#“There’s only a shadow of me. In a manner of speaking I’m dead.”

[klwl-truck]

John My Beloved by Sufjan Stevens is so soapghost coded it’s insane

[shizuturnspages]

GramoThanks for writing my request earlier about the dead twin, I really liked it!

Could you do a part 2? add more characters, how would you treat the twin who is alive??

Your writing was pretty good even though it's short, It was wonderful to read. Thanks

The Shadow That You Left Behind – Part 2

Synopsis: Your twin never asked for this. Never asked to be a walking, breathing reminder of what was lost. But to these men, he is the last piece of you left in this world. And they will do whatever it takes to keep it close. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Diluc, Dainsleif, Zhongli, Alhaitham, Childe, Neuvillette, & Wriothesley x Dead Reader’s Twin

Diluc- A Flickering Flame

Diluc isn’t cruel to your twin.

Not outwardly, at least.

If anything, he treats him with distant politeness, maintaining a careful balance between acknowledgment and avoidance. He never raises his voice, never pushes him away—but the silence that stretches between them is thick with something unspoken.

It takes a while for your twin to notice how meticulous Diluc is. How every conversation drifts back to you, how he carefully controls his surroundings—offering him tea in your favourite cup, leaving out books you once loved, even playing the same melodies on the piano that used to echo through the halls of Dawn Winery.

"You remind me of them," Diluc murmurs one evening, his voice steady, but his grip on his wine glass white-knuckled.

Your brother tenses. "I know."

A quiet hum. "But not enough."

The weight of his words lingers.

Your twin knows he should leave. Knows he shouldn’t accept the invitation to stay at Dawn Winery, shouldn’t let the guilt of your absence tether him to this place.

But he does.

Because Diluc offers warmth, offers remembrance, and your twin feels like he owes it to you to keep your memory alive.

And Diluc?

Diluc watches him carefully, knowing full well that guilt is the perfect chain to bind someone.

After all, he won’t lose you twice.

Dainsleif- A Curse to Carry

Dainsleif does not speak to your twin.

Not directly. Not unless he has to.

But he watches.

Your twin feels it constantly—the weight of that cold, piercing stare. There is no comfort, no acknowledgment. Only the slow realization that Dainsleif doesn’t see him as a person.

He sees him as an echo.

One that doesn’t quite sound the same.

"You are not them," Dainsleif says one day, voice hollow.

Your brother swallows. "I know."

Dainsleif’s gaze doesn’t waver. "Then stop pretending to be."

Your twin recoils, offended. "I’m not pretending."

Dainsleif tilts his head slightly, considering. "No, I suppose not." A long pause. "But you’re still here."

As if that was something unforgivable.

It’s maddening—the way he speaks as though your twin is at fault, as though existing in your absence is a crime.

But what’s worse?

Your twin can’t shake the feeling that Dainsleif is waiting.

For what? He doesn’t know.

But something tells him he won’t like the answer.

Zhongli- Collector of Memories

Zhongli is kind.

Too kind.

It unsettles your twin how gentle he is, how warm his voice sounds when he asks about childhood memories, about things only you would know.

"Tell me," Zhongli muses over tea, "did they ever speak of me?"

Your brother hesitates. "Yes."

A slow smile. "And?"

Your twin shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like how Zhongli always steers the conversation back to you, how he never seems particularly interested in who your twin is as a person.

Just in what you left behind.

"You don't have to force yourself to remember," Zhongli soothes. "I will remember for you."

Your twin knows, then, that he isn’t here because Zhongli values him.

He’s here because Zhongli refuses to let your memory fade.

And if that means keeping your twin as a living relic?

So be it.

Alhaitham- A Living Archive

Alhaitham isn’t sentimental.

But he is meticulous.

Your twin quickly realizes that he’s being studied. Every mannerism, every slip of the tongue, every insignificant habit—Alhaitham commits it to memory, comparing it against the ghost of what you used to be.

"Your speech patterns are different," Alhaitham notes one day.

Your twin scowls. "Because I’m not them."

A slight smirk. "Obviously. If you were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation."

Your brother hates this. Hates feeling like a subject under a scholar’s gaze. But Alhaitham is relentless, collecting every last scrap of you from him.

Until one day, your twin realizes something.

Alhaitham never calls him by name.

Only ever refers to him as their twin.

And that’s when the cold truth settles in:

Alhaitham doesn’t care about who he is.

He only cares about what he can extract from him.

Childe- A Wolf in Waiting

Unlike the others, Childe likes your twin.

Or rather—he likes that your twin is still around.

"Hey, hey!" Childe grins, throwing an arm around him. "Don’t look so gloomy! You’ve still got me, yeah?"

Your brother stiffens. "I don’t even know you."

Childe just laughs. "Oh, but I knew them. And that’s close enough, right?"

It isn’t.

But Childe doesn’t care.

"You know," Childe hums, twirling a dagger between his fingers, "I never got to say goodbye properly."

Your twin swallows. "That’s not my problem."

Childe grins. "No, but you are my solution."

Your brother is starting to realize—he might never be able to leave.

Neuvillette- A Silent Judge

Neuvillette is quiet.

Too quiet.

Your twin never knows what he’s thinking, never knows how he truly feels. The only indication that something lingers beneath that composed surface is the way the rain never stops when they speak.

"You do not resemble them," Neuvillette remarks one day.

Your twin exhales in relief. "Finally. Someone who understands."

A pause.

Then—

"That was not a compliment."

Your brother freezes.

Neuvillette’s expression remains unreadable, but his voice carries something heavy—something unsettled.

"It is unfair," he continues, "that you are here, and they are not."

Your twin doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to respond.

And for the first time, standing before Neuvillette as the rain pours around them, he wonders if he will ever truly be free from your shadow.

Wriothesley- A Wolf in Chains

Wriothesley doesn’t see your twin as an echo.

He sees him as a replacement.

"Well," Wriothesley leans back, watching him with an unreadable expression. "This is ironic, isn’t it?"

Your twin glares. "I don’t see how."

Wriothesley smirks. "You’ve spent your whole life standing in their shadow. Now? You’re all that’s left."

Your brother hates the way Wriothesley toys with him. Hates the way he’s always one step ahead, always setting the pace—offering kindness laced with something dangerous.

"You’ll learn to stay here," Wriothesley says one evening, voice low and assured. "With me."

Your twin bristles. "You can’t force me to stay."

A slow, knowing chuckle.

"You’d be surprised what I can do."

[journey-to-the-attic]

3rd anni req 11: [NIGHTBRINGER] belphie, lucifer / deep sleep

ao3 link

note: i've mostly been doing these in the order i remember getting them so far, but i might start skipping around, since they're quite lucifer-frontloaded (not that i'm complaining). anyway - this is based on nb lesson 12, where mc's in that curse-coma, but! the twist is that ik can somehow still speak through it. since, y'know, special reaper curse

∎ ∎ ∎ ∎ ∎

“...oh, you’re here.”

Lucifer doesn’t look up as Belphie slips into the room. He stays there, sitting in a chair he’s dragged from the dining room, half-hunched over, with his forearms on his knees. Belphie gets the distinct feeling that his oldest brother hasn’t slept in the last forty-eight hours.

He glances over at the wan face of the room’s only other occupant. “...still not up?”

“Solomon said not to expect it to happen soon,” Lucifer says blankly. “We don’t know the exact nature of the curse. By all means, it should have been fatal.”

They both look at IK’s blank face. The light flickers in a way that, for a moment, makes her look as if she’s blinking awake - though Belphie doesn’t dare hope.

“Weird kid,” He mumbles, more to her than Lucifer. “You can’t do magic, but you can survive reaper curses? If you can do that, why didn’t you…”

'Why didn’t you stop us from trying to hurt you?' is what he means, but he can’t finish the question. Lucifer looks as if he knows what he was going to say, anyway.

“So where’s Solomon gone, then?” He asks after a beat, frowning. “All that talk, and he’s not even staying to look after her?”

“He said he’d look for solutions in the tomes at the cave. And that he was leaving IK in charge.”

Yeah, that’s right.

“As if h— huh?”

They both whip around. IK hasn’t moved.

Belphie glances quickly at Lucifer. “Did you hear—?”

“Yes.” His response is short and harried. “What was that?”

They both fall silent for a moment, listening hard. Nothing.

“Maybe we’re just hearing things,” Belphie says reluctantly, though he’d swear it to anyone that he just heard IK speaking, loud and clear.

“Do you think that’s likely?” Lucifer stands up, staring around the room like a sentinel, a dangerous shadow falling over his face. “It could be any manner of mimicry. If something’s gotten in—”

Wait, did you hear me?

Lucifer goes dead silent. There's no mistaking that voice - but there’s also no mistaking the fact that the speaker has not moved an inch.

After a moment, Belphie tries, “IK?”

You did! She sounds downright joyful - the words don’t quite ring like speech does in a room, but the voice in their heads is clear as day. I was so BORED.

“You can talk?” He asks, bewildered. “Wait, you’re— can’t you open your eyes?”

No. Do you think I haven’t tried? Now she sounds aggravated. I’ve been awake this whole time. I just can’t bloody move.

“Watch your language,” He says automatically.

Don’t start. I’m losing my mind here. But you can actually hear me now!

“Yes, you’ve said that already.” Lucifer sits down again, leaning forward, practically on the edge of his seat. “How much do you remember?”

Hmm. I remember you both trying to kill me.

A pause. Then Lucifer asks, voice suddenly about half as loud, “What is your situation, then?”

There’s a sort of buzz, as if IK is laughing. Not much going on. It’s like sitting in a dark room. I can hear things coming from outside, but I can’t see anything. It sucks.

Say, if you were a shark, what kind would you be?

“What?”

I think you’d be a nurse shark, Belphie, because they’re usually chill, except when they aren’t. And Lucifer would be… a blue shark, because that’s his favourite colour.

They exchange mildly bemused looks. After a moment, Lucifer says slowly, “How do you know that? I’ve never told you.”

…uh… Belphie gets the distinct feeling that IK is panicking. ...context clues. You know, clothes and stuff.

“You’ve only seen him wearing red,” He says a little suspiciously.

And what’s the opposite of red? Blue. Next question.

It’s no use trying to pry. Every time this happens - every time Belphie gets the unnerving feeling that their attendant knows them better than they even know themselves - he tries to figure out why, and IK deflects. The dedication would be impressive if it wasn’t annoying.

Who is this kid? She shows up, completely out cold, and hasn’t even been awake for an hour by the time she’s been put in charge of the Devildom’s newly-minted residents. Then Solomon, of all people, that sorcerer whose reputation long precedes him, shows up calling her his ward, even though she’s got no magic to speak of.

Though Belphie doesn’t know what else to call her knack for making them… talk. She takes to the Devildom like a duck to water - practically skips through it all while they’re still mired in their own rotten souls. They should’ve been insulted that Diavolo would think this ridiculous little thing capable of handling the seven of them, but IK does it like it’s second nature.

That’s the frustrating part. They’ll tell her near-everything, and IK tells them absolutely nothing. And it isn’t that they’re stupid, or blind, or so self-absorbed that they don’t notice when she goes quiet - when she stares off at something that isn’t there, eyes filled with some inexplicable loneliness that should be far beyond her years.

