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sophi-s · 4 years ago

Text

After three days. Three freaking days.

It is finished.

A kiss to die for

By: sophi-s (me)

Words: 4,531

Franchise: Darksiders video games

Characters: Fallen!Astarte, Abaddon

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore, near death experience, angst, necromancy, I changed the storyline just a tiny bit for the purposes of this, Abaddon gets his ass handed to him by his ex :P.

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Eden. The first gift from the Creator himself to the Humanity. A home for the First Ones. Once, an indescribably beautiful place full of grand trees and fresh, soft grass, flowing with cool, crystal clear waters. Colorful fruits growing in the trees, a delight to eye and tongue. Within, no danger could reach Humanity's ancestors. Truly a paradise the first humans rightfully called it. But now, after a great war that took place here, seemingly not that long ago, the great garden was left scarred and burning. Made into a tomb for those who sought to claim it. Bodies of Nephilim were left to burn and decay, forgotten and abandoned.

However, something has changed. A dark shadow passed over the sacred graveyard, leaving only madness and corruption in its wake. Those who perished picked themselves up from the ground and lashed out at Eden's guardians. Surprised and unable to respond with a coordinated defensive, the Faneguard had to call for retreat after their leader, Malahidael fell to the blades and arrows of the living dead. Amongst the scattered angels was the general of Heaven's Legions. Trying his best to keep his brethren focused and plan a tactical escape.

At least that's what he was trying before. Before he saw the cause of this nightmare. Now, outstretched on the ground in the dust, he forced himself up onto his elbow as he crawled towards his discarded blade, clutching at his chest that felt as though it had been caved in after a charging monstrosity trampled him in full speed.

How could this happen?

Fighting with his chaotic thoughts, he finally got a hold of the hilt but when he turned around, it was already too late. A large paw armed with razor-sharp claws landed on him, pinning him down and successfully immobilizing his lower half. And then his own blue eyes stared up into a pair of white ones, the same eyes that doomed him from the moment he met their gaze for the first time. The eyes that occupied his thoughts when he was awake and his dreams while he slept. Eyes of Astarte.

But what stood above him… this thing, this monster was Astarte no longer. From the waist up, the woman was stunningly beautiful as she always was, with her pale white eyes and long flowing, platinum blonde hair. But her legs have been replaced by a body of a feline beast with wings coated in blackness of corruption, feathers shimmering with red glyphs. A wicked smile was twisting her petal like lips and wherever her clawed paws fell, the dead bodies shivered and rose, called back into the accursed unlife. Utter insanity shone in her eyes.. Keeping his stone façade was no longer possible as inwardly he was falling apart. Astarte. The same Astarte who would kill and die for him, the same who he trusted more than anyone. The same Astarte he dared to love. Her smirk grew wider as she chuckled.

"Who do we have here? The great general of Heaven's Legions Abaddon himself!"

The unfamiliar taunting tone of her voice sent a shiver down his spine, as did the way she bared her teeth in a disturbing grin. Giving the large paw a tug to try and wriggle free, quickly realising it's pointless as the damned thing didn't even budge, Abaddon took a struggling breath, pretty sure his sternum was damaged if not broken.

"Astarte…"

His voice came out as a broken, pleading whisper. He still couldn't… or maybe he didn't want to… cope with what he was seeing clearly like on the palm of his hand. Astarte, his most formidable soldier, the strongest of them all, and the only woman in the Universe he felt something special for… Fallen into the vice-like grip of Lucifer's corrupting influence. Gone was the gentle smile that crawled its way up onto her face whenever she spotted him. Abaddon swallowed thickly when he noticed the spear in her hand poised to strike and carve his broken heart out from his chest. Astarte would never harm him…

"I was wondering when you'd show up."

She scoffed and used her other paw to press his right arm to the ground should he try to take a swipe at her. But they both knew far too well that he couldn't have, even if he wanted to. Astarte leaning over him was still the one his heart yearned for, still beautiful just… in a different, more horrifying way. Through the ringing in his ears after his head cracked against a rock, he could hear someone call out to him but whoever it was, they were successfully pushed back by the horde of undead Nephilim.

"Astarte, don't do it.."

He quietly begged, even though he never begs. Seeing her like this, twisted and bestial, did something to him he couldn't quite comprehend. Touched that part of his soul he didn't even know about. Strangely enough, even in her madness, Astarte must've sensed something in him that gave her a pause as she curiously tilted her head to one side. All the moments, even the shortest ones, he'd spent with Astarte in the past were flashing before his eyes. Every time they had one another's back in battle, every time one saved the other's life, every time they spoke about the things they would never tell anyone else whenever they were alone. And that memorable moment when they stood together, away from the prying eyes that moonlit night. Abaddon was listening to her as she asked him if what she feels is right, if there's any possible way he feels that way as well. He almost laughed at her obliviousness and the fact that his love was there before she even realised her own. Of course.. He took her hands in his and gazed into her eyes, absolutely mesmerized, waiting for permission to finally grant her the proof of his love and devotion, one which she silently gave him with a nod and a smile.

"I would walk through the fire of Nine Hells for you."

He said before leaning down to place a chaste kiss on her lips. A kiss, stolen kiss he was dying to receive. It was very brief but still felt like his first flight over the White City. Liberating, wonderful and equally as intoxicating. Those were the most beautiful memories he'd ever made but now they were like a parasite buried deeply into his brain, one that refused to leave his head, reminding him of better times and cackling maniacally at him as the present was coming undone before his very eyes. He wanted those memories to go. But there was no escape. Neither from them nor from Astarte herself.

"Look at me.."

"I am."

"Please, come to your senses. It's not you.. You need to fight it, I know you have it in you. Don't leave me like this… Don't you remember everything I'd done for you? Everything you'd done for me ?"

For a second, Astarte's grin fell, making place for a thoughtful expression and for this short second Abaddon dared to hope that there's still light in her. That he somehow managed to get to her. But all these hopes were taken away when she shook her head and looked at him… not with anger. It was pity, plain and simple as she spoke in a condescending tone.

"Fool. So loyal and righteous. Look around! The war had ended long ago, yet we remain stranded in this forsaken tomb! We've been abandoned and no one will set us free if we don't do so ourselves! Don't tell me you cannot see it."

He couldn't believe his ears. It wasn't the honorable and just angel he used to know. The Astarte he knew was gone. This was a twisted monster bearing the visage of his dearest, taunting him with her beauty that was always keeping his hand paralyzed whenever he tried to strike her even though his life depended from it.

"I have chosen my path, Abaddon. And you can walk it with me.."

Abaddon eyed her hand warily as she stretched it out to him, offering him help in standing up. He was torn. On the one hand, he so, so wanted to accept and be with Astarte as he used to. No one would take her from him ever again. But taking her hand would also mean slipping into the hateful darkness. Welcoming the sullying blackness inside and succumbing to madness. Straying from the light and forsaking his duty in favor of the same accursed power that destroyed her.

It was a dangerous thing, this love.. Pushing even the most reasonable people to do unthinkable and dangerous things in the name of it. More often than not at costs that rarely make it worth it. Lucifer knew this. And he used it as a weapon against Abaddon by turning Astarte. He knew not what the Dark Prince offered her but it must've been worth losing oneself. Astarte was now Lucifer's servant, not the love of Abaddon's eternal life. He couldn't… he couldn't end up like her. His already bleeding heart screamed out with anguish when he finally gathered himself to speak.. and refused.

