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zuzuxtara · 4 years ago

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Promises - II. Night

Chapter 2/ ? Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender word count: +2.6k Pairing: Zutara Characters: Katara, Zuko, steambabies :D

read on ao3 (with notes)/ ff.net or keep reading ♡

if you haven’t read Chapter I yet, read here: ao3 (with notes)/ ff.net or stay on tumblr

Night

Katara listened to the soft snoring of her husband and daughter, who’d both come down with a light cold the moment their ship had left Fire Nation waters.

The gentle waves that rocked their vessel usually lulled her to sleep easily, but tonight the moon stood full and high, inviting the Waterbender to come and play with the wide ocean around her. Katara tried to ignore the seductive pull of her element, though– it was late, and they would reach port early in the morning.

Frustrated by her own restlessness, she turned– only to be greeted by huge blue eyes that were staring right back at her. It seemed she wasn’t the only one the moon called upon tonight. Smiling at her youngest, Katara raised her arm and the boy snuggled closer to his mother. She buried her nose in his dark curls.

While Kya tended to smell of singed hair and mischievous adventure, little Iroh's sweet baby scent had just begun to fade.

After placing a kiss on his temple Katara whispered, “Can’t you sleep, little penguin?”

“No, Mami,” he tried to whisper in return, but his high voice echoed through their cabin nonetheless.

She glanced over her son’s head. Zuko shifted a little, but he and Kya were still sleeping as soundly as their stuffy noses permitted.

Katara felt the boy looking up at her and brought a finger to her lips.

If neither of them could sleep, they could as well enjoy the full moon night. Slowly, she pushed their blankets aside and, like thieves, they stole out of bed.

In half-darkness, they put on their matching parkas and went up on deck hand in hand. Illuminated by the moon, Katara took in the icy night air of her childhood home. In only a few hours they would be reunited with their friends and family, her very first home.

Iroh hadn’t yet been able to walk when they’d last visited the South together, and by now he was already old enough to play in the endless snow; just like she’d done with her brother so many years ago.

Katara’s excitement grew.

Where Kya’s face was a well-rounded mix of her parents, Iroh looked Southern Water Tribe through and through.

She loved both her children unconditionally– to the moon and the sun; but being able to bring her little Water Tribe boy home to the people who’d raised her, filled Katara with pride.

Iroh tugged at her gloved hand.

“Mami, look, the moon is sooo shiny!”

“My, you’re right,” chuckling, she kneeled to fix his hood. “Is that why you couldn’t sleep, Iroh?”

Katara had been observing him lately. With Kya, they’d known from the moment of her birth that she would be a bender. She’d been born with fire in her eyes; and over the years, she’d in fact proven to be as bright and unstoppable as the flames she could command.

Little Iroh took his time, though. He’d already passed the age in which the first signs of bending– any bending at that– usually occurred. She and Zuko weren’t particularly worried about it; if he couldn’t bend at all, they would be more than fine with it.

It was just that Katara had an impatient trust in the dream – or vision?– she’d had the night of Iroh’s birth.

Zuko would never call her foolish– she knew that; but he definitely didn’t believe in superstition. She also didn’t want him to think that she was envious of him and Kya sharing an element– because it wasn’t true. Some things were just best kept between her and the spirits.

So Katara had never told him.

The day before Iroh’s birth had been sweltering hot and her first contractions had gotten her by surprise; at that time, she’d had yet another couple of weeks to go. Assuming a false alarm, Katara had heeded Zuko’s suggestion and had gone to rest in their bed. Sleep had claimed her instantly, as had the dream.

She dreams of the moon.

It is not the same one she has come to know in the short Fire Nation nights, but the seemingly never setting moon of her childhood. Since it is a dream, she recognises this serene moon to be Yue; although she doesn’t appear to her like on the day Katara has seen her body become spirit.

In her dream, Yue does not have any shape. Instead, she is the moonshine and the stars that mirror the endless ocean on which Katara finds herself floating. Yue is the water herself, and the sky; maybe Katara isn’t even floating on water but moonshine? A profound peace settles in her bones, and her tears mix with this magical place. There’s a heartbeat echoing her own inside of her; the waves she’s so magnificently drowning in pull her down in tune to the sweet melody. But breath comes easiest to Katara in the depths of the ocean. Her lungs and her heart expand and double, burst on the dark ocean floor. And then she– the last Waterbender born to the original Southern Water Tribe – knows she is no longer alone.

After Katara had been woken by Zuko, they had discovered that her water had broken. Only a few hours later, their little prince had been born– a little early, but completely healthy.

To this day, he wore the shapes and colours of his mother’s childhood home and carried the name of the man his father cherished most.

Instead of answering, Iroh looked up at the sky.

Searching his face, Katara asked again, “Can’t you sleep because of the moon? Do you–”

“It’s it true that there is a woman on the moon, Mami?”

The question made her heart skip a beat. Could it be…?

Following his intense gaze, she could only whisper, “Why do you ask, Iroh?”

The silence felt endless, before he finally said, “Yaya said so.”

Suddenly feeling awfully silly, Katara gathered the boy into her arms.

Maybe she did pressure herself too much into having a waterbending child.

Maybe she did have too much pride as a Master Waterbender herself.

Maybe she did give one pregnancy-induced fever dream way too much weight.

But it would have to stop– immediately. If Iroh came to any harm because of her own arrogant desires, she would never be able to forgive herself. Katara wouldn’t let it happen.

She withdrew from the embrace and nodded solemnly, “Well, Kya is right. There is a girl on the moon.”

Iroh beamed at his mother, “I knew it!”

Laughing at his excitement, Katara rose some water from the ocean and coated a fraction of the deck in ice.

Iroh, knowing what would come next, tugged eagerly at her sleeve. Together, they stepped on the ice and began to turn in slow pirouettes under the bright moonlight.

“Her name is Yue. She is very brave and beautiful,” she held Iroh by one hand, lest he would fall. “Did you know that your Uncle Sokka and Uncle Aang and I know her?”

The child’s eyes grew even bigger. “And Baba, too?”

Katara nodded again. He didn’t yet need to know the circumstances…

“Of course! Grandpa Iroh does, too.”

Giggling, he dared a small jump. “And Auntie Toph, Mami?”

Carefully stepping off the ice herself, Katara guided him along the deck.

“You know that Auntie Toph knows everybody and everything...”

There would be no proper sunrise, but time passed either way. The ship had increasingly come to life and it had been the captain herself, who’d brought them blankets to keep warm.

As not to bother anyone’s work, they had snuggled up in some wind-sheltered corner on deck. Sitting on Katara’s lap, Iroh rested his head against her shoulder. He followed the movements of her hands with his own, awestruck by how easily the water listened to his mother.

“Can I do that, too, Mami?”

“Maybe one day, penguin,” she kissed the top of his hooded head.

After a moment, she let the water fall away and pulled her son closer to her chest.

“You know Mami and Baba and Kya love you, even if you can’t bend, do you, Iroh?”

Katara knew he was too young to comprehend her worries, so it didn’t surprise her when he answered, “But I want to make ice, Mami. Just like you.”

“We’ll see, penguin.”

He sighed like someone ten times his tender age, continuing his apparent monologue, “Maybe I could ask the girl on the moon to help me do that.”

Despite everything, this made her laugh.

“What a clever idea, Iroh! But you have to ask nicely, promised?”

“Promised”, he nodded so hard, his hood came off. “Can I go now?”

There was no use in telling him no, as he was already untangling himself from the blankets and his mother’s arms. Feeling oddly calm, Katara watched him take off.

“Stay away from the railing and let the guards be, Iroh!”

He turned back smiling and waved at her.

It wasn’t long before the rest of her little family joined her on deck.

“Well, well. Look who’s rising with the sun now,” she teased when Zuko and Kya looked sleepily at her.

After hugging them, she wrapped her blankets around her daughter. The girl was always freezing cold, since she couldn’t quite control her inner heat yet. Katara tucked Kya's braid into her parka and let her run off in search of her little brother.

“There is no sun to rise with, Katara,” Zuko muttered, pulling her gently into his arms. He rested his chin on her head and tried to keep an eye on their children.

The moon stood as high in the sky as it had for days; Zuko knew it was normal for his wife to be that strongly affected by its presence, but he worried either way.

His voice was low against her ear, “Didn’t get much sleep, again?”

Katara shook her head, telling him that Iroh had been awake all night, too.

For a moment, she looked up at her husband and pressed a kiss against his jaw. Then, she rested her cheek against his warmed parka. “And the bed was too cramped, I’m afraid.”

Although she couldn’t see it, she knew that a corner of his mouth rose in amusement.

Zuko’s warm hand came to rest over her stomach.

“To think that it will be even more crowded on our trip back...”

They chuckled softly. It was too early to see with all the layers she wore in the cold, but the reason for their trip to the South Pole was warmly hidden away inside her.

“Oh, on the trip back, I’ll be tired for years, Zuko. I’ll be able to sleep anywhere.”

It was probably true. Besides a growing family, they’d brought a lot of work with them.

There were still post-war agreements to be upheld, healers to be trained and allies to be made. The world did not improve itself.

Knowing they had the same thought, they grimaced at each other.

“Let’s take it easy, yeah?”

She was just about to agree when Kya’s shriek pierced through the air.

“Ma, Ba! Look!”

A small gathering awaited them at the harbour. Whenever Katara came home, it had grown by yet another dock or lighthouse. Wasn’t the one to the West the improved outcome of the rudimentary plans she and Sokka had made years ago?

New and old faces looked up at the family exiting the ship. Over time, Katara’s little village had become a small town– a welcoming home to whoever dared bracing the cold.

Her eyes found her father next to Sokka in the crowd, but she looked away when she saw Hakoda’s face fall. Despite the biting cold, Katara hadn’t noticed new tears running down her cheeks.

“Grandpa,” Kya exclaimed the moment she saw him. “Look what Iroh can do!”

Before she could drag her brother away, Zuko laid an arm around Kya and gently pressed her against his side. He knew how important this would be for his wife.

“Let your Ma and Iroh go first...”

They fell a few steps behind and watched as Katara and Iroh made their way to Hakoda. Katara bowed her head respectfully to her father. Zuko had seen her do it only once before– on their wedding day; without looking up, she presented Hakoda their son.

Katara sunk to her knees to be at eye level with Iroh and asked him to show his grandfather what he could do.

The boy nodded happily and moved his hands more or less the same way he’d seen his mother do only a couple of hours ago.

Slowly, little drops of water rose from the ground and gathered around Iroh's gloved hands.

The shape was sloppy and burst after a few seconds– but he’d done it.

“He’s a Waterbender, Father.”

It was not like there were no Waterbenders in the Southern Water Tribe, but most of them and their parents had immigrated from far up North. They were good people, but they had not suffered as the South had, knew not what prices had been paid in order to survive.

To the South, a Waterbender was a blessing and Hakoda’s beloved daughter had brought them yet another one.

Hakoda stared down at Katara and his grandson.

It was Sokka who broke the heavy silence when he saw tears rise in his father's and sister's eyes.

“Amazing, buddy! You look just like your mama when she did her magic water tricks for the first time.”

Blinking rapidly himself, he picked his nephew up.

Even the people who’d gathered to welcome the Fire Nation ship turned and silently went away, paying their chief and his daughter some respect. They would have plenty of opportunities to greet Katara and her family later at the feast.

Iroh giggled when Sokka sat him on his shoulders since he was now as tall as his father, who’d come to stand next to them.

“Long day, I guess?”

Zuko nodded. “You bet, Sokka.”

He watched his brother-in-law look back at Katara and Hakoda, who stood a few feet away. Their heads were bowed as if they were in prayer.

“She fine?”

“Yes. Just overwhelmed,” Zuko pulled Iroh’s hood back over his small head, “We could already see the port when our little penguin here bend for the first time.”

It was Sokka’s turn to nod in serious acknowledgement; but when Kya told him that she’d seen Iroh do it first, his demeanour changed once again.

“My, that can’t be my niece Kya, can it? Last time I saw her she was this small!”

He held his hand ridiculously close to the ground, which made Kya cry out in protest.

“Liar! You were on my birthday, Uncle Sokka!”

“And it has been what, princess? Three months?”

“I can make ice, Uncle Sokka!”

“Are you sure? You’ll have to show me that again, bud.”

Zuko laughed but only half-listened to Sokka and the children.. He stole a glance at his wife, who was now in a tight embrace with her father.

From where he stood, Zuko could see that Hakoda whispered something against Katara’s forehead before kissing it.

The polar wind hadn’t carried all the words to Zuko– but it had sounded like they had been giving thanks to the spirits.

“Last one to get to Auntie Suki and Gran Gran is a wet blanket!”

He saw Katara smile up at her father then. Hakoda wiped away her tears and pointed at the ocean. Not wanting to intrude further, Zuko turned away.

It was just before he followed the excited screams of his children, that Zuko bowed his head in his own gratitude towards the moon.

#zutara #zutarafic #zutara fandom #steambabies #atla #katara #zuko #southern water tribe #e writes

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secret-engima · 5 years ago

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AU idea, lobbing it at u. The Ring of the Lucii doesn't take souls, just magic accumulated over a lifetime, & a copy of memories at the end. Nyx Ulric is Somnus reincarnated, & nobody had any clue, until he put the Ring on his /right/ hand & /remembers/. He ignore this revelation for a moment while he takes care of Glauca. Then. He just sits down in the burning rubble of Insomnia & /shakes/. Luna asks what's wrong, & he numbly tells her /everything/ he knows. Cue Roadtrip to F over the Prophecy.

Oh no.

Oh noooooooooooooooooo.

Buckle up it’s time for a ramble and a NEW GLORIOUS AU.

Nyx has always known something was off about him. And not in an arrogant or “I’m destined” way but an uncomfortable, achy way that had followed him all his life. A way that made him reach for something that was never there, like a phantom limb when he was not missing any. A way that made him constantly look to his sides and be surprised-hurt-regretful when they were empty save for Libertus (and he loves Lib, he DOES, but there is something in him that keens still, like Libertus is welcome, but not the one he was expecting or meant to see).

As terrible as the Burning was, Nyx finds that the day he becomes a Kingsglaive was the best day of his life. Because when Regis gave him magic, when magic flowed into his soul and breathed like the air before the storm, Nyx felt as close to whole as he’d ever been in his life. He took to magic like he had been born to it, could warp higher, faster, farther then any other glaive, could summon fire with barely a thought and skate across ice that formed under his shoes, could dance with lightning like he was a coeurl born rather than man.

The glaives laugh and call him Hero.

Libertus looks at his friend and sometimes, when he’s drunk, thinks of him as Twice Born. Because Libertus has known Nyx all his life, has known that Nyx is wounded in his soul and Missing something and that being gifted magic did more to heal it than anything else. Even if it didn’t fix it completely.

Nyx meets Princess and something in his soul screams. He is mourning Crowe, mourning Libertus’s abandonment resigning, his bones ACHE in a way he can’t name and then he sees her, hears her voice and something in him wants to cry.

Aera Aera my friend my brother’s heart and soul and light I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I will never let it happen again I will never let you suffer just please FORGIVE ME

“Sorry,” he whispers past the glass in his throat, “I’m on duty.”

“Then surely there is no safer place for me then right here,” she retorts and Nyx feels a smile pull through the pain in his soul.

This Oracle is different from Aera.

Maybe this one will survive.

But then everything falls apart, and betrayal is like a knife in his back he deserves this he knows what this feels like now oh brother oh Aera please please and they are running, they are fighting and the king is dead and his magic is GONE-GONE-GONE and it hurts but he can’t focus on that right now.

And then.

Captain.

Traitor.

T R A I T O R.

And Nyx- Nyx is angry, Nyx is desperate. He promised to see Princess to safety another Oracle will not die because of him he will not allow it and so he feels no fear as he yanks the Ring out of her hands and slides it onto his finger.

The finger of his right hand.

The same finger Regis had worn it on.

He hadn’t meant to put it on that finger, but some old instinct had slid it there.

The world freezes. Turns dark and blue.

“Welcome back, Kinslayer and Kingkiller.” Say the voices, everywhere and nowhere, a hundred of them at least or more.

He stills, and not just from the pain of his injuries, “What-? Who-?”

“Long have we awaited the return of your soul to fulfill your promise.”

“Rise, Somnus Lucis Caelum from the dust of your forgotten era. All hail the return of the Founder King and Mystic.”

Nyx opens his mouth to say there’s been a misunderstanding, because he is HARDLY some ancient founder king but then the stone beneath him breaks and

f a l l s.

Life and death and memories and regret. There is a sword in his hand and blood drips from the blade as Princess-Aera-Princess-Oracle-Aera-AERA goes too still in his brother’s arms and the monster wearing his brother’s skin scrEAMS.

There is a garden and tears, gentle arms wrapping around his shoulders as soft blue eyes watch over him and red-violet hair mingles with his as a chin rests on his head and a voice murmurs, “It’s alright, little brother. It will be alright.”

There is a throne under his hands and back, a crown on his head that feels victorious for all of a moment before the world crumbles and the Astrals appear and say “What have you done, foolish mortal-.”

There is a brother who loves him always and helps him find his feet.

There is a monster lying chained in the deep.

They are the same thing.

It is all Somnus’s fault.

It’s all Somnus’s fault.

He has to fix this somehow.

It’s all

his

fault.

No.

No, he refuses.

I am Nyx Ulric, he thinks fiercely as he claws his way to the surface of the memories, I am Nyx Ulric, not a kinslayer or traitor and i will not drown beneath these sins.

Nyx snaps awake and magic springs from his fingers as easily as breathing. The shield expands, blocking the blade of the traitor before a flick of his wrist makes lightning blast him away. Nyx stands and rolls his shoulders, feeling injuries knit back together and the bullet slide free of the wound. In another life, Nyx would have smiled and laughed in the face of death.

In another life, Nyx would not be firmly shoving memories of Somnus behind him as he passes the Ring back to Luna and grimly tells Libertus to get Princess out of here.

They hesitate, he snaps at them, the power of a king in his voice, and Libertus looks scared as they run on his order. Nyx watches them go, a shield flaring to life without looking as the traitor attacks again. Nyx turns very slowly.

Inside his armor, Glauca has never felt so exposed as when Nyx Ulric stares him down.

“Traitor,” Nyx hisses coldly, and there is something primal under his words, something ancient and angry, “You will pay for the blood of my kin on your hands.”

They fight.

It is not much of a contest.

Somnus may not have been the better fighter of the two brothers, but he had trained all his life with Gilgamesh.

Compared to his old Shield, Glauca is nothing.

Nyx stares silently over the rubble of his city as the sun rises and feels the weight of a crown that is no longer his to wear. He breathes the taste of ash and blood and daemons as the Old Wall kneel to him and then fade into dormancy, and feels … old. Whole for the first time in this life.

He almost wishes he could go back to being incomplete.

He narrows his eyes as he thinks of the Chancellor of Niflheim that he had glimpsed, of the stories of the Blademaster he has heard since coming to Insomnia.

He thinks of Princess and the great-great grandchild Somnus’s actions doomed to death.

Nyx Ulric, He Who Walks Twice, Founder and Traitor King, clenches his fists tight around his kukri, “I’m coming brother,” he whispers to the sunrise, “I will end what I have begun.” He would end the misery and pain he put his brother through if he had to crack open fate with his bare, bloodied hands.

“Just wait a little longer.”

Then he turns and limps his way out of the city. He has an Oracle to talk to and a great grandchild to save.

(And later, on a Haven, Luna listens in awe and horror at Nyx’s story, at the age in the glaive’s eyes as he effortlessly calls forth the royal armiger. She watches in tense silence as Gentiana looks upon Nyx and calls him “Mystic”, as Nyx looks at Gentiana and cooly asks if she will stand between him and his brother. Gentiana hesitates. Then backs down.

Together, the Glaive Who Was Once King and the Last Oracle set out to destroy the prophecy in its entirety and free the brother he once betrayed and long wronged.

Along the way they stop at the Tempering Grounds, and Gilgamesh discovers that metal CAN cry as he beholds his king a second time. He bends the knee without hesitation, and when Nyx says for him to Come, Gilgamesh rises and abandons his prison without hesitation.

Along the way, Nyx Who Was Somnus But Is No Longer finds that his heart is as willful as ever, and that he cannot help but give it away to Lunafreya, betrothed to Noctis by faulty treaty or no.

And maybe, just maybe along the way, before the end of their journey and the final reunion of brothers, Luna finds herself giving her heart right back.)

#SE asks #anon asks #Secret Engima Rambles #Melodies and Manuscripts #NEW AU #Nyx as Somnus au #gonna call it #ummmmm #Sun Dies (Night Rise) verse

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cienie-isengardu · 4 years ago

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sleep, romantic and friendship headcanons for hanzo and kuai pls!

Dear Anon, I’m so, so sorry it took me that long to answer and even more that I’m posting only the first part for now! My hand just slipped and the text kinda grew longer that it should be but I feel bad for keeping You wait another day(s). I’m gonna post the rest of your lovely ask as soon as possible. Hope You will forgive me for that :)

Here we go:

SLEEP - KUAI LIANG:

Before Lin Kuei adepts proved they are worth to be part of the assassin clan, they were forced to endure years of harsh training, including living in spartan conditions. During that time, all children were forced to live together in small space and thus formed groups and alliances in a natural way; the weak sought protection alongside the stronger, the strongest fought for dominance over other groups. In one or another way, all the students learned their place very quickly and those who didn’t fit or were too weak to survive on their own died sooner than later. Back in that days, good sleep was a luxury that not everyone could afford. Sleeping was dangerous, because anyone could be attacked at any time, by masters or other kids, even from their own group.

Kuai did not have to worry about that though; everyone learnt quickly that attacking - or really, just bothering Bi-Han was a suicide deed. During night, Kuai Liang fell asleep tired of hard training without care about anything because between him and the rest of cruel world there was always a brother to protect him. Bi-Han was like a wall, behind which he could hid if the day passed badly or if he was all sore and beaten down. A wall emanating an unnatural chill that scared off other adepts but rocked him to sleep, numbed the pain and healed. Even if just for a few hours, Kuai Liang slept then very well and free of fear.

But Bi-Han didn’t stay with him for too long. Soon he made a name for himself, proved to Lin Kuei masters how good and skilled he was and then took the mantle of Tundra. Which a proper name like that, his brother was one step closer to being Sub-Zero and because of that he wasn’t forced to sleep in the cramped room with the untested kids like Kuai Liang. But then Kuai Liang already had Smoke - a friend against the clan rules - and though without Bi-Han around, the sleep did not come so easily anymore, it was still relative safe moments of peace.

(And sometime, when Bi-Han trained on the training ground through the night, the familiar cold crept over the common place, making sleeping for Kuai Liang much easier. Smoke hated that moments, but Kuai always had the best dreams on nights like that).

When Kuai Liang took mantle of Tundra, his brother was already renowned Lin Kuei warrior and on his own missions with Hydro for most of the year. That was fine for Kuai, because he had his own partner, Smoke. Together on various tasks, Tundra never have to worry about being helpless while sleeping. They both were trained well and could go without sleep for days, but they liked to spend a night or two under the open sky with no cramped rooms and no master to rebuke them for wasting time. Kuai and Smoke never allowed themselves to fully enjoy such occasions, they were first and foremost assassins and only fool would lower their guard on enemy’s land but sleeping in the woods, with the smell of burning wood around and little fire crackling to lull Tundra was so weird, out of his comfort zone and yet so magical, it was hard to not be fond of it as long as it lasted. Beside, Smoke always loved fire and during such night, his powers were naturally enhanced by bonfire smoke, so Kuai Liang had little to fear. His friend was right beside him, so fire and enemy was not a threat. At least for a few short hours.

