy! A lone child in the middle of one forest can’t possibly have all the variety they need in their diet,” the Ampen insisted, feathers fluffing up at the mere idea of a kid going hungry.

“Another important factor to note is the planet itself is not the child’s home, and so may not have the necessary nutrients available at all, let alone in one localized area,” Logan added.

“You two have enough variety in those packs to weigh down a mountain,” Roman interjected, “so how about we focus on not scaring the kid off before we even reach them. Human senses are ludicrously strong, enough so that they’ll hear you two yakking a parsec away.”

They agreed to be stealthier, and just in time, because Roman was pretty sure he’d found a more solid trail than the ghost-like faded prints that seemed all to trek over the place. He gestured in Crav’n sign for the two of them to stay put and stay quiet, and then followed the fresh tracks until they came to the mouth of a small cave amongst the crevices and steep drops of the pale cliffs.

He slowly stalked into the cave, keeping his movements light and quiet even as the light grew dimmer and his vision more restricted. Before it could grow too dim, however, his gaze caught on round, un-rock-like silhouettes.

It took a moment to identify the shapes as small, limp Humlilts, all piled up around the larger Human. He nearly physically recoiled at the sight. So, this was why the small creatures had gone missing: slaughtered en masse at the hand of a Deathworlder. Not for food nor shelter, not in defense of itself or others, just for the sake of the callous cruelty and disregard for life that Humans were apparently born with.

Humlilts were small, but Patton was scarcely bigger. Once the Human got tired of playing at mimicry, would it try to add the Ampen to the hoard of bodies?

He wasn’t going to lose another family.

Almost against his will, a low, near-subsonic growl rumbled out of his throat. He took one advancing step forward, and then…

And then, a tiny head poked up from the pile, small dark eyes staring at him over a long snout.

Roman nearly tripped over his own feet, astonished. There was still a living Humlilt in there?

Before he could even finish his thought, another head appeared, and then another, until there was a sea of fluffy faces and huge ears all pointed in his direction. The undersized ungulates were fine, each and every one of them. They had simply been sleeping, all cozied up with one of the most dangerous species in the universe.

Roman felt a strange and overwhelming mixture of relief and shame, his scales flattening down guiltily. It was too late, though, the movement had already rippled through the group until it reached the Human. Their creepy mask was absent in rest, and they pawed at their eyes sleepily as they sat up to see what all the commotion was about. There was a red mark on one of their cheeks from where it had pressed against the cave floor.

The moment they saw who stood at the entrance of their little nook, all the color drained from their face. The Humlilts shifted uneasily, and Roman found himself bracing to have thirty miniscule sets of horns charging at him. They couldn’t really hurt him, but they were persistent little things, and Patton and Logan would not be happy if a bunch of Humlillts tried to drive them away from the Human before they’d even properly spoken.

Instead of siccing the plethora of tiny mammals on him, though, the kid whistled a few notes in a perfect echo of the Humlilts all-clear call, settling them down. They carefully detangled themself from the pile, trailing a few stray twigs and leaves behind them in the process. Roman wondered absently how long they’d been building the collection of plant matter that covered them.

A few parting trills later, the kid was in front of him, holding their bony shoulders firm but unable to conceal the tremor in their legs. They raised their chin up in what looked like a friendly Crav’n greeting, but attitude-wise seemed more along the lines of a challenging stance.

“No hurt,” they said firmly before Roman could say a word. “No hurt small--,” a few words in their own language here, “--small good. No hurt. No hurt. Yes?”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Roman tried to reassure them, “I swore, remember?”

The kid stomped their foot once in… some kind of emphasis. “No hurt,” they started again with deliberate slowness, and then ended with the Humlilt whistle-greeting. Many of the Humlilts whistled back from where they were still observing the two of them. The small cavern echoed with the sound eerily.

“You don’t want me to hurt the Humlilts? The small creatures?” Roman asked, gesturing to the pile of fluff and hooves, and was rewarded with the kid seeming satisfied.

“Yes. Small good. Good good small. No hurt.”

Roman extended his hand palm up for another oath. “I vow not to harm your small good friends,” he intoned solemnly. The kid patted his hand twice, bobbing their own head in a curious motion. Roman could only imagine the sort of notes Logan would be taking.

Oh, right. He’d left the others in the bushes.

“I brought my friends, too,” he informed the kid, who blinked up at him. “Logan and Patton, remember them? Little critter?”

He said the last words in the chirps of the Ampen language, only a little strained by his accent, and the kid visibly brightened. “Little critter!”

“Wait right here, and I’ll get them,” Roman instructed, lowering a flat hand to convey wait. The kid probably didn’t really grasp it, but seemed content enough to stay put, shifting from one foot to the other.

It took no time at all to find Patton and Logan, who had progressively edged closer to the cliff face as he’d taken his sweet time in there.

“Okay, so,” he started, “I know where all the missing Humlilts went.”

---

Virgil shuffled his feet slightly, feeling the cool stone under his toes.

He should probably leave now, because even if the fluffy chirp alien really was there, they knew or at least suspected he was a human, and aliens hated humans. All of them, even the ones that looked soft like birds or cool like dinosaurs.

A soft, velvety nose poked up against his hand, and he squatted to gently pat the strange little singing puppy-antelope that had parted from the group to check on him. He couldn’t help but smile a little bit as it bumped its snout against his knee, sounding like a windchime.

Okay. Maybe not all aliens.

He looked up at the clitter-clatter of talons on rock, and then the fluffy chirping alien really did careen into view, feathers all puffed up like that very angry owl that had roosted outside his window for three whole hours one time. The other two bigger aliens came in only moments later.

Virgil couldn’t help but shrink back slightly from where he was still crouched, because aliens were weird and sometimes they did weird things that he didn’t really… get. Typically, this would be right before they started getting really mad or shaky, and screaming at him.

Before Fluff-Chirp could get any closer, though, the puppy-antelope had charged between them, planting its little legs and lowering its head so that the little horns were pointed out in warning. Virgil went still, eyes darting between Fluff-Chirp and the little creature, who he was pretty sure was the one with the white spot on its forehead, the one he’d named Susan after his nice neighbor.

The cool dinosaur alien had promised not to hurt them (he was pretty sure), but would it count if the puppy-antelopes attacked them first?

Fluff-Chirp stepped forward a little bit, and Susan let out a shrill cry like someone blowing really hard on a flute. Virgil clapped his hands over his ears as he attempted to whistle the calm-down sound, but Susan would not be budged, even as the other two aliens got all tense and twitchy.

In front of it, Fluff-Chirp stopped advancing, and instead plopped down on the ground with a soft thump. They ruffled in their bag, and Virgil was struck with the fear that they would pull out a space blaster gun to shoot Susan for trying to protect him. Hurriedly, he crawled forwards and threw his arms around the puppy-antelope (puppylope?) and hugged it close to shield it from any laser gun beams, his eyes squeezing shut.

There was a grunt-grumble from the cool dinosaur, and the click-click-click of the bunches of arms of the blue one moving around, but all he heard from Fluff-Chirp was shuffling, and then—

“Hello good morning,” the fluffy alien said. Or at least, that was what Virgil thought the birdsong-like words meant.

Fluff-Chirp always said it when waking up in their little camp, and Virgil had said it back, because that was just basic manners, especially when someone gives you stuff. Fluff-Chirp had given him a bunch of sweet sliced up fruit, kind of with the feeling of mangoes and the taste of strawberries. It had reminded him of home.

It… kind of smelled like Fluff-Chirp’s fruit now, actually.

—

Patton watched hopefully as the kid slowly opened one eye to peek over at them.

He hadn’t meant to scare the poor little guy by rushing in, he’d just been absolutely delighted to hear that not only would he get to see some Humlilts after all, but also that the kid seemed to have some company after all.

Some very loyal company, if the one threat-displaying at him was any indication. Patton was careful not to engage, particularly since further back in the cave, he could see a whole assembly of tiny, reflective eyes. Roman would probably just hold him up in the air if there was any real danger, but it was the principle of the matter. He didn’t want to upset the little guys!

Or the kid, who had finally spotted the dishes of fruit Patton had set out.

“You wanna come eat with me, little critter?” Patton offered, patting the ground near him.

“Little critter…,” the Human murmured. Their face was much more expressive now that it wasn’t mostly concealed by wood, and the kid looked painfully young. Probably no more than seven or eight sun cycles. Patton’s hearts twanged in sympathy.

Slowly, like they were waiting for the rug to be yanked out from under their feet, the kid scooted forward enough that they could grab a few pieces of the dana fruit, setting one down in front of the Humlilt to distract it. Patton eye-crinkled encouragingly, and took a piece of his own to nibble on.

“Do you remember me? I’m Patton. Patton,” he emphasized, ‘pat’-ing his own chest in example.

The kid paused mid-bite, and then swiped their wrist over their mouth before mumbling, “Patton,” back. Patton glowed with happiness.

“And that’s Logan,” he said, bolstered by one apparent success. Logan obligingly stepped forwards and gestured to himself.

“I am Logan,” he enunciated clearly.

The kid, who had stopped eating to focus wholeheartedly on this new task, scrunched his brow up. “I am Logan?”

“No, not quite,” Logan corrected gently. “Logan. I am Logan.” He cast a meaningful look to Patton.

“And I am Patton!” he added cheerfully, gesturing between the two of them. “Logan! Patton!”

“Logan,” the kid mimicked, looking at the Ulgorii and then the Ampen, “Patton.”

“You got it! Good job!” Patton noticed that the kid was very careful to keep their hands in their lap, and wondered if Humans were normally this withdrawn, or if exposure to other aliens had caused this reticence.

“Good job?” the kid echoed, wide eyed. They looked to Roman curiously, though only for a moment before dropping their gaze.

“I am Roman,” Roman surprised them both by beating them to the introductory punch.

“... Roman?” the kid offered, and got a chorus of nonsense praise for their effort. They bared their little teeth and clapped their hands together, and it took the three of them an alarmed pause and exchange of glances to realize that they weren’t, in fact, being threatened by a youngling.

“Joy? Or perhaps, contentment?” Logan was mumbling to himself. “The skin around the child’s eyes folds much like an Ampen expression of happiness, so…”

“It would make more sense to be happy after receiving praise, right?” replied Roman, who had gotten a bit bristly from nerves for a moment. Patton resisted the urge to elbow the both of them into not saying long, confusing sentences. Luckily, the kid seemed too occupied with their own thoughts to notice.

“Patton, Logan, Roman,” they recited, looking at each of them in turn. Then, very carefully, they reached up and patted their own chest. “Virgil. I am Virgil?”

There was a brief moment of stunned silence, and then Patton trilled in delight, clapping his hands in an echo of the Human’s gesture, in hopes that it would convey his own happiness and pride in the kid’s quick learning. The kid jumped, but then did that teeth-bearing smile again.

“Virgil!” he tested out, not quite getting the Human tones right, but that was okay because he could practice! “Virgil Virgil Virgil! Yes! That’s you!”

“I am Virgil!” the Human was practically bouncing in place as they matched Patton’s energy, and Patton couldn’t help but dart forward and try to bump his head to the Human’s affectionately.

Roman hissed something exceedingly panicked, but Patton was already using one of the Human’s bent legs to reach, and then he was brushing his antenna to the kid-- to Virgil’s forehead, and then the Human was lifting their arms slowly and curling them around him, and okay now Patton was a little bit concerned, but.

But, all Virgil did was lean into him slightly, arms bracing but not suffocating, and sniffle once, like they were holding back tears. Any resolve Patton had to not give his teammates stress ulcers faded away like dust in the wind, and he leaned in carefully and wrapped his arms around as much as he could reach of the kid’s shoulders and neck, which Roman would tell him was stupid dangerous because necks were weak points on Humans and they would absolutely react defensively--

Virgil promptly burst into tears, their chin coming to hook over Patton’s shoulder as a stuttering little wail worked its way out of their system. Patton made soothing nonsense croons and sung Ampen lullabies as the kid shuddered their way through a good cry, and tried not to feel too alarmed that unlike Ampens, Humans apparently leaked emotions while they cried.

Once Virgil had more or less settled down, they seemed completely wiped from the outpour of emotion, eyes drooping, body tilting to one side. For the first time since they’d arrived, the kid looked too wiped out to be nervous. Sure enough, only a few moments later, they shifted to curl up on their side, falling asleep on the cold stone easily.

Patton looked up at his teammates from where he was sitting in the center of the curled c-shape of the kid’s body, and offered them a sheepish shrug. “Well. Now we know that Humans can experience touch hunger?”

#sanders sides #ts patton #ts virgil #ts logan #ts roman #the end of being alone #teoba #donation drive #commissioned works #wibar #wibar au kid virgil #bumblebeekitten #space au #writing #my writing #i genuinely feel so soft writing this au #let virgil have hugs 2020

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my-dating-academia · 5 years ago

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Dating HC's for Tanjirou, Inosuke, and Zenitsu

Tanjirou Kamado:

-First off! You’re dating an absolute pure boy! He legit has no bad or tainted intentions. He just wants to make you happy and hold you close... He lost too much to take anything for granted and wants to hold you close. Not to be lewd or anything, but he dreams of cuddling with you next to a fireplace.

-He really is a caring lover. He always puts your needs before him. You’re hungry? Please, take his food! He’s already full! Cold? You can take his haori. He’ll be okay! You’ve been really, really wanting this certain item for a while? He can work a little harder to buy it for you!

-But truth is, he’s scared he’s gonna lose you. He tries to keep you happy, so you won’t because you keep him happy just by being with him. Whenever he’s with you, he feels relaxed. He just wants to crawl up next to you and lay his head down in your lap. Please play with his hair? Stroke his head? If you even gently trace his scar or give it light kisses he’ll blush so hard.

-Favorite thing to do is cuddle! Cuddling when you sleep! He feels so at home when he wraps around you...It makes him secure and easier to sleep.

-You’re most likely his first s/o. He has had crushes before but too busy to ever pursue them. He is a little unsure in his actions on what to do. He just wants to make you feel loved, that’s what he knows for sure. That means you’re also his first kiss! It was probably after a dangerous mission and when he saw you again, he realized how scared he is to never see you again. He gently grabbed the sides of your face to gaze at you before you closed the distance and sweetly kissed him. It was a little awkward trying to figure it out, but it was so gentle and genuine you teared up.

-He wants you to be his first and last. He already imagines a peaceful life with you with you.

-If you’re a demon slayer, he wants to go on missions with you, but he understands if he can’t. He just gets so worried even though he knows you can handle yourself! Expect a hug when you get back from one!

-He also trusts you 100% therefore he does not get jealous. He knows you won’t cheat on him. However, if someone is flirting with you and you are uncomfortable and they won’t stop, he will step in.

-You have to have a good relationship with Nezuko. He saw you teaching her how to make a flower crown and could of swore he died right at that moment of pure joy. Another time Nezuko fell asleep on your lap and you fell asleep leaning against the wall and Tanjiro’s heart just went <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

-He will be your emotional pillar and hold you whenever you get sad. Whether you just need to have a shoulder to cry on or advice, he’s got you covered.

-Please return his actions. He deserves it. Baby has been through so much he really needs some love and someone to fall against. Polish or sharpen his sword, write him a few encouraging notes, or even buy matching necklaces! He won’t take it off and keep it hidden under his collar to make sure it doesn’t get damaged. Whenever he’ll being feeling down, he’ll look at the necklace and be reminded by you. Same goes if he’s fighting a really powerful demon. It’ll give him a much needed moral boost.

Inosuke Hashibira:

-Pretty feral boy legit is clueless. He is so confused with everything, but he knows that whenever he’s near you, his face heats up and his chest feels weird and tingly. It’s like you’re doing some weird mind trick on him, like you’re baiting him into a challenge! But, whenever he tries to yell out to tell you to fight him, it turns into a weird pig-like squeal and his words die out. It’s kinda funny and makes you giggle because he gets into a fighting stance then just falters out and squeals. It took a while before you two could get together because of misunderstandings and Inosuke being confused of “love”.

-Inosuke does love you he just has his way to show it. Instead of challenging you every few minutes, he protects you. If you’re not a demon slayer, he always tries to go check up on you and has you in the back of the head. He may even give you some lessons for self defense. However, if you are a demon slayer, he does like to go on missions with you and keep an eye on you. Whenever he sees you fight fiercely in battle he just gets so proud and inside he’s all like “Yeah, that’s my s/o!!!”

-He also loves holding you for some reason. I don’t know why, but I feel like he would just love to carry you? He’ll hold you bridal style or sling you over his shoulder. This also means he’ll do that in front of others, so he just doesn’t care about PDA. He justifies it by “But they’re mine?? The others should know we’re together?? What’s so embarrassing about that???”

-He also gets jealous probably because of the whole “raised around wild animals”. He will glare and challenge Zenitsu if he asks you to marry him....Let’s just say Zenitsu learned his lesson about asking you that.

-If you sleep with him he will wrap you up in his limbs and not let you leave unfil he wakes up. You’ll have to pry him off. He may not the be softest to sleep against but he is warm, so you don’t have to worry about being cold during winter. He’s also the big spoon no matter what.

-He’ll never mention it but Inosuke will be happy if you teach him to read and write. He’s embarrassed by the fact he can’t.

-If you can cook and he make him food he will be beyond happy!! Or giving him praise!! He loves it and c r a v e s it. He doesn’t hear it very often.

-Make sure he takes care of himself. Simply like brushing his hair or making him take baths. He really prefers it if you take a bath with him, so you can reach his back. He doesn’t care if you’re naked just please get that one spot hE CAN’T SCRUB. Over a while, bathing together just becomes the norm for you two.

-As previously mentioned, he doesn’t handle well with emotions. He will let you cry into his shoulder and if the reason you’re crying is because of someone insulting you, he will go try to tear their ass up. He’s not the great with words, but he’ll take you out into the woods to release your frustration on trees or maybe even some demons.

-He kisses are rougher because he will smoosh his face onto yours and your teeth may clink, but his kisses make you feel so safe and warm. He’ll even press the snout of his mask onto your lips when he has it on.

Zenitsu Agatsuma:

-OKAY SO WE KNOW HE ASKS LEGIT ANYONE TO MARRY HIM BUT WHEN HE GETS WITH YOU THAT SHIT COMES TO A STOP.

-He is honestly so shocked you returned his feelings? He never would imagine you actually would. He honestly could look at you smiling at him and he would tear up slightly because you actually love him? You’re smiling because of him??

-He wants to be attached to you every second, but he stops himself because he’s afraid he’ll scare you off? Tell him you don’t mind and although he will be with you constantly, his face will be so blushy and blissful and that makes it worth it.

-He loves PDA and loves to give you hugs and quick kisses. Those kisses become an routine. Kiss in the morning, in the afternoon, before he goes off to a mission, before bedtime, he just loves them! He will get whiny if you don’t. He needs them like he needs air.

-His kisses are so gentle and sweet! He kisses are as soft as if he’s kissing a doll. His kisses are always filled with love. He’s a hopeless romantic okay.

-He just wants to have one night with no demons bothering you and look at the stars. He’ll point out what he sees and may even sneak in an “Those stars look like us kissing! The stars say we should kiss. Let’s kiss now!...Please?”

-Maybe he has a journal that depicts you and him getting married but shush. He may even slip out a few times by referring you to others as “My wife/husband”. He had to stop himself from getting promise rings a week after dating but he will after some months. If he sees you wearing your promise ring, he will be so happy!

-He does get insecure and unsure of himself especially after missions when he thinks his teammates outshone him. He will get teary eyed and fall into your arms. Kiss his head and list all the things that make him special and amazing. Sometimes just listen to him talk about it. Don’t worry, he’ll return the favors if you ever feel down too.

-He is the little spoon most the time because he loves affection, but some nights he just wants to hold onto you since he’s afraid that its all too good to be true.

-He does get jealous and will say something like “That’s my s/o you’re flirting to!” And will get pouty after that because what if you really did want that person? Was he no good enough? He’d cling to your haori and beg you not to leave him.

-Switch with eachother’s haoris! He loves to see you in his and your haori reminds him of you and it feels like you’re wrapped around him. Its great.

-He does try extra harder to protect you but it's still a challenge. It's like, whenever he's about to get attacked, oh well time to run up and tree and cry. But with you? Oh hell no. "Get away from my s/o filthy demon!!" while crying

-But if you saved him?? He'll be a little embarrassed but in his eyes you're his hero.

-Zenitsu really, really loves you. He probably does cheesey stuff like putting your two initials in a heart carved on a tree.