"I… can't do this, Astarte. Not even for you…"

"That's a pity…"

Abaddon grunted in pain when the pressure on his wrist increased to the point when he could feel his bones beginning to crack. And then as suddenly as it appeared, the crushing weight was gone, both from his arm and his chest. But he wasn't free. His breath was abruptly cut off when Astarte's slender fingers, which often fiddled with his hair when he had a moment to lie down and rest after a hard day, looking up at her sitting beside his head, before all this, mercilessly curled around his throat and lifted him up to her eye level until his toes could no longer reach the ground. She was strong. Stronger than he remembered. His left hand grasped Astarte's wrist as he tried to struggle free while he raised his sword to attack. But… looking deep into her eyes, at her face, mouth curved in a poisonous sweet smile, the silken skin of her cheeks… His hand trembled. Once again he proved her and himself he doesn't have it in him to do this. Damn it all. This one, seemingly harmless emotion was what ultimately led him to his own doom. If he'd never fallen for Astarte he wouldn't be here, flapping his wings madly in an attempt to wriggle out of her hold. But he couldn't command his heart. It would not listen to him.. Abaddon couldn't simply stop loving Astarte. Her eyebrows furrowed in a gentle frown and he felt the tip of her gilded spear press insistently against his abdomen, right under his ribs. Cold sweat began to bead around his brow. Oh Creator…

"Fret not, love.."

Astarte purred, making him finally stop beating his wings and look her in the eye again only to see an unsettling spark in there. Despite the obvious danger, hearing her call him her "love" in this deceivingly sweet voice still made his racing heart skip a beat.

"It won't be long.. And when you die, you'll be forever at my side. Just as you desired."

As a monster, not unlike her. A living corpse that defiled the natural order by its existence itself. He didn't want to go like this. What an end it is for a general of Heaven? Killed by his own lieutenant and brought back to life as a shambling husk of what he used to be? Preposterous. Cold lump of fear settled into the pit of his stomach. He could only count seconds. One.. two… it didn't even come to three when the blade sunk deeply into his flesh, piercing the armor as though it wasn't even there in the first place and running him through. After all, the spear was created specifically to fight armored opponents… Abaddon wanted to scream out in pain but the wail of agony was cut short by the firm grasp on his throat that stopped the air escaping his lungs. Pain clouded his vision but did not silence his racing thoughts. He was weak. He couldn't strike Astarte down as his enemy, denying her the well deserved rest and falling to her blade like a fool he felt like. He struggled to breathe and keep his eyes opened when he felt Astarte loosen her ironclad grip on his neck and move her hand to his face, oh so gently pulling the strands of his hair, matted with sweat, to the side and behind his ear before placing the same hand on the back of his neck to keep his head still. He gasped for air through his opened mouth as blood was beginning to well up in his throat and dribble down his chin. And then Astarte unexpectedly leaned in and decisively captured his lips with her own, granting him the final kiss for a farewell.

Abaddon's eyes widened in fear and shock but even though the pain of the spear through his side, he found himself going slack in Astarte's arms. His ornate blade clattered to the ground when his fingers unfurled and let it slip out. No strength remained within him to even try and respond to Astarte's lips, even if he wanted to. But what he hoped to be his last comfort turned out to be nothing more than a cruel torment with how cold and meaningless the kiss felt. It was nothing like the one back in the White City. Hollow seconds ticked by. It tasted only of the blood flooding his tongue and the bitter defeat. No love, no passion and no feelings remained in her black heart. Only the empty void and tasteless ashes… Monster. Astarte no longer… She would never hurt him…

Astarte knew him and all of his weak spots all too well. She knew how and where to strike to make it hurt. And this last kiss was only a tool to her. There wasn't any physical pain anymore when she finally pulled away with his blood painting her lips in deep crimson and let his body slip down the spear to collapse onto the shriveled grass. The last thing Abaddon saw before numbing darkness swallowed him was Astarte delightedly licking his scarlet life essence on her mouth and teeth before she hummed contentedly

"Farewell, my love. I'll see you again soon enough…"

She stood close, gazing at the distant stars shimmering in the black sky.

"The night sure is beautiful."

"It is. Even more so with you around."

"Tsk. Sweet-talker…"

In the impenetrable black, Abaddon heard nothing, saw nothing and felt nothing aside from the dull ache within his chest. Betrayal… Every beat of his heart was a torture. He couldn't even tell if it was really beating or not anymore. It bled ceaselessly. Craving for the lost love. Crying out to Astarte as something started to tug at the strings of his very soul. Trying to pull him free from his still body that refused to move no matter how much he wished to stand or at least sit up. Memories were passing all too quickly through his head. Eyes shining with uncertainty, a relieved smile as he staggered upright with a pained grimace that was supposed to be a comforting smile..

" Are you certain everything is alright? For a moment there I was afraid you were gone.."

"Never, my light. I would never leave you."

He wasn't going to the Kingdom of the Dead, he was certain. Astarte would make sure of it.. Curse Lucifer.. curse this wretched feeling still coiled in his chest, like a festering plague. Warriors of Heaven are people of unbreakable steel. Calm and collected beings of logic. But when it comes to honest feelings, there's nothing in between. They either don't care or love to the death. And when they love and it all falls apart, their hearts break like no one else's. No, they don't even break… they shatter to a million pieces like a frozen flower. And even if they are ever put back together, they're never the same. Those scars run too deep to ever disappear. Curse everything… Soft hair he tangled his fingers in, a heartbeat right beside his… warm presence next to him and a misleadingly delicate cheek pressed to the skin on top of his chest..

"What happens now then?"

"Doesn't matter. As long as we stay together."

"We will, Abaddon…"

He tasted the copper tinge of blood again as Astarte's voice echoed in his head when she swore to him. When he believed her..

I P R O M I S E .

Those two words… They meant a world to him. Even after he saw what Astarte had become… Abaddon desperately clung to those words like a drowning man holds onto the final breath until the very last second. And that was his downfall. She promised me…

The last memory of Astarte before all this chaos wormed its way into his mind. A less pleasant one. He could see there was something wrong with her back then. This was the first time they had a true falling out. Well.. can this really be called a falling out if it was just him being yelled at? Astarte was changed already. Something happened to her after the Nephilim slaughter. Something he had foolishly overlooked. Maybe he was just too preoccupied with his own grief? Blood tumbled down from her wound, painting both her and his armor in vibrant red from where a crude spear met her body…

It didn't take long for the last of the Nephilim to fall when this happened. She held onto life tightly as he led her deeper into the garden where healers would take care of her. Abaddon waited outside the tent, pacing back and forth until Azrael, who'd been tending to Astarte himself, walked out. A slender hand fell onto his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks and making him look at his old friend bearing a sullen expression. He'd never been so terrified in his life like in this short moment when he waited for Azrael to inevitably tell him that it was too late to help her but he merely asked Abaddon to come with him inside. Somehow, it was even worse. He saw her sitting on the edge of a cot, face pale, lips pressed into a thin line, staring at nothing. Eyes of other angels were on the three of them as the two archangels walked in. It was a relief to see her alive but there was no doubt that something was wrong. The patches of fresh crimson staining her trousers on her inner thighs only confirmed his suspicions. And Azrael didn't keep him waiting for an explanation.

"She was with child.."

The news hit him like a slug to the face. With a sack of bricks no less. Astarte, his beloved, bearing his blood in her womb. By all means he should feel ecstatic. He should rejoice. But this one word, this tiny word filled him with absolute dread. Was.

"The blade went deep.. There was nothing I could do. I'm sorry."

Who knows how long he stood there like a wooden stake? There was nothing I could do. Azrael was inarguably the best healer in the White City. He knew what he was saying. And yet… Abaddon found it difficult to believe his words. A child. His child. Died before they even had a chance to live.. It hurt more than any wound he'd ever received. When he finally could move, he approached Astarte and sat beside her, reaching for her hand to give her something to hold on to. But her violent reaction caught him off guard. She jerked away, her words dripped like acid.

"It's your fault. Get away from me!"

"Astarte, listen.."

"No! It never should've happened! Why would you do this to me?!"