When Kuai Liang become Grandmaster of Lin Kuei, there was no brother nor friend to keep him safe while sleeping. Even if they were not dead for years, they couldn't help him anyway. It wasn’t the surroundings to be afraid of, but the inside of his own head. The sleep only brought back things he tried so desperately forget. A taste of blood and smell of burned flesh, a sight of frozen bodies shattered to pieces. A cruel voice taunting and promising no more pain to bear, if only Kuai Liang bow to Netherrealm power once again.

Kuai Liang does not sleep anymore.

Instead, he is freezing himself; his own ice breaks through the flesh and bones, deep into soul and for so long, until the cold will numb him completely.

SLEEPING - HANZO

If there was a thing about himself that Scorpion hated to admit, it would be this: he used to love sleeping.

Since Hanzo was just a little kid, he had this one favorite spot in Shirai Ryu Fire Garden. There, he trained and meditated to prepare well for ninja life. There was enough trees to climb and shadows to hide from summer sun and enough hiding places to disappear from the eyes of annoying older cousins. No matter the season, the garden always looked beautiful, its sounds and smells soothing nerves like nothing else could.

For years, Hanzo liked to lay on the grass after long training and listen to flying insects and the wind rustling between the branches. Laying there, it was easy to close eyes and let the noises to lull him into deep trance.

(The older cousins made fun of his sleeping habits, that he would be never a good ninja if can be rocked to sleep so easily by bugs. Of course, he wasn’t sleeping, it was meditation session, his cousins knew nothing)

The memories of Fire Garden and the carefree childhood stayed with him on every mission. As a Shirai Ryu ninja, Hanzo couldn’t allow himself to be careless. The sleep was necessary, he knew, but no place could be so safe as the precious garden, so Hanzo slept long enough to renew strength, but not long enough to lost control over situation. Always alert, with sharp senses and even sharper kunai at hand.

After all, there was always time to rest once the mission was over. Hanzo liked the lazy days after task was done, when he could sleep a bit longer than necessary... yet not long enough to be seen as sluggard by other ninjas. Warrior can’t show weakness, even to his own blood and flesh.

(Most of his older cousins still annoyed him about his sleeping habits and so what if he liked lay on grass and let the Garden to lull him into sleep with dreams of beautiful fire instead of blood? Sleep was double-sided blade after all)

At the end, Fire Garden lost its significance when he married Harumi. Since then sleeping next to wife always made him feel so happy and warm, as if he carried a flame inside him. Just hearing her steady heartbeat brought a sense of calmness he never knew before. Sometime Hanzo would soundlessly wake up in the middle of night - not by nightmare of course, more like some distant memory - feeling Harumi’s warm breath on his own skin somehow always would take him back to childhood memories of summer sun spent in Fire Garden; gave the most instinctive sense of security he has ever known. And just like that, few minutes later, Hanzo was once again lulled to sleep full of dreams and hopes for the future.

Hanzo used to love sleeping; used to let himself be vulnerable because Shirai Ryu was ninja clan and his home and nothing should happen to such powerful family. He was a fool and his loved ones paid the price for that. Now, the fire inside him was not warm as summer sun or Harumi’s breath, but burned him with rage and regrets. Now, sleep was full of horror and mockery so he cauterizes himself with that damn hellfire every night; pain was better than dreams of past, of loved ones massacred over and over again. Dreams of people pierced by his blade, of their broken and ripped flesh, of burned alive that he promised to spare in exchange for bringing the Shirai Ryu back to life.

Sleep brings only pain and false hopes. Scorpion may rebuild the clan, the garden may bloom again, but it will never be the same as it used to be.

He is too tired to dream about the impossible.

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keelywolfe · 5 years ago

Text

FIC: Like the Weather (pre-spicyhoney)

Summary: Snowdin is bitterly cold, no matter what universe you're in and Edge should know when to come in from the cold.

Notes: I'm trying to use NaNo this year as an inspiration to catch up on my WIP's, but I had the urge for something melancholy today.

Pre-spicyhoney and I don't usually write in this tense, so forgive me my mistakes.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

It’s chillingly cold.

It’s always cold in Snowdin, every version of it, and Edge is well accustomed to it by now. He’s spent years spent walking through the messy drifts of snow in the woods that occasionally rises as high as his hips, almost overtop his much-shorter brother’s head.

In his version of Snowdin there is also a chance at meeting LV Hunters in those darkened woods, though these days they keep a wary distance from him and Sans, familiar with the price that others have paid in dust for trying their hand.

That’s less of a concern in this Snowdin.

Here, the lights that surround Muffet’s front windows are all lit and blinking, the window itself airy and unbarred. The alleyway between the hotel and the shop only houses neatly-filled trash bins and there is no graffiti filled with sneers against Asgore and the Guard.

Walking to Muffet’s involves nothing more concerning than a stroll up the street and the glances Edge gets when he goes in are more curious than fearful. Muffet packs up his order quickly and efficiently, even setting the lidded coffee cups in a small wire carrier that she doesn’t even admonish him to return, the expectation that Blue or Rus will unspoken. She accepts his G without biting it to test it authenticity, drops the coin into the register with a cheery clang and waves him out the door.

He steps back outside into a blast of icy wind, strong enough to cut straight through his uniform. The cold is less of a concern for him, or any skeleton, really, but he hardly enjoys it and Edge hurries back to the Swap brothers’ home, packages in hand.

There’s a tiny, cherry red glow cutting through the darkness, and Edge follows it as much as the blinking Gyftmas lights on the house’s eaves.

Rus is sitting on the porch steps, directly in the line of that chilling wind like the fool he is. It’s wretchedly cold, more so than normal, there must be a storm blowing in, and still Rus chooses to sit in it to get his nicotine fix. He coughs, the cloudy puffs as much from the cold as the cigarette.

Rus has been coughing since they all arrived, recovering from a cold, Blue told them all, and there’s a certain dullness to his eye lights, an unhealthy flush to his cheekbones.

He shouldn’t be outside.

He looks miserable, hunching as if he could possibly burrow further into his oversized sweatshirt. The hood is up, but Edge can’t imagine it provides much in the way of warmth. It’s rather a surprise that Blue let Rus out at all, but despite his lazy nature, Rus has shown a streak of stubbornness that Edge recognizes in himself. It shouldn’t be charming.

It certainly isn’t now, seeing how exhausted Rus looks. He doesn’t even offer a defiant glare in Edge’s direction, only scoots down to the end of the step to give Edge enough room to pass by.

His cigarette is mostly burnt out and he drops it into the snow before lighting another.

Instead of brushing past him, Edge sits next to him. He ignores Rus’s surprise, selecting one of the cups from the wire rack, handing it over. Rus accepts it, winding his fingers around it immediately.

Edge does the same, somewhat less desperately. His own hands are protected from the blowing wind by gloves whereas Rus’s are foolishly bare. The heat from the cup burns through even that layer, warming him.

“thanks,” Rus said. His voice is hoarse, uncertain.

Edge only nods. He rummages through the bag again and pulls out a folded square of wax paper, opening it to reveal a selection of tiny pastries. Each one is topped with crumbling icing and he offers the paper to Rus who, after a pause, selects one, eating it instead of smoking the cigarette burning down between his fingers.

The pastry crumbles beneath Edge’s teeth, honeyed-sweet, and when he sips from his cup, the hot cocoa is rich, heavy with cream. The heat spreads out from within, his magic carrying it to his limbs.

Despite drinking his own cocoa, Rus still looks terribly cold. His tongue is bright orange, the brightest thing in sight as he licks the sugary remnants from his fingertips and Edge finds himself watching, wondering distantly what sort of fool it makes him, that he knows very well when to come out from the cold and yet, here he sits.

He isn’t sure why.

He and Rus don’t get on well, never have, Rus is obnoxious and lazy, he offers terrible puns with enthusiasm and spits verbal arrows back at Edge effortlessly, meeting any insult with one of his own. He’s an irritant and a fool, barely recovering from being ill and sitting out in the snow.

He’s lovely and Edge is as much a fool as he is.

There’s nothing he can offer Rus that he doesn’t already have except himself, and Rus hardly needs another Papyrus when he is one. He doesn’t need a thing from Edge, not his protection nor his affection, living here in this safe little world where his worst problem is lingering sickness and the falling snow.

He can hear the rattle of bones as Rus shivers, still holding his empty cup.

Wordlessly, Edge unwinds the scarf from around his neck. It was a gift from Sans, his Sans, years ago when he was accepted into the guard. His brother had given it to him with little more than a careless grunt and Edge couldn’t say if the gift was bought or stolen. He wore it nearly every day.

Today, he wraps it around Rus’s neck, ignores his startled flinch. Tucks it in closely, still warm from his own body heat. He doesn’t try to parse the emotions that flutter over Rus’s face, a kaleidoscope that ends with a hoarse, “won’t you be cold?”

Of course he will, it’s freezing. “I’m fine.”

They don’t sit outside much longer. Only a few moments before Rus puts out his cigarette and Edge gathers up the bag with the pastries. The rest of the drinks will be closer to lukewarm than hot when they go inside.

Edge doesn’t ask for his scarf back when they do, ignores the weight of his brother’s gaze, and Rus wears it the rest of the night. Halfway through the movie, his head sinks back to rest on the sofa cushions, his sockets closed and his breathing raspy.

Blue is the one who carefully spreads a blanket over Rus, his expression hiding none of his concern and affection. He smooths Edge’s scarf, tucking it closer around his brother’s neck and murmurs low to Edge, “I’ll see that you get it back.”

Edge nods curtly and focuses on the television screen. He doesn’t allow his gaze to stray to Rus sleeping next to him, wearing his scarf around his throat like a collar.

It’s colder when they leave that night, the chill biting into his bared vertebrae.

Edge ignores it and heads for home.

-finis-

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #one-shot

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marril96 · 5 years ago

Text

The Distance Between Us

Chapter 19: She’s Come Undone

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Rowena confronts Lucifer about his actions.

Warnings: Slurs, abuse, biphobia

Editor: @miss-moon-guardian

"Well… Then he's not the boy for me, is he?"

Those words had fallen from Rowena's lips so easily earlier, so carelessly, as if breaking it off would cost her nothing.

It would cost her everything. Much more than she was willing to pay.

But, damn, if she wasn't willing to risk it at this point.

Lucifer had crossed the line.

Pushing her around, shoving her into walls, hitting her was one thing.

Going after you?

A mistake.

It would cost him.

Good god, it would cost him.

Rowena had had enough.

She'd texted him earlier, asking to meet up. He'd responded with his usual sweet words, but she'd ignored them; they were empty of any meaning, there only to change her mind, to manipulate her into forgetting what had happened and giving him what, at this point, must have been the thousandth chance.

She'd run out of patience. He hadn't deserve any of the ones she'd given him, and he certainly didn't deserve one now.

If he wanted to save their relationship, he'd better have a bloody good apology.

No excuses, no promises he would do better, that he would change — she'd had enough of those. They were as empty as his compliments and pet names.

He hadn't just harmed her this time.

He'd gone after you. Attacked you, threatened you, made ludicrous demands.

Rowena wouldn't stop hanging out with you. Wouldn't stop being your friend. She'd made it clear last time, and she would make it even clearer again.

If Lucifer had a problem with it, then…

Well, he had a choice to make.

As did she.

And if it came between you and him, she knew whose side she would take. The consequences be damned.

They agreed to meet at his place later this afternoon. His family would be gone, and they would have the entire place to themselves.

To talk.

If he expected her to stay over for sex, he was gravely mistaken.

Right now, the mere thought of touching him made her stomach turn.

Anything other than a conversation was out of the question.

Lucifer opened the door for her, the smile on his mouth wide and beautiful. Once upon a time it would have warmed her heart. Now it just disgusted her. There was no meaning behind it, no warmth; it was a yet another manipulation tactic, only this time she wasn't falling for it.

"Hi, Red!" he greeted happily. "So glad you came." He looked her over, drunk her body, which was wrapped into a coat and knee-high boots, in. Undressed her with his stare. "Looking gorgeous as ever."

That was genuine.

Whatever his feelings about her were, he loved her body. Loved to ogle it, to touch it, to use it whenever he saw fit.

It used to flatter her. Used to make her feel accomplished to have the most popular boy in school be so openly attracted to her.

Little did she know back then, it was only her body he liked.

Her, not so much.

Well, she didn't like him very much, either.

She liked his popularity, his body, the sweet words he fed her every now and then when he pretended. She knew they were lies, but she liked them. They were hers, only hers; other girls could only dream of him speaking that way to them.

But the real him, the violent beast, the ticking time bomb? She hated that boy from the depths of her soul.

"I'm here to talk," she said and pushed her way inside, purposely shoving his shoulder with hers with as much strength as she could muster.

The house was huge and warm. She hung her coat on the hanger, happy to finally be out of it. The air outside froze her to the bone. Patches of ice had already begun to form on the sidewalk; if the forecast were to be believed, the roads would freeze overnight. Going to school tomorrow would be quite an adventure.

"You seem angry," Lucifer commented as he led her to his room.

Rowena walked beside him, knowing the way by heart.

"Whatever makes you think that?" she snarked, words dripping with sarcasm.

Once they were inside, he closed the door and sighed. "You know I don't like that loser bitch."

Straight to the point, eh?

Fine by her.

"And you know that 'loser bitch' is my friend."

He scoffed. "Is she now? I thought you were just hanging out."

You were. Weeks ago. Back when she wasn't sure what she thought — what she was allowed to think — about being around you.

Now she fucking loved it.

"Things changed," she said simply.

"So did you," he accused. "Since when are you friends with losers?"

Since she got to know you better and got a chance to realize things weren't what they seemed. That you weren't what you seemed. You weren't just a loser, a measly girl at the bottom of the barrel, coated in dirt and grime. You were a person. You loved your life the way it was, lived it to the fullest. Hurt no one.

Rowena, on the other hand, hated hers and had done nothing but hurt people in the last four years.

Maybe she'd made a mistake. Maybe she should have aimed for something other than popularity. Something that would make her happy instead of making her put on fake smiles and layers of makeup to hide her misery.

You had friends who loved you.

She had friends who could barely stand her and a boyfriend who treated her like shit.

"Who I'm friends with is none of your concern," Rowena said.

Lucifer sighed. "Rowena, we talked about this."

"We did. And you agreed to stay out of my business."

It was one of the conditions of her forgiving him — or pretending to do so for she would never, ever, forgive him for what he'd put her through. She could put it behind her, move on, but she could never forgive and forget. His mistreatment — his abuse, and, god, did it feel good to admit it for what it truly was — would stay with her for as long as she lived. Would remain seared into her mind, into her soul, into her heart.

Was it worth it, at this point? Could she still put up with it?

He hadn't hit her in a while, but she knew it was only a matter of time. Lucifer could never control himself for too long.

Next time he gave her puppy eyes, took her out, and bought her something expensive, would she take him back? Would she get over it?

"That was before she started putting moves on you!"

Rowena blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. "What in hell are you talking about?"

"You know damn well what I'm talking about!" he snapped. "I've seen the way she looks at you!"

She couldn't help it — she laughed, loudly and heartily. Laughed until her stomach hurt.

"You're bloody mental!"

You were right — he was completely off his rocker.

You were her friend. Nothing more and nothing less. Yes, she preferred your company to Lucifer's, and yes, if she had to choose, she would rather be with you than him. She couldn't define what she felt for you — didn't dare define it for doing so would make it real and she couldn't deal with that right now — but your relationship was strictly platonic.

The worst you did was hold hands two times.

It felt much nicer, much more intimate, than when she held hands with Lucifer, but it wasn't flirting. It wasn't cheating. It was friendship.

"I'm mental? She wants to fuck your brains out every time you go near her — and I'm the crazy one?"

Well, yes.

"She doesn't want anything of the sort!" Rowena argued.

"I wasn't born yesterday, Rowena! That bitch keeps ogling you and you're defending her."

Even if you did, so what? She was gorgeous. The more people that noticed, the better.

"You know she's a dyke, right?"

Were you?

She'd seen you compliment both actors and actresses; if there was attraction to any of it, she hadn't noticed. And it didn't matter. Your sexuality — whatever it was — was none of her business.

"What does her sexuality have to do with this?"

"Isn't it obvious? She wants you." Lucifer stepped closer. Looked her straight in the eyes, his blue ones shooting darts, cold and icy, into the depth of her soul. "And you want her."

"That's ridiculous!" Rowena exclaimed.

"Is it?" He cocked his head to the side, pretending to ponder on it. "You're a dyke, too. I know how you guys work."

Did he, now?

He seemed to know a lot of words whose meanings he didn't appear to grasp.

"Do you bloody hear yourself?" Rowena exploded, bursting with anger. Her fingers balled into fists, skin taut and sheet-white on her knuckles. "I'm bisexual, so I must be unfaithful, is it? What bloody century are you from, Lucifer?"

She knew he was ignorant, but this?

Disgusting.

She was a lot of things, but she'd never been unfaithful. Had never cheated on neither him nor the boys before him.

That wasn't her.

She did have feelings for you, quite strong ones, but she'd never acted on them. Would never do so. Not when she was in a relationship.

The fact that he even thought so…

You were right. She deserved better. Much better than the brute in front of her.

"Oh, don't give me that shit! It's a risk and you know it!"

A risk?

A bloody risk?

That was what he thought about her? That she was at risk of cheating? For no reason other than her sexuality?

"That is," he added, "unless you've already gone through with it."

Goodness!

Rowena was brimming with anger. Boiling hot and dangerous. "You're an arsehole!"

Even worse — an ignorant arsehole.

Why was she surprised?

She'd heard him say worse. Had seen him do worse. She'd been the recipient of his arseholery more times than she dared count.

Lucifer was a bastard. A colossal numbnut. A cunt.

This wasn't new behaviour.

He'd always been this way. Rowena had just refused to see it for seeing it would make it real, would shatter her illusion of a relationship that should have been perfect but was everything but.

A relationship she'd dreamed of, only to end up in a nightmare.

She should have broken it up.

Right here.

Right now.

She should have said the magic words and ended it once and for all.

But…

If she did that, what would she have? Who would she be?

If she lost Lucifer, she would lose Olivette — and with her the rest of their little group — along with him. Olivette would never forgive her for giving him up. Especially over something so—

No.

It wasn't stupid.

She had legitimate reasons to leave him.

But Olivette wouldn't give a damn.

All she would see would be Rowena leaving Lucifer over a meaningless girl, a girl Rowena shouldn't be friends with in the first place, unwritten rules and all. Nothing else would matter. Hell, Rowena was pretty sure Olivette would think her a liar if she were to tell her about the abuse.

Without Olivette, Rowena had nothing. Was nothing. Just like back in Scotland, and that was something she'd sworn on her life never to go back to.

She couldn't break up with Lucifer, no matter how much she wanted to, no matter how right doing so would be.

There was too much at stake.

"What am I supposed to think when you're always with her?" Lucifer said. "I barely see you!"

"I told you we'd be studying for the midterm!" Rowena snapped.

"Every fucking day!"

"Oh, don't be bloody dramatic! It's not every day."

Almost every day.

Almost.

You weren't strictly studying all the time. Plenty of laughs were exchanged, jokes told, stupid movies watched and mocked.

It was easy to hang out with you. Freeing. She didn't have to put on a show every time, pretend to be somebody she wasn't.

With Lucifer, everything she did, every word she told, every expression on her face was calculated, planned. A chore more demanding than those her mother sometimes asked her to do.

With you, on the other hand, she could just be herself. No social norms to uphold. No regulations. No rules. Just fun.

"Might as well be," Lucifer said. "You see her more than you see me."

Because you understood her.

Because you were kind to her.

Because you respected her.

Because being with you felt right, while being with him felt like a chore, an obligation. A duty she upheld only because it was expected of her.

You might have been a nobody in the school's hierarchy, but you were worth a million — a trillion — Lucifers.

"Maybe I'd see you more if you weren't such a numbnut!" Rowena spat.

Lucifer gave her a look that threatened murder. "So it's my fault you're cheating?"

"For the last time, I am not cheating!" But, good god, she was tempted. After everything, she wanted to do it just to piss him off. "Why are you so hung up over this? Are you trying to hide something?"

That caught him off guard. "What?"

"Fergus told me he saw you with another girl."

She'd chalked it up to her brother being a nuisance. But what if he'd told her the truth? What if he'd really seen Lucifer cheat?

Now that she thought of it, it didn't sound like Fergus to make things like that up. He was a colossal numbnut, a constant pain in her arse, but he didn't lie. He never did. He wouldn't have told her he'd seen Lucifer with another girl if it wasn't true.

He most likely wanted to piss her off rather than help her, but whatever his intentions were, Rowena was certain of one thing — her brother was no liar.

Lucifer was appalled by the accusation. "And you believe him?"

"Should I?" Rowena inquired, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"No! You know your brother. He's an annoying little shit. He'd do anything to fuck with you."

"Och, I don't know. He seemed quite honest to me."

More honest, in fact, than Lucifer was being right now.

"This is ridiculous!"

"Is it? You seem quite intent on shifting the blame on me," she pointed out. "Almost like you're projecting."

"Fuck you, Rowena!"

"So you are."

He might not have said yes, but it was all the confirmation she needed.

He had cheated.

To her surprise, Rowena didn't feel anything. She expected there to be at least a shred of disappointment, a slight pang of heartache. Something. Anything.

There was nothing.

Her emotions were a blank, a canvas that used to be bright with colors, that was now as empty as the walls that surrounded her.

She thought she loved him, but she didn't. Whatever it was she'd clung to all this time, through all the bad and horrible, it wasn't affection.

Lucifer cheated on her, and it didn't hurt. Not a single bit.

"You've some nerve to throw accusations at me when you're the one fucking around!"

New anger bubbled in her, hot as lava in her veins. How dare he treat her like that? How dare he act as if she were the villain?

How dare he put his hands on you, try to chase you out of her life under the guise of a caring boyfriend, while stabbing her in the back with razor-sharp knives?

Rage flashed in his eyes, red hot, steaming. His hands gripped her shoulders, fingers digging into her sensitive skin deep enough to leave bruises. In a swift, practiced motion, he pushed her back, straight into the hard wall.

Rowena gasped. Pain exploded in her back, running down the length of her spine. The familiar fear filled her, but she swallowed it, held it back for as long as she could. She wouldn't let him break her. Never again.

She'd had enough of being his quiet little punching bag.

"Maybe I wouldn't need to look for company if my girlfriend actually spent time with me!" he snarled. No more lies. No facades. Just the truth in all its ugly glory.

"Maybe I would spend time with you if you weren't such a brute!" she retorted.

Two could play this game.

And, god, she was ready for her turn.

"I'm just protecting what's mine."

She snorted. "Aren't you prince Charming?"

The slap came swiftly, snapped across her left cheek like the crack of a whip. Her head flung sideways, skin tingling, nerves on fire.

She bit back the pain. "Is this your way of protecting me?"

He brought his hand to her chest. Pressed it against it. Shoved his face in hers, the look in his eyes dark, threatening. "You're mine, Rowena. I made you."

So he kept saying.

And he had — were it not for him and Olivette, she would have been a nobody, just another pathetic girl in the crowd.