-Please don't break his heart. Poor boy fell super hard for you.

~~~

(I really do love Inosuke but he's kinda hard to write for)

#kimetsu no yaiba x reader #kny imagines #kimetsu no yaiba imagines #kny x reader #kny imagine #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer imagines #tanjirou x reader #inosuke x reader #zenitsu x reader #kny headcanons #demon slayer headcanons

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bcdrawsandwrites · 4 years ago

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For Unity by @jaywings and me

Rating: T Genre: Friendship, Angst Characters: urGoh, skekGra, skekSil, skekSo, skekTek, skekVar, urVa, urSu, urSol, urZah, possibly others… Warnings: A LOT OF VIOLENCE. Description: One was as vile and repulsive as his brethren. He murdered, and maimed, and reveled in it. The other was as slow and indirect as the rest of his brethren. He hated his dark half as much as the others did theirs. But who they were did not matter, for Thra saw its moment, and seized its opportunity. Beta Reader: ThePrairieNerd

—~~~—

Chapter 8: One, That Became Two, That Became One Again Summary: In which the Wanderer takes the first steps.

—~~~—

His hand was empty.

As he made his way through the Dark Forest, guided only by the light of the Sisters, urGoh found himself rubbing his thumb over his calloused palm repeatedly; the shard he'd carried for only a few days had felt almost like a companion to him. And yet it had shattered beneath his fingers, leaving nothing but sparkling dust in his hand—gone in a mere moment.

And what a strange moment it was.

The shared memory threatened to return, but urGoh pushed it aside. Dwelling on it would do nothing but fill him with an unhelpful, unreachable ache of longing. Instead he focused on the absence of the crystal shard, reflecting on just why it had taken that exact moment to shatter. Had the connection he'd felt extended to the shard, and corrupted it, causing it to break? Or... had the shard served its purpose?

The more urGoh thought of it, the more it seemed to be the latter, and the more unsettled he felt.

It wanted them to unify. Not just the tiny shard—the Crystal. All of Thra. A Mystic uniting with a Skeksis... who ever thought of such a thing?

The idea of working alongside the Conqueror was not something that brought urGoh any comfort, no matter how Thra urged them to. He would, he would certainly try, but he did sometimes question the wisdom of this world. After all, could a creature who had killed so many others truly decide to stop within a matter of days? Could such a monster actually change his ways, and so quickly?

"You better... have a good idea... of what... you're making us... do," he grunted to a passing tree, which merely shuffled its roots in response. "This meeting could end... very badly."

The idea of a Skeksis conversing with a Mystic was absurd to begin with, but to willingly bring the most vile of their kind so close to the Valley to meet again? What a terrible idea! Why had he agreed to this?

But at the same time... he couldn’t shake this feeling—that moment, when they both recalled the same campfire, with the same Gelfling telling the same story, because they...

The sudden ache in his chest made him stumble, and he shook his head, keeping his gaze trained forward. No—he couldn't keep rethinking this. His path had been decided, and there was no turning back now.

As urGoh walked, the first rising sun cast strange, flickering shadows in the trees, winking in and out of view and slipping through the leaves as though they were following him. One shadow broke away from the rest, twining serpentlike partway down the trunk of a tree before a shape landed in front of him with a thump. UrGoh backed up a step, squinting hard.

The first Brother was at his eye-line, and he could not see the figure that confronted him, save for a looming, spiked silhouette. For a heart-stopping moment he thought it was skekGra, having changed his mind and abandoned all sense, returning to attack him again.

“A plod-stomping urRu,” the figure rasped in a low voice. “In the Dark Wood.”

It had to be a Skeksis, but urGoh didn’t immediately recognize it. Sunlight glinted off the edge of a wicked dagger it gripped in its claw.

UrGoh raised a hand to block the light and attempted to duck to one side in order to clear his vision, but the creature simply moved with him with a fluidity that he did not expect.

“This looks like valuable pickings,” it went on. “A Mystic’s floundering tongue would be the trophy of trophies. And the head of a Skeksis would come freely with no miserable squabbling.”

“You are… bluffing,” urGoh said. No Skeksis would purposely bring harm to another Skeksis, surely? Especially by attacking their Mystic counterpart. They seemed to prefer open confrontation.

A beaked, reptilian head was suddenly thrust in his face, eyes narrowed under a mask made from the skull of some unfortunate creature.

“Am I?” the Skeksis spat.

UrGoh shuffled backwards, his tail dragging through the leaves, still trying to get a good look at his aggressor. The mask had revealed the exact identity of this Skeksis, though it was someone he’d never met—nor, truthfully, had wanted to meet.

“How did you… know I was here?” he asked, hesitantly. Had this creature caught sight of skekGra?

The Hunter hissed through jagged fangs. “I followed your lumbering footsteps for miles. The blundering Mystic disturbed the rakkida pack I was tracking.”

“Oh. I am… sorry,” urGoh said uncertainly. He didn’t have much love for rakkida, vicious as they could be, though the thought of more deaths attributed to the Skeksis gave his stomach a sickening lurch. “Perhaps if you go after them now… you will find them again.”

“But they’re no longer a worthy prize,” the Hunter sneered. “They were scared off by a Mystic.”

He lunged suddenly, faster than urGoh could have prepared for, but withdrew with a snarl almost within the same second. A large arrow had sprouted from the ground at his feet.

“Leave this place, skekMal,” the deep, resonant voice of the Archer rang out, as the Mystic stepped into view. He had strung his towering bow, another arrow nocked loosely in the string but not yet pulled taut. “The forest is not yours to command, much as you think it is.”

The Skeksis clicked his teeth. “All who trespass into the Endless Forest beyond their piddly settlements invite death from the shadows.”

“I see no shadows,” urVa growled. “You stand in the light of day.”

UrGoh could see a shadow, however: the one standing before them, cloaked in death.

As they were speaking, the sun had risen higher, now leaving the Hunter in plain view. He stood up straighter, rattling the morbid trophies that hung from his belt—skulls and pieces taken from previous victims that urGoh did not immediately recognize, and he tried to look away, for fear he eventually would.

"I am a Lord of the Crystal, and master of these woods, in light or in darkness," skekMal snarled. "I can hunt what I wish, whenever I wish, hidden or not!"

"I see." UrVa returned his arrow and unstrung his bow. Then, his eyes always upon the Hunter, he marched forward until he had situated himself between skekMal and urGoh. He lifted his head, a challenging gaze piercing his other half's eyes. "Hunt me, then."

For a long moment, the three of them stood silently, skekMal and urVa both eerily still, each a corrupted reflection of the other. Only urGoh moved, glancing back and forth between the two, wondering which of them was truly mad enough to make the first move.

SkekMal suddenly lunged his head forward, letting out a vicious howl, and charged. While urGoh cringed back, urVa stood his ground, and the Skeksis bolted in a wide arc around them, rushing into the depths of the Dark Forest. UrGoh kept an eye on him until his form melted into the trees, while urVa regarded the situation with an almost detached calmness. Finally the Archer turned away, his long bow thudding against the soft ground as he moved on without comment.

"Um... thank you," urGoh said, blinking and trailing after urVa. "I wasn't sure... what would happen there."

"SkekMal is a dangerous creature," urVa said plainly. "His actions can be unpredictable, even among the Skeksis… But even he would not be fool enough to attack..."

UrGoh waited for him to finish; when he did not, he merely followed, keeping an eye on the path ahead.

"You have been wounded," the Archer said suddenly, and urGoh gingerly touched the scratches on his snout.

"My... other half," he mumbled, and urVa gave a quiet hum. They walked in silence for a few minutes longer. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but nor was it much of a companionable one, and it inescapably put him in mind of their previous journey toward the Valley together. It felt like countless trine ago. Had it really been only a few days?

"For what reason do you take the path through this forest, urGoh?" urVa asked.

"Hm. Other than... my being... a Wanderer?" UrGoh slowly turned his head, giving his companion a wry smile. But urVa did not spare him another glance; he didn't seem to be in such good humor this morning, and urGoh sighed. "I am... returning... to the Valley."

UrVa stopped, lifting his head as he faced urGoh at last. "Again? Your wandering path rarely leads you home. What brings you back this time?"

Glancing back the way skekMal had fled, urGoh frowned. "I have... something important... to discuss with urSu."

"A better conversation would be had with the mountainside."

UrGoh cast his gaze downward. "Perhaps. But... even a mountain may eventually give in... if it is worn down enough, or if something large... should impact it."

"Hmm." The Archer closed his eyes. "I see you are still concerned with the plight of the Gruenaks. If the Master has already given his verdict on the subject, I fear nothing but the voice of Thra itself may change his mind, my friend.”

“The Gruenak devastation… has… passed.” UrGoh could not keep the bitterness from his voice. “I return with… a different matter.”

Briefly urGoh considered telling everything, and glanced down at the forest floor to contemplate his words. But the light cast by the first brother upon urVa created a looming, dark shadow behind him, and he shuddered. No. He could not speak here.

"I see." For the first time that morning, a smile crossed urVa's muzzle. "I am keen to see what you believe can move a mountain."

"As... am I." UrGoh blinked. The Archer’s wording had struck him. “You wish… to join me?”

“I will. Perhaps it is now time I returned to the others, as well,” urVa said. “But please… no poetry.”

“No,” urGoh said mournfully. “I… lost it all… in an unintended swim.”

“Ah. That is certainly a shame.”

The two resumed their journey, urGoh confident in knowing that it would not split at the Valley entrance this time. He felt that a weight had been lifted from his shoulders—but was almost immediately replaced by another one as the enormity of his task set in. The thought of trusting any Skeksis was still a rather foreign concept to him. How in Thra’s name might his brethren be convinced?

—~~~—

He looked like an idiot.

He certainly felt like an idiot, especially among the other Skeksis who probably hadn't set foot outside the Castle in who knows how many trine. SkekGra was uncomfortably aware of the mud on his claws, ashes on his armor, the cuts on his face, and the myriad of twigs and leaves clinging to his robes. He could feel the burn of their stares. Would there be a time when he wouldn't traipse back to the castle drenched in all manner of filth?

SkekGra had hoped to return unnoticed, but he should have known otherwise. It was getting too late in the day, and the castle was far too busy. He managed to climb back up through the catacombs unnoticed, but was spotted by guards as soon as he reached the first of the more populated floors of the castle. Now he could only trudge through the cold stone halls like a Podling before the Deturge and hope he wouldn't be questioned.

And also, once again, to make the choice between food or sleep. His cramping stomach suggested which one should take priority. Hastily, he brushed off the worst of the grime and headed for the Banquet Hall.

"So... the murdering scourge of Thra... is afraid of me..."

The deep, slow voice, the chirping of desert insects, and the crackling of a fire echoed in his head.

"The Crystal is fractured... It felt like pain, emptiness, incompleteness... Have you not thought... that it needed to be healed?"

An image of the great Crystal, once a pure, shining white, now bled a deep violet. The memory of the Crystal of Truth dragged down to the Scientist's lab in heavy metal claws, pulsing against the cruel restraints.

"It never occurred to me..."

Someone prodded at his side, hard, and he picked up an urgent, whispered, "Lord Skeksis-ah!"

SkekGra jerked upright, blinking in alarm, his warrior's instinct fighting to take in every aspect of his surroundings. He was seated at his place at the banquet table. Several Skeksis around him were croaking with laughter. There was an upturned bowl of soup in front of him. And his face was dripping.

A Podling face looked up at him anxiously—the one who had poked him awake, no doubt. SkekGra waved him away, heart shriveling slightly in embarrassment as he mopped up his face with a dry part of the tablecloth. Irritably he noticed the others were still cackling. What were they laughing about? He could do an entire series of paintings about the stupid things each and every one of them had done. And whom at this table hadn't ever buried their face in a bowl of soup?

Too bad his own stupidity seemed to be coming more frequently as of late.

After shaking off the mortification, shoving some amount of food in his mouth, and regaining some strength in his limbs, it was of course time to attend the Ceremony of the Sun once again. He stood at his place in the circle, his gaze unwavering, letting strength flow into him that he knew was never theirs to take, and spoke to no one. He did not catch skekTek's eye, ignored any jeers presented by the others, their own insults forgotten as soon as they garnered no response.

"Lord Conqueror!"

A voice called out to him in the corridor as he made his way to his chambers, and he finally stopped, looking down to see a Vapran Gelfling rush up to him. He gave a start as he recognized this one.

"Conall," he greeted, the name slipping out before he even realized that he knew what it was. Strange... he'd never cared much about learning their names.

The Gelfling dipped forward in a bow as he reached him. "My lord, I've just returned from the battalion of Gelfling sent back to the Caves of Grot to rout out the Gruenak stragglers. They told me that no one had reported to you about it, so I immediately sought you out. We..." He swallowed nervously, as though unsure how skekGra would take his next words. "We- we didn't find anything, my lord. And the Grottans swore that they had offered no further protection to the traitors."

Again, the voice returned to his mind: "You spared two. Two of the hundreds... that fell by your swords."

He swiped his tongue over his jaws, and gave his response in almost a trance. “Let them escape…” he muttered.

Maybe they did escape, he thought. Maybe they left those foul caves and found a place to settle, far from conflict.

The Vapran, meanwhile, quailed away from him, face paling and ears flicking back. "N-no, my lord, we did not intend to, but we had orders from Emperor skekSo to return. I'm so sorry, my lord. We won't give up. Every time we're sent out again, we'll keep a watch for them. We'll track them down eventually, and make them pay for eluding the army of the Castle of the Crystal!"

SkekGra's stomach wrenched. "Yes. See that you do."

“And I… I wanted to warn you, my lord…” the Gelfling wrung his hands. “The guards have been saying strange things. Things… about you.”

SkekGra gave a sniff. “I think I can handle a few Gelfling rumors. Now, attend to your duties, Vapran.”

He took his leave from the young guard and, in a haze, found his quarters and loomed in the doorway like a dark shadow.

Oh, Thra, it was a disaster in here. Someone would have to take care of this.

He crossed into the room, placed his weapons carefully beside his wardrobe, and promptly turned to collapse face-first onto his bed.

"You feel... guilty, Conqueror."

Another sickening lurch to his insides.

Vaguely he grasped at the tattered wish for a sleep with no dreams, no visions, no haunted words, no drowning Mystic idiots or cries from the Crystal to rip him from unconsciousness. He wasn't built for this nonsense.

Oh. And I promised another meeting with the Wanderer in some Thra-forsaken corner just outside the Dark Wood.

Eyes tightly closed, his tongue snapped a sharp curse and one fist beat against his bedcovers. When had this become his life?

—~~~—

It was the phrase that skekGra fell asleep to, and blearily woke several hours later with it still running through his mind. He pushed himself to his feet, and finally exchanged his sodden robes for clean ones—the others had been through a lot, he noted, as he laid the forlorn-looking clothes out flat on the bed—and sheathed his weapons back in their proper places before strolling from the room.

Not wanting to have to navigate another conversation or lecture from anyone this time, he took back ways around the Castle, slipping unseen into the Scrollkeeper's library to swipe a map, and then retreating down through the catacombs to undergo another unpleasant crawl out through the Teeth of Skreesh.

An unexpected scent hit his nostrils before he reached the way out, however, and he tensed. Gelfling? He could have sworn he caught a hint of stale Gelfling scent. But that was impossible—Gelfling had always been forbidden from coming down here. Anyone who broke that rule would be thrown from the Castle, along with any members of their family, and with such a black mark on their record would likely never be able to find civilized work again.

He shoved the matter aside and continued on his way.

It would be nice, he thought, to not have to leave the castle like this again. But at least it was secretive, as no one considered that anyone in their right mind would use this path.

"It's been a long time since I've been in my right mind," he muttered, swatting a dangling branch out of his face. Consulting the map he'd borrowed, he pinpointed the unlikely spot for the Wanderer's planned meeting with whatever Mystic he could drag out of its hole, and started off on a path southeast from the Castle.

Was he ready to meet another Mystic?

His teeth clicked. The tips of his fingers twitched. There was a prickling at his back as his spines rose.

He didn't fear the Mystics. What was to fear? The Wanderer himself had stated that anger was not natural to them. And aside the Hunter's strange counterpart, he doubted that they even had a concept of weaponry.

It was the wrongness of it all that unsettled him so. The knowledge that he would have to look into some creature's beady eyes and see the distorted, meandering reflection of someone he knew. Which one would it be?

And why did he dread this decision more with every step?

—-~~~—-

The third Brother barely broke over the horizon as urGoh and urVa neared the Valley. The Archer paused as they drew closer, and for a moment urGoh feared he would turn away again.

However, urGoh quickly spotted the reason for it, and could only stare as urSol the Chanter approached them along the trail, stopping in front of them.

“...Chanter,” urGoh said, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. “You have… left the Valley.”

UrSol inclined his head, a slight smile on his face. “I have taken four steps beyond the border. Hardly a long trip when compared to the Wanderer.” He looked up, his eyes shadowed. “Did you find what you were looking for, urGoh?”

UrGoh paused, his neck dipping slightly as though weighed down.

“...No,” he said after a moment. The Chanter blinked in sympathy, and urGoh went on. “But I did find… something else.”

UrSol's gaze turned to urVa, regarding him with a tipped head. "You found... the Archer."

"...Yes," urGoh said. "But that is... not all. I must speak... with urSu."

At that, the Chanter heaved a sigh. "I may speak in many voices... but none of them can reach Master urSu." Yet he smiled at urGoh, and continued, "But that does not mean the Wanderer will not succeed." With that, he resumed his original course, passing the other two Mystics and heading up and away from the Valley.

Though urGoh knew he could not delay long, curiosity overcame him and he turned to face the Chanter. "Where do you... go?"

"To seek new songs outside the Valley," the other said without turning around. "And new company. But I will not be gone long. Perhaps a few trine."

"Avoid the forest," urVa said, eyeing urSol seriously. "No song is worth an encounter with the monster that lurks there."

UrSol paused. "I fear not the shadows," he said, and did not stop again.

With the departure of the third Mystic, the two made their way further into the Valley, watching as the slow life of their fellows went on as usual. UrZah the Ritual Guardian did not look up from his sand painting, though the Weaver waved in greeting as urGoh and urVa passed by. While urGoh was glad to see the other urRu again, his mind dwelled on other matters. "Where... do you suppose..." he began, but trailed off when he saw the Archer had stopped. UrVa's gaze was turned upward, and urGoh followed it, blinking in surprise.

UrSu stood on the ledge above them, regarding him with an expression urGoh could not read.

"Wanderer," he said. "You rarely return home without purpose." He did not question urVa's presence, and urGoh's mane prickled.

"I have come... to show you something," urGoh said. "Something... of great importance..."

"And what have you brought to our Valley?" urSu asked.

"I did not bring—" urGoh nearly said “him,” but caught himself just in time, "—the… important thing... with me. You must come with me... beyond the Valley."

The Archer snapped his head toward urGoh alarmingly fast, eyes wide. Every other urRu within listening distance did the same, their heads raised and snouts pointed almost accusingly at urGoh. UrVa opened his mouth to speak, but urSu was faster.

"It is one thing for other urRu to leave the Valley," he said. UrSu's gaze had an uncharacteristic hardness to it. "I have permitted some to leave... against all counseling, whether from clouded judgment and dissatisfaction, seeking perpetual solitude, or a futile wanderlust… the Storyteller, the Swimmer, and the Monk, passed beyond our sight... the Archer, living alone, the Peacemaker… the Chanter, ever guided by his ill-formed emotions, storming off after another argument… And to say nothing of you, Wanderer, as it’s in your very name.” His gaze never left urGoh. "But to ask for me to pass beyond the Valley’s borders…”

"He would be killed," urVa said plainly. "A Skeksis would surely seek him and swiftly kill him. To take his power."

UrGoh looked him in the eye. "But you... have faced your own dark half, and driven him away."

The Archer regarded him for a moment before humming and turning aside.

"Master urSu," urGoh went on, facing his leader again. "This is of... vital importance. Thra itself... demands it."

UrSu heaved a long sigh through his nostrils. "Thra has not spoken to me of such things."

"Thra... has spoken... to me."

The Valley went still. Without looking, urGoh knew the others were staring at him, and he knew how absurd his claim sounded. But he continued to stare into urSu's eyes, his own gaze serious, pleading. If urSu would not at least see what he was going to propose, there was no hope of his ever listening.

The Master returned his gaze for an agonizingly long moment, and urGoh held his breath. But slowly, slowly urSu turned away, his heavy steps plodding across the wooden walkway. Heart suddenly heavy, urGoh lowered his head, shutting his eyes against the sheer frustration and sadness welling up within him.

A better conversation would be had with the mountainside, indeed.

"Show me, then."

Straightening, urGoh spun around as quickly as he could, almost falling over himself, to find urSu watching him again and leaning heavily on his staff.

"Show me what Thra has shown you, that it has kept secret from me."

UrGoh blinked stupidly, his mouth falling open and throat producing no sound.

"Then I want to see as well," urVa said somberly, shifting the walking stick that doubled as his bow. "Lead the way, Wanderer."

The knot in his chest loosened itself a little, the burden easing, and urGoh nodded. "Yes... right... away."

—~~~—

What was he doing?

Every step brought deep dread seeping back into his bones, displacing the relief he’d felt, his jaw set with his teeth clenched together.

Not one of them spoke. The calm camaraderie that urGoh had felt with urVa on the trek back to the Valley had vanished, replaced by a cold fragility, three slow-moving figures set on a single destination, all lost in their own reveries and none too happy to be going.

This was a mistake. The thought wound itself through urGoh’s head and felt heavy on his tongue, as though desperate to be spoken aloud to send the others home. He glanced behind him to see urVa’s face set in grim determination, his eyes slowly roving from side to side as though to watch for threats. UrSu by contrast had his gaze set straight ahead, watching neither urVa, urGoh, or their surroundings for that matter.

This was a mistake. I am leading both of them into a Skeksis trap.

UrGoh slowly shook his head, tossing out his mane. A trap? No. SkekGra could not restrain and capture three Mystics at once, particularly when one of them was the Archer. And he certainly couldn’t kill them without harming himself, along with a highly revered and feared Skeksis in the Hunter, and his own Emperor.

Unless the death of Emperor skekSo was the point.

UrGoh glanced again at urSu, with urVa following in his wake. This was why the Archer had come along—to grant the Master all the protection he could offer. But skekGra did not even know that urGoh had planned to bring urSu to the meeting place. UrGoh hadn’t told him.

“And he’s… changed,” urGoh said aloud, as though speaking the words might make him believe them.

“What did you say?” the Archer said evenly. UrSu said nothing.

“I said… so much... has changed,” urGoh said, his fingers curling.

UrSu spoke up then, still gazing ahead. “Eternity does not change. The stars, the planets, they sweep across the sky in an endless rhythm. We are nothing to the great expanse of the universe, the creatures who dwell here even less so. Our lives are a whisper that makes no impact, until we are called to act by a mediator of the cosmos.” He tilted his head to look straight at urGoh. “So what is it, Wanderer, that you wanted to show us?”

The Master’s response had drawn the small party to a stop—uncannily close, urGoh realized, to the meeting spot he had set up with skekGra. UrGoh drew in a deep breath and slowly, slowly, turned to face the others.

“We are here,” he said simply.

“And there is something… waiting for us?” UrVa’s face had darkened, though his expression was not altogether readable.

UrGoh hesitated. “I am… not sure yet. I… will go check.”

He turned quickly to avoid the looks in their eyes and pushed through the bracken and curtain of leaves up ahead, coming to a stop when he reached a clearing and a strong, sour scent hit his nostrils.

The forest here was silent, as though nothing wanted to reveal its presence.

There was no doubt. SkekGra was here.

As he had this thought, a nearby branch shifted and suddenly the Conqueror was there, slipping out into the daylight, eyes bright and accusing. He tilted his head up, taking a sniff of the air. With a jolt urGoh remembered how much better senses of smell Skeksis had than most other creatures he knew—certainly better than Mystics.

“I thought you were bringing maybe one Mystic,” skekGra growled. “What kind of trickery is this? Was this a trap?”

UrGoh stretched his neck higher, looking the Skeksis straight in the eyes. “Those I have brought… fear a trap from you.”

The Conqueror went rigid, his eyes aflame with fury and horror. “How many others did you tell about me?!”

“None… yet.” He held unwavering eye contact. “I have told them… nothing. But we discussed... that we should share our revelations... with the Mystics. So I… have brought them.”

“What, all of them?” SkekGra shook his head hard. “We didn’t discuss anything! This was your idea, which you simply flung at me while I was in a hurry—”

UrGoh interrupted. “It is… time.”

Before he could change his mind, he turned and let out a low note from deep in his throat, the sound reverberating through the trees and causing the leaves to tremble. SkekGra cried out and flung his hands over his ears, baring his jagged fangs.

Before urGoh’s call had faded, urSu and urVa strode through the trees and stood behind him, the disheveled Skeksis in full view.

Neither Mystic betrayed any hint of surprise, though the worn, spiralling creases in their faces had hardened. SkekGra, however, looked alarmed; in a flash of sunlight he had drawn three blades—a short sword along with two daggers clutched in his secondary arms—and dropped into a defensive stance.

At some point, out of urGoh’s sight, urVa had nocked an arrow, though he did not yet draw it.

No one spoke. No breeze blew, the atmosphere heavy and taut as if the air itself were the Archer’s bow. UrGoh felt as if the slightest movement would snap the fragile strings holding them all at bay and the clearing would erupt into chaos.

He made the tiniest gesture toward skekGra, his eyes on the two Mystics.

“Here… is what I wanted you to... see,” he said, his tongue lame in his mouth. He half-expected the Archer to run him through with an arrow where he stood, perhaps not even bothering to loose it first.

"...A Skeksis," urSu said, and urVa tightened his grip on his bow.

"Yes," urGoh replied, twitching his tail in a vain attempt to rid himself of the excess tension in the air. "This is the skekGra, the Conqueror... my other half."

"This was a terrible place to meet it," urVa said, his voice a strained growl.

"Why?" skekGra asked suspiciously, and if it were possible, the tension only increased in the small clearing. Something was going to snap. "If you're worried about the Hunter, I don't think he comes out this far."

"He... hmmm." Slowly urVa lowered his bow, but only by a fraction. He doesn't, was probably what he had been planning to say, but he'd evidently thought the better of it, not wanting the Skeksis to know what he was actually worried about.

"Can you stop pointing that thing at me?" skekGra demanded, glancing from urVa to urGoh. "You’ll end up hurting him too, you know."

"Your weapons are still drawn," urVa retorted.

At that, skekGra pulled back slightly. "Listen, I don't know which ones you are, but..." He ground his teeth furiously. "...But my Emperor would have my head if the others found out I attacked you. I'd be attacking one of my own."

UrVa did loosen the pull on his arrow upon hearing that, lowering the weapon in surprise, but urSu's gaze hardened. "I do not believe it. No Skeksis has honor."

"This again," skekGra growled, but slowly sheathed his weapons. One talon, however, rested on the hilt of his sword.

"What does it mean, again?" urVa questioned, this time turning to urGoh.

"SkekGra and I met yesterday," he admitted. "It was then... we decided... to speak with you."

The Conqueror clicked his beak sharply. "Oh, yes, this was truly something we agreed upon, with full understanding of each other."

Slowly urSu turned his gaze upon urGoh. "Is this... what Thra spoke to you of?"

"Thra... spoke to us." UrGoh took a small step, merely shuffling his feet, realizing moments later that he had moved slightly closer to skekGra. "Both of us. We... were given... visions."

There was silence for a moment.

“Thra does not give us visions,” urVa said. “We are not truly a part of this world.”

"Any vision received by a Skeksis is sure to be one of corruption," urSu said, finally looking skekGra in the eye. Apparently the Conqueror could see a certain something in the Master's eyes, for he took a step back.

"I... I did see corruption in my vision," skekGra admitted after a moment. "Thra itself falling apart at the seams. Death everywhere. Even the Skeksis..." He swallowed. "We rotted where we stood." His gaze grew distant for a moment, before hardening, as he looked at urSu accusingly. "I'm sure the same was happening to you lot as well."

"It was... a warning," urGoh said quickly, before a fight could break out. "Thra showed me... that the Crystal... needed healing."

For a moment urVa and urSu were silent, the two turning their gazes upon each other. UrSu's face was unreadable, but urVa raised an eyebrow in interest. "Yes," he agreed. "The Crystal... does need to be healed."

"But not by one of our own," urSu said. "That is not our destiny."

"So what do you propose we do?" skekGra snapped. "Sit around and hope someone patches a bandage on it?!"

UrSu glared at him. “Nor is it a task that the Skeksis will accomplish. We must wait for the Crystal... to call."

"That is not... what Thra... told us," urGoh said. "It said... we must strive... for unity. All of Thra. The Gelfling—"

"The Gelfling have Aughra to aid them," the Master interjected.

"Aughra yet slumbers." UrVa said. His head lowered, but only for a moment.

"It is not our call."

"Oh, listen to yourselves!" skekGra snapped, teeth bared in a hiss. "Do you Mystics ever do anything other than mumble, walk in circles, and chant nonsense? When are you going to do something about all this?”

"A Skeksis would lecture us on taking action?" UrVa’s gaze was piercing.

The Conqueror’s eyes flared. “If even one of you bitter, long-necked sloths would stand up and act, you could march up to the Castle of the Crystal itself, and—!” He faltered.

UrGoh stared at his dark half. What?

He shook his head—it wasn’t important now. "What the Conqueror means,” he said, “is that... we are taking steps... to solve... the problem."

"The only steps we must take are the ones that will lead us when the Crystal calls us," urSu said simply.

"Thra... has told us otherwise." Looking between the Master and the Archer, urGoh curled his tail around his legs, mentally preparing himself for what he would say next. "Thra... wants us to unify... not just the rest of Thra... but the Skeksis... and the Mystics... together."

UrVa lifted his head, his eyes wide, while urSu's expression did not change. More alarmingly, he raised not only his head, but his entire body, his four hands braced against his staff. At his full height he towered over skekGra, and the Conqueror's feet dug into the dirt as though he wanted to be swallowed by it.

"It... is not... our... time."

The words hung heavily in the air, the solid weight of them bearing down on the shoulders of everyone in the clearing. UrGoh felt they would crush him, and nearly sank to the ground.

"Do you believe it, Wanderer?" urVa said, finally breaking the deafening silence. "That we should unite with our dark halves?"

"...Yes," urGoh replied, and froze at the look urVa gave him in return. Only then did he remember the encounter with the Hunter, a Skeksis who showed none of skekGra's fear of harming his own kind. "Um... Thra... told me..."

"Was it indeed Thra?" urSu stared down at him; he had not lowered himself in the slightest. "Or was it a product of your endless wanderings?"

"It's true!" skekGra blurted. "I saw it too. Thra won't leave us alone about it!" He gestured toward urGoh. “Show them the thing you had last night, that little glittery crystal shard! That looked important.”

“I… can’t,” urGoh said dolefully, glancing down out of habit at his empty hands. “It… shattered.”

“Oh. That’s helpful.”

UrSu stared at skekGra again, unmoved, and the Skeksis visibly balked. "I do not believe a Skeksis would be granted such a vision. Thra... has not said such to me."

"I wonder why," the Conqueror snapped, regaining his composure at once.

UrSu slowly dropped back into his normal posture. He looked wearier than urGoh had ever seen him. "A Skeksis is not to be trusted," he said finally, and turned to urGoh. "You must never again speak with your other half."

"What?" urGoh said, stunned.

"UrSu is right." UrVa took a step forward. "Was it not you yourself who spoke of the evils this creature has done? The blood he has shed?"

Even without looking, urGoh could feel skekGra's gaze upon him. His toes dug into the grass, his tail curling tightly. Once again, he saw the two Gruenaks huddled in a corner deep in the Caves of Grot, still mourning their lost family member. Even more, he could still see the shoreline of the Silver Sea, drenched in red with more than the light from the setting suns. "I... did... speak of such things."

"Our shadows... have reveled in bloodshed." There was nothing accusatory to urVa's voice; it was steeped in sorrow. "We should not wish to join with that."

UrGoh shook his head. “We… would not—”

"Nghhh—you’re missing the point!" skekGra cried. "You think I'm glad about the things I've done? Will none of you cretins believe me? Thra is... it's... look, I don't want that future it showed me, either! All right?"

UrSu and urVa's stares were upon him again, boring into him for a long while, until even urGoh felt uncomfortable. It was urSu who broke the silence: "Even now... you prove that the Skeksis act only in self-interest, and can do nothing good."

Something bolted up from the tip of urGoh's tail and all the way up his spine, and his chest burned. "At least... he does... something!" he snapped, glaring at the Master. When urSu stared back at him, he was tempted to back away, but held his ground. "We have done... nothing... to help Thra... for hundreds of trine. What does it matter... if something is done... in self-interest... if it is done at all?" His tail lashed, and he did not wait for a reply. "SkekGra... has decided... to join the cause... of Thra itself. That, I believe, is good. What... have you done... Master?"

Silence hung in the clearing. It was broken not by speech, but by a strange, soft crooning sound that emanated, to urGoh's shock, from the Conqueror's throat.

The Skeksis stepped forward, leveling himself with urGoh once again.

"There is one more thing we could try," he said lowly, and urGoh wasn't sure if it was meant for everyone to hear or for him alone. SkekGra looked down at him, the corners of his beak folded in a grim line.

And he held out a gloved hand.

"...Ah..." urGoh couldn't keep the single word from escaping with his breath. Icy claws like his dark half's talons pierced his heart, driving deeply into it. His eyes locked on the offered hand, and all it implied, and he couldn't move. The other two Mystics were like statues as they watched the proceedings.

"UrGoh?" skekGra prompted, and urGoh wondered if this was the first time the Skeksis had used his name. "UrGoh—take it, will you? This doesn't look good."

He felt as though he were drifting away on the tide, at the mercy of the waves. To take that hand was to offer alliance—friendship—to this creature that had slaughtered hundreds, thousands, and relished their suffering. To sever himself entirely from his own kind and tie himself even further to this shattered perversion of a being that differed from himself in every way. All in a bid to save this world from darkness.

He reached out and took skekGra's hand.

A great surge of feeling erupted through him, a warmth, a light as brilliant and blazing as the Crystal of Truth had once been. UrGoh took an astonished breath. This feeling… he hadn’t felt like this since—

In an instant he was jarred from the vision as skekGra pulled his hand away and the world returned to normal. Dazed, urGoh forced his focus back onto urSu and urVa. What had they seen?

“There!” the Skeksis said beside him. "You want unity? There's some unity!"

UrSu blinked at them slowly. “I did not see unity,” he said. “I saw hesitation—a lack of conviction. And a desire for selfish victory rather than benevolence.”

UrGoh bristled; next to him, skekGra cried, “WHAT?”

He went on, “I held a Mystic’s grubby hand and this is your reaction?! You only see what you want to see!”

UrGoh shifted uncomfortably. “We’re… working on it,” he said.

The Master shook his head, slowly, as though sorrowful. Finally, he turned away. "You... neither of you… will ever understand."

He started to leave, but glanced back only once. “If you decide to come back, urGoh, you may not be welcomed… unless you can convince me you have changed your mind.”

With that, the Master stamped his staff into the ground, and headed back toward the Valley without another word.

Frustration welled up through every fiber of urGoh's body. All four of his hands clenched into fists. He turned to urVa, ready to speak again, but his voice died when he saw the Archer's expression.

"...You believe I should join with the Hunter?"

There was a faint, desperate hope to urVa's voice. Hope that urGoh would prove him wrong.

For a moment, urGoh wanted to say no, that he would never ask his friend to even attempt such a thing. But he knew—he knew he could not waver.

"Yes."

UrVa stared at him, and silently turned away as well, his bow striking the ground sharply beneath him.

Once again, the clearing was silent, and urGoh could only stare hollowly at the spot where his companions had disappeared through the woods. Something was again bubbling up within him, but it was neither anger nor frustration. It filled his stomach and chest and throat until it finally burst through his mouth in a booming, echoing call.

Birds and fliers scattered from their roosts, and the tension was finally gone.

"Well," skekGra said, startling urGoh—he'd almost forgotten the Skeksis was still there. "So much for that."

Gritting his teeth, urGoh sighed through his nose before swinging his head toward skekGra. He felt exhausted—more than he had been in a long, long while. To his surprise, skekGra did not look the same, but was instead watching urGoh with an expression he found hard to read.

"...Did you feel it too?" he finally asked.

It took urGoh a moment to remember. “Yeah,” he admitted. “For… a moment.”

SkekGra nodded slowly, then hesitated. "And... did you really mean what you said? You think I'm... I'm better than the Mystics?"

UrGoh tipped his head, embarrassed and a little ashamed. "You... act more than any of us... certainly." Oddly, he found strength in his own words. "I believe... you can be good. What is the point... of unity... if you cannot?"

SkekGra gave what might have been a laugh, but without any humor. “Good? What is your definition of ‘good’?” He fiddled with the hilt of his sword. "I dunno. I'm... still figuring this out." His tail flicked. "...Now what?"

"That..." urGoh began, and paused. "...I do not... know." He tilted his head one way, then another. "We could... talk to... the Skeksis?"

Staggering back, skekGra grabbed his bony chest with his talons. "Do you have a death wish after all?!"

UrGoh frowned, a tendril of irritation curling in his own chest. “No.”

“You must, or that wouldn’t have even crossed your mind!” SkekGra’s beak snapped. “Those lumbering Mystic friends of yours were merely disappointed. Set foot in the Castle of the Crystal and they’d tear us both apart!” He paused dramatically. “Tear us apart separately, so we’d feel each other’s pain as well as our own!”

Raising a brow, urGoh said skeptically, “They would not… do such to one of their own.”

The Skeksis’ nostrils flared. “Oh? So sure, are you? And what of skekNa’s counterpart, urNol? What is he, the Herbalist? Noticed anything missing about him lately? I suppose his hand dropped off of its own accord? His eye vanished overnight through some… some fluke?”

UrGoh lowered his eyes. He had received word of the Herbalist’s plight, but had not looked into it. He remembered skekGra’s previous lamentations about the cruelty of Skeksis punishments and, for the first time, began to wonder…

SkekGra drew himself up higher, his eyes dimly lit with a familiar sort of victory. It was a light that flared and then died once more, as the realization of what that victory meant sank in. “Thra may have chosen to unite us, but the others will never be convinced. Never, Wanderer. It’s not in their natures!”

UrGoh’s breath caught. “And yet… it is in… ours?”

That gave them both pause.

“This was never in my nature,” skekGra said quietly. “I shouldn’t still be here talking to you. I should follow the winding trail of those urRu to see where you things like to vanish beyond our sights. I should bring you all to the Castle in chains.”

They looked at each other.

“I would… like to see you attempt… to chain up the Archer,” urGoh said mildly.

“Who’s chaining up longnecks?” a cantankerous voice demanded, making them both jump. “What’s all this racket?”

Both skekGra and urGoh spun around, the former brandishing his weapons again instinctively. But just as quickly he lowered them, and urGoh raised his head in astonishment.

Before them stood an old crone, her mane of gray hair curling around two spiraling ram horns and framing a face that once had three eyes. One eye had been put out over a thousand trine ago, while another was dimly lit, but still seeing. The leftmost eye, meanwhile, darted accusingly between the Skeksis and Mystic before settling on the latter.

“Well? Why are you shouting up the forest while some of us are on important business?”

UrGoh realized his mouth was hanging open.

"...Mother... Aughra,” he said. “You’re… awake.”

“Yes, awake and needing to know what’s going on beneath the stars rather than through them,” the old woman replied. “And you can start by telling Aughra…”

She stopped, turning to eye skekGra and then back to urGoh.

“What disaster has befallen Thra that a Skeksis would consult with a Mystic once again?”

#skekgra #urgoh #urva #the dark crystal #the dark crystal age of resistance #aughra #ursu #skekmal #ursol #fanfic #my writing #my art #for unity #AAAAAAAAAAAAAA SORRY THIS TOOK AGES TO POST #2020 was ... a year

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bundleofyarrow · 4 years ago

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Chapter 10 of A Bundle of Yarrow is now up over on AO3! or you can read the latest chapter below the cut. thanks to all of you who follow me on here and let me know you’re still craving some Milo time, it helped motivate me to write some more. maybe it’s not obvious but, knowing there are people out there who appreciate my writing makes me want to write! either way, this is a shorter transition chapter, building up for some drama come Turffield. as always, i love all the feedback <3

Galar Mine

“I want this one!”

“And I get this one over here!”

Leon and Milo stood crossing their arms of their chests as you and Sonia hovered around shining crystals emerging from the cave walls. The mines glittered reflecting the light of lanterns, immediately mesmerizing you.

“Everything here is the property of Marco Cosmos.” Leon says stiffly, as if practiced. “Just one of those jewels costs my entire year of pay.”

“But look at this!” You point to a green one and aim puppy eyes at Milo while Sonia bats her eyelashes at Leon. “Wouldn’t this be beautiful on a ring?”

Milo looks strangely nervous. “We got little influence in this stuff! The League is just one part of Marco Cosmos, ‘n we’re employees of it. I’d be shocked if they even gave us a discount.”

The both of you pout and follow the boys and Charizard walking further into the cave. The air was dry and cool, every little sound echoing in the rocky tunnels. It was surprisingly well-lit for a cave, but as you all started to encounter miners at work, you had your answer as to why. Clangs of steel hitting rock and the low rumble of minecarts soon overtook the glistening sparkles of the crystals. Every once in a while you stop for Leon to take selfies with fans.

“Galar is a very industrial region.” You muse out loud, poking at a piece of coal at the top of a large stack. “You all are really into machines here.”

“Energy is our main business and export.” Leon’s eyes scan the various activities of the miners, as if he’s looking for something in particular. “The Chairman is trying to find a sustainable source of energy, because mining won’t last forever. And if our energy dwindles, so does the health of all Galar.”

You sit with this for a bit. Alola is a lot more laidback, and not as populated as here. While everyone adopts new technology as it comes out, there isn’t a rush towards anything in particular. One might say many parts are in decline, but you begin to miss the small villages among lush greenery.

“Champion Leon!”

Out from a side tunnel pops out a kid, probably a bit older than Gloria and Hop, in a full magenta coat and mop of platinum hair.

“There you are, you must be Bede.” Leon rests his sunglasses on his cap and he offers to shake hands.

The boy, Bede, ignores the gesture. “I hope you’re ready for me to beat you in the Champion Cup.” The arrogance on his face is insufferable as his eyes move over your group. “And that none of you plan on getting in my way.” Running a hand through his hair, he holds out a bag to Leon. “Here’s all the Wishing Stars I’ve found so far, make sure they get to Chairman Rose.”

And with a nonchalant gesture, he departs. Charizard lets out a brief but low growl. You couldn’t help but feel like Bede just saw you as bit extras in the play of his life.

“Charming.” Sonia rolls her eyes at his departing silhouette. “Make sure to beat him good, Milo.”

The curt nod from the usually soft Milo surprises you.

“Well folks, that’s it for me.” Leon stretches like he’s going on a run. “I have to get myself back to Hammerlocke to deliver these to the energy plant there. If I take too long I’m definitely going to have Oleana chaining me to a desk.” He turns to give a quick hug to Sonia, fist bump Milo, and then wraps his arms around your shoulders. “Keep in touch, okay?”

“Promise.”

With a final squeeze, Leon takes a few steps back and waves to you all before departing. Charizard leads him back the way you came, and soon the warm glow from his tail fades from sight.

“We should be on our way too.” Sonia looks to her phone. “Not only because there’s no service here, but Milo needs to open up the gym challenge. Turffield is going to be swamped.”

Milo begins walking in a different direction. “I know the mines pretty well, I can lead you through ‘em.”

The path through the mines are pretty uneventful, mostly winding tunnel after tunnel of miners and various extracted resources. Sonia and your conversation about when she did the gym challenge fills the air as Milo seems lost in his thoughts. The Pokemon in the mines are mostly peaceful and keep to themselves, doing their own digging or resting in dark corners. Every once in a while, Milo looks up to the cavern ceilings, searching for something.

“The exit should be gettin’ close.” He announces after checking the ceiling again.

You were about to ask him why he was doing that when you hear a fluttering from behind you, causing you to jump, scaring Sonia in the process. “S-sorry! I thought something was behind me-”

That’s when you notice something’s on your arm. And not just a little thing but a Pokemon.

You’re about to let out a scream when Milo makes a hushing noise as he walks over to you.

“It’s okay, fella ain’t gonna harm ya.” It was a ball of fur with wings, and what you think is its nose is suctioned to your arm. You’ve never seen such a Pokemon before, and if Milo wasn’t there you’d think it was trying to suck your blood. “It’s a Woobat, they are actually quite friendly, if a bit odd.” Milo lightly places his hands on the Pokemon, reminding you how he so easily calms creatures down. “Hey now, you have to ask permission before you give someone a kiss.”

Eventually you feel the snout of the Woobat peel off your skin, which thankfully isn’t painful just a little weird. But it left behind the impression of a heart on your arm. “A heart? That’s kind of cute.” You look to the Pokemon, who doesn’t have visible eyes but a cheerful smile with a single fang.

“That’s actually major good luck! Woobat don’t give that to just anyone.” When Milo lets go, the Pokemon hovered in the air next to you, and chirps happily.

You chance a look at the cave ceiling, and in the dim light you can see a bunch of heart-shaped impressions. “Were you looking up to see where the Woobat gathered?”

Milo’s gaze joins yours. “Sorta, I was checkin’ the time and how close we were to the exit. They tend to hang out near the entrances of caves, and that we don’t see Woobat means dusk hasn’t completely fallen yet.” His hand lightly touches your shoulder. “So we’re makin’ good time!”

Before the moment can sink in, he gives you a small smile and squeeze on the shoulder before moving back to the front of the group to continue leading. Not only do you and Sonia follow, but so does the Woobat. He hovers around you, sometimes visiting Sonia and Milo, but something about you has caught his interest. So you take out a few berries, and begin tossing them into the air, giggling as the Woobat swoops in skillfully to catch each in his mouth.

“Careful, you’re going to spoil him.” Sonia nudges you playfully. “But I’m glad to see you in good spirits. It’s been a wild few days for you, hasn’t it?”

You try not to think too much about it, but you nod. “I’m still trying to understand it all, but all I can do is move forward, right? To think I’m going to be battling Milo tomorrow is… strange.”

The peach-haired man in question turns to face you. “Just do it to have fun, that’s my perspective. If you’re having a good time, then win or lose, you’ve accomplished what you set out for!”

Woobat chirps in agreeance, and though you still find him a little strange, his presence is a positive one.

So you choose to believe them, that no matter what happens, it will be for the best. You’ve spent so much time in Galar worrying about your future. And as light from the outside begins to peek into view, you’re determined to better cherish the moment, for what was coming around the corner, you never would have guessed.

#a bundle of yarrow #milo x reader #pokemon milo #fanfiction

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annzybwrites · 4 years ago

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What Do You Get a Mumrik?

Hello! First, I adore your writing! I first read it on Ao3 but needed to follow you here so I made an account. I would love to read a short Snufmin fanfic with this prompt: Moomin looking for a birthday gift for Snufkin Kudos ❤️❤️

--Submitted by @xanzusx

Annzy: Ahh, thank you so much!! I’m glad you enjoy my writing so much that you made a tumblr account, that’s so flattering ;w; I can’t believe I never thought of a birthday gift fic before, but it’s a fantastic idea!!

~!~!~!~

Birthday celebrations in Moominvalley were usually grand affairs. Moominmamma delighted in baking that person’s favorite cake flavor in the shape of either their face or something that represented them, Moomintroll and his friends had a fantastic time decorating the yard for the party (especially if it was themed), and sometimes Moominpappa would make a piñata or a slide if the party was for someone young. Anyone that wanted to come celebrate was invited, so naturally most of the inhabitants of Moominvalley would come, bringing small gifts that they thought the birthday-haver would like.

There were a few exceptions. They usually didn’t celebrate Stinky’s birthday, if only because the few times they did try to celebrate, Stinky spent the entire night mocking them for their efforts. And they also didn’t make such a big fuss for Snufkin’s birthday, because for the first few years he refused to tell anyone, saying he’d only reveal his birthday if someone guessed the date correctly. He’d always have a big, playful grin on his face whenever the others remembered his little challenge and tried to guess his birthday for an afternoon.

When Snufkin and Moomin had finally started dating, though, Snorkmaiden felt like the game should end.

“You have a boyfriend now, Snufkin!” she berated him while they were all spending a lazy day at the beach. “You have to let at least him celebrate your birthday with you!”

“Is that a rule?” Snufkin was laying on his back next to Moomin, so he turned his head to catch those blue eyes that seemed just as surprised as him.

“I suppose it would be only fair.” Moomin hummed, "Since you’ve celebrated plenty of my birthdays already.”

“Yeah!” Little My perked up, running over to climb on top of Snufkin’s chest to stare at him. “I’d love another day where Mamma makes us cake, anyway.”

“It’s always so delicious!” Sniff agreed, starting to drool from where he lay on his stomach. “Besides, you’d get lots of cool presents, Snufkin!”

“Oh, you know I don’t really care much for material things.” Snufkin chuckled good naturedly, messing with Little My’s hair bun until she swatted his hand away. “But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to eat a birthday cake with all of you.”

“So you’ll tell us your birthday?” Moomin asked, his heart filling up with hope. He didn’t realize how much he wanted to know until just that moment.

Snufkin turned to smile at him, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he said, “But I still want you to guess!”

Snorkmaiden groaned and plopped back down onto the sand, crossing her arms. “You’re hopeless.”

“Oh, fine, I’ll give you a hint.” Snufkin picked Little My up, setting her down next to him so he could sit up and stretch. “My birthday is in this month of March. That should narrow things down, don’t you think?”

“I’ll say!” Moomin brightened, sitting up as well so his tail was free to wag a bit. “Hmm... how about --”

“March 8th!” Sniff guessed.

“March 12th!” Little My yelled.

“March 23rd?” Snorkmaiden tried.

“Nope, nope, and nope!” Snufkin chuckled, tilting his hat up to show off his wide grin. “Wow, you all are really bad at this game.”

“March 15th?” Moomin guessed, hands clasped together nervously.

Snufkin straightened in surprise, turning to him with a bright smile. “That’s right, Moomintroll! Congratulations!”

"Really?” Moomin laughter bubbled out of him as he pulled Snufkin in for a hug. He couldn’t believe he got it right!

“What does he win?” Sniff had to ask.

“Well,” Snufkin hummed as he hugged Moomintroll back. “What would you like, my dear?”

“I never thought of that.” Moomin hummed, pulling away from the hug to tap at his chin in thought. “How about a song?”

“Moomin!” Snorkmaiden bemoaned, falling onto her back and covering her eyes dramatically with her hand. “You should have asked for a kiss!”

“Oh!” Moomin felt heat pool into his cheeks as his tail curled around him shyly. Why hadn’t he thought of that? W-well, kisses were meant to be private things, anyway! Not in front of a bunch of people!

Snufkin chuckled, leaning in to nuzzle Moomin’s snout briefly. “A song it is! How about we walk while I play?”

It wasn’t long before the small group was up on their feet and headed back to Moominhouse, Snufkin playing a jaunty little tune on his harmonica. Little My was extremely excited and couldn’t wait to tell Mamma that she’ll have to bake another cake very soon, and it was then that Moomin realized Snufkin’s birthday was only ten days away. And once he realized that, a new question presented itself.

What kind of gift do you get for a mumrik who dislikes material possessions?

