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away-from-anthills · 3 years ago

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chapter nine-

Of all the Clans, RiverClan perhaps had the most detailed- and, in some places, slightly odd- burial ceremony.

In WindClan, at least, burials were a sordid- but simple- affair. The Clan would set the body in the center of camp, where the deceased’s clanmates could look at it and touch it- and therefore realize that their friend wasn’t there. That was a curious thing about death. Only when you really got a good look at the body; felt how stiff it was, how the muscle and fat hanged in a way they never would in life, you realized they were gone. It was hard to comprehend otherwise. Object permanence was a strange thing, that way.

Then, a spot was found, and they were buried. It wasn’t a matter of -final resting place- (StarClan existed for that) so much as it was to dispose of them, in a way where they couldn’t be accidentally dug back up again and cause horror. Peaceful places were nice, but not necessary, and often only reserved for those who had lived hard, lonely lives. And then it was gone, done with. Grieving in WindClan was a solitary, quiet thing that cats only did openly among their closest friends. After all, StarClan was there- they were not gone so much as they were simply someplace else. There were exceptions- the sudden death of Rainleap came to mind- but generally, death in WindClan was something to be reserved and polite about.

RiverClan, however, was a different story.

WindClan had a front row seat to the burials that RiverClan did, as RiverClan had let the Clan come and stay at Sunningrocks for the rest of the day. It was sunset, now, the sky already darkening into a smooth velvety magenta as the sun bled ginger. Some were hunting. Some were chatting. Some were playing among the stones. For all the chaos and bloodshed that had existed earlier- all the hard decisions, all the thrashing, all the loss- there was sudden peace.

Antstar watched as two elders- an ginger tabby with thin, tightly-packed stripes and a pale, scarred molly with silver points- picked up Redfeather’s body and loaded her onto a large piece of driftwood they had harvested from a decaying log. Two more elders loaded Trufflepelt onto the same piece of wood. The two bodies were only beginning to stiff up, so there was little problem with them settling.

“Would you like your fallen Clanmate to be included in the ceremony?” asked Tulipstar, walking up to Antstar gently. “I understand if you would rather bury her at home.”

“No, I think it’ll do good by Sandwhisker. She always wanted to go out with a bang.”

Tulipstar nodded and motioned to the last pair of elders, who had not assisted with Redfeather and Trufflepelt, to retrieve Sandwhisker’s body from Whitetooth, who had been carefully watching over it.

Redfeather and Trufflepelt’s nests were dragged to Sunningrocks. Antstar had always marveled at what he heard about RiverClan’s nests, and these did not disappoint- they were adorned, top to bottom, with shiny things and trinkets the two cats had picked up in life. WindClan had never been ones for material belongings, but Antstar could understand RiverClan’s fascination with them.

The beds were dissected. Tufts of fur were kept and distributed to family and friends- perhaps for them to keep in their own collections of knickknacks. An apple flower and a preserved squirrel tail were the centerpieces of Redfeather’s nest, and they were taken out and placed on the driftwood to either side of her head. Trufflepelt, meanwhile, had an extensive collection of shiny stones, each matching the coat color of the apprentices he had. Those were laid around his belly in a circle. More and more items- shells, flower petals, animal bones, pieces of things Twolegs left behind- were added to the driftwood, until it was nearly at the point of sinking.

“Does Sandwhisker have anything she would like to have been taken to StarClan with?”

Antstar shook his head.

“Here, then.” Several of the senior warriors ran off. Within a few minutes, all of them- including Tulipstar- had taken an item from their own nests, and placed it next to the WindClan body so she would not look plain compared to the two bodies besides her.

Eventually, when the driftwood was in danger of sinking from all the weight, the decorating stopped, and Tulipstar climbed the tallest rock in Sunningrocks.

“Let all cats old enough to swim gather beneath me for the Crossing.”

This was another thing- RiverClan called their burial ceremonies Crossings. In their minds, it was because they were not burying the Clanmate so much as they were letting them cross over. The river, to them, eventually led not to an ocean or another river but to StarClan, where the bodies would wake up with all their belongings and join the heavenly ranks.

When RiverClan and WindClan were gathered, Tulipstar began.

“I say these words before StarClan, so the spirits will know and approve of the spirits that will join them tonight. Trufflepelt, Redfeather, and Sandwhisker have fulfilled their lives as warriors. They lived well and followed the guidance of the world around them, and now, we shall follow their guidance.”

There was a pause, and then:

“Trufflepelt was everything I wanted in a deputy. Punctual, peaceful, ever-understanding; he was the very first cat I ever bestowed a warrior name upon, and I could not be happier with knowing that. He was an incredibly patient mentor to all that trained under him. I remember how he would always make it important that he attended one patrol a day, because he felt a good deputy always partakes in the work, and he did not want to make Clanmates do what he could not. He will be sorely missed in RiverClan. I always thought that, if he became a leader, I would feel honored to be his predecessor.”

Another pause, and then she continued.

“And Redfeather… oh, what couldn’t I say about Redfeather? One of my closest companions and one of my dearest friends. She and I were in the nursery together. She was not my mentor, but she was a teacher to me- and one that was always ready to learn in return. She was also a dedicated mother- and when one of her sons died in tragedy, she did not let that stop her from continuing to be there for her other son.”

Antstar looked over at Squirrelface, who was the dead molly’s spitting image. He looked more alone than ever- none of his family was alive, now.

“I had a…. very fond regard for Redfeather,” said Tulipstar, who’s voice was beginning to fizzle with grief. “I bid her and Trufflepelt well in their next lives.”

Another moment of reflection. Tulipstar met Antstar’s gaze.

“Now, would the leader of WindClan like to speak some words about his fallen Clanmate?”

Antstar scaled the tallest stone as Tulipstar leapt to the side, careful not to lose his balance as two entire Clans looked on. The sunset was behind him, which gave his fur a tinged orange glow.

He couldn’t mess this up.

“Sandwhisker was an established warrior many moons before I was brought to WindClan,” he started shakily. But soon, he encountered a rhythm. “She was one of the most dedicated cats I’ve known. Even in great blizzards, or floods, or humid summer heat, she would insist on doing her job. She had a wicked, wonderful sense of humor that could brighten even the most stoic face on a tough day.”

WindClan looked up with approval- it hit Antstar like a warm sun beam. He kept going. “She was an excellent mentor, in addition. While I did not have her, several of our great warriors- Birchshine, Emberheart, our deputy Russetfoot, and the late Sootshade and Horsepaw- both of whom shall greet her in StarClan.” He saw Toadpool smile fondly when he mentioned Sootshade – she had been his mother, although he had never truly gotten the chance to meet her.

“It is hard for us to say goodbye to a cat who has been with us for so long. But Sandwhisker always said she wanted to die in battle, fighting for something important. At least we can rest with the knowledge that her final wish was granted.”

He leapt down, and felt Russetfoot and Emberheart lean on him. There was a warm reminiscing in the air- he had done, at last, a good job of speaking.

Tulipstar returned to her spot. “Before the Crossing can start, we must end the unfinished business of our fallen Clanmates. Trufflepelt has left behind an apprentice in his stead, as well as a deputy position. Spottedpaw, come forth.”

A small, golden tabby, with rosettes spangling his flank, solemnly walked before her. Antstar had heard about Spottedpaw- it was rumored he and Sharppaw, another RiverClan apprentice, had come from the same place the medicine cat of ShadowClan had- a strange place with many rosetted tabbies just like him, and cages, and comings and goings.

“I call upon Trufflepelt’s spirit, so he may hear of and approve my choice. Spottedpaw’s next mentor will be Bluespring.”

A smooth blue-gray tom with velvety fur came forward and touched noses with Spottedpaw. The two walked off together, whispering in each other’s ears.

“I have thought hard about who I want to be RiverClan’s next deputy- someone who will carry on the same hardworking spirit Trufflepelt had. I say these words before StarClan, so our ancestors may know of and approve my choice…”

There was a moment of anticipation, and then:

“The new deputy of RiverClan is Smokebark.”

The brown tabby tom with ragged ears made his way next to Tulipstar. He was not a large cat- he was weary and unusually thin for a RiverClanner- but next to his tiny leader, he looked massive. There was a moment of doubt and uneasiness in his amber-yellow eyes, but it softened to a warmer sense of duty as his Clanmates cheered his name.

“Now that all matters have been dealt with, the Crossing may begin.”

The six elders gathered and gently pushed the driftwood off of the shore of Sunningrocks, walking with it deeper and deeper into the river. When they could barely keep their heads above water while still touching the ground, they let go and returned. The driftwood and everything in it- the three bodies, the apple flower, the preserved squirrel tail, the stones, the knickknacks, the leaves and shells and pebbles and feathers and little animal skulls and tufts of fur from their Clanmates and all else they had been given- floated away, carried on by the river. Cats tearily waved goodbye and safe travels as the driftwood shakily continued on. As it traveled on, it became smaller and smaller, until Antstar could only see a vague shadow of it- then it turned a corner and was gone.

“They are on their way to StarClan, now,” Tulipstar reassured. “I declare this Crossing ceremony to be over.”

As the evening hazily faded into night, Antstar watched his clan and RiverClan together.

He was relieved that despite Sandwhisker’s death, the Clan seemed to still like RiverClan. Oatwhisker and Sparrowpetal playfully splashed each other in the shallow end of the water. Audrey, Crowflower, and Silverbelly were sharing tongues with three RiverClan elders, who Antstar had learned were named Halfwhisker, Gingerstripe, and Swanshadow. Russetfoot and Smokebark chatted about deputyship.

Even the kits were getting along. “Be careful with them, they’re younger than you,” urged Cherrycloud as Amberkit and Brindlekit play-fought Magpiekit and Frondkit. Patchkit was buried into her mother’s fur, overwhelmed by the sight of so many cats.

Antstar heard arguing, and turned in a moment of worry- had someone started an argument between the clans? He felt relieved seeing it was just Coalclaw and Spiderfoot.

…Strange, however. The two were usually very close.

“I tell you,” started Spiderfoot, raising her paw with an air of attempted omnipotence, “you have no reason to feel bad about Stoneclaw. He attacked our leader. It was self-defense.”

Coalclaw was unusually quiet and stared straight into the river, eyes wide but bleak. He hadn’t changed expressions since Stoneclaw had died. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“Well, he clearly meant to kill Antstar.” Spiderfoot looked as enthusiastic as ever. She had obtained a massive gash during the battle that slid from one shoulder to the other like a feather boa. “You did right by your Clan.”

“…I don’t think-��

“Oh, come on, you wuss! It’s war. Cats die. That’s how it is.” She turned in annoyance and left her brother to continue staring into the waters. She sat down by Antstar.

“You shouldn’t be so mean about it,” reprimanded Antstar gently.

“I’m just annoyed he’s valuing some SkyClanner’s life more than your own.”

“Just take it easy.”

He heard whispering. Turning his head, he heard Stoatslink talking with Longsnout and Willownose- two of the cats who had found Sparkthistle’s body.