Still…

He didn't get to treat her like this.

Didn't get to push her around. Hit her. Threaten her.

Didn't get to cheat on her.

But what could she do about it?

He was the one with all the power.

She was just borrowing it.

"I'm not gonna let you go around tarnishing my name by hanging around nobodies."

Rowena had to chuckle at that. "You do a bloody good job at that yourself."

Another slap.

Mustering up her strength, she pushed him away, then slapped him right back.

His fist retaliated immediately, connecting with her nose in a painful thump. A trickle of blood slid from her nostril, trailing over her lips before dripping onto her shirt. His hands were on her in a split second, one slamming into her shoulder while the other wrapped around her neck like a snake.

"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" she wheezed, struggling for breath.

His grip tightened.

"You've grown quite a mouth these past few months," he said. "Courtesy of your new friend, I take it."

Rowena gulped. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, all the words in her head a jumble, a mess she couldn't decipher. Her heart raced madly, pounded against her chest so hard it hurt.

"I've always had a mouth," she wanted to say, but couldn't.

She couldn't say anything.

Couldn't do anything.

She tried to swing at him, tried to push him away, but he subdued her with ease. As if her attempts at resistance were nothing.

She had no chance.

She couldn't fight him off. Couldn't defend herself. Couldn't tell him to his face how much she loathed him, how her soul burned with it.

"I don't like it," Lucifer added in a low voice, almost a purr.

Rowena's stomach turned with disgust.

"F-f-f-f-f—" she tried, willing — begging — the words to break free.

He smirked, enjoying her struggle. "What was that?"

His grip loosened a tad; not much, but enough for her to take a gulp of breath and shout, with everything she had, "F-fuck you!"

He responded by slamming her back in the wall, harder than before. She gasped, new pain taking over, as the back of her head slammed against the hard surface. Her ears rang like an alarm going off, loud, deafening.

A slap came, sharp against her cheek. Then another. And another.

Then, growling like a wild, deadly animal, Lucifer backhanded her and she collapsed to the hardwood floor, limp as a statue.

Her knees exploded with pain as they connected with the floor, bones screaming, nerves tingling, white hot. She pushed herself up by her palms. She sucked in breaths, deep, painful; her throat burned, but she kept gasping like a fish out of water, swallowing the sweet, so, so precious oxygen she'd been denied.

"From now on, we're doing things my way," Lucifer said. "I tried to compromise, but you keep finding loopholes. No more." He crouched down next to her. "You are to cut all contact with Sam Winchester and especially Y/N."

Her neck was in agony, but Rowena willed herself to look up at him. Locked her eyes with his in a look of pure defiance, of spite, of everything she was feeling about him. "No."

His behaviour had made the decision easy.

He didn't get to order her around.

Not anymore.

He cupped her bruised cheek. She flinched, expecting another slap, but his touch was strangely gentle, caring.

An attempt at manipulation she wasn't falling for anymore.

"Don't you see what they're doing to us? What she's doing to us?" he said sweetly, dark features softening up. The picture of a caring boyfriend. A sloppy forgery. "She's ruining us, Rowena."

Rowena was disgusted. "You're the one who's ruining us, Lucifer." She spat his name as if it was poison.

He bit back another outburst, urging the facade to remain. "I just want to spend some quality time with my girl. What's so wrong with that?"

"Something is wrong with you," she retorted.

He quirked up an eyebrow. "Is it now?"

"You're unhinged!"

She knew she should keep her mouth shut. Knew she shouldn't provoke him, shouldn't anger him further. But she didn't care.

She was done being his victim. Done keeping quiet while he threw tantrums like an overgrown child. Done letting him do what he wanted, letting him get away with things just because he was her boyfriend.

She was so bloody done with him.

"You think beating on me makes you a man? Think twice, Lucille!" She shot him a glare that threatened death. "What you are is a coward!"

Lucifer shot up to stand upright and swung his foot, landing it in her gut. She grunted, her hand instantly pressing against the new point of pain.

"You're a bitch!" he snarled.

Rowena chuckled through the pain. "Just as I said — a coward."

"Shut your mouth!"

He kicked her again, this time in the ribs, eliciting a loud yelp.

"Bloody coward," she kept on. "Can't get me to spend time with you, so you try to beat me into it. And you wonder why I keep avoiding you."

"Don't—" a kick "—turn—" another "—this—" and another "—around—" one more "—on—" another, strongest one "—me!"

Rowena couldn't hold it in anymore — she howled as loudly as her raw throat allowed, like a wounded animal begging for help.

She knew well enough none would come.

She was alone with Lucifer in his huge house.

No one could hear her screams.

No one would rush in to help her.

No one knew what he was doing to her.

She curled into a ball like a cat, wrapped her arms over her stomach in attempts to soften the blows.

It didn't work.

Lucifer kept kicking her.

Everywhere.

Her arms, ribs, thighs — the rain of blows landed everywhere, struck down like a downpour of pain.

"You pathetic little man," she rasped, barely audible. Her strength had left her; she was hanging by a thread, by sheer force of will. She had but a speck of fight left in her, wee traces of defiance that dissipated with every new strike.

Her face suddenly exploded with pain, raw and angry. Lucifer's hard-soled boot struck her directly in the cheek, mere millimeters from her nose.

She screamed, hand shooting up to cover her throbbing face.

There was no way she was going to be able to hide these injuries.

Clothes and makeup used to do the trick.

But this — this was too much.

He'd never beaten her like this before.

What was she going to tell her family?

What was she going to tell the teachers?

What was she going to tell you?

Lucifer gave a small laugh that sent cold shivers down her spine. "Look at yourself. So… squirmy. Yet you call me pathetic."

Because you are, she thought.

She tried to voice it, but her mouth trembled too much to let the words out.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe she was pathetic.

It didn't make him any less so.

A silence fell between them, shattered only by her gasps and hitches.

Then he said in a voice cold as ice, "Get out. I can't stand to look at you."

The feeling was mutual.

Rowena remained lying down for a few moments, gathering up strength she didn't have. Slowly, cautiously, she pushed herself up by her elbows and worked her way up to her knees. Her body was in agony, protesting every movement, but she pushed through it.

She needed to get out.

Needed to get away from him.

Needed to make herself some tea and lock herself in her room until the pain subsided and fear that froze her blood dissipated.

Grabbing onto the bed frame for support, she pulled herself to her feet. Her legs were throbbing, shaking under the weight of her body. She took a step toward the door and stumbled, quickly leaning against the wall to keep her balance.

Lucifer stood aside. His eyes tracked her movements, mouth curled into a smirk at her misery.

The bastard was enjoying this.

Rowena turned her head. He wasn't there, she told herself. She was alone and she needed to get out. Lucifer didn't exist.

It was a chore, but she managed to stumble out of his room. She kept an iron grip on the stair railing as she descended, slowly picking up the pace with each step.

One foot in front of the other.

One, then the other.

She could do it.

Once she was outside, she took a deep, long breath. The icy air chilled her lungs, but she kept swallowing it, kept sucking it in.

She was free.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she was free.

The night had already fallen, the moon, full and bright, hanging up in the sky like a lantern, lighting up the town. Ice had started forming on the pathway, the concrete slippery under her boots.

Rowena kept on walking.

Step by step.

One foot in front of the other.

She could do it.

She could make it home.

She could do anything now that she was away from Lucifer.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @victoriasagittariablack @rowenaswife @wonderifshelikesroses @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @gaysnakess @angel7376 @cherrypierowena @ruthieconnells @evil-regal-vampiress @collectorofsecretsandsouls @angel-e-v-a @tasyahilker @a-queen-and-her-throne @carryon-doctor-lock

#rowena #rowena macleod #rowena x reader #spn #supernatural #lucifer #spn family #fanfiction #my fics #high school au

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oiralinsanity · 5 years ago

Text

The Blood Drop of Subcon

Part 3

731 Years Ago...

Prince Avon Croxley was sore, cold, hungry, and tired. A misunderstanding with their fiancée ended with him being chained up against the murky cellar walls by her Golem Guards (Which even surprised him since they literally did not exist before) and her soul becoming corrupted and twisting her once sweet image into a hideous wretch.

He didn't know how long he was down here for, as the only sunlight that made its way to the underground room was around the corner, out of his view. But that light was the one thing he wanted more than anything right now.

He just wanted to break free from his chains, run around the corner, and into freedom. He wanted to be as far away from Vanessa as possible. Hell, he wanted to go home to the Desert, lock his chambers, and never look for love again.

He couldn't even feel his legs anymore!

He just wanted to leave, if only he could break through these chains...

Avon breathed heavily as he peered at his reflection in the murky waters below. There was no way he could remove the chains from his wrist.

Wait. Something clicked in his mind. He remembered reading years ago about a spell, a dark magic, that could possibly allow him to escape the binding. If he were to perform it, he could transfer his soul into his shadow and escape. He just needed a way to draw the ritual circle in order for the words to have an effect.

Except his hands were chained, he realized. He wouldn't be able to draw the circle at all, so the entire ritual was pointless.

Avon sighed heavily. Everything's pointless. He thought. I'm just going to die here.

A few moments passed before he perked his head up a bit. How could he have forgotten? He didn't need his hands free to draw the circle!

He just needed his finger.

Years ago, he had performed another type of Black Magic on himself, that time giving himself the ability to conjure life-absorbing strings from the tips of his fingers. All he had to do was guide his finger along the dotted line.

With the wave of his finger, Avon managed to recreate the ritual circle on the floor. With a gulp of breath, he could only hope for luck to be on his side.

He mumbled the ritual words, so that Vanessa wouldn't come down and stop him from completing his only chance at escape. After saying the final words of the chant, Avon blacked out.

~~~

Avon Croxley woke up, this time on the floor. He quietly praised whatever god was kind enough to allow him the chance to escape from death as he picked himself up.

Well, picking himself up wasn't exactly what he did. He flopped backwards due to the lack of legs.

Hold up...

Avon looked down at his new body. He was as dark as a shadow, and his legs, well...

He didn't have any. It was only just a long tail. He may need to attach himself to the ground as a stabilizer before he could properly learn how to hover with this new body.

His hands were also funky as well, only two thick fingers. Perhaps later he would figure out how to grow more fingers, but right now, he had to book it out of the cellar.

Avon looked behind him to see his old, now dead body still hanging by the chains. He lifted his old face up, to get one last glimpse of his past life before he left.

His old human face, now pale blue from the freezing cold had some streaks of blood coming from his eyes (And somehow defying gravity by flowing towards the jut of the jawbone) and mouth (Going down his chin). Avon drooped the head back into its original position and moved back. As much as he wanted to get his old body out, he didn't have much time before Vanessa would come down to check on him.

With that, Avon phased through the trapdoor and into the cold night.

~~~

Avon Croxley woke up to a blinding light, causing him to hold his hand above his eyes, the sound of the chains clinking as he did so.

This somewhat alleviated him, since he couldn't move his hands earlier. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the white light before he checked out his surroundings.

Nothing. Literally nothing as far as the eye could see.

This wasn't suppose to happen! Avon thought to himself. The ritual was supposed to transfer my soul into my shadow! Why didn't it work!?

He attempted to pull at his hair, only to bump and scratch at his skin. What did that spell do to me?! Avon fearfully thought as he felt his head.

Apparently, he now had horns as a part of his face, although the right one was far longer than his left. He looked down to notice that his legs were just...

Gone. He screwed it up, he screwed it all up. And now he was trapped in Hell, his punishment for the crime of attempting to cheat death.

He didn't even want to deal with the fact that he had a blue tint to his skin.

730 years ago.

Avon Croxley floated about in the white hell he had been living in for god knows how long. Time didn't seem to pass through this area, so he wasn't sure how long he was stuck here for.

God, he was hungry as well. And nothing for miles that he could kill and eat. Even if there was, he couldn't spark a flame to life.

He moaned in despair, the hunger taking over his mind. So clouded, that he almost missed the strange glitching occurring ahead of him.

What? Avon thought as he noticed the glitch in the white hell. What's going on here? What's happening?! Knowing no better (And hoping it would take him away from here) Avon Croxley decided to pass through the glitch...

And found himself on a white, rocky plain. The sky was black, filled with stars. A view he hadn't seen since he left Sails Desert, but far more clearer. He looked up, hoping to find more stars and galaxies, only to find himself in shock. And he realized where he was at that very moment.

Above him stood the Earth and her twin suns. The only thing missing from this view was directly underneath him.

He was floating on the moon.

This thought reiterated itself in his mind many times over. What the hell was he going to do?

Make a web, he supposed. He still had his arms and appendages, so his string magic would still work. If he could get someone's attention down there, he may have a chance of coming back down there so that he could teach her a lesson...

Especially since he could see that the land where Subcon Forest stood was now covered with ice. She really did lose it.

He hoped his people were ok.

~~~

A couple days, and it didn't look that good.

The web had several holes here and there, and it really did a number on Avon's weakening body. If he didn't eat soon, he would starve before help even made it to him.

Avon looked at the Earth and shuddered. He knew he didn't want to, but if he was going to survive, he'd have to. He pointed his finger towards the blue rock, making sure not to aim near either Sails Desert or Subcon Forest, and fired his red string.

He watched as the red string disappeared into the distance on its journey to the Earth, and he was going to have to wait. Like fishing in the ocean, only it was the entire Earth and he was fishing for people.

It took several minutes, but Avon finally felt a tug on his line. He released a few more feet of string so that he could wrap it around his "meal" before reeling it back up.

He pulled towards him a man, wriggling in fear from the sudden abduction by a red string. When he got into reach, Avon pulled the man closer by grabbing his neck.

"I'm terribly sorry about this," Avon apologized to his victim. "But I have to-" Avon paused, putting his fingertips to his bottom lip. "My god, does my voice seriously sound like this now!?"

He glanced at his meal, still squirming within his grasp. "I apologize for having a minor life crisis in front of you, my friend. But I must do this for my own sake. Forgive me." Avon then slammed his free hand into the man's chest and allowed his strings to flow and wrap around, draining the life force from his victim.

And he made sure to take all of it. Every nutrient there was in the body, he absorbed it. Nothing was safe, especially not the bones. Avon needed to make sure he drained every last drop until all that was left was scattered dust.

He cried for some time after the feeding.

~~~

Avon floated around the webbed sea, silent in his thoughts. So much into his thought that he almost never noticed that his red web was starting to dip.

What the hell? He thought to himself. He didn't know what was going on, but if something got into his web, he needed to check.

And he wished he hadn't.

As he got closer to the dip, he felt a force pushing him towards the spot. So strong, in fact, that he couldn't float away from it. The pull brought him into the dip, and his attempts to claw out was met with no fruition.

And once again, he found himself back in the white hell he thought he had escaped from.

729 years ago

And it occurred again. He found himself back in the same situation he had found himself earlier.

So he tried again. Hoping that this time he could escape.

And once again he failed.

727 years ago

This was the 4th time he found himself back on the moon. He failed the first three times, let whatever God there was to let him succeed this time around.

720 years ago

He couldn't apologize to his victim. He felt like it didn't matter anymore, his humanity dwindling away.

568 years ago

Avon hadn't really called himself by his own name for so long. Silence had been his only friend for so long.

Perhaps he could give himself something for his victims to call him by (As he has recently kept a couple of them alive for a few moments longer for conversational purposes), just so they wouldn't realize his true heritage.

565 years ago

Moonjumper.

That's the name he finally decided upon. It took him a while (He wasn't sure how long time had passed in his white hell, could had been a month), but now he had a name to give to his meals.

"Moonjumper." Rolled right off the tongue.

He kept repeating and laughing his new name aloud as he created his red web, hoping perhaps this attempt would be successful.

507 years ago

He hovered in horror as he saw the sight on Earth.

Sails Desert had smoke blooming above an area Moonjumper knew very well in his living days. The Royal Palace, his old home, was up in flames.

His past was going to be gone.

Moonjumper grieved the rest of his time on the moon. He made no wisecracks as he consumed his meal's life energy either...

384 years ago

Moonjumper watched as the Earth turned, taking in its sight. He took notice to how Subcon Forest had been turning purple and dreary in its wooded area over the 346 times he's seen it from where he hovered, while the old village and its nearby manor were still frozen over, never changing in appearance.

Moonjumper shook his head in disbelief. How fucking long could that bitch live for? Moonjumper thought to himself.

A flash of light popped up below the frozen land and he glanced towards its origin.

A part of the forest was lit aflame. Moonjumper now had his misshapen face in his hands, laughing at whoever was running things down there, since it looked like they weren't doing a very good job at it.

134 years ago

Moonjumper watched as strange cone-shaped things flew back and forth between the Earth and its moon. And he was fuming.

They now had a way to get to him, but nobody had attempted to reach out even once!? What a bunch of arses!

He made sure to string up two meals this outing. Perhaps that would draw some attention to his webbed signal on this white rock.

17 years ago

Moonjumper finally encountered a new being in his white hell.

It didn't go so well.

Not that the new resident was dead, oh no. They just couldn't understand one another very well. The strange, hunched black goop with white spots (Which looked as though they were his hands and head) made strange noises instead of words, and it irritated Moonjumper very much. So the goop man now stays far away from Moonjumper's area.

6 hours ago

Moonjumper left the white hell once again, paying no mind to the strange house floating above the planet. While it was strange, he passed it off as some sort of advancement made on Earth. He proceeded with his usual business: he'd wrap up the area with his red strings, fish up another victim to feed off of, and then wait for someone to come and save him or until he got sucked back into the white hell.

It was like a second nature to him.

5 hours ago

As he got further into stringing up the crater he always popped out into, he noticed that something had launched itself from that strange house ship, hurtling towards Subcon Forest. Whatever it was, Moonjumper couldn't care.