~~~

Moomintroll felt like a wreck for the next week. He couldn’t stop thinking about Snufkin’s birthday, and about how he had absolutely no idea what to get him. He knew he wanted to get Snufkin something that he would actually like, preferably something that he’d be happy to take with him during his travels.

Anything store-bought was immediately out. Snufkin would consider it a nice little trinket, but not worth carrying around with him all the time. Moomintroll briefly considered learning to knit and making him a nice scarf, but a long night of getting tangled up in the yarn quickly dashed that idea. He thought of drawing him a very nice picture next, perhaps a collage of some of their favorite flowers, but then he remembered how a paper drawing was bound to get ruined from the snow or dirt and would most likely not last the winter.

Since he was an open-book to everyone that knew him, it didn’t take long for Snufkin to realize why he’d been acting strangely and told him: “You don’t have to get me anything special, Moomintroll. The memories of us together are gift enough for me.”

While it was a very sweet phrase that made Moomin’s heart swell, a strong part of him still longed to find the perfect gift for his boyfriend.

He thought of stringing together some stones into a bracelet next, perhaps some red rocks to represent the comet that brought them together in the first place. But he figured that might be too heavy to carry around all the time, and Snufkin had never been one for too many accessories anyway. Then he considered finding a small, little bottle and filling it with sand and sea water, since Snufkin did love the sea so much. But then he worried about the bottle breaking inside his backpack, and that was the last thing he’d want.

With only three days left till Snufkin’s birthday, Moomintroll lay on his bed after dinner, staring morosely up at the ceiling. He still had no good ideas! And he knew Snufkin wouldn’t love him any less if he didn’t find the perfect gift for him, but he really wanted to show how well he knew his dearest friend in the form of a gift.

Someone knocked on his bedroom door, shocking him out of his thoughts. “Come in!”

“Hello, dear.” Moominmamma greeted with a small smile as she walked inside. She closed the door gently before going to sit at the edge of his bed. “Still haven’t thought of a good gift for Snufkin?”

“No.” Moomin groaned and turned onto his side, curling up a bit as he looked up at his mother. “And anytime I try to ask him questions about what he’d like, he’s intentionally vague or repeats that he only wants memories!”

“Well, why don’t you just plan a nice memory for him to have then?” Moominmamma suggested.

“I thought about that, too,” Moomin admitted with a sigh. “But, I don’t know... I just really, really want to get him something that he can carry around. Something light and unobtrusive, maybe even something that he’ll forget about until he sees it in his backpack again, but he can’t help but smile each time he sees it because it’s just so perfect!”

“Goodness, that’s a tall order.” Moominmamma sighed softly, closing her eyes as she thought. “What if you put down some of his favorite memories into a book for him?”

"Books are heavy, and easy to ruin.”

“Well, maybe it’s not a book, then.”

Moomin’s ear twitched. He sat up, raising a brow at her. “What do you mean?”

“You’re good at wood-carving, aren’t you dear?” Moominmamma had that small smile on her face as she continued, “You could find a light piece of wood, such as some spruce, and carve something into it.”

Moomin stared at his mamma for at least a minute, his mind already bursting with possibilities. “You’re a genius, Mamma!” he exclaimed eventually, hugging her tightly before dashing off towards his desk. “I’ll start drawing an outline of what to carve, and tomorrow I’ll find that wood!”