“Did you notice anything strange about the body?” asked Stoatslink steadily. His eyes were narrowed; his ears drawn back. He looked deathly serious.

“… No? It looked quite normal,” said Willownose, clearly wracking her brain for answers.

“… There was one thing.” Longsnout leaned in. He was a gaunt black tom with a white bib and two white dots where the whiskers on his brow ridge protruded from his face. He looked quite old, like he could retire any day now.

“What was it?”

“I thought nothing of it when we pulled her out- I assumed it was battle wounds, because I heard she was known for getting into scrapes. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more it’s confused me. …She had the faintest bite mark on the back of her neck, like… like someone had dragged her.”

Stoatslink’s yellow eyes grew wide.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing. But that’s what I saw.”

Antstar felt sick. He had to stop Stoatslink from finding the truth out somehow- but he wasn’t sure how he would manage to do that. For if Stoatslink was anything, he was stubborn…

He got up and left, motioning to Spiderfoot that he’d be back later. He scanned the area for Whitetooth, and found them lounging on a long, smooth stone with Marblepaw and Pebblesky.

Antstar had found himself finding more and more security in Whitetooth. Perhaps it was because he felt he could be honest around the van-patterned medicine cat. Perhaps it was their mannerisms: the round eyes, the blank expressions, the antiquated speaking style, the warm, comforting deep voice that sounded a touch like an operatic bass crooning soft reassurance.

Perhaps it was because Antstar knew that if one of them went down, so did the other.

He lay down and curled his paws beneath him, slightly leaning his side into Whitetooth’s pale fur.

“Oh- hello, Antstar,” greeted Pebblesky. Pebblesky had been in RiverClan so long that she was practically indistinguishable from them. Sure, she had many ThunderClan features- the square jaw shape, the thick, coarse fur that developed a mane around the neck and bunched at the claws, the stocky legs that supported all of her muscle. But her fur had grown silkier and less prone to matting as RiverClan cats groomed it, and her ThunderClan muscles had given way to RiverClan plumpness. She was a pleasant blue-gray color, like a lavender field in a faint fog at dawn, with a white underbelly that went up to the bridge of her nose. Her amber eyes looked like coins.

“Hello, Pebblesky. I’m… sorry about what happened to you today.”

“Oh, it’s alright. I’ve gotten used to it.” She flicked her ears as she looked at the edge of Sunningrocks, towards ThunderClan’s camp.

“You should not get used to it. Your children have no right to treat a medicine cat with such evils,” said Whitetooth. “You have an important employment, and family matters have no place in such employments.”

“I can’t say I don’t understand them. They’re right- I did leave them for RiverClan. It was a personal matter, and they were adults when I left, but… I’ll always regret I’m not there for them.”

“Why did you move to RiverClan?” asked Antstar. “Your birth Clan-“

“I never really got along with them,” she admitted. “I just never fit in. I hate the thought of battle- always have. But in ThunderClan- well, battling’s nearly all they do.”

“Well, couldn’t you be a queen?”

“I was. But in ThunderClan, every cat fights. Even the queens and medicine cats go to battle.”

Antstar had never really thought of it that way. It was hard to envision such differences- but that was how ThunderClan always was, he assumed.

“So what made you RiverClan’s medicine cat?”

“Well, it was when I had my last litter, which was just Emberblaze.” She stared wistfully off into space, like she was there in the ThunderClan nursery all over again. “I had really gotten very tired of all the battles ThunderClan was fighting in. We were in a big war with ShadowClan, and many cats I was close with- my brother, a fellow nursery queen, and the cat I had Cloudclaw and Daffodilfur with- nice tom, if a bit daft- had all perished in the most recent battles. I remember being in this big haze, and I wasn’t even sure if I could raise Emberkit properly. But then- the previous medicine cat, Cloudpuddle, told me that Emberkit was interested in becoming a medicine cat apprentice.”

“How is Cloudpuddle, by the way?” asked Whitetooth. “Last I heard she had retired as an elder.”

“Oh, she’s still kicking, Emberblaze tells me. She and I were very close friends beforehand; I named Cloudclaw after her. Anyway, through my daughter’s apprenticeship I saw a whole other side of what it means to be in a Clan. Sorting herbs, speaking with StarClan… it just felt right, you know? It was this whole other life I had never even considered- or, if I had, I tried not to think about it because I thought I just wouldn’t be good at it.”

Pebblesky stopped to clear her throat as she looked at the sky. The evening was cooling into night, and the first stars were showing their faces upon the earth.

“So I told Cloudpuddle about it- how badly I wished I were a medicine cat- and she told me… there was nothing stopping me from becoming one. There was no rule I couldn’t. We arranged things- after all, Emberpaw was becoming a less reliant apprentice- and then, I was training right along my daughter. A while after that, once she had gotten her full name and I was self-reliant at it, the RiverClan medicine cat died. He was very old, so it was expected- but the issue was that he left no apprentice behind. So Tatteredstar and Tulipstar made an arrangement, as the ThunderClan medicine den was crowded. I’d go over, train a RiverClan apprentice, and then come back.”

She grinned softly- not in an eager way, but in more of a knowing way, like a mother about to read the last page of a picture book to her child.

“I never did. I loved RiverClan too much to consider leaving. They didn't fight nearly as much. Tatteredstar understood. I still haven’t found an apprentice, anyway…”

“But what about Cloudclaw and Daffodilfur? What did they think?”

“They always felt betrayed. I think they always will- RiverClan and ThunderClan have never got along, after all. I regret that I can’t go back and do things differently. But I know they’re in safe hands, in ThunderClan- Cloudclaw just became a father to two little mollies, and Daffodilfur, I hear, has been courting her own special someone. They have their own support systems. And nothing I do can go back and fix what is.”

She looked to the sky, clicking her tongue.

“Sometimes, a wrong is committed- but no apology will fix it, and the best we must do to honor that is to keep on living.”

That night, Antstar eased himself off to sleep, staring up at the stars. Tiredness soothed his brain as he thought about the ceremony from before. Perhaps, in some strange way, that river did lead to StarClan.

What was it like, up there? Was Sandwhisker happy?

Do they tell truths, in StarClan? Did they all know what he did? Or- somehow- had the cover of clouds saved him from that?

He soothed himself. If they knew, they would have told the Clan by now, right? So he had to be safe.

“Hey!”

He was jolted awake by a white tom standing over him. It was Stoatslink.

“I have something I think you’ll want to hear.”

“So you’re saying she had bite marks in her fur?” They sat on the edge just above camp, staring ahead. The night was clear enough that Antstar could see the windmills that lay just beyond the farms.

“That’s what Longsnout told me. And he has no reason to lie. Shame we can’t dig up the body to check- she’s probably half-decayed by now.”

Antstar’s gut twisted, as if it were dancing a jig of fright. “You really, truly think she was murdered?”

“Absolutely, now. Before I was on the fence; I thought it was my flight of fancy. But… a bite mark on the neck, right where a cat could drag her into the open gorge?” He shook his head. “It’s too obvious. We have to tell the Clan about this.”

No. Antstar couldn’t let that happen. He was having trouble leading WindClan as it was. He didn’t need WindClan to become a crowd of conspiracy theorists, chasing the trail that led to his doorstep. If one soul, save Marblepaw, found out-

“With all due respect, Stoatslink… I don’t think this is an important matter to focus on right now.”

He wasn’t looking at the white tom- he was staring into the earth- but he could already feel Stoatslink’s face twist with hot indignance.

“WindClan has other matters. We must prepare for no-leaf season. We have SkyClan against us, and I worry they could lead an attack against us to settle personal scores. We-“

“Are you listening to me!?!” Stoatslink’s white fur bristled. His teeth drew back to reveal his pale, thorn-like teeth. “I just told you that there’s a killer on the loose. We’re in danger! My daughters are in danger!” He pulled back, lips bared, his yellow eyes consumed with fury. “You’ve been endangering us so much recently. We had no reason to fight with RiverClan; their Sunningrocks business has nothing to do with us! Did you see Goldenpaw’s injury?”

Antstar recalled having seen one warrior lash out at the little yellow-and-white molly. He shook his head.

“Well, she has a massive scar on her side now. Whitetooth said it’s a miracle her leg wasn’t torn off! That’s my daughter I’m talking about! Antstar, I swear to StarClan above, you have to get off your ass and investigate this.” He narrowed his eyes. “Who knows who could be next?”

Some vile, crooked inkling in the back of Antstar’s mind, one he pretended didn't exist, already began to think it knew.

And then, something ruddy-colored flashed by.

Antstar looked at the stranger- a boxy red stranger, sprinting towards the bridge like his life depended upon it, like all the world crumbled behind him. It was Currantstar, again- just as he had run past the night before.

“ShadowClan? On our territory?” Stoatslink’s brow furrowed with suspicion.

A welcome distraction, Antstar thought. Stoatslink turned to him and nodded, and Antstar nodded back- and off they went, to find out what Currantstar was doing- and, to Stoatslink, to see if he had anything to do with it.

#bit of a cooldown chapter after. gestures @ chapter 8 #warrior cats #warrior cats ocs #story

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umbry-fic · 3 years ago

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That Beautiful Soul

Summary: A person's Dæmon is said to represent one's very self. But does your Dæmon fully define who you are? What does their presence, their form, mean?

(Original canon with the inclusion of Dæmons from His Dark Materials)

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters: Colette Brunel, Lloyd Irving, Kratos Aurion, Anna Irving, Mithos Yggdrasill, Martel Yggdrasill, Yuan Ka-Fai, Dirk, Presea Combatir, Regal Bryant, Genis Sage, Raine Sage, Zelos Wilder, Sheena Fujibayashi, Original Characters (Dæmons) Relationships: Colette Brunel/Lloyd Irving, Zelos Wilder/Sheena Fujibayashi, Anna Irving/Kratos Aurion, Yuan Ka-Fai/Martel Yggdrasill, Kratos Aurion & Lloyd Irving, Regal Bryant & Presea Combatir Rating: T Word Count: 10057 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 10/01/2021

Notes: First fic in a series involving a His Dark Materials AU. Read to the end for the meanings behind everyone's Dæmons.