Their loss.

~~~

And now the ship was moving towards that forest on Earth. Moonjumper couldn't make heads or tails of anything going on today.

Just continue on with making your web. Moonjumper thought to himself. Maybe someone else will take notice and come to rescue you.

5 minutes ago...

Moonjumper felt a slight dipping vibration occur in the middle of his webbing, startling him.

The portal shouldn't be open again, it's too early! Moonjumper freaked. He had to make sure it wasn't that.

He phased into his webs and flew towards the source of the vibration, calming down when he learned that it was just a chunk of moon rock.

That looked as though it was broken and thrown by something unnatural. He picked up the moon chunk and phased upwards to the surface, finding himself in front of a small hatted child and a large shadow spirit.

"Which one?" Moonjumper spoke softly to the duo in front of him, enraged by the prank they pulled. "Which one of you..."

"Threw. This. ROCK!!!"

Part 1/Part 2/Here/Part 4

#A Hat In Time #ahit prince #ahit snatcher #snatcher #ahit moonjumper #moonjumper #ahit hat kid #hat kid #ahit fanfic #fanfic

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eyesocketsandsuits · 5 years ago

Text

Her, Lost

In which, I finish a story I’ve spend a long while working on.

Enjoy.

On AO3. On FFn.

The rain that hit Paradise's head was freezing cold. By the time it dripped down her nose, it was warm as bathwater. That particular trick was only getting better every time it rained. Practice makes perfect.

People hurried by under umbrellas, leaving Paradise unbothered as she scoped out the street. This one had plenty of alleyways leading off it, and it wouldn't take much cajoling to get someone to help her. It was getting dark, too, so no one could get a good look at her face.

Paradise shook her head, soaked hair whipping her face.

Something shiny caught Paradise's eye on the other side of the street. She saw a man tuck something—silver? A phone?—into his pocket and turn down an alley.

Paradise grinned and crossed the street quickly, dodged around cars waiting at the red light, and ducked into the alleyway behind him. She rolled up her sleeves and followed.

Fire flicked into being over her skin.

"Hey," she said when she was behind him. Her voice sounded small, swallowed by the concrete and pouring rain. "Turn out your pockets or I'll set you on fire."

The man stopped walking. Turned his head slightly to look at her out of the corner of his eye. "I'm afraid I don't carry any cash on me."

His voice was like honey. Paradise nodded. "No one does. That wasn't the demand. Turn out your pockets give me your phone, whatever you have in there, and I won't set you on fire."

"I assume you're talking about this?"

He reached slowly into his pocket. When he removed it, an antique silver pocket watch hung from the end of a long chain. As quick as it had appeared, the watch flicked back into the man's hand, and he returned it into his pocket.

Paradise blinked. "That's it. Just put that watch on the ground and you can be on your way."

He turned to face her, slowly. "Or you'll burn me?"

"Horribly." Paradise waved her flaming hands around. "See?"

"I do see." The man rubbed his chin. "And what if I did this?" He splayed his hand.

The skin on Paradise's arms tingled, and she glanced down. The fire was gone. Panic flared in Paradise's mind, and she took a step backwards from the man.

He was going to hurt her. He was going to—

She froze the ground underneath his feet. She saw him stumble, and she froze the rain falling around them. It plummeted from the air like bullets.

The tingling on her arms disappeared. Paradise summoned the fire again and held her hands up. She would have to touch him if she was going to hurt him, catch that suit on fire. She took a deep breath—

"Hey!" he said, waving a hand. Then, he reached up and his face disappeared.

The breath left Paradise's lungs.

"You… Your…"

"I'm a skeleton?" he suggested.

Paradise felt the flames fizzle out. Her knees were weak. "Are you going to kill me?" Her voice was hoarse.

"No. Are you still going to mug me?"

All Paradise could do was shake her head no.

"Alright then, if we've come to an agreement." The man stood up and adjusted his tie. "I suppose I should introduce myself. I'm Skulduggery Pleasant."

Paradise couldn't look away from his eye sockets. The teeth. The jaw moving without muscle. "Okay."

Skulduggery nodded. How could those skinny vertebrae keep up his skull? "Do you have a name?"

Paradise just stared.

Skulduggery waved a hand. The rain seemed to hit an invisible barrier above, rolling down around the two of them and leaving them dry. He waved his hand again, and water lifted off of his clothes, collecting in the air around him.

"Usually," he said, seeming to focus on drying himself, "I introduce myself to people who already know I'm dead. I've forgotten how flattering it is to leave someone dumbstruck with my mere appearance—very few people are able to do that, let alone without hours of preparation."

"How…" Paradise cleared her throat. "How are you doing that?"

"This?" All the droplets surrounding Skulduggery morphed together to form a ball of water in front of him. "Magic. But I'm sure you've guessed as much. It's elemental magic, though I'm afraid this trick isn't nearly as impressive as your ice rain from earlier."

Paradise wished she could pull all the water from her clothes. She pushed her wet bangs away from her eyes. "You can't do that?"

Skulduggery let the water fall to the ground. "Hm. I suppose I've never thought about trying. May I?" He gestured with his hand. "It doesn't hurt."

"Well, yeah, it's just water, why would it hurt?"

Water lifted from Paradise's clothes, but fell to the ground instead of collecting in the air. She was almost disappointed.

"Do you have a name?" Skulduggery asked, tilting his head. "You don't have to share, of course. I am a complete stranger. Though, to be fair, you did try to mug me, so I feel I have the right to ask for your name."

Paradise wasn't sure why she hesitated. "You can call me Paradise."

Skulduggery's hand fell back by his side. He was wearing gloves. Maybe he was embarrassed by his bones. "Well, Paradise." He said her name as if he was testing out the syllables on his nonexistent tongue. "If you don't mind me asking, are you doing anything right now? I wouldn't want to intrude if you have other muggings planned—but if you are free, could I offer to buy you a slice of pizza?"

…

Paradise inhaled the pizza. It was the first food she'd tasted in almost three days. Skulduggery had bought them both two slices, but had given his up to her after she devoured both of her slices in five minutes.

"So," she said, taking a sip of Coke. "You can do…" She looked around and lowered her voice. "Magic, too?"

"For as long as I've lived." Skulduggery had put his face back on, and Paradise found it weird to talk to. Disingenuous, maybe. "There are many, many people who can do it. There's four cities where only people who can do it live."

"Nothing burns down?"

Skulduggery raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying that because you've burned something down?"

Paradise frowned. "I'm just saying you'd think a bunch of people running around with fire would burn some stuff down every once in a while. Even if they're small cities, there's always idiots."

"You being a someone who might have burned something down?"

"I've only burned people." She sat back and crossed her arms.

Skulduggery blinked. "You do have a point. However, there are other types of magic besides elemental."

"That's my type, right?"

"Indeed. It's not surprising; most people stick to elemental, especially if they're not formally taught. Although, you're curious in that you seem a natural with fire. I've only met a few people in my lifetime who could manipulate fire over large portions of their bodies without burning themselves."

Paradise sat up straighter. "So, what other type of—you know—is there?"

"The other main branch is necromancy, thought I don't recommend the discipline. Some people shoot energy, which is probably the next most common."

"Like lasers?"

"Exactly like lasers," Skulduggery said, flashing her a quick smile. He stood and gestured towards the door. "We can talk more freely outside. I'm afraid I might be being followed, so you'll forgive me for being cautious."

Paradise stood, followed, but paused at the doorway. She looked up and down the street, looking for any cars with tinted windows, any vans that had appeared at Skulduggery's exit.

"I'll keep the rain off," Skulduggery said.

"Is that air magic or water magic?" she asked and stepped out. The raindrops dripped down invisible glass around her.

"A bit of both." Skulduggery started walking, looking over his shoulder to see if she would follow.

Paradise did so, still eyeing the street. "What do you mean you're being followed?"

Skulduggery tilted his head, clicking a tongue he didn't have. "How do I put this? You know how I mentioned those four magical cities? There used to be seven."

Paradise looked at him.

Skulduggery kept his eyes forward. "There used to be the Sanctuary, which controlled magical affairs between mortals and mages. There were two sects of mages, those who liked the Sanctuary and tended to avoid mortals, and those who had a foot in both worlds."

"And?"

Skulduggery's mouth twitched into a smile. "And there was a war. Mages didn't like being policed by the Sanctuary, and there were incentives for the Cleavers—well, a lot of things. Accusations of a rigged court system, unfair taxes. So there was a riot. The Sanctuary was overthrown."

"Okay, but why are you being followed?"

"Well, I was on the losing side of our little war. However, I'm already dead, and they couldn't exactly keep me locked up because they didn't exactly have any proof I did anything, technically, so they're just waiting for me to do something incriminating."

"Did you do anything incriminating?"

Skulduggery held his hands in the air. "Was I around when illegal activities were ongoing? Definitely. But I'm also a detective, so it's rather inevitable."

Paradise made a face. "You're a detective? Mages have Garda?"

"Well, we did. Now it's… difficult. The new government is a little—guarded about police forces. About any force at all. However, I am still a detective. I'm investigating a case right now, even, so I still use the title, even if there's no associated police force behind it."

"So, like, do you investigate break-ins, or…"

"Something like that," Skulduggery said brightly. He turned to her and leaned against a car. "This is me."

Paradise blinked. "Oh. Oh, alright. Thank you for the pizza."

Skulduggery crossed his arms. "What are your plans after this, if you don't mind me asking."

Paradise inhaled sharply. "I dunno'." She shrugged one shoulder.

"My bet is that you'd be trying to find someplace out of the rain. Or perhaps trying to mug another defenseless skeleton? Either way, I'm going to talk to my friend, if you'd be interested in coming with me. He has a roof and makes a good cup of tea, and some expensive knickknacks if you're willing to poke around."

…

"Skulduggery."

The man who opened the door looked around like he was expecting someone else. He was huge, chest like a barrel and arms the size of Paradise's head. His hands were calloused and red. He wore a delicate pair of glasses.

"Omen," Skulduggery greeted cheerfully.

Omen adjusted his glasses and looked at Paradise. "Hey there." He held out a huge hand. "I'm Omen Darkly."

Paradise shook his hand; her fingers were wrapped in sandpaper. "I'm Paradise."

Omen nodded and looked back at Skulduggery. "I'll set on a kettle."

Omen's couch was the comfiest thing Paradise had ever sat on. She tried to bounce on it subtly. Skulduggery sat in the armchair, long legs crossed, skull gleaming. He was looking at his phone, head tilted.

Omen walked back into the room and handed Paradise a steaming cup of tea. "I added lots of sugar and milk, I hope that's okay. You looked cold." He sat in the remaining armchair. "Skulduggery," he said, a little too loud for the space. "To what do I owe the visit?"

Skulduggery didn't respond for a long second. Then, he slipped his phone back into his pocket and turned his skull to Omen. "Paradise needs a place to stay. She's helping me with an investigation."

"Is she?" Omen smiled at her before returning his gaze to Skulduggery. "Is there anything I should know about? I haven't heard from you since—well, you know. Never wasn't exactly amused."

Skulduggery waved a hand. "Completely unrelated. However, I do have to go into what used to be Roarhaven."

Omen's eyes flicked between Skulduggery and Paradise. "Alright. Can I ask what you're investigating?"

Skulduggery adjusted his tie and stood. "Did you ever wonder where China got her new leg from?"

Omen sat back in his chair, hands gripping his knees tightly. "Viable bodies recovered, of course."

Skulduggery tilted his head to a new angle. "You think so? Well, it's just a hunch, of course. Completely baseless, but still. I've seen it happen before, and there's no reason to believe it couldn't again, despite the new government." He walked to the front door. "I'll let myself out."

…

Paradise dug through the bathroom cabinets. She founds bandages and nail clippers, which she tucked away into her backpack. She also nipped a bottle of Motrin. Omen had shown her the bathroom and had been nice enough to give her an outfit to change into, a toothbrush, some toothpaste.

Paradise had scrubbed her hair until her scalp stung. Shampoo was readily enough available, but conditioner felt like liquid gold in her fingers. She had found a pair of scissors and given herself a trim.

The shirt swamped her, and the sweatpants she had to hold up with one hand. Omen's clothes smelled faintly of flowers.

She opened the door as quietly as she could, trying to keep her backpack from rattling. She padded into the hallway and turned away from where she heard Omen cooking. She walked down the hallway, towards the bedrooms.

The walls were covered in framed photos. Most of them were headlines from newspapers: Kangaroo Court Accusations, Magic Binding Sigils Inhumane?, Interview with a Cleaver. But there were photos of people too. One of Omen shaking an attractive woman's hand, of a woman in a suit hugging a younger Omen, one of a woman with long, dark hair sticking her tongue out at the camera.

"Paradise?"

She turned. "Just reading the newspapers."

Omen walked over. "And looking at the pictures?"

Paradise raised one shoulder in a shrug. "They're hanging on the wall. Seems like they'd be free look at." She looked back over the pictures. "Are any of these your girlfriend?"

Omen made a strange sort of coughing, hiccupping noise. "God, no. That one is China—"

"The one who lost her leg?"

"That's the one. China Sorrows. She used to be the former Grand Mage—er, leader of everyone. Head of the Sanctuary. I met her and she had this public ceremony thing to thank me for… some thing or another." Omen let out a little laugh. "Can't remember for the life of me. Terrifying woman."

Paradise stood on her toes and squinted at the picture. "She doesn't look that terrifying."

"I don't think she would have gotten much done if she looked as maniacal as she was," Omen said mildly. "That's Valkyrie Cain. She must have been, oh, thirty-five then. I think she and Skulduggery must have invited me along on something, and I got a picture of her on stakeout."

"Skulduggery knows her?"

Paradise took a closer look at the picture. Valkyrie was wearing a thick bomber jacket. She also had on a pair of sunglasses, despite it being pitch black around her. She had both her eyebrows raised over the edge of the glasses.

Omen hummed. "He does. I suppose you could say they were partners—detective partners. They were close."

"What happened to her?"

Omen reached out and adjusted her picture. His finger tapped the edge of the frame. "I don't think it's my place to say. I don't really know the full story. Last I heard, she had escaped the rebels and disappeared. She calls, of course, but I haven't seen her around, much."

Paradise frowned. "Why did the people who overthrew the Sanctuary capture her?"

Omen still gazed at the picture. "Long story."

Paradise made a face. "You can't just say that and not tell me more."

Omen glanced at her and gave a shrug that suggested there was nothing he could do about it.

Paradise rolled her eyes. "Alright, what about her? You guys are hugging."

Omen followed her gaze. "Them," he corrected. "That's Never. That's their name: Never. Weird when you first hear it. We must have been around eighteen then."

Paradise raised both eyebrows and leaned towards Omen. "And?"

"We were friends. Are." Omen shook his head, ever so slightly, like he wasn't even aware he was doing it. The lines on his forehead grew deeper with—what? Worry? "They're a teleporter."

"And…"

"And, well, I suppose you could say they're one of the leaders of the new government." Paradise looked at him. Omen's eyes were glued to the picture, his lips pressed together. He let out a little sigh and shook his head again. "I think the food is almost done."

Omen herded her into the kitchen—not hard to do when he took up almost the whole hallway—and had her sit down at the table. The smell made Paradise's mouth water. She sat up a bit in her seat to watch him cook.

Omen brought over a few dishes of food. "The only thing I can make reliably is breakfast food."

Paradise would have eaten horse if Omen had put that in front of her. Instead, it was scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. She ripped into it, making little sandwiches out of everything. For the second time today, she was full.

Omen sat back in his chair. Paradise's eyes flicked to him.

"Well," he said. "You've certainly asked me a lot of questions. I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about yourself."

She took a sip of orange juice, buying herself time. She set it down lightly, unused to glass. "You didn't answer all my questions."

Omen smiled. "You reserve the right to refuse to answer."

Paradise nodded. "Alright."

"How did you and Skulduggery meet?"

"I tried to mug him."

Omen looked appalled, mouth agape. "You're lucky he didn't shoot you."

Paradise frowned; it wasn't like she hadn't dealt with guns before. "I actually had the upper hand. He took off his—off his, you know." She gestured vaguely at her face. "And I was too shocked to set him on fire."

Omen gave her a weird look—amused, maybe? Curious? "Well, you've established you can do magic. How much do you know about that?"

Paradise held up her cup of juice. She concentrated, drawing the 'warm' out, and set the glass down upside-down, juice frozen solid. "I can do stuff like this. I didn't think anyone else could do it before today."

"Were your parents magic? Did they mention anything odd about their history? Act like they were trying to hide from something?"

Paradise raised one shoulder in a shrug. "My parents weren't exactly the sort to..."

Omen seemed to think about that. He looked at his cup of tea, eyebrows furrowed; she could see the gears turning in his head. Then, he looked back at her, expression soft. "How old are you, Paradise?"

She couldn't meet his gaze anymore. "Fifteen," she mumbled, eyes locked on her plate.

"Where were you staying?"

A hard question. She had stayed with Honey for a while, until that dick couldn't keep his hands to himself, and then she had squatted with a junky she knew, until she didn't come back with her drugs. Robert. That pimp who thought she was dumb, until she nicked his watch and cash from right under his nose.

"With friends," Paradise settled on.

Omen was quiet next to her for a long minute. "When did you discover your magic?"

"Like, three years back, I think? By accident. I panicked and I—" She snapped her mouth shut. She what? Set the house on fire?

"You're very talented for only having a few years of magic under your belt."

Paradise's hands shook. "Yeah, well. People don't keep their hands to themselves." She rolled back her sleeve and let fire burst into life around her arm. "It's useful." The flames flickered out of existence, and she dropped her hand back into her lap.

Omen's eyes were wide and sad; Paradise could feel his pity from here.

Paradise stood suddenly, the chair scraping loudly on the linoleum. "I'm tired. Is there somewhere I can sleep?"

…

Hands, hands, hands. Covering her mouth, her ears, her eyes, hands everywhere.

They followed her, grabbed at her heels, her wrists her hair her tongue her—

Please stop please stop please stop stop stop

…

Someone was knocking.

Paradise jumped, half-scrambled to her hands and knees. She didn't know where she was, a hotel room, motel room—

"Paradise?" the smooth voice said from the other side of the door. "It's Skulduggery."

Like she didn't know that. "Hold on!"

She jumped out of bed. It took her a few good shoves to move the dresser out of the way, the wood squeaking loudly on wood. By the time she got the door open, she was sweaty and out of breath.

"Hey," she said.

"Good morning," Skulduggery said. "Something giving you trouble?" he asked, voice amused.

"Uh, no, just a security measure." She patted the dresser next to her.

"Ah, I was worried you had gotten in a fight with it." He tilted his head, just a skull this morning. "I was wondering if you were interested in helping me out today. Nothing terribly difficult, just something I thought your street knowledge could come—" "Yes, I'm down."

"Excellent." Skulduggery handed her a shopping bag. "Omen told me he was giving your clothes a wash, so I took the liberty of buying you an outfit for the day. You can pay me back later, once you find something valuable Omen doesn't need."

Paradise showered again, paying special attention to scrub her face. She cleared away the condensation on the mirror and peered at herself. She wished she had makeup—even blue eyeshadow.

Paradise smiled at her own joke and got dressed.

Skulduggery had gotten her a sweatshirt, jeans, and pair of trainers. Everything was a little big, but he had also bought her a belt, so that was fine. She felt weird putting on the underwear he had gotten her.

She shouldered her backpack and walked into the living room, only to find Omen standing a few inches from Skulduggery, his words low and heated. As soon as Omen noticed Paradise, he stepped away from Skulduggery and smiled at her.

"Good morning. I made muffins."

Paradise's mouth watered at the thought. "You didn't have to."

Omen waved a hand. "The milk was about to go bad, anyway."

Skulduggery casually checked the time on his watch. "Ready to go?"

Paradise nodded. "Yeah."

Omen opened his mouth, but after he glanced at Paradise, he swallowed whatever it was he was going to say. Instead, he handed her a paper bag heavy with muffins, and wished her a good day.

As soon as Omen shut the door, Paradise looked at Skulduggery. "What were you guys arguing about?"

Skulduggery walked toward his car. "Hm?"

"I walked out of the bathroom and Omen looked pissed. What were you guys arguing about?"

"Omen seems to think I'm taking advantage of you, although I haven't the foggiest where he's getting that idea from, considering all I've done is bought you pizza and a sweatshirt. Here's a question: do you think I'm taking advantage of you?"

"No. Not yet, anyway."

Skulduggery's head snapped to look at her, but he didn't say anything. Paradise wondered if he was flustered.

"Where are we going?"

Skulduggery started the car. "Actually, I was hoping you could tell me that. You see, I have a sneaking suspicion about something, but I don't have many non-magical contacts. Have you heard about any disappearances on the streets? Anything out of the ordinary? At a higher rate?"

The car smelled like leather. "Uh. I don't really know that many people. I knew a junky who disappeared, but, uh, she wasn't the most reliable to begin with."

Skulduggery tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

"But I know someone who might."

…

"Paradise!"

Honey grabbed her in a bearhug. Paradise laughed and hugged her back, burying her face Honey's neck. She smelled like sweat and cheap perfume.

"I thought you were dead!" Honey held her at arm's length. "You really should have at least called on a phone, and look at what you're wearing, spin for me, that's not what you usually steal, you little pickpocket! But call me!"

Paradise held her hands up. "Sorry! I had a rough run there, for a bit."

Honey puckered her lips and raised an eyebrow. "And now?"

Paradise smiled. "I brought muffins."

Honey tossed her hair. "I guess I can forgive you if you promise to call next time, and you give me one."

Paradise gave Honey two muffins, sitting on the curb with her while she ate.

When Honey was finished, she gave Paradise a more thorough onceover. "That's not just a new style—those are new clothes. You workin' much, now?"

"Nah, I haven't worked in more than a year."

"Really?" Honey crossed her arms. "So, who was that guy who dropped you off, who thinks he's so sneaky standing on the other side of the street, pretending he has a phone call?"

Paradise followed Honey's gaze. "He's no one."

"I don't buy that for a hot second. I know you, Paradise. That suit? That car? He has your type written all over him. Did you forget about—"

Paradise felt her cheeks burn. "No, he's different. He's not—like that, at all. I don't think he's in the lifestyle, you—"

"All they give you is more knots in your brain and more heartbreak. They play you like a fiddle, Paradise. And whatever you did, now Donny's all over me and the other girls, tellin' us you're trouble, and to call him if we see you."

Paradise shut her eyes.

Honey let out a deep sigh and wrapped an arm around Paradise. "Yeah, yeah, I know, you little arsonist. I don't mean to get all over your business, you're your own girl, I just worry for you. Just be careful, yeah?"

"I am, Honey, I am…"

"Mhm. Well, this visit was nice, but Donny's gonna' be here for money soon." She climbed to her feet, heels clicking on the asphalt. There was a man—big old brute—who had appeared from an alley and was giving Honey the hard stare-down.

Paradise jumped up after her. "Wait, Honey, I have to ask you something," she said in a low voice.

Honey blinked. "Oh, okay."

"Have any—has anyone disappeared? Like, any of the girls, or anyone like that?"

Honey frowned, shuffled her feet, stole a glance at the man watching her. "We had a couple girls disappear, but I think Donny knows where they got off to, 'cause he doesn't seem concerned."

"Oh. Anything weird about them, at all?"

Honey bit her lip, thinking. "Just this girl Tammy."

"What about her?"

Honey tried to roll her eyes, and she gave a quick shrug, starting to walk away. "Oh, she was a junky, anyways—"

Paradise grabbed Honey's arm. It was covered in bruises, all around the elbow. "No, wait, Honey, please."

"Oh, she kept going on about these guys. Apparently, Donny brought her somewhere and she was drugged, but she kept swearing to me some guys were following her, buying her food, stuff like that. I thought she was losing it."

"But then she disappeared."

The man spoke: "Honey."

Honey pulled her arm out of Paradise's grasp, eyes downcast. "Yeah, I guess. I gotta' go, Paradise."

Paradise watched her go, guilt turning in her stomach. Oh, Honey. Paradise wish she could yell something, something helpful. Burn them, Honey. But what use was that? What use was she to anyone?

She jumped when Skulduggery placed a hand on her shoulder. He gestured toward his car, herding her across the street.

"Well?" he asked, once in the car. His face slid away, revealing the bone underneath.

Paradise buckled her seatbelt. "She didn't want to talk about it, really. But it sounds like some—some people she knows have gone missing, but she doesn't know where. There was this one girl, Tammy, who said that some men drugged her. She said that they were following her and buying her food, and then she disappeared, too."

Skulduggery hummed thoughtfully. "Thank you, this was very helpful."

He started the car and pulled into traffic.

Paradise watched his profile, weighing her words in her head. "Where's Valkyrie?"

His skull didn't move an inch. "Valkyrie Cain?"

Paradise nodded.

"I'm guessing Omen told you about her? Not surprising. How detailed did he get?"

"He said she was your partner, and that the new government had captured her, but he didn't get into details. She escaped. Where is she now?"

Skulduggery flicked on his turn signal. "Last she deigned to call me, somewhere in Italy."

Paradise stared at him. He sighed, even though he had no lungs to fill. Maybe it was to buy time. She did that a lot, too.

"It's unfair," he finally said. "The new government—the Contemporary Mage Council, pretentious name—decided to throw its new weight around. The Sanctuary was a functioning body, and like all functioning bodies, sometimes things need to be swept under the rug for the betterment of society, however wrong it may seem. In short, the Sanctuary was nuanced. The CMC, however, is as black and white as they can get."