Is Satan around? IK asks. He was in here, reading, before. He couldn’t hear me then, but maybe he will now.

“Um… he went out.” Belphie sits down on the foot of the bed. “Hey. I’m… not angry with you anymore.”

Wow. Do you want an award?

“No, I—” He swallows. His tail flicks up behind him, and he seizes it for comfort before he can stop himself. “—I’m sorry. That’s what I meant.”

Oh.

Okay.

He waits for a moment. There’s no other response. He looks at Lucifer.

His brother’s face is twisted into something that might resemble remorse. The ironic part is that Ik would probably know better than he does, if only she could open her eyes to see.

“We’re doing what we can,” is all Lucifer says after a while. “You will be alright. I can promise you that.”

That’s a relief, she says, a touch ironically. So am I just stuck like this until Solomon figures something out?

Lucifer’s jaw tightens. “...I don’t know. All we can do is wait.”

Great. I’ll get right on that.

Belphie scoffs. “I don’t know how you’re making jokes right now. You could’ve died. You still might now.”

Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, says IK dryly. I know what being dead feels like. This isn't anything like it.

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

No answer. Belphie shoots an apprehensive look at Lucifer, then leans forward. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”

Silence. He doesn’t know if IK’s refusing to speak, or if the connection has broken already. He makes as if to stand up, to go find Barbatos, or Diavolo, or anyone who might know how to repair it. He can't lose it now.

He’s poured his heart out to her once before, then hadn’t even waited a day to turn on her. He doesn’t know what, but he has to do something about it, right?

But, before he can, Lucifer takes a deep breath, then abruptly stands up.

“...I have to go,” He mutters.

That, at least, gets IK to speak up again - Belphie feels a rather distracted spark of relief. Where are you going?

“Out,” He replies sharply, then pauses, and sighs. “...I need to clear my head. You’re… incomprehensible.”

That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

…hey. You’ll come back and talk to me, right? It’s really boring in here.

“Is that what you want?” He asks, softer.

It’d be nice.

Lucifer looks at IK for a moment, then leans down. Belphie doesn’t quite see what he does, but when he straightens up again, the blankest are tucked in more snugly, and IK’s hair looks a little neater than it did before.

“Then I will,” Lucifer tells her, and steps back. With one last, lingering glance, he turns on his heel, and walks out.

…

…Belphie, are you still there?

“Yeah,” He says quietly, and decides to take Lucifer’s seat. “Are you okay?”

Not the best I’ve been. Not the best week I’ve had, either.

He wishes he had some water. “That’s our fault, isn’t it?”

Sorry.

“Don’t— what are you saying sorry for? You always—” He stops himself before he can finish. “—you’re so weird.”

A pause. Then, That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

“Stop it. Just…” He drags a hand through his hair and catches a finger on his left horn. “...just let me feel bad, will you?”

…fine.

He takes a breath. “...Beel’s okay, by the way. I don’t know if you’ve heard him.”

I did. I’m really glad.

“He’s worried. We all are. Look, I—”

Don’t bother, IK interrupts. …I get it, I mean. You don’t have to explain it to me.

“I really don’t get you,” He mumbles.

Another laughing sound. I get that a lot.

“Aren’t you scared? Aren’t you angry?”

Not angry. Scared… maybe.

Doesn’t matter, though. It’ll be fine. It has to be. I have to get…

Silence for a while. He doesn't quite dare to ask - have to get... what? What is it that she's so determined to hold on for?

…hey. If you wanted to, say, make it up to me… could you hold my hand?

He blinks. “Will you be able to feel it?”

I don’t know. But it’d be a nice thought.

“...okay. Sure, I can do that.”

Belphie drags the chair closer, untucks a corner of the blanket, and closes his fingers around a cold little hand. IK's voice murmurs a quiet thank you.

If he really squints, he can fool himself into seeing a tiny smile on her face.

"You'd better wake up soon."

[wellthebardsdead]

Clow Good end 1 pt1 (Infernal Stalemate/Paved with Good intentions)

———

Clow: *heartbroken after gracefully stepping aside to let Karlach and Wyll find love together, now reaching for the crown of Karsus will full intentions to give it to Gale and lose his soul forever to Raphael* I’ve got i-

Gale: I’m sorry- *bludgeons him over the head with his staff and dives after the crown, letting Clow fall to his death*

Astarion: WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST DO?!?

Wyll: CLOW!! *reaches for him before grabbing on right as the elderbrain starts going down into the water*

Karlach: EVERYONE JUMP!!!

Clow: *hits the water first, blinking in and out of consciousness as the air leaves his lungs and he sinks, his tears mingling with the blue around him as he believes his last moments to be that of heartbroken betrayal*

“I was going to give it to you- I was going to give up everything for all of you… why- why did you hurt me?…”

Clow: *closes his eyes preparing for death as his vision goes dark… and the cold of the water is replaced by the warmth of a soft bed, and the heat of a fireplace* wh-huh?… *opens his eyes and recoils in fright seeing who he thinks is Raphael looming over him* Aah-hngg *winces clutching his head in pain* where- huh?

Haarlep: Shhhh. Shhh. You’re safe little mouse. *strokes his cheek and takes his hands letting them rest back on the bed* You’re in the house of hope, and masters personal bedchambers~ you are a lucky one, even though you failed in your task he still favours you, so much so that he saved your life personally. He wasn’t too keen on losing the crown but, he gained a far more valuable treasure instead I think.

Clow: I- you- you’re not Raphael?

Haarlep: Me? Haha! No, I am Haarlep, Raphael’s personal incubus~ he asked me to clean you up and get you nice and comfortable for him. I can see why he likes you so much. It was like handling a doll. So small and delicate. I could crush you with one hand if I wanted to-

“Enough you vile wretch. Out.”

Haarlep: *looks over at the door as his master arrives, hisses and crawls back off the bed, slinking off into the shadows beyond where Clow can see*

Raphael: *walks to the bed, eyes locked with Clows as he comes to a stop beside him, before sitting down on the plush sheets* you are, a perplexing one… I would ask if you intended to give Gale the crown of karsus but… if you did, he certainly wouldn’t have mercilessly bludgeoned you and left you to plummet to your death… surely?…

Clow: I was going to give it to him…

Raphael: Ha. Such foolish honesty… I’d expected you to at least try and lie to me.

Clow: what point is there in lying to you?… my plan still succeeded… he got the crown and mystras grace once more, and the absolute is defeated… my soul is just one sacrifice of many already made. I’m just the last pawn that was needed to achieve checkmate…

Raphael: A pawn?… hm… I’ve always viewed you as far more useful… it’s only fitting that now you stand at the opposing side of the board beside the king… you can choose to sacrifice your piece, or, become a queen instead.

Clow: *laughs softly* and I’m assuming you’re the king then?… I suppose you did ultimately stand around moving one step at a time… what to you mean choose?… you’re giving me a choice?

Raphael: if I wanted you dead, or to harm you in any way. I’d have done so already… you’d be getting skinned down in the dungeon as we speak to upholster a new chair for me. Or fed to Haarlep like the rest of the trivial scraps I send his way to sate his incessant whining. You certainly wouldn’t be in my bed receiving my personal bedside manner… *snaps his fingers summoning his contract, the text changing before his very eyes to that of a marriage certificate* your soul already belongs to me… but, if you’re willing… it can belong to me in a… much more pleasant sense… and likewise, mine will belong to you…

Clow: you’re?… proposing to me?…

Raphael: Would you rather the alternative? Going back to living an eternity of suffering and servitude?

Clow: I’ve spent my whole life never hoping for anything better than what I’ve been given… *takes the quill and signs without hesitation, the plume disappearing and being replaced with a wedding band on his finger as one appears on Raphael’s as well* and I won’t start now… *winces and pushes himself to sit up, surprised at how gently the devil places his hands on his shoulders urging him to lay back down as his lips meet his halfway in soft and warm kiss. One so pleasant it almost numbed the pain of his forehead splitting open as a crown of horns began to grow along with a tail from his spine. His fate sealed in hellfire, heart and soul bound to another, not as a slave, but as an equal. Stalemate*

*literally the next day*

Hope: *free and standing behind the ice skinned devil drow* Oh no he’s spitting mad!

Clow: he can spit, hiss and throw a temper tantrum all he wants it’s not my fault he left that loophole in our marriage license.

Raphael: PUT HER BACK IN THE DUNGEON THIS INSTANT!

Clow: no. She’s now, my ‘servant’. You have Korrilla as your hand and now hope is mine. *looks to her* you don’t- actually have to do anything though it’s just, y’know.

Hope: oh I know! Is he okay though should we get out of the way I think he’s gonna blow-

Raphael: *bursts into flame screaming and literally stomping his feet*

Clow: my he really does have his fathers temper. He’ll cool off in a minute.

Korrilla: and if he doesn’t?

Clow: throw a bucket of water on him.

[singularity-and-co]

(@shimmeringtidepools) Gira@Singularity: His father would kill him if he knw he wasn’t back shackled to his world, good. There was something he wanted to know. The black haired male had eventually tracked down the fellow giratina, one he saw seldomly at the gala, and approached from shadows. “Pardon my intrusion, but you and I seem to be quite similar in a manner of speaking.” He started. “Horrible fathers, irritating siblings, banishment and the like, tell me honestly what is the Distortion World like for you?” Genuine curiosity swirled in his eyes. “For me it might be my only home, however it is pure hell.”

Sorry, can’t help myself. When I see an attractive-looking Pokémon, I must compliment them. And well, you certainly tick all of the boxes for what I consider attractive.

Anyways, regarding your question, it seems we are both in a similar situation. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one. Well, it’s not nice for the both of us but you know what I mean. The realm of distorted chaos, or distortion realm as it’s commonly known, is one I have a lot of control over.

However, it’s also been used as my prison. A prison where I was tossed away for years, never to see what was going on in the others worlds until I had learnt my lesson. I hated being trapped in there. Hated it. I still hate going there but at least I can exit it freely. The worst part was how void it was of life during my banishment. I couldn’t do anything besides sit and watch the world distort and morph. My true form became corrupt and, I’m going to be honest, I’m rather embarrassed to show it.

The realm itself has actually morphed into a similar look to that of the mortal realm, except with certain laws of physics being bent and distorted. That’s something I’ve had no control over and if I didn’t hate the place so much, I probably would spend some time observing why this is. It’s probably fascinating stuff. The realm has also opened itself up to many ghost types and a lot of them use the space to help the spirits of the dead move on. I think I’ve seen death itself wandering too. It’s not harmful to them if they’re in there for a short period of time. Anyone who’s in for a while may be hit with the awful side effects that realm has.

You mentioned yours is pure hell. In what way, if you don’t mind me asking?

[crescenthistory]

Hi!! Congratulations on 2k!! That is such a huge achievement and one you very well deserve! I was hoping I could get an Interpret.