Series Next fic in the series

~~~

A Dæmon represents everything about you. Your darkest secrets, every sin that you’ve ever committed, will be free to see in the form that your Dæmon takes. A Dæmon is an extension of your soul, and it will show everything.

Zelos thought it was quite a lot to shove on a young child and his Dæmon. The insinuation that Martha’s final form would dictate the person he became, and would pretty much decide every action he would ever take in the future. A little unfair, wasn't it?

The Church’s priests expected his Dæmon to become some grand animal, like every other member in the Mana Lineage. His Father’s Dæmon had been a tiger. Majestic, sure, but no less interested in Zelos and Martha than Zelos’ father had been.

His Mother’s Dæmon had been a cat. A tabby cat, to be precise, and an extremely overweight one at that. Maybe he had once thought his Mother’s Dæmon had been cute and nurturing. He was sure most of Meltokio’s high society thought the same. That tabby cat could conduct itself extremely regally if it wanted to, reinforcing the same facade that his Mother did. His parents’ unshakeable pride meant that no other option was acceptable.

But that image had long shattered for him the moment his mother’s Dæmon had struck out at him. Angry, red claw marks had been left behind not just on Martha, but on himself. That taboo about a Dæmon touching another person… His Mother’s Dæmon had overcome it easily through the strength of their combined hatred.

And so Zelos determined he would prove the priests wrong, just to spite them and this whole cruel world. Martha wouldn’t and didn’t want to settle as a lion or a tiger, and was just as eager to piss off the priests and the entirety of high society. They would leave the choice up to fate.

Martha settling as a snake did cause everyone else to shut up. After all, a snake wasn’t befitting of the Chosen. The Chosen was someone in the favour of Martel herself, who would help lead Tethealla into greater glory. How was it that the Chosen’s Dæmon was something as deceptive as a poisonous reptile? It couldn’t possibly be true.

The priests didn’t like it, but Zelos wasn’t about to change himself for them. And so life went on, with no one addressing what everyone surely thought was a strange Dæmon.

That didn’t stop the whispers behind Zelos’ back, so he did what he did best. He built his Dæmon’s form into a mysterious persona and made use of it to pursue girls, even as his heart ached for only one. A girl with a fiery spirit and a wildcat as a Dæmon, so different from the tabby cat he’d known in childhood.

He’d pushed her away in the hopes of saving her from further pain. Zelos knew that he’d only ever hurt the people around him, and Martha agreed. Isn’t that what her form meant? Better to break his own heart than risk those of others.

It was years later that fate would come through in the end. Deception and betrayal. Martha’s form had been a prophecy from the very beginning. There was no escaping it.

And he and Martha would share one last hysterical laugh in the safety of his room in the Wilder Manor, awaiting the beginning of the end. One way or another, Sheena and Martin would hate them.

He and Martha would be accomplices and companions to the bitter end.

~~~

Colette had never known life without Pan by her side.

Pan was her constant companion in the way that Dæmons were meant to be. An extension of her soul and a being that was closer than a friend, for they were someone who had been there since you were brought into the world.

He knew all her deepest secrets, for he experienced much the same. The deep sense of yearning within her heart that refused to be squashed down at night, the tears she shed silently into the pillow while cradling Pan to her heart, and the terrible guilt that filled her when she told Lloyd goodbye, knowing she would never come back.

Pan would always be there. She was glad to know, even if it was selfish, that there would be someone with her when she died. And that someone understood the terrible regret she felt over all those she would leave behind. All she could do was go with a smile on her face, holding her happiest memories close to her heart. Memories of times spent with her family, with her friends, and with Lloyd.

Colette was glad, at least, that Pan had settled as a hummingbird when she was 14. It was one aspect of a normal life that she had been able to experience before she died.

Why a hummingbird? Colette didn’t know the reason behind Pan’s final form, only that it must somehow represent herself. That was what a Dæmon was.

Pan had always favoured small creatures. Sugar gliders, mice, frogs… It wasn’t surprising that he’d settled as a hummingbird. The villagers had told her it fit her. Hummingbirds were animals that represent love and joy.

She had simply smiled in response. Her facade had been working, then. No one saw anything but happiness and no one had unearthed the sadness buried beneath.

It only made her cry harder in the dead of night.

Until there were no more tears to cry, for the Angelic transformation had taken those away as well. So she would spend the nights, no longer able to sleep, gently stroking Pan’s feathers although neither of them could feel it anymore. Just another thing that had been taken from Pan because of his bond to her. They would talk, until even that was taken from them, about anything and everything but the ascent into the Tower of Salvation that was looming upon them.

Until finally there was nothing else to discuss, and they would once again confide in each other the fears that nestled deep within her heart. That somehow she would fail to act as a proper Chosen, that somehow she would let down her friends, new and old, and that -

That she would break Lloyd’s heart. Lloyd, who loved with all of his heart, and Arielle, strong and brave. She was glad to be able to enjoy their company for just a little bit longer, but at the same time, it meant that she would have to leave them both behind again. Would they hate her and Pan? Would Lloyd ever be able to forgive her?

Not that it mattered. Maybe it would be better if he hated her forever. Better than for him to grieve over her. Better for him to move on together with Arielle. No matter how much it would hurt her… But she wouldn’t be alive to feel that anymore. She would have given her life for a better Sylvarant, one where those she loved could live freely.

What she and Pan felt didn’t matter.

~~~

“Pan! Please, stop running!” Colette screamed, soaked to the bone with the rain. She stumbled blindly over the forest path, pushing her way through leaves and sharp branches that scratched at her arms. But that pain was minute compared to the rope currently looped tightly along her heart, squeezing and getting tighter by the minute. She knew if she let it get any tighter, it would rip out her heart.

Pan had leapt off her palms as a sugar glider just moments ago, disappearing into the forest with the rain pattering down all around them, leaving her shocked and stunned before she gave chase.

Colette stumbled into a clearing, falling to her knees. Her hands and arms were cut and bleeding, but she didn’t care. She whipped her head around blindly, hair falling into her eyes and shivering from the cold. Pan. Where was he?

The string around her heart led Colette to squeeze herself into a log, crawling through the small, cramped space with relative ease. She was small for her age of 10. Lloyd wouldn’t be able to fit in here.

The thought of Lloyd made her flinch, recalling the words the priests at the Church of Martel had uttered.

Finally, finally, she was able to wrap her hands around Pan. He was now in the form of a hummingbird, shivering in a tiny ball of waterlogged feathers.

The storm was cold around them, but Pan was warm in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” Pan muttered. “It must have hurt for you too. I shouldn’t have done it.”

Colette shushed him, gently smoothing out his feathers. “It’s OK.”

“Is this what it’ll feel like when you become an angel?” Pan asked, morphing into a squirrel and wrapping his tail around her neck. The question only revived all the emotions she had buried since she had learned the fate that was destined for her. “Like I’m being ripped apart from the inside?”

“I don’t know,” Colette whispered, tears brimming in the corner of her eyes. “I don’t -”

“I don’t want to die. I don’t - I don’t want to leave Arielle behind. I don’t want to hurt them, I don’t want them to feel like this - like everything’s coming to an end and your heart is being destroyed from the inside -”

“I know,” Colette choked on her tears, cradling Pan closer to her chest. “I’m sorry.”

Because that’s all she can say to her Dæmon. The only thing she could ever do was apologise, for she could not avoid her fate. It was both of their duties to sacrifice themselves for Sylvarant.

Perhaps it's what Pan wanted, always favouring birds. The desire to escape and fly away, except he couldn’t, for he was chained to her forever. It had not been her desire to do so, but she had doomed her Dæmon to die along with her.

Would it feel this way for those she would leave behind? She didn’t want to put Lloyd through that. Like one’s soul was being destroyed. That would be how she and Pan felt, and she didn’t want to put anyone else through it.

But there was nothing, nothing she could do.

~~~

Pan. That name… It was the name of Colette’s mother’s Dæmon. Pan had never met his namesake, for the sole reason that Colette’s mother had died in childbirth. The name had been given to him by Julia, Frank’s Dæmon, following the long-held tradition of parents' Dæmons naming their child's Dæmon.

It meant just another responsibility that Pan had to carry. The hopes and dreams of Colette’s mother and her Dæmon rested on his back. It was a burden he had carried since his birth, and a duty he had always been destined to fail.

After all, what mother wouldn’t want their child to live their best life? Sacrificing oneself didn’t seem to fit the bill.

But he wasn’t about to tell Colette that. She held enough of a burden as it was, prepared to fling her own life away like it was completely worthless. Pan was the only one who understood what she was going through and the only one she could confide in. He wouldn’t add on to that burden. The one time he had tried to run away, it had felt like his heart was being ripped straight from his chest. It was the worst pain he had ever felt, and he knew that he’d put Colette through the same thing. It was unforgivable.

But still, what he had said that rainy night was true. Pan didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to leave behind all the friends he had made. Timothy and Arielle... They’d be devastated in the same way that Lloyd and Genis would be once they knew Colette was gone.

Pan, more than anything, didn’t want to leave Arielle behind. Arielle, with her boundless energy and courage, accurately represented by the dog she had permanently settled as. Who loved to chase Pan around in impromptu games of tag that she always won.

Pan never minded. Arielle was amazing company, and she didn’t mind how shy he was all the time. Before his settling, she had always encouraged him to try to morph into larger animals. Pan knew she meant well, but it was just something he was never comfortable with. He associated dogs and wolves with bravery, and he… he was nothing more than a weakling and a coward. He can’t save Colette.

Perhaps that’s why he settled as a hummingbird. Tiny and powerless.

He can’t change anything. All he can do is stay by Colette’s side, always. Be her emotional support, her closest friend, and the one who will die with her.

And, for now, he would simply enjoy the warmth of Arielle’s fur.

~~~

Arielle had, technically, been the first one to meet Colette. All she had been trying to do was jump from tree to tree as a cat while an exasperated seven-year-old Lloyd had chased after her on the ground, asking her to get down before she hurt herself.

Inevitably, Arielle had slipped. And fallen straight into the arms of a startled six-year-old, staring down at the Dæmon in her arms that was not her own with wide blue eyes.

It had been a strange feeling, to be touched by a person other than Lloyd. Arielle had very quickly learned that people were not meant to touch others' Dæmons. Dirk had made that taboo very clear when she’d sidled up to him as a polecat, with Marie the mole looking particularly unimpressed.

What had followed had been an admonishment from Marie that had lasted 30 minutes. Arielle, who had been sulking at the time, retained little. What stuck with her was how no person was allowed to touch you other than your counterpart. It was the grossest violation that existed, almost like the desecration of a person’s soul. Arielle knew it was serious, so she had stopped trying to jump on people’s heads for fun.

The girl that Arielle would soon learn was called Colette had, as gingerly as possible, placed Arielle on the ground. Then she had backed away quickly, both her and her Dæmon apologising profusely. Pan had been morphing extremely quickly, to the point that Arielle hadn’t been able to pin down a single form. It had been a clear sign of both Colette’s and Pan’s nervousness.

Arielle had been frozen in shock. It… hadn’t felt earth-shatteringly wrong to be held by someone else. She had only ever known Lloyd’s touch, and Colette’s touch had not been… unwelcome.

Lloyd had run up by that point, and Arielle supposed the rest was history. None of them ever really brought up the incident again. It was the one thing Arielle had never disclosed to Lloyd, and she didn’t quite know how she felt about the whole thing.

Dæmons, however, were allowed to mingle amongst themselves, so Pan was fair game. Arielle loved spending time with Pan. She supposed it was inevitable, given that Lloyd was so close to Colette. Two people who were close friends would naturally have two Dæmons who were close to each other, or they wouldn’t have been compatible, to begin with. But Arielle liked Pan for who he was: always fussing over others, but yet incredibly shy.

It was why she constantly encouraged him to morph into larger animals by constantly engaging Pan in her little games. Arielle had never really succeeded in her objective, but at least Pan seemed to be having fun.

And that made Arielle happy, for Pan was always so reserved. If she could help him relax just a little bit, then she was glad. But what exactly was it that always made Pan seem so tired? She wanted to know, but Lloyd didn’t want to push.

In the end, Pan had settled as a hummingbird. And Arielle thought that fit him. Her heart always felt like it was fluttering whenever she was near him, and she was certain that Lloyd felt the same about Colette. A Dæmon almost always felt the same way as their counterpart.

Even if it was something too embarrassing to discuss.

And even if a hummingbird was small, it had a hidden strength. A bird that could flap its wings so quickly that it could still fly, even with its small size. A hidden strength that Arielle was certain both Colette and Pan possessed.

But still, Arielle wanted to protect Pan. She wanted to be able to protect all those she loved, whether it be a person or a Dæmon. Colette had laughed when she’d seen Arielle’s final form as a dog and commented that it fit both of them. Loyalty, bravery and a protector. That was what Colette had said. Arielle hoped that meant she could better protect others.

There was one other reason Arielle had always favoured dogs and wolves.

Pan knew where his name had come from. But all Arielle could remember of Lloyd’s parents was the warmth of being enveloped in fur that was not her own and the cheery chirps of a bird, always arranged into a melodious song. She could not remember who had named her.

Arielle liked to think that, by permanently taking the form of a dog, she was just that one bit closer to the parents who were no longer by their side.

She hoped that was able to bring Lloyd just the slightest bit of comfort.