"Where does Valkyrie come in?"

"I'm getting there. Remember how I said that the CMC doesn't have any incriminating evidence on me? Well, the same couldn't be said for Valkyrie. She… It's a long story, but she did some incriminating things, had a trial, and tried to move on with her life. That wasn't good enough for the CMC. So, they put her on trial again.

"A horrific display. They broadcasted the whole thing, dug up Sanctuary files and essentially made Valkyrie's case the face of corruption of the old Sanctuary. They brought in bribed witnesses, analyzed the first trial, and by the time they declared Valkyrie guilty, you would have thought she was the one running the Sanctuaries."

Paradise's blinked when Skulduggery didn't continue. It was quiet without his voice filling the car. "But she escaped."

"They were going to brand her with binding sigils."

Paradise ran over what he said. "So… she didn't escape by herself?"

"It was a prosecution, and some people took poorly to it. It's unclear how she escaped."

Paradise leaned forward. "So someone did help."

Skulduggery chuckled, more to himself than to Paradise. "Anyways, eventually the powers that be came to their senses and realized maybe they shouldn't brand her. And some of us still followed the laws, and Valkyrie, guilty as they may have declared her, was absolved of jail time or punishment."

"Why isn't she with you?"

Skulduggery's body language stilled suddenly. Paradise hadn't even been aware of his subtle movements until they vanished.

They were quiet for the rest of the ride until Skulduggery pulled in front of Omen's house.

"I'm afraid I have to drop you off again." At least Skulduggery sounded genuinely apologetic. "However, I can guarantee you'll see me before tomorrow."

"Promise?"

…

Omen was out. He had left money on the counter for pizza, but she pocketed that and rummaged through the cabinets for food. Then, she locked herself in her room, dresser in front of the door. She took out her dictionary and book from her backpack, settled into bed, and read.

Pride and Prejudice was her favorite book she had read so far. She had stolen it four months ago and was only a quarter of the way through, maybe less. Every few words, she would have to flip through her dictionary and find a definition, then reread the sentence to get the meaning. It was frustratingly satisfying.

After two hours, she got up for a pee break. She pushed the dresser out of the way, wincing at the scrapes it was leaving on the hardwood, and stepped into the hallway.

Valkyrie stuck her tongue out at Paradise from the wall.

Paradise stopped and looked up at her. She didn't look like she was dangerous enough to need two trials. She looked like she could run in high heels, and make Skulduggery laugh, and could read Pride and Prejudice without a dictionary.

"You're a lot like her, you know."

Paradise jumped and whipped around to find Omen. Her heart pounded against her chest, so she took a few calming breaths. She was safe, she was fine. "I don't look anything like her."

Omen smiled. "Same color hair, actually. But I meant more personality-wise."

"What was she like?"

"Guarded. Curious." Omen walked over to her and looked at the picture.

"Skulduggery told me more about her. She was on trial, right? What did she do—the first time, I mean."

Omen sighed. "Valkyrie was an extremely powerful mage. Perhaps too powerful, for someone so young. Her mind cracked, and she went 'rogue' for a while. The reports are confusing, and Skulduggery insists one thing, logic another."

"Oh." Paradise looked away from the photo. "Are you magic?"

"Me?" Omen glanced at her and grinned. "I'm what they call the strongest man in the world. I take energy from damage—like someone punching me—and turn it against them. The more someone hits me, the stronger I become. I can store it, too."

"That's terrifying."

"Good thing I'm a pacifist, hm?"

The strongest person in the world. Paradise thought about someone lifting her in the air, beating against his back, screaming, kicking, feeling small.

Omen was looking at her, eyebrows raised. "You don't think so?"

Paradise shrugged. "Well, what if you could make a difference, you know? What if that war or whatever, what if you could have helped the good guys, and less people died because of you? What if you not doing anything actually fucked other people over?"

"And what if I chose the wrong side?"

"Just don't chose the wrong side."

It was getting dark outside. Long shadows stretched across the warm, wood floors of Omen's house, dust motes hung in the air. Omen hadn't implied Skulduggery was going to show up any time soon. Paradise picked at a scab on her finger.

Omen was looking at the picture of him and Never, face blank. Well, maybe he had picked the wrong side, already. Maybe he was afraid of doing it again.

She looked at her hands. If she was Omen, she wouldn't pick the wrong side. She would pick whatever side she wanted to, and no one could tell her what to do if she was the strongest person in the world. No one could ever tell her what to do ever again.

"If I were you," she said hotly, "I wouldn't pick the wrong side. I wouldn't waste it."

Omen turned to her, so fast she flinched backwards towards her room. "You sound like Skulduggery."

Paradise retreated back behind the dresser.

…

She felt warm leather, craned her neck around the headrest in front of her. She was in the backseat, and whoever was driving was laughing, far, far away, down a tunnel. She tasted blood in her mouth.

Let me out, she said.

Please, please, please let me out.

She was sitting in blood, her blood, everywhere, all over the seats.

Please let me out, please let me out please

…

Paradise stared at the wall, blinking. How did she get here? She looked down and saw her book crumpled under her.

There it was, that tapping.

Paradise threw herself out of bed and scrambled to the window. Skulduggery was perched on the windowsill, examining his gloves instead of his nails. Paradise opened the door, breathless. "How did you get up here?" she asked, words tumbling out of her mouth.

Skulduggery said: "Let me show you."

He held out his hand. Paradise took it, and suddenly she was floating in the air. She kicked her legs as Skulduggery gently tugged her out the window into the damp, night air. The two of them floated down to the ground like two lost balloons.

"You know," Skulduggery said, "that's the first time I've seen you smile."

Paradise struggled to wipe her face clean of emotion, but she found herself breaking into another big grin. "That's the first time I've ever flown." She looked up at Omen's window, high above them. That would have meant a broken leg, in another life. What she wouldn't give to have been able to fly away.

"I'm sorry for being late," Skulduggery continued. "But I need your help with something."

Paradise nodded, expecting Skulduggery to explain. Instead, he put his hands in his pockets and looked around, almost nervous, like he was looking for someone. Or was afraid someone was looking for him.

"What?" Paradise finally asked.

"It's not entirely… safe, this thing I need your help with. In fact, it is most definitely not safe. It is firmly in the category of not safe. I wouldn't want to…"

Paradise raised an eyebrow. "Why am I out here, then?"

Skulduggery looked at her, hollow eye sockets and grinning teeth. "I think they have Honey."

Paradise felt her heart drop to her knees, and she felt sick. "What do you mean?"

"After I dropped you off, I walked around until I found Honey. I had the sneaking suspicion that she was forced to tell—well, someone about you asking after the women that disappeared. Later that day, a car pulled up and she got inside. I followed to a decrepit building, but I wasn't able to gain access."

Paradise felt unsteady. "Why are they taking people?"

If Skulduggery saw her swaying, he didn't say anything about it. He led her to his car and opened the door for her, giving her shoulder a squeeze as she got inside. Once he pulled out onto the street, he continued: "Science has advanced at frightening speed with assistance from magic. Or maybe it's the other way around. Doctors can heal most things: sepsis, broken backs, cracked teeth. They cannot, however, regrow flesh and bone without the raw material. War happens to subtract a lot of raw material—"

"They're going to use Honey like a spare tire." Paradise almost didn't recognize her voice. It bounced off the car window and sounded very empty. "Like China's leg."

Skulduggery didn't respond for a long moment. "Yes, I suppose."

"What are we going to do?"

"Break in, and then break everyone out."

Paradise brought her knees up to her chin. She felt like crying. She always felt like crying. She took long, deep breaths, clenched her fists, so hard her nails dug into her skin, and looked blankly at the streetlights that flashed into the car.

She thought of Honey, of Honey laughing, of Honey applying eyeshadow, of Honey stretching her right shoulder, the one that had never been the same since she had been nearly hauled away at three in the morning, Paradise screaming.

Paradise thought of hands.

"Why are people so awful?" she asked. "Why is everything always so awful?"

"I—"

Paradise turned to him. "I'm going to burn them."

Skulduggery's face was so blank, and for the first time, Paradise wished he wasn't a skeleton. "That's exactly what I was hoping for. I'm going to bring you in and say you're here to be harvested. They're going to take you away, and your going to cause havoc. Get as many people out as you can, and I'll do the same."

…

Paradise was expecting a warehouse, a hospital, but it was like any other crackhole. Broken up windows, shingles on the ground, bare dirt. Not even enough life for the weeds, here. Skulduggery had parked a few blocks back, before any lookouts.

She followed behind him, eyes downcast. She pretended to be afraid, pretended to be like how she was before, when she was still small and stupid and weak. Something like this would have been scary. This was the type of place girls went to and never came back.

A junkie was lounging on the steps, and he barely raised his head when Skulduggery and Paradise neared. He looked have dead. He didn't even move when Skulduggery toed him. He didn't move until Skulduggery grabbed Paradise's arm and pulled her—not roughly, but firmly—in front of him.

"Girl?" the junkie asked.

"Yes. I expect—"

The junkie flashed forward, so fast Paradise didn't even flinch back. His hands felt like they were made of cold iron as they gripped her and dragged her up the stairs of the house, pulled her even when her feet caught on the steps and she half fell. He dragged her into the house, so, so fast.

Paradise squirmed, throat so tight she couldn't even speak. She wasn't afraid, she was pretending, she was pretending, Skulduggery was pounding on the door, and then she finally managed to sob out a scream.

The junkie slapped his hand over her mouth, nails digging into her cheek. She still hadn't gotten her feet underneath her. The junkie pulled her up by her arm, pressed her back against his chest, and cocked her head to the side. His nose pressed into the side of her neck, and she couldn't even see him, see his face, she just saw the door he pulled her through, felt his hands on her, felt him against her back.

"Christ," a new voice asked. "What do we even pay this guy for? Hey, fuckhead! Hands off the merchandise!"

Suddenly, Paradise was on the ground, staring up at the ceiling. The junkie stood over her, head tilted to the side. He wasn't a junkie. He wasn't anything of the sort. He smiled at her, teeth as sharp as razor blades.

The owner of the voice came into her field of vision. "Off, shoo. Go lay on the porch and pay the fucker who brought her in. Go on. Go on." Then, he looked down at her. "Hey there, princess. Come on, up you go. Everything's alright, just stay nice and quiet."

He didn't so much as help her to her feet, he just grabbed her and hauled her upright. They were in a living room, and there were ratty couches and a pool table, and men lounging around and smoking. She didn't even look at her as she was led away, down a corridor, past a kitchen, maybe, she couldn't—

"Come on," the man said, gripping the back of her neck and marching her past, forcing her to look down at her feet.

There wasn't a carpet, just—

Wood.

Then, she tripped when he led her into a staircase.

"Fuck, can you walk?"

Her marched up one flight, two, three, four. The house couldn't have been this tall, could it? That didn't make sense, it wouldn't have been able to—

"Almost there, princess."

He was still holding on to the back of her neck, she could feel the grime on his fingers, feel his breath, the smell cigarettes on his breath, she couldn't do this, she couldn't play along, she was back here, it was all a trick.

Skulduggery had lied to her. He wasn't going to come and get her. She was going to die here. She was going to be—

Her eyes burned. Was she crying? She didn't want to cry.

She didn't want to be here anymore. She didn't want to be anywhere anymore.

"Get off of me."

The man didn't even respond. He grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. He was fumbling for keys to a room, chewing on his lips, distracted.

"Get off of me!"

Paradise erupted into flames. It devoured her clothes, the wood underneath her, her sneakers bubbled into a puddle of rubber. The man screamed as he caught fire, clothes burning, skin alive and red, black at the edges. He teetered away from her, shrieking, but Paradise gave him a shove. As she did, the rest of him went up like a match.

Paradise watched him writhe on the ground, kicking and crying out. Paradise watched his eyeballs burst. Watched him die.

The fire was spreading. It ate away at the molding wallpaper and rotting hardwood. Paradise wheeled around, looking for the way she had come, for stairs, anything. She took off running down the long hallway, each footfall an eruption of new of flame.

The smoke billowed from behind her, filling her throat with ash and making her eyes sting. She didn't see the turn in the hall and slammed into a door. It disintegrated under her touch. A foul smelled rolled out of the room behind.

Paradise couldn't stop herself from seeing inside.

There was a woman with too many arms. Arms growing out of her chest, of her back, of her thigh, wiggling, twitching.

The woman looked at Paradise and screamed.

Paradise stumbled away from the door, continuing down the hall, panting, sobbing. She hit a banister, slammed right into it, driving the breath from her lungs. There was an empty space in the center of the building. Each floor wrapped around it like a hotel, rooms lining the walls.

Paradise looked down to the floor below and saw men hurriedly unlocking doors and ushering people out.

Honey.

"Honey!" Paradise screamed. "Honey where are you?"

The floor gave out from underneath her feet. Paradise slammed into the next floor, rolled, saw the hole burning above her head, crawled on her hands and knees, half-ran even as plaster and beams of wood continued to fall around her. She hit every door, slammed into it with her shoulder, frantically looking inside.

A woman with eyeballs all over her face, another with breasts growing all over her, another crying and coughing, clawing at her chest, wheezing, another with hands hands hands.

Paradise sobbed, feeling her tears evaporate in the heat rippling off her body. A woman stumbled into her path and reached out, arm growing from her chest, trying to catch her balance. Her arm—one of them—came too close to Paradise and she shrieked and pulled back as it melted to the bone.

Paradise sprinted, slammed into another turn of the hallway, and tumbled. She thought for a split second the floor had given out again, until her cheek smashed into a stair. She had fallen down a stairwell. She coughed and pushed a hand underneath her head and managed to push herself up.

The whole world was fire and smoke. It rolled around her like she was in the middle of a sea of flame.

She was on her feet now, though she didn't remember standing up. She had to get out, she had to keep going. Her throat was raw, her chest hurt, all of her hurt. She couldn't run, she could only stumble, hands trailing along the wallpaper.

Suddenly, the walls peeled away from around her. She was in the middle of the building, the open area. She spun, looking at the chaos around her.

"Paradise?"

Paradise turned. Valkyrie Cain looked back at her, hair tied back, wearing a leather jacket and a concerned expression on her face.

"Valkyrie," Paradise breathed.

The fire on her skin died. She felt cold without it.

She fell to her knees.

…

Waves below her. It was misty here. Paradise breathed it in, felt the wet in her lungs. She was sitting, legs swinging into empty space. Someone had smashed their knee on the rocks here.

Your dreams aren't happy.

Valkyrie Cain was standing next to her. There was a lamppost behind, casting a yellow light, an outline.

No, they're not.

What do you want?

Nothing.

…

Paradise woke up slowly, drowsily, in fits and starts. She wanted to sink back down, but she couldn't, she had to get up.

She sat up, aching. Her chest hurt, her head hurt, she was full of pain. And exhausted. It felt like she hadn't stopped running in weeks and weeks. She stretched out the kinks in her back and stood, knees cracking.

She was in her room in Omen's house but dressed in unfamiliar women's pajamas. She found her old clothes washed and folded neatly in the dresser, as well as another outfit that looked her size. She changed into her old clothes, shoved everything in her backpack, and opened the door slowly.

She crept out, quiet as a mouse, until she could hear voices in the living room.

"Fucking ridiculous," Valkyrie said.

"What was I supposed to—"

"Don't even pretend like any of this was out of your hands. Don't you dare."

"Was I supposed to let them keep kidnapping women and children? Was I supposed to predict you would be in the area?"

"Do I really need to be in the area for you to behave, Skulduggery?! Jesus Christ, she's a kid! She's a kid and you, you… Just fucking hell. And don't even get me started with the CMC. They are going to grind you to dust."

"For a human-trafficking ring most of their agents bought from and endorsed? I highly doubt it."

"And how about endangerment? What the fuck is she even supposed to be? My replacement?! She almost killed herself, not to mention nearly brought the whole place down on your head. There were fifteen deaths because you brought her into that rat's nest!"

Paradise began to creep away, testing each step before placing her weight.

"The building was on the verge of collapse—"

"Oh my God!"

"I wasn't trying to kill anyone, for God's sake, Valkyrie! I was trying to help, I thought—"

She was almost at her room.

"What? That you could just throw minors into life-or-death situations and they'll roll with the punches? Fuck, Skulduggery! You want another me? You want to have another person who hates you for what you did?!"

The silence rang in Paradise's ears like a gunshot.

"You hate me?"

Paradise shut the door and let out a shaky breath.

She grabbed her backpack and opened the window. It was raining again, gently. She swung one leg over the sill, dropped down until her weight was supported solely by her fingers, then let go.

Paradise tiled her face up, let the raindrops wash over her.

#skulduggery pleasant #valkyrie cain #skulduggery pleasant fanfiction #sp fanfiction #writing #traffic

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sanguinesixx · 6 years ago

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cat and mouse - four

You lose your hand.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Five, Part Six

Sorry this was gone for so long! I hope this is as good as the original chapter. Thank you for your patience, guys. <3.

Danielle does not like you to mope. Especially not over boys, so it’s truly no surprise when she drags you to a concert. Except for the fact it’s literally the one concert you’d rather die than go to.

She’s excited like she is for all of their concerts, flitting around the apartment and picking our outfits. She says she prefers you with less makeup, so it’s kept minimal, and your outfit is casual with a chain belt. Nothing compared to Danielle, who lives for flashy. It suits her well.

It’s cold out despite your jeans as you and Danielle make your way to the venue. It’s mostly quiet minus the clacking of her heels on the concrete until she asks: “So, are you ever gonna tell me what happened between you and Nikki?”

You shrug. The million dollar question. Maybe you would if it was less humiliating. She’s so graceful and charming that telling her about what happened seems scarier than it should be. She’s your best friend after all, but you’re not ready to talk about it.

The venue is stifling and smells like a hot room full of people who haven’t showered. Fitting. You’re a little late because the band is already on stage performing the first song in the line up. You and Danielle hang out towards the back for thirty seconds maximum before she’s dragging you close to the stage so that Tommy can see her. He spots her and gives her a blinding smile, then sees you, double takes, and then gives you a smile that somehow outshines Danielle’s. The tension in your chest dissolves, and it’s easier to enjoy the music despite the eyes coming from the left side of the stage burning a hole through you.

—

“Where the fuck have you been, man?” Tommy greets you backstage with a bone crushing hug matching the one he gave Danielle. The hug is warm and comforting. He smells like sweat and weed. His pupils are blown.

You and Danielle hit backstage as soon as the set ended. Your heart was going to beat out of your chest at the thought of seeing the boys, but mainly Nikki. If he was gonna be backstage with everyone else, you kinda didn’t want to be there, but you knew you had to stop being a baby and make up with him already. You did kinda miss him.

“Around.” You shrug, grinning back at him. Danielle wraps a protective arm around your waist.

“I missed you, dumbass!” Tommy ruffles your hair affectionately. “Don’t disappear on us like that again, ‘kay? Nikki misses you, he’s in a piss-poor mood constantly now.”

You tense involuntarily. Nikki was still a touchy subject for you, regardless of your intentions to talk to him. Less so now because of what he said, and more so now that you had such a dramatic reaction and were embarrassed for overreacting. Logically, you know it was just humiliation and alcohol, which, in your case, was never a good mix, but something kept nagging at the corner of your brain anyway.

Your smile comes out a little tight. Tommy notices immediately and pales. Danielle just rubs soothing circles on your shoulder.

He opens and closes his mouth a couple times before apparently deciding on, “Hey...I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you knew about all that.”

A look of confusion cements itself on your face. “Of course I did.” You were literally there.

Tommy grimaces. “Look, okay, if I had known he was making bets like that about you then I would’ve told you, man. I just didn’t think he was shitty enough to actually make bets about whether or not he could screw you. Just didn’t seem like him.”

The air is sucked out of the room. A stone drops into the pit of your stomach. “He what?”

Danielle blinks slowly, running a hand over her curls a few times before saying lowly, “I’m really gonna kill him this time.”

“Tommy, what are you talking about?” You ask, voice small. It feels as if someone has dumped a bucket of ice water on you and stuck you outside in the wind. There’s no way you heard him right.

“Oh, fuck me, I thought you knew.”

“Did you just say he was making bets about whether or not he could fuck me?”

Danielle swears. “Let’s just go back to the apartment, yeah? Tommy, you coming with? If so, bring the boys. I don’t have to say sans Nikki but if you bring him I’ll kill you both.”

You let Danielle guide you away on shaky legs, manicured hand rubbing your back, head spinning with angry thoughts of betrayal.

The air outside is freezing by now. You barely remember making it from the venue to your apartment, but Danielle has you sat on the couch while she makes you some kind of drink in the kitchen.

“Hey, bug.” she says, suddenly in front of you. She carefully sets a steaming mug and a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table in front of you. Her use of her childhood nickname for you settles a warm, comfortable blanket over the thoughts in your head like magic. “It’s just a hotty toddy, but if you want to get drunk we can always do that, too.”

You shake your head and curl into her lap, head resting on her thighs. She lights a cigarette and turns on the T.V. before beginning to gently run her fingers through your hair. You fall asleep to the noise from the news and Danielle’s soothing touch.

Your apartment is foggy with cigarette and weed smoke. A cigarette balances between your pointer and middle finger, haze swirling up to join the rest of the cloud collecting at the ceiling. You take a long drag and, upon exhale, attempt to blow it as hard as you can to cover the staticky face of the weatherman on television.

“Vince,” you say, blowing the rest of the smoke out of your lungs. “Will you get me a beer?”

You’re curled up between Danielle and Tommy. You have your head on Danielle’s shoulder and your feet on Tommy’s lap. Vince is sitting on Danielle’s end of the couch, finishing off a Heineken. Mick is gone.

“Yeah, sure, kid.” Vince’s back cracks loudly as he stands to stretch languidly. He moves to the kitchen slowly, the fog of his high undoubtedly weighing him down.

You almost reach for the joint in Danielle’s hand, but don’t, remembering the last time you got high two weeks ago when the thoughts of Nikki began to constrict your chest. Maybe the weed should relax you, but all it does is make the thoughts about him harder to filter.

Vince saunters back into the living room. “How’s pizza sound?” Everyone makes a noise of approval so Vince makes his way back to the kitchen to order.

It’d been two months since Tommy had dropped the bomb on you. You’d never felt so naive and embarrassed before. You hadn’t talked to Nikki since, except to tell him to fuck off when he showed up at the diner to beg you to talk to him. Sometimes he’d show up at the apartment, too, and either Danielle or one of the boys would ask him to leave.

More often than not, though, he’d call. Danielle answers all the calls now before handing the phone to you in case it’s Nikki. You’re lucky that your friends are allowing you space and not asking you to forgive him, even though it probably causes considerable strain. Especially on the band.

One day, Tommy had actually broken his nose. Nikki showed up late for practice, high as balls, spouting nonsense and total bullshit, some supposedly about you. So, Tommy threw a right hook and cracked Nikki’s nose before leaving for your place.

Most of your time was now spent with Tommy and Danielle. When Danielle was at work, Tommy would be there to keep you company. When Tommy had plans, Danielle would drink wine with you and tuck you in bed when you inevitably got too drunk. Dani would pick up shifts to work with you, even. Sometimes Vince and Mick would come over and you would all drink and smoke and pass out until the next day.

The new routine was comfortable. You liked the constant company of your friends, the weed and the wine, and the consistent flow of takeout. When you really thought about it, though, something was missing.

Nikki, unfortunately, was undeniably a gaping hole in the little schedule you’d settled into. No matter how much smoke you produced to haze out the apartment, regardless of which of your friends soothed the burn enough for you to manage it, you felt the lack of his presence like a hot fire in your chest every day.

You call him.

The ‘5′ and ‘2′ buttons are sticky. You pause before dialing, taking a deep breath. The ringing nauseates you. Anxiety coils in your stomach like a boa, until he answers, “Hello?”

Your chest explodes in some emotion you can’t identify at the sound of his voice, filtered through the crackling of the line. You feel raw, exposed. The thought of hanging up tickles the back of your mind. Maybe you can’t do this, after all. The hollow feeling in your chest expands.

“Hi, Nikki.”

#cat and mouse #my writing #nikki sixx #the dirt #motley crue #vince neil #mick mars #tommy lee #fanfic

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the-ravens-requiem · 5 years ago

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The Wolf

In the dark, the trees looked like fingers reaching upwards into an abyss glittering with countless unblinking eyes. The footsteps of a lone, weary traveler were swallowed by the snow -- all but silenced in the freezing air of deep winter.