Im 23, single, and my Hogwarts house is Slytherin. I love to read, paint/draw, listen to music and play video games. My favorite movie of all time is Dead Poets Society and I have 2 cats, Loki and Shadow. A lot of people tend to interpret me as shy and introverted, which is true, but I’m not really as shy as people seem to think. I’d much rather listen than talk, but if I feel comfortable or am speaking on a topic I know or love, I can talk your ear off for hours. I tend to be more reserved, keeping to myself most of the time. The only people who really know me are my best friends, and even then I don’t really tell them everything. My favorite color is green, and if I could live in hoodies and sweaters at all times I would. My favorite type of weather is snow and gloomy, rainy days - especially thunderstorms. My favorite season is Fall and my favorite holiday is Christmas (Halloween is right up there with it tho) As for my favorite song, it’s truly always changing. I have a special place in my heart for House Song by searows and The Cattle by Zach Palmer (I also really love Black Friday by Tom Odell) Any song that kinda has a sad vibe, I really love. They’re relatable to me and that makes them all the more special.

Hopefully this was enough? I can’t wait to see what you have to say and again, congratulations on hitting 2k! I’ve been following your blog for a while now and you’re one of my favorite writers on this site. I hope you have a wonderful day and I look forward to seeing what comes in the future! 💚💚💚

thank you so much for your sweet words my darling! i'm glad to have had you along for the ride for so long, you're very welcome on my page 🫂🤍 i also lol-ed at you having a cat named shadow, the animagus fics must be fun for you

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i will INTERPRET for aesthetic-main

carina's 2k celebration

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your ideal partner could be pandora rosier!

now i'm sorry if you don't know her too well, but i love little panda and i think she would love you. she's someone who studies those around her properly, but not in the same way as dorcas or regulus. with them, it's usually about a sense of control, whereas pandora just has a morbid fascination with the human species in general. however, while studying you, i think your inner workings would remind her slightly of evan which would make her halt and actually see you as the individual you are. your private approach to life and reserved mannerisms while still having a lot on your mind and heart would make her feel oddly comfortable. once you get to know each other, you would find that your interests and preferences line up perfectly and you are rather kindred souls. spending a day in your cozies while the rain pours and you cuddle up with cats and read or chat about your current fixations is exactly how she wants to spend her time. pandora wouldn't need you to share all your deep dark secrets, she would just accept it and enjoy you as you are. whatever you wish to rant about, she is happy to listen to. drawing and painting is a huge part of who she is and best believe you would be her new muse.

[trentreznorspussy]

i am a man with a heart that offends with its lonely and greedy demands; there’s only a shadow of me, in a manner of speaking, i’m dead

[bluean3gl]

Typical “I Became the Villainess” story

Word count: 786

Warnings: not proofread, sloppy writing, light gore

Writer notes: idk what im doing…ヽ(￣д￣;)ノ

Extra: female pov, fantasy, sad T-T

I couldn’t see anything. They took another one of my senses away without my will. First, part of my hearing. Second, the feeling of pain. And now, my sight. That’s what I thought, until I felt the rough fabric against my skin. In the end, I couldn’t tell if I was happy to not have been stripped away from something that belongs to me, or irritated that they partially left me sane.

A heavy hand presses on my back, pushing me forward. My weak knees couldn’t comprehend the sudden force, so I ended up on the hard and cold ground. From the small hearing I had left, I could hear some muffled cheers from behind me. I couldn’t make out most of the words due to now forgetting how to simply speak, but even if I did know, I wouldn’t be able to hear them well.

The same hand grabs the bag off of my head in a rough manner. Some of my hair was pulled along with the sack. I felt nothing. Just a small tug. My eyes slowly adjusted to the lighting, and when they did, I looked up. My eyes locked with a pair of yellow eyes. Ones that reminded me of a fox.

He shared a snarl at me as he looked down. Half of his face was hidden with the shadow of the roof above us. “We present you, Kiah Dahlmans.” An announcer called upon my arrival. My eyes hardened as I continued to stare at the man in front of me. It’s been so long since I’ve been announced like this, despite the current situation. Hearing my name in such a gentle tone made me feel like this was all a dream. Ha, I wish.

I glanced around me. The small group sat on a small stage that was placed above an arena. Stairs descend from both sides of the squares. The building was formed in an oval shape, the sides lined with seats that were filled to the brim of people. But that wasn’t what piqued my interest. It was what was flying around us. Little white balls zoomed around me. Cameras. Not only were they performing this to the capital, but they were broadcasting this to the whole world.

My eyes finally went back to the man in the chair. He stared back, with an emotion I’m not familiar with on his face. “On this day, XX/XX/XX, we will hold the execution of Kiah Dahlmans. The reasoning for her punishment was for her inappropriate acts towards the young, but now new, emperor.” My face twitches at the reasoning.

The crowd roars loudly. That was until a gloved hand was lifted up. The emperor’s hand. The building filled with people suddenly became quiet. His hand went down as his face shifted dark. “Any last words, ma’am?” He asked me. How could he talk to me like I was some normal noble not on the ground. Like a person he has seen constantly and not a criminal he chose to execute.

Silence filled the tensed air. My mouth was glued shut.

“How could you not-”

“Silence” The man’s hand slapped to his mouth as the emperor continued. “Are you sure you don’t have any last words? Not even to . . .” he pauses, his eyes shifting once more, “. . . those you love?”

I breathed in, taking in the flourish air. My hand was clenched behind me, my nails forcing its way on my skin. “Why would I spare any words to those I love, when they are all dead.” My voice was raspy as I spoke out loud. It was above a whisper, but not loud enough for those around the two of us to hear.

His gaze hardened on me. “Take her.” Arms grab my biceps as they start dragging me towards the edge of the platform. My breath started to quicken. Was I finally going to die?

They stood me up, still facing the ruler. The announcer looked around nervously. “Um–tonight may we celebrate with cheer . . .” He continued his normal speech. A speech I would hear constantly but ignore. It was something I would’ve never thought would be spoken to and for me.

I could tell people were just itching to see me die. The cheers started to get louder the closer the speech started to end. “So, for today and onwards, may we continue to celebrate the death of Kiah Dahlmans . . .” A sudden push from both of my shoulders tips me back. My balance became unsteady as I started to fall down to the arena. My eyes close as my death starts to come closer and closer. But this wasn’t death. No, this was my freedom. “. . . The Traitor.”

Writer extra notes: yay! first post! (⌒▽⌒)

[relcollins]

"The Night of the Declaration" - part 5

(5) Artie nearly dropped the cake plate he was holding, Jim’s face betrayed his surprise, and their host looked apologetic for causing such drama.

“Are you, er…have you, no…er…what makes you think that?” Artie finally managed, having rescued the cake plate and removed it safely to the side table. “That’s no trifling matter!”

“No,” Weston agreed, “it isn’t. But I had given the matter a lot of thought before I wrote to the President, and I have given it more thought since. I am not a fanciful man, Mr Gordon, but sometimes things add up to only one conclusion, and that conclusion is that Mr Jeremiah Jasper would like to see me dead.”

“Excuse me, Mr Weston,” Jim interjected. “I don’t doubt your sincerity, nor your conviction, but why would this Jasper character want to kill you? Can you take us through your reasoning to arrive at that decision?”

“Of course, Mr West, and I want you to believe that I am not one to be easily frightened, nor a pushover who jumps at shadows, yet this is the only logical inference one can make.”

Artie leaned forward, his face a picture of concern and understanding. “Mr Weston,” he began, but Weston waved a hand to halt his speech.

“Mr Gordon, after such an announcement, and the likelihood that you will endeavour to shed some light on this matter, helping me in this most trying time even if it results in me being shown up as that silly fool I dread to be, please call me Fortescue.” Artie did not regard Mr Weston as a fool, whatever the older man may have feared.

“Then you must call me Artemus - Artie, and my partner James…er…Jim. It’s only fair. And now, we are all ears. Do please proceed.” Artie and Jim settled back, their neutral expressions belying their alertness and concentration on what their host was about to reveal.

“Jeremiah Jasper is a man of great wealth and presence, gentlemen, and is used to getting his way. I don’t believe his fortune was acquired by, er, fair business practices, however, as his manner is quite belligerent. It’s this manner which has created all the, as you say, disquiet around here.  

“The township here has many industries going for it, and up until recently it has seemed enough, however this Jasper fellow has struck a gold seam several miles out of town, and has been mining it industriously for the past year or thereabouts. Here’s where it gets problematic. He claims that the seams lead right beneath the town and he wants to mine underneath all the built-up areas. Perhaps it’s selfish of me, but I have denied him a permit to get any closer than half a mile from the town boundary on that side, and he did not take the news well. Since then, our peaceful town has experienced some, shall we say, disturbing, incidents.”

“Incidents?” Jim enquired. “Such as…?”

“Well, initially, a few months ago, the residents out that side of town had their wells mysteriously damaged or filled in, and livestock has, not coincidentally I’m sure, disappeared or been found shot dead. Most upsetting for the owners, I can tell you.” Fortescue looked grim. “And then there are the strange lights and noises in the hills round about, which the neighbours describe as frightening. I’m quite sure this Jasper is responsible for what I feel is a campaign of intimidation. Oh, and two farmhouses were set alight. Thankfully no-one has been killed yet, but I fear that state won’t last.”

Artie leaned forward.

“You have a police force here, don’t you? What have they discovered? They have investigated, surely?”

“Of course”, Fortescue replied. “They are quite a crack team, and wasted no time speaking to the people affected, and also to Mr Jasper, but as yet they’ve got no evidence to tie anything to him, and he has a solid alibi, vouched for by his family. I don’t believe a word of it, but what can we do?”

“You said earlier you think he’s trying to kill you,” Jim began. “what does he gain from that?”

Fortescue turned to face Jim. “If the seam under Westonia is as rich as Jasper claims, I understand why he wants to mine it, however the town council, of which I am the head, agree that heavy mining underneath all this built up land will severely compromise the integrity of it, and we therefore denied the submission. The amenity of the townsfolk here matters more to me, and us, than him adding to his obscene wealth at the expense of ordinary people, gentlemen, and this refusal has got him all worked up. I conjecture that he hasn’t met much opposition in his life, and this one has riled him mightily.”

“Other things have happened, too, in what I believe is an escalation of his desire to have his way. He’s made offers to buy out folk over that side of town, he’s tried to get himself elected to the council, he has offered good wages to anyone who will work for him to mine the gold, but he has completely misread the spirit of Westonia, and people here want to continue living as they have, working for themselves in a community that supports good will and self-sufficiency, with no-one feeling intimidated by another. I believe he means to have his way, one way or another, and if he can’t buy people, he’ll drive them out. He doesn’t need the town to run his goldmine, although it certainly makes life easier for him and his employees and family. With his wealth he moves in the highest society we have here, and styles himself a big man. He doesn’t have the graces of one, though.”

“And the bit about him trying to kill you…? Jim prompted.

“Yes, quite.” Fortescue looked back at Jim determinedly. “In recent months I have narrowly escaped a carriage crash, which cost me two favourite carriage horses, then there was a serious bout of food poisoning at the council chambers which made all of us very ill. Oh, and the exploding parcel in the mail, which only by good chance I wasn’t holding, so you see I do have grounds for suspecting Jasper is behind these attempts to remove me, and thereby remove what he sees as his main obstacle to getting mining approval.”

“Yes, Fortescue, I do see” Jim nodded. “Well, that certainly paints a grim picture for us, but of course we will do our best to get to the bottom of it.”

“If nothing else,” Artie added, “sending explosive devices through the mail service is a federal crime, so that justifies us being here all by itself.” He looked at Mr Weston and then at Jim, who nodded in agreement.