~~~

Lloyd stood frozen, watching as the girl with golden hair gently set Arielle on the ground.

Dad had always taught him that he should never let anyone touch his Dæmon. The pain would be excruciating for both him and Arielle, Dad had warned, like someone had reached straight into his soul and twisted.

But what Lloyd felt now was nothing like that. It simply felt… warm. Like he was being cradled gently as well. He didn’t know how to characterise how he felt.

Perhaps it was because the girl meant no harm?

It was then that Arielle ran up to his feet, breaking Lloyd out of his trance.

He would dwell on that moment for years to come, even though he and Arielle would never discuss what happened. What, exactly, had he been feeling?

~~~

Lloyd watched Arielle, having morphed into a labrador, pin Pan to the ground. “Sorry, Colette,” he sighed. “I don’t know why she’s being so unruly right now.”

“It’s fine, Lloyd. If Pan doesn’t mind, then there isn’t a problem,” Colette muttered. “They’ll be settling soon, won’t they? You’re turning 14 next week…”

“I’m not too worried. I’ll just let nature take its course.” Lloyd shrugged, mind wandering to what Dad will serve for dinner that night. “Why do Dæmons need to settle anyway?”

“Because one day, everyone grows up. And we stop changing.” Maybe if Lloyd had paid attention at that moment, he would have seen the faraway look on Colette’s face.

But he’s preoccupied watching Pan run by and resisting the urge to reach out, even for just the slightest of moments.

Curiosity filled him. What would it feel like to touch Pan, just like Colette had once touched Arielle?

But still, he pulled his hand back, knowing it would be wrong. “What did you say?” Lloyd asked, turning to face Colette, who once again had a smile on her face.

“Nothing!” She answered cheerily, shaking her head. “Just that you haven’t been listening to Professor Raine again…”

“That’s not my fault! It’s just so hard!”

And things were once again back to normal.

~~~

Kratos woke up, more often than not, to Jordan’s singing. The nightingale had never let anything stop his singing.

It had been what attracted his attention in the first place in the monotone halls of the Ranch. A Dæmon that was trapped, but still sang loudly and beautifully of freedom. The song had reached deep within the heart that he had thought long dead to awaken emotions he hadn’t felt in centuries.

It had entranced Lyra as well, drew both of them towards the pair trapped within a dungeon of suffering but yet could still sing of hope.

Anna would become the strongest person he had ever known, with Jordan being the perfect Dæmon to encompass that. Someone who would never let their spirit be broken no matter what was thrown at them.

“He doesn’t stop singing, does he?” Kratos muttered, tugging Anna closer. He didn’t need to sleep, but it was one of his greatest joys to simply let himself fall into a peaceful slumber with Anna at his side.

“You can’t make him,” Anna teased, the content smile on her face highlighting her rosy cheeks and the weight she was starting to regain.

Instead of retorting, he simply silenced her with a kiss, swallowing her protests.

Happiness. He had almost forgotten what it felt like, lost in the memories of Martel’s bright smile and Christopher’s bright feathers, washed away in the blood that had stained the grass that day.

He had committed so many sins and had the blood of countless innocents on his hands. He had believed he would only have Lyra for company for however longer Mithos and Will continued in their madness, for Lyra was just as complicit as him. They were but two murderers, tied together.

He didn’t deserve forgiveness or peace. But here, in the arms of his beloved, with Lyra sleeping peacefully at the bedside and Jordan’s cheerful song washing over him, he could forget about all that had happened in the past. He could simply exist, here and now.

It made him finally glad that his Dæmon had taken the form of a lion. A protector, his mother had whispered, trying to comfort him when he’d been nothing but a distraught child.

Kratos hadn’t felt like he deserved that when he’d been helpless so many times, frozen in horror as he watched those he loves bleed to death before him. Martel, and before that his mother.

But this… This family he had somehow gained, which only grew with the addition of Lloyd and Arielle, was something that he and Lyra would fiercely protect.

On a stormy night, Kratos would leave the house, not knowing that this would be the final time he heard the nightingale sing.

Once again, he failed to protect anything.

~~~

It’s nostalgic, almost, to feel Arielle curl up next to her. It reminded Lyra of better days when a still-morphing Arielle had loved to climb and bury herself in Lyra’s coat of fur.

Arielle had settled already, without Lyra there to witness it. Just another thing that she had missed in an endless litany that had been Lloyd's life.

“Arielle!” Lloyd called exasperatedly from his spot by the campfire. “Stop bothering Lyra.”

Lloyd was eyeing her nervously like he expected Lyra to bite his head off. That was silly, but he must still be wary of her and Kratos. Not that she could blame Lloyd. To him, they must have been strangers. And she knew her form could be intimidating.

Lloyd had grown up so much. He was no longer the small child who she had comforted with an embrace whenever he had nightmares. The loving touch of a parent’s Dæmon was acceptable, as was any touch spawned out of love instead of malice.

She couldn’t reach out to him now, no matter how much she wanted to. Neither of them could.

She didn’t have the right to, not after failing to protect those she loved 14 years ago. Kratos had asked her to stay with Anna and Lloyd, given her ability to go further than any other Dæmon. Becoming an Angel stripped a person and their Dæmon of the majority of the link that tied them to each other. It meant that their relationship was less intimate, but that Lyra could go anywhere she wanted to.

Lyra had followed Kratos’ request until Anna had successfully convinced her to go back to him. After all, Anna had insisted, a person was not at their full strength without their Dæmon, no matter the existence of the full link or not.

It was a decision she would regret forever, and the smell of blood and the mangled scene that followed would haunt her dreams. Her heart had shattered that day, as she was sure Kratos’ had as well, and it had never healed.

Except it had begun to meld together, just the tiniest bit. Knowing that Lloyd and Arielle were alright had been enough.

But in the end, all she and Kratos would be able to do was their job. Escort the Chosen, and then disappear forever.

Lloyd and Arielle would hate them forever, but that was to be expected. They deserve nothing less.

It didn’t matter if they could be happy and safe. That was all that mattered.

~~~

Lloyd couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened. One second the monster had been about to sink its teeth into his arm, and the next he had been knocked to the ground by Lyra, mouth open in a ruthless snarl.

Lloyd could only watch on in shock as the battle raged on, Lyra stoutly protecting him until Kratos hauled him up.

Later, Lloyd would ask Lyra why. Yes, she had saved his life and he was grateful, but she had purposely risked her own and Kratos’ life. If someone’s Dæmon died, that person would die as well. Lyra had even voluntarily touched him when before, both Lyra and Kratos seemed to want Lloyd gone.

Lyra had been as taciturn as ever, giving him non-answers and avoiding the question like she always did. Lloyd was left with no choice but to give up.

It’s not like it mattered. He would never see them again after the end of this journey.

Lloyd couldn’t quite chase away the slight feeling of regret that thought brought with it.

~~~

Julian settled as an owl when Raine was 14 and Genis was 3. They were still running across Sylvarant, trying to find a place to live where they wouldn’t be chased away and treated like monsters. It was such a frantic time that Raine hadn’t dwelled on her Dæmon settling. She was simply thankful that Julian was a diurnal species and was available to help her in the day, and that she wouldn’t have to change her sleep schedule to something akin to a vampire. Timothy seemed to like Julian’s form too, for he enjoyed being carried by Julian into the sky.

Otherwise, Raine had no other concerns over her Dæmon. Julian was her closest companion, the only one apart from Genis and his Dæmon who knew the secret she and Genis were hiding. He had been there for her in the moments when the responsibility of taking care of a child when she was naught but a child herself had gotten too much to handle, when she had felt like giving up. Julian had been Raine’s only support until Genis and Timothy were old enough to begin to understand and take up just a little bit of responsibility.

It was only after Raine and Genis had permanently settled down in Iselia that the fears over Julian’s final form began to hit her.

Even as the memory of her mother began to fade, one detail remained clear in Raine’s mind. Her mother’s Dæmon had been an owl as well. Worse, it was the same breed as Julian had become.

Any similarity Raine bore to her mother made her feel sick. It was bad enough that the face that stared back at her in the mirror undoubtedly belonged to her mother. To realise that something as intimate and life-changing as a Dæmon was the same as well…

It was horrifying for Raine to think that she could be anything like her mother. That perhaps one day, she would simply grow tired of it all and abandon Genis, the same way their parents had abandoned them.

So Raine sought to suppress those thoughts, pushing them away to the deepest corners of her mind while Julian reassured her that things would never turn out that way. After all, Julian told her, surely she could see that she loved her little brother too much to do something like that?

Raine understood that what Julian said was true and that he was the voice of reason. But it wasn’t called an irrational fear for nothing. She couldn’t get it out of her head, no matter what she tried.

But things got even worse when one day, Genis had asked her where their parents were.

“Sis should know, right? Your Dæmon’s an owl, so that means you’re all-knowing!”

Raine had looked into her little brother’s innocent eyes, heart sinking in her chest, and truthfully told him that she didn’t know. There was no lie she could tell. Her little brother had been heartbroken, Timothy along with him.

A few years later, eyes just a little sadder, Genis had asked why their parents had left them here.

Dæmons were supposed to represent a person, weren’t they? To show who they truly were?

An owl was meant to represent knowledge and wisdom. So why was it that, for the one question Raine truly wanted to resolve, she had no answer?

~~~

Martel’s Dæmon had been beautiful. Asriel had been a peacock, and a proud one at that, sticking out among the ragtag group of tired people and Dæmons that Yuan first came across.

Perhaps Yuan and Margot had fallen in love with Martel and Asriel at that very moment. Yuan thought a peacock fit Martel. Inner beauty and strength, which often shone in Martel. It represented her amazingly.