This was the first time she called him per "you" in the presence of other angels. He knew not what she was truly going through but if his own sorrow was any indication, it must've been a nightmare. They'd lost something they didn't even know they had and it felt like the end of the world they'd built together. In a way, it was... Abaddon tried reaching out again but Astarte batted his hand away and leaped up to her feet despite the pain.

"Don't touch me! Do not speak to me, get off!"

"Astarte!"

He managed to call out before she stormed out of the tent, wrapping her wings around herself as a barrier that could protect her from the world around. Were it not for a firm grip on his arm, he would've gone after her. It was Nathaniel who stopped him. Abaddon looked at his friend, the right side of his face wrapped up in bandages just like his side he was keeping his hand over.

"It's not going to help. Let her go for now."

It's been a long time since he felt this lonely. He left the tent without another word, ignoring whatever it was Azrael was saying, and walked away from the camp like a wandering spectre who lost its way to the Well. And when he was far enough, he found himself collapsing on the ground, angrily hitting it with his fist as though it was the culprit here. They died without so much of a name.. Abaddon knew that what Astarte said wasn't true. He had no idea, it can't have been his fault… and yet this thought kept bothering him.

I should've protected you better. I have failed you.. both of you…

It took a couple of shaky breaths to collect his thoughts. Unable to do anything else, he pulled himself to his knees, clasped his hands together and started to whisper a prayer, seeking compassion in the Creator and his silent presence.

Astarte was already slipping after that and the prolonged stay in Eden only made it worse. She became distant and irritable, constantly itching for a fight, be it with words or blades. He thought she needed time to grieve. But this was something else. Something more sinister. Perhaps if he noticed it earlier.. done something… If only…

The odd tugging suddenly ceased and moments later a wave of comforting warmth washed all over him, gathering in his side where he was impaled. Deep within his chest, he felt his heart quiver, desperately fighting to keep beating. At first he thought he was merely waiting for Astarte to pull him back into the land of the living as a detestable abomination but no.. He yet lived. His thoughts were abruptly dispersed when he heard voices, very familiar and concerned voices, break through, the buzzing in his head.

"Did that do it?"

"Is he even alive ?"

"Hard to tell. It doesn't look good.."

"No, it doesn't.. Do you think we got to him on time?"

"I do not know. I'm not even sure if- Wait, I think he moved."

Abaddon indeed stirred, prying his eyes open with no small effort, immediately regretting his choice after a far too bright light intruded underneath his eyelids, and descending into a fit of uncontrollable coughs, spitting out all the blood that remained within as soon as he took a deeper breath. Pain. Horrible, excruciating pain filled his chest. He had been right. His sternum was definitely broken.

Damn all of it. Damn Lucifer, damn the Nephilim and damn the blasted air that hurt his lungs with every breath. Mist eventually fell from his sights, revealing to him familiar, tired faces of angelic soldiers leaning over him with distressed looks. His men. The Faneguard. They survived. Some of them at least… Malahidael wasn't so lucky.. One of them, Fariel if his memory doesn't deceive him, was holding up Abaddon's hand in his, and held between his curled fingers, Abaddon noticed an emptied crystal, a used up healing shard glimmering in the sunlight as the energy that was channelled into his body began to close the torn blood vessels.

"Lord Abaddon. Can you hear me?"

Gasping for another bit of air, horribly weakened but still very much alive and likely to stay that way, Abaddon gurgled out a disturbing sound that was supposed to be a miserable chuckle. In honesty, it sounded more like a dying demon than a laugh.. It only served to agitate them even further until he breathed out with relief and nodded as no coherent word could form in his mouth. What happened to Astarte when he was on death's door, he could only guess. But one thing he was sure of. She was still out there. Raving mad and dangerous to all who step into Eden. The law was clear. Astarte had fallen into darkness, defiled the dead and raised her weapon against her brethren. This was not an easy decision but after what he'd seen and lived through, Abaddon was certain now. He tried to bring her back, save her from the hate that grew within her like a malicious weed. But she was clearly too far gone. He couldn't help her.. Too late. As always, he was too late. Whether Abaddon likes it or not, Astarte needs to die. There was nothing more he could do for her. But he won't be the one to play the executioner and the hand of justice. He knew he couldn't. He'd failed twice already.. It will be done, just… not now.

Perhaps another time… They were safe for now. And he needed to think… Abaddon lifted his free hand to his mouth. It was still there, this horrid sensation.. and he knew it won't go away for a long, long time. Resting his head against the ground, he exhaled heavily as blessed unconsciousness started to take a hold on him once more. He needed to rest. They all did…

Even as he was falling into the dark again, he could still feel Astarte's venomous kiss upon his lips. Burning like fire and sinking cruel claws into his chest. Would he ever forgive her for tearing his heart apart? Probably. It wasn't her fault after all. It can't be, can it? Would he ever forget, though? Unlikely.. Abaddon couldn't help but wonder… if it was all his fault? He couldn't command his feelings and order them to leave him. But still, he felt guilty. Not even for Astarte's fall anymore but for ever letting this infatuation control him. That's where this love had gotten him so far. It left him weak and vulnerable. It was beautiful while it lasted but now? Only suffering remained.

No wonder Heaven has such a disdain for love. It causes naught but misery and ruin. A dire thought invaded his hazy mind. It matters not what Astarte had done. He still loved her. Soon, she will be put to rest. And him? Well.. Every, even the greatest warrior has to fall in battle. Eventually… And when that day comes, he will be ready to embrace his end. When that day comes.. they will meet again. Maybe... But until then… His heart hastened even still as he took another breath and silently told himself…

…Never again…

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It.. it was supposed to be short? I did say short fic, didn't I? Uhh.. Whoops 😓

Also, Gimp 2 has nearly succeed in driving me nuts. In Poland we say "stand on eyelashes and clap one's ears" when something is nigh impossible. Yeah. That was that.

Btw, I take back everything I said about Abaddon's shoulder pads , they're mf'ing gorgeous 👌

#darksiders #darksiders fan fiction #darksiders genesis #my fic #darksiders astarte #astarte #darksiders abaddon #abaddon #here I go writing about that arsehole again XD #idk #I can't tag properly :P #my art #fan art #darksiders art #also .I.. Gimp #it's so hard to do decent stuff #it's not even that good :/

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peridot-tears · 4 years ago

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If LWJ had jumped off the cliff too, and WWX met Madam Lan

I am falling to my death.

Shijie.

I am falling to my death.

What did his sister think when her eyes closed? Panic? Relief, that she saved her little brother? Or fear?

Would that I could. I would take all that fear from you. And he put the thought away. What did it matter how Shijie felt in her last moments, when he had made her suffer, and now she was gone?

Besides, he thought, with his eyes closed. He was already halfway to joining her.

Would that he could.

For once in his life, Lan Wangji did not think. Bichen like a single wing in his hand, he flew. He flung himself from the cliff.

我陪你。

无愧于心。

In his peripherals, the spray of his own blood. In his tunnel vision, Wei Ying. Yes. Tunnel vision, towards Wei Ying. Nothing could attack him from the sides, anyway. His bleeding did not matter. He would not bleed to death tonight.

Wei Ying was so, so far. Lan Wangji reached inside himself for the spherical power undulating unbidden in his center; it moved still. He had energy yet. He gripped that spiritual energy tight, by the throat, and drew it into the wind.

Wei Ying once said that 妖魔鬼怪 were akin to the life and death of a tree. Lan Wangji was now a ship, with a sail. And he was streaking downwards, towards the achingly distant shape of a man.

Wei Ying.

His spiritual energy sputtered, then burst into a speed that threw him down towards Wei Ying. His black shape slowly became larger, and larger, till Lan Wangji reached out a hand and brushed his red ribbon.

More. He needed more.

Throttling the center of himself, he drew out the last desperate breaths of his spiritual energy; with one last burst, he closed the distance between himself and Wei Ying. The core of himself burned, but with a cry of relief, he wrapped Wei Ying’s body in his arms.