“If you have no objection, we can get started right away.” Artie stood up, and so did Jim. Their host arose from his chair also, and indicated the door. “Of course, I know your time is valuable, and I am most grateful to have you here. You have carte blanche to speak with all the staff in the house and all the employees in Kensington Manor, and I will draw up a letter of introduction for you to use in the town should you need it.” He led the way out into the hall, where they encountered Leroy Wyatt approaching, hat in hand.

“Mr West, Mr Gordon, your horses have been made comfortable in the big stable, and your bags have been taken upstairs for you.”  Leroy placed his hat back on his head, smiled at Artie and Jim, and upon getting an acknowledgement from Mr Weston, he shook hands with the two agents then turned and made his way out.

Jim and Artie looked at Mr Weston appreciatively. “You have a lovely home here, Fortescue,” Artie offered, his eyes again looking about him admiringly.

“Thank you, Artemus, you are most kind. I have arranged for your stay in the west wing, which is where your things are, and where I am sure you’ll be most comfortable. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to find me, or you can ask one of the staff to bring you to me.” Jim allowed a wry smile to linger on his face.

“Do you perhaps have a Gordon wing too?” Artie enquired sweetly.

“I’m afraid not, Artemus, although perhaps we should name the suite I’ve assigned you the Gordon Suite, since it’s the largest and most comfortable one in that guest wing, in honour of your visit.” Mr Weston managed to deliver his reply with a straight face, but neither agent missed the twinkle in his eye. “Please feel free to visit the kitchen if you need anything to sustain you while you’re here.” Upon this pronouncement Artie’s face lit up. He beamed at Mr Weston. “Does this mean more cake and brownies…?” he asked hopefully. “Of course, Artemus. You have to keep your strength up for your endeavours.”

Artie smiled his thanks, and as Mr Weston turned away, Artie could not help casting a sidelong glance at Jim, one that was full of meaning, and which was reciprocated with a look of devilish enthusiasm.

[wajb]

i am a man with a heart that offends with its lonely and greedy demands. there’s only a shadow of me in a manner of speaking, i’m dead.

^ holy cow…. holy cow.

[sleepsong]

there’s only a shadow of me in a manner of speaking i’m dead. aha

[almostfancywombat]

Shadow Dancer

It was near sundown when a young man, extravagantly yet poorly dressed for the weather, stumbled into Abe-Kes, dazed like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He hardly managed to step a foot beyond the entrance gates before Zhenviny saw him inhaling dirt and took pity. Carelessly obeying the whimsy that had ruled him since birth, he heaved the unconscious man over his shoulder and set off in the first direction his eyes landed on.

From behind the bar’s counter, Makka caught a glance of Zhenviny through the window. She watched as he threw the saloon door open, boots scraping the carpet. Shouting over the small yet rambunctious crowd of the Wheeleri, Makka greeted him with false enthusiasm.

“Tzi-tzi, Sheni ! Delivering parcels? I ordered ahead, but Tergi Bazhnik’s tomorrow, and nothing’s arrived. I’m sincerely fearful that Khyivchuk might skin me should it not, so let’s hurry that along.”

Expertly evading her accusatory tone, he took a jab at her appearance. Spoken with a grimace, “Gee, Makka. Worry about yourself first. You look straight horrendous. Been dreaming lately?”

Head tilted, he was the splitting image of innocence. He brandished those sky eyes like a weapon. While Makka wanted to be offended, it was merely an observation. Zhenviny’s manners were atrocious. He’d even tell his Mati worse.

“Appreciate it,” grumbled Makka, “but spare yourself the worry. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I’m practically like the dead.”

Makka rolled her head to the side and pretended to slit her neck. Zhenviny promptly smacked her.

“Don’t joke like that.” He spat, puffing and shaking like a bird. “You’ll live a long, healthy life, or so help me. Let’s change topics. I get uncomfortable when you talk like that. We speak intention into reality, don’t you know?”

“I got a fine talent for bringing bad things to fruition.”

“Shut it, Makka.”

Clicking her tongue, Makka ceded. Poor Zhenviny still lived in the past, so it was best to entertain his emotional conceit, lest she wrought a nervous breakdown on his behalf.

“Where’s my package?”

In typical Zhenviny fashion, he took the defensive. “Jump a horse and bring the matter to Akinnalabuk if you got any issues.”

“Got me there,” she huffed, sensing his eagerness to switch topics. “But, hey! When Nascha came over, she said Akinna gave birth. Visiting now would be strange, wouldn’t it?”

“Run into the tihsik and call it a holiday for all I care. Heavens know you need it, and so would Akinnalabuk.” He rolled his eyes, adjusting his bag. His hands ghosted over the fur rucksack draped across his shoulders.

Despite his crassness, Makka assumed the large sack meant he had finally harassed that tight-pursed merchant and retrieved her orders. She was about to thank him profusely when suddenly, the bag shook and coughed and became a person wearing a coat. Makka took a step back and sighed, then rubbed her forehead free of the crease forming there. Contrary to local beliefs, the Wheeleri wasn’t a welcome committee. She was even less pleased to be appointed its head. Impossibly, every visitor found a way to test her. While she dealt with conflict well enough, the local chieftain, Saye-Nochta, disagreed with her methods. Although his paranoia meant she was kept under constant surveillance, he still had his own obligations to tend to.

For once, Makka found herself wishing he was present. Instead, Saye-Nochta was busy completing rounds in the surrounding villages. Without his jurisdiction, she’d steer from conflict, only acting if provoked.

Makka groaned. She’d already ended two fights since the Wheeleri opened for the day and wasn’t above starting one if Zhenviny’s stranger posed a problem. But with such foreign dress and looks—neither of which belonged to the desert-dwelling groups in her state—she took a hasty intrigue. Poor Zhenviny stood swaying, searching until his eyes met hers. As was customary, she regarded him lukewarmly.

Please don’t let this be what I think this is, she begged.

“I found him just outside Abe-Kes,” panted Zhenviny, donning a tired smile. Sweat seeped from his sandy tresses. A whiff of something unpleasant carried when he leaned forward. Likely due to that coat he always wore, no matter how bad the heat. “He said something interesting. Maybe it was fevered mumbling, but it was enough to concern me.”

Makka countered his zeal with a tight-lipped grin. While his nature wasn’t half as hospitable as his actions, Zhenviny acted in extremes. One of Abe-Kes’s resident strays, Makka had never appreciated his self-proclaimed obligation to people like her. In their youth, he’d gathered miscreants by the dozen, and after years of weeding the troublesome members out, only she remained. Their pack of two, sometimes more, was enough for her, but anyone possessing the Tchevtok name seemed to have an innate sense of goodness, no matter how misguided their actions appeared to outsiders.

“It’s near closing time, don’t you know?” Waving him off, Makka hissed. Considering the slew of robberies and territory breaches that had occurred in the past month, interesting was the last thing she needed. “Xen te’elo! Get!”

“I swear, you’ll wanna hear him out. Got Miss Jiu in house? I wanna get our guest patched up before taking him to registration.”

As the saying went, the Tchevtoks had silver eyes. Not a day went by without them prying into matters unconcerned with their names. Zhenviny belonged to a family of scared snoops, digging for answers, then running before the consequences of the uncovered truth caught them. Truly, she shouldn’t have expected any better of her dear, bothersome friend.

“Jiuavu’s out. Pa got a bite in Sak-Che, so she tagged along to ensure he wouldn’t die, I s’pose, but I wish she’d taken that annoying brother with her. Though, if a healer’s what you need, Lyudlya’s filling in.”

“Far-flung! Can’t believe he just left you to tend to the Wheeleri. Your rotten brother can’t be worth all that.”

Shrugging, Makka dismissed his concern. The very least she could’ve done was tend to Pa’s business. It was what loaned his name weight, the only reason people still tolerated his disappointment of a daughter.

Tongue clicking against his cheek, Zhenviny scowled. “Come over, won’t you? Mati always makes too much.” His gaze momentarily softened before returning to his stoic front. “She’d want you over, anyway. We got a new shipment of books, and one’s filled with Teyai patterns and such, so she might wanna consult over your dress. Couldn’t find any news about your brother’s missing things past the Midlands, but you know how that goes.”

“Inni ko’oj!” Makka cooed, leaning over to rest her hand on his. “You’re still looking? Oh, my heart, my soul! My Sheni!”

Scoffing, he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “If you’re so grateful, help me with this lug.”

Setting her cleaning aside, Makka went around to help lower the stranger into a seat. Zhenviny removed the hefty bag from his shoulders and planted it in the stranger’s lap. She glanced at his fashion, noting the thick coat, his shirt’s high collar and obscene embellishments. Even in the dim light, he glittered like a lake when the sun hit just right.

“He speaks Motec? Anything else?”

“Mont’s what he’s mumbling in, but he’s got an accent. It’s tickling my mind, thinking where he comes from. Looking like that, speaking like this…”

“Olut schop bin odyalve? Oyak yaduy suluy. ” Using dreadful Luzhen, Makka questioned the stranger’s odd fashion. Pure styles weren’t common in the region. Makka’s own seamstress was none other than a Luzhen who took painstaking care to include her Teyai sensibilities.

“Neni znyau.” Zhenviny shrugged, then switched, prodding the semi-conscious boy. “Doll Face here entered on the wrong foot. First, he stumbled into someone, then Sayenko got it twisted and accosted him before I intervened. Fortunately, he left to wherever he goes every odd month or so. I barely managed to convince him to leave me him.”

“Firstly, why’s he still in town? Ain’t he supposed to be drawing treaties with the Lasahkaaiya?”

“Was. Something came up at the office and shut it down, apparently. But, gods willing, we’ll explain it’s only a misunderstanding with Doll Face. Don’t wanna stress miy khanyatyy Sayenko anymore than he already is.” He brought a hand to his lips, making the Kiizen gesture of prayer.

Makka grimaced at the nickname. Affection had no business belonging to someone like Zhenviny. Thoroughly disturbed, she figured she couldn’t face any worse shock and turned toward the newcomer, taking in his sunburned face. There was a dull luster to his being. He reminded her of a fire, holding himself like embers clinging to charred wood.

“Alright, so, hear this,” she said, carefully presenting. “You got no place to stay. I got guest rooms upstairs and dishes that need washing. Ain’t a big thing, but you can stay until tomorrow, if you need.”

Company would be nice, she thought. With Pa gone and Nayati creeping around, she felt lonelier than ever and wouldn’t dare bother Zhenviny or Saye-Nochta, knowing how vital they were to keep the village running. She imagined wasting the day away, chatting with Doll Face about his homeland and travels, discovering if he had anything worth trading.

Excitement teeming, she nudged him. “How’s that sound? You up to it? It’d be nice to have someone else here. Maybe I’ll put you up to shining silverware or teach you how to work kottai. Won’t it be nice to take some back to make for your family? They keen on stuff like that? Say, where’re you from? You ever had kottai?”

When he didn’t stir, she wondered if he spoke Mont at all. Granted, constructing a house was easier than forming a sentence in that elusive tongue. It was a language with odd lifts, extensive vocabulary, and words that were built upon instead of being capable of standing alone.

“Yuumi-kax , his soul’s lost.” Leaning down, she tried peering at his face. “You’ve seen better days, ain’t you?”