Somewhere in the haze of consciousness between wolf and man, the traveler knew the sun would rise in a few hours time. The pain of his wounds propelled him ever forwards, limping through the chilly night. The trees loomed over him, shielding his furry body from the unforgiving wind. His large paws were matted with ice, and still he trudged ever onwards. Winding his form through the thicket of tall trees, feeling the eyes of the stars on him in the dark. The trees thin as time passes, and the moon remains high.

Soon, the wolf found himself upon a clearing -- a welcome sight after hours upon hours of seeing only the forest. He beholds a lake before him, stilled by winter's breath.

The wind howled over the glassy water, a silvery mirror which held the face of the full moon in all of her beautiful glory. He could see a light far off in the distance, through the trees.

The wolf picked his head up and sniffed the air, smelling the ash of a fireplace and burning oil on the wind. It's the warm, familiar scent of civilization to the man -- but the wolf paced anxiously by the waterside nevertheless.

It reminded him of the torch that he beheld this very night, and the slash of the dagger at his hide. The pain bubbles up again, spilling red onto the white powder beneath his form. The wolf’s black shadow stretched across the blank expanse of snow in front of him. It reaches for the new tree-line of the forest, but he does not move to meet it -- hesitating on the frozen water's edge.

The moon illuminated the night as the lone weary traveler fixed his wild gaze upon that warm glow in the distance. Something beckoned him towards it, despite his superstitions -- his pain-shaken legs urging him along. One great paw in front of the other, until he could make out the source of the light more clearly. The darkness of the quiet night seemed to lean over him, drawing closer. As if to clasp its claws around him and snuff the life out like the flame of a candle.

The wolf saw before him a strange little cottage made of stone and wood nestled between the trees. The terrifying fingers that reached and scratched towards the heavens are more akin to a loving cradle, here. A hand; A palm cupping the timber-framed home with such gentle care -- as if tamed and pacified by some unseen force of nature.

The traveler knew he should not get closer, but he found himself nearly half-way up the path before he was able to shake himself free of his reverie.

Could it be he had gone too far and arrived in the Feywilds of the far west already? Even so, he could not bring himself to care in the moment, his body feeling so heavy with sleepiness and pain. The throbbing in his side forced his normally graceful gait to turn into a shamble as the wolf made his way towards the front door of the cottage.

The traveler did not know what to think of his current situation -- only that the pain made it hard to stay conscious, and that he desperately needed to rest. The fire of his blood had been reduced to embers, and he had grown weary from his wounds. The biting chill of the air made his every movement feel like his very limbs were made of stone. He prayed to his god that whomever lived so deep in these cursed woods would not chase him off -- That perhaps they would simply leave him alone to rest and lick his wounds in the cold shadow of their home, and nothing more.

The traveler collapsed upon the covered stone steps, his lithe body slamming into the heavy wooden door. Whimpering, he curled up against himself and settled on the unforgiving stone. He resigned himself to a few hours of painful sleep shielded from the wind, and tried his best to relax.

Much to his surprise and dismay, there was a sudden clatter -- and the door opened! A blast of warm air with the ash and burning oil he had smelled on the wind assaulting his senses. The wolf yelped and scrambled away from the door in panic and fear as a dark entity loomed in the threshold, holding up an iron lantern from one of its gangling limbs.

It was a tall figure with a strange countenance -- its face like a bird but its body like that of a medium sized creature, shaped much like a human, orc, or elf -- perhaps even a tiefling, if one could see its legs beneath the heavy cloak it seemed to be wearing.

Looking at it through the wolf’s eyes, the traveler swore that the edges of its form were blurry. Perhaps it was only the delirium of pain — but still. The wolf stood in its shadow, which reached long past the stone stairs which lead into the cottage. Its presence felt off, somehow; As if looking into a dark void. Despite the contrary, the wolf felt the fear begin to melt away.

Its eyes glinted red in the low flame of its lantern, shining oddly as its head turned in what the man interpreted as curiosity.

"Are you hurt, friend?" It muttered, though the beak did not move. "Come inside. I can help you." It moved backwards into the doorway, the sound of the lantern's hinges creaking as the figure opened it to let more light shine out.

The lantern revealed the horrible bird-face of the creature to be, in fact, a mask of some kind -- though what purpose it served eluded the man. The wolf hesitantly entered the cottage at the behest of the beckoning hand of the masked figure. He shivered with pain and cold as he watched the figure light more candles around the home, revealing the place to be some sort of storage-house or shop. There were wooden crates and shelves filled with plant cuttings, as well as glass bottles and jars of various sizes and colors.

"If you will excuse me a moment, I must get my bag." The masked figure mumbled. "Wait there." It gestured to the western part of the house — which featured a blazing fireplace, as well as shelves and tables full of leather bound books. The wolf came upon a soft rug that spread from the middle of the room and stretched himself out on it, gently avoiding pressure on his left side.

The entity arrived soon after, bag in hand. It clucked its tongue in dismay as it looked upon his ragged form, no doubt able to see the terrible gash which caused the wolf such pain. "I see you're quite injured. Not to worry -- I will patch you up, good as new." The figure leans down, their impossibly tall frame looming over the form of the wolf. They seem to get down to their knees then, settling their large black bag beside them.

"You will have to forgive me, friend. I was not ready to receive company when I first heard you upon my steps. I apologize for leaving you in the cold as I...Gathered myself to be more...Presentable for company." The wolf feels a leather-clad hand caress down his side, narrowly avoiding the stain of red against his tawny fur. He flinches, but does not move to stand again. "What's more, I am sorry that this procedure to heal your wound will be slightly painful."

The wolf whimpers, but the man understands. If the cut is deep, it will need to be closed either through flame or thread. The bleeding has made him feel weak and emptier, as well as lighter in his head. The warmth of the room and the promise of safety in the kind entities' voice makes his body feel heavy, makes him feel like it's difficult to stay awake.

The traveler lifts his head to watch the figure with the mask dig around in their black bag, who then produces two small jars, a glass bottle, and a needle and thread. To show his compliance and resignation, the wolf lowers his head again, resting it upon the ever-so soft rug. A faint puff of air escapes between the sharp teeth.

The traveler fixes his eyes on the fireplace, lulled into calm by the flickering flames that lick up towards the stones above. He thinks of the reaching trees, and the silver mirror of the lake nearby. The quiet blanket of the snow as he trudged through the underbrush this very night.

The bird-masked caretaker begins their task, brushing away the wet and matted fur from the wound before pouring the contents of the glass bottle over it. The wolf yelps, but the caretaker runs a soothing hand over his haunch, waiting for him to relax before starting again.

The gloved hands are always kind, always soft -- always soothing. Gentle, slow. Practiced. There is never any hesitation or shaking of the fingers.

The traveler wasn't sure if it was some sort of magic or alchemy which numbed the pain, but the suturing process seemed over in no-time. He flopped over in relief as soon as the caretaker told him their work was finished.

"There we are, my friend. I hope that is better. You may rest here as long as you like. I will keep the fire going through the night." The caretaker gathers up their things and places them on a nearby table atop a stack of books. "Perhaps you are you hungry? I'm sure I have something suitable for you to eat somewhere around here..." The figure stands,, but stops in their tracks as soon as they see the wolf beginning to struggle to stand. "Oh --"

The beast struggles as he gathers himself up, stubbornly getting upright even as the caretaker holds their hands in a placating gesture and pleading quietly for them to stop. There is a brief moment of silence before a deafening crack fills the room. The wolf leans down on its front paws, bowing its head as his spine shutters -- the bones of his legs caving under the pressure.

The caretaker stills, hands falling to their sides. They watch wordlessly as the wolf shifts into a different form, struggling still even as their bones snap into different positions and their flesh stretches unnaturally.

A few moments later, a shivering man is where the wolf once lay -- groaning in effort and pain. The young man struggles to sit upright with the weight of the heavy fur cloak on his shoulders before he gently slides it off, letting it fall to the ground.

"...I-I'm sorry, witch. I have nothing to repay you for your kindness on this night." He wheezes, his young voice thick with an accent from the Eastern coast. He bats away a long strand of hair from his paint-stained face before briefly inspecting his side, running calloused fingers over the delicate stitching which closed his wound. There is a tear in the dark fabric of his tunic there, which makes the man sigh with a measure of disappointment.

The masked figure does not move, looking very much like a statue which has had the misfortune of being placed in the middle of a room. "Ahh, I see. You are a shifter. I thought I sensed Wild Magic, but I was not certain of its origin."

"I am." The man answers, struggling to his feet. "I could not risk changing with the wound open -- for fear of making it worse, you see. I also apologize for any trickery you may feel I have employed. I know I am not just a simple wolf that you have invited into your home. I will take my leave at once, should you so desire." His words are stilted, as if remembering the correct pronunciations and the order in which to form them. It is a recognizable mark of one unused to speaking Common.

"No, it's fine." The figure mumbles, "And I am no witch, traveler. I am an alchemist. You have no need to repay me for my services." They lean in, as if telling a secret. "I think it is a grievance to charge for one's natural talents, and especially as my treatment tonight was not entered into as a transaction."

"Forgive me, alchemist. I simply must do something to repay you -- You have been the first to treat me with such kindness in these strange lands. What can I offer you?"

The alchemists' head tilts to the side. "A gift? I would be careful of whom you offer gifts to, traveler. There are those who would consider it a debt, or worse -- a contract.” They pause for a moment. “I am familiar with such well-meant pleas however, but I would never offer a suggestion outright. That implies a transaction, as well. You are free to do as you like.. I have been given many things...Of all sorts -- from simple gold, objects with sentimental value -- to stories retold in excited whispers; All have been satisfactory."

"I -- " The man begins, his hands reaching for a pouch on his belt. "I don't have much, and I'm not sure if a mere story suits your kindness --"

"Why don't you tell me the reason you are so far from home, traveler? That is bound to be an interesting tale. I will bring tea and some food for you, and you may entertain me for a while before you rest for the night. I don't get many visitors here, you see.” The alchemist waits for a reply for a beat before adding: “I'll just be gone for a moment...?"

The man nods, pulling his hair away from his eyes once more, this time tying it into a thick braid. "Okay. ...A meal would most certainly be welcomed."

“Very good. I’ll be right back.” The masked figure exits the room quietly, leaving their visitor alone. The flame of the fireplace casts long, dark shadows on the walls -- strange shapes created from the stacks of books that fill the room.

The traveler wanders across the rug -- runs a curious finger over the spine of a few of the books set in a sturdy old-looking shelf nearby, peering closely at the ones which have titles etched into the leather. The books appear to be an eclectic mix of older tomes and newly-bound texts; Ranging in subject from scientific to magical -- spanning different languages, cultures, and studies from across The Known World.

"--Do you like to read, my friend?"

The traveler jumped in surprise at the sound of the muffled voice behind him, nearly knocking a large stack of books off of the table nearest to him. When he turned to meet the gaze of his host, he saw that they held a tray in their hands. Their odd silhouette looking a bit comical in such a natural, domestic posture.

Upon the tray was a glass cup made in a fancy style the traveler had never seen before, which held a steaming-hot serving of fragrant tea. Beside it, there was a simple wooden bowl full of some sort of stew. To accompany the simple meal was a piece of bread, torn straight from a loaf.

"That was very quick!" The traveler laughed in embarrassment, turning fully to greet his host. "...Sorry, I suppose I'm still on edge from my wounds. I was just admiring your collection of texts."

"Was it very quick?" The alchemist questioned, their head quirking to the side ever so slightly. There is a long pause before they mutter: "I confess, I… I had this still half-warm in a pot from my own dinner. Yes. The tea I've brewed doesn't take long to steep, either. I do apologize for frightening you -- I forget how soft my steps are, living alone as I do."

The traveler's mouth watered at the smell of the food, the anticipation of filling the yawning emptiness of his stomach was nearly too much to bear. "It's quite alright. I thank you for your kindness, stranger. And -- I confess that I don't read very much. Not for lack of skill, mind you -- But for lack of desire. Much of what I learn for my craft is either instinctual, or sacred; Stories and lessons which must only be passed from the mouth." He reached for the tray of food, which the alchemist gave to him freely.

"Is that so? Here, come sit with me, friend." The alchemist crosses the room and sits upon one of their reading chairs, and the traveler moves to sit beside him in the other.

Eagerly, the traveler dug into the stew, using the bread as a means to scoop it into his mouth. The taste was robust and savory, though he could not place the identity of any meat he consumed. There were a myriad of garden vegetables and mushrooms which comprised the bulk of the meal, and the thick gravy-like-broth was dark with flavor. The tea was equally palatable, a sort of sweet-spice blend that made his tongue tingle with warmth.

The traveler talked while he ate. "Yes, ser. I am an apprentice to the shaman of my village. It is also the reason why I've traveled out of my homeland." He pauses briefly to sip on the tea, then continues: "I'm looking for something, which has become increasingly difficult to obtain due to the war."

"The war...With the Southern Kingdom?" The masked figure asked, settling their hands upon their lap politely. "I confess I do not stay up to date with the politics of The Known World as much as I should. I do know their king is fond of making up stories so that they may greedily expand into your territory. His talk of your people as 'savage folk' certainly sits unwell with me, I can tell you that much."

"Yes, the very same. When they come to battle, they raze whole towns -- including our lands around them. They seek to destroy us completely, not just conquer us. As a result, there is a sacred plant that I'm searching for, but have been unable to find. The only lead I have is to find a botanist in the northwestern islands who may have the means to secure a few, so that I may bring them back to my people for safe keeping. It’s only a rumor, however. But I must return successful for the sake of my people."

"Oh, my friend." The alchemist lifts their hands briefly as if to touch the young man’s shoulder, but thinks better of the motion and placed them back in their own lap. "...I don't think you will be permitted to visit the island -- not even mainland elves are welcome there. Their cousins are a secretive folk, and for good reason." The red lenses of the mask glint in the firelight as their head shakes in a sorrowful gesture.

The traveler visibly deflates, his face the picture of defeat. "...Is that so?"

"At the turn of the age, there was much fear for magic and magic users. So much so that it was all but stamped out in most territories, save for a few customs and traditions -- and of course practitioners like me, who fear no law -- unspoken or otherwise. I hear the elves there still practice some form of it, though I can't be certain."

The traveler is quiet for a few moments, the only sound in the room is the flickering of the fireplace and his thoughtful chewing. "Well...The Folks of the East still practice magic, as it is part of many of our religions. We are not bound to your laws and rulers, being an independent collection of territories ourselves -- as I'm sure you know. Perhaps the elves of the north are the same?"

"Perhaps. But there are treaties, of course. Ratified under a sort of political union which keeps most of the people in power in check. I do respect the Eastern Folks for abstaining for all this time, though I confess I worry if it is foolish to remain independent of the union during this time in which the king of the South has decided he can push into your lands because you are not beholden to any treaty."

The traveler leans back in the chair. "The issue is that the Eastern Folk are a sum of a whole, alchemist. We respect each other's territory and cultures just fine, councils or no. But make no mistake -- no two Clans are the same, and that is fine by us. We would not agree to something that all of the people do not. There are those who resist joining the rest of The Known World in their politics for fear of what that may mean for our own individual peace."

"As I said, I greatly respect the abstinence." The bird-masked caretaker nodded. "For precisely those reasons."

The traveler sets his tray on a table between the chairs, stacking it gently on top of a pile of books. "I do thank you for the meal, alchemist. It was very delicious."

"I'm happy that you found it satisfactory.” A quick pause, barely enough space for a breath before they continue: “I'm terribly sorry for pressing, but what will you do if you cannot gain passage to the island in the north? I’d hate to think you would go all that way and return defeated."

"Oh, I simply must! Even if it takes a morally unsound decision or two. I cannot go home empty-handed."

The dark figure beside the traveler is quiet for a few moments upon hearing this. Though they sense no animosity, the traveler squirms a bit with nervousness.

"The folly of youth -- nay, of naivety or pride -- is to not make another plan when faced with even the notion of failure." The alchemist responded. "Traveler, tell me what it is exactly that you seek. Perhaps I know of a better way."

"Well..." The traveler reaches into his pouch and pulls out a piece of parchment paper. Upon it is scrawled a crude drawing of a flower made in charcoal, which has smudged some. "This is what it looks like. It is adorned with blue petals, and whose roots have properties that we use in our rituals. I can't really discuss those further, as they are sacred and secret -- but I will tell you their specific use if it helps."

"Please do."

The traveler nods. "The whole plant is extremely poisonous, but the roots can be prepared into something useful if measured properly and carefully. It is used by our shamans, witches, and other religious leaders to see holy visions and commune with our God.”

The traveler continues after a brief pause: “Furthermore, it slows the effects of what you called Wild Magic earlier -- blocking the negative effects permanently. It is used in the initiation process for our religious leaders, so they may control their magic more effectively in the service of our God. I need to complete this process, myself; As a shifter, it is very difficult to move back and forth between my chosen spirit and myself. Those with weak constitutions have suffered madness as a result of it, and the wildness of the blood -- but I fear no such thing. My chosen spirit and I are very close."

"Your chosen spirit?"

The young man moves to retrieve his fur cloak on the floor. "It is believed by my people that I don't have the power to turn into just any wolf, but I turn into this wolf, specifically." He runs a reverent hand over the cloak. "The shift is asking for permission to settle into its old body, and their spirit possesses mine, until we move as one. I am him, and he is me -- but we are also separate. As with all magic, one does not create from nothing -- but rather from something which has existed before. A flame which you have seen burning, a healing which your flesh remembers, a sound which you have already heard. Things that are unseen or different from here come instead from dreams, which we believe to be a separate realm of existence."

"I see. That is a wonderful way of looking at the nature of magic, my friend." The alchemist stands. "...Furthermore, I think I know what flower you speak of. If you'll excuse me, I must check my notes and stores. I'll just be a moment." The figure leaves once more, though is quick to return.

The traveler stands in the middle of the book-filled room, looking the very definition of excitement and nervous anticipation. He clutches his cloak to himself, awaiting the alchemist's word.

Soon, the silhouette of the alchemist looms in the archway, filling the space with their dark form. “Is this the plant you seek?” They hold out a clay pot with a large blue flower planted in the soil. “I had a specimen in my greenhouse. I use the properties you spoke of for medicine — specifically to stop immense pain or to put someone to sleep for a long while for surgeries. It is very difficult to purchase reliably, so I began growing it myself a long time ago.”

The traveler’s face lit up with happiness and recognition. “Yes! That’s it!”

“Wonderful. Then I am able to supply you with a few seeds to take back to your people, as well. There is no need for such an arduous journey to the northern islands, and you may return to your home victorious."

The young man's voice cracks with joy. "Truly, ser? Thank you!" He runs over to the alchemist and throws his arms around them. "I could never hope to repay you -- You have my eternal gratitude! What's more -- you have my people's eternal thanks as well." The alchemist is stone-still, their arms never leaving their sides. They politely accept the embrace in silence. The traveler steps back, a bit red-faced and embarrassed with his own display of emotion. "Ah, apologies, ser."

"Thank you. There is no need for such apologies or pledges of gratitude, however. I simply do what I can, if I have the means. How very fortunate that you stumbled upon my shop tonight, hmm?" The muffle of the mask does not hide the obvious happiness in the alchemist's voice.

"Yes, very fortunate! I'm indeed blessed, so much that...I can hardly believe it..."

"Fortune shines upon us when we least expect it, I think. Urging the weary ever forward. In any case: We'll get it all settled in the morning, traveler. For now -- you need to rest. The night grows old, I fear. I will fetch a comfortable quilt so you may sleep near the fireplace and warm your bones, and when you awaken I will have everything prepared for you. I'll even throw in some breakfast for the road."

"I truly cannot repay your kindness, alchemist. I'm at a loss for words."

"If there are no words," The figure mumbles, clasping a friendly hand upon the shoulder of their guest, "Then one must act. And for you, there is only your journey ahead. I only ask that you try to show others this same kindness wherever you go, whenever you have the means to do so. The world will become a much nicer place because of it."

"I will, ser. I promise."

“Then I bind you to your promise, traveler.”

In the morning, the Doctor packed some rations along with the pouch of seeds and a small covered clay pot with the blue flower planted inside. It was secured tightly with rope, and came with a small piece of paper which had instructions for the care of the plant written upon it.

The traveler bade them farewell with much happiness and excitement, and the Doctor watched them trek off into the snow until they were past the tree-line of the forests of Darkwood.

--------------- masterlist | ko-fi If you liked this, please consider reblogging it. It helps spread it around so that others may read it and enjoy, too!

#doctor #ts

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ffxivimagines · 5 years ago

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Commission 002 | Seafoam

Posted with permission from the commissioner! Thank you for allowing me to work with Raisa!

There are many things that Raisa would prefer to do instead of confronting one of the many people who walked out on her in her time of greatest need. It feels ridiculous to go, barge into Limsan command, and demand that she be seen. It's not like Merlwyb wanted to give her the time of day when she was at her worst, nor would it seem that she would want to give Raisa the time of day now, even with everything settled and the Scions’ names cleared. There is nothing much to think about while preparing to visit the Maelstrom Admiral. All there is is anxiety, filling her bones with ice in place of marrow.

There are a great many things she would prefer to be doing, yes, but none of them would solve the problem that the Bloody Banquet had created.

She stands before the aetheryte in Mor Dhona and wonders if she has the strength to face the person who she wants trusted as a friend and confidant. It still feels foreign to not be able to reach out so easily and take hold of the friendship that they once had. It's not something that Raisa has ever wanted to give up and yet it was wrenched from her hands all the same. Whether or not it was her fault has no bearing on the anxiety she feels. It all comes down to if Merlwyb would even want to see her. Travelling out and stressing over it would not help if she would not even be able to confront the person she so sorely seeks an apology from.

Before she can lose her nerve she reaches out, feels for her coin purse, and allows the familiar flow of Aether to swallow her whole. Teleportation is not something she is unfamiliar with but the sensation a flowing between points and places in time always leaves her unsettled, skin too cool to the touch and nearly clammy with the last vestiges of magic from the aetheric highway between the shimmering crystal formations. She feels the telltale lightening of her purse (how her Gil was taken in precise amounts every time astounded her) and wonders where her coin had gone. It’s a better thing to focus on than the inevitable awkwardness of attempting to reconcile with someone who broke your trust and then made no move to apologize. Blinking sunlight from her eyes, Raisa decides but there is absolutely no way she is going home without an answer.

Some of the Maelstrom recruits recognize her when she passes─whether it be her bearing, her armor or the fact that she looks ready to kill a man with a piece of bread and sheet vitriol is unknown to her─and salute. She feels fake, wrapped in familiar red with a rapier at her waist.

It’s not her color, but Merlwyb’s.

Wearing the coat she used to take pride in, she attempts to recreate the easy confidence that she had before. The stone of Limsa Lominsa is hot under the soles of her boots, baking in the coastal sun, and she feels relief when in the blessedly cool shelter of the lift. She forces nonchalance into her voice and orders, “Maelstrom command. I’ve an appointment with Admiral Bloefhiswyn.”

The slide of the lift upward is nearly enough to turn her stomach. How was she to greet her? “Hey, you sort of abandoned me to flee from Ul’dah and freeze my tail off in Coerthas. It wasn’t too enjoyable of an experience. Did I do something wrong?” It’s not like they’re on casual speaking terms as they once had been. There’s none of the space left to fill with easy chatter when each break in a letter is tense enough.