The name is on the tip of his tongue, and he opens his mouth to exhale it. But he finds that he cannot.

This is such a long fall, but Lan Zhan will not...Lan Zhan won’t—

Just let me die. Wei Ying’s tears are coming again, and the dull throb of his heartbeat has sharpened, is ripping him open from the inside out.

If mere moments and one blackness ago, Lan Zhan’s lips were pinched with the most obstinate look Wei Wuxian has ever seen, then one return to the world later, his face is soft and clear.

I can’t bring you down with me, Wei Wuxian thinks, panicking. He regrets opening his eyes, because he is not yet dead, and now Lan Zhan...he...

“Wei Ying,” he says, more gently than anyone has said his name in days.

Wei Wuxian finally manages to press Lan Zhan’s name out of his throat, though he cannot hear it in the gush of falling around them. He feels the name move the bones in his skull. He wants to tell him to go, but where could he go?

“I am coming with you,” Lan Zhan responds. “Without any regret in my heart.”

Wei Ying’s round eyes are blasted open with shock and pleading. His body is pulsing with blood and life.

Let it stay that way.

Lan Wangji tears his gaze away to look beneath them, at the ground materializing into nearness. Bichen trembles in his hand, and he is unsure if it is something in the sword spirit calling him, or the pulse of his own life. He twitches his palm, his fingers, and wills Bichen to listen: if he has one last request in the world—anything—then it would be Wei Ying’s safety.

Bichen loyally unsheathes itself. It matches their pace, tucking itself under Lan Wangji’s feet, killing their descent.

The ground stops rushing up so quickly to meet them.

Lan Wangji is waning, but he is flying Bichen now, both arms wrapped tight around Wei Ying’s waist.

Like a carriage jerked to a halt too quickly, Bichen stops just above the cold, hard ground. Lan Wangji tumbles into its embrace, but not before he rolls into his landing, softening the fall enough so Wei Ying will only feel a bump.

Safe.

Bichen retreats into his sheath at his unspoken command, and that is all he has the strength left to do.

Lan Zhan is on top of Wei Wuxian, pressing the breath out of him. His gaze searches him so much, Wei Wuxian feels like he is standing on that rooftop all over again.

Then, with an exhale, he collapses against his shoulder.

With the warmth of his weight on top of him, Wei Wuxian does not know how long he is down there, stunned, alive, crying. He clutches at Lan Zhan’s body. He wants to scream, but loses any desire to. He thinks the sky is too far away. He wants it to come down and bury him.

In the middle of the tears, of counting each spot in the sky where there should be a star, Lan Zhan’s heart beats against his. It is like a spark against flint.

“Lan Zhan,” he croaks, barely hearing his own whisper. “Lan Zhan.” Why did you save me, Lan Zhan?

He has been cursed with good instinct from birth—though it wasn’t good enough to save Yu Furen, or Shijie—and he knows that Jiang Cheng will climb down here to looking for them, even if he must turn Zidian into a rope and climb with each agonizing handful of lightning. He would kill Wei Wuxian. That is fine. But who knows if he would take anything out on Lan Wangji?

Wei Wuxian hefts Lan Zhan’s weight off of himself. He surprises even himself with the strength left in him, rolling him onto his back and brushing his own hair out of his eyes. Jiang Cheng can have him. Jiang Cheng should have him.

But no one should have Lan Zhan.

Lan Wangji would not blame Wei Ying if he left him beneath that cliff.

He left Wei Ying all by himself outside of Xuanwu Dong, after having sung him to sleep. He was sick, and delirious, and Lan Wangji left him to wake up alone. It must have been like waking up in a cold bed.

It was the right thing to do at the time. But if only he knew what would come after, how he would encounter Wei Ying next. And the next time. And the next.

His decisions had all been right. But the wrong thing could also be right.

He wakes up to the sensation of swaying.

It is akin to waking up after his first ever taste of alcohol. Wei Ying was there that night, too. They woke up together. He wishes he could see the way he burst into laughter in the late-morning sunlight, almost noon. He wishes Wei Ying could smile as sharply as that light again. But when all is said and all is done, he has granted himself his own wish. Wei Ying is alive.

He wakes up on Wei Ying’s back.

Lan Zhan’s breath is soft on his neck. Wei Wuxian wishes he wouldn’t wake up like this. He wants him to stay asleep until he is healed, and then never see Wei Wuxian again, because by then Wei Wuxian would finally have killed himself. And this time, he wouldn’t even have to see it and blame himself for not saving him in time.

“You’re awake,” he says.

Lan Zhan’s next breath carries the trace of a grunt. His throat bobs against Wei Wuxian’s hair as he exhales.

“Don’t try to talk,” Wei Wuxian says. Truthfully, he is telling himself this too. He should be mourning, so where is the energy to even open his mouth coming from?

Thankfully, Lan Zhan obeys, but he still breathes down his neck like a relaxed predator. Wei Wuxian should not feel so hunted, he thinks, until he realizes that there is nowhere to go. No one in the world would allow a criminal into their inn, much less the Yiling Laozu, who killed Jin Zixuan, who killed millions. Why, even his own sister—

Lan Zhan needs you right now, he thinks.

It is incredible, how long he can follow the rocks of the very bottom of Bu Ye Tian and not get caught. He walks until his feet ache as much as his chest, and then keeps walking.

He walks and walks until the land thickens into trees.

It starts to rain. Nevernight turns to night. Night turns to day. Turns back into night.

He keeps walking.

—

He is brought back to a certain other night, when he decided to walk back into hell to save a handful of innocents. And they later died. I wonder, would Lan Zhan die too? he thinks idly. Well, no. No, he won’t let that happen. Not again. Which is exactly what he declared to the world the last time.

Lan Zhan is unconscious again. Wei Wuxian lays him down under the eaves of the abandoned lean-to, thankful that nowhere else in the world is there wind as merciless as that in Luan Zang Gang. He kindles a small fire and bandages Lan Zhan’s arm.

Even after a battle, exhausted to death, Lan Zhan’s face is the smoothest cut of white jade. It is like the moon—could provide light even in the dark. Wei Wuxian traces a finger along his cheek, his jaw, and marvels at his own hands. They are trembling.

The irony is not lost to him. That he is the one very much breathing and moving—jittering, even—while Lan Zhan is sleeping like the dead. The whiplash of being alive is so repetitive.

His throat works. He hums to himself, then scrapes a leaf off the side of the lean-to. For all the sick feelings in his stomach at the thought of mouthing Chenqing again, he places the leaf under his lips. Its whistle is different from Chenqing’s. There is no power, just the vibrations of something that is still green.

This is what he has been reduced to, he supposes.

The song is nameless, but he knows it.

How long have I been alive? he chants to himself. He threads these words into the tune he plays, giving them lyrics. He wonders if Lan Zhan ever gave them lyrics. He threads that name into the harmony, too.

Lan Wangji opens his eyes to the sound of something that should be played on the earthy tones of his guqin. It has been turned into something more high and unreachable.

The first thing he thinks is that he does not hurt as much as he should, that his arm must be bleeding, and that it is rainy and cold.

But Wei Ying.

Their song is in the air. He twists his head in a ginger, delicate motion to see Wei Ying’s exhausted, pale visage, and that one pop of green against his lips.

He finds no need to speak.

Wei Wuxian has played the song at least three times before he decides to check up on Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan stares back.

“You’re awake,” he says. There should not be as much emotion in those words as there is.

“Mn.” Wei Wuxian doesn’t like how he’s responding. He’s looking at him as though he is the one lying barely conscious, and Lan Zhan is the one playing this song for him.

“Go back to sleep,” Wei Wuxian says. “The more you rest, the sooner you’ll get better. And then you can go back home, and tell your Shufu and brother that I took you away against your will. You can even take credit for killing me, if you want. After this, you’ll never see me again.”