Head lolling to the side, his gaze landed on Makka. Tired and smoldering, it was still intense enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Dark, narrow eyes of silver danced around, refusing to settle.

A faint, pleasant voice carried from parched lips. “With offers of food instead of thrashings,” he snapped, hunched over to hold his stomach. “Nowhere in my trip was half as endeared to threats as the first man I crossed here, and I entered through Tsedi’naw !” There was a weakness in his shoulders as he tugged at his collar, fanning himself, displaying a patch of skin stained a blistering red. “Yuragom kitte! Imagine the start when I realized outlaws were kinder than your law man!”

His accent used long consonants and irregular pauses that softened his tone and lifted his words. Makka felt that if he sang, it would’ve sounded like the heavens opened. But he spoke so much and so fast, and all of it was new. She had half the mind to tap his forehead and act surprised when she felt warm flesh. Real. He was real and staring back and she couldn’t even begin to fathom understanding him. Not with that spitfire speech nor mysterious character. Yet, despite his sweaty, dirt-coated appearance, he had an evident appeal, an aura of intrigue.

His features were unusual. Pale skin, mostly untouched by the sun, save for the sunspots dotting his round face. He had small, sharp eyes without creases, bordered by straight brows. He had a flat nose atop thick lips, and protruding cheeks.

“Oh, you followed the river?” Absent-minded, Makka handed him a cup. Doll Face hummed, swaying as he downed the beverage in a single, long gulp. “I got trade associates up there, but the trip costs a month of work and ichen. Gotta wait ‘til the slow seasons to do anything outside of here.”

While she lived in a peaceful region of thirteen tribes, the worry of addressing an outsider made her stomach churn. Her stranger could’ve come from a place with loose manners or treated everyone like high hats. There were too many chances for a slip-up, and she didn’t even know if they’d be able to properly communicate.

Usually, she’d call upon her divine force, the shadows for knowledge, but the fickle beings had initiated a standoff months ago and wouldn’t deign to help her traitorous self. Makka grabbed and polished a cup until she spotted her reflection, then continued with another to soothe her itching hands. “What trouble landed you here?”

She asked, although she already had an idea; Saye-Nochta, law and punisher in one. Typically, anyone in his blackbook made Makka’s, but the stranger seemed primarily harmless. Still, until such could be determined, she aimed to drive him away until the ever-reliable Saye-Nochta returned. There was still an evening’s worth of kottai to grind and no need for distractions.

Doll Face muttered into his hands. “It isn’t ‘straight proper,’ harming an innocent traveler.”

“We can’t name you innocent because you ain’t from these parts,” said Zhenviny, matter-of-factly. “But if you wanna change that, let’s share introductions. Arosiy Tchevtok’s the name, but I’m tagged Zhenviny.” An unspoken rule in Abe-Kes was never to directly inquire about someone’s past, but he danced around such, stating basic facts to prompt. “Outside our regular jobs, Makka and me do peacekeeping, so you’re keeping good company—my pa’s even the Holy Man in Toskolaiv and I oversee strays in the central village. If you’re looking to head elsewhere, just holler. Still, I gotta escort you to registration before anything.”

Thinly veiled threats clung to his overbearing politeness, but Doll Face wasn’t inquisitive. Instead, he countered with a resolute claim.

“I seek no true destination. I am merely here to retrieve objects once mine, and perhaps collect new treasures if I may.”

Hooting, Makka placed her hands on the counter and leaned back. That wasn’t suspicious, not at all. Occasionally, the foreign Little Hats bargained to grant foreign workers entrance, usually for specialized work or trade that the region otherwise lacked. Multicultural-inspired wares had found a sudden demand, primarily the Luzhen-influenced ones, so it was possible the stranger was merely a part of some strange cross-governmental program.

“Bak-wakax ? You got a permit? For how long?”

“Erm… The who to do what?”

Despite all her languages, the proper word eluded Makka. She knew what she wanted to say, but not how to speak it into existence. Fortunately, Zhenviny took it upon himself to intervene.

“Just ‘cause I understand don’t mean everybody does.” Annoyed, he enunciated, picking up her slack. “She means a seasonal worker, but I don’t believe we’re expecting any from your parts.”

“I suppose I can be something of the sort,” mumbled Doll Face. “Foremost, I seek High Noon. Would you know where to find him?”

There was a stillness to Zhenviny that no one would’ve noticed otherwise, but Makka knew him better than herself, and even with a blank expression, he looked like he’d been asked to summon a demon. Ever so slightly, his lips flattened and his grip on his cup grew just a bit tighter.

“Knowing local diction’s a talent,” he praised, playing dumb, “but salvation happens where bells ring. I’ll take you to the Grand Temple in Toskolaiv, if you’d have it. Or another place, whichever way your beliefs sway. There’s a few in the region—the Anpao even got this fire pit.”

“No, sir. I need High Noon to guide my journey. There are items I seek.”

Scorpion venom pricked Makka, paralyzing. There was no mistaking it. High Noon, spoken with the correct pause and tone. Shaking her head, she conjured a delusion; the words must’ve turned into something the stranger didn’t mean, a case of mistaken identity.

It was a common enough phrase, innocent without knowledge. It was a time of day. He only wanted to see the sun at its peak. The valleys surrounding Abe-Kes boasted a gorgeous sunrise. High noon also meant ‘salvation’ in Motec. Nothing about Doll Face seemed remotely Kiizen, but practices weren’t restricted to a single type of person, so Makka refrained from assumptions. Yet the longer she looked at him, the more unease settled into her heart. She despised the notion that some people simply didn’t have a place to belong.

“Ain’t searching in the right locations if you’re in my place,” she gruffly said, walls steadily rising. Her reputation would be soiled if she refused to help someone in need, so she stubbornly yielded, sharing that there were always families looking to feed in exchange for stories, and a guest house existed in the Luzhen settlement. What a shame. They could’ve been friends if only he’d kept that name from his mouth.

Doll Face gave a shaky laugh, clutching at his midsection. “Abe-Kes and that name are all I have. I lack strength and resources to walk another mile. I can offer a small sum, but little more until I find him.”

“Your scuffs could fetch some.” She glanced at his shirt and sighed at her callousness. Nobody took Makka’s pity, not even a half-dead man. She’d simply send her regards if he teetered past that, but she couldn’t spare herself the pain. “For now, I don’t got the will to give another hairsbreadth.”

“Please,” he begged, eyes wide as he stood, bracing on the counter “I must meet High Noon to ask help of him. Only his powers alone can help me.”

His hands shot forward and wrapped around hers. They were large and warm, and in his gentle hold, she nearly melted. But Zhenviny shoved him before Makka asked what allowed him to keep such smooth skin. Where hers was scarred and rough, his were smooth and unblemished.

Thoroughly scandalized, Zhenviny acted as if he’d been slighted. “Oy, oy! Get your hands off her! Who do you think you are?”

Doll Face looked as if Zhenviny asked him to uncover the universe’s secrets. There wasn’t an inkling of malice to his actions. He seemed as innocent as a child, unaccustomed to a foreign land’s customs. However, Makka was too sap-headed to call attention to it, and the dubiously sober patrons swerved their way. Gazes trained on the stranger, hands creeping toward waistbands.

“Poryadku! Yáʼáníshtʼééh! I’m fine!” She quickly clarified, eyes darting. She raised a hand, dispelling any worry among the loyal customers. She knew the sudden touch wasn’t offending; the slip-up must’ve been a cultural difference, because she sensed he was far touchier.

“Pardon my manners. I don’t understand your rules here.”

“Get to learning,” Zhenviny snapped. His hands rested on the counter, drumming. “Ignorance ain’t helping your case, and if Makka or Sayenko doesn’t like you, nobody will, and word spreads fast when it concerns potential threats. Lest you wish to sleep with the nashokeus —”

“What is ma-sha-skyuu ?”

“Why you—”

Doll Face flinched as Zhenviny rose, caught in his shadow. He brought his arms up to shield himself. “I mean wrong by you!”

“Apologize, then.”

The stranger paled. “Pardon?”

“Apologize to Makka, and I’ll see how I feel about entertaining you.”

Once the apology fit Zhenviny’s standards, he resumed his front. “Suitable,” he murmured. “Since you made peace, we’ll hear you out now.”

“Don’t go making promises for me, Zhenviny.” She closed the distance between them and glared. “Go eat your coat. You’re making the poor man out as a convict when he’s only here to search for someone he won’t find.”

All the necessary information had already laid itself out. Asking any more didn’t make any sense; a stranger entered town, then Saye had a skirmish, and as usual, the aftergrass became hers. Only this time, Makka wouldn’t remain passive in their shenanigans.

Puffing his chest, Zhenviny surveyed the room for an imaginary threat. “Sure, he won’t. Not as long as I have any sway.”

“Please,” Doll Face sighed, face planted against the table. His hair splayed out as he ran a finger across the counter. “I don’t intend to stay long. If you may, I’ll take the information and be on my way.”

Makka nearly forgot the supposed purpose of bringing him and still wasn’t sure why she was tossed into the mix. Already, she longed for the day to end. “Then, let’s see the busy man out. I also got somewhere to be soon.”

Although she tried to hide it, unease crept into her. She hoped Zhenviny would catch on, but his priorities lay in putting on airs for strangers.

“Lazhe. Meni potribno lenni dorostarym chodar .” There was something Zhenviny was waiting for the stranger to say, and he didn’t care how long it took to hear it. Yet another irritating habit. Whenever he got an idea, he’d stop at nothing to fulfill it.

“How kind of you, claiming responsibility,” grumbled Makka, joining Zhenviny on the other side of the counter. Reaching for the keys in her pocket, she passed them over, intending for him to take Doll Face to the storage room. “Take them, but he’s leaving once you’re done. If he goes around kicking mounds after, I’m taking both of your legs out.”

Zhenviny laughed, reaching over to slap my shoulder. ‘You can try,’ the gesture said. Begrudgingly, she agreed because he’d act difficult otherwise. With him standing by, closing was made easy; reputations preceded everyone in Chan-nup’a Kaajol.

Barflies drove out in heaps, patting him on the back, offering sweet partings. With him standing prudent, no one dared to even look at Makka. Known pay-laggards even passed coins and dipped their heads, and by the time they cleared the saloon, only the stench of kottai brew lingered. After spending all day rushing between it and tables, the kitchen didn’t seem too appealing. Makka hoped his family wouldn’t mind her intrusion at their table tonight. While eating alone made a usually joyful time a chore, the last thing she wanted was to swell his head and admit she wanted to share a meal.

“If you’re up for it, I was thinking we could harass the outpost master. Maybe after, we could—”

Before she explained her grand plan, the stranger collapsed. His body quivered as it slammed into hers, and Makka seized his shoulders, supporting him as he leaned forward. Coughs rattled his body. Something warm splattered onto her. Bile seeped into her apron, smelling like soured milk.

“Sorry,” he said. Tears pricked the corner of his eyes before they rolled back to reveal the whites. Legs shaking, he lost balance and fell over, his entire body going slack against hers. His shoulders were surprisingly bony.

“Sakes alive!” Makka cried, struggling to keep upright. “The poor man’s exhausted. What’d you say happened?”