The lift stops and Raisa feels her breath stick in her throat. She steps out. Walks the two steps to Merlwyb’s office door. Knocks.

She waits, rocking on her heels and hoping (praying, really) that Merlwyb is not in. She doesn’t want to have come all this way for nothing, but the thought of confronting her is more devastating than the thought of possibly having been ignored.

She knocks again.

“Come in.”

Raisa pushes a breath out from between her teeth, hoping her anxiety will leave along with it, and opens the door. “Hey, I’m, uh, alive. Not well, but alive. Have a bell to spare?”

Merlwyb startles, surprise evident in how her eyes widen and the draw of her brow, and greets, “Raisa. It has been far too long.”

“Yes,” Raisa agrees, “it has. I’ve come for answers.” She resists the urge to keep a hand on the hilt of her rapier as if there is something she could fight instead of talking. She walks into Merlwyb’s quarters and stands before her desk. Even at her full height, Raisa feels rather short in comparison to the Roegadyn woman. Merlwyb gestures for her to sit and Raisa hesitates.

Should she? Would it just be a way to put something between them more tangibly as estranged friends on opposite sides, or was it a cue to put down her worries and listen. Raisa decides to obey, but keeps her feet flat on the floor and weight shifted forward. She would not suffer another disgrace.

“I expected you sooner,” Merlwyb admits. “I am not one for falsehoods, as you know, and that farce of a banquet was not of my liking as much as yours. This isn’t the time for explanations as much as it is apologies.” She stands, imposing and beautiful genuinely regretful, and bows. “Raisa Amarok, you have my greatest apologies. You were my friend and a trusted one, at that. I would hope we could have that again, granted that you choose to forgive.”

“I─” Raisa clears her throat, grimacing at the telltale crack of her voice. “And if I say yes?”

Merlwyb straightens, a wry smile playing across her lips, and replies, “We start over again.”

“Yes, then. I would… like that?” Raisa smiles back, lopsided and a little strained.

“You look like you’ve eaten a Han lemon,” Merlwyb teases without a lick of heat. “We’ll work up to it. I have a lot to answer for─and I will answer for it, may the Seven Hells be my witnesses.”

Raisa allows her smile to drop and sighs. “This feels strange.” It’s an understatement to be sure, but better than leaving the conversation to lapse. “I did not expect you to want to see me.”

“Why would I not? You’re the most trustworthy adventurer on this side of the sea,” Merlwyb compliments, settling back into her chair and raising a brow.

Raisa bites her tongue to keep from retorting with, “You abandoned me among enemies. I lost family because of you.” She instead mutters, “Friends don’t leave the other behind. Neither do those of the Maelstrom.”

“‘Till sea swallows all’ rings hollow to you, now, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

They fall into silence and Raisa wants to go back and snatch those words out of the air. She wants this to work, needs it to, but the hurt is still there even after an apology and her own acceptance of it. She stands with a clatter of metal buckles against wood and says, “Make me believe it again.”

Merlwyb barks a laugh. “You have my word, Raisa. Is there aught else you’d have of me?”

“Another date, if you’re fain to be in my company as I am in yours.”

She nods and says, “There are precious few I would consider to be as good company as you. It was… nice. That time before Cartaneau.”

“Yes,” Raisa agrees, “it was. I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Travel safe, my friend. May Llymlaean guide you well.”

The door closes behind her and Raisa blinks, takes a deep breath, and buries her face in her hands, cheeks heating at her demands. Yes, she’d heard Merlwyb had written to her with a vow to do anything to make it up to her and the Scions, but that was very different from asking for a literal date and some accountability.

Raisa finds she doesn’t mind much when a letter comes a week later, the Postmoogle shoving it into her hands and hurrying along, addressed in coarse but legible script, “To: Raisa Amarok, my new-old-friend. From: Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn.”

She holds the letter to her heart and smiles.

Askbox | Ask Rules | Commissions | FFXIVWrite 2019 Fills

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thewonko · 5 years ago

Text

Symphogear XV, Episode 1

Hey! Symphogear's back! And given that these are, historically, my most popular posts, I guess I get to do an episode reaction!

And before you ask, Crunchyroll until something better comes along, but I'm paying for this, I may as well use it.

Also, no pictures, because I'm lazy rn and don't feel like tempting fate and Tumblr's upload system.

Bloody handprints. This bodes well!

Is this the Frontier? It looks like the Frontier control room

Uhh, yeah, that's the Frontier, and they just turned on the Moon

Blue-haired deady guy says they can't explain anymore, and asks Fine for forgiveness. Factions in ancient humanity? Pro- sleeping with gods and anti-sleeping with gods?

And cut to a submarine. Wherever we are now, it's cold

Something is arming itself in response to the Symphogirls' approach. Apparently it's a "coffin" and a precursor relic. This bodes well!

Hibiki, if I'm not wrong, Lake Vostok is in Antarctica. Summer there tops out at, like, just under freezing.

Ah, and then Chris says the same thing. Good on you Chris, keep being smart.

Ah, that's a laser beam. Upside: the sun's out now, Hibiki!

"bone-chilling"... I hope that's the translators, but the way the line is delivered makes me afraid that it's not.

Can I have a coffin like that? Not just the particle beam, but the stupid penguin design too?

Baller transformation sequence, Hibiki. Keep it up.

Oh, pleasant surprise: translated insert songs!

Huh, crystal pillars after an attack. Y'know what those look like? The upgrade material in XDU.

Genjuro, it's a mobile autonomous mech. It's not "just" a coffin no matter how you look at it.

Ooh, the coffin has laser hornet drones! Another reason to want one!

Kirika and Shirabe just ice skating along. Truly this is Yuri on Ice.

Ouch. Just... slapped out of the air. That's gotta hurt.

Directed energy at... negative temperatures? That's... not how energy works? Like, at all?

Ah, Elfnein here to tell us that physics doesn't hold with this magic nonsense either. Good.

Less good: The Symphogirls are now frozen in XDU upgrade material

And flashback time! The Lydian school song again

Miku on the piano, teacher listening. Is this a test for Hibiki? God thing she gets lots of singing in these days as *a magical girl saving the world*. That's gotta help for practice, right?

Ah, it was a test. Looks like Hibiki didn't fail the year at least.

"... [Y]ou're singing in your heart". Yup, for the past four seasons! Maybe you saw it on the news that time she saved the moon? Or the time she saved the planet? Or the other time she saved the planet? Or that time she punched the devil so hard he exploded? She's gotten pretty good at singing, Teach. Maybe you just have unreasonably high standards?

"I know you're busy" Do you? I'd think working for the UN is good for a few missed tests.

"BTW", says a nearby public TV news report "remember that we're going to the moon together with the US, the country that TRIED TO NUKE US SIX MONTHS AGO. PRETTY FUCKING MAGNANIMOUS OF US TO NOT DEMAND, LIKE, REPARATIONS OR SANCTIONS OR SOMETHING. Anyway, on to sports. Todd?"

Okay, real talk here, the normal is important. The downside is that now that you've pointed it out, Hibiki, something's about to happen.

"What if I was causing trouble for someone?" okay, calling it now, Miku will end up in a 'gear fighting Hibiki before the end of the season. She'll have a good reason, and she'll end up fighting alongside her wife by the end, but it'll start with them fighting.

Oh look, an explosion. This is what you get for pointing out how normal it's been, Hibiki

Hey! Ogawa remembered that Miku is cleared for this stuff and picks her up too! Thanks, Ogawa.

Hibiki, you are 17 years old. You should know by know that lakes can freeze. Especially in Antarctica.

Elfnein says man-made climate change is real!

I mean, the implication that it was a precursor civilization moving scorpions around the planet is a bit of a stretch, it could've just been ancient humans, but sure, let's go with aliens.

"Adam was trying to use the power of the gods to accomplish a goal of some sort" Really? He didn't just want it to have it? Adam fucking Weisshaupt had a *goal*? I am shook.

Ah, the goal was to blow up a time traveling coffin. Because that was foreshadowed so well in AXZ.

And we're back to the present! Our girls are still frozen.

Are you... are you miming a telescope? Does that actually work because of bullshit catgirl magic, or are you just being silly?

I'm just going to assume that the leader of our new villain trio is about to raid Area 51. Nevada plates on the car and being in the middle of the desert, mostly. I'm going to ignore the fact that the terrain around Area 51 looks nothing like that.

Heh, Genjuro just gonna go punch a coffin shaped like a penguin mech. Don't worry about it, he's got his long-johns on.

"If they catch cold it'll be really bad!" Dude, catching a cold is the least of their worries right now; they're about to be crushed by an ancient alien coffin mech.

Hah! Everyone had their breakout moment at the same time! Way to steal Hibiki's rescuing people thunder girls.

And of course Tsubasa can surf. She's just that cool.

"Hibiki! Punch the laser!" "I don't understand what that means, but okay!"

"Analyzing and reconstructing is the fundamental principal of alchemy!" I mean... not quite? At least you're closer than you were last time though, kid.

Ooh, this music sounds important. Like an OP. Guess this is gonna be an important series of punches coming up.

"Even so! There's a song in my heart!" This has... implications. Although it does explain how the girls could sing in the vacuum of space all those times.

Good on you, Chris, aim and blow up that stupid penguin thing!

And once again Chris shows herself to be the smart one. "Don't talk about upcoming birthdays and party plans in the middle of a fight! That'll raise Death Flags!"

Ooh, alien body! It's got a bracer of some sort too. Five gets you ten it's the McGuffin for at least the first half of the season, and another 25% beyond that that it turns into Miku's new 'Gear.

Alright, the next 12 weeks are going to be painful waiting, aren't they? Consider my hype for the season.

#symphogear #Symphogear XV #XV spoilers

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abalonetea · 6 years ago

Note

would it be a horrific crime to ask for 3 and locke for the mess me up prompts? *evil giggle*

it is an absolute crime, yes, and we’re both going to jailbecause I had been hoping someonewould ask for this exact prompt! Myapologies for the delay in answering!

There’s a set to Locke’s shoulders that shouldn’t be there, acurl to his mouth that makes his smile look like someone has cut it into glass.Fire burns through the soft blue fabric of his gloves, laces up his left arm,devours his shoulder.

Bone armor takes shape beneath it and he stands there, LevelTwo flashing across his chest not like a warning but like a promise. “I toldyou,” he says, voice nothing shy of cheerful. “I won’t let anyone here hurthim.”

Polynya’s stare could freeze the ocean. Her fingers are curledaround her trident, grip tight enough it’s turned her knuckles white. “Thisisn’t personal, Locke. It’s my job.”

Locke tilts his head to the side. “Really? Wow! I didn’trealize your job was to terrorize the people of Fara! That’s so neat! It mustbe a recent addition to the job description, huh?”

Polynya grits her teeth. Magic so cold it’salmost-not-quite-white curls around her fingers, threads through her hair. Atdinner, she’s known as Poly get your feetoff the table but in battle she is Polynya, Queen of the Seafire, and itshows.

Her mana is cold.

It pushes against Locke’s own magic, but he pushes right back.Good Intent wraps around his limbs like a shield. Protection curls raw in theair around them. Red, shoulder still dripping blood, mask still cracked, makesa small startled sound.

Locke’s magic just flares hotter in response. He doesn’t stepforward, doesn’t reach for FIGHT. “You’re really smart, Polynya. Don’t startsomething that you can’t finish. The only place Red’s going is home, so Bluecan look at his shoulder.”

Polynya does stepforward. Ice surges up and melts again around her feet. The fish in heraquarium swim in angry little circles, scales glowing red and black and allshades of dark. “Then by order of Queen Midnight, I’ll have to take both of youin.”

“We both know that’s not what she ordered.” Locke’s stillsmiling. He still hasn’t moved. The fire licks higher against his skin, burningcinnamon flooding the air as it singes his neck, Good Intent twisting with theflames and pushing them higher, brighter, these blue and white and brilliantyellow things.

Polynya’s steps falter, just for a moment.

Locke pushes onwards, “we both know she sent you here to killRed.”

he is sotired very tired just a little longer a little more

sometimeshe can talk her down

pleaselet this be one of those times

There is a moment, brief and so horrible silent, in whichPolynya looks as though her entire world has just been pulled out from underher. But then she is shaking her head, brushing the surprise off like a dogsheds water, and baring her teeth.

She hits FIGHT and Locke’s own HEART sings in response.Polynya says, “this is your last chance. Give him up and go home.”

“Fuck you,” says Locke. Red magic sparks around his fingers,and a bone-sword settles heavy in his palm. He’s still smiling. Protectionstill flares against his skin, but there’s Anger there, too, and beneath that,still, Forgiveness.

He takes a step forward

And

He doesn’t stop.

tags list, let me know if you want on it or off of it!

@writings-of-a-narwhal @elaynab-writing @writer-grandma @cometworks @deadlyessencewhispers @nora-wrote-a-book @georgiacambrielwritblr@rmorada @drabbleitout@inked-foundry @srazar @groovytheoristbat @salvasti @a-place-of-babble @lady-redshield-writes @ohlooksheswriting

#ellpri tag #mess me up prompts #ghd writing #my writing #locke and red #locke oc #groundhog day

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weirwoodsea · 7 years ago

Text

Throbb Secret Santa Gift for @thespiritofeon

AO3 LINK

I am so so SO very sorry it took me so long to post this! I hope you like it! @averythrobbxmas @robb-greyjoy

In silent screams and wildest dreams, I never dreamed of this

Prologue

Reek’s broken body was pulled and stretched in the tide as if he were a doll made of cloth. This is what it is. He thought. This is what it means to die. Torrents of water covered him, burning through his nostrils and into his lungs as the relentless drowning machine of the tide thrashed him in it’s cycle of watery destruction. The salt water was unforgiving and it stung his human skin with numbing coldness. There was no longer seal fur to cover and warm him, not since the master had taken his skin. Reek remembered that fire burns as well as ice but so does salt. So does salt. He used all of strength to try to move his limbs but they were as crippled by the waves as they had been by the master’s tortures. The sea pulled him back, pounding and punishing him for escaping his master, for having the audacity to return to the ocean without his skin. The massive curl breaking him with a heaving crash until the waves, like great water wings, spread wide and then enclosed him in their merciless grip. He whispered “Robb…” with his last breath before plunging down beneath the waves.

Robb

“Nor chains of love...” Robb muttered to himself as he sat vigil by the half drowned man who had washed up on their shores earlier that afternoon.

“What are you saying Da?”

Robb met his young daughter’s eyes, like blue piercing mirrors of his own. But her hair was dark, as her mother’s had been before her death.

“Don’t worry yourself, Theona,” Robb said. “I was just thinking about something old mother Nan had told me about selkies. Old Nan. She was still alive, weaving her tales and warnings, ancient as the sea and sand itself. So many lives lost- his parents, his brothers, and yet Old Nan remained.

After another brief silence, young Theona asked expectantly, “Well then? What did she say?” Robb smiled sadly at his daughter. “She told me… that once a selkie finds it’s skin again, neither chains of steel nor chains of love can keep them from the sea.”

“The man is a selkie!?” Theona gasped, standing up and coming closer to get a better look at the unfortunate soul. “But he is so ugly!?” She exclaimed, so engrossed in looking at Theon that she didn’t notice her father wince violently at her words. “In old Nan’s stories, the selkie men were always handsome. And no woman can resist their charms…” she looked around, “If he is a selkie, where is his skin?”

“Bedtime.” Robb barked at his daughter, perhaps more sharply than he should have. She was only a wee lassie after all, living alone with a sad, distant father, surrounded by ghosts.

When Robb had seen his daughter to bed, he came back to where Theon was lying by the fire. Ugly…. Theon? True, his old friend had obviously been badly hurt. That was an understatement in fact. The horrific scars that covered his body were painful to think about much less look at. Robb had had to send Theona out of the room while he and Old Nan dressed his wounds. Some teeth had also been knocked out and his hair was now white as bone. But ugly? From the moment Robb had first met the captured selkie boy to now, Theon had never been anything but beautiful to him.

Robb reached out a timid hand and touched Theon’s scarred cheek. The same cheek he had kissed, the night he had watched Theon leave. Robb had found Theon’s sealskin… tucked back in a secret truck hidden amongst the cobwebs and ghosts. He had run to his friend immediately after finding it and handed it over. He’d always been like that, he thought bitterly. Doing things he thought would make Theon happy with little thought to the consequences. Little thought to how it would affect him or his family. Loyal to a fault. Loyal and stupid and so so in love with the wild selkie boy. Robb’s eyes eyes filled with traitorous tears. “You promised you would come back,” he whispered, broken. “You promised…”

Reek

Reek kept his eyes shut, as consciousness gradually broke upon him... he was aware of the warmth surrounding him and the softness- the impossible softness of blankets and furs, and the crackling of a fire. The familiar sounds of a home that was never quite his… He was afraid to open his eyes and find himself where he thought he might be but he was more afraid to open his eyes and find that he was not there.

Finally, drawing bravery from the memory of a selkie who used to be called Theon, he peeled his eyes open and Robb’s concerned, freckled face loomed before him. Reek felt his chest filling with something like the memory of joy as he beheld him. The emotion was as foreign as it was alarming, but he wanted to go on feeling it. And for the only time in his brief life, Reek smiled. The smile was completely inappropriate. Robb would want to kill him of course- for all Theon had done. Theon had betrayed him, his only friend. Theon had betrayed Robb’s family when he deserted them and left them to sail the treacherous seas without the protection that owning a selkie afforded them.

Reek knew he would be punished for smiling, punished for remembering Theon, but he could not stop, even as his broken teeth distorted his face and his eyes filled with tears that flowed down into his mouth. He had never dared to dream that he would see Robb again. Robb… he had forgotten everything while the master had his skin, but not Robb. Robb was a name he could never forget or forsake. He always knew Robb’s name even if he could’t remember his own. He knew he shouldn’t be smiling. He knew he should be bowing his head, begging forgiveness, offering his miserable life in payment for his wrongs- what was left of it anyway. But all he could do was lie there smile at Robb. Smiling in pure relief. Smiling at his death.

Theona

The strange man made Da happy and that was all that mattered. He was very timid and agitated around her. He never spoke to her unless she asked him something. The first thing she asked him was his name.

“My name is Theona, what is yours?”

“… R-Reek, miss.”

“Reek?” She wrinkled her nose. I’ve never heard anyone with that name before… nobody has my name either. It is like Fiona but with a “th” she put her tongue between her teeth to make the sound for him. Da says he named me after his favorite brother who was lost at sea. Da said he was a selkie. Selkie’s can never die though because they are already dead. They are the souls of the drowned men. Most of our family drowned in a shipwreck… Old mother Nan says that Da is surrounded by ghosts of our family…” Theona said with a solemness more appropriate for a child much older than her seven years. At the man’s stricken look, she reached out and touched his gnarled hand. “It’s alright. I like your name. It rhymes with speak.”

After that day, she followed “Mister Reek" around everywhere, insisting that he lean on her if he needed help walking and prattling on to him in the magical language of childhood. If he was disturbed by her constant presence, he never dared to say anything, but accepted it without complaint as if he were afraid to reject it.

Mister Reek had horrible nightmares, they woke Theona on many a night and she would creep into her Da’s room to see him coaxing the trembling man back from whatever demons had their hold on him as he murmured his constant apologies. He often asked for her father to kill him during these times, but Da just held him close, kissing and smoothing back his white hair.

But there were happy times as well. Da laughed much more and no longer paced on the beach at night searching longingly for the ghosts Old Nan said plagued him. He was more successful at his work, bringing home teams of fresh fish from the sea that she and Mother Nan would clean and cook. Theona’s favorite times were when the three of them would walk on the beach together and Theona would run forward, laughing and collecting more sea shells than she could carry to bring home to old mother Nan who was cooking them dinner. Sometimes she would run into the water with Da and they would dance and play in the salty spray. Reek never came close to the water, he always hung back. But he would look at them with a mournful longing, a quiet, mysterious smile tugging at his lips.

“Will Mister Reek stay forever?” She asked Da as he tucked her in at night. Da would just smile sadly and tell her to get some sleep. But his eyes would turn sad, as if she had just awoken him from a beautiful dream.

Robb

In spite of the cold, Theon was outside, wrapped in fur and staring out into the vast expanse of the dark winter sea. Robb approached cautiously, bending to build a fire for them. If Theon insisted on staying outside, he didn’t have to freeze to death.

Theon didn’t turn to look at Robb, but kept his eyes trained on a small form in the waves. “Asha,” he murmured to Robb. “It’s Midwinter night… a time that my people are believed to be able to transform into their seal like form and come back home to the sea. She is waiting for Theon. She is the only one who waits for Theon,” he said regret thick in his voice.”

Robb let the silence penetrate, groping madly for the right words to say. When they came out finally, they were clumsy and stumbling. “Are you going to leave. Will you return again to the sea? Theon…”

“Not Theon! Reek,” Theon Reek looked straight at Robb now, his eyes desperate.

“Alright… Reek,” Robb said, but it felt like acid on his tongue. “Theona is so fond of you. You fit here with us. We could make a life here. Like we always talked about before… and there is no one left to tell us it’s wrong.” Robb realized that was the wrong thing to say as Theon Reek cringed and curled back into himself. “Theon- sorry, Reek. It was not your fault that my parents were ship wrecked. We had no right to keep you with us. Your protection was not owed to us. I do not blame you anymore. I never should have.” it felt odd to admit that his parents had been in the wrong. He’d always thought of them as so honorable But how honorable is it to capture a young boy and force him to serve them and keep them safe from the perils of the sea? They had used a young boy for their own safety. Where was the honor in that? “Please,” he found himself begging. “Theona will be heartbroken if you go…”

“I shouldn’t be around her Robb,” Theon said suddenly, venom and bitter sorrow in his voice. “I shouldn’t be around any children. I- I killed mine.”

The silence was deafening as Robb let Theon’s revelation wash over him. “What do you mean?” He finally asked in a small voice.

“Exactly what it sounds like,” he spat out, but his face was twisted with remorse and he couldn’t meet Robb’s eyes. “There was a fisherman’s widow who came to the shore… she cried seven tears into the water and I came forth to comfort her- as I did for your mother those many years ago when she cried for your father to return home. But I was a man grown when I met the fisherman’s widow and she needed a man to warm her bed, not protection for her husband. I shed my skin a few times to lie with her, to keep her from loneliness- myself as well. But one time I wasn’t careful and she stole my skin. She wanted me to stay and be a father to her son, Jack. I didn’t mind staying. She had a lively sense of humor and Jack… I grew to love him very much,” he said very quietly “And I didn’t really have a reason to return to my family… they never truly saw me as a seal again once I returned to them. They could understand me being a selkie but, most selkies aren’t taken as children. They don’t live with humans for such a prolonged time, especially the men. When I returned home, there was too much I did not understand about their ways. I tried to prove myself to them. Tried to prove I no longer cared about my human life or my human… human family,” the last word sounded strangled. I promised you I would return to visit you and I didn’t. I… I could have protected your family’s voyages but I took my charms away… I thought you were on that ship, I thought you’d died with them. After that, I knew I’d chosen wrong. I started coming back on land more. I knew you were dead but… I suppose I still thought I would see you again.” he inhaled sharply the memories like a knife.

Robb nodded and clasped Theon’s hand. Jeyne has been laboring with Theona at the time. He hadn’t wanted to leave her to travel with his family. Theon took a breath and went on. "Eventually my the fisherman's widow bore another boy. Billy. We were happy for years… I thought I was a good father to them. I tried to be good. But one day… the boys brought me my skin.” He paused again. Swallowing down his tears. Robb remembered the look on Theon’s face when he hd give his skin back to him those many years ago. The look was one of complete longing mixed with utter sadness. “You can’t understand what it is like, to belong to both worlds. When selkie are in the ocean, we long to walk on land. But we were not meant to live here, to be human for prolonged periods of times. When we touch our seal skin again… it’s like taking a breath after living in a cell with no air. You can’t stay with those you’ve grown to love, even if you want to. Even if you wish you could. There is a tide inside you, calling you that will not let you be. I explained to the children that I had to go back to the sea but that I would visit them and make sure they were alright. I really intended to do that,” Theon’s eyes bore into Robb.

Robb nodded, “I believe you,” he said.

“I slipped my skin back on and began my swim,” Theon continued. “It felt so good to be back in my skin, back in the salt sea… I could already hear Asha calling to me, but then I saw my boys swimming after me.” Theon had to stop again and choke back a sob. “If I had been a woman I could have taken them with me. When a female selkie carries a human baby, the baby is formed differently. They can survive in the ocean as long as they are with their mothers. But the boys. I had not carried them in my body. They were fully human… I didn’t turn around… I ignored them. I thought that they were going to have enough sense to give up and turn around if I gave them no encouragement. But… the tide was viscious that day…”

Robb tentatively put his arms around Theon and after a moment, Theon let himself relax into his embrace.