“I will not leave you.”

Then I’ll leave you, but what’s meant to be a secret then leaves his mouth.

Lan Zhan is steadfast. “Where will you go?”

Wherever Shijie is. So I can say sorry.

Wei Wuxian elects to spread himself open. Where other people curl into a defensive ball, he lays himself on the ground, a child of earthly affairs.

反正天大地大，四海为家。

“The world is big,” he says, “and wherever I go, I can make it into a home. That’s what happened in Luan Zang Gang, but I don’t want to go back.”

But where else do I belong now?

Lan Wangji opens his mouth, but Wei Ying has frozen in time. There is not a physical whiff of smoke around him, but he shakes, leaf dropping from his grip. His lips move, as he has conversations with someone who died in a cruel fashion a long time ago.

“Wei Ying,” he calls.

His eyes are glazed over. Lan Wangji has seen this before.

“Wei Ying,” he calls again. With Jiang Yanli out of the world now, and out of wherever the ghosts possessing Wei Ying live—a person like her meets death with a greeting and a bowl of soup—only Lan Wangji has a flicker of hope in keeping him here.

He scrambles to lift himself, winces when he uses his injured arm, then heaves himself upright with core strength alone.

Grabbing Wei Ying’s arm is like touching a hot stone: In a flash meant to repel, it burns him. He should jolt and jump away, but instead clutches harder. He says his name again.

How long has Wei Ying been walking to bring them both out of the reach of the cultivation world? Where are they now? How long has he gone without sleep, when he should have stopped to grieve?

Wei Ying finally, finally takes enough breaths to find himself, finally has the space of mind to turn his head enough for Lan Wangji to realize how bloodshot his eyes are.

With one last shudder, he collapses.

魏无羡你想报仇吗？

Revenge? On whom? Himself?

Shijie does not belong on a battlefield. In another life, one where she could be as strong in body as she is in mind, she would be the best. She would beat anyone as easily as Yu Furen and her handmaids. When she is reincarnated, in her 来生，heaven will be kinder to her, because if not to her, then whom?

So why is she here, dressed in white for her own funeral?

There is a whisper she is trying to pass onto him, and the hand on Wei Wuxian’s cheek is already cold from lack of blood. Instead, she shoves him aside. She dies instantly.

That blade was meant for me.

It should have been me.

Jiang Fengmian should never have taken him in. He killed his daughter. Wei Wuxian should have been left to die on the streets.

Do you want revenge?

I want to die.

The voices have faces. Every one of them is Jiang Yanli. Such hateful words should not come from her mouth. He wants to raise Chenqing to the voices, but then, he would have to raise it to her.

He dreams of falling. Luan Zang Gang calls him. Come back, say the ones who gave him Chenqing. Don’t you want revenge?

When he hits the ground again, no longer able to see the sky, Shijie reaches a hand out. She does not belong here, either. “Go,” he tells her. “Go—”

Don’t touch her, he screams at the spirits. Listen to me. You promised, you promised.

Shijie raises one gentle hand to his cheek. He is too afraid to lean into her touch.

“—Ying!”

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supernova1us · 5 years ago

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Makuta Nova Bio

this is the full life biography of makuta nova, one of my OCs. decided to write it like one of the online serials from G1. points to anyone who can find the reference to g2 in here(and its not the one you might think it is)

Since her creation, Makuta Nova was highly proud of her race and dedicated to the brotherhood as a whole. She was always a fierce warrior but mostly analytical, preferring command and tactics to combat.

Physically, makuta nova was tall and elegant but intimidating in appearance. Her size was average, not towering, among her own kind but most beings of the matoran universe would be looking up to meet her gaze. She wore bulky armor on her upper body to belie her slender frame and present a more intimidating visage. She wore the sleek mask of probability, its curves and points sweeping backwards. It was black save for a pointed red crest at its tip. Its power enhanced her already cold decision making. From behind her mask she had long, triangular antlers protruding straight outward on each side of her head. Her armor was black with white and red highlights; a battle skirt, open in the front, hung from her waist. When forced to partake in battle, she typically wielded a double bladed sword in combat, her signature weapon, as well as a long bladed whip on occasion.

In the brotherhoods years of their assigned role of creating rahi, she is credited as the designer and progenitor of the Manas and Kikanalo, for which she was very proud. Early in the makutas history she had a decent, though like all makuta, distant, relationship with the toa and matoran. She was made the "guardian" of Iron-Forge, a small island set in the silver sea between the northern and southern continents. It was the home of a large settlement of Fe-matoran. Proud of her rahi creations, she saw many of them brought to the island. She also developed a fondness for collecting rare or powerful Kanohi masks, often hiring dark hunters, lone toa or other rogue beings to seek them out for her. The jewel her collection was the powerful, Cephalopod-like mask of control.

Eventually, the fateful day came which changed the destiny of the makuta forever more. Teridax, the makuta of metru nui and closest confident to both their leader miserix and the great spirit himself, inproduced "the plan". Said plan was the overthrowing of mata nui himself and for the makuta to take control of the matoran universe. This was also a clear attempt by teridax to wrest control of the brotherhood for himself. She was one who intended to side with Miserix against the plan, sensing it a folly to attempt. It was clear where such thought had crept in from, with the failed attempt at the same by the barraki warlords, teridax regardless apparently found himself inspired. The two battled, and teridax stood triumphant. Miserix was intelligent and cautious, but lacked the ferocious drive teridax could achieve when pushed. Afterwards, she did wish to stand with miserix against Teridaxs coup' but passed due to using her mask to sense the result that it would produce. Teridax was ambitious and brutal but also intelligent, charismatic and seductive. For whatever their many reasons for doing so, the majority of the brotherhood rallied behind him.

Of the 100 makuta that existed, only 5 foolishly chose to stand with miserix in his defeat. They paid for that decision with their lives, as she would have if she were not as wise as she was. Teridax took command of the makuta, and preporations for "the plan" were set in motion. Miserix of course needed to be dealt with, and Krika was made responsible for his termination. A short time later she did learn of krika's sparing of miserix and, holding both makuta in high regard, and believing it to be a wise decision, concealed the truth. Miserix might very well prove to be an important factor someday.

She was one of the only makuta who voiced against their transformation into pure energy forms. Despite that their bodies were evolving to this state on its own, she hypothesized the possible future risks it presented but was overruled by teridax. Now an energy form, she had the Nynrah Ghosts reinforce her armor but ensure her appearance remained unchanged. She joined in the collective deceicion by the makuta to shun their inner light, making them pure being of shadow. This would make them stronger and ensure greater success to their ultimate goals in her mind. She rather enjoyed the power over shadow that this change gave her.

Over the many years of preparation of the plan, she filled her role, ruking her designated island. As the fe-matoran, as toa, were soon considered a threat to the makuta, she kept a strong authoritative hold on them. She eventually grew to resent teridax and vindictively fostered advancement in the matoran on her island as a form of defiance. It was her belief that the toa of iron, which the brotherhood had begun to closely monitor and even kill, could be properly used by the makuta rather than seen as threats. However, upon hearing that there was a surviving toa of iron, zaria, who had slain another makuta, she personally dispatched dozens of rahkshi to hunt him down. She feared that the toas existence would somehow be blamed on her and all that she had worked towards on her island would be torn down. The rahkshi always returned empty handed, for which she terminated them herself.

She remained on her now fortified island, overseeing the safety of her matoran on the day of the great cataclysm. The result of its effects left her island in perpetual night from that day on. She forbade contact with other islands in attempt to keep the matoran of her island unaware of the makutas treachery against mata nui. She wisely protected herself during the brotherhoods war with the order of mata nui by misleading and militarizing the fe-matoran to be hostile to the order.