Margot had settled as a crow. From that moment, others had shunned him because he was perceived to bring misfortune, for crows represented bad luck and deception. It was something Yuan had mentioned to Martel once, hesitantly, wondering if she would reject him just like everyone else had.

Martel had laughed and shut him up with a kiss, telling him that he was being silly. She had whispered against his lips that a Dæmon was a representation of yourself, but that only you could decide what it meant. No one was limited by what their Dæmon became. Why let what others said control you?

Martel believed that a Dæmon represented the best of a person. And Yuan thought that maybe he could believe that too. That he wasn’t cursed or whatever other names he had been called in the past by cruel people who couldn’t see past his Dæmon’s form.

Yuan had wondered if the day would finally come where he could touch Asriel. The action of touching another person’s Dæmon could only occur if two people truly trusted each other and loved each other. It was a sacred act. Otherwise, it was forbidden.

Instead, the only time Yuan would ever be able to touch Asriel was a final comforting touch as he choked on the scent of blood, powerless to do anything as life left Martel. Martel had tried to comfort Mithos, but Asriel had been quaking.

Dæmons understood your deepest emotions, and it had been heartbreaking to know that Martel was putting on a strong face but was, in fact, terrified. The war was over, so why was this happening?

Yuan had let Mithos be with Martel for her final moments while Yuan had comforted Asriel. And he had watched Asriel fade away into motes of light as Martel had closed her eyes for the final time.

Yuan had never felt more grief and guilt than at that moment, wondering if he could have done anything. He and Margot should have followed Martel and Asriel instead of agreeing to stay behind. And the doubt was back, creeping through the back of his mind.

Had he truly cursed her by being with her?

And in the aftermath, all that was left was a broken boy with a Dæmon that would never settle. Becoming an Angel meant severing the link that held Dæmon and person together in the most excruciating way possible, meaning a Dæmon could go anywhere he or she wanted. Perhaps most people would wish for that if they didn’t know what it felt like. It was terrible.

A Dæmon was supposed to know you better than anyone else, and for that fundamental knowledge to no longer be true was devastating. The basic security that the presence of a Dæmon provided had been stripped away, leaving behind nothing but desolation and loneliness.

And Yuan could do nothing as he watched Mithos fall to the point of no return.

~~~

Crows were also a sign of betrayal, weren’t they?

Ironic, then, that Yuan would have to betray all the people he had once loved.

Would any of them be able to forgive him? It was a question he often mulled upon during quiet moments in his office, trying to drown the intruding thoughts in alcohol that failed to dull his senses.

Once the truth was out, it was unlikely that any of them would be willing to look at him again. One lost to insanity, the other lost to a heart that had turned to stone. And all of them, himself included, were lost to the throes of grief.

But then again, once the truth was out, Yuan would either be dead or he would have killed those he loved. And that would be akin to killing himself.

There was no comfort to be found anywhere. Only more heartbreak and misfortune, just like Margot’s form had foretold.

At least it was useful for reconnaissance. After all, no one would look twice at a crow in a tree.

~~~

Lloyd never really thought twice about Dæmons. They were something everyone had. It was a basic rule of the world.

And he was thankful that he had Arielle. Someone that would always be there for him, and who he could confide in about anything and everything. She was someone who understood everything he felt without him having to explain.

Somehow, Arielle was even more outgoing than he was. Sometimes to an excessive amount, but that’s what made Arielle Arielle.

Otherwise, he paid little mind to the specifics of Dæmons. He knew they settled and knew the taboo about touching others’ Dæmons, but that was it. So he cared little that Arielle settled as a dog, though he was happy that she liked her form.

He didn’t understand why some people were so concerned with what their Dæmons became. Did it matter all that much? The people around him in Iselia, even Colette, always said that Arielle’s form meant that he was a loyal person. That he was a protector.

But Lloyd didn’t feel that way. Arielle settling as a dog didn’t make him feel any different. He was just… himself. Much in the same way Arielle was still herself, no matter what she settled as.

Lloyd had more important things to worry about. Like Desians, and the journey Colette would one day undertake.

~~~

At the Tower of Salvation, Lloyd understood, finally, the disconnect between your Dæmon’s form and who you were.

Lloyd was powerless to do anything, even as he screamed for Colette not to go. He couldn’t imagine a life without her: a life without her smile to brighten up his day, a life where Pan wasn’t there for Arielle to mess around with. Such a life… it seemed like the darkest and dreariest existence possible.

But still, Lloyd could do nothing as Colette’s voice echoed in his mind and she told him goodbye. His and Arielle’s pleas were in vain, for Colette’s mind had long since been made up. She could offer him nothing more than a sad smile. Pan, having lost his ability to speak, could express nothing.

His heart clenched painfully in his chest as he watched Remiel snatch Pan from Colette’s desperate grip, pure anguish alighting in her eyes for a split second before they went completely blank.

Nothing could describe how Lloyd felt as he watched Pan fall to the ground, grey and lifeless. It’s wrong. Any Dæmon was supposed to be full of life, especially Pan, who was always in motion, wings flapping as he flew around as a vibrant yellow blur.

Everything was wrong as, in the chaos of their escape from the Tower of Salvation, Lloyd was the one who had to scoop up Pan. He should not be handling someone else’s Dæmon, especially someone as important to him as Colette. It was the grossest breach of trust, but Arielle was no help, seeming to have gone into some kind of shock.

What’s even worse was that the sense of wrongness was only due to his knowledge of the taboo. There was no instinctual feeling of wrongness, as it doesn’t feel like he’s holding an extension of someone’s soul or even a living creature.

He’s wondered many times what it would like to touch Pan, but it shouldn’t be like this.

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on how Pan laid in his hands like a dead animal until after the ensuing chaos at the Renegade base. Until finally, free to sit down on the bed in the inn of Meltokio, Lloyd could think over everything that had happened.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth as he recalled the praise the villagers of Iselia had heaped on him. He was meant to protect others, huh? He hadn’t managed to protect Colette at all. He had unknowingly, but willingly, led her to the Tower where she had sacrificed herself.

It was a miracle that Colette was still here, still alive. So Lloyd would work to keep it that way and to find some way to free her soul and reconnect her and Pan.

“Hey, Arielle,” Lloyd whispered to his Dæmon, who he knew was hiding under the bed right now. Arielle had been jumpy ever since the events of the Tower and seemed to refuse to face anyone, even Lloyd. Shame, perhaps? Lloyd could understand what it felt like. They had both failed.

“I know that… it feels like you don’t deserve your form right now. That we’re powerless. But there’s nothing else we can do but try. If we try, then… then maybe…” Lloyd closed his eyes, knowing that if Colette could, she would be encouraging him right now. “Maybe we’ll become worthy someday.”

~~~

Colette sobbed, cradling Pan as close as possible like she was trying to fuse them into one.

When her soul had been sealed away, Colette had finally experienced what it meant to be well and truly alone. She had screamed and cried in the darkness, and for the first time, there had been no response. Because Pan wasn’t there, and therefore there had been no one. No one to comfort her, to listen to her, to accept her no matter who she was or what she became.

Loneliness. That was true loneliness.

The only thing that had kept her sane was listening to Lloyd’s voice and the things he would tell her: whether it be the events of that day, Lloyd’s thoughts, or what he felt at the moment. Arielle would tune in sometimes, too. She was mostly just trying to annoy Lloyd, but it added an important element of normalcy.

She wanted, so desperately, to reply. To tell him what she thought, to comfort him, tell him that everything wasn’t his fault. It had been her choice, her duty, to sacrifice herself.

Except it wasn’t, was it? It had all been a lie. She had caused Lloyd so much pain and ripped apart her bond with Pan for nothing more than a lie.

Finally free and able to move again, the first thing Colette had done was try to find Pan. It had been terrifying, as for just one split second, she had been unable to sense his presence and had thought him well and truly gone.

Pan had flown into her hands, then, and she hadn’t let go since.

She’s afraid to let go. Afraid that if she did, Pan would disappear like he was never here. Their bond had been shattered and then rebuilt, but it would never be as strong as before. And Pan should -

“I don’t hate you,” Pan whispered, nuzzling closer. “I never could. I’ll always be your Dæmon, no matter what.”

And Colette only cried harder, happiness warming her heart.

~~~

Genis had never liked the forms Timothy took. Timothy hardly ever morphed away from a rabbit, and that only made Genis feel more vulnerable.

Rabbits were prey, meant to be hunted for sport or entertainment, much the same way half-elves were treated here in Sylvarant. He and Raine would never be able to erase their half-elf blood, which meant they would always have to live with an underlying sense of fear.

Genis hated that.

Everything just made Genis feel weaker, but he wasn’t going to bring it up with Timothy. If Timothy felt safer that way, then Genis had no right to ask Timothy to change.

Genis just hoped that someday, he would stop feeling so scared. That maybe Timothy could feel confident enough to take some other form and stop hiding in the shrubbery all the time.

But that was just a useless, hopeless dream, wasn’t it? Things had been like this for who knows how long. How would anything ever change?

~~~

Mithos didn’t cry easily, something that worried Martel. To her, tears were hard to come by after years of witnessing the carnage of war and all the devastation it wrought. Somewhere along the way, the tears had simply dried up.

But Mithos was still a child. He shouldn’t be used to the horrors of war, and Martel hated that the world had forced him to be that way. Forced him to grow up so quickly that he’d lost his only chance of being a child.

The one thing that reassured her was the excited manner in which Mithos asked when Will would settle. It was such a… mundane question, something children loved to ask. It was cute, honestly, to see her little brother show such childlike excitement.

Mithos had told her that he wanted to know who he was. Martel had teased him that he just needed to be patient. She had wondered whether to tell him that there was no need to pay such close attention to the form of his Dæmon but decided against it. She would let Mithos have his fun. He deserved it.

But Will would never settle.

And the first time Martel saw Mithos cry again would be the day she died. She had tried so hard to comfort him that day, to tell him that he would be alright. Despite the terrible events of the war, the two siblings had gained a family and one that Martel would forever be thankful for. Even though she would have to leave him that day, Mithos wouldn’t be alone with just Will for company.

And Martel could only watch as everything went wrong. Watch as Mithos drifted away from everyone, even Will, slowly sinking further into insanity, clutching onto any attempt to revive her. Martel was all alone, knowing that Asriel was somewhere but unable to find him.

And Will would never settle, for Mithos had frozen his clock. That excited question he had once asked would never be answered.

“It’s alright. Everything will be alright once we're together again. Right, Sis?”