“Glad I could help.” Moominamma rose to her feet, brushing out her apron and smiling warmly at her son before taking her leave.

~~~

The day finally arrived, March 15th. The others came over in the morning to put up at least a few decorations for Snufkin, such as paper fish and music notes, and Moominmamma was busy preparing a delightful, frosted spice cake in the shape and color of Snufkin’s tent.

Moomin decided he wanted to give Snufkin his gift before the party officially started, so that afternoon he invited Snufkin to accompany him on a hike and picnic by the base of the Lonely Mountains.

“You all really didn’t need to make such a fuss,” Snufkin was saying as they walked. “Really, I don’t need decorations. The cake would’ve been more than enough!”

“Oh, everyone’s just excited to finally celebrate your birthday, Snufkin!” Moomin reminded him. “It’s been a secret for such a long time. Next year we’ll just have a cake, I promise.”

“I suppose I can live with that.” Snufkin resigned, squeezing Moomin’s hand gently. “I’m glad you stopped worrying about getting me anything. I missed your smile at the start of the week.”

“Oh, yes.” Moomin tried not to smile too wide, thinking of the gift he had concealed in the basket on his back. “I’m glad, too.”

They found a nice, little clearing amidst some flowers, and made quirk work of putting down their blanket and retrieving their jam sandwiches. Conversation was easy, as it always was, trading stories (or making up new ones) and sharing ideas. When they finished eating, Moomin decided to reveal his surprise.

“I do have one birthday gift for you, actually.”

“Oh, Moomin.” Snufkin sighed softly, giving a weary smile. “I’ve told you time and time again -- I don’t need anything!”

“I know, I know! But I think you’ll like this one.” Moomin chewed at his lip, trying not to smile too wide as he pulled out his gift. It was wrapped in old newspaper, and it was small enough to easily fit in the palm of Moomin’s hand. He presented it to Snufkin, who stared at the package in slight surprise. “Please, open it?”

Snufkin pursed his lips, picking up the small object and again feeling surprised at how light it was. “What is it?”

“You have to open it to find out, silly.”

Snufkin gave a laugh at that, bumping his shoulder against Moomin’s before unwrapping it. He soon felt the smoothness of treated wood at his fingertips, and when he was finally able to get a good look at it, his breath hitched.

It was a little, rounded heart that was just the right width to grip nicely between his thumb and the length of his forefinger. And all around the outline, Moomin had carved a simple pattern that alternated between a comet, a little fish, and a sunflower. On one side, in the middle, lay their initials surrounded by a thinly carved outline of a heart: “S + M”

“I thought of putting more symbols,” Moomin said after a few moments of Snufkin staring blankly at the heart. “Like falling leaves, and birds, and your harmonica, and, and -- everything that reminded me of you. But, I thought those three would do the trick. And I left one side blank so you could carve into it yourself, if you like. Or, every year for your birthday, I could carve something new into it? If, if you want -- I understand if you don’t really want to keep it for that long--”

“Moomintroll,” Snufkin breathed, holding the wooden heart tightly to his chest as he stared into those loving, baby blue eyes. “It’s beautiful. I’d be honored to carry this with me.”

“Really?” Moomin’s ears perked up again, his own hands clasped tightly together in front of his chest. “You’re not just saying that? I know you don’t like to hold onto many things, so it’s all right if --” He stopped talking when he felt a firm kiss against his snout.

“I love it,” Snufkin whispered, moving closer so he could nuzzle his cheek against Moomin’s. “Almost as much as I love you.”

Moomin felt as if his heart would burst out of his chest at any moment. He wrapped his arms around Snufkin’s waist, bringing him close and relaxing as Snufkin returned the embrace.

“It’s a lovely idea, too,” Snufkin added, squeezing him once. “Carving something new into it every year. I would like that.”

Moomin beamed, his tail wagging loosely as he closed his eyes, enjoying how warm and soft Snufkin felt against him. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

“Thank you, Moomintroll.” Snufkin pulled away lightly, only to lean in and give Moomin a brief kiss on the lips. He chuckled lightly when Moomin’s eyes started to spin a little. “Now I need to find you something this special for your birthday.”

Moomin shook his head a little to clear it, a small grin coming to his face as he teased, “I only need memories.”

Snufkin snorted and pushed him lightly, laughing loud enough to spook some nearby birds. “All right, I’ll admit I deserved that.”

#snufmin #springdove #moomins #moominvalley #Moomintroll #snufkin #annzy writes #I can't believe I did two snufmin prompts in one day #they're just so cute they write themselves #submission

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onthepageoftears · 4 years ago

Text

Hold Them Closer ~ Ch.8 [Jaskier x assassin!reader] || Witcher

A/N: hey yall, hope you’re doing well! enjoy the chapter (if you want to, lol) :)

Your kind words and reviews mean a lot to me, so please don’t afraid to leave a message/comment!

Summary: The search continues.

Warnings: mentions of killing/death/murder, language, slight fluff, dumbass jaskier

Words: 1,510

Please Don’t Plagiarize My Work!

Your fingertips brushed the ground beneath you, letting your nails crust with the dirt that was dried under your feet. You always remembered this spot as being full of grass, sometimes so tall it reached your ankles — but now, the grass was dead. Dull. It was fitting, really, for the village that was now abandoned.

Still, being here in the lawn of your old home reminded you of the nights you and your father would lie down, grass under your toes, just looking at the sky above. It was so peaceful, but a bit daunting — you were always amazed by the vastness of the sky, by the possibilities that its space came with. Still, those would be the moments with your father that you carried with you, both with fondness and sadness. They haunted you in your dreams, but comforted you in your memories.

The faint memories of your father rose to your mind — in this early morning silence, you finally allowed yourself to think about the man you were told to hate. You never did truly hate him, despite what Rauf told you. Maybe part of you knew he was innocent all along — or maybe you just wanted him to be. But now that you knew your father had in fact been innocent, you felt yourself thinking about him more, as if a restriction had been lifted from your mind. And as you sat there in the lawn of your now broken down home, you closed your eyes, silently apologizing to the man you tried to hate for so many years.

You blinked your eyes open at the sound of Jaskier walking toward you, finally awake from a long night. You had woken up earlier than usual, mostly because you couldn’t sleep. Your mind was racing even after you realized your mother had gotten away. What did that mean for now? Could you really start hoping that you’d find her? Or would it lead to more dead ends?

Jaskier sat beside you on the dirt coated ground, grimacing at the fact that his pants would probably have stains.

You put your head on his shoulder, letting your heavy eyes shut, just for a moment. Though you didn’t mind being alone, having him there made you feel comfortable. Recently, it always did. Before you met him, it was like you were missing something. No matter where you went, or who you were with, everything was bit off. And now that he was there, with you — you didn’t know what it was, but it was enough. Maybe even more than enough.

“What now?” You asked after a moment, not only to Jaskier, but to yourself.

“I don’t know, love.” He huffed, looking at the rising sun past the trees. “The only thing we can do is search anywhere we can, and hope to come across her.”

You nodded, determination in your gaze. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

—

Saying goodbye to your village was easy. It wasn’t really even your village anymore — just another abandoned place stragglers could call home for the night. Your village was in your memories, and your home was with yourself. It was with the people you trusted, and that’s where it would always be.

Still, that was something you had to remind yourself of as the three of you ventured from village to village, both searching for your mother and for any jobs you could get (you were still pretty low on coin, and none of you wanted any incidents like the last). You weren’t fond of staying in one place for too long — though you were ready to prolong this journey if you had to, that didn’t mean you wanted to. Searching Velen was hard enough as it was, and you weren’t even sure if your mother would be there. The idea that she could be across the continent made your stomach practically seep through your ears, so you pushed it away.

She had to be in Velen. She just had to.

You were lucky to have Jaskier and Geralt with you. While sometimes you would swear on never traveling with them again, others you couldn’t imagine it without them. Geralt was sometimes as grumpy as you, but others he was the one holding the most hope. And Jaskier…well, he was Jaskier. Charming, funny, and a bit of a pain in the ass.

“My back feels like it could split in half right about now.”

You shook your head at the man beside you, leading the horses to the side of the path. “And how does your mouth feel?”

“Awful. When it’s not on yours.”

You rolled your eyes, but heat rose to your skin when you noticed Geralt just nearby. You weren’t used to Jaskier saying — or doing — such things in front of people, and he had respected that. But even he slipped up sometimes, and every time he did, it made your body buzz in a mix of excitement and embarrassment.

“We should get a job here, maybe stay the night.” Geralt said, his voice gruffer than usual.

Jaskier scoffed a laugh, “Oh, for once the witcher needs a break, hm?”

Geralt’s lips twitched. “We barely have coin left.”

“We, or just us?” Jaskier asked, his eyebrow arching in a challenge.

Geralt stared back. “We.”

“Oh.” Jaskier shut up then, a pout forming on his face.

You sighed. You didn’t want to stay the night; you were hoping you could at least check two other villages before the day ended. But no coin meant no food, and you all knew that wouldn’t do any good.

“Fine,” you said, petting Buttercup’s snout. “We’ll get the rooms if you find the job.”

Geralt nodded, ready to head off, but Jaskier stopped him. “Nuh-uh. The last few jobs Geralt has chosen have been — and I do not regret saying this — worse than a hag’s breath. Not to mention boring.” You and Geralt blinked at Jaskier, who scoffed at your dumbfounded expressions. “I mean, a sheep herding? Could you have chosen anything worse?”

You snorted. “It could’ve been another chicken search.”

Jaskier ignored you, wagging his finger at no one in particular. “We are going to find something that is exciting, adventurous — something that would make for a good song."

With that, Jaskier stalked off in search of the small village’s notice board, a new pep in his step at the idea of their next great job.

You and Geralt began walking down the path in search of the inn. After a few moments of silence, you spoke, “He’s right, Geralt. You have been choosing pretty mundane jobs. It’s no wonder we haven’t been paid any good coin.”

Geralt just barely nodded. “We don’t want to get into too much trouble if we are to continue our journey.”

You frowned at his words. You supposed he was right, but…then again — you smirked slowly, a teasing glint in your eye. “Are you worried about us?”

Geralt avoided your gaze.

You snorted. “You think I can’t handle a couple of monsters?”

“Monsters are different than humans.”

Your face grew grim. “Just by the blade you use.”

Geralt quirked a brow, but didn’t say anything. Before he could, the unmistakable sound of Jaskier made both of you frown.

“Geralt!”

You turned around, eyebrows raised at the bard who came running up to you, out of breath.

“What is it now, Jaskier?” Geralt sounded more than bored, but you yourself were intrigued.

Jaskier huffed as he tried to catch his breath. “I…got us…a job.”

You snorted. “And does this job include you running around like a maniac?”

“That’s only part of it.” Jaskier swallowed his sarcasm thickly, finally able to speak somewhat coherently. “I was standing at the notice board, looking through the posts — they were all quite boring, to be honest. But anyway, I was standing there, minding my business, when this woman came running up to me. She was erratic. Begging me for help, saying…something about a daughter that was on her way to a monster’s nest. She gave me this as…a deposit of sorts.”

He held out a pouch, placing it in your hand. It was relatively full, which was good. But you were still a bit confused. So what if this girl was going to a monster nest?

You handed the coin pouch to Geralt, who was just as confused as you. “Okay. Did she give you directions?”

“Yes, of course. But there is one thing.” Jaskier swallowed again, taking in a sharp breath before adding, “The girl is young and inexperienced.”

Your eyes widened, narrowing at the man in front of you. “The same girl that is going to a monster’s nest?”

Jaskier nodded, “Quite the same, yes.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt grumbled, already making his way back to the horses.

You huffed, grabbing Jaskier’s hand in your own before following the witcher. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“Good point.” He said as you hopped up on Buttercup and helped Jaskier behind you. And without a second thought, you were off.

———————————————————————————————————

ooo ooo ooooo a slight sidestep from the main journey, but it'll be worth it ;) Let me know your thoughts!

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hattercatsparadise · 4 years ago

Photo

[Biographical information]

Name:

Yua

Race:

Kyuubi no Kitsune (Nine-tailed fox)

Age:

Unknown

Birthday:

Unknown

Sign:

Unknown

Height:

181 cm / 5’11 ’’ (human form)

89 cm / 2’11 ’’ (real form not counting tails)

Appearance:

In her real appearance, Yua is a beautiful white fox with red designs adorning the fur on her forehead, around the red eyes and along the upper part of the snout and having nine long snow-white tails with the tips dyed a red dark. In her most “human” appearance she maintains the form of a beautiful woman with albino hair next to fox ears on top of her head, her eyes red, her skin as pale as snow with her face adorned by the same ornaments in her real form and the same nine white tails with red tips.

She is commonly seen wearing a white half mask that covers the lower part of her face and the mask is shaped to resemble a fox's muzzle, her hair tied in a low ponytail by an adornment made of fabric with three points in layers, a white kimono next to a red hakama adorned at the waist with paintings reminiscent of flames and with a large detailed white bow where gold bells are attached to the ends as well as the sleeves that are also adorned by bows made of a red rope , under the sleeves the arms bandaged to the wrists and zori (sandals) and tabi (socks) on the feet. Sometimes she is seen carrying a katana that once belonged to her master and was reinforced with the supernatural power of Yua and on the rare occasions that she is unmasked her lips are dyed with matte red lipstick.

Homeland:

Unknown

[Personal information]

Personality:

She likes to mock and challenge others, provoking her apprentice, Inara, about still having a lot to learn about life. Yua tends to use anyone as a magical guinea pig to test new techniques she has learned, as long as the results are good.

Yua is a very calm and passive woman who almost never loses her temper, regardless of the situation. Even while she is facing a critical and delicate situation, Yua remains calm and is able to think of a strategy to resolve it. The only time she loses her temper is when the situation is beyond her ability to cope, such as when someone insults her few loved ones.

Yua is a very mysterious woman, as many who know her have a hard time saying what she is looking for. She expresses enthusiasm when some new phenomenon or magic arises from her experiments, especially knowing that she could obtain a large amount of information about a new phenomenon. According to Inara, Yua tends to be interested in anything considered "rare", such as Harumi's mysterious spiritual aura or Mirella's succubus nature. Even Inara, the person closest to Yua has a hard time understanding what she is looking for.

Despite her mysterious nature, according to Inara, Yua is a very kind and cheerful woman. She is usually kind and polite to everyone around her, even those she doesn't know. She also has a maternal side, treating Inara and Harumi as a mother would treat a child.

Despite her normally gentle and calm demeanor, Yua knows when to be serious. Like when she scolded Inara when she was under her tutelage and the young crocodile for arrogance and stupid pride for summoning a dangerous monster that almost killed the young crocodile girl and Yua taught her not to be arrogantly confident in her powers and abilities since this behavior is the first step of ruin.

Yua loves knowledge above all. Because of her desire to learn everything, she feeds on the vital energy of other beings to have all the time in the world to study and learn everything. For this reason, she regularly gets excited whenever she has the potential to learn something she doesn't know. Because of her desire for knowledge, Yua is a very astute and intelligent woman, being able to calmly assess the situation in question, no matter how terrible, as well as explain the mechanics of any form of creature or magic. However, Yua does not fail to recognize when she does not know something or when a situation is beyond her ability to understand.

Still due to her kitsune nature, Yua likes to enter the dreams of the people she considers rare or minimally intriguing to observe them or play tricks with her astute personality.

Likes:

Knowledge, learning new things, experimenting, studying rare life forms, kenjutsu, playing koto, shamisen or biwa, sumiê, ikebana, night walks, playing tricks on humans, watching mortal dreams.

Dislikes:

Not keeping promises, broken promises, not discovering the cause of a new phenomenon, taking orders from those she considers inferior and incompetent, dogs, hunters.

Hobbies:

Traditional geisha arts

Biography:

Yua is a mystical being from the same native country as the world of Harumi, but from the most remote and ancient periods of wars. Yua is a kitsune, the legendary nine-tailed fox with fantastic supernatural powers and while still living in her original world she was trapped in a pact with a human who made her a familiar, a spirit that can be summoned to serve her master.

At first she was disgusted and disgusted at being imprisoned by a mere human and following her life as a spirit servant to him, but in time she began to appreciate the presence of her "master" who was a gentle and benevolent feudal lord with his people. It was during a night when her master's house was attacked by enemies and while her master was fighting on the verge of death in a desperate attempt to save her, he threw her over a precipice.

It was then that a mysterious force manifested itself taking Yua to Twisted Wonderland and upon learning of being in a totally unknown world fascinated her and for several centuries she sought to learn about everything and about the magic so valued while traveling through this world.

One day while on a quest for knowledge in Afterglow Savanna met Inara and after seeing the young woman's petulance she took her as her apprentice training her on everything she learned over the centuries and when Inara turned 14 years old and had an independent life and structured, Yua went on her way to continue unraveling everything about this world.

[Professional information]

Dofm:

Ramshackle Dorm

[Skills]

Because of her species, Yua has numerous supernatural powers and among them: possession, pyrokinesis, appearing in dreams (flight), creating illusions, doubling time and space, inducing madness, absorbing vital energy, metamorphosis, Illusionism.

[Relationships]

Family:

Unknown

Others:

Inara Horologium (apprentice)

Chiba Harumi (protected)

[Fun facts]

Favorite food:

Dishes with fish or meat

Less favorite food:

Natto

Talent:

Kenjutsu

Dominant hand:

Lefthanded

Trivia:

Her name means “Connected love”;

As in part of the Kitsunes legends of not revealing her real name, it is not known whether “Yua” is her real name or not;

Her hobby with traditional instruments and dancing as a geisha is due at a time when Yua pretended to be human and worked as a geisha;

Apparently Yua comes not only from the same world but also from the same country as Harumi, but from a different time;

What she says about her life before being brought to Twisted Wonderland she lived in the feudal times of her homeland and Harumi;

Yua placed Harumi under her protection because she was intrigued by the spiritual aura that the teenage human emanates;

As quoted in legends about her species, Yua, despite being cunning, is serious about keeping her promises and, above all, following her word of honor as kitsunes become self-destructive if she breaks her word;

Yua, as well as others of her kind, become her mortal enemies when someone does not keep a promise with her, as it is known that Kitsune are emotional and very vindictive;

Yua says that she was once arrested by a pact with a human who made her a relative and made her a little dependent on the spiritual connection between her and a mortal;

Despite her supernatural life expectancy as a kitsune, Yua feeds on the vital energy of other living beings to maintain her existence since she was trapped in the pact as a familiar spirit and brought to Twisted Wonderland it is difficult for her to maintain stable levels of spiritual power without a new master;

Her mask is her way of hiding her Hoshi no Tama (star sphere) when she is in her human form.

[Informação Biográfica]

Nome:

Yua

Raça:

Kyuubi no Kitsune (Raposa de nove caudas)

Idade:

Desconhecida

Aniversário:

Desconhecido

Signo:

Desconhecido

Altura:

181 cm / 5’11’’ (forma humana)

89 cm/2’11’’ (forma real sem contar as caudas)

Aparência:

Em sua aparência real, Yua é uma bela raposa branca com desenhos vermelhos adornando a pelagem em sua fronte, ao redor dos olhos rubros e ao longo da parte superior do focinho e possuindo longas nove caudas brancas como a neve com as pontas tingidas de um vermelho escuro.

Em sua aparência mais “humana” ela mantém a forma de uma bela mulher com cabelos albinos junto de orelhas de raposa no topo de sua cabeça, os olhos vermelhos, a pele pálida como neve com o rosto adornada pelos mesmos adornos em sua forma real e as mesmas nove caudas brancas com as pontas vermelhas.

Ela é comumente vista usando uma meia máscara branca que cobre a parte inferior do seu rosto e a máscara possui a forma a se assimilar a um focinho de raposa, o cabelo preso em um rabo de cavalo baixo por um adorno feito de tecido com três pontas em camadas, um kimono branco junto de um hakama vermelho adornado na cintura com pinturas que remetem chamas e com um grande laço detalhado em branco onde nas pontas estão presos guizos de ouro assim como nas mangas que também são adornados por laços feitos de uma corda vermelha, sob as mangas os braços enfaixados até os pulsos e zori (sandálias) e tabi (meias) nos pés. Algumas vezes ela é vista carregando uma katana que uma vez pertenceu ao seu mestre e foi reforjada com o poder sobrenatural de Yua e nas raras ocasiões que está sem máscara é notório os lábios tingidos de batom vermelho fosco.

Terra Natal:

Desconhecida

[Informação pessoal]

Personalidade:

Ela gosta de zombar e desafiar os outros, provocando a sua aprendiz, Inara, sobre ainda ter muito o que aprender sobre a vida. Yua tende a usar qualquer um como uma cobaia mágica para testar novas técnicas que ela aprendeu, desde que os resultados sejam bons.

Yua é uma mulher muito calma e passiva que quase nunca perde a calma, independentemente da situação. Mesmo enquanto ela está diante de uma situação crítica e delicada, Yua permanece calma e é capaz de pensar em uma estratégia para resolvê-la. A única vez em que ela perde a calma é quando a situação está além de sua capacidade de lidar, como quando insultam seus poucos entes queridos.

Yua é uma mulher muito misteriosa, pois muitos que a conhecem têm dificuldade em dizer o que ela procura. Ela expressa entusiasmo quando algum novo fenômeno ou magia surge a partir de seus experimentos, principalmente sabendo que ela poderia obter uma grande quantidade de informações um novo fenômeno. De acordo com Inara, Yua tende a se interessar por qualquer coisa considerada "rara", como a misteriosa aura espiritual de Harumi ou sobre a natureza súcubo de Mirella. Mesmo Inara, a pessoa mais próxima de Yua tem dificuldade em entender o que ela está procurando.

Apesar de sua natureza misteriosa, de acordo com Inara, Yua é uma mulher muito gentil e alegre. Ela normalmente é gentil e educada com todos ao seu redor, mesmo aqueles que ela não conhece. Ela também tem um lado maternal, tratando Inara e Harumi como uma mãe trataria um filho.

Apesar de seu comportamento normalmente gentil e calmo, Yua sabe quando ser séria. Como quando ela repreendeu Inara quando estava sob sua tutela e a jovem crocodilo por arrogância e orgulho estúpido por invocar um monstro perigoso que quase matou a jovem e Yua ensinou-a a não ser arrogantemente confiante em seus poderes e habilidades já que esse comportamento é o primeiro passo da ruína.

Yua ama o conhecimento acima de tudo. Por causa de seu desejo de aprender tudo, ela se alimenta da energia vital de outros seres para ter todo o tempo do mundo para estudar e aprender tudo. Por esse motivo, ela regularmente se entusiasma sempre que tem potencial para aprender algo que não conhece. Por causa de seu desejo por conhecimento, Yua é uma mulher muito astuta e inteligente, sendo capaz de avaliar calmamente a situação em questão, não importa o quão terrível seja, bem como explicar a mecânica de qualquer forma de criatura ou magia. No entanto, Yua não deixa de reconhecer quando ela não sabe de algo ou quando uma situação está além de sua capacidade de compreensão.

Ainda por sua natureza de kitsune, Yua gosta de entrar nos sonhos das pessoas que ela considera raras ou minimamente intrigante para observá-las ou pregar peças com sua personalidade astuta.

Gosta:

Conhecimento, aprender coisas novas, fazer experimentos, estudar sobre formas de vida raras, kenjutsu, tocar koto, shamisen ou biwa, sumiê, ikebana, caminhadas noturnas, pregar peças em humanos, observar os sonhos dos mortais.

Desgosta:

Não cumprir promessas, promessas não cumpridas, não descobrir a causa de um novo fenômeno, receber ordens de quem ela considera inferior e incompetente, cães, caçadores.

Hobbies:

Artes tradicionais de geisha

Biografia:

Yua é um ser místico provindo do mesmo país natal do mundo de Harumi, mas dos períodos mais remotos e antigos de guerras. Yua é uma kitsune, a lendária raposa de nove caudas com poderes sobrenaturais fantásticos e quando ainda vivia em seu mundo original ela foi presa em um pacto com um humano que a fez de um familiar, espírito que pode ser invocado para servir seu mestre.

Inicialmente ela estava desgostosa e revoltada em ser aprisionada a um mero humano e seguir sua vida como um espírito servente a ele, mas com o tempo ela começou a apreciar a presença de seu “mestre” que era um senhor feudal gentil e benevolente com seu povo. Foi durante uma noite em que a casa de seu mestre foi atacada por inimigos e enquanto lutavam seu mestre a beira da morte na tentativa desesperada para salvá-la a jogou em um precipício.

Foi então que uma força misteriosa se manifestou levando Yua para Twisted Wonderland e ao tomar conhecimento de estar em um mundo totalmente desconhecido a fascinou e ao longo de vários séculos ela procurou aprender sobre tudo e sobre a magia tão valorizada enquanto viaja por este mundo.

Um dia enquanto estava em jornada em busca de conhecimento em Afterglow Savanna conheceu Inara e depois de ver a petulância da jovem a levou como sua aprendiz treinando-a sobre tudo que aprendeu ao longo dos séculos e quando Inara completou 14 anos e tinha uma vida independente e estruturada, Yua seguiu seu caminho para continuar desvendando tudo sobre esse mundo.

[Informação profissional]

Dormitório:

Ramshackle Dorm

[Habilidades]

Por causa de sua espécie, Yua possui inúmeros poderes sobrenaturais e entre eles: possessão, pirocinese, aparecer em sonhos (voo), criar ilusões, dobrar o tempo e espaço, indução a loucura, absorção de energia vital, metamorfose, Ilusionismo.

[Relacionamentos]

Família:

Desconhecida

Outros:

Inara Horologium (aprendiz)

Chiba Harumi (protegida)

[Fatos divertidos]

Comida favorita:

Pratos com peixe ou carne

Comida menos favorita:

Natto

Talento:

Kenjutsu

Mão dominante:

Canhota

Trivia:

Seu nome significa “Amor conectado”;

Como em parte das lendas sobre as Kitsunes de não revelar seu verdadeiro nome, não se sabe se “Yua” é o verdadeiro nome dela ou não;

Seu passatempo com instrumentos tradicionais e dança como geisha se devem em uma época pela qual Yua se passou por humana e trabalhou como uma geisha;

Aparentemente Yua vem não apenas do mesmo mundo como também do mesmo país de Harumi, porém de uma época diferente;

Ao que ela afirma sobre sua vida antes de ser trazida a Twisted Wonderland ela viveu nos tempos feudais da terra natal dela e de Harumi;

Yua colocou Harumi sobre sua proteção por estar intrigada com a aura espiritual que a jovem humana emana;

Como citado em lendas sobre sua espécie, Yua apesar de ardilosa é séria em manter as suas promessas e, principalmente, seguir a sua palavra de honra pois kitsunes tornam-se autodestrutiva se quebrar sua palavra;

Yua assim como outras de sua espécie, tornam-se seus inimigos mortais quando alguém não cumpre uma promessa com ela, pois é sabido que Kitsune são emocionais e muito vingativas;

Yua conta que ela uma vez foi presa por um pacto com um humano que a transformou em um familiar e a tornou um pouco dependente da ligação espiritual entre ela e um mortal;

Apesar de sua sobrenatural expectativa de vida como uma kitsune, Yua se alimenta de energia vital de outros seres vivos para manter sua existência já que desde que foi presa no pacto como familiar e trazida a Twisted Wonderland é difícil para ela manter níveis estáveis de poder espiritual sem um novo mestre;

Sua máscara é a forma dela ocultar sua Hoshi no Tama (Esfera estelar) quando está em sua forma humana.

[Información biográfica]

Nombre:

Yua

Raza:

Kyuubi no Kitsune (zorro de nueve colas)

Años:

Desconocido

Cumpleaños:

Desconocido

Firmar:

Desconocido

Altura:

181 cm / 5’11 ’’ (forma humana)

89 cm / 2'11 '' (forma real sin contar colas)

Apariencia:

En su apariencia real, Yua es una hermosa zorra blanca con diseños rojos que adornan el pelaje de su frente, alrededor de los ojos rojos y a lo largo de la parte superior del hocico y tiene nueve largas colas blancas como la nieve con las puntas teñidas de rojo. oscuro.

En su apariencia más “humana” mantiene la forma de una hermosa mujer con cabello albino junto a orejas de zorro en la parte superior de su cabeza, sus ojos rojos, su piel tan pálida como la nieve con su rostro adornado con los mismos adornos en su forma real y las mismas nueve colas blancas con puntas rojas.

Se la ve comúnmente con una media máscara blanca que cubre la parte inferior de su rostro y la máscara tiene la forma del hocico de un zorro, su cabello está atado en una cola de caballo baja por un adorno hecho de tela con tres puntas. en capas, un kimono blanco junto a un hakama rojo adornado en la cintura con pinturas que recuerdan a las llamas y con un gran lazo blanco detallado donde se unen campanillas doradas en los extremos así como las mangas que también están adornadas con lazos hechos de una cuerda roja , debajo de las mangas, los brazos vendados a las muñecas y zori (sandalias) y tabi (calcetines) en los pies. A veces se la ve portando una katana que una vez perteneció a su maestro y fue reforzada con el poder sobrenatural de Yua y en las raras ocasiones en que no tiene máscara, sus labios están teñidos con lápiz labial rojo mate.