“After that, I didn’t feel right returning to the sea… I would come out too often trying to fuck the pain away with fishwives and sailors. Anyone who would have me… I was reckless with my skin… and then I met… the master…” Theon lips began moving wordlessly and his eyes looked blankly out into the sea. Robb held him still in his arms. He could see Theon’s seal sister clearly now. He tightened his hold around Theon as if to exert his dominance and keep protected from her, even though he knew he couldn’t.

“He burned my skin. So I could never return to the sea. He made me watch him burn it. I almost died, the pain was so great.” Robb could only stare at Theon, mouth agape. So that explained the scars covering Theon’s emaciated body- scars that looked as if his skin had been brutally ripped off of him. Robb swallowed to keep himself from retching. “I wasn’t a selkie anymore. I will never be one again. I am not Theon anymore. Theon died that day. Theon deserved everything that happened to him. He betrayed people he loved to save his own skin. He deserved to lose it. He deserved to be Reek. Reek never betrayed a friend. Reek never let his sons die…”

Theon buried his head into Robb and sobbed against him. “You shouldn’t worry about me leaving,” Theon said. “I can’t swim anymore. “It’s not my choice to leave or stay. It’s yours. Though I don’t know why you would want me now after you know everything, I’ve done. I wouldn’t.”

“Shhhh…” Robb said as he brushed back Theon’s brittle hair and kissed his forehead. “I want you. I want you now and always.”

Theon

Robb must have carried him to bed after his confession. Reek woke up when it was still dark with memories of the night before that belonged to Theon. Robb’s mouth capturing his again and again, his tongue exploring and prodding him, sweet and insistent. Filling him up with his warmth and his seed that tasted like salt on Theon’s tongue. Robb hadn’t minded how he had looked. He’d kissed every scar… Reek curled into himself, filled with equal parts of shame and pleasure at the memories.

He heard old Nan singing off key as she made breakfast in her lilting, slightly annoying voice. “Either death or yourself you will find in the sea… Either death or yourself you will find in the sea…” So many dead and forgotten, yet that old bat continues to live, bleating her inane songs into eternity he thought. He froze when he realized that was something that Theon would think.

He rose from Robb’s warm bed. Something was wrong. Apart from Old Nan’s song, the cabin felt entirely to quiet. Empty... Asha had been near the shore last night…

Before he had the terrifying thought he was already pulling his clothes on and before he got his clothes on, he was already stumbling out the door as Old Nan’s shrill voice followed him, “You’ll find me in the sea in the sea… in the deep dark sea.”

He could see the struggling forms of Robb and Theona in the waves as he ran down the beach. He realized Theona must have gone in, perhaps intrigued by the form of his seal sister dancing in the waves, and Robb was trying to pull her back and getting sucked out himself. “Curse you Asha,” he shouted as he ran… another child’s death and it’s your fault he thought as the salt spray leapt up around him burning his skin and his eyes. What are you doing? You are worthless. They are more likely to die with you trying to help. He tripped and fell as he ran into the break, but caught himself by beginning to swim. Swim… he was swimming…

He pushed ahead, emptying his mind of anything until he reached out and grabbed Robb by the arm. The waves pushed and pulled them mercilessly but he managed to hang on. “I’ve got you!” He shouted at Robb. “I’ve got you, grab her!” It felt like an age where the three of them struggled to hold on to each other. Finally Robb managed to grasp Theona’s fingers.

Theon pulled with all his might, pulling them to land, to breath to safety. The waves pounded and thrashed them as they were washed to the shore. Theona collapsed when her feet touched the shore. And she threw up water and coughed and cried. Robb began yelling at her enraged in his fear. “What were you thinking? You could have drowned! You could have drowned!”

Theona tried to stand but her legs were like the sand beneath her and she collapsed again crying, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry…” her eyes wide and fearful, staring at nothing. Theon crawled over to her and touched her cheek. “It’s alright,” he told her kindly, “It’s not your fault, don’t fret. You know me. I’m Theon, you remember.” He hadn’t realized he had referred to himself as Theon until he looked up and saw the tears of relief and love shining in Robb’s eyes. A moment later, Theona’s little wet arms were around his neck and Robb was embracing him as well. Feeling a little child’s body so close to him made him weep for Jack and little Billy. The sons he had failed to save. Billy had been so very small the first night he had held him in his arms. The night he swore he’d protect him now and always. The memory made him want to run and hide himself from the smiling faces of Robb and Theona. But instead, he swallowed a wretched sob and put his unworthy arms around them both. The dawn broke gently on the little family, huddled on the shore where the land meets the sea.

#averythrobbxmas #throbb secret santa #theon greyjoy #robb stark #got fan fic #asoiaf fan fic #thespiritofeon #throbb selkie au #throbb fic #now and always throbb

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wristic · 7 years ago

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Sigurd’s Siren

Pairing: Sigurd X Reader (Siren)

Word Count: 1500

Warnings: thoughts of drowning a man in your magical lake of death. I’m starting to think it’s physically impossible for me to write a magical creature that isn’t murderous and kinda creepy.

Anon requested

It had been a long time since a human ventured into your side of the woods. The game of seduction, to tease him into the black depths of your lake is a warm change, until it’s become evident he can see through all the guises you have to offer.

It was rare anyone traveled deep enough into the forest to reach your lake. Where the thick misty forest broke to view the heavenly grey sky, the world around a cold pale blue, the lake only so large. One could swim to the other side if they wanted, children could play in it’s banks and jump off the cliffs into the deeper ends. Though not the most recommended option, not with thousands of bones littering under the murky black water.

You sat at the center on an impossibly large stone just barely out of the water, never to be withered as long as it was your throne. You played with your wet hair, combed through it with your fingers, letting it dry under the hidden sun as you hummed softly to yourself. Even if humans no longer came around, animals still did, and the song always eased them into the water.

The sound of shuffling ferns reached your ears, closing your eyes and waiting for the animal to start stepping into its grave, curious about your tune. You felt the water shuddered at being touched like a spiders web. The more the prodding tugged, you realized it wasn’t hooves or paws, but fingers, a hand.

Your eyes flew open and turned your head to the person. At the banks a young man squatted down, a cocky smile at being caught as he used the water to clean his hands. You saw the bow, the small animals on his waist, but you didn’t recognize the armor nor the hairstyle, long in thin blonde braids around his shoulders. Then again it had been a long time since you last saw a human.

Still, you hadn’t forgotten how to hunt.

In a sharp gasp, you gaped in horror and quickly covered your chest, stumbling to slide back into the water. Quickly he stood, almost laughing as he reassured you, “No wait, please! I mean no harm!”

You peeked from behind the giant boulder, a nervous fist covering your mouth with big uncertain eyes.

He waved for you, “Come here.” Your eyes drifted down, to your naked form under the water. “The water is black, there is nothing I can see.”

The accent tugged at your ears, curioused you, surely it couldn’t have been that long. Keeping up your facade of sweet innocence, you edged away from the stone, ducking deep under the waterline, until you could grab the skeletons and smaller boulders on the floor, crawling to him at a pace that seemed realistic to swim at.

Slowly, you rose, feeling your feet just barely touch at your full height as you only peeked out your eyes. It made him smile, crouching down again as he motioned you closer.

“I do not bite, I promise.”

Peeking out a little more, you looked around, like there might be more men hiding before edging closer, the ripples small as you remained delicately cautious. “Most people don’t come this deep in the woods.” You admitted bashfully.

“Clearly worth it, to find such a beauty.”

You chuckled sweetly, “Though you could have announced you had found me. It would’ve been more polite…” You inched closer, keeping him captivated with the taunt of more to see, even if you kept the waterline at your chest.

“You are right.” he conceded in all sincerity. “My name is Sigurd and forgive me. I could hardly think you were real.”

You were fairly close now, walking on your hands while your legs floated in the stale current. “Won’t you come in the water Sigurd? It’s warm.”

He scoffed at you. “It’s freezing.”

You were taken back by the claim. No mortal ever noticed the water was cold, it was apart of the charm, never knowing until it was too late and the ice sapped the breath from their lungs deep under the lake. “You get used to it.”

“Hm.” You cocked your head, further confused by the smile so easy to refuse you. Bringing your knees under you, you sat and motioned for him to come in, your chest nearly exposed, so close to the surface he saw enough for his eyes to drop.

“You asked me to not be so shy, now you stop being so coy.”

His eyes scanned the rim of the lake, careful to take in every detail. The light hit past his bangs and you saw something amiss in his eye. Slightly you pushed yourself ever further, your chest brushing the sand. In his right eye the pupil was slited, yet it saw far more than he could know.

Raising a cold hand, you trailed your wet fingers from his temple to his jaw. “Your mother, was she of a magical breed?”

Sigurd stiffened by that, looking more at the ground than you or your body. “Some would say.”

“It seems you have inherited some of that magic.”

While he was bewildered, he also seemed insult, clipping his question. “Why do you say that?”

With a knowing smirk, you dropped your hand and asked, “Why won’t you come in the water? Be honest, not charming.”

His eyes roamed the quiet and still waters again. “The birds do not sing here, the water does not disturb with the wind and it is the blackest I have ever seen. I look at you, and though you are beautiful, my instinct says I should weep and run. This place screams of death.”

Your wicked smile grew at that, quickly losing your sweet charm. “That’s funny.” You thrust yourself partway on the bank, feet up and swaying in the air as you spoke a breaths away from him, “So few men ever see it so. They see me, and they swim.”

Unaffected, his eyes glanced down your body, to the swinging feet. “You have legs, walk with me instead.”

You cocked your head at the request. “Well I would need clothes for that.”

“Not necessarily.” he shrugged. “My blankets are quite warm.”

You chuckled, tilting your head this way and that, looking at him from many angles. Sigurd only remained still, eyes roaming your face. He was attracted to you, that much you could tell, not having run just yet from the truth he knew. It couldn’t have been the only reason he was still around, so you threatened a kiss, a light one, slow to pull back. He didn’t so much as flinch, tilting his head enough to savor it.

Your fingers lifted to slide under his collar, fisting it, tugging it back with you into the lake. He didn’t budge, Sigurd smiling against your lips the harder you pulled. But he only touched the water, he wasn’t in the lake, you’re strength gone without it.

The kiss broke and he whispered against your pout, “You could always come out. I would feel better in talking with you if you did.”

“It’s freezing.” you grumbled.

“You get used to it.” he chuckled, hand cradling the back of your head and pulling you into another needier kiss. It was getting tempting if you were honest, though you’d never left your lake before. The idea frightened you.

As it broke you glanced back behind you, most of your body out save for your thighs and knees.

“I will bring you back.” he chimed. You gave him a skeptical look. “Me and my brothers are new to these lands. I want to show them you.”

“Like a pretty bauble?” you teased.

“Oh but so much better. I care not much for kissing baubles.”

You both chuckled to that, feeling like it may not have been all acting. Biting your lip you took another glance back, at the calm black water encased in dark woods, the sky always cold and grey, and then to your body so close to already leaving it. “Alright. I suppose I have always been curious about… settlements. You’ll bring me back when we’re done, yes?”

“Yes!” Sigurd hopped up, extending his hand to you. In a huff, you pulled yourself up, using him as leverage to stand up fully. It did feel cold without the water, you quickly holding yourself tight. “One moment, I have a cloak a little ways back.”

Sigurd was off and you did wait, brow furrowing when you noticed the water turn warmer than black, it looking to be browning with healthy life. When the wind blew, the waves shuddered in time with it. And yes, the wind was very very cold.

When Sigurd returned you were holding yourself crushingly tight, shivering and staring into your lake, yours no more, returned to the Earth once again. But the thick coat he threw on you, made of dead furs and skins was quick to warm your troubled soul. The world was cold but perhaps he could keep you warm from it.

#sigurd #sigurd ragnarsson #sigurd imagine #sigurd x reader #vikings imagine #my stuff #Sigurd's Siren #sigurd going back on all those promises #including the biting one

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lassluna · 7 years ago

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Freeing the Witch (8/20)

Betad by the talented @notoriouscs.

Once Upon a Time, there was Emma Swan the Savior and Killian Jones the fearsome pirate Captain Hook. But this is not that time, this is not that place, this is the time of the Dark Swan and a cowardly Deckhand who dares to think he could save her and live to tell the tale…Especially when things get complicated.

ffn Ao3

Chapter 8

The Trap

They’re trudging through snow. It’s cold on her feet, and the flakes that have just started falling stick to her skin. Her boots are soaked, and she’s in the worst mood possible. Emma doesn’t understand how anyone could want to be around this stuff ever, let alone live in it all the time. She’d prefer a grassy meadow or a stone tavern any day.

“Look Ems! It’s snowing! Isn’t it simply divine?” Elsa says gleefully, practically skipping, and singing.

I don’t care about our plan. If she starts singing, I’m going to show her what happens to frozen things in summer, Emma vows, eyeing the witch carefully.

Elsa winks back, obviously knowing that she’s getting to Emma.

The snow is agonizing enough. Emma forgot just how giddy Elsa gets when she’s in her element, literally. It’s disgusting. But it does remind her of her first meeting with the young queen, a memory that felt like a lifetime ago.

Emma had just run away from her mother, lost and alone in the world. She thought she would always be stuck on the run, hiding from Queen Snow’s men.But then Ingrid found her and changed everything. Ingrid was filled with light and happiness who comforted a runaway sorceress when she had nothing. It was the same magical day that Elsa, still in her coronation attire, eyes brimming with tears, found Ingrid and Emma. Everything changed for two scared, powerful young women on the same day.

“I hate the snow,” Emma snaps back to the present. “And you. How far is this prison anyway?” It didn’t seem so far on Killian’s map. She can cross realms without breaking a sweat, but she can’t stand this snow for a moment longer.

Elsa stops, tapping her cheek in thought. “Another hour’s walk?” she guesses. “Is that too much for you?”

“Nope,” Emma replies, popping the p, suppressing her desire to start an argument. They can’t do that. It isn’t a part of the plan. Fighting would get in the way of the show they need to put on, and if there is anything they excel at, it’s putting on a good show.

When they first met, their interactions were civil, behavior that was drilled into both of them growing up as princesses in their own castles.They were both dirty little secrets.

The years of hostility from those supposed to love them and the constant emphasis on being in control, showing no emotion, had nearly driven them mad. They were raised as weapons, to one day be unleashed as their kingdoms’ personal attack dogs under the control of their vindictive parents, yet still required to maintain the façade of innocent princesses dispute the curses inflicted upon them.

Who knew hating your parents could make you such close friends, but close they were. Emma and Elsa were like sisters.

Ingrid, Emma and Elsa were a family. They had been happy.

Elsa stops for a second, eyeing Emma carefully. Emma gives a small nod in agreement; she sensed their presence as well. If they stop, the plan is ruined, so they press on, both feigning ignorance of the forces watching them. It’s only a matter of time before they make their move. Armies tend not to be the most patient creatures.

It is starting.

“Hold it, villain!” cries a voice. Emma and Elsa stop, magic at the ready as if surprised by the small group of guards who quickly surround them, brandishing swords.

Emma smiles at the thought that those metal twigs could harm her. She is the Dark One, and soon, they’ll know what that means.

“You are in Arendelle. Magical beings like you are strictly forbidden,” says someone, a guard Emma assumes. but his armour looks decorated strangely. She looked over at Elsa.

A guard? She silently asks.

Elsa nods at her before looking back at the group. She steps forward, keeping her back straight as an arrow. “I am Elsa, eldest daughter of Queen Gerda and rightful heir to the kingdom,” she announces in that princess voice that was instilled in both her and Emma since childhood, a voice they would always have in their arsenals whether they liked it or not. “I command thee to lay down your weapons.”

It’s a noble effort, but one they both knew was doomed to fail. Elsa wasn’t the rightful heir in the eyes of the people, not since Ingrid took her away from the castle, away from everything.

Ingrid drove the first wedge when she started talking about light magic and forgiving those who had wronged them. Emma didn’t want to forgive her mother, whom she believed never truly loved her. But Ingrid insisted that because Snow had magic, she could join their family.

She tried no such argument with Elsa’s sister who had long proven her inability to accept what she did not understand.

Ingrid saw the world as us against them. She hated non-magic users, and she believed that possessing magic was enough to bond people together. She thought that with a little love and compassion, Queen Snow could be reformed, that the four of them could be a family.

Emma didn’t take it very well, constantly arguing with Ingrid, who just didn’t understand that Emma’s mother was beyond rehabilitation. The unfeeling monarch who manipulated her own daughter into becoming a monster didn’t want or deserve Emma’s forgiveness. But Ingrid refused to listen.

Elsa, on the other hand, kept insisting that not all mortals were bad. Emma always caught her staring off into the distance, waiting for something, or maybe someone, to appear in the distance. Emma was sure to it was non-magical, for why else would Elsa keep it a secret? Whenever Emma questioned her, the almost-queen would smile softly.

“He made me a promise,” she said, and that was that.

“Our king is Hans,” the lead guard says sharply, bringing Emma back to the present. “You, witch, are an enemy of this kingdom.” Elsa isn’t fazed by his assertion. She’s heard it many times before.

Suddenly there are guards upon them, swiping at them mercilessly with their weapons, aiming to kill, not capture.

The sorceresses reply just as fiercely. After so much time in the close quarters of the ship, they desperately need the release of tension, the release of the darkness gripping their hearts, the release that these foolish guards seem oh so eager to give them.

It would be so easy to just kill them all with a single wave of her wrist, burying them in the snow, watching as they struggle for breath, as the life slowly drains from their bodies. Such a sight would fill Emma with glee, but then more will come. And when she dispatches those, then the magical prisoners under Hans’ control will be summoned to deal with them. No, Emma can’t have that. She needs to be underestimated, to be overlooked as a real threat.

So she doesn’t allow the battle to seem so totally one-sided. Instead Emma burns the guards with fireballs or breaks their bones by sheer force of will instead of what she’d usually do if she wanted to win: tear out their hearts one by one.

She looks to her left to see Elsa freezing solid those foolish enough to come at her, sending each human ice sculpture crumbling with a quick blow from an icicle staff. Her chilling laugh pierces the air as her power merges with the everlasting snowstorm.

If anyone questioned if they were monsters before, they wouldn’t after seeing the lack of regret in their eyes, Elsa’s joy as she kills, and their smirks reveling in their complete control. They work well together, the two bloodthirsty blondes. Just like old times, except now they can actually kill people.

Then one day Emma told Elsa her plan. Emma was going to run away. She was tired of obeying Ingrid’s rules, of always feeling like she let Ingrid down when she just couldn’t feel how the woman wished she would.

Elsa lost it, screaming that Emma was leaving her like everyone else did. She begged Elsa to leave too, but her sister couldn’t leave her only blood family she had left. Emma swore to Elsa that she’d be back, she’d come back for her, for her sister.

And Emma did return a few years later, but instead of triumphant, she came back lost and afraid again, just like when Ingrid found her the first time. Emma was burdened by a terrible secret, and she needed Elsa. She needed her sister.

But when Emma left, their sibling love had melted to bitter rivalry. Both felt betrayed by the other. Elsa’s coldness when she most needed her support reaffirmed for Emma that she was better off alone. She was better off without magic. And so Emma did what she did best.

She ran. Ran from Ingrid, ran from Elsa, ran from her kingdom.

Ran from her fate.

Something smacks Emma on the back, knocking her from her memories to whirl around to face her attacker,.

“Hello, lass. Miss me?” drawls a voice, flashing a wink with his good eye.

“Of course, Captain,” she replies evenly, conjuring her blade as all the approaching guards back off, watching the two circle each other slowly. “I’d never get tired of your pretty face.” And then she strikes.

He blocks her attack with ease, flicking his wrist just so to pull the blade from her grip.

“But it isn’t so pretty anymore, is it?” she teases darkly, eyeing the dark bruise on his face. Without a second thought he slashes at her, cutting open her wrist.

She hisses in pain before switching to fireball attacks. He doesn’t panic, just calmly deflects the magic with his enchanted sword, driving her backwards with her own firepower. Emma notices the remaining guards, those not being slaughtered by the homicidal Ice Queen, of course, watching with awe. This newcomer is easily dealing with the monster who was demolishing their forces unchecked only moments before.

In sudden fury she leaps at him, really aiming for her fallen weapon.

“I’m going to cut out your throat, you dirty pirate,” she spits as she pulls the sword toward her with a bit of magic and shoots him a coy smirk.

“Dirty? I bathe quite frequently, thank you,” he responds. He swings full force, hitting Emma across the face with the blunt side of his weapon.

She blinks once before losing her balance and falling backward. He catches her quickly, bridal style, head rolling onto his shoulder. She may be the Dark Swan of the realm, but even she has her weaknesses. She just hopes sharing them with the sailor was the right choice.

He settles her gently on the ground. “Good night, my fair maiden.” It’s soft and sweet in her ear, making her fight a smile as she drifts into unconsciousness.

Another whisper of his voice is even lower. “You can trust me, Swan. All will be well. Your plan will work.”

Emma wakes much as she expected to, chained to the wall in a cell. The restraints scratch at the rash left behind from her last stint in captivity, but these chains are a bit wider than they should be, nothing like the ones back in her tower. They barely suppress her magic. She had thought Hans was an expert in this, or perhaps she is just more of an expert at escaping. she doesn’t know.

Fortunately, they separated her from Elsa. Emma couldn’t handle the Ice Queen’s whining for the duration of their rescue/escape. Hopefully Elsa stuck to the plan and let Killian best her as well. They had decided that getting him close to whoever was in charge of this prison was the best course of action. Convincing the King’s forces to see Killian as their savior seemed like easiest way to make that happen.

But Emma has to admit, he is getting good with a sword. She only has a few notes of improvement for him from their staged fight. Sure, her magical attacks missed purposely, and she had taught him the move that ripped her sword from her hand, but with a few more weeks of practice, he might even surpass her with a blade.

“Rise, demon,” demands a voice. Emma turns her head and moves closer to the bars, making the armor-clad guard jump.

“Of course,” she purrs. “Where’s the Captain? He’s the one who caught me, not any of you incompetent fools.”

The man doesn’t react, instead pushing a tray through a small hole in the bars. It’s disgusting. She’d rather starve than eat that mess. Good thing it’s not an issue, since the Dark One doesn’t actually need food.

“He is speaking to the King,” the guard replies stiffly.

The King? Emma suppresses a groan. She expected the fool to come when he heard they captured his sister-in-law, but she had hoped he wouldn’t arrive so quickly.

No matter. Her plan will still work. They always do.

“Speaking about little ol’ me?” she flirts. “You Arendellians sure know how to flatter a lady.”

The man grins a little too widely. It makes Emma nervous. He steps closer to her cage, aiming to taunt her. He obviously doesn’t know who she is, what she can do. Perhaps she had let them underestimate her a little too much if they think these chains will keep her magic at bay.

“Actually, my king isn’t too trusting of late,” smirks the guard. “He has a foolproof way of ensuring that no foreigner who tells him a lie lives to tell another.”

Emma doesn’t like the sound of that, especially since every word leaving Killian’s mouth is sure to be just that.

Thoughts whirl in her head. Stick to the plan and don’t worry about him, or risk the whole operation to ensure he isn’t in danger? To be honest, when she came up with the plan, she hadn’t paid much attention to whether the Sailor lived through it, but that was before...before she realized that he could still be useful to her, he could still entertain her.

He’s more than entertaining isn’t he?

The plan was for her to slip out, find Elsa and Ingrid and get out. If she looks for Killian now, it puts the plan at risk, they could all be caught, forced to do Hans’ bidding. That is a fate worse than death in her eyes. She should trust the plan, let things happen how they scripted. Yes, Emma will stick to the plan…

The guard moves to retreat from the cell bars, and Emma flips from strategizing to acting on her primal instincts.

“Well, knowledge is power after all,” she snickers, breaking her chains and flinging herself against the cage. The bars, enchanted with something strong, burn her skin, but it’s no matter. Burns will heal, she thinks. But this won’t. Emma shoves her hand into the man’s chest before he has a chance to flee. He can only gasp silently, as her first thought while gripping his beating heart is be silent.

It pulses red in her hand, oh so pretty. Emma looks up, seeing the shock and fear in the man’s eyes.

Now he knows who he’s messing with. Now he knows what happens when you cross the Dark One.

“Tell me, soldier, what does your king wish to do to the Captain?”

He has no choice. He spills his guts to her, voice dripping with terror.

She curses under her breath as she hears what they plan for her sailor.

This is not part of the plan.

#Captain Swan #csff #once fanfic #once upon a time #dark swan #cs au ff #deckhand hook

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