“Sayenko didn’t rough him up, but he scared him good.”

“X’la! Sometimes, you’re so dense.” Heads bumped as Makka loaded Doll Face onto Zhenviny’s back, careful to avoid dirtying him. Groaning, she ripped her apron off and tossed it over a chair. Any sane person would’ve quivered before the man. Zhenviny himself wasn’t much better, but he had the advantage of a conventional appearance.

“Everybody in power’s gotta be a bit dumb,” he dismissed. “Otherwise, we’d be corrupt. But sometimes I do worry that being so open-minded means Sayenko’s brain will shake loose someday.”

Makka’s laughter shook off any lingering anger. How she adored Saye-Nochta; despite a strong intuition and keen eye, he was plain stupid in some regards. Such went his misplaced distrust of short-haired men, which meant it didn’t touch the chin. He was warier of outsiders than even her. In the case of Doll Face, Saye-Nochta must’ve gotten mixed up. The man was dribbling puke and seemed as threatening as a newborn calf.

“I think it’s already gone if he accosted this guy.” If anything, she expected that he would take a beating instead of giving one.

“If you think so,” he began, voice strained and wary, “then I’ll trust it. Your word is law, Makka, but we’re putting him in the storage room and I’m waiting with you ‘til he wakes.”

Makka clicked her tongue. First, she hadn’t made the trip with Pa, and next, she was condemned to playing doctor when she’d been promised an interrogation. At this point, she was fixing to wail on him, unleashing months of fury. Only the stranger kept her from lashing; she wouldn’t have entrusted anyone with Zhenviny, much less, the ailing newcomer. Since she couldn’t justify the surge of protectiveness, it remained undisclosed.

“People gotta stop doing things without asking me,” she mumbled as if Doll Face vindictively chose to fall ill.

With everything about the encounter bogging her down, Makka weighed her options. To allow him to stay, or not? To allow him to get closer to her, then High Noon by proxy? Maybe, if she played her cards right, she could—

Sighing, she shook her head. Gathering the stranger’s belongings, she followed Zhenviny into the storage room. No, she wouldn’t seek anything from Doll Face just yet. If an opportunity arose, if he mentioned anything noteworthy or pertaining to business, she would seek it. Otherwise, she would strive to feign disinterest.

Scheming wasn’t part of a proper lifestyle, anyway, and Makka still needed to sort things out with the Wheeleri and Khyivchuk’s Tergi Bazhnik. A bird of passage no longer, these were far better things to concern herself with.

[hartshorn-and-isinglass]

UNHALLOWED GROUND

(CHAPTER 1: Bring Me to Life)

CHAPTER 2: I Don't Drink... Wine

Whoops my hand slipped and I wrote more vampire fic. I will apologize but I also won't stop writing. Sorry.

Word Count: 1.4k Content Warnings: alcohol mention.

(Really Marve, are we doing this again?)

What a strange night this has been thus far. But my discomfit is easily soothed by the prospect of more good music. I sit down on the edge of the tomb next to his case, eager to hear him play again.

With a sharp inhale he puts bow to string. Bold sweeping strokes evoke the sound of trumpets, serious and regal, like a grand procession. I’m surprised; I assumed this would be something light and sweet when I asked for a piece that was dear to him. Instead, this feels rather fantastic, like tales of old–full of knights and their ladies, or maybe even strange creatures. I suppose tonight he is something of a knight-errant himself, testing his mettle against a strange creature like me. 

The procession gives way to some courtly dance, but only briefly before the melody lapses into weeping and sighs, then grim determination at the call of the trumpets once again. I’m struck by how dark a tune this is to keep close to one’s heart. And as the thought crosses my mind, his eyes meet mine for the briefest moment, blazing with a startling fire, before he dives into the last somber, ringing notes of the piece. 

At last I can applaud him, for it is well-deserved. “Truly, you should be playing in Paris, not in this silly half-forgotten backwater of a town.”

Monsieur Chagnon bows graciously, and grins. “I have played in Paris before, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh, how glamorous! But why on earth would you ever forsake the big city for this wild place?”

“That… is a long story, Mademoiselle.” For the briefest moment a shadow seems to cross his face, though it is quickly replaced with a wry smile. “But wherever Frenchmen go, there will be a need for wine and good music–thus even the farthest corners of the empire require musicians. I have found my home here, where I am needed. Alas, I cannot do anything to remedy the short supply of good wine.” 

“Indeed. I can’t recall any of the wine ever having been decent. Although, after all these years, my memory of the taste of wine is no longer reliable.”

He frowns. “Is that so? Does one forget the pleasures of life when one crosses over to the realm of the dead?”

“I may not be the person to ask about such things, since I am not truly dead. Or I am and I am not; my current state of being was never meant to be at all, it seems. But whatever the case may be–no, I have not entirely forgotten what it was like to be mortal… though sometimes it seems as if those memories belong to someone else. No caliber of wine would suit me now, for my tastes… have changed.”

“And the dead–or the un-dead, rather–they do not eat or drink?”

I hesitate. “Not as the living do.” 

“Yet there must be some manner by which you obtain the vital power that allows you to speak and move,” he says with sudden animation. “You confound the entire field of natural philosophy, Mademoiselle. For you are no mere figment of the infected imagination; nor the spirit of one who is deceased; nor a corpse that moves but has no ability to reason. You are soul and body resurrected–a Lazarus of a kind–though presumably not resurrected by our Lord but by some natural process we do not yet understand. What would Dom Augustin Calmet have made of you, I wonder!”

I raise an eyebrow. “Certainly, if God had anything to do with my current predicament He did not see fit to show His face. But do tell me, how does a fiddler like you come by such an interest in natural philosophy?”

“Ah! The nature of life itself and the possibility of un-life were constant topics of conversation in the salons and coffehouses of Paris. Can you believe it? My companions there were a rather morbid bunch.” He laughs as he sits down next to me. “Personally, I had always been inclined to doubt. But-” he says, leaning in a little, “-here you are, in the flesh. At last, I cannot refute the evidence before me, not when I can see it with my own eyes-” here he clasps my hand again, “-and touch it, as well.”

The soft warmth of his hand envelops mine once more. The hairs on my arm stand at attention as the heat travels up and into me, and I reflexively gasp again as the chambers of my heart fill with warmed blood. I feel that deep ache of longing in the pit of my stomach, though this time it is also accompanied by a more familiar need that pushes up against my eye teeth and turns my breath ragged. My head swims a little with the pleasure of it all, the sweet pangs of anticipation-

Monsieur Chagnon watches me keenly. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “You mentioned stealing warmth from the living. Is that what you do with the men who come here?”

“Among other things...”

A poor choice of words. My mouth longs to be latched onto his flesh; there is less room for other thoughts in my mind as I am carried along on the tide of my own hunger. Yet there is some part of me that is made uneasy by his calm demeanor. 

“What else do you take from them?”

The uneasiness grows. “Why must you press me on this matter? You have heard all of the stories.”

“Indeed, I have. And of the seven who have come here before me, five of them have trouble recalling the exact sequence of events that transpired before they found themselves stumbling back out the gate, terrified and confused. What is it that you have done to them?”

“Do not ask me this.” I withdraw my hand from his. “I have been careful to minimize my harm to these men, to take only what I need to survive.”

His voice grows yet more quiet. “But do you harm them?”

I nearly hiss at him before I catch myself. I can see him staring at my eye teeth with that calculating stare again, the same one he gave me when he first took my hand. 

He is asking too many questions–questions which I cannot answer if I wish to let him live. I do not like any of this. I must have Monsieur Bouchard continue to believe I am some garden-variety ghost who will merely give his victims a good scare, nothing more. If any man were to know-

“I have a theory, Mademoiselle. I wonder if you would like to hear it.”

I would not, actually. 

“Go on.”

“There are legends of the restless dead from all times and places; I have read a great many of them. Most of them are stories of spirits, incorporeal beings who do not have the same material needs as the living. However, the revenant who comes back in body, not merely in spirit, is an entirely different creature, for he must abide by the laws that govern matter. And living matter can only function if it feeds itself, no?” 

Monsieur Chagnon pauses for a moment to observe my reaction. I desperately try not to give him one, but I have the feeling that I have already failed.

He continues. “There are reports from the lands of Hungary and Bohemia about a kind of revenant corpse that appears to consume the essence of life itself directly from the living. Have you heard any such stories before, Mademoiselle? It is said that a man who returns from the dead there will attack his relatives and neighbors by strangling or suffocating them–stealing their breath–or piercing their throat and drinking their blood. Victims of such attacks will then fall ill, and often die-”

“Enough! I have heard enough.” I get up to leave.

“But am I wrong, Mademoiselle?”

“I have not killed any of the men sent here by Bouchard-”

“So you have never killed anyone?”

“You must stop asking me questions!”

"May I not know the least bit more about this game that I have been asked to play?"

"No. No more questions!"

“Or else… what?” There is that cold look once again. 

“Or else you doom us both. Good night, Monsieur Chagnon.” I retreat to the mausoleum.

He rises after me, but I am too quick for him to catch. I shut the door in his face.

(To Be Continued... Unfortunately.)

[house-vulort]

A Brother’s Return

Tw: violence

The Firmament was bustling as always, adventurers and skybuilders ran to and from building sites, completing tasks and collecting materials. Gaël smiled, it warmed his heart to watch. The Dragonsong War was over, Ishgard had entered a new age. The damage of the war left deep scars in both parties, some groups resisted the peace between Ishgard and the Dravanians, a lot still clung to the “old ways”. It was to be expected, peace was slow after all. However, the rebuilding efforts made his heart sing. It was nice to relax for once, though his Wolve’s did make the occasional strike, to keep the peace from the shadows, as always. The Wolve’s Den had gone silent once Ishgard entered the Eorzean Alliance, those that followed Gael, or Lycan, for a few short years, had gone their ways.

He watched through his red glasses as children ran past, playing a game of tag, their laughter was like music to him. Oh, how he wanted to join them, but work came first. He adjusted his grip on the crate of materials and made his way to his destination.

“Ah, Lord Gaël! Do I take this as another delivery from your shop?” Asked the stall attendant.

“Aye! As promised, all extra supplies go to rebuilding efforts! Leathers, wool, animal pelts and cotton all reliably sourced too, even some exports from the Black Shroud!”

“We happily accept your donations, my lord. Will you be taking some time to join in some of the activities as well?”

Before Gaël had the chance to speak, a loud crash hit the counter. Two MASSIVE crates full of ingots and wood landed on the counter beside Gaël and the attendant, making the pair flinch. The crates’ owner, drenched in sweat, wiping his brow, winced as his single good eye went from person to person.

“S-sorry, I lost my grip on them at the last moment. I didn't mean to interrupt!” The man was a tall, burly, red-haired Elezen with a gold eye. The other eye was covered under an eyepatch, and most likely damaged or missing. His face was grizzled, covered in scars and facial hair. Strange, he reminded Gaël of someone from a very long time ago.

“Don’t worry about it… I was on my way anyway.”

“Again, sorry about that Ser.” The Red-haired man said, rubbing the back of his neck. Gaël stared at the man as he traded his goods to the attendant and made his way to the new construction site, as Gaël followed behind. He reminded him of someone, but couldn’t put his finger on it.