Tierra natal:

Desconocido

[Información personal]

Personalidad:

A ella le gusta burlarse y desafiar a los demás, provocando a su aprendiz, Inara, porque todavía tiene mucho que aprender sobre la vida. Yua tiende a usar a cualquiera como conejillo de indias mágico para probar nuevas técnicas que ha aprendido, siempre que los resultados sean buenos.

Yua es una mujer muy tranquila y pasiva que casi nunca pierde los estribos, independientemente de la situación. Incluso mientras se enfrenta a una situación crítica y delicada, Yua mantiene la calma y es capaz de pensar en una estrategia para resolverla. La única vez que pierde los estribos es cuando la situación está más allá de su capacidad de afrontarla, como cuando insulta a sus pocos seres queridos.

Yua es una mujer muy misteriosa, ya que muchos de los que la conocen tienen dificultades para decir lo que busca. Expresa entusiasmo cuando surge algún fenómeno o magia nuevos de sus experimentos, especialmente sabiendo que podría obtener una gran cantidad de información sobre un fenómeno nuevo. Según Inara, Yua tiende a estar interesado en cualquier cosa considerada "rara", como el aura espiritual misteriosa de Harumi o la naturaleza súcubo de Mirella. Incluso Inara, la persona más cercana a Yua, tiene dificultades para entender lo que está buscando.

A pesar de su naturaleza misteriosa, según Inara, Yua es una mujer muy amable y alegre. Por lo general, es amable y educada con todos los que la rodean, incluso con los que no conoce. También tiene un lado materno, tratando a Inara y Harumi como una madre trataría a un niño.

A pesar de su comportamiento normalmente gentil y tranquilo, Yua sabe cuándo hablar en serio. Como cuando regañó a Inara cuando estaba bajo su tutela y al joven cocodrilo por arrogancia y estúpido orgullo por convocar a un monstruo peligroso que casi mata a la joven y Yua le enseñó a no tener una confianza arrogante en sus poderes y habilidades, ya que este comportamiento es el primer paso de ruina.

Yua ama el conocimiento por encima de todo. Por su deseo de aprenderlo todo, se alimenta de la energía vital de otros seres para tener todo el tiempo del mundo para estudiar y aprender todo. Por esta razón, con regularidad se emociona cada vez que tiene el potencial de aprender algo que no sabe. Por su afán de conocimiento, Yua es una mujer muy astuta e inteligente, pudiendo evaluar con calma la situación en cuestión, por terrible que sea, así como explicar la mecánica de cualquier forma de criatura o magia. Sin embargo, Yua no deja de reconocer cuando no sabe algo o cuando una situación está más allá de su capacidad de comprensión.

Aún debido a su naturaleza kitsune, a Yua le gusta entrar en los sueños de las personas que considera raras o mínimamente intrigantes para observarlas o jugar una mala pasada con su astuta personalidad.

Gustos:

Conocimiento, aprender cosas nuevas, experimentar, estudiar formas de vida raras, kenjutsu, jugar koto, shamisen o biwa, sumiê, ikebana, caminatas nocturnas, hacer bromas a los humanos, observar sueños mortales.

No le gusta:

No cumplir promesas, promesas incumplidas, no descubrir la causa de un nuevo fenómeno, recibir órdenes de quienes considera inferiores e incompetentes, perros, cazadores.

Aficiones:

Artes tradicionales de geishas

Biografía:

Yua es un ser místico del mismo país natal que el mundo de Harumi, pero de los períodos de guerra más remotos y antiguos. Yua es un kitsune, el legendario zorro de nueve colas con fantásticos poderes sobrenaturales y, mientras aún vivía en su mundo original, quedó atrapada en un pacto con un humano que la convirtió en un familiar, un espíritu que puede ser convocado para servir a su amo.

Al principio estaba disgustada y disgustada por ser encarcelada por un simple humano y seguir su vida como una sirvienta espiritual para él, pero con el tiempo comenzó a apreciar la presencia de su "maestro", que era un señor feudal amable y benevolente con su pueblo. . Fue durante una noche cuando la casa de su amo fue atacada por enemigos y mientras su amo luchaba al borde de la muerte en un intento desesperado por salvarla, ella la arrojó por un precipicio.

Fue entonces cuando una fuerza misteriosa se manifestó llevando a Yua a Twisted Wonderland y al enterarse de estar en un mundo totalmente desconocido la fascinó y durante varios siglos buscó aprender sobre todo y sobre la magia tan valorada mientras viajaba por este mundo.

Un día, mientras buscaba el conocimiento en Afterglow Savanna, conoció a Inara y después de ver la petulancia de la joven, la tomó como su aprendiz y la entrenó en todo lo que aprendió a lo largo de los siglos y cuando Inara cumplió 14 años y tuvo una vida independiente. y estructurada, Yua siguió su camino para continuar desentrañando todo sobre este mundo.

[Información profesional]

Habitación:

Ramshackle Dorm

[Habilidades]

Por su especie, Yua tiene numerosos poderes sobrenaturales y entre ellos: posesión, piroquinesis, aparecer en sueños (vuelo), crear ilusiones, duplicar el tiempo y el espacio, inducir la locura, absorber energía vital, metamorfosis, ilusionismo.

[Relaciones]

Familia:

Desconocido

Otros:

Inara Horologium (aprendiz)

Chiba Harumi (protegido)

[Hechos graciosos]

Comida favorita:

Platos con pescado o carne

Comida menos favorita:

Natto

Talento:

Kenjutsu

Mano dominante:

Zurdo

Trivialidades:

Su nombre significa "Amor conectado";

Como parte de las leyendas de Kitsunes de no revelar su nombre real, no se sabe si “Yua” es su nombre real o no;

Su pasatiempo con los instrumentos tradicionales y el baile como geisha se debe a una época en la que Yua se hizo pasar por humana y trabajó como geisha;

Aparentemente, Yua no solo proviene del mismo mundo, sino también del mismo país que Harumi, sino de una época diferente;

Lo que ella dice sobre su vida antes de ser llevada a Twisted Wonderland, vivió en los tiempos feudales de su tierra natal y Harumi;

Yua colocó a Harumi bajo su protección porque estaba intrigada por el aura espiritual que emana la joven humana;

Como se cita en las leyendas sobre su especie, Yua, a pesar de ser astuta, se toma en serio el cumplimiento de sus promesas y, sobre todo, sigue su palabra de honor ya que los kitsunes se vuelven autodestructivos si rompe su palabra;

Yua, al igual que otros de su especie, se convierten en sus enemigos mortales cuando alguien no cumple una promesa con ella, ya que se sabe que los Kitsune son emocionales y muy vengativos;

Yua dice que una vez fue arrestada por un pacto con un humano que la convirtió en un espíritu familiar y la hizo un poco dependiente de la conexión espiritual entre ella y un mortal;

A pesar de su esperanza de vida sobrenatural como kitsune, Yua se alimenta de la energía vital de otros seres vivos para mantener su existencia, ya que quedó atrapada en el pacto como miembro de la familia y fue llevada a Twisted Wonderland, es difícil para ella mantener niveles estables de poder espiritual. sin un nuevo amo;

Su máscara es su forma de ocultar su Hoshi no Tama (esfera estelar) cuando está en su forma humana.

#Yua #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland oc

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authorialarcanist · 3 years ago

Text

Gracidea Blossom

Pokémon Diamond, Pearl, & Platinum X Little Busters!

Summary: Riki Naoe doesn't ask much from life; ever since his parents died, he only wants to stay with the friends who pulled him out of depression: Masato, Kengo, Kyousuke, and Rin. Kyousuke, however, has other plans: there's a beautiful world out there, and he wants Riki to see it. And so Riki and Rin set out on their own Pokémon journey through the wonders of the Sinnoh region, both natural and man-made. They will face challenges and meet new friends, and see all the awesome things the world of Pokémon has to offer. After all, even when it comes with tears, isn't that what life is about?

This story is being written with the assumption that a reader may not be familiar with Little Busters canon.

Rating: T

Pairings: None

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Mirror Links: AO3, Pokécommunity, Spacebattles

- Next Chapter

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Prologue: Kyousuke's Back

The wind howls, flinging torrents of sand every which way. A narrow path cuts through pockmarked cliffs of dark rock, winding up and down the sandy canyon floor. If a flying observer thought the storm was bad above ground level, they would realize how wrong they were upon diving between the walls; where the gale above split this way and that, sometimes blowing a flurry upwards to hang a moment in the air, here the canyon forms a channel for a river of air and sand to cut through like so many minuscule blades. Even the small oases of Route 228, normally offering respite from the desert’s harshness, find their trees struggling as the sandstorm strips leaves from their branches.

Two figures trudge through the sand, pushing forward even as the wind fights to deny them. The first, towering over its companion, is a bipedal dinosaur covered in bulky purple spikes. Its tail drags through the sand, leaving a trail behind it for only moments before the sandstorm covers it up.

Behind the Nidoking, relying on its bulk for cover from the storm, is a human wrapped up so tightly that not an inch of skin is visible. A damp cloth is wrapped around his nose and mouth, and heavy goggles cover his eyes. He pokes a gloved hand experimentally out from his Pokémon’s wind shadow, and snatches it back from the sudden force. He mutters to himself, voice confident though muffled by the cloth.

“This is definitely no ordinary storm.” Although Route 228 is known for its sandstorms, normally trainers can prepare for the weather and gather here as a training spot. The current winds, however, brook no argument in their rejection of any human foolish enough to trespass. Of course, that’s why he’s here; to get to the bottom of whatever’s been rendering the area uninhabitable. In front of him, his Pokémon lumbers to a stop; when he peeks around its side, he sees that a rock slide has blocked off the path. “Louis, down.” The Nidoking obediently crouches, allowing its trainer to clamber up onto its back. He pulls himself up by its spiked ridges.

That’s one advantage of the sandstorm, he muses. He doesn’t have to be as careful of his Pokémon’s poisonous spines when he’s already wearing gloves.

“Rock Climb!” He shouts the command to be heard over the wind, and holds on tight as Louis grabs onto a boulder above and begins the process of hauling itself up the obstruction. Its weight shifts back and forth as it climbs, and its passenger winces as his body occasionally swings out to catch a burst of stinging sand. Finally, the wind seems to let up a little as the Pokémon pulls itself to the top of the cliff and lets its trainer off. The two look down at the northern half of the route, and find it utterly buried in sand dunes. The northern oasis has totally vanished under heaps of sand, and as their gazes turn further north they find the source - a massive twister spewing sand from a wide pit near the route’s northern gate. The gate building itself, of course, is utterly sanded in (sanded in? Sandlogged? The trainer makes a mental note to check); it’s been unusable since the storm began. He pauses for a moment, considering. No, he’d better stick to his guns. ‘Sanded in’, it is.

Trainer and Pokémon trek on, staying atop the cliff with Louis bearing the brunt of the storm. It, at least, seems to enjoy the sandblasting. Finally they reach the nearest location to the source, a point where the cliff juts out in a wide overlook. Even with his Pokémon’s protection, the trainer can feel the twister tearing at his clothes, straining to pick him up and fling him away. He grimaces. This next part isn’t going to be fun.

He runs out from his Pokémon’s shelter to duck behind a pair of large, pitted boulders. For a moment he’s exposed to the full brunt of the sandstorm, and the damp cloth is ripped from his face, forcing him to cover it with one arm. He coughs in the dry air, but still manages to splutter out a command.

“Louis! Use Avalanche!” The Nidoking roars in reply, and stomps one huge leg with tremendous strength. A wave of ice spews forth from its mouth, and the cliff face gives way under the force, sending tonnes of ice and rock tumbling down into the twister’s heart. The sand sputters and pauses for a moment, and the trainer chooses then to dive out from his hiding spot and leap on top of the avalanche, desperately fighting to keep his balance as he plunges to the ground. As he nears his destination the tumbling rocks grow even more treacherous, and when an impact seems about to jar him off he leaps away, coming to a rolling stop in the sand some feet from ground zero. He sways to his feet, wincing. That probably would have given Riki a heart attack if he was here.

Still, he grins. He needs to work on the landing, but that was cool. He snaps back to earth as a tremor runs through the pile of rock and ice where the avalanche has finally stopped. Louis was far too heavy to make the same trip without being injured, so he’s going to have to play this suboptimally. That’s fine. The rocky tomb bursts apart, and an angry Pokémon emerges with a roar. It’s a huge hippo, taller than he is, with a leathery gray hide. Sand pours from holes on its darker snout and back, although thankfully it doesn’t seem capable of starting the twister back up immediately after his Nidoking’s painful attack. The Hippowdon - he hasn’t needed his Pokédex to recognize native Sinnoh species in a long time - glares at him, one eye red and the other a faded, milky blue. After a moment’s standoff, it leaps at him.

“Irwin! I choose you!” He flings a pokéball without missing a beat, and with a flash of red the Hippowdon find its charge interrupted by a vicious slashing claw. It backs away and examines this new opponent with its good eye. The claw attaches to a thin arm, sporting a pair of small spikes and a deep blue vestigial flipper. Red scales stretch up the newcomer’s belly and to its jaw, on a sharklike head flanked with two organs like jet engines. The snout is painted with yellow scales in the shape of a star. The Garchomp crouches, flicking its tail out behind it, and goes on the offensive. It’s unable to take full advantage of its speed in these narrow conditions, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still pack a punch.

At its trainer’s shouted “Dragon Claw,” the land-shark launches itself at the Hippowdon, slashing out with wicked claws. The hippo lumbers back, shifting to take only glancing blows until it finds an opening to lunge and latch onto the land-shark with its massive teeth. Its maw flashes white for a moment, and Irwin roars in pain as ice blooms where the Hippowdon’s teeth connect. It thrashes back and forth, trying to throw its opponent off, but the hippo is too heavy to budge.

“Wh—shit! That’s not a move Hippowdon can learn in the wild!” The trainer swears. Garchomp are incredibly vulnerable to the cold, and his Pokémon could be in danger if he doesn’t do something quickly. “Use Substitute! Get out of there!” Irwin glows bright white, and a moment later it’s slipping away as the Hippowdon munches on a glowing decoy. Back in the ball it goes, and — the trainer swears again, diving out of the way as the hippo barrels towards him, the substitute finally bursting beneath its legs. The rampaging Pokémon tries to stop as its target escapes it, but one of its back legs shudders as it tries to dig in, and it slams into a rock wall with a bellow. The trainer scrambles back to his feet, another Pokéball already flying from his hand. “It’s up to you, Maeda! Use Mach Punch!” A large ape, brown with a white torso and yellow swirls adorning its body, shoots like a bullet at the Hippowdon and beans it in the snout just as it turns around. The ape cartwheels out of the way of its opponent’s retaliation, flames billowing from its head in interesting patterns as it flips backwards. With another bellow, the Hippowdon gives chase.

“You’ve been competitively trained, that’s for sure.” The trainer narrows his eyes behind his goggles, watching as his Infernape keeps its opponent busy. “Why would a trainer abandon a Pokémon they’ve put this much investment into? And if they were going to just dump you off somewhere, then why go through the effort to make sure it’s in your natural habitat? Unless…” He watches as the Hippowdon works itself up into more and more of a rage, until it finally rears up onto its hind legs, preparing to slam down and trigger an earthquake to bury these irritants in one fell swoop. “Maeda, now!” The Infernape catches the hippo’s forelegs as it begins its descent, straining to push against the force. The Hippowdon roars, trying to crush its foe, but even as it pushes the ape back, its bad leg falters and gives in. Maeda gives one final push, and the Hippowdon slams down on its side. Dazed and weakened, it still tries to push itself to its feet.

The trainer approaches slowly, hands in front of him. “Your trainer felt responsible for getting you hurt, didn’t they? They thought staying here would be better for you. You were just trying to cause a disturbance so that they’d come back.” The Hippowdon’s roar sounds less angry, now, and more sad. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not your trainer. But… You can come with me, if you want to.” The hippo raises its head, its one red eye meeting the trainer’s gaze. Finally, it slumps to the ground, no longer struggling.

“I understand. And… I’m sorry.” The trainer pulls an Ultra Ball from a pocket of his coat, and with a press of the button on front it expands to full size. He palms the sturdy metal sphere, and with perfect form sends it sailing at the Hippowdon’s center mass. In a flash of red, the Pokémon vanishes, and the Ultra Ball falls to the ground. It doesn’t shake.

The trainer walks over and picks it up. Next to it is a strange rock, smooth but for translucent brown crystals jutting out at angles. “Was she holding this?” He murmurs to himself, and pockets the stone. May as well show it to the Professor, in case it had anything to do with the strength of the Hippowdon’s sandstorm.

“Now, then…” He looks around.

The pit is covered in rubble and sand. Finding where his Pokémon’s balls had flown after releasing them is going to be a hassle.

——

“…And that’s what happened.”

Sinnoh’s Resort Area could hardly be any more different from the harsh desert of Route 228. Nestled between lush forests on every side, the settlement is a study in blues and greens. Aside from a small Pokémon Center catering to trainers who came from the other Areas of the Battle Zone, the few buildings in the clearing gleam white in the sun, with rich vacationers lounging on lawn-chairs or swimming in pools beside them. Despite their luxury, all of these villas remain at one story in height; the only building to climb higher is the combination Ribbon Syndicate and Spa at the northern edge of town, a social hub for those staying in the area.

A young man lies on the cool grass next to a small pond. Around him are scattered several layers of protective clothing. The trainer finally pulls off his thick goggles and splashes some water on his face. Now that he’s no longer bundled up against the sandstorm, he’s wearing a black T-shirt with a light red dress shirt worn open over it. Auburn hair falls to the length of his nose, cut shorter just above each eye to keep it from blinding him. He straightens up and stretches before opening his eyes, refreshed. They’re a deep, intense red. This is Kyousuke Natsume, the Champion of the Sinnoh region’s Pokémon League.

“Route 228 is officially open for travel again, and I’ll be taking this Hippowdon with me. Who knows, maybe we’ll even find her trainer. How about you, Professor?”

His companion looks up from finishing a donut. “Hmm, yes. My research while waiting here was more than satisfactory.” This is an older man, sporting white hair and an impressive mustache. He’s wearing a brown coat over a blue vest. His face appears severe, but the effect is rather ruined when he licks frosting off of his fingers and smiles. “…And I must say, the amenities were quite fascinating as well!” This is Professor Rowan, the region’s foremost Pokémon Professor. “Anyhow, you really didn’t have to accompany me to Unova. Surely you’re eager to get back to your friends?”

Kyousuke nods. “I can’t say you’re wrong. Still, I did have business that was closer to Unova than Sinnoh.” He fingers a Pokéball on his belt, kept separate from those of his team and the recent acquisition. “And helping out on the way was the least I could do, with what I’m asking of you.”

“Nonsense, young man!” Rowan waves the comment off. “I’d never ask for compensation to help nurture another generation of Trainers. Getting to see youngsters set out and discover the world together with Pokémon would be reward enough, even if we weren’t talking about…” He trails off, shooting Kyousuke a sheepish look.

Kyousuke takes pity on him. “Of course. I shouldn’t have implied otherwise.”

“Err-hem. Speaking of which, here - now’s as good a time as any to hand them over.” Professor Rowan turns to the briefcase sitting on the grass beside him, and pulls out a slim black bag with something rectangular inside, along with two Pokéballs. Kyousuke takes them, inclining his head in thanks. “I must say, having your assistance was quite nice! If you’re ever looking for a job as a full-time lab assistant, my door is always open!”

“Well, I might be hunting for a job one day and have to take you up on that.” Kyousuke chuckles. “For now, though, Champion duties keep me more than busy enough.”

“Hah! Well, you can’t blame me for trying.” Rowan snaps his briefcase closed and takes one last wistful look at the large building overlooking the resort. “You know, the lady at the Syndicate said they’d be getting in Lava Cookies tomorrow. Ah well, I suppose time waits for no man…”

Kyousuke shakes his head. “I guess not. I wouldn’t want to miss our boat and have to Surf all the way.”

With some good-natured grumbling, the Professor picks up his briefcase, and the two set off.

——

The sun is setting over Mt. Coronet by the time Kyousuke finally makes it to Hearthome City. Stepping out of the gate building and onto the city’s patterned brick paths, he marvels at how, no matter how long he’s been away, Hearthome always seems to welcome him back. From the widely spaced brick houses and apartment buildings, flanked by bushes growing from cutouts in the streat, to the parents out with strollers, waving casually not at the Champion but at the leader of those kids who were always making a racket, the city emits a palpable sense of warmth. Kyousuke is looking forward to seeing his friends, but he stops at a bench to rest his feet and watch twilight play over the city. Streamers of orange light seem to sink into the bricks around him, and paint the city’s fountains with their glow. Above the mountain to the west, the sky fades from blue to orange to a quiet pink. The breeze is pleasantly cool, and Kyousuke’s eyes slowly drift closed.

When he opens them again, dusk has well and truly fallen. In lieu of the sun, street-lights have illuminated themselves, casting the city in a strange liminal tone. He checks his Pokétch, and sees the clock app mark the time as 10 PM. With a yawn, Kyousuke pushes himself to his feet; his friends shouldn’t be sleeping just yet, and he does want to see them tonight.

“Oh, if it isn’t Kyousuke!” A woman stops him before he can begin his search; he remembers her babysitting him and his sister when they were younger. “I see you’re back from your trip.”

He nods. “I would have been here yesterday, but they needed my help at the Battle Zone.”

“Ah, of course. A champion’s duty calls, eh? I don’t suppose you checked in on Rin and the others before deciding to take a nap?”

“Hmph.” Kyousuke chuckles. “What can I say? Our fair city’s beauty couldn’t be ignored.”

“Sure, sure. If you’re looking, I think they’ve been in Amity Square all day.”

“Much obliged.” With a casual wave, Kyousuke sets off in the direction of the park. He could have guessed; any time she wasn’t otherwise occupied, Rin could be found playing with the cat Pokémon who lived there. Riki would go wherever his friends did, and Masato and Kengo liked to keep an eye on them when he wasn’t around, so more often than not they could be found in the park whenever he returned from a long trip. He slips past the Pokémon Contest Hall, ignoring the colorful lights and boisterous sounds that can be heard from the dome, and finally the city’s ubiquitous brick gives way to grass as he approaches Amity Square’s entranceway.

Although the design is somewhat reminiscent of Sinnoh’s gate buildings, the entranceway is much more open, with open-air windows that only get covered in cases of inclement weather, and a cheery sign depicting a Drifloon, a Psyduck, and a Torchic hanging over it. He passes through with a nod to the attendant, and steps out into the park. Despite the dark sky the park is still illuminated by a smattering of street lamps; Amity Square is first and foremost a place for children to play with tame Pokémon, so safety is their first concern. It’s a shame that you can’t see the stars from here, but it’s worth it for the smiles the park brings to children and adults alike.

Catching a glimpse of one of his friends, Kyousuke cuts across a bridge to the manmade island in the center of the large pond that occupies pride of place in the square. Sat on a raised outcropping of rock next to the Bonsly that follows him everywhere, Riki Naoe is quietly gazing at the water. Although he’s only a year younger than Kyousuke, Riki is still more a boy than a man, with a slight build clad in a simple blue coat. He has brown hair and greyish-brown eyes, set in a soft face. Right now, however, those eyes seem to be looking someplace far away.

Even now, years after they first met, Kyousuke still catches Riki making that expression from time to time. He wishes he could drive the clouds from his friend’s face for good. He clears his throat, and raises his hand in a lazy wave. “Yo, Riki.”

Riki looks around, and his face lights up like the sun upon seeing Kyousuke.

“Kyousuke! Your trip is over? Oh, wait, I need to go get the others!” He turns and runs deeper into the park. “Hey! Masato! Kengo! Rin! Come on, Kyousuke’s back!”

Kyousuke watches fondly as his friends gather. One more day, he decides. They’ll spend one more day in Hearthome, playing together like nothing has changed. But after that…

He toys absentmindedly with the Pokéball he picked up in Unova, and meets the eyes of two of his friends as they approach. Masato and Kengo nod back, the message received.

It’s time.

Soon, Riki and Rin’s own journey will have to begin.

------

A brief note about spoilers: in this fic, some spoilers for Little Busters! will be inevitable. However, I'm going to leave a note at the start of any chapter where spoilers about a character's route pop up for the first time, so that people who haven't read the VN or watched the anime can still follow along and pause if they decide they want to see a character's original context before getting spoiled on anything. That said, even then I'm going to keep spoilers to backstory content only as best I can; I'm going to be leaving as much of the routes as possible to be the original work's domain and taking my own path with the characters, just as I'm hoping to do something original with Sinnoh rather than just retelling Pokémon Diamond and Pearl. Ultimately, my goal is for somebody who hasn't read Little Busters to be able to read this fic, and still go on to enjoy Little Busters afterwards and have things left to be surprised by.

#Little Busters!#pokemon #fanfiction #Natsume Kyousuke #Professor Rowan #Gracidea Blossom #Sinnoh

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snowycrocus · 5 years ago

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The Spirit of Racing

Frozen 2 Fanfiction

Thanks to @blunaowl for this prompt of Elsa & Kristoff racing their trusty steeds!

-----

She really was different, Kristoff thought. And it wasn’t just that she let down her hair.

(Anna had had to tell him – “she didn’t cut it, you big buffoon, she let it loose!”)

Or something, Elsa had said, and he finally figured out what that something was, more or less.

It was acceptance. Confidence.

Now that Elsa knew who she was, why she was, it was as though everything that had been holding her back had suddenly evaporated into the air just as it did when she thawed her ice. Usually, anyway.

She smiled more, her arms were looser, and though she had always held herself ramrod-straight, her back seemed straighter not just out of impeccable posture, but out of self-assuredness.

It looked good on her.

Except, Kristoff thought, when that self-confidence was aimed against him.

Elsa’s long fingers clenched and unclenched around the Nøkk’s reins. Her eyes narrowed to slits and Kristoff watched as her legs flexed and tightened against her ride’s frozen sides.

In turn, Kristoff hunched down closer to Sven’s back. “We got this, buddy,” he whispered, and Sven huffed in agreement. His hoof pawed the ground in preparation for the count.

The sounds of cheers rang in his ears and he tried desperately to block them out and focus.

“Lady Elsa!” He heard someone scream. “May the spirits be with you!” Kristoff rolled his eyes. Lady Elsa was frickin’ sitting on one.

“Long live the King!” Another shouted, and Kristoff winced at the title. “May you ride fast and true!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

“One!”

The bell rang, and the roaring of the crowd compounded with Sven and the Nøkk’s hooves pounded in his ears…

---

It had all started out with an innocent question.

And ho, boy did he regret it now!

But after seeing Elsa ride the Nøkk for the umpteenth time across the fjord, he couldn’t help but ask:

“Where’d you learn to ride like that?”

“I didn’t,” she giggled softly. The hand no longer came up to cover her mouth. Not for the small bouts of laughter, anyway.

She elaborated at his furrowed eyebrows and Anna’s, “wait, what?”

“I haven’t ridden since I was a child, after…we were separated,” she started. She dismounted and greeted them both with a hug despite the rough topic.

“But we just kind of….fit,” she said, referring to the Nøkk. “His spirit of the water and the ice in me…they naturally are a part of each other. We had to learn to understand each other, back in the ocean while I was trying to reach Ahtohallan, but ever since then my power flows through his and we…it just feels like we’re the same spirit.”

“Aw, just like you and Sven, Kristoff!” Anna jokes. She’s taken off her tiara for the night in preparation for their weekly game night and sleepover, and her cheeks are pink and eyes bright with excitement.

“Well, we share the same mind, you know. Isn’t that right, Sven?”

“Sure is! You’re my spirit animal, Kristoff!” The girls chortle at the commentary.

“You two certainly do have a special way with each other,” Elsa yields.

“Sure do. Y’know, now that you’re more familiar with riding, you should give Sven a try sometime. Might come in handy, now that you live with all those reindeer. Not that they’re as good as you, buddy.” He ruffles the fur on Sven’s head.

Elsa puts her hand on her hip. “No need,” she says, raising an eyebrow slyly, a taunting smile forming on her lips. Kristoff knows that smirk. “I like to go fast, anyway.”

Sven harrumphs, and Kristoff feels his own hackles rising. “Um, excuse me? Are you saying we don’t go fast?”

“Wellll…..” Elsa trails off, running her fingers down the Nøkk’s back, and looks back at him with a challenging grin. “I didn’t say it.”

“Ohhhhh boy!” Anna rubs her hands together excitedly. She senses what’s coming, shooting eager glances between the two people she loves most.

“Is that a challenge?” Kristoff straightens his back and strides up to Elsa. He hopes it feels as intimidating as he wants it to be. She may be some special-spirit-whatever, but as he looks down his nose at her he tries to convey that he will defeat her if necessary in a race.