Martel could only watch in growing desperation and grief as all those that she loved continued to get more and more blood on their hands. Where had it all gone wrong?

~~~

“Your Dæmon’s a boy too,” Mithos muttered, watching Timothy chase after Will. They were both butterflies now, wings sparkling in the sunlight as they fluttered through the sky above the flowers in Altessa’s garden.

“Like yours. It’s rare for anyone to have a Dæmon of the same gender as themselves. What’s the probability both of us do?”

“So rare I don’t want to calculate it.” The corner of Mithos’ mouth quirked up into a smile, sending a current of warmth down Genis’ side. “It’s something else we have in common. How strange.”

It was nice to have a friend his age that was also a half-elf. Genis was glad that coming to Tethealla had allowed him to meet such a special individual, even if the actual circumstances were terrible. He had thought he would never meet someone who had the same experiences.

Now he had gained a friend who understood how he felt and that he wouldn’t outlive.

Genis continued to watch their two Dæmons and observed Will flying even further away, almost to the limit that a Dæmon could reach from its counterpart.

In the coming days, Genis would realise that this was something Will repeatedly did. Confused, he would ask Mithos why Will always flew so far away from Mithos, always at the limit of the bond a person and Dæmon shared. Did it not hurt?

Mithos would shrug in response, answering that it was something Will had always done and that the two of them were simply used to it. There had been something raw and vulnerable in Mithos’ expression that made Genis uneasy, but he didn’t dare question Mithos on it. It seemed like something too private to ask.

Genis couldn’t understand why any Dæmon would consistently try to test the limit of their bond given how much it hurt. That bond was something to be treasured, for it meant your Dæmon was still there. A consistent companion meant you would never be alone.

Then again, he’d seen stranger things. Humans lost in the ranches, the bond between them and their Dæmon completely severed, leaving both looking like grey ghosts. It was cruel, for no person could survive without their Dæmon.

Then there was Tabatha, who didn’t have a Dæmon at all. It was unnatural, and almost unnerving sometimes. But she was just as alive as any of them.

So maybe there wasn’t anything too strange about a Dæmon who seemed to want to be free from the person they were bonded to. It was something he didn’t understand about Mithos, but he wouldn’t question it.

Genis never connected that the savage wolf by Yggdrasill’s side was the same being as the beautiful, fragile butterfly that flew next to Mithos. Not until it was too late.

The final time Genis sees Mithos, it is only a remnant of him, fading fast. Will is but a spectre, a beautiful butterfly with the same rainbow wings as Mithos.

And somehow, Genis feels like Will has finally settled. At long last, they are both free.

~~~

The first time Sheena met Zelos was the only time she would see him genuinely scared for years to come. He had physically flinched and even gone pale as a sheet, his Dæmon wrapping herself around his arm like it was trying to hide from Sheena.

Zelos never reacted the same way again, but he always seemed nervous when they met up for the first few times. The way both Zelos and Martha’s gaze would stray towards her Dæmon occasionally didn’t go unnoticed.

She didn’t understand what about Martin was so special or terrifying. Martin had settled earlier than most when Sheena was just 12. He’d settled as a wildcat, something Sheena was thankful for. There were members of Mizuho who were unable to become ninjas despite their training for the sole reason that their Dæmons were unsuitable. That was simply the cruel reality since one couldn’t control what their Dæmons would settle as, and one’s Dæmon could never leave one’s side.

It was something Grandpa would have praised her for, but Grandpa wasn’t here to do that. And that was Sheena’s fault.

The isolation from the villagers and the loneliness she experienced was something she had brought upon herself for failing to form a pact with Volt. She deserves nothing less for all the innocent lives that had been ended that day and the harm that had been inflicted on Grandpa.

She had failed, and that was all that mattered. At least she would never be fully alone, for Martin was always with her. They could commiserate in their guilt.

For just 2 short years, Zelos and Martha became part of her world as well. It had been an incredible feeling, for her and Martin to not be entirely alone anymore. For there to be a friend that she could confide in and trust.

It had taken time, but Zelos eventually got accustomed to seeing Martin. And Martin loved playing with Martha. Her Dæmon had never gotten much chance to play with other Dæmons, given how no one would approach her in Mizuho, and no one in Meltokio even wanted to get close to her.

And then Zelos Wilder had shattered her heart with a cruel smile and a nonchalant shrug. She had handed over her heart with reckless abandon, and he hadn’t valued it. It had meant nothing to him.

And Sheena was left alone with just Martin again, left to cry over all the people who had left her life. Martin was, clearly, the only one she could trust to stay by her side. That, and her newfound companion, Corinne.

“I shouldn’t have expected anything better from a person with a snake for a Dæmon.”

That wasn’t something fair to say. Grandpa had told her that a Dæmon didn’t necessarily dictate who you were. It may show aspects of your personality, but it didn’t control you. A person could always change.

She would regret saying that to his face for years to come but didn’t know how to ever bring it up again. Not when she couldn’t talk to Zelos without him and Martha ridiculing her. Every interaction with them after only served to enrage her until she had no choice but to avoid them.

Still, Sheena would never be able to forget the split second of hurt that had flickered across his face before vanishing as if it had never been there.

~~~

The night before their ascent into the Tower of Salvation, Zelos disappeared from his inn room.

The entire journey into Flanoir, Zelos had been withdrawn and quiet, a large contrast to his usual abrasive self. Martha had seemed almost shy, avoiding contact with any of the other Dæmons like she usually did, instead spending her time wrapped around Zelos’ arm. Every few minutes, Martha would flinch like she was recoiling away from Zelos, which made no sense. Sheena had never known of a Dæmon that was physically repulsed by their counterpart's touch.

It reminded her of their behaviour when she and Zelos had just met. But why would he be acting like this now? It worried her, and she couldn’t leave him alone. Not after all the tragic events of the night and the growing suspicion that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Sheena found him easily by following his tracks in the snow. Martin could have easily sniffed Zelos out, but this saved him the trouble.

And under the falling snow, she would finally tell him what she had bottled up for years.

“Snakes aren’t just about deceit. In Mizuhoan culture, they represent the duality of good and evil. You choose what you do and who you become. Remember that, OK?”

It was an apology she had owed him. The way society automatically characterised people by their Dæmons was something Mizuho had always railed against, and yet she had stooped to that despicable level in her anger.

Faced with a still impassive Zelos and with Martha not meeting her eyes, Sheena could only hope that, somehow, the message had gotten through.

~~~~

Regal’s Dæmon settled rather late as a mountain goat when he’s 16. His family seemed rather confused, with his Father finally concluding that it was rather meek, but at least nothing depraved.

Alicia’s Dæmon had been a canary. Cheery and hopeful, just like her. Despite striking out alone to a big city, she had never let that get her down. She had remained smiling and been a bright spot in his dreary life.

He had wanted to protect that beautiful smile, hoping Alicia would remain in his life. But of course, that wouldn’t be the case.

Regal had watched Alicia die in his arms, still smiling and trying to comfort him, like the kind person she inherently was. Ariana had been bleating in distress, trying to get Oliver to respond.

But there was nothing Regal could do. It was far too late. He couldn’t save Alicia, and her blood was on his hands.

Years later, he would recognise Alicia’s image in Presea. An almost lifeless girl with the same pink hair and blue eyes, trailed by a Dæmon who didn’t seem to register anything around him. Another tragic victim to Rodyle’s Exsphere experiments, who had lost 16 years of her life and didn’t even know it.

Her Dæmon had somehow settled in those 16 years. A swan, elegant and graceful. Something that Presea couldn’t seem to accept, just as much as she initially denied the death of her sister.

Regal had heard a story, once when he was young, about how a goat was sacrificed to absolve sin. Perhaps it was a sign that Ariana had settled as a goat. He hoped, then, that Presea could get her revenge. He didn’t deserve to live with all the sins he carried on his back that could only be absolved by paying his life. Surely, that would make Presea feel better. What better resolution could she receive than the death of her sister’s murderer?

But, in the end, Presea didn’t bring down that axe.

And Regal was forced to live on, shouldering the sin he had committed and the hopes that Alicia had once held. To die would be to let down Alicia, for he would never be able to make up for anything he had done in death.

“A goat represents an opportunity. An opportunity to move forward, and become more.”

Those were the final words Alicia told him before Presea shattered her exsphere forever.

It had been that simple, all along.

And Regal would do his absolute best to protect this world, innocents and Presea in honour of her sister.

Regal hoped that, someday, Presea would be able to accept herself for who she was.

~~~

“Martha! Stop hiding in the cups!” Zelos yelled, scanning the kitchen exasperatedly.

“Hiding again, is she?” Sheena elbowed her husband, watching his predicament with amusement. “You know she likes it because of how warm it is.”

“Found her!” Martin announced, marching into the kitchen carefully holding Martha between two paws.

“Let go of me!” Martha complained, struggling half-heartedly against Martin’s grip. “Am I not allowed to have a nap?”

“Very funny, Martha. You’ve been sleeping the whole afternoon. Now come over here, I need your venom!”

Sheena leaned against the kitchen counter, content to watch Zelos bicker good-naturedly with his Dæmon while Martin egged them on. Zelos was so much more at ease now, happy with himself and his Dæmon.

Everything was alright, and things could only get better.

~~~

“Hello, Genis.” Presea waved in greeting, a small smile on her face that Genis was glad to see. It showed him that Presea was learning to express herself better.

Brandon, flapping his wings, honked in greeting, leading Timothy to gently butt him in the head. Thankfully not too hard. Even as a small antelope, Timothy still had enough strength to potentially push Brandon into the canal next to the Altamira Amusement Park.

Not that it would be a disaster, since Brandon was a swan. But the problem would be getting Brandon out of the water without Presea also having to get in the water.

“How long are you stopping off for?” Presea asked, one watchful eye on Brandon, who was now running awkward circles around Timothy. Brandon is a lot more animated now than he was years ago, just as Presea now seemed much more alive.

“Just today. Then I’m heading to Exire to visit my mother with Raine,” Genis replied, gently patting Brandon on the head. “I’m sorry that I can’t stay longer. But enough about me. What about you? How are you doing?”

Presea’s smile grew brighter as she turned to look at the bright lights of Altamira, the wind now whipping her long pink hair around. She’d grown, no longer frozen as a child who didn’t understand what had happened to her and why, able to enjoy the world.

And even if both of their Dæmons had settled, they were still young and free to explore this world. They were free to find out who they were, not held back by the restrictions of society.

Everyone was free to find out the meaning their Dæmon’s held, for people would always change. No one was static.

“Good. Everything’s good.”

~~~

Somehow, amid their journey, they had ended up in Flanoir again. Given that Flanoir had only one inn, it wasn’t odd that they had ended up in the same room that Lloyd had stayed in the last time they were here.

Not that Lloyd particularly cared about the details right now. Without the weight of the world hanging on his shoulders, he could simply stand on the balcony and enjoy the night.

And he could freely admire Colette, who was standing next to him with Pan resting on her shoulder, cheeks flushed from the cold and a red scarf wrapped around her neck. She had a hand stretched out into the night sky, eagerly catching snowflakes like it was her first time seeing snow. It wasn’t, but her excitement was contagious.

That excitement was encouraging Arielle to roll around in the snow at his feet, but that was a problem to be dealt with at another time. After all, it was difficult to do much now other than stare at Colette. She was beautiful like this, outlined by the light from the stars and looking so at ease when just a year before, she had seemed reluctant to let herself freely enjoy the world.

Without much thought, Lloyd reached out his hand, pausing just above Pan’s head. It was reminiscent of the many times he had reached out to touch Pan, only to realise and stop himself.

Lloyd had learned, over time, that touching another person’s Dæmon wasn’t always taboo. It was simply… Well, incredibly intimate. Unwanted touches could cause damage, and that wasn’t what he wanted to achieve. He would never forget the pain that Remiel had caused, and Lloyd promised he would never let that happen to anyone he loved, least of all Colette. She had suffered enough.

He lets out a single breath that crystallises before his eyes, meeting Colette’s gaze. It was like she knew what he wanted to do, having turned to face him directly. And with gravity, she nodded as Pan chirped his approval.

Gingerly, he placed his hand on Pan’s head, gently ruffling his feathers.

He would never forget the expression on Colette’s face. The wonder, the joy and the love.