The two worked together running supplies and using them to build up frames of a few new homes with the other groups of adventurers.

“Why is a noble helping with building? I mean, Lord Farcel is overseeing the entire thing as well as the Count Durendaire, but why a Baron like you?”

“These people deserve a home to rest, like everyone else, why do you ask?” The man shrugged. “So, what brings you here, adventurer?”

“New sights I guess, I’m a mercenary by trade, before this I was helping the Grand Companies liberate Ala Mhigo. With the stalemate still ongoing, I thought it best to seek work elsewhere. Plus, I know I’m from this city, it feels so… familiar to me. Ah! Where are my manners? My name is Ivent Travanchet, and May I ask yours?”

“Gaël. Gaël Vulort.”

The man furrowed his brow and ran a hand through his beard.

“Vulort… That name sounds… very familiar…”

“You lost your memory?”

“Aye, over twenty years ago. Think I was a dragoon or something like that. My squad got surrounded by dragons, I ended up on the back of one and it took off. Long story short, misfortune struck and I fell. Woke up badly injured in the care of the person who saved my life, and without a memory, even my own name.” Ivent frowned, rubbing the palm of his hand. “My rescuer tried to help me get my memories back, but… we just kept hitting dead ends. The only piece I had left was the remaining parts of my armor, and it’s now among the rubble under the fragments of Dalamaud. Recovering it is a suicide mission.”

Gaël listened to the man speak, he began to recall the story of his brother’s passing. His squad ended up in a trap by the dragons as planned by Spider, all because Sylvain got too close to taking him back. No body was recovered, only a helmet and his lance. The search party was taken into the North Shroud, and parts of Dravania, but he was gone and given a knight’s send off to Halone’s Halls.

“…Was your new life happy?”

“Oh yes, it was…” Ivent smiled warmly. “I later married the woman who saved me, and we had a daughter, who took after her mother in almost every aspect. Our life was quiet, we tended to the life of the Shroud… Until the Calamity. I lost my wife and became separated from my daughter. I haven’t seen her since, and finding her these past few years has been one of my goals and reasons for traveling. Having a family is something I’ve always wanted, I know that much even with little memory or who I was.”