Sven stalks up to the Nøkk and snorts in front of the water horse’s snout. The Nøkk rears back and stomps both front hooves, releasing a sudden spray of water that drenches Sven. He sputters and runs behind Kristoff.

Kristoff shakes his head in loving disbelief. “You two may run fast on water and ice,” he starts, arms folding to cross over his chest. “But me and Sven have you two beat on land.”

“Sven and I,” Elsa corrects, “and you’re on.”

---

After hearing the challenge, Anna, as queen, had a racing track built around the outskirts of the city of Arendelle.

“Ooh, this is perfect!” She had exclaimed, fanning her hands out in front of her as she imagined the scene. “This’ll create jobs and give the people something to look forward to! Everyone will want to celebrate the race between our former-queen-turned-ice-spirit and the King consort!”

Sure enough, she was right. Hundreds had come to watch the competition unfold between two of the three most talked-about people in the Kingdom. Bets were placed, people clamored to get the closest spots to the racetrack, food was brought and passed around.

The Nøkk may be magical, Kristoff thinks, but he’s used to only running on water, not land and snow. Surely he and Sven have the home advantage.

And that seems to be the case at first. For the first few minutes, Kristoff can hear the even, steady stride of the Nøkk from behind Sven. The path isn’t easy, and he feels confident that the uneven terrain and obstacles will keep Elsa and her spirit-horse safely behind. There are dips in the ground, crusts of icy snow, and hidden branches buried in the fallen powder. He and Sven were born for this environment. A magical being? Maybe not so much.

He internally cheers when he hears Elsa’s brief cry of alarm when the Nøkk stumbles over a snow-buried log. Looking back to make sure she’s alright, he finds he’s shocked to find his competitors are much, much closer than he had thought.

“Let’s go, Sven,” he urges his friend.

He hangs on as Sven puts forth a burst of speed, only to be taken aback when he hears a grunt from Elsa sidling up right next to him.

Her cheeks are flushed a bright pink, excitement dancing in her eyes and concentration furrowing her brow. She’s created riding trousers for herself, though her feet are bare as they always seem to be nowadays.

And of course, she’s wearing a cape. It soars out behind her from the wind, taunting Kristoff as she and the Nøkk surpass them.

Kristoff taps Sven, who’s beginning to pant with the effort to regain his first place spot. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Sven looks back for a second to give Kristoff a grin, then lunges forward to grip Elsa’s cape in his teeth. He pulls back…..

Elsa startles at the tug.

But then her eyes narrow, glinting, and she cocks one of those classic Elsa smirks. One hand raises from the Nøkk’s reins to snap her fingers.

The cape disconnects from her fitted top, sliding off of her shoulders….and right into Sven and Kristoff’s faces.

“Arghhh!” Kristoff shouts as he desperately tries to throw the cape off so they can see once again. Sven has to come to a stop to avoid running straight into a tree.

By the time he throws off the cape, mere seconds later, Elsa and the Nøkk are gone.

---

“This is so not fair!” Kristoff exclaims as he watches Elsa accept a trophy from Anna. “They’re magical!”

People from the kingdom cheer for Lady Elsa while others shoot depressed glares at their King consort while paying their lost bet.

Elsa laughs, waving to her fans that she just made much richer. She slides her hand over the Nøkk’s nose and feeds him an ice carrot. Sven looks on in jealousy.

“I didn’t hear you complaining when Olaf’s magic and rearranging helped you two win charades,” she argues, one slim eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, well… that’s different!”

Even Sven snorts at that.

“Don’t worry too much,” Elsa chides him, “I’m sure among the average human and reindeer you both would be considered very fast.” She winks. Kristoff can’t help but smile at her easygoing banter and cheerfulness. She deserves it now.

Elsa gives Kristoff an extremely quick hug and Sven a light pat before heading off to meet with her clamoring child admirers.

“Oh, c’mere you big loser!”

Anna plants a big kiss on his cheek, and Kristoff flushes in both embarrassment and pleasure.

He may not be a magical winner, but sometimes he sure does feel like one.

---

Let me know what you think! Many thanks to @blunaowl for the prompt!! Forgive me if this is a bit weak as I’m not used to writing stuff without angst. @frozenbassist and @justlookatthosesausages you both mentioned you’d want to read this so tagging you.

This inspired me for Frozen 2 ice bros, and now I’ve got lots of ideas to write, coming soon!

#frozen 2 #elsa #frozen #kristoff #anna #frozen fanfiction #fanfiction #ice bros #frozen2

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years ago

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Praetego

Michael made one choice and thought that was it for him. However, his past has come back. He’s realizing now there will always be choices for him to make and the one right now–to hide or to stand tall

CW: Mentions of blood, death, and violence. 18+ Content, Smut (MLM)

Enjoy my masterlist!

Support me ko-fi.

_________________________

Michael glances down to the glass in his hands as a small chuckle escapes his lips. Alex, the guy he singled out at the bar from the start of the night, steps in a little closer. The woodsy but floral scent of Alex’s cologne invades Michael’s nose. He smells so much like a man and also a little sweet that it almost makes Michael’s head spin. “I’m shocked you guys didn’t lock this place down,” Alex shouts upon the revelation that Michael is out celebrating the release of the band’s album.

Michael shakes his head. “And miss the opportunity to meet you. I don’t think so.”

It’s Alex’s turn to duck his head. His hair, thick black strands, is slicked back. When he turns to the side a little, Michael can see the single braid that hangs down his back. Michael almost wants to reach out and touch it, but he reframes. Alex’s warm brown skin absorbs the red lights of the club. Unlike Michael’s paler skin, which only reflects and with a surge of courage, Michael gently brushes a hand over Alex’s forearm. “Don’t act shy now,” Michael teases.

With a short laugh, Alex grins, looking up from under his lashes. “No one’s shy around here. I just don’t want to be rude and take you away from your friends. You only get to celebrate the release once, really.”

Michael’s high-pitched laughter bounces around in Alex’s skull. Without thinking, the two men step even closer together. “They won’t mind. I promise.” Michael threads his arm around Alex’s waist. They’re roughly the same height, but underneath the black t-shirt he feels so firm to Michael’s touch. The cologne gets stronger again with the proximity, and Michael lets his eyes close briefly as he inhales.

Michael does briefly worry that he’s not Alex’s type. Beneath the baggy shirt and joggers, Michael imagines he can’t compare to Alex. The thought is fleeting when Alex breathes right against Michael’s ear. “Let’s get out of here then, yeah?”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

The pair closes out their individual tabs. Michael thinks as he leads Alex out of the club, he sees her. It can’t be Sylvie. Michael left them behind. He had made his choice six years ago. He shakes the thought. It definitely looked like her. Long coils that wrapped around themselves and cascaded down her shoulders. Only longer this time, he thinks. The last time he saw her, her hair rested just at her chest and now it was resting right at her stomach. But the cool dark brown skin that reminded him of autumn every time he looked at her, and the green eyes that looked too much like his, are clear. Even though it’s dark and crowded, he will never forget his first family. He could never forget them.

“Is something wrong?” Alex asks. He noticed Michael not moving but staring into the crowd near the door. His eyes cast over the entire crowd. No one looked familiar, not a soul from the group that Michael had spent part of the night laughing with. Alex noted that Michael didn’t really dance, just kind of bounced to the beat blasting. No one is staring back at them either. Who would have captured his attention?

Michael blinks. It’s just his imagination. She’ll be gone when his eyes open. Her birthday is coming up soon. He remembers because he still sends gifts. When he opens his eyes, she’s still standing there. Leaning as if she’s just a normal club goer. As if this is just normal for her. Michael made his choice, though. He made his choice. He tries not to regret it, but he’ll be damned if he has to make another one like that again. “Nothing,” he says, turning back to Alex. “Someone just looked familiar for two seconds and yeah, it’s nothing.”

Alex nods, squeezing his hand, and they travel into the bowels of the night. “I’ll offer my place.” There’s no room to argue either as he pulls out his phone, tapping in the Uber app for a ride.

“Attractive and thoughtful. I like it.” Alex’s cheek is smooth against Michael’s lip and they fall into each other as tufts of laughter escape them.

“I have to warn of a dog at home. She’s sweet, though. I promise.”

Michael’s heart nearly melts at the mention of a dog. He grins. “I love dogs.”

“I hope you like German shepherds. I can put her up for the time being if it worries you at all.”

“Nah, I’m tough.”

Alex laughs, cupping the beard that decorates Michael’s jaw and chin. “Sure you are.”

“Is that a fucking challenge?” The indignant squeal turns up Michael’s voice, but there’s a grin on his lips. Michael finds himself lost in the depths of Alex’s brown eyes. The bright light of the streetlight twinkles in them a little and god, he’s so gorgeous.

“It could be a fucking challenge.” The inflection around the word ‘fucking’ and the grin Alex fixes Michael with emphasizes the meaning Alex is giving the phrase. Michael hums, eyes squinting to show his faux suspicion. Before Michael can give his retort, a car pulls up beside them. They didn’t expect that the driver was that close to them, but they climb inside.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Roxie. I call her Roxs for short sometimes. Her paws are a little darker than the rest of her, so I always say she has socks on. And I’m over sharing, aren’t I?”

“Maybe a little. But it’s okay.”

Outside the door of Alex’s apartment, Michael can already hear the tapping of claws on the floor. Alex is slow to open the door. To Roxie’s true fashion, Michael sees the brown body jumping just a little at Alex. “Hey, girl,” he coos, taking a moment to scratch her chin.

Michael grin. When she finally takes notice of him, he offers his hands. She sniffs it and moves from Alex’s hold to sit right in front of Michael. Her tail wags and thumps against the floor. “Oh, how polite of you,” Michael praises, squatting down.

She clicks her paws to the floor and sniffs over his face. Her snout is cold. Her body shakes with excitement as she curls up into Michael as he scratches her chin. Poised right onto the couch is a toy. Michael picks up the red ball. Roxie picks up on the movement immediately. She moves to all four and when the ball rolls gently down into the dining room area, she gently gallops over to it. With it secured in her grasps, she trots back over to Michael. He takes it again when she lets it fall into his palm. He rolls it again, laughing gently as she chases down after down. Michael stands. “She’s adorable.”

“Yeah, my baby,” Alex returns. Roxie returns with her heavy pants and a little less spring in her hop than usual. “Sleepy, girl?”

She looks at Michael. Eyes silently begging for one more toss. Just one last chase. “Oh, one more?” Michael bargains. “I think she deserves one more.” When he reaches out for the ball, she happily plops it into his hand. He gives it another roll. Soon, though, with a lot of coaxing to settle down onto her bed in the crate, Roxie drops her head onto her paws. The sheet settles over top of it and Alex stands.

It’s only during this time to get her settled that Michael looks over Alex again. The heavens and suns kissed his skin. The strong brow bone makes Michael’s throat jump a little. As Alex stands with a grin, Michael is sure his knees will give out on him. “Do you want anything? Water?”

“Bathroom?”

“Down the hall first on the left.”

Michael nods and follows it down, mainly just to wash his hands and rinse out his mouth. There’s nothing that can really wash away the taste of alcohol but time and greasy foods. It’s a quick splash of some cold water over his face.

Alex sits on the couch, two glasses of water on the coffee table, but Michael’s not worried about that. It’s as he gets closer that he notices Alex’s hair is down. There’s a slight curl to the hair, no doubt from the braid. He sits, arms spread out over the edge of the couch. He’s slumped down a little, legs falling open easily. Michael grins when they lock eyes.

“You’re grinning like Cheshire cat over there,” Alex teases.

In that moment, Michael is sure that he’s fucking sculpted by some god out there as his hair tumbles down his chest. Michael walks over and bypasses the cushion next to Alex before straddling his thigh. Alex’s fingers dig into Michael’s waist just a little, to keep him steady. “Are you the betting type?”

Alex shakes his head. “Try not to be if I can help it.” Michael cups Alex’s cheek, just gently stroking the soft flesh. Alex continues to speak. “Why do you ask?”

“Because if you were, I would say that I bet you look good in this t-shirt but I know you look better out of it.”

Alex moves his hands away for a second and grins. “Be my guest.” The t-shirt is easy to get up and over, the hair tumbles down like a black waterfall. Michael can’t help but run his fingers down Alex’s chest.

“I would have won,” Michael whispers as he leans forward. His lips just brush over Alex’s as he speaks.

As Alex dips his fingers under Michael’s shirt, he grins. “Good thing I didn’t take it then.” Michael’s own shirt is pulled up and discarded to the floor. Michael feels the beanie slipping and lets it go. He gives no scramble to catch it or watch for where it lands.

Alex tastes like the soda he was sipping on. Michael can’t quite place it but he knows if he ever were to place what it was, he would always sip it and remember this moment, remember the way Alex holds him tight. He would always have a moment where he flashes back to Alex, sighing into his skin. Michael lets his fingers slip through Alex’s hair just for a moment to cradle his head and bring their mouths back together.

Michael’s skin is no doubt hot, from their closeness, from the alcohol. It was only one drink. He doesn’t go too hard anymore like his younger years. “You’re okay with this, right?”

“You wouldn’t be sitting on my lap in my apartment if I weren’t,” Alex returns with a huffed exhale of laughter.

“Good, because fuck, you’re hot.” As they trail kisses over skin, they move themselves from the living room to the bedroom. Michael sees now a desk in the bedroom's corner with beadwork laying on it and he wonders what it means, what Alex does. But it’s amongst notebooks, some sheet music. Michael sees a jersey hanging over the back of the chair and he can’t place the affiliated sport—he feels like he could spot a soccer team faster than American football. He never has more than a moment to consider the thoughts before his head falls back into the wall with Alex’s lips sucking hickeys into his skin.

When there’s the graze, light pressure from Alex’s palm on his erection, Michael melts. “Fuck, please.”

“Eager beaver.” They discard their pants, leaving them just in their boxers. Alex guides Michael to the bed. Alex licks his lips. Michael looks so timid, but so coy at the same time. “What’s on your mind? What are you thinking? Any more bets?”

“No, no more bets.” He crooks his fingers to beckon Alex forward. “Just a thought. I can't be lonely on such a nice bed.”

Alex joins him with no extra prompting. That scent comes back as Alex hovers over him, with hand one toying at the band of his boxers Michael just lets go. He doesn’t care if he’s too loud. He doesn’t care if he reaches out too much. All that matters is Alex’s touch, his tongue, and the arousal punching at Michael’s gut.

He doesn’t let himself go completely. Michael pulls Alex in close, hands slipping into the underwear, and pushes them down. He takes his thumb to play just a hair with Alex’s tip and lets some pre-cum act as a lube as Michael’s hand slides down Alex’s cock.

It’s with a shuddering exhale that Alex almost falls completely into Michael. “Fuck.”

Michael holds him a little closer, arm winding around his shoulders, and fingers twisted into his hair. “It’s okay. Fall into me.”

Alex takes a nip at Michael’s shoulder, his breath hot and ghosting over his skin. He can only groan, hips bucking slightly into Michael’s palm. Michael grins at the sounds of Alex letting his body go to the pleasure, to the way he’s tucked into the grasps of Michael’s fist. “I can do one better,” Michael whispers.

Alex laughs. “I bet I can, too.”

“You said you weren’t the betting type.”

Alex winks. “Sometimes I might contradict myself.” He peels himself away and kisses Michael's chest. The boxers, while adorable with the Christmas lights on them, are removed. When Alex takes in the sight of Michael, hard and leaking for him, he groans. He licks a stripe from base to tip and pumps slowly. “You did not tell me that this is what I had to look forward to.”

Michael feels the heat flooding his cheeks. He’s never been one to consider himself worth more than a glance. But Alex’s awe and smile tell Michael otherwise. Nothing else is said before Alex takes him down. Michael bawls the sheets into his fist, feeling the way Alex relaxes his throat and slips Michael down. “God.” Michael chokes on the word. It’s heavenly as Alex hums around his length.

Michael blinks open his eyes, watching as the curtain of hair falls and tickles over his thighs. Alex pulls away and ties his hair up, a loose bun sitting on the top of his head. Michael beckons him back up, just for a quick kiss. The taste of Michael coats his own tongue, and it mixes with the soda from before. Now all he wants is to embed the cologne of Alex into his skin forever.

There’s not much wasted time before Alex returns, his mouth hot and so inviting around Michael’s cock. Michael groans, pushing his hips up just a little. Alex hums, hands playing at Michael’s hips before taking him firmly to pump at the length that doesn’t quite get down Alex’s throat. Michael’s face is getting hot, he can feel it in the tips of his ears as Alex works. A hand comes up, gently playing at his balls, and Michael loses it. It’s as if the top of his head falls off, and he’s just floating.

He grabs for anything. Just a piece of something sturdy to steady himself. It winds up being Alex’s shoulder. A meaty but firm patch of muscle. Michael will not last like this. And he thinks it really doesn’t matter. “Shit,” he hums and soon his toes are curling.

His breathing becomes more labored. His jaw falls slack. Just unhinged when Alex teases his tip, tongue dancing over the slit. “Oh, fuck.” Michael digs tighter into the sheets and his blunt nails have left crescent moon indents—they have to. But Michael doesn’t care as he cums, a grunt and groan escaping his chest.

Alex pulls back, sure to show off him licking the excess from the corner of his mouth. “That’s just a treat.”

Michael, falling into the mattress and pillows, laughs before pulling Alex down. They share another slow and languid kiss, a clashing of tongues slipping over each other and inhaling the other’s sighs. After a beat or two, Michael slips out from underneath and pushes Alex down. He settles around Alex’s waist, wasting no time to remove the last layer of cotton hiding him away. If Michael is a surprise, then Alex breaks the scale. For a moment, there’s a fleeting thought about how he will handle this if it goes further. But he likes a challenge.

First, though, Michael traces the ink around Alex’s bicep. He hadn’t noticed that before, not that shocking the way his hair falls over his chest and arms. “You like ink too?”

Alex nods. “Got it after a ceremony. I have another one on my back, just for fun really.”

“Ceremony?”

Alex has to laugh at the confusion on Michael’s face. He places his hands on Michael’s thighs and gently runs his fingers over the skin. “Don’t worry too much about it.” Michael’s beckoned; he lets himself go, bending down to capture Alex’s lips. One hand finds his length and Alex mewls at the touch.

Michael loves the sound. He wants to etch it into his brain. God, he needs every sound Alex gives him. Alex pushes up, trying to keep Michael close. “Don’t run away from me,” Alex jokes, keeping a firm hold on Michael’s neck.

“I’m not running anywhere.” Michael keeps his hands full of Alex, pumping over his length as they kiss again. Michael takes a small moment to coat his hand to keep his grip slick and inviting. He can feel himself getting hard again, too. Every huff and moan Alex releases only serves to make Michael harder. He rocks, his cock rubbing against Alex’s stomach just a little, and he can’t help the whine that escapes him.

Alex bucks up, holding Michael close as they sit chest to chest, Michael sitting straddling Alex’s body, his feet facing the bed frame. Alex nips at Michael’s skin, shuddering. The bed rocks into the wall, the frame tapping gently but not hurriedly. “Fuck,” Alex sighs. “Not gonna last.”

“We’ve got all night,” Michael says. He knows when Alex starts to orgasm, the rigid tension that overtakes his body and soon he’s sputtering hot liquid into Michael’s hand and torso. Michael peels away, just enough for Alex to watch as he licks his hand clean.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Alex teases before they get up and get cleaned up for the moment.

“It’s going to be a long night,” Michael returns as they settle back onto the mattress with the glass of water from before within his grasps.

Michael wakes to the sun in his face and he curses slightly, one hand blocking out the intrusion. The room is bright, walls white. When Michael sees the desk again, he remembers suddenly that he’s not in his own house. An arm is stretched out across his waist and Michael turns. Alex’s face smashed into the pillow, stares back at him. His hair still tied up, though some of it threatens to fall out of the elastic. He sighs and lets his head back into the navy pillow case.

“Want breakfast?” Alex asks, his voice is thick with sleep but sounds like he might’ve been up for a while. His eyes haven’t opened yet.

“How long have you been up?” Michael’s own voice is gruff.

“Couple hours. Took Roxs out. Let her run the neighborhood for a little, then came back inside. You hadn’t come to life yet, so I let you be. Just crawled back into bed and drifted in and out of sleep.”

“You saying I sleep like the dead?”

“Roxie’s barking didn’t wake you. And she’s not tiny, so yeah. You do.”

Michael shoves Alex’s shoulder and turns to his back. There’s a slight twinge of pain that reminds him of the events from the prior night, but mostly it’s an ache. It’s dull and Michael’s familiar with it after all his adventures.

“You want breakfast though? Seriously.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

Alex’s hand trails up Michael’s chest and brushes some of his hair out of his eyes. “You’re not a bother. Eggs and pancakes?” Michael attempts to protest that he should probably get home so Alex can take Roxie on a proper walk, but Alex shushes him with a single finger to his lips. “Just say yes.”

“Yes,” Michael mumbles around the digit. There’s a gentle pat to his cheek and Alex pushes up. The bed dips, bounces, and then springs back as Alex finally climbs off it. There’s a whistle and suddenly Michael is aware of the clicking again and knows it’s Roxie following the command.

Michael slips his beanie back onto his head. He feels bad leaving without cleaning his plate, but Alex insists that he can handle the clean up too. “You’re sure you don’t want help with the dishes?”

“It’s just some plates, really. I’m sure.”

Michael checks his phone again. The driver is about three minutes out. “Thanks. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

Roxie trots over from Alex’s side at the table. She holds her ball in her mouth, eyes looking up at Michael expectedly. “I’m so sorry, girl. I gotta go.” He gives her another few scratches, but it hurts for a moment when he hears her whine at him approaching the door.

“We can play later, baby,” Alex calls, hands turned out for the toy. “I promise.”

Michael walks down the short flight of stairs, patting his pockets. His phone and wallet are in their appropriate pockets. His keys are in his front pocket and he sighs a small bit of relief that he doesn’t have to scramble back to Alex’s before the Uber arrives.

Michael thinks about Sylvie in the club. That couldn’t have been her there. She wasn’t even on this side of the world the last time she had checked in with him. They were somewhere in the UK, but he couldn’t remember the exact location. Maybe he was just hallucinating. Sylvie wasn’t one to use trickery to communicate and unless she had developed some new skill, then Michael wasn’t sure how she could do it anyway.

The silver sedan pulls up, and they seem shocked at Michael’s presence on the curb. He prays for a good ride and though it’s a little awkward in the beginning; it goes smoothly as they pull up to his house. He thanks them and climbs into his place. Though he had fun with Alex, there’s nothing like being in his own shower and being able to fall into the cushion of his own couch.

He feels at peace right as he turns on his TV. There’s a knock. He huffs but pushes up from the couch. Michael doesn’t really give a full glimpse into the peephole. He cracks open the door, regardless, and he can’t believe his own eyes. “You’re not real. You can’t be real.”

Sylvie reaches out and wraps her slender fingers around his forearm. “A projection can’t do that.”

“A hallucination could.”

“Take a picture,” she counters. They’ve both been around long enough to know that if she shows up in that picture that Michael’s in deeper trouble than he thought. He keeps his eyes trained on her but lifts his hands and beckons the phone to him. She grins a little, noticing the small purple glow around the device. He hasn’t lost his touch all these years later.

When Michael brings the camera up and sees her, his first reaction is to shut the door. To just slam it so he doesn’t have to deal with whatever bomb she’s about to drop on him. And, of course, she anticipates it. She senses the spike in fear and throws a hand up to stop the door. “We need you.”

“I made my choice Sylvie.”

“We need you, Michael.”

No, they can’t need him. He renounced them. Not that he would’ve chosen to go about it that way. If there were any other way to choose the band but still keep an official connection with the cove, he would’ve chosen that. Not that he would’ve completely dropped them, and he hadn’t truly let communication with them cease. But he is living his dream. His life is normal. He can be himself. He doesn’t have to worry about the Hunters anymore. He doesn’t have to look over his shoulder anymore.

“So you were at the club last night.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you stop me then? Why did you just lurk in the corner?”

She grins, her lips painted a pretty orange split to reveal her brilliant white teeth. “You looked a little busy last night. You always did like them tall, dark, and handsome.”

“I like them all actually,” Michael retorts.

“I remember,” she laughs with one eyebrow raising. Michael wasn’t rapid with his sex life before the band, and it’s still fairly tame in comparison. But he had his escapades. He had his bed filled with whoever tickles his fancy. No one ever judged him for it. And especially not Sylvie. She’s always been his wing woman. The two of them out in a town could wreck some chaos if given a long weekend.

“You guys were supposed to be done with me,” Michael sighs, waving for her to come inside.

“I wouldn’t bother you unless I had to.” She’s careful as she steps into his place. Only keeping her feet on the mat. She hates to be intruding. If Sylvie had any other choice, anyone else she could’ve gone to, she wouldn’t be at Michael’s door. It was hard to see him go, but she never thought less of him. She had loved and still loves Michael. “Our coven’s shrinking. Not by choice.”

Michael holds up a single finger, shushing her. “Do you want water? Tea? Do you want to watch a cup of coffee get cold?” There’s no way he’s having this conversation like they aren’t old friends, like they haven’t spent nights gorging themselves on too many cartons of ice cream and pizza.

“Just water, please.”

“No one will smite you, Sylvie. You’re okay here to be free.”

“I can’t be disrespectful,” she counters, slipping out of her shoes and leaving them near the door.

“Consider it disrespectful for you to be so proper in my house.” Michael returns from the kitchen with two glasses of water and sits at his table. “Sit, kick your feet up. I’d say take your hair down. But it already is.”

Sylvie carefully treks across the hardwood floors and settles down. His house is nice, kind of minimal, but it’s functional with the open floor plan. It appears to be becoming more popular as time goes on. His furniture is ashen gray or an ashy brown. It’s cozy and inviting, but it still reads with an air of sophistication. “You grew up, I see.”

“Just this part of the house. You should see my office.”

As her lips wrap around the glass, she smiles. Michael always had a little bit of mess that followed him. Though he was mostly neat and organized. “How was Alex?”

“You’re still eavesdropping I see.”

“I had to know if I could approach or not. And you looked quite taken by your man. So I didn’t want to interrupt.”

It’s as Michael diverts his gaze and his cheeks turn a hair pink that she gets her answer. “You’re here because you need something and my sex life isn’t it I assume.”

“Oh, who’s saying that’s not at least part of it.”

Michael’s not sure why he expected her to have changed in their six years apart. Maybe it was the hair. She hadn’t really changed much about that, but now it was longer. And the ends are dyed various shades of purple. She was having some fun in her life. Michael really didn’t want it to be about him either. “The truth, Sylvie. What’s happening with the coven?”

The glass sits down with a soft clink on his table. “What’s always happening to us.”

“Hunters,” Michael states as he reclines into the woven back of his chair. That was a plague that never left them alone. It’s not like their coven had ever harmed anyone. Michael doesn’t miss them. Not in the slightest. “But I thought Annabelle took over. She was unshakable.”

“She was.”

Michael looks at her. It’s the way she says it, with a twinge of a heaviness that Michael does not like. Sylvie doesn’t meet his eye, instead staring down at the mark of her orange lipstick on the glass. “Don’t tell me.”

And she doesn’t have to. When she nods, Michael falls back into the seat. Not Annabelle, she was the best out of them. “Fuck,” Michael whispers.

When Tyler wanted to step down within the next few years, he had initially turned to Annabelle. She turned it down because she wasn’t ready. Tyler turned to Michael, but that was just mere weeks before Michael went vocal about his indecision and that he wanted to be normal. He wanted to pursue music. He wanted the band to be successful and not just a hobby.

Tyler made it clear in the beginning that he was just training Michael, bringing them in more high-level decisions. That Michael wouldn’t be expected to take over until he was older and much more confident with his skills. Michael went with Tyler to council meetings. None that were earth shattering important. They were important enough. But all the while, Michael would skip sessions to hang out with the band. He would miss late night training to take trains and perform at the bottom of hotels. He knew he was skating on thin ice with Tyler, and he had to come clean, eventually. The guys were noticing him always being tired, not focused. It was quickly becoming a train wreck for Michael.