~~~

How could she ever explain it? The sensation of your Dæmon being touched by a hand that is not yours.

From young, she had always been taught that the touch of another was taboo. She had realised why, when upon Remiel laying his hands on Pan, the only thing she had felt was excruciating pain. Like someone was stabbing a knife straight into her heart and twisting.

But she had finally learned that it was the intention behind the touch that mattered. And she knew what Lloyd’s intention was, standing there among the snow in Flanoir with her. Surely, he was driven by the same emotion that filled her whenever Lloyd took her hands, whenever Lloyd smiled at her, whenever Lloyd was with her. The emotion that made her feel giddy and light, which made both her and Pan perk up whenever Lloyd and Arielle were in the vicinity, that made her incredibly happy to still be alive in this world so that she could experience all of it with him.

Colette was unable to stop the shudder that ran down her back as Lloyd caressed Pan’s head. It was a beautiful feeling.

To know that you were loved, for all and everything that you were.

~fin~

~~~

Dæmon List

Lloyd Arielle settles as a Labrador. Dogs represent loyalty.

Colette Pan is named after Pantalaimon from His Dark Materials. There is no yellow hummingbird, unfortunately. The closest would be a male rufous hummingbird, which has a yellow patch on its neck. Hummingbirds represent love and joy.

Genis Initially, Timothy takes the form of a Holland Lop (a breed of rabbit with floppy ears). Vulnerability and fear. In the end, Timothy settles as a Dik-dik, which is a species of small antelope. Freedom and free-spirited!

Raine Julian takes the form of a Northern Pygmy-Owl, a diurnal owl. An owl represents wisdom and knowledge.

Presea Brandon settles as a swan, specifically a trumpeter swan. Swans represent elegance and grace.

Regal Ariane settles as a mountain goat. Goats are used as sacrifices in different religions. However, goats can also represent new opportunities.

Zelos Martha is named after the female snake on Hermes’ caduceus in Percy Jackson. Martha is a black mamba. Generally, snakes represent deceit and lies. However, in Japanese culture, snakes are often used to represent the duality of good and evil. Mylene Wilder (Zelos’ mother) has a tabby cat as a Dæmon. Zelos’ father has a tiger for a Dæmon. Tigers are associated with strength and courage.

Sheena Martin takes the form of a wildcat, specifically a Southern African wildcat. Cats themselves are associated with a difficulty in trusting, magic, and even healing.

Alicia Alicia’s Dæmon is a canary. Canaries represent happiness and selflessness.

Martel Asriel is a peacock. A peacock represents integrity, and can also symbolise guidance, protection and watchfulness.

Mithos Will is named after William Parry (nicknamed Will) from His Dark Materials. Will takes the form of a wolf by Yggdrasill’s side mostly for intimidation purposes. Wolves can represent the strength of spirit and also aggression. Otherwise, Will likes to stay as a butterfly even though he hasn’t settled, one with rainbow wings (though this breed does not exist in real-life). Butterflies represent metamorphosis and change.

Yuan Yuan’s Dæmon is a crow! Which represents deception and deceit but also represents intelligence and mischievousness. In many different cultures, the crow is a proponent of misfortune.

Kratos Lyra is named after Lyra Silvertongue from His Dark Materials. A lion is a symbol of strength and protection, especially in Eastern culture where lions are seen as protectors.

Anna Christopher is a nightingale, a breed of singing bird. It represents virtue and goodness.

~~~

Next fic in the series

#fanfiction #tales of symphonia #colloyd #sheelos #colette brunel #lloyd irving #kratos aurion #anna irving #his dark materials #presea combatir #zelos wilder #sheena fujibayashi #regal bryant #genis sage #raine sage #mithos yggdrasill #one shot

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beastlywritings · 4 years ago

Text

Beginnings

Pairing: Eskel/OC (Lae’elan) AFAB NB (but gender doesn’t come into it until later)

Summary: Eskel comes across a shapeshifter (Or she comes across him) and they make nice.

Rating for this chapter: PG-13 for sexual innuendo and suggested sexual acts, as well as talk of masturbation

TW (this chapter): stalking (kind of), manipulation, injuring another on purpose, mention of dissociation and the feeling of it, mentions of orphanage, mention of lost love, selfconsciousness about scars and appearance, gratuitous use of italics for thoughts

AN: Unbeta-ed. If you wanna beta just ask lol (help me). If you wanna gimme some concrit, I’d be grateful; this is my first time posting fic in years and I’m rusty as hell. Gonna be a long fic.

This chapter is mostly just intro to Lan, who is quite literally me if my kintype was a reality. She comes with much of my baggage and personality.

From her perch in the tree opposite the witcher, the apparent chickadee watched the man as he went about building his fire, placing each branch and split wood neatly and setting it ablaze with a quick hand motion. She’d followed him all day, in various forms, from the moment she’d spotted his cat-like amber eyes across the market. A witcher could have access to information she didn’t. A chance to finally find out what she was. Following him had been easy for her. No one expects a quiet but friendly dog, a flighty squirrel, or a singing songbird of malice, not even a witcher; and no one expects all those creatures to be one and the same. And, she knew from past experience, her powers only set off their medallions if she touched them while shifting. So reconnaissance? Recon was child’s play.

She worked through the questions that mattered.

What school is he from? Cats and vipers were dangerous, both schools cut-throat havens, less likely to help a sentient magical creature and more likely to kill first and ask questions later at the first signs of non-human traits. Wolves and griffins tended to be more code-bound and willing to listen. Her eyes narrowed in on his chest. She was in luck-- a wolf medallion peeked out of the collar of his open gambeson, laying on the cream of his shirt. I won’t even have to bother with proper manners, she thought to herself, remembering the last time she’d dealt with a witcher from the school of the griffin.

What’s his personality; which method would work best to get what she wanted? She knew that Kaer Morhen had been sacked, had heard rumors of who and when, even out in the wilderness. But surely some books had survived. She hadn’t been successful in gaining entry to the keep proper in her youth, but this could be her second chance. What sequence of events would more likely get her invited to Kaer Morhen and access to the library there?

The man seemed soft spoken; his voice could easily be a booming baritone, but he kept his voice quiet and calm to not spook the women in the town square. He was kind and friendly and polite, even smiling and saying ‘thank you,’ when he bought supplies in the open market. He tried to be as non-threatening as possible, as well, trying to make himself less of an obstruction in the throngs of people in town and pulling his large arms to himself instead of letting them hang loosely by his sides. He’d even stooped to help a woman pick up her fallen goods, though it had gotten him a scowl and a barked ‘hands off!’ Perhaps a spot of friendliness to warm him up to her, break down the walls that no doubt he had constructed over the years, then switch to some seduction.

Her eyes roamed over him, eyeing up the deep facial scars, the bit of white tooth visible where the scar tissue pulled (adorable); to his strong forearms of corded muscle, bare to the elbow with veins snaking along his golden skin; up to his silky, dark hair that ruffled in the breeze; and finally to the crotch of his pants, where there were little red bows keeping a codpiece in place. Seducing him, she thought to herself with a purr, poofing up her feathers and preening them some, would be no hardship. A handsome lay and the knowledge she’d been seeking since she was young? No better deal would ever come her way. Just keep the long game in mind, Lae’elan, and this could be it. Finally feeling she had enough information and having made up her mind, Lae’elan fluttered down to land quietly among the leaf litter behind the tree the witcher sat propped up against, her tiny feet making a bit of a ruckus. Muscles popping and bones creaking, she shifted into her true form. Or, well, most of it. She’d need to know him a bit better before she deigned to show him her wings. She pulled clothes out of the ether of her pocket dimension and over her head with less than half a thought. Vulpine legs peeked out beneath a woad-blue dress, as did her long succubus-like tail. Before she’d even taken a full step to the side, she heard the witcher reaching for his swords and decided she’d best show herself before he put one of them through her. Just because it wouldn’t kill her didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt.

“That spot taken?” Lae’elan asked as she rounded the tree, her hands visible in the air beside her head, one clawed finger pointing to the space on the other side of the fire. There was indeed a sword leveled at her, a cross witcher standing at the other end. She hadn’t even registered the sounds of him getting up. Looking down at the sword, she found he got more interesting. Steel. He assumed human or common beast. Huh.

“How did you-!” His eyes darted around behind her for a flash second.

“Sneak up? Shapeshifter. I was a bird a few minutes ago,” she said breezily, even pointing to the branch she’d been perched upon. Smartly, he did not look. Well trained. Eyeing the blade poised at her neck, she continued, “Could you put the blade away from my neck? Don’t need you to put it away, just… preferably not immediately pointed at my jugular would be lovely,” She smiled kindly.

He eyed her warily, but lowered the blade a fraction. This close she realized his eyes were actually just a shade or two deeper than her own. They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. He seemed to not hate what he saw because the sword lowered another few inches.

“Just want to sit, maybe chat.”

His eyes narrowed warily and his gaze wandered over her. The horns atop her head, the long ears, her golden eyes, sharp canid-like teeth, fingers ending in curved claws instead of human fingernails. The gears working in his head, trying to make sense of what she was, were visible in his expression. Wouldn’t we all like to know, she thought.

“Why?” he asked, finally.

“Why wha-at?”

“Why chat,” he buried the tip of his sword in the dirt, acquiescing, and sat. She stepped around the fire and settled herself on the other side.

“Why does anyone chat?” She asked, but quickly followed, “Because it’s exceedingly rare to find someone I can be myself around in these times. Humans can be decent conversation, but they tend to be sticklers for shoes,” she looked to her feet-- her paws-- and wiggled her toes, “and too often make remarks I’m not fond of. Same ones you no doubt prefer not to hear as well.” He just looked at her over the fire.

“I’ll be honest, I’ve spent half my day following you today, trying to figure out if you were safe or not,”

“And you’ve decided…?”

“That you’re safe enough,” she chuckled. She’d get a proper conversation out of him yet.

“Oh?”

“Never known a wolf to attack on sight,” she nodded to his medallion, “and you were kind and gracious to each person I saw you interact with,” she continued. Waiting for a response, but not wanting to push, she looked into the fire and drew her legs to the side, leaning her weight on one hip.

“I would have noticed if a single bird had followed me all day,” he grunted. That wasn’t quite what she expected as a reply, but it showed intelligence and caution.

“A dog, two birds, and a squirrel” she replied.

“What?”