Memory… A memory began to call out to Gaël.

~~~~

“Hey Sylv?” A much younger Gaël asked his brother.

“Yeah?” Came the response of his older, red haired brother. He had just come back from a day of training and still wore his armor as the two played in the streets. They laid against the grass in the back of their estate, watching clouds and the stone spires that pierced them.

“If this war didn’t exist, what would you do?”

“Find someone I like and start a family I guess, while taking care of our father's shop.”

“That’s boring! Think of something else!”

“It’s true! As I get older, I do want to start looking for someone I can be happy with. Besides, I’ve… always wanted to have a family. Or just caring for someone like that.”

“I don’t like that! When I’m older I wanna travel the world and see what’s out there!”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound too bad, but you should look out.”

“Huh? Why?” The young child asked his brother with a tilt of his head. Sylvain quickly grabbed Gael, pulling him close to him and rubbing his knuckles against his head.

“Who’ll keep you safe from the knuckle monster!?” Sylvain laughed and Gael yelped out and laughed.

“Hey! Mister Gael, you alright there!?” Ivent called him back to reality.

“O-oh… Sorry… I must have spaced out. You just… really remind me of my late older brother.” It was odd, the man before him acted almost exactly like the brother he knew.

“Really now? Who knows? Maybe I could be him!” He joked with a laugh. Even that laugh of his, despite him being older, sounded exactly the same. Gaël let out a soft nervous laugh as they returned back to work. It only drove Gaël more up the wall as the man hummed Coerthian folk tunes he swore he never heard before, something his brother would sing often after training.

Why are you going off a hunch? This could be another person?

What if this is him? It’s almost EXACTLY like him.

Fine, fine, how will you jog his memory?

He… had mother’s handkerchief, and I still have his broken lance and helmet Father was given. Maybe showing them to him will jog it?

A few days had passed, it was now late evening, Gaël sat in the estate enjoying a cup of tea as he went over some paperwork. From his window he’d watch the passerby’s go about their day, but that man, Ivent, would frequently walk by almost hourly after work in the Firmament concluded.

“Are you alright?” Gaël asked him from the doorway.

“This place… it feels familiar. Like…” Ivent paused for a moment trying to figure something out.

“Why don’t you come inside and get out of the cold?” Gaël motioned for him to come inside. Ivent looked around and slowly came inside. His good eye widened as he looked around the entryway.

“I… feel I’ve been here before… a long time ago…”

“Oh? I didn’t really get time to add my own flairs after my father passed, it’s kinda been the same since I was a child, well, minus a few rooms.” Ivent quickened his pace as he went into a seating area. His eyes locked on a shrine, Sylvain’s shrine… his shrine, containing the broken helmet and lance, with a small painting of his. Something the former lord commissioned.

“That’s… my helmet… and lance.” He winced out in pain holding his head. Gaël quickly grabbed a hold of his arm and guided him to a nearby chair.

“Take it easy, don’t force yourself.” Gaël quietly told him. He sat beside him, in case he needed someone. Not all of those memories would be happy ones.

“I’m… starting to remember so many things… I had… a massive fight with my father after he sold you. I was… outraged… things were thrown… I left for the Brume and became a dragoon instead of the temple knight he wanted me to be… I spent every day looking for you… I got close so many times… I was… making that man nervous, he threatened me so many times, had members of the Brume chase me away from wherever he was keeping you. Then… My last mission happened… it happened so fast… I’m sorry I wasn’t here to keep you safe…”

“No, no! Don’t apologize! We’re… alive aren’t we, Sylv- Ivent?” Ivent rested his head on Gaël’s shoulder.

“That… will take some time… My name I mean, both suit me, but I don’t want to lose the name she gave me…”

“You don’t have to go back, maybe you can keep both of them? Like Sylvain Ivent Vulort? No, that doesn’t sound good…”

“It’s fine… I don’t mind what I am called, both feel right.”

The next couple of weeks were the happiest Gaël has felt in a long time. He enjoyed every moment he spent with his brother, the meals they cooked together, the stories they shared, it was perfect, he couldn’t ask for anything better. He learned a lot from his brother again, he started a family with the woman who rescued him and together they had a daughter, who he is still looking for after being separated from the Calamity. It was all going fine until one night.

After closing the tailor shop for the night, Sylvain came into the Gaël’s office while he was organizing customer details, and slammed a stack of letters on his desk.

“Can you explain these?” He growled. Gaël blinked at him as he went through the papers, letters from his former subordinates about cleaning the filth out of the city. Some of the death notes of targets.

“Where did you find these? I had these hidden away for a reason.”

“Oh, so you know what they are then? What the seven hells are you doing with execution orders!?”

“You seem to forget I was trained to be a killer. Sadly old habits didn’t die after I escaped Spider’s web. But yes, I ordered these and acted on them.”

“You murdered people!? Why would you do that!?”

“Why? You are asking me why? Those… those animals did nothing but bring suffering to the lowborn. I grew tired of watching it! Before you say it, yes, I tried to report it all but I only got brushed aside. If there was going to be real change, sadly drastic measures had to be taken. Am I proud of it? Hells no, but it had to be done.”

“So, you sought no other options but to murder these people?”

“I already told you, I tried putting myself in the crossfire personally, even tried using my status as a Baron, as much as I detest doing that, and nothing was done, I’ve done less if you did read those files and still there wasn’t much change. Corruption still ran rampant, I had to get my hands bloodied in some cases.” Gaël said as he stood up and went around his desk, reading off some of the documents placed before him.

“You… say you wanted change but all you did was create an endless circle of strife. How is that better compared to what Spider did?”

“Do not compare me to that demon.” Gaël hissed.

“Look at what you have done! What makes you think after all you have done even in his care, you are better than him!?”

Gaël immediately saw red, he lunged at his brother, striking him square in the face. Sylvain stumbled back, covering his nose, blood coating his hands. Gaël watched as Sylvain’s aether flicked to life, but something about it seemed… wrong. He didn’t have enough time to react to Sylvain lunging at him like a wild beast, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him to the ground. A struggle ensued as the two fought for control. Sylvain held Gaël down as he repeatedly swung at Gael’s face, staining his fists red. Gaël struck his brother in the crotch, giving him enough time to throw Sylvain off him. His instincts told him to run, but he couldn’t make it far as his vision blurred to black. He saw his brother turning back to him, before stopping.

“…What… what am I doing…?”

Gaël awoke in a Chirurgeon’s office a few days later with half of his face bandaged, and severe bruising on his neck. Their fight had broken his left orbital wall, parts of his jaw and nose, along with a concussion. Eating and drinking were PAINFUL to do on his own, he hated having to rely on feeding tubes and straws until things healed more. It reminded him of his time recovering from his injuries while in the labyrinth and how much he hated hospitals because of it. Chirurgeons were tending him every several hours, tending to his wounds. A few weeks of this and he should be fine. One day he awoke to a Duskwright woman placing herb based ointment on his healing injuries.

“What the hells are you doing!?”

“It’s an herbal salve I made! It should help with your healing process, and make you smell a lot nicer!” She had dark gray skin, with her face dotted with light freckles, white hair that draped over her shoulders into small “drills” and a long braid in the back. Gaël sank further into his pillow as she got closer to his face.

“Aris, stop. You are making him uncomfortable.” A voice came from the other side of the room. Sylvain leaned up against the wall by the door, his arm was in a cast along with bandages across his nose. Seeing him made his blood run cold.

“Oh… right. Sorry, uncle!” The woman, Aris, stood back up and trotted over to Sylvain’s side. Gaël stared back to the two visibly confused.

“Right, introductions! Gaël, this is Aris, my daughter. She’s been tracking an aether trail when I bumped into her in the markets the other day. Turns out, she’s been studying to be a medic and herbalist in Sharlayan! Aris, this is your uncle, Gaël. He’s the head of my side of the family and owner of the family tailor shop, and has been working closely with the Firmament in rebuilding efforts.”

“Nice to meet you! But… uh… who did this to you? Or the both of you?”

Both brothers turned their gaze away from her. She looked between the two and sighed. “Oh… I see… I uh… should probably let you two talk if… uh… you want to…” then quickly left the room. The air became heavy as silence and muffled footsteps and chatter from beyond the door claimed the room.

“L-look,” Sylvain finally started after several minutes. “I said some really horrible things to you in the moment I really should not have said. You have every right to be upset with me, I’m sorry Gaël. You don’t have to accept my apology if you don’t want to.”

“We hurt each other…”

“I… can’t argue with that… How about this” Sylvain took a step closer, causing Gael’s posture to shift into an almost defensive position, causing him to stop. “…No… too soon, I’ll give you your space while you heal, we both need some space, but when you're healed up, why don’t we do something nice? We could visit the Twelveswood or the borders of it, if you want…”

“…That… that sounds nice….” Gaël choked out, as he pulled his knees closer to his chest.

“Then it’s settled! Sylvain said with a bright smile, “I’ll leave you to rest now, and again, I’m sorry.”

A week later, the three of them, Aris, Gaël and Sylvain took their chocobos out to venture to the Twelveswood. Everything was going fine until they got to the Coerthas border into The Black Shroud, it was like Gael’s body refused to press on.

You are abandoning them! Don’t go! They need us!

“Gaël? What is it?”

“I… I can’t go. I’m sorry.”

Sylvain furrowed his brow. “Why not? What is stopping you?”

Don’t go! Don’t leave them to die!

“I… I can’t go… I can’t go…”

“Why can’t you? Help us understand, Gaël.”

Gaël ran his fingers through his hair, he could feel his heart starting to race.

“Just take a-“

“He isn’t ready yet, and that’s okay! It’ll take time! It might be best if we return to Ishgard for… all of our sakes…” Aris pipped up, turning her white chocobo around. Sylvain let out an annoyed grunt as he mounted his own steed to turn back. The ride back was quiet, Gaël noticed Sylvain frequently pressed a hand to his chest, as lightning based aether surged through his body, something he frequently said was normal due to his past injuries. However, upon watching Aris’ gaze switch between the two, something told him there was more going on.

Upon their return to the estate, a group of Temple Knights awaited them, leaning up against the main stairway into the estate. The captain stood and approached them.

“Baron Gaël Vulort, you are under arrest for crimes against the Holy See.”

“T-there must be a mistake!” Aris cried out. “He’s been with us for the past several days, not counting his recovery in a medic’s ward!”

“No, milady,” The captain shook his head. “These crimes ranged from before the end of the Dragonsong War’s end to a few short months ago. By law, all heretics must still be given fair trial.”

Gaël froze up, eyes wide and focused on the captain and his squad slowly surrounding him. “Under what evidence do you claim I have committed such crimes!?”

The Captain presented a document at Gael’s nose. “Do you recognize this, my lord? This was given to us by an anonymous source.” It was the exact same document Sylvain slammed on his desk a few weeks prior. Gael’s face went white in horror then a beet red as he turned to his brother. He couldn’t even meet his eyes.

“You sold me out!? Why!? Why the fuck would you do that!?”

“You committed murder among several other crimes! Do you really think I’d turn a blind eye? It doesn’t matter if it happened years or months ago! It doesn’t matter if they were innocent-“

“THEY WERE NOT FUCKING INNOCENT PEOPLE! No! Those DEMONS were far from that! They terrorized INNOCENT people, and when those people came to them, they were brushed aside as if it didn’t matter only for the abuse to get worse! I know their pain! I know EXACTLY what it feels like to try and testify against a higher power and to be brushed aside only to be called a lunatic and threatened! I didn’t want to kill them! Do you think I didn’t try to avoid it!? I was tired of living that life already, but that never left me.”

The knights closed in closer on him, Gaël took a few steps back.

“Please sir, don’t make this difficult for any of us. We don’t want to hurt you.”

“Like hells you would, I’m just another monster to you…” He took another several steps back, weapons were now drawn.

“Don’t you fucking DARE run from this, you beast!” Sylvain spat out. That same corrupted aether sparked to life again, turning his good eye a bright red for a second. Aris noticed and looked at the pair horrified. This wasn’t Sylvain anymore… whatever was corrupting him was taking over, and it would grow worse if he fled from his arrest.

Gael tossed his weapons aside and raised his arms up in surrender, the captain stepped forward to cuff him and escort him to the Tribunal. He was made to shed his personalized garments to that of rags that marked prisoners. Memories of his last few days in the labyrinth came rushing in his head, chained up, blindfolded and unable to speak. At least, this time he was to be treated more humanely until his trial. He just didn’t know what to feel. Sorrow, hatred, relief, confusion, it all washed over him, leaving him feeling nothing and everything all at once. This time at least his cell was warmer than the depths. He sat in the corner curled in a ball, tears rushing down his face. He wanted to live, he had to. There was still so much he wanted to do. This place was going to be his home for the time being, until someone came to give his rights before they took him to trial or he requested trial by combat…

“I want to live…” he kept saying to himself until he fell asleep. It was going to be a long several days…

[hope-to-hell]

A Fairytale in Silver and Glass, part two: from a great height

—

Long ago, I was made intimately and violently aware of my shortcomings. Lineage, strength, power— all of these are meaningless without purpose. He sits at table and you sit with him, watching the way his silver ring catches at the light. He does not eat but only speaks; he never seems to eat, although a drink is often in his hand. He sits and speaks and though his eyes are on you, his mind seems far away. The sun was brighter then, and the nights darker. I saw struggle and compassion, and I did not understand them, until suddenly I did.

Is this a lesson or a reminiscence? Does it matter? He’s rarely spoken of himself before; he makes himself known in the way his steps shorten as you walk first behind and then beside him, and in the way the empty halls echo at night.

(Chained to his bed? Why? What would he—

Tch. You know why. Think about it: a man like that, living all alone.)

There is alone and there is lonely, and it’s never clear which one he is. He gives so little away that every crumb of him feels like a treasure, something to be turned over in your hands again and again til the warmth of your skin seeps through. He leaves, returns, and leaves again. In between he sits and broods and if you cross his path he’ll make the slightest motion to draw you to his side. Yet he never touches you beyond the barest brush of his hand. He never speaks above an even tone, never snaps or snarls or pins you to the wall.

Do you wish he would?

It’s easy enough to imagine, as hours become days become weeks; the very shadows seem to pulse and writhe when you lie abed at night, breathing high and shallow while you wait for something to happen, for his composure to crack and reveal him as a beast.

But he holds himself so steady and so still, his voice level with the care of long practice. He breathes and barely seems to stir the motes of dust that hang in the air. He is neither statue nor saint; there are stories about him and his fall from grace, how violently he tore himself from the low places, how cruel he was to those who blocked his path. Here, though, his manners are impeccable. He doesn’t pause outside your door at night, no matter how often you think you hear him. He doesn’t let his hand linger when he guides you into your chair, and he certainly doesn’t stroke his finger over your clavicle with a look that could cut through stone.

Such a pity.

The first time you bring yourself off to the thought of him it is a surprise, a shock even; thoughtless motion gives way to the image of bright eyes that seem to hang in darkness before the shadows coalesce into his image. What would he say in the moment? As the blood pounds in your ears it carries whispers in a cool, commanding voice. Deeper, dearest. Faster. Show me how you like it, and with your next stifled gasp he changes, growing crueler as shadows writhe about his shoulders. Hold yourself open, let me see you properly. Make this worth my time. But none of it is quite enough until that thought appears: he could open the door and see you, hear you; he could stand unmoving in the doorway and show his sharp white teeth. His name remains half-spoken and heavy on your tongue; when the fire of orgasm settles down to embers, his image is gone and just the thought remains.

(I’ll light a candle for you.

I’m not dead yet. He could be kind.)

[clarklovescarole]

March 1936: Quiet Romance

March 4, 1936 – The Alexandria Times Tribune

[I]t has been printed here and other places that Carole Lombard has been going out with Clark Gable since her break with Bob Riskin. But it can’t be an official romance, even supposing they want it to be, because Clark isn’t free yet. Anyway, Carole went to the Santa Anita ball at the Ambassador with J. Waiter Rubin, the director.

March 10, 1936 – The St. Louis Dispatch

Once again motion picture producers are frowning on marriage for young actor and actress employees. The studio higher-ups have the notion that matrimony plays havoc with the popularity of romantic players. … Clark Gable’s bosses have subtly suggested that eligibility is a fine thing for his box office popularity. 

— Carole Lombard was chatting about her secret new boyfriend yesterday. That in itself would indicate that her Robert Riskin romance is dead or dying.

“If he sees me with another man, he bawls me out something fierce,” Carole gushed. She can gush, you know, despite her reputation for utter sophistication. “Then he tells me where to go – an awful place.” 

“And what do you do in return?” someone asked.

“Oh, I just laugh in his face,” candidly admitted Miss Lombard. 

March 9, 1936 – The Los Angeles Times

On the romantic side of the current ledger we find such couples as Isabel Jewell and Henry Wilcoxon, Fred MacMurray and Lillian Lamont, Merle Oberon and David Niven (the latter two couples already having announced engagements), Gertrude Michael and Rouben Mamoulian, Carole Lombard and Robert Riskin and once or twice lately Miss Lombard out with Clark Gable, Madge Evans and Tom Gallery, Jeanette MacDonald and Bob Ritchie, and June Gale and Hoot Gibson.

March 13, 1936 – The New Era

Speaking of Carole Lombard, the latest Hollywood rumor ties her up with Clark Gable. Only natural, I guess, after the clowning they have been doing together. I asked Carole about it recently. “Listen,” she said, “I’m too tired. I’m in no mood to tie up with anybody. I’ve just been through one of those things and I want to play the field for a while. It’s more fun.”

March 16, 1936: Two Hollywood Hostesses

[Excerpt from longer article listing other examples]

… Carole Lombard is another Hollywood hostess who varies her parties from huge gatherings, that are as liable to be held at the beach as at one of the smart hotels, to a congenial group who dine at home with her and spend the evening in good conversation.

Tops for all Hollywood hostesses, both for her charm and graciousness, is Mrs. Rhea Gable, formerly married to Clark Gable. Her select dinner parties are the smartest gatherings that Hollywood knows. And let me add that the local boys and girls mind their conversation, their manners and their gossip in Mrs. Gable’s home. If they don’t, they are mysteriously dropped from her guest list. The result is that she is one of the cinema crowd’s most popular women, and deservedly so.

March 19, 1936 – The Daily Clintonian

Just saw Clark Gable’s Valentine Ford and what a transformation! When Carole Lombard gave it to him, it was a pile of junk. To get the last laugh on her, he sent it to a garage to be rebuilt and then he drove the rejuvenated flivver out to the studio to show it to his fellow workers at MGM. It has a new coat of white paint, chromium cowl sides, extra-size wheels, all sorts of fancy gadgets and a motor stepped up so much that the old 1928 model now fairly flies.

March 20, 1936 – The Honolulu Advertiser

Carole Lombard, of the magic lanterns, has been itemed as C. Gable’s new shadow – but the big rush is really Director Clarence Brown’s beautiful Girl Friday, Marian Spies….

March 26, 1936 – The Deming Headlight

ROMANCE, ROMANCE: Red camellias for Carole Lombard. There’s a romance there, but Hollywood has been unable to learn the name of the man. Each morning during the past week the flowers have arrived on the set where she and Fred MacMurray are making “The Princess Comes Across.”

Some accuse the shy MacMurray. Others speak the name of Clark Gable with rumors have linked the blonde Carole of late. But Carole herself, she just smiles, admitting cautiously that she has found new interest in life and that he is a well-known actor. Apparently she shares the secret with the red camellias only.

If you remember right, this is Miss Lombard’s first popular romance since the death of Russ Colombo, the singer. Your correspondent would like to bet a new hat that these flowers are from Clark Gable. 

March 29, 1936 – Detroit Free Press

Hollywood would try to make you believe that there is a romance between Clark Gable and Carole Lombard. Since his divorce from Rea Gable, Clark has expressed himself as believing in safety in numbers. Some think he would rather go fishing and hunting than spend an evening with the most glamorous of all the glamour girls. 

Hollywood would try to make you believe that there is a romance between Clark Gable and Carole Lombard. Since his divorce from Rea Gable, Clark has expressed himself as believing in safety in numbers. Some think he would rather go fishing and hunting than spend an evening with the most glamorous of all the glamour girls.