“Because there’s so few of us, Hunters are doing their best to exterminate us,” Sylvie starts. “Joslene was studying under Annabelle. But word’s come down from Council that Hunters have records. On all of us. Where we’ve been. Who we know. Where we’re at. I think more Hunters are appearing incognito.”

“I-I don’t know what you want me to do about that, Vie. I’ll be more careful. But I don’t know what I can do for the coven.”

“Help us. Council’s meeting again in a week. Fight with us.”

“If you think I can just drop everything, hike my ass out to wherever Council is and accept them to take me back after I renounced you guys, that won’t happen.”

“They’ll understand. They sent me to find you.”

Michael blinks, arms folding to his chest. They sent Sylvie to find him. Council is not the type to send invitations to everyone. “They know I renounced.” He means it more as a statement, but it slips out with a small upturn. They had to know. Michael swore his blood, and to leave they had to take it back. They had to know about that. There had to be records of how Michael stood on the edge of their circle and nearly shit his pants.

Renouncing did not occur often. In fact, he had seen no one renounce in his time with his coven. He only heard stories. The way people dropped, the way they turned ashen. The way they got sick after, too. But knowing that just on the other side that he’d have the life he wanted was Michael’s only saving grace. If no one took a record of how the blade stung worse than being initiated in his palm, if no one took a record of how Michael swore within a blink he was face first into dirt because his eyes literally couldn’t focus, then it would fucking suck. There had to be someone even by word of mouth that would tell about how Michael vomited for what seemed like three days after too. He prays someone mentioned all of that to Council.

She nods. “They know. But you’re special, Michael.”

He groans. Not the spiel he wanted to hear. He’s heard it all a thousand times before. He wasn’t special. He was never meant to do anything world changing. He was just a dude with a guitar. That’s all he’ll ever be, too.

“Michael, just entertain me for five minutes,” Sylvie huffs.

“I’m not special. I’m never going to be special. So you can tell Council to take that script back to the drawing board.”

“We aren’t supposed to possess powers like that and you know it. We derive things from the earth. Maybe we can play a little trickery on the mind, but all in all, we’re here to keep balance. We give back and we take away. We use what the earth gives us. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“I didn’t ask for those powers. I didn’t ask for it and you know it.”

Michael pushes up from the chair and begins his short walk to his couch. He didn’t. He always believed that there was a balance, a power that most people were afraid to tap into with being able to influence, conjure, and heal. He always felt electricity when it came to nature and the elements. Even the dead had energy, they gave to the dirt; the dirt brought forth plants—food and oxygen. And they were all bound to give back. It’s just how that had to work to live. There was death right on the other side of the coin. But he didn’t ask to be bestowed with anything extra in his beliefs. He only asked to understand it better, to be a peacekeeper in his practices.

“I’m not saying you did. I’m saying you have them. Maybe there’s a reason.”

“Vie, I can’t. I can’t do what you’re asking me. To jump back in?”

“They slit her throat, Michael.”

He cringes at the confession. He knows she’s talking about Annabelle. He doesn’t even want to picture the lifeless stare, the thick blood oozing down her skin. With the palms of his hands covering his ears, Michael walks in circles. “You didn’t just say that.”

“She let them catch her.” Even though the skin and muscle of his hands muffle her voice, they don’t block it out completely. “They wore plain street clothes. They stalked us. I saw them first. I told Annabelle we needed to move. She said she was tired of running. So we stayed. We stayed and when they nearly cornered us in the middle of the fucking day on a backstreet, she stopped. She told us to keep going and that she would catch up, try to give them a bait and shake them. Maybe she was tired of a lot more, too.”

Michael watches her, hands trembling as she stands. Her voice shakes too, her chin wobbling. “I didn’t see it, but I heard it. They cheered. They fucking cheered as she lay there. So yes, yes, I am asking you to do the very thing you don’t want to do because I don’t want to be next. I don’t want Joslene, Terry, Kyle—I don’t want them to think that is our fate too. We have to do something. We can’t just wait like lambs for the slaughter.”

Michael’s eyes sting. He hates to see her cry. He really does. But this wasn’t supposed to happen. He was not supposed to get caught back up in this shit. He was supposed to have given himself back to the earth and be free. “Sylvie, please, no,” he whispers. He’s not equipped to handle tears. Especially not from her.

“I’m scared, Michael. And I know you don’t want to deal with this. I know you didn’t need me giving you this, but we need help. You-you need to be careful too.”

Michael wraps her shoulders into his arms and her head falls into his chest. Her body feels like a leaf in the autumn breeze, quivering against him. “It’s gonna be okay,” he offers softly. The words feel a little hollow. How does he know that things are all going to be alright? How can he offer platitudes and not agree to even see what he can do to help?

But does Michael really want to go down this road? If he gets caught up in this before the tour and winds up severely injured or worse, there will be larger repercussions than just ducking the critical eyes of his parents. He has the band, fans, management all relying on him too. He’s integral to more things now.

Sylvie shivers continue to crawl up her body, but she eases herself out of Michael’s embrace. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Michael whispers. “Don’t be sorry. You never have to be sorry.”

It’s with a firm nod that Sylvie turns back to the door. “I can’t stay long. Remember Council meets in a week, seven days to the dot. Right at sunset.” She rattles off the exact location as she slips into her shoes and then without enough time for Michael to offer her a couple minutes to collect herself, she disappears.

“At least it wasn’t in a puff of smoke,” he jokes. It’s followed with a halfhearted chuckle.

Seven days. That’s all he had.

Michael tries to continue on with meetings like everything’s okay. He tries not to think about the way death seemed imminent. Even if he, himself, didn’t agree to help and didn’t want to put his own life in harm’s way, many more would die. It messed with his head more than he cared to admit. Would Michael be responsible for more deaths if he backed out? It was probably more he was taking on than he should be, but he kept thinking about Sylvie. Michael, once a witch, but never able to disrupt fate, couldn’t on his own save everyone. That was just a fact.

He couldn’t save everyone. But still it sits on his chest like lead and makes his stomach queasy. He couldn’t save everyone. He could never save everyone. Even if he wanted to, he would never excel in that regard. Sleep’s evasive. Whenever Michael closes his eyes, he sees Annabelle blond hair and pale skin dyed red with her own blood. He sees the river that stains the concrete. He sees Sylvie dangling from a tree.

He bolts upright. His body is damp. Even the fan at the foot of his head on the highest setting and the AC going can’t keep the fear away. Hunters have always been ruthless. They’re only aim is to strike fear into a witch’s heart. They do it well. Taught from a young age just like him. But they are taught to hate, to exclude rather than include.

Michael looked over his shoulder at school, even though it wasn’t a long stint in the grand scheme of his life. It was long enough. He waited, he watched for any boy, upon locking eyes, to mime slitting his throat. It happened once while he waited for the bus.

Michael tried not to bother anyone. He liked to keep to himself. It guaranteed him that no one would know, no one would try to bother him. But in town, where being close had no alternative, rumors circled. His whole family was judged. The murmurs and rumors were true. But it didn’t matter how peacefully they lived. It didn’t matter how deep they hid the lessons and markings, everyone stared.

Michael doesn’t resent his parents. He loved them dearly and still does. He appreciates the teachings and the perspective. He still believes, though he’s not supposed to practice anymore after renouncing. It was hard to feel like he wasn’t in the wrong, when at twelve he waited for his bus, a backpack on his shoulder, minding his own business and grown men threatened him. Parents of kids that he kind of got along with spitting at him that he would face the consequences for his kind had done. They blamed him and everyone like him for every sinister that occurred in the town, in the country, in the universe really.

“You were twelve,” he reminds himself, feeling the shame overtaking him again. “You were a fucking kid. I was a child!” he screeches into the dark of his room. The tears sting, but Michael welcomes it. Welcomes the reminder he is still alive though he was taunted. His chest aches as the first sob crosses his lips. He remembers scrubbing at his skin, trying to remove the mark at his bicep. All it is now in memory is a blur of tears, blood, and his mother wailing when she finds him in the bathroom.

In the dark, Michael traces his bicep. The ink is gone, but the scar tissue holds the bumps of his marking. He can feel it. He knows it’s still there. Being a witch never really leaves you. If they make you give the blood of bond back, it’s never really gone. It lingers. It’s embedded in the psyche. Michael will always remember the chants, he will always feel the surge of electricity in his body by passing nature, when tending his garden, when he recharges and clears his stones. He’ll never get rid of the tingle in his fingers when he finds just the right stone for something, and he holds it for the first time.

Michael re-tattooed the mark onto his calf long after he renounced. He missed that family, and though they’d never see it, he wanted the universe to know that he carried a piece of them with him with pride. He felt bad for trying to hide that. Shame was a beast of an emotion, and it won sometimes. More times than Michael wanted to admit that it had won.

Bringing his knees to his chest, Michael caresses gently the black ink on the back of his calf. It’s smoother, feels right under his fingertips. That is still his family. Will they think less of him if he chooses the band again? Will he have turned his back on them for the final time?

There’s no use in attempting sleep, so Michael peels himself out of the sheets and shuffles in the dark to his bathroom. On his short journey, he looks to his clock. It’s two thirty in the morning. He has half an hour. Maybe there are more answers waiting for him outside of his own consciousness. He hasn’t practiced in a couple years. He kept up when he first renounced, but as the band got busier, practicing fell to the waste side. But something about now, with four days left, he has to know. Or at least attempt to know, to see if there’s any resolution.

As the water, colder than he usually goes for, sprays and slides down his body, Michael drops his head into the tile of the shower. It’s a welcomed coolness, something to take the edge off for the moment. His hair still drips once he’s done, down his face and onto the hardwood floor. A trail left behind to trace his path from bathroom to bedroom, from the bedroom to his music room. Now, sitting staring at the door to the closet inside his music room, Michael blinks. He hasn’t touched this stuff in years. Not even the handle to this door.

He can hear the ticking of his clocks. He has fifteen minutes left. Fifteen minutes to build up the courage. Or that’s what it was the last time he checked. He can see the red time blaring at him from across the pitch black room. But he hasn’t looked over since then. What if the waters show him his death? Is he prepared to handle that? With a thundering heart, Michael looks up to the clock. Ten minutes left. It takes ten minutes if his memory hasn’t faded to set it up. His fingers wrap around the door handle. Another deep breath and he turns the handle.

There stacked in the corner are the brown boxes from when he moved. He lifts the first box. The round glass is still wrapped in the tissue and newspaper that he used so carefully to pack it up from the last place to this one. Completely unraveling it, he sets it down on the couch. He remembered to bring the water with him before he stared at the closet door. It saved some time. But now he has to open that bottom box. He has to crack open his wooden mortar and pestle. He’ll have to look upon the graying iron cauldron with its three moon phases carved to it. A waxing moon, a full moon, and a waning moon.

“You don’t really have time to waste,” he warns and in a rush of courage, pulls the box out. He lugs out his cauldron, lifting the false bottom, and replaces it with the glass. The window, with blinds already lifted, have the lights of the city starting to shine through. He can see himself, the fringe, the blonde streaks, the water droplets still sliding down the strands. One splashes, exploding into smaller droplets onto the glass. One drop. Just one drop to cause such a volatile reaction.

Michael’s fingers buzz a little as he settles onto the floor, legs crossed. He brings the cloth with his herbs closer to him with just one crook of his finger. No witch should be able to do that, no one should be able to do what he can. Most of them still refer to it as telekinesis, but there was something more nuanced to it. Michael wasn’t moving objects. He was just moving and manipulating their energy. He felt it with everything. The rest of them did too. But according to Sylvie, he felt it more intensely; he felt it with everything. Instead of the energy having a point where he could no longer touch it, he could only do more with it.

Where others had to use potions to manipulate the mind, Michael only had to feel. It worried him the first time he did it. That’s the first time he really felt like a monster. Like he was an outlier in the group of outliers. That’s when the spiral started; that’s when he tore his own skin. That’s when he turned to music. He wasn’t weird or a freak there. The fucked up part is that if Sylvie ever told him that she had done anything like he had to himself, he would’ve flipped his lid. He would’ve done everything to convince her she was normal, that nothing was wrong with her, and yet, he hadn’t been able to convince himself of it.

He chose the band so he could be normal. So that maybe the kid that was scared all the time would have something that made them feel whole. The truth of the matter is it that Michael would never be normal. It was an inescapable fact. He wasn’t sure how to handle that before. But now, as he adds the water and sees his reflection rippling, he thinks not being normal isn’t so bad. In the grand scheme of things, no one was normal. People all had their secrets, things they wanted to hide and keep under wraps. Everyone had their traumas, things that had fucked him up. But they all put on fronts. Everyone was pretending. Every single person on Earth had a face they hid from the world. This was just his. This was the face he didn’t want to show anyone.

Before he adds his herbs to the cauldron, Michael cleanses his space. He uses rue, letting the scent waft from the herb in his hand. It fills his lungs and part of him misses that feeling, misses the ease at which he can pick the sage and yarrow from this assortment on the cloth next to him. They float, as always, just before Michael rests a hand to the iron and watches the first bubbles come to life.

His lips barely move as he whispers. The chant falls over his lips with ease. He needs answers, guidance maybe too. But he just needs something, anything to reveal to him what he needs to be doing. What he should choose in this situation. Before the heat can warp the glass Michael pulls his hand away and bubbles rise to the top. The fragrance paints the room thickly and for half a second his head spins. He forgets how potent this can be.

Already as he pours his taste, he can see the water shifting. It turns cloudy; the herbs giving into the heat and releasing their color. The first sip’s hot for sure and it hurts just a little too, but as Michael relaxes, he can feel the earthy taste hitting the top of his head. He goes for one more. But that’s all. Not even a full gulp, just enough to coat the top of his tongue and let his throat know that he’s got something in his mouth.

His eyes are unfocused. The black looks even blurrier and the streaks of moonlight don’t settle into one beam when he looks at the spot on the floor that it illuminates. Michael looks back into the water and it’s no longer see through. His own tired eyes and semi dry hair do not stare back at him. Instead, he sees Sylvie. It’s a restful night, it appears, until he watches for a beat longer. She twitches. Her face contorts, as if in pain, with her nose wrinkled and the skin of her forehead furrowed.

What could she be dreaming about? Though Michael can tell it’s not a good dream. If he even dares to call it that. She flips to her back; the sheets twisted around her body. The rise and fall of her chest is captivating until with a slight screech, her eyes fly open. She stares up, straight at Michael and if it weren’t the fact that he knew he was not actually watching above her, he would think she could see him. That she would whisper to him what plagued her, what ruined her dreams.

She pushes up, legs swinging to the edge. She sits, head slump, the curls pulled to the top of her head. Like this, Michael can see the shaved sides, how she hadn’t kept all her hair over the years. Just some of it. This isn’t what Michael had hoped for. He was hoping for something, a sign, the blinding light at the end of the tunnel for him so he knew which way to run. But all he got was Sylvie, in probably rougher shape than him.

Michael closes his eyes. Soon, the light peering in behind his eyelids dance and he can see something else. It’s just flashes, just the feeling of being dropped. The one that forces his gut down and then he lands. It’s screaming fans. The lights of the stage playing back in his eyes, but it’s the stage. A scene he’s lived so vividly, playing to thousands of people at a time in one room, sharing one experience, but all of them experiencing it slightly differently. Before Michael can stand, before he can slip the guitar over his head and grab onto the microphone, he feels his descent again.

He lands again, but on some high up branches peering down. He recognizes Council and watches them, standing a few feet apart from a small cluster. He spies Joslene’s dyed red hair. There were so many more of them. They never had large numbers, but they were substantial. Now, on his perch, Michael can count them. All 83 of them. His chest aches. He doesn’t wait for the next scene. His blinks open to the dark night of his music room. He stares at the cauldron, but not into it.

He can only imagine the number of Hunters has increased. They have not slowed, knowing that extinction is right on the horizon. But what can he do? He’s one man, one body in the war that raged for years. That can’t be all of them. He knows it can’t be. Less than a hundred, it’s so small. Those must be the ones willing to risk it all. And he knows Sylvie was amongst them. With his head still swimming, Michael pulls all the heat from the metal and lets the water cool. The cloudiness won’t dissipate fully, but the bubbles will stop. He cleanses the area again with rue. Resting his head into the cushions of the couch, he tries to let the drink pull him into other insights.

Maybe better dreams will find him when he stops searching for answers.

********

Something’s off. Though it’s a little cloudy and there’s a chance of rain later in the day, Michael knows something is off and more so than just the weather. It starts when he can feel someone watching him. He’s been in the café many times. Grabbing some coffee before heading into the study. He’s been here writing when he needs a place outside of work and his house to release his creative energies. He’s been here too late in the day to think about coffee when he wants to get out but has nowhere else to go.

It’s maybe a little stupid not to change up his routine after Sylvie’s warning. He hadn’t really thought too much about his own safety. Not until now. He glances up from his phone, taking a quick survey of the workers in front of him. All are bustling, calling orders over their shoulders to each other and to the guests. The stare is from behind him. With the chime of the bell alerting the shop of another customer, Michael glances behind him, mostly at the door but watching for any sudden movement.

Nothing happens. Though Michael’s sure he sees someone staring him down. He pushes up his glasses, and for sure, a brunette woman smiles at him. He’s seen her before at this very café. He almost asked her out once. In the smile, Michael knows the edge of danger. She drops her gaze even lower. Michael knows she’s looking at his calf. He wore shorts today out of desperation on the laundry front.

He’s made himself a target. Without even thinking about it. When his order is called, he stands and grabs it off the counter. Michael pockets his phone and calmly picks it up. He briefly wonders if she will start something right now in the middle of this place. He keeps his back turned, working the cardboard slip over the hot cup. There’s nothing under the buzz of whirring machines and the shouts.

At the door, one hand poised to push it open, Michael smiles in return. “Like what you see?”

The woman’s smile turns more shy, ducking her head. “Maybe.”

Michael hums and steps back. He keeps his voice low. “You’ve made yourself obvious.” He takes a quick survey of the room. Three more pairs of eyes zero in on him. They must be her associates. “And I remember a face. If I see you and your friends again, there’s gonna be a problem.”

The bell chimes again as Michael steps through it. Down the street, Michael forgoes his usual headphones and music blasting combination in the off chance that things go south. How long have they been watching him? How did he not notice them before? He chalks it up to some of it being living in bliss. He didn’t think he had to keep watching over his shoulder after he moved away. Trouble couldn’t follow him across the globe. But it had. And it had been right under his nose this entire time.

Did this mean that the rest of the guys were being watched too? The guys knew Michael had family things, even when the band was just beginning. Michael never said what it was. He never told them properly that he was a witch. They wouldn’t judge him, or at least he hopes they wouldn’t. Michael likes to keep this to a need to know basis and if he reveals everything to the guys, does that make it look like he will turn his back on them?

Besides, if Michael does nothing to help Sylvie and the rest of his ex-coven, that guilt, the shame of knowing that they are going head first into death will be too heavy. He can’t have that. He can’t let them dive off into the choppy waters below. It’s not a lot that he can promise them in the grand scheme of things. What they have is not a lot, but there’s a real chance that they may not give it up. He can very well be met with resistance. It’s only an assumption, a hope that they crave stability. Maybe there’s a small part of them he can leverage. He can’t promise them freedom. He can’t promise them that Hunters still won’t come after them. But Michael can damn sure make sure they’re not subjected to the throes of death.

*******

Michael arrives early. Much too early for it to be smart to be out with this much daylight still out. But it’s his only chance of catching Sylvie before the meeting. And sure enough, just as the skies turn a hair pink, he sees the first coven arrive. They stare at him, not blinking, not sneering, just gazing. As if consuming art in a fine arts museum. Not sure what they’re looking at but knowing they’re gazing at and seeing something. Michael’s not used to that blank of a stare. Though, he doesn’t hate for the first time in his life that no one’s screaming in his face, nor is anyone judging him harshly. Blank stares are better than anything else.

More rustling stirs the still evening. All of them turn to the sound. Sylvie steps out behind Joslene. Both of the men, Terry and Kyle, carry the rear, though Kyle keeps close to Sylvie. He looks young, the fat of his cheeks not melted away just yet. But Michael doesn’t dwell on that too much before stepping towards them. When Sylvie spots him, she smiles. Oh, Michael hopes she keeps that smile too after everything. “You came.” The disbelief is clear, and the excitement is palpable.

“I need to talk to you. Just for a second.”

With a nod, they backtrack, away from the group but still able to see, if and when, more join them. “I don’t like the sound of that,” Sylvie whispers.

“I came here. As a courtesy. The band is literally weeks away from touring. I can’t go up missing, dead, or injured.”

She gets that. It doesn’t make it any easier to hear. It doesn’t mean that’s what she was hoping to hear. The letters were nice. Seeing the same address from him let her know that Michael had found his groove. That in his world he has settled into the path best suited for him. “Then go. Perform. Be normal, you have your shot.”

“But I need you to come with me. I need you to convince whoever else is close to you to leave with me. Renounce and I can keep you all safe.”

Sylvie sputters, all the words are crowding her tongue and make it nearly impossible for any of them to fall out. “Turn my back on them? I can’t do that, Michael.”

“And I can’t leave here with you. You asked for my help! This is it.” He takes pause, watching her wide eyes. She takes a step back from him. Like he just reached back to strike her. “I can’t save everybody. And I can’t be here too much longer.” Once Council shows up, Michael knows he can’t be here and still say he’s refusing to offer help in their dire need. He might as well put his own head on a stake for them.

“This is my family, Michael. The only family I’ve ever had!”

“Convince them. I can work with management. I can keep you guys safe and sheltered until you get back on your feet. If you stay here, if you choose them, you will die. Hunters are everywhere, just like you said.”

“And you think, hiding will be any better. At that point, I might as well already be dead. You wanted something else; you wanted to hide. But I can’t.”

She goes to step pass Michael. There’s nothing else he can say or do that will make her change her mind. If she’s going to die, then she will die fighting for what she believes in. Michael captures the crook of her elbow, his blunt nails firm around her skin. “I don’t want you to hide. I just want you safe. You aren’t safe like this.”

“Not everyone’s looking for a way out.”

Michael let’s go of her arm. “I-I’m not-I don’t want--” It hurts. How could she say that? He loves them. This is his family and even if he doesn't show it very well, he cares. Why the hell else would he have come here? “You don’t mean that.”

“Were you or were you not looking a way out of the stares? Were you not looking to hide, Michael?” She can’t believe that Michael can’t see how selfish it is to want her to turn her back on her family. Michael had the safety net. She does not.

“No, I was looking for my fucking purpose in life. I was looking for the kid that never wanted to grow up and show him it was all worth it!”

There is nothing but silence between them. Though, the heavy sighs of their seething break the tension. Sylvie knows part of this might be out of anger. Maybe she’s trying to make Michael prove himself. But it’s all true. If he was looking for the guiding light in his life, then why would he have to come back? She knew she had asked him to help. But he could’ve said no. He had every opportunity to not show up.

Michael knows she’s stubborn. He knows that she does not back down from her beliefs. And as he watches the frown pull down her lips, he knows he’s losing her. She’s not going to back down from this fight. The frown disappears, something sad pulling at her face more. “I hope he’s happy. You should be proud.”

“Sylvie, don’t.”

“Go home, Michael. This doesn’t have to be your problem anymore.”

“I’m not leaving with you. Whatever it takes.” Even if he tries to manipulate her, even if he’s still strong and skilled enough to suspend her autonomy, it won’t last long. She’ll break free. She’ll find her way to send herself headfirst into her death.

There’s no wise rebuttal, no smartass comeback. She just turns again. Michael swears into the darkening violet skies. He calls the buzzing to the surface of his skin—the link that makes the world an overbearing sensory chamber if he’s not careful. And he can feel it, the hot wafting waves of determination and resolve on her. He expands the buzzing, making it a bubble surrounding him, and then pushes.

The grass and leaves shake as the field of energy brushes over them. Then, right on the edge, he brushes over her energy. Everyone radiates an energy that can be manipulated. Some are easier to manipulate than others. Though more often than not, the preferred method is through use of herbs and concoctions. It’s usually slower and not as harsh as direct manipulation. It’s as if Michael is pressing his hands up against glass. He can see her, see the thing he wants to touch, but can’t put his hands directly on it. Like a kid pressed up to the glass of a shop with their Christmas display in bright and dazzling lights.

Sylvie turns, feeling the slight vibration. It feels like something using a feather to tickle her. She knows what he could do, what he wants to do. “You may have a power most don’t. But you haven’t practiced in years.”

Michael presses on. And presses on. And presses on. She doesn’t budge. It has been too long. He’s not as strong as before. With an extra step, feet planted a little wide but pushing his weight down into the earth and through it, Michael tries again. She shakes, the edge of her energy wobbling just a little to his. His in, his one last shot at getting the both of them out of here alive.

One scream pierces the now-settled-night. Michael looks behind, looks over into the field. Hunters surround the convened covens. Chains hang from their grasps. Some wield their knives. The unfortunate thing about being a witch, there’s no power that stops the blood that runs through their veins. There’s no potion or spell to cast that removes the flesh or the fragility of it.

Neither Sylvie or Michael can be sure they haven’t been spotted yet. Though it would be irresponsible to think they were safe from any threat at all. “How did they know?” Sylvie whispers mostly to herself.

The only people that knew about the meeting were the covens remaining and Council. In the few covens that Sylvie spoke to personally, no one looked suspicious. But that would be the nature of the game. If anyone was a turncoat-a witch but now turned Hunter operating to feed intel, they would have to blend in. They would have to look natural.

Kyle. He’s the youngest, mostly a natural talent. But still unrefined in techniques and still learning hand-to-hand combat. Sylvie doesn’t have to think too much longer. There’s only action. Michael watches her go. Bent at her knees and reaching into the top of her boots. They come up to her knees. He sees the glint, catching just a small shift in the light before it disappears. Most likely a dagger wrapped in her hands.

The window is closing. Michael’s height of opportunity comes to its crashing low. In the gap of time between Michael letting her go and his legs starting to carry him away from the inevitable blood bath, Michael thinks if he were in the middle of that, maybe the regret wouldn’t be as insurmountable as he once thought. That even if there were disappointments to his death, maybe there would’ve been a ripple in the universe to offset it.