She survived to see the completion of "the plan"; teridax taking control of mata nuis body and the entire matoran universe. This however led to the loss of the matoran of her island, who fled to metru nui, no doubt learning finally of the deeds of the makuta there. With the deaths of many of the brotherhoods high ranking members on Karda nui, and mourning krikas death, nova was promoted to chief of the remaining makuta under teridax. Many had been killed also in the war with the order of mata nui, and their numbers were now only at 42 makuta, including teridax. She reluctantly but dutifully abandoned her island and followed his commands, advising the inexperienced new turaga ahkmou and leading the other makuta in producing more kraata to bolster the rahkshi army. Sensing the inevitable treachery of teridax, she gathered a small group of like-minded makuta members to escape into hiding when their task was complete.

They did, and none too soon as teridax indeed moved ahead with terminating the other makuta very soon after his takeover. Though they escaped, they were not free of his gaze or his omnipotent power. With destral no longer safe, they fled to Iron Forge, only to find it in ruin and overrun by hordes of the now corrupted rahi, a cruel jest by teridax. He personally slew the other makuta, maliciously leaving nova for last to perish at the claws of her rabid creations. She fought fiercely and without mercy, slaying many but was overcome by the wild horde. Though her body was destroyed in the gruesome onslaught, her antidermis survived and possessed the body of a kikanalo she had disabled. She was only spared complete obliteration by teridax as unseen goings on drew his attention. She did sense the survival of another makuta; miserix. Perhaps that he is what had drawn the new gods attention, or he could proave a valuable ally against teridax. Regardless, alive for the time being, she chose to remain in this form, hidden and in exile, allowing the matoran universe to believe the remainder of the makuta were now extinct. With her original mask destroyed, from her ruined palace she retrieved the mask of control, anticipated its possible future use.

Sometime later, with the long awaited death of teridax having come, and sensing the survival of miserix, she migrated to spherus magna in her rahi form. Her goal was finding The Nynrah Ghosts to rebuild her a proper body. After some months, amid the chaos of the exodus and merging of the peoples, she did locate them. They were of course less than reluctant to help a makuta, but the mask of control as a bartering chip proved impressive enough to convince them. A new form, modelled on her original body, even with a new mask, was built and her antidermis transferred to it. She then used her shadow powers to render all the ghosts temporarily comatose, only so she could take back the mask and leave. This was the first of many dangerous, calculated risks she would need to take to survive.

She covertly managed to locate the matoran of her former domain, and through pretty words and manipulative truths, won back their loyalty. She then appeared before the new government of spherus magna; the toa mata, turaga, agori chieftains and glatorian leaders. She made her intentions clear; she wished to have place in the new world, free of past misdeeds of the makuta. There was not full truth to that but it was enough. There was still mistrust, hate and a mind for vengeance in these who she was beseeching to. She had brought her loyal matoran with her as a show of her "better nature" and as her trump card, presented the mask of control. Tempting that she was handing over a means for them to control her if they chose, and giving in to that as an act of good faith.

These events managed to gain her what she desired; amnesty, a small kingdom of her own in which her matoran can live and a voice in the new government. She was no fool or lover of peace time; there were always plans and always threats. She had recruited a horde of the nomadic skrall, both male and female, to act as her countries military and enforcers. The glatorian strakk, an outcast of his kind, she also took in, making him her bodyguard, finding his greed and battle lust easy to manipulate.

While she relished her new lordship, always her mind was on what troubles may come her way. Toa, the order, miserix; so many with a mind for vengeance may come looking for her. Precautions were set in place for quickly summoning the toa for aid, but for now, the "mistress of shadow" as she came to be known, intended to relish her days under the sun.

#bionicle #Makuta #OC

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cuprum63 · 8 years ago

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Pathfinders AN 3

Author’s notes for paragraphs 31-51 of Pathfinders.

P32:

I was the insult that broke her

Lucy was born into wealth and was turned into a vampire for no known reason. Cixi longed for eternal life, had a vampire for a teacher, and still wasn’t turned.

monster hunters that comprised the Yihetuan

The Yihetuan are the Boxers. In this universe, they were also legitimate monster hunters.

P33:

The conflict resurrected Dracula by the end of first month.

Circa early December 1899.

merchants who sold invincibility potions as late as 1748

Harmony of Dissonance: the merchant sells medicine jars for 10,000 gold.

the formula itself dates back to the mirage skeletons from before the First Crusade.

Lament of Innocence: the mirage skeleton drops the invincible jar relic.

P34:

Surprisingly, she wasn't in China because of him or the Boxers; she'd come in search of new recipes for her tinned foods empire.

Jonathan Harker wrote about getting recipes for Mina in Dracula. As he’s confined to Exeter by this point, she has to step up and get them herself.

The Harkers have diversified into canned foods by the time of the Boxer Rebellion. Mina’s idea is to see if any foreign foods were adaptable to British tastes. China happened to be next on her tour.

Her mission to build a teleportation node in Peking was a cover story to her own allies

Another parallel with Lucy. Mina’s not loyal to her own group.

she'd grown to hate Jonathan and their son by then

Again, Mina is the reincarnation of Lisa. Loving Jonathan and their son is betraying Dracula and Alucard. Loving at all is betraying herself. This is a reversal of Alucard’s words to Dracula at the end of Symphony of the Night.

I have to add that I wrote Mina and Lucy as two different aspects of Lisa. Lucy, until her turning, had Lisa’s personality and even her visage, but no skills. Mina grew up an orphan, acquiring knowledge and strength, but little of Lisa’s empathy.

and longed to feel the joys of adventure, battle, and good food once again.

A reference to Clan Murray’s motto. As for good food, check out all the food items in the Castlevania games.

P35:

section of her bodyguard

Lucy’s slipping into modern British Army terminology. Here, section refers to the unit size—around eight bodyguards.

only to find that every estate needed to be guarded and staffed

Ever hear of “lumpy assets”? This is a similar idea. You buy one thing and create so many other problems that you’re thrown all the way back to square one.

she employed even more servants and mercenary retainers from wherever they could be found

Mina’s solution, enabled only because of her marriage to Jonathan and the money she looted from Castlevania.

P36:

Unlike any hunter before or since, she infiltrated Dracula's hideout, evaded all detection, and slew him as he slumbered.

This is consistent with Mina’s secretiveness. She and Lucy started so many fires in their youth and were never caught. She taught Lucy a way to become independent. Mina even killed Quincey and covered it up. She’s a natural assassin.

Anyway, not the finest hour for Dracula’s minions.

P37:

She was fleeing up the Yellow River; I chose to outflank her at the Dragon's Gate.

There’s more than one Dragon Gate around; Lucy’s referring to the one in at Longmen. A Dragon Gate is a waterfall that in myths, Asian carp jump over…

old Chinese legend

The legend tells that a carp that successfully jumps the waterfall becomes a dragon.

P38:

one of their leaders neutralized

Pay attention of the word “neutralized.”

P39:

We shadowed Morris and Lecarde as they traveled across a war-torn Europe to eliminate Elizabeth Bartley.

Castlevania: Bloodlines, set in 1917.

one of the Draculinas was betrayed by her servant, Sandor,

Dracula’s Daughter (1936), meaning one of the Draculinas took an alias of Countess Marya Zaleska and was also plotting against Dracula.

At Dark Oaks, we prevented Caldwell from usurping Dracula's power for herself

Son of Dracula (1943). Dark Oaks was a New Orleans plantation and home to the Caldwell family. Katherine “Kay” Caldwell manipulated Alucard (Dracula) into marrying and biting her because of her fear of death. Obviously, in this universe, whomever she manipulated was neither of the Tepes men.

treasure hoard hidden on that Okinawan island

Among other things, the mythical M-Funds of Major General William Frederic Marquat. Here, the funds are named after Mina Murray, and they are not Japan’s property.

and on the mainland, the fifteen swords stolen with the help of Sergeant Cody Belnades

Sign Cody Belnades’ name in cursive. Compress and fudge the writing a bit. The ‘e’ looks like an ‘i’, the ‘n’ turns into an ‘m’, the ‘a’ becomes an ‘o’ if you end too high and especially if you mix it up in the ‘d’, the downward motion used for the vertical line in the ‘d’ looks like an ‘r’, and the ‘s’ blends into the end of the ‘e’ if it’s too small.