Soon, though, his legs are overtaking and he turns. He’s never been a runner, never enjoyed the squeeze and ache in his chest from his lungs overexerting. But he runs. He pushes one foot in front of the other. It’s an act of self preservation. Just because he thinks he could’ve made that choice doesn’t negate the fact that he had other choices to make.

It’s not very far. A few meters before Michael sees a Hunter running for him. There’s nothing in his ears but the blood thundering in his own heart. It’s hard to see clearly what weapon might be his undoing. Though the closer they become, the more Michael thinks his only safe option is to go low. So Michael, as the distance closes in, shifts, lets his left go extend out as his right hip drops. His knee and thigh hit the ground first, and he slides. He sweeps their ankles and though there’s not a lot of momentum to keep him going forward. He scrambles to his feet. It goes against the fair rules in a fight, but in a fight of survival, Michael does not let them have time to regain too much breath.

There’s nothing but trees at this point. But feeling the roots of the trees, Michael brings them up, palms extended to the ground to feel them and direct with more precision. The ground shakes just a little as they break through the dirt. Michael flicks his wrist, palms now facing each other. The roots freeze for a moment before diving back down into the first. Wrapped in their web is the Hunter. They swear as the roots wrap around tighter, feet kicking to get them up with no avail.

Time will be their undoing. Or that’s the hope, at least. Michael spins and returns to his run. On the break in the trees, Michael fumbles forward. His chest burns. Everything hurts, shoulders, hips, knees. “Okay,” he pants. “Gotta get back into the gym.” The words fall in pants with heavy breaths between them.

He bends over, hands on his knees, and he gives himself just one more moment to regain his breath. It’ll be his last moment before he needs to get moving again. In the last deep inhale and exhale, Michael swears he’s going to cough up blood. It never comes. He straightens and carries on down the small embankment. The trees look bodies looming in the night as Michael descends. He listens, but there’s nothing heard besides a fluttering of owls. The hum of the cities below drum in his ears too. Maybe it’s better like this. He can imagine the sounds of what’s happening in the bowels of this forest, but he won’t ever go to bed knowing exactly what they sound like.

Michael is glad that he kept a more inconspicuous vehicle around as he reached the small parking lot at the bottom of the hiking trails. No one’s going to think too much about the lone Toyota. The lights blink as Michael unlocks the door. He’s shocked he didn’t completely crush the remote in his pocket, and he’s even more glad it didn’t jostle out of his pockets.

The moment he clicks the door closed and locked, Michael reclines his head into the worn plush cloth. Will this be the end? Will Michael mourn lives he used to know? Will he mourn ghosts, shells of who they were but never knowing them in the present? Will his life still be in danger? He can only assume it’s more dangerous now than ever. If that Hunter is discovered, they will tell the others. They will not leave him alone, not if he’s the last witch to roam.

His chest still aches from the run. Though part of the fresher pain is from the stabbing of the sob that threatens to bypass his lips. There’s no time for that, he reminds himself. He still has to get out of here. Alive at that too. He’s still got to make it out of here alive. The time for tears is later. The streets are barren as Michael pulls out of the lot and onto the highway. He’s not even on the highway for a mile or so before he sees two bodies in his headlights.

It could be a ploy. Two Hunters that are waiting for Michael to break his resolve. Though his gut tells him to pull over. He slows, pulling the car off to the shoulder. The headlights illuminate the shadows. A young boy, probably younger than Michael, with a body hanging off to the left of him. Their arm is slung over his shoulder and he’s doing his best to keep them upright.

“You’ve always been stubborn as hell,” Michael calls out, jogging to approach. Sylvie barely glances at him. Her body is much too heavy and wants to succumb to gravity. Michael tries his best to not let the shakes in. He tries not to think too much about how thick her blood is on his hands. How it feels like it’s seeping into his skin.

Michael keeps a towel over the backseat just in case of dogs or anything spilling. For a split moment, Michael thinks about the stain that could be left behind. How that would haunt him. It’s fleeting, never settling firmly into place before panic claws its way in. Michael tugs his sweatshirt off and covers where he assumes major wounds are. There’s no way to tell clearly in the night, and the light from overhead is too dim. She holds her hands just under her chest.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Kyle,” he responds.

“Keep that on the wound. Press kind of hard, okay? Not too hard, though.”

Kyle takes over, hovering over her head, having entered from the passenger side backdoor. “She said we could trust you. I-I don’t know what’s happening. We were just supposed to meet with Council.” Kyle’s voice trembles as Michael reaches into the middle console of the car. “One moment, she’s walking off with you and we’re waiting. And the next, these Hunters are having a fucking field day. I—I don’t even know how they knew.”

Sylvie whizzes. Michael feels her fingers curling into the cotton of his sweatpants. “I’m right here,” he calls out. “I’m right here.”

“She said someone on the inside had to be feeding them information. We couldn’t really confirm who. But no one from Council was there. So maybe them?” The words keep falling from Kyle’s mouth. He wants them to stop, but they just don’t. He can’t stop them. If he does, it makes it real.

Michael tunes him out, listening to the way Sylvie’s whizzing beneath them. “I know I brought it,” he huffs. Tears are blurring his vision. Michael blinks them away. There’s nothing but papers, tissues, some random CDs that Michael forgot he left in the car that hold residency in the console. Michael swears, fingers trembling. He could’ve sworn he brought the bag with him. It was a soft brown velvet. He stashed it in his pocket before leaving tonight. He knows he brought it.

Stretching across the middle console, he reaches for the glove compartment. It has to be in here. “Hang on for me, Vie. Hang on,” Michael calls out. His chest constricts as his fingers slip on the small latch of the glove compartment.

“How do you know Sylvie?” Kyle asks. He tries not to think about how soaked they are in her blood and some of it is Kyle’s own blood in his shirt too. It’s mostly though. So much of it is hers. It’s a miracle she didn’t drop dead on the trek. Michael ignores the question, grabbing again at the latch. It falls open. He exhales a little when he spies the brown bag.

“You’ve always talked to fucking much,” Sylvie gasps, attempting a laugh but a groan interrupts it.

“Look at the pot calling the kettle black,” Michal quips. The bag isn’t big but he can hear the crystals clicking against each other as he pulls out the smaller plastic bag of herbs. He’s going to use old school medicine. Michael could attempt using his energy manipulation, but if she’s lost too much blood and is too weak, he won’t be strong enough to bring her back. Old medicine is slow, but it’s always effective.

Squashed between the driver's seat and backseat, Michael settles and nods to the trunk. “Grab me a bottle of water from the trunk.” A please would be better to add, but none of them are thinking of manners. Kyle nods. When his hands lift, Michael presses down.

Her skin ashen. The warm flush hat made her look young is gone. In front of Michael now is the grim reminder that when she meant she’d give her life, she was not bluffing. Sweat drips down his nose, but he doesn’t move to wipe it away. It’ll disguise the inevitable tears. “You cannot die on me. If you do, I’m bringing you back just to kick your ass again, you hear me?”

Sylvie gives a short laugh, a quick inhalation and exhalation that lets Michael know she hears him. “I’d haunt you first.” It comes out softly. The air barely catches onto the whispers and brings them to Michael’s ears.

Michael laughs. It’s shaky leaving him as the tears track down his cheeks. Kyle comes back with two bottles of water, the spare towels, and the first aid kit. Michael forgot about those. But he’s thankful and takes one to clean his hands. “You’ve been in situations like this before I see.”

It’s a joke. But when Kyle grimaces, hands pressing down on the soaked black sweatshirt, Michael apologizes. Knowing Sylvie, the poor kid has been in situations like this before. From the first bag, Michael removes a piece of St. John’s wort before finding a square of gauze. He leaves it herb side up on the floor of the car before rummaging back through the bag. It’s hard to see the stones in the bag, but Michael knows he’ll feel the garnet when he places his fingers on it.

When he gets a grasp on it, he sets that down on the same square of gauze. The small vial of tea tree oil is easy to find, and he goes back again for a small piece of aventurine. It feels silly at the moment to bring it out of the bag. They need it though; they need just a little of luck. So Michael places it into her palm. She grips it immediately, the smooth coolness settling into her palm.

Michael brings some tea tree oil up into the dropper. His heart squeezes in his chest when he reaches up to remove the soiled cloth. He’s praying it’s not too bad, but he knows, from the look of her, this won’t be a pretty sight. His fingers tremble. He has to furl them into a fist for a second to rid himself of the shakes. With one bottle of water opened, he counts down from three.

Kyle lifts his hands and the sweatshirt. Michael runs a little of water, just to see where the blood is coming from. There’s a deep gash. The blood oozes like a river. Michael sucks in a breath before using the clean towel to apply pressure.

His own veins quiver at the sight. The chill taking over his body again. He’s shocked she hasn’t made much of a sound. She hasn’t whimpered or mentioned feeling cold. Even though Michael knew he would not die when he renounced, he still panicked. He felt himself so close to death, and it made his own consciousness seize. All he could think to himself was he did not want to die. He was sure that in the chills, he was an inconsolable mess, whimpering constantly in pain.

There is nothing from her, just the whizz of her breathing. As if she’s using all the last mental efforts not to give into the pain. “I know you’re used to being strong all the time, Sylvie. Right now, you don’t have to be.” It’s a soft warning. She reaches out again for Michael with the hand not clutching the crystal. Blindly, she finds his shirt, fingers just brushing over the soft material. A tear tracks down the side of her face as she locks her gaze with him. “Fucking stubborn, you know.”

“Said that already,” she whispers. Her eyes close briefly, a brief wave of pain contorting her face. Every inhale feels like a brush of flames licking at her chest.

“I know. Just wanted to make sure you heard it.” Michael turns to Kyle. “I need to get her shirt out of the way.”

Kyle doesn’t take a beat to think before finding a hole in her shirt, from one of the multiple lacerations she sustained. When he gets a good grip, he yanks. The fabric crackles as it splits. It stops just at her chest, where her one arm is still resting. She moves it slowly.

Sylvie sees the fabric separating from the roof of the car from the age of the car. She thinks she should mention the plastic screws Michael could buy to keep it in place. She thinks about the constellations she could create with them. Anything other than the numbness now starting to take over. If she’s honest, she much prefers it to the burning, to the ache that repeatedly punched her chest.

Kyle grips again. The tearing sound echoes in the car's backseat. He repeats it one last time, having to lean over Sylvie and reach under Michael’s arms. Finally, the shirt hangs open around her torso. Two flaps that are only connected by the thin strap of the collar. When Michael lifts the towel again, he pushes the fabric further away. There’s not much thought, or at least not consciously, as Michael washes away more of the blood. His fingers slip around the garnet when he first reaches down for it.

Soon it’s firm in his grasps and he mediates a moment, with the stone wrapped in his fingers and placing it into the wound. It’s deeper than just a cut. It has to be a puncture. The thought nearly seizes his throat. It almost causes all the breath to leave his lungs. But he sucks it back in; he holds it in his lungs until he’s done. The gauze with the St. John’s wort is wrapped tight around her ribs. Kyle holds her head up to allow Michael’s hand to slip under.

The only thing about old school medicine, besides it working slowly, is that there is still a chance it won’t work. She could try to reject the clotting of the garnet stone. Though it won’t heal her completely, it’ll keep her alive until they can get to an ER. Michael has Kyle keep a close eye on her breathing while he wipes down the other cuts with tea tree oil and wraps them too with gauze with the St. John’s wort herb. They’re not great wraps, but he’s losing time.

Michael finally looks down at his hands, the olive green on his t-shirt now splattered in red. His hands looked dyed. If he didn’t know, if somehow his brain blocked out the last few minutes, he wouldn’t think it more than extra thick paint. But he knows. It’s not paint. It’s not the product of anything fun. He dumps the second bottle of water over his hands to loosen the stiffening substance. “You’re okay back here with her?” Michael asks.

“Yeah. I’ll be okay.” Kyle’s gentle as he brushes a stubborn curl away from her face.

Michael doesn’t think too much as he drives again. The contents of the glove box rattle for a good two miles before Michael realizes the noise is coming from inside the car. He slams it close. His brain is trying to map the fastest route. He can’t halfway think. Though he has to keep it together. He has to keep it together. He tries not to think about how he’s fifteen minutes from the closest hospital and how it might be five, ten, twelve minutes too long for her. No, that thought can’t enter the crevices of his mind. Not when he’s still mapping out the exit to take.

The interstate is clear. This far from the city makes sense, and he’s glad. A traffic jam is not what Michael needed at this moment. It’s risky blowing well over the speed limit. But there’s Sylvie, in his backseat, clinging to whatever ounces of life in her. So it doesn’t matter. Not in the slightest. Michael’s not sure if he truly exhaled until he’s turning into the hospital entrance. The car’s barely thrown into park before he jumps out.

The blood on his shirt, the tears that have stained his cheeks—he’s sure it’s all red alert for the nurses and doctors on staff. But with sharp acuity, they follow behind him. They carry bags, a gurney. He thinks he hears gloves snapping into place. There’s a specific squeak as someone slips into latex. Michael never thought about it until it was nearly the only sound that could calm him down.

Waiting is a far worse game. When she’s wheeled beyond doors that Michael cannot follow behind and he has to take a seat in the too bright waiting room, he thinks not having her wheezing in front of him is much worse than anticipating that any breath she gives is her last in front of him. At least then he would know. At least then he could’ve comforted her. Maybe his presence would’ve been a solace before she finally let go.

“Mate, what the hell happened to you?” Michael looks up. Calum stands with a furrowed brow. A black duffle bag drops settles at his feet. When did he call Calum? Was he the one that called or did a nurse ask if they could call someone for him? He’s not sure.

“She’s-it’s bad.” The proper words won’t form around his lips.

“So that’s not your blood?”

Michael shakes his head. His leg bounces as he holds himself up on his elbows. In his peripheral, his hair hangs, and it irritates him to no end. He’s not sure why, but for half a second he wants to cut it all off.

“You should go get changed,” Kyle urges. He took a nurse up on the change of clothes, but Michael couldn’t think properly to respond.

“C’mon,” Calum motions for Michael to stand. “You ain’t interrupt my evening at home just to sit here covered in someone else’s blood.” When Michael stands and picks up the bag from the floor, Calum gingerly places his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “The doctors got her, mate. And I’m here now. Ashton said he was twenty minutes out.”

Michael can only nod as he finds his way to the bathrooms. The hot water feels wrong. It feels wrong to watch the pink water swirl down the drain of the sink. But he cleanses himself. He lets all that he has left of her fall down the drain. What other option does he have? He stares at his reflection. Some blood is up on his cheek. He smears it and watches the water track down into his beard. There’s nothing in the reflection but his gaunt stare.

As Micheal returns to the waiting room, he spies Ashton talking to Calum. No doubt both of them are trying to figure out what happened. Two officers have joined their huddle too. “They just want to talk to you, mate,” Ashton attempts to convey. “They just want to talk. Who were you with?”

Michael looks down to Kyle and they both know they cannot trust anyone. “I found them on my way back home. The girl, Sylvie, I don’t know what happened to her. Both of them were just on the side of the road by the time I found them. So I pulled over to help.”

“How do you get her name?” One officer asks, pen poised.

“I asked. I saw she was losing a lot of blood. I wanted to see if she was conscious and fairly alert.”

“And the kid?” the other office asked. He looks gruff with the beard that’s graying. But he looks pleasant with round cheeks and a belly to match.

“Friend of hers, I guess.” Michael shrugs.

The older cop turns to Kyle. “What were the two of you doing?”

Michael prays that the kid can lie through his fucking teeth. “Just going for an evening walk through the trails. We were just about to head back since the sun was setting. She saw some ledge and climbed up it. I was following and got distracted by the view. She slipped. I went after her.” Michael’s impressed, but he’s hoping no one asks too many questions.

“Why didn’t you call in the problem?”

“Cell service was spotty the deeper we went in. I couldn’t get a signal, and I wasn’t going to leave her. So I carried her out the road and that’s when he,” Kyle gestures to Michael, “spotted us.”

The younger office turns up their mouth. As if trying to decide if the story is believable or not. “So she slipped?”

Kyle nods. It’s almost too easy to lie. But the more he tries to answer, the more he’s likely to fuck it up. So he just nods. The older man nods along too before asking, “Where were you guys?”

Both Michael and Kyle rattle off the name of the forest in the local state park. The older man nods again. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve been out there. Some of those ledges have a lot of loose rock if you’re not careful.”

Michael doesn’t know what this cop is on about. But he says nothing, he just blinks, hoping his face is neutral but concerned. “I followed the flat trails,” he offers. “I don’t know if you need that info or my old clothes?”

“The flat trails?” It’s almost like nothing about the story seems to add up for the young guy. Like he’s trying to find a hole, and Michael and Kyle can’t fill it fast enough.

“Flat trails. They tell you which ones have elevations. I’m not built for that because I fucking wiped out on the flat ones.” Michael gives a small laugh and finds the plastic bag with his clothes from the duffel. He hopes that covers any dirt they find on his pants.

The older man takes it, giving another big nod. They conclude with a couple questions before he stops. “Well, I think we just have a couple good fellas that did their best in a crisis.” The younger opens his mouth, but nothing ever falls over the gaping hole before the older man sends him to talk to a nurse. “Just two good men in a crisis,” he mutters again. As he turns, he scratches on his upper arm, right on the bicep.

And there in black ink is a spider web of minimalistic points and lines. A mark of an old school coven. Michael will forever remember their marking. He wanted that one as a kid. He wanted to be like them. Michael, maybe subconsciously or not so subconsciously, reaches for the scars on his arm. The short-sleeved shirt makes it obvious and though Michael would be annoyed that whoever packed his bag didn’t include a long sleeve shirt, he’s appreciative at the moment.

They’re not so alone. Maybe many more of them are hiding in plain sight.

As the cops exit the hospital, Michael realizes that if that older man was not like him, he would’ve been outed. With the herb and crystal bag still on the floor of his car and the bloodied towels and sweatshirt, it would’ve all looked too suspicious. Things wouldn’t have added up, but Michael knows now they won’t. They won’t even be a page or a blimp in the system about him or this incident.

“That’s fucking insane,” Ashton quips.

“You holdin’ up okay?” Calum questions.

Michael keeps watching the two cops leave, even makes sure both doors are sliding closed before he turns to his friends. Here, a moment for Michael to admit his truth. He chews on his bottom lip, wondering when the trembles stop their earthquakes in his hands. “What if I know Sylvie? What if I was almost in a position like hers?”

“I mean anyone can slip if they’re not careful on a ledge,” Calum returns.

He nods. Anyone can slip if they’re not careful on a ledge. “I know her though. We’re old friends.” Michael opts to start there. With small ounces of the truth. The guys may never know. Michael may never have the guts to tell them everything. But maybe there are enough guts for just a bite of it.

“So you were out hiking with her and him?” Ashton pauses for a moment, trying to piece together why Michael wouldn’t say that to the cops. Though maybe in the shock of everything, Michael just forgot to mention some things. “So you left the group early?” Ashton questions.

“I, I like ran into her and Kyle. We weren’t together. I just bumped into her after some years. It was strange,” Michael admits staring back at the doors that have yet to open.

No one asks too many questions. Not as they settle down into the chairs. Michael almost wishes they would ask him questions. It would give him something else to focus on besides the unknown. Luke arrives an hour later. “Sorry,” he rushes out. “I’m so sorry, Michael. Went out with Sierra and didn’t have my phone immediately near me.”

Michael shrugs. “It’s alright.”

“Calum said you looked like hell, but all I can see are bags,” Luke jokes. He knows the room’s tense. But he’s hoping a laugh will help.

Kyle and Michael follow the doctor back. The surgery was successful, though the road of recovery will be long, they are warned. The words hardly register as Michael replays the doctor’s first few words. It was by a miracle. There’s no mention of the garnet that they no doubt had to extract. There’s no mention of the gauze and herb. And maybe that’s for the best. Maybe there’s too much strangeness lingering about this as a whole that there need not be anymore.

Sylvie is swallowed up by the sheets of the hospital bed. Her eyes crack open for just a second, a blink in time. Michael and Kyle each take a side of her. Michael’s back to the window and Kyle’s to the door. “How come I’m the only one banged up?”

“Because you’re fucking stubborn,” they echo.

Michael gingerly takes her hand. “I thought you might not have let it work.”

Sylvie doesn’t look at him long. Just a quick blink, but she squeezes his fingers. “I gave up on time. Not you.”

It’s such a simple statement. Michael can feel the tears. They are squeezing at his chest. He drops to his knees, head resting into the plastic railing of the bed. Even when Michael wasn’t sure of what to do, even when he would choose the band, she would always root for him. She always had his back. It’s an awful feeling, walking around for years, shunning part of who he was. He was looking for an escape. But he was trying to figure out what made him happy. He was searching for a way to reconcile the consequences for his action.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. He catches the wisp of her lips and the air escaping between them as he sucks back the snot. “I shouldn’t have made you feel like you were wrong for choosing the band. It makes you happy.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t--” Michael takes a deep breath and looks to the ceiling as he blinks away the tears. “I didn’t know how to be both.”

She hums, “You don’t have to be.” It’s drowned out by the steady beeps of her heart monitor.

__________________________________________________________________________

There’s a knock on the bedroom door. Michael groans, placing the pillow over his head. “Go away,” he shouts.

“Breakfast is in the microwave.”

Michael grumbles to himself, his own hot breath blowing back into his face and getting trapped between the two pillows. Why couldn’t she sleep late like normal people do? It was a weekend anyhow. Michael is sure when he cracks open his eyes, his clock will read somewhere near the ass crack of dawn.

Soon the sandwich Michael has made of his own head becomes too hot and he removes the second pillow. His alarm clock shows 8:47. There are still a good two hours before anyone should’ve been shouting in his house, but he sits up anyway. She shouldn’t even be doing all of that standing just yet. But Sylvie is who she is, and if that means disobeying a doctor’s order because she is sick of lying around all day, then it means disobeying a doctor’s order.

Michael doesn’t bother with a shirt as shuffles into the front of the house. Sylvie’s not on the couch or at the dining room table. He finds her instead, standing over a pot on the stove. It bubbles and he can smell the rosemary. It hits the hairs of nostrils and wraps around them. Peering into the pot, Michael can see the color bleeding red now. “If that’s my good pot, we’re fighting,” Michael reprimands.

“You think I would create a healing potion in your good pot? Do you not know who I am?”

There’s a distinct lack of Kyle, Michael notes as he leans into the kitchen counter. “You scare the kid off?”

“Ate and then went back to sleep.”

“So you’re just terrorizing everyone in my house. I see how it is.”

Sylvie laughs, using a wooden spoon to stir the bubbling pot. It’s only been a week. Well, not even a full seven days. They haven’t really talked about what happened. But Michael knows it’s hard on her. She’s up late most nights. He knows because he’s up too and can hear her rummaging around in the room next to his. She’s up early too. She’s healing just fine physically, minus the ribs that’s bruised. That’s proven harder for her. Her lack of sleep tells Michael something else lingers. She’s not as okay as she tries to front.

Michael watches the way her fingers rub at the clear quartz around her neck. “Let me take over?”

She shakes her head. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t have to be okay right now, you know? They call it healing for a reason.”

He wants to ask her about the hospital. If she remembers what she said. If they can really talk things through. But for the moment, Michael will settle for gently taking the spoon from her grasps. As she protests, he drowns her out with his own gibberish, the way mother’s reprimand children. They’ll always bicker and pick with each other. But if they didn’t love each other, there would be no reason for it.

Now Sylvie takes the post against the marble counter. It’s silent as the bubble continues on with this deep gurgle for a moment or two. “My almost last words with you shouldn’t have been in anger. I’m sorry.”

“But they weren’t. And I shouldn’t have tried to coerce you.” He could justify it. Just like he knows she could’ve justified her actions. It doesn’t matter now. It all simply does not matter now.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Just as long as it’s not tax information.”

She lightly taps his bicep with a snort. “Seriously.”

Michael purses his lips. “I am being serious. You can ask me whatever, just as long as it’s not tax related.”

“Why did you come to that meeting? Why didn’t you just not show up?”

“It was my last shot at being both,” Michael admits. “I had chosen the band once over you guys. I thought maybe then, I could have both. Get you out safely and not feel so ashamed anymore.”

“You chose what was right for you, Michael. That’s all.”

“You’ll always wonder what if, ya know? I always wondered what would’ve life been like if I hadn’t chosen the band. What would life look like as a leader of a coven?”

Sylvie nods. It makes sense. When faced with a fork in the road, the other side will always haunt. There will still be questions about what’s in store if one thing is different, if there’s one choice that’s different. “I’m glad you showed up.”

Like a projector playing, when she closes her eyes, she can see the floor of the forest littered with bodies. The sight doesn’t take her breath like usual, but it still hurts. “I talked to Kyle. I think someone in Council, if not the whole Council, was corrupt. He said once I left to talk to you, they waited. But no one else showed up. And then bodies just started dropping. He hadn’t finished his training. We offered for him to not join us; it wouldn’t reflect poorly on him. But he came with us. Joslene was doing her best to keep him safe and keep Hunters at bay. By the time I joined the fight, there were slim chances really.”

“You’ve somehow always defied the odds.” Michael finds the ladle and a mug. The liquid sloshes a little as it runs down the innards of the cup. He holds it out so she can take it by the handle.

“Just a small thing called magic,” she grins before taking the first sip. It’s never tasted great, always a hair too bitter for her taste buds, but she shivers and gets the sip down.

“Did Joslene tell you to take Kyle and go?”

With a nod, she goes in for a second sip. “Seems like you remember Joslene well.”

He shrugs. “No, just seems like the most obvious thing to do. I have an experienced fighter and someone I know will do whatever possible to protect. I’m going to send my most vulnerable to them.”

“You learned a thing or two from, Tyler.”

“I did actually pay attention. I just pretended I didn’t.”

There’s another slurping sip, attempting to keep the heat from searing her tongue so much. “I didn’t think we’d find you, to be honest. I wasn’t completely sure what direction of the interstate you’d use up and east, or down the coast. I kind of just picked the one my gut feeling was the strongest on.”

“Maybe you didn’t need the aventurine.”

Her laugh is soft and a little sad. “No, I needed it. I needed all the luck that was out there.”

Neither one of them mention that she and Kyle are the only survivors. They don’t mention that life is literally upside down from now on. They don’t worry about finding a job or housing or what it means for their safety��if they will have to always be looking over their shoulders. Right now, those things are small. Those are worries for later.

Sylvie knows the cup is shaking in her grasps when a little of the red liquid splashes onto the floor. Michael’s quick to take the cup from her. “Hey, I got you. I’m here, I promise.” She tucks into his chest, arms winding around his torso. Her tears are hot on his skin. He’s sure if Kyle was in a sort of sleep state, he is not now. Michael is careful as he hugs her into return, not wanting to aggravate that rib. His palms run soothingly up and down her back. She shakes, like leaves battered in a relentless wind.

Grief is heavy. But it is heavy and necessary. Michael hums against her. “Let it all out. I got you.”

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