His name becomes Cody Bilmore. He’s the one responsible for the Honjo Masamune’s disappearance, and the swords have never left Japan.

P40:

Schneider clan after they fell in with the Nazis

Reinhardt Schneider was a playable character in the noncanon Castlevania 64. Vampire hunting is still a type of genocide, and as his descendants were blond-haired, blue-eyed, tall, and strong, they embodied the Nazi ideal.

Holmwood LLC

Major antagonists to Arikado and crew in later fics.

Harkers felt our wrath in 1986

The first Castlevania was released in 1986.

elderly Quincey A.J.A.X. Harker's life

Quincey Harker was born on November 6, 1898 in this universe. He would have been 87-88 when he was killed.

His initials stand for “Abraham John Arthur Xavier,” as adding “Jonathan” would be redundant because of Seward. This is where Xavier Lecarde comes in: with his name, the X can be added.

AJAX, also called Typhoon is the name of another Konami game. From this game is the song “Command 770,” remixed as “Golden Bough” for Kokoro Belmont in Otomedius Excellent.

counterfeiting of the AH-64 and F-14

In A-JAX, you fly the Tom Tiger (AH-64) and Jerry Mouse (F-14). The A-JAX 2 Jerry Mouse is also a playable aircraft in Airforce Delta Strike.

P41:

Dracula had been vindicated, his evil surpassed many times over by other forces.

All the tyrants of the 20th century.

God's own flocks committed sins with abandon and still called themselves holy.

Look up any of the Abrahamic religions’ abuses in the 20th century alone, and how many people now belong to no religion. Mathias Cronqvist would be nothing unusual if he’d lived in modern Europe.

Church's crimes be revealed

Among these crimes was the war on Dracula. No matter how justified, the Church deployed a military force to assassinate a sapient being who had legally done nothing wrong. It sends a message that dissent will not be tolerated, and no matter where you run, you will be hunted down.

P42:

Madmen control nuclear powers or slaughter countless innocents while their lackeys gush at how wonderful it is to be creating their paradise.

Welcome to 2017.

Being weak or a victim has not only become acceptable, but desirable.

Tumblr in a nutshell. This is the same excuse used by the HIV+ to avoid being tested and therefore having to disclose their status. For that matter, it was the same mindset that Gandhi encouraged—weakness to invoke sympathy from others.

Meanwhile, people like me end up having to clean up their messes.

The masses have more tools available to improve their station in life than ever before, yet they are firmly committed to remaining ignorant.

You have computers. You have cell phones. You have the internet. You have search engines. Stop hiding in your echo chambers and use them.

P43:

Ecclesian who volunteered her unborn child to serve as the vessel for Dracula's reincarnation

In this universe, a baby receives a soul after birth.

She simply had to get pregnant with her husband from Japan seven months ahead of schedule.

Late April 2016, for a due date of late January/early February 2017. Shortly after the Iraqis retook Hit.

Japanese-Brazilian-American pilot

A clue to the Ecclesian pilot’s true identity..

who stepped up in late November.

Probably around Thanksgiving, if shooting for the solar eclipse on August 21, 2017. Also, this means Soma’s mother wasn’t the first choice.

Phoenix isn't one to leave survivors.

Survivors as in enemies or descendants.

P44:

San Diego hospital

The baby is automatically an American citizen by being born on American soil to parents subject to American law. The Japanese father means the baby is also a Japanese citizen, and while Japan doesn’t recognize dual-citizenship for adults, it does for minors.

P45:

This paragraph changes the meaning of a lot since P39.

Born into nobility, you died from disease and your husband declared war against God.

Elisabetha Cronqvist.

Returned as a doctor, you were burned as a witch and your husband went mad against mankind.

Lisa.

leave behind the drudgery of the match factory

Wilhelmina Murray from this universe.

You became a teacher, then a legal secretary,

Canon from Dracula.

then a vampire hunter and mercenary commander

Inspired by the Fury of Dracula board game and Mina’s role in the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen comics.

Memsahib

A term for married white women in India during the Raj. Also from League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and a hint of the Harker business empire’s composition by 2017.

established a crime family to uphold your values as the times changed

To be covered in the fic where Quincey Harker dies.

P46:

Dracula and his son fought against each other in your name, interpreting your memory according to their own beliefs.

Castlevania 3 to Symphony of the Night.

Your former coven sister and apprentice, the first Draculina, still has flashes of self-doubt even now, when she has grown more powerful than any Dark Lord.

Lisa, in this universe, truly was a witch.

The first Draculina is a dark reflection of the games’ vampire hunters. She serves as the penultimate boss of my planned fic series, and the battle is planned to last several chapters against the entire Sorrow crew at once before they end up being whittled down.

The final boss, in case you’re wondering, is a duel between the instigators of the entire series.

Without you, Van Helsing's coalition fell apart.

Also from League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Without Mina, her team of Allan Quatermain and Orlando fell apart in 1969 and would not reunite until 2009.

P47:

You won the duel that day at the Dragon's Gate.

Inspired by two Yu-Gi-Oh! episodes, of all things. Like the duel between Solomon Muto and Arthur Hawkins or their grandchildren, Yugi and Rebecca, Mina had Lucy dead to rights and surrendered instead.

You spared me and chose to surrender your mortality and identity for my sake

Here, Mina finally shows where her true loyalties lie: with Lucy.

and like a carp that becomes a dragon, you were reborn into the power you deserved

This is where the legend from P37 is explained if you weren’t reading these notes.

Lucy isn’t saying that she turned Mina into a vampire, but that the Dragon’s Gate was a place where a chosen hero can absorb power. Or it’s one of those locations where you can pick up permanent stat boosts, like the HP/MP/Heart Max Ups from the games.

There’s also the issue that Dracula means “son of the dragon.” By defeating Lucy, Dracula’s last bride, Mina has become a dragon herself. Partially inspired by the Yakuza series, where one of the themes is that there can be only one dragon.

demi-savage hidden under layers of trained refinement .

The demi-savage comes from Clan Murray’s coat of arms. Lucy is saying that under her mask, Mina is a warrior.

your name will be known as the harbinger of the end.

Again, a point from League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (volume 3). While Mary Poppins is fighting the Antichrist (Harry Potter), Oliver Haddo tells Mina that she is to be the harbinger of the apocalypse.

Lucy says “your name” because Mina’s new identity is Mina Hakuba. The kanji for Hakuba mean “white horse,” and a white horse is associated with the first horseman of the apocalypse. Adding to this is if Soma doesn’t equip Mina’s Talisman at the right time, he ends up reverting to Dracula.

P48:

Only my sisters—you and the Draculinas—have ever remained loyal to me, and now I must choose a side.

Lucy’s never been loyal to the Draculinas, as she said long ago in P1 and P10.

I can save you from sacrificing yourself at the cost of damning the world, or I can let you be reborn once again as a mortal and become your enemy in the future.

Mina is the last person on Earth Lucy loves. Lucy doesn’t want to let Mina kill herself to be reborn, but she knows she must.

P49:

There never was a choice, was there? This is still your path to walk, no matter my wishes.

Two meanings here: Mina’s life is her own choice, and Lucy is loyal to her.

Maybe in your next life, I will be the one to help you find your path.

They won’t meet until 2045, but Mina has been on Lucy’s trail since around 2038.

P50 & P51:

Farewell, Mina.

And welcome back.

Mina is finally named. Mina Harker dies and her soul is transferred into Mina Hakuba.

#castlevania #fanfic #behind the scenes

0 notes

crownlessrp-blog1 · 7 years ago

Photo

“ DEATH IS THE ONLY REAL CURRENCY. ”

FULL NAME: Vaelor Morcant, “Rook”

AGE: Thirty-six

TITLE: Sworn Sword to the King in the North

OCCUPATION / VOCATION: Sellsword/Leader of Mercenary Group, The Servants of Crows

ORIGIN: Fishing Village on the Stony Shore

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Winterfell

ALLEGIANCE: House Stark

TRAITS:

+ Dogged, Enterprising, Dauntless - Stubborn, Tempestuous, Selfish

BIOGRAPHY:

Born at the edge of the brutal, stinging sea, Vaelor Morcant knew only hardship. The winds were harsh, and the sea proved an unforgiving neighbor, but it was to that vast blue oblivion that his father and his brother ventured for sustenance, and it was at a tender age that he followed. He learned the necessity of calloused palms and good aim early; traversing the great sea on a ragged skiff wasn’t an easy task, and the sharp wind and narrow edge of survival on which they teetered carved him into a man after just one summer. They were heroes in their small village; harvesters. And they were always welcomed home with open arms and claps on the back. Their simple life was often cruel and driven by the grim hope of survival, but in a world hungry for war, even their sliver of shore would not go untouched by strife.

It was on the eve of Vaelor’s ninth year that the nameless village on the Stony Shore, his home, was ravaged by pirates and bandits alike. Though he fought a valiant fight, his strength and his experience with a sword could not compete with the ruthless bent of swarthy crooks and thieves. Their gruesome skills had been honed after long, industrious years of raping and pillaging, and a boy with a fragile, yew bow would not stand in their way. With blood seeping into his brown eyes and his mind sinking beneath the lip of consciousness, Vaelor witnessed his father’s throat opened and grinning when kissed by a jagged blade. He heard the guttural scream of the man he had followed into harsh seas, the man who had endured grim and starving winters without nary a grimace, the man who had shown him how to go through the motions of survival when all arrows pointed toward extinction. The sight was imprinted upon him, the sound of his father’s last, animal cry cut short by imparted violence warped his impressionable outlook. Vaelor shed no tears. He showed them no signs of weakness. But a garnet-slick set of knuckles would be the last thing he saw that day, raining down on him in a sharp arc from a winter-stricken sky. When next he awoke, he would be in the black company of thieves.

His seven years among the bandits began with the almost ceremonial rape of his two younger sisters. He witnessed as they were beaten unconscious at the end of their vulgar coupling, and then dragged by their tangled black hair into the mysterious dark of the surrounding woodland. His defiance toward his captors brought forth sound lashings and savage beatings morning, noon, and night for weeks until he hadn’t the strength to lift his head. It was during a spell of recovery that the nightmares began. He considered them nightmares at that tender age, because they were punctuated with sharp drops toward the ground, dizzying spirals through the high canopies, meals of ragged, uncooked meat, and with the ominous sound of a caw — coming from his own throat. Though the dreams terrified them, he also longed for them. The more clear they became, the more constant, the more he felt himself in the fragmented world of his mind. It wasn’t until the hill-dwelling bandits found him with jaw slack and milky white eyes that they realized what he was. One man in a thousand was born a warg, and Vaelor Morcant was one.

This ability drew the attention of the collective’s leader, a young and fierce woman with sharp, ochre eyes and a crudely forged hatchet. She took a special interest in his abilities, and moved to seduce him in his young and broken state. Over the next seven years, she would push him to hone his abilities, determined to exploit such a useful skill. Every challenge she and her men cast at him was met with vigilance; Vaelor would not back down from the bandits, and he would reap all knowledge from their lot in the hope of, one day, escaping their talon-like hold on him. What he didn’t expect was to find a home among them, to find that he enjoyed the art of killing, and had the subtle tact required for expert thievery.

By the time he was 16, he was sharing a tent with the most powerful woman in their crew, Thera, and leading daring raids along the Stony Shore he’d once called home, and all throughout the bitter, disparate north.

Though he had grown accustomed to the visceral sting of betrayal — having lived among the men and women that tore his family to rags and let them rot — he had no trouble imparting it on the woman who had shared his tent his entire youth. Sharpened by the harsh reality of his world, and bled dry of empathy, it was easy for him to hand her over to a warring neighbor as a gift, an exchange of peace, a mortal treaty. She fought him, spit in his face, and cursed his origins, but her cruel hand had been the one to chisel him, to wrench his small world away with one quick twist. Though he had pledged his fealty to her, in the end, his loyalty was to himself.

The group of bandits was divided by Rook’s surrender of Thera. Some followed Thera, and those that admired Rook’s enterprising approach to the craft of killing and of stealing, joined his new legion of contracted killers. Out from under Thera’s cloak and shadow, his skill became legend. The name of his birth fell into obscurity, along with memories of the family his new brothers had laid to ruin. No longer was he known as a fisherman’s son or a common sellsword, but The Rook. The image of blackened wings blotting out the sun brought fear to small villages in the north, because it meant he was coming with his tireless band to gut their world, and bring it asunder. It was on such a day that his arrival was known not to peasants and gentle farmhands with coveted tesserae and meager harvests, but to a wolf — the young, and honourable King in the North. The fight that ensued left two men standing, one a King, and one a thieving sellsword, and it was the crowned wolf that won. In shackles, Rook was dragged along behind a stallion toward Winterfell, but it was on that long trek back that the betrayal of his maker, his lover, his woman, would descend upon him with a vengeance.

Thera attacked the lone rider and his prisoner with abandon, but Elias, the young King, in an act of pure trust and desperation, unleashed his prisoner’s shackles. The two of them fought back-to-back through the endless rain of grim-faced scavengers with fluidity and ease. Their communication in the midst of a fight that should have been their untimely end was responsible for a budding friendship that would blossom into unchallenged brotherhood. However, Rook did not leave completely unscathed. His betrayal of Thera would come back to haunt him whenever he looked into the reflective surface of a pool, or a rare looking glass. Her last act of vengeance, as violent thralls erupted around them in plumes of snow and pink mist, was to split his visage in two with the warbled end of her hatchet’s blade.

Rook’s new friendship with the King in the North was an unprecedented one, but it was undeniable that their brush with death and the trust born of necessity that followed was infallible. Though Rook steadily built his mercenary crew (The Servants of Crows), his true allegiance was to a man with honour and courage the likes of which he had never seen. Elias was fearless and noble, and his heart was pure. He did not steal, or pillage, or rape. He lead, and he loved those that followed him fiercely. Rook aspired to be a better man, if only to deserve the brotherhood forged in blood and steel he had never before known. His loyalty on and off the battlefield eventually awarded him the title of Sworn Sword to the King in the North, though it felt an unnecessary one. He used it to his advantage, particularly when spreading the influence of his mercenary company or persuading a woman into bed, but he never took his King for granted.

Through the death of Astris Stark, the birth of the Stark children, the Frey’s imminent betrayal, and Elias’ final breath on a blood-soaked loam, Rook never faltered. Trusted with the knowledge that Calder Stark, the Warring Wolf, was to be his Elias’ true successor, he fought to make the truth known, but was thrust out of the kingdom he had loosely called home for decades. When he came back with an army of mercenaries and loyal bannermen alike with every intention of taking the throne for the rightful heir, he found the true King of the North bathed in Braddock Stark’s blood. His loyalty to Elias grew, stretching not only to the new King, but to the House Stark and to the frozen north where Winterfell looms like a great stone hearth.

Named by Calder Stark as Sworn Sword to the King in the North once more, he carries Ice with the weight of Elias’ death, and the weight of a blooming allegiance. Rook had once been a man as selfish as the insurgent sea, now he glides on obsidian wings alongside the direwolf, and will give his life to protect Winterfells’ King.

FACECLAIM: Milo Ventimiglia

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