“I was a dog in the market, a sparrow in the town square, a squirrel on your way out of town and into the forest, and a chickadee for the past hour,” she looked to his eyes to gauge his reaction, “I’m no spring chicken. Reconnaissance is important to my staying alive, let alone having fulfilling conversations.” He paused after that, seemingly looking at the fire, but she knew that he was watching her in the edge of his vision. He was chewing over the fact that she had so many forms. Not many things could change into even three forms, let alone potentially the five he’d have been able to spot today.

“And what, little stalker, do you propose we talk about?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back on the tree. She ignored the jab.

“Pretty much anything other than children-” she spotted the minute twitch of his eye, “Whatever you want to talk about, really, as long as I can keep my tail out,” she flicked her hairless, red-black tail for emphasis, “Gets itchy if I’m in this form for long without it,”

“Don’t know of any kind of shapeshifter that can do that many forms in such a short period,” he squinted at her. She tried to hide that that made her crestfallen. His eyes darting around her face said she hadn’t done a very good job. Just because he doesn’t know off the top of his head doesn’t mean the library doesn’t have something, she reminded herself. Sighing, she replied honestly,

“Other than me, neither have I,”

“What are you?” he asked, not unkindly, losing the wary, almost clinical tone he’d had. Of course honesty would be what got him. She should have predicted that.

“I’ve no idea,” she answered, a bit quietly, surprising herself at the admission. He scratched his scar absentmindedly. Lae’elan wondered if it was terribly itchy or if his scratching was just a nervous tic.

“Don’t know, or won’t tell?”

“Don’t know. Honestly. Earliest memory is at a temple of Melitele for children, the office specifically, but the sisters told me I’d been left on the front stoop in the night,” Again, she was spilling truths freely. If it gets you closer to him, what’s it matter? Gets you closer to that library? He raised his eyebrows, but shrugged.

“And you can just…”

“If I can figure out how it works, or might work, I can turn into it,”

“And that’s your face?” She rolled her eyes at the question.

“Not a doppler. Here, I’ll prove it,” she said, sitting up straighter so she could reach around the fire, hand out loosely, palm towards the ground. As if she were a maiden offering her hand to a suitor to kiss. Nodding to his sword in its sheath at his side, she continued “Touch your silver to my hand,” When he didn’t do it immediately, she nudged her hand forward again and tilted her head to the sword, looking him dead in the eye, urging him to just do it. He tilted his head curiously, but unsheathed it. Moving slowly, he placed the flat of the blade on her hand without hesitation. There was, as she knew there would be, no sizzling of flesh. Just cool metal on a dainty, pale hand. Slowly, he turned the blade so that the edge sat atop her hand, but not enough pressure to cut. He piqued one eyebrow in askance. Lae’elan sighed, but nodded, and he immediately made a shallow slice. Her nose wrinkled a bit at the sting, but nothing happened. No hissing of melting doppler flesh. He wiped the blood off the blade onto his pants and replaced it in its sheath.

“I can do faces, but to do so makes me… uneasy. Like an out of body experience, but the bad kind a human might have as a poor reaction to some drug. Ah, there’s a word for it…” she trailed off before licking at the cut on her hand to get rid of the blood and watching the sliced flesh knit itself back together.

“Dissociation?” the witcher filled in before she had to think much. He eyed her hand curiously.

“That’s it exactly!” she nodded, “Most I ever change is my nose. Other than, you know, making myself look human,” she circled her face with a finger, drawing attention to the obvious non-human features. He snorted at the obvious gesture. She huffed a chuckle back.

“Eskel,” he said, suddenly.

“Hm?”

“My name. I’m Eskel,”

“Oh!” she said, pleased, “Lae’elan,” she stuck out a hand to shake. He gently took the hand in his and shook it once. His hands are so much bigger than mine, she thought briefly before-

“Odd name. It’s not a-”

“It’s a bastardized attempt at a human making up an elven name. The sisters thought I was an elf,” she said, flicking one of her long ears, “They were shorter then, and I hadn’t grown a tail or horns or paws or wings at that point. Those didn’t come till later,”

“You looked-? Wait. Wings?” He looked at her shoulder, as if trying to see if he had missed something on her back. He was tilting his head to the side again, like a puppy. Melitele it’s more endearing every time he does it.

“I have wings as well, but I don’t show those off until I really trust someone,” she explained, looking around the tiny clearing, “Besides, it’s a wee bit cramped for them to stretch out here.” The witcher-- Eskel, she corrected herself-- looked about the patch of dirt.

“They must be quite big, then,”

“Big, unwieldy, and very sensitive to curious hands if you get my meaning.” He made an ‘ah, I see’ face and seemed a tad embarrassed. She wondered if the old tales of witchers not being able to blush was true, and if it wasn’t, would he be blushing now? Ah shit, maybe we do need to be less crass with this one afterall, she scolded herself.

“But enough about what I can and can’t do, Eskel,” she laughed, and found she rather liked the sound of his name on her tongue, “Surely there’s something more interesting to talk about. Witcher like you must have some good stories or unique interests to talk about,”

“What are you, my brother’s bard?” He griped, smiling ever so slightly. The shapeshifter just raised an eyebrow.

“Ah, my brother’s the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia.” Another blank stare.

“The famous witcher? The bard Jaskier, his songs, they’re all about him?”

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she began, “I.. don’t come out into human society very often, and when I do I tend to stay away from the more gossipy crowds. I’m afraid I have no idea who or what you’re talking about,”

“Oh,” he looked a bit startled at the fact she was so out of the loop, but the look melded into a bit of bashfulness, “Well then I suppose I feel a bit honored to have been your choice of companion, then,” he said, smiling lightly before gathering his thoughts.

“My brother, Geralt, has bright white hair and is known for not staying out of the affairs of men as we’re meant to. He met a bard, that’s Jaskier, who latched on to Geralt’s pantleg and became rather famous as his barker. Has an entire song cycle about Geralt,” and, mumbling quieter than a human could hear, “You’d think that it wouldn’t take Ger 20 bloody years to figure out the kid is as in love with him as he Jaskier.” She couldn’t help but snort loudly, surprised at the comment. Eskel’s eyes shot up to her. She flicked her ear again.

“You’ll have to remember I’m not human. Ears are big for a reason. I can likely hear better than even you,” she laughed again, “20 years?”

“Longer, 20 years of pining before they finally got their heads out of their asses and realized,”

“Fuck, even I’m not that bad. Longest I’ve lasted is two years before giving in,”

“Yeah, well. It’s different when you're a witcher,” he said, mood souring.

“Oh?”

“We live a long time. You watch everyone around you grow old, die, their kids die. Even if you decide watching them die is worth it, being with a witcher is sure death, whether it comes from exposure to the elements, a monster getting them, or a vindictive witcher-hater,”

“It’s not worth the experience of love? Of companionship?”

“They’ve decided it is,” he said, poking the fire with a stick, “Others? Me? I’m not so sure,”

They sat in silence for a minute, Lae’elan watching him as he moodily poked the sticks around.

“Eskel, how old do you think I am,” She asked, curious. He looked up sharply before looking her up and down.

“20… 30?” she scratched his scar again, “I have trouble telling with humans,” She laughed softly, thinking of times long, long gone.

“Try somewhere around 250, my dear,” she smiled and looked him in the eye, her own head tilting to the side now. If she didn’t impart anything on him but this, it might be worth it anyway, “And I have to agree with your brother and his bard. It’s worth it. Even if it kills a part of you when they go, it’s worth it.” He stared into her eyes for a minute, looking for something.

“I’m… sorry,” he said quietly, turning his head to look at the ground to the side of the fire.

“It’s ok. 80 years does a lot of healing,” her smile was sad, but brightening as she took up his idle mantle and poked the fire with a stick, prodding to move a bit that had fallen so that the fire could breathe better.

“250?” he asked, looking her over again, “Really?”

“Somewhere between that and 260, I’d guess. Some bits get hazy on the years what with being a hermit for years at a time, and, well, I don’t know how old I was when I turned up at that orphanage,” she shrugged, “Apparently I looked to be about three, but when I ran away four years later, when I should have been 7, I looked closer to 11. My aging’s rather fucked up. So… my age is a mystery just like the fucking rest of me.” Her stomach chose that moment to growl lightly.

“I’ll go-”

“You can check those snares I saw you set up,” she cut in, rising to her feet and stretching her arms above her, “But I can catch my own food,”

“I wouldn’t… I mean I didn’t-” He began. She chuckled.

“I know you wouldn’t try to poison me or assume I can’t hunt for myself, Eskel, I just enjoy catching my own meals too much to let someone else.” With that, she shifted, her bones snapping into new forms, her russet hair turning into pale cream and brown fur, until a wolf wrestled its way out of her dress. She took off like a shot into the undergrowth, but not before noting Eskel’s discomfort at the sight. Have to unpack that later, she thought as she bounded in the direction she’d heard a deer about half an hour ago.

Taglist: @its--fandom--darling

#EskelxOC #Shifterverse #mywriting #the witcher #witcher fanfic #oc fanfic #witcher oc #let eskel fuck nonhumans!

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ramblinganthropologist · 4 years ago

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Writober 2020 - 30 (Dream)

Summary: The cast of Blight is about to get a very important visitor. What will Cherche have to tell them from beyond the grave? Well... a lot, basically. Like make sure she’s bi this time, guys.

---

“Hey. Are you awake or what?”

No, his fucking alarm wasn't due to go off until 5:30...

Eli woke, not because he wanted to, but because the sudden weight on his lower body made him sit up in bed. He glanced around his room, frowning. It looked... normal. His cat was sleeping, nobody was there. Yet he was pretty sure...

Nah.

“Fuck, maybe I need to go to the bathroom...”

“Or maybe you need to listen.”

There was that voice again, only now there was a body to go with it. Well, body was a bit much. Sure, it looked like a body, but it was pretty much see-through and kind of blue tinged. He got the idea anyway, though. There was a strange elf in his bedroom, wearing armor, and looking rather pissed off at him.

A very pissed off elf with red hair and familiar tattoos in black...

“Just checking, you're not Shianni messing with me, right?” Doubtful, he was pretty sure she didn't know where he lived, much less be able to get into his apartment on her own. Besides, Shianni was probably in bed with her wife. The last thing she'd want to do was come bother him in the middle of the night in costume.

So... the alternative...

“Catch on, then?” Cherche Mahariel, in the spiritual flesh, was standing in his bedroom. She nudged a fallen plush toy with her foot, her hand passing through as she tried to pick it up. “I didn't see any kids, so this would be yours?”

Yeah... it went with all the other cute stuffed skeletons in the room. Eli might have talked a good game... but when he was at home, he had a theme going: cute and dead. Maybe that made his bedroom look a little too juvenile, but it wasn't like he was inviting people over. He was strictly a fuck at their place kind of guy.

“Guess this is why you haven't invited Jake over.” She shot him a look. “Besides the whole being a massive dick thing.”

Eli held up his hands, scowling. “The guy's a mess, if he can't handle my criticism-”

Cherche's ghostly finger passed through his chest, causing him to shiver. “It's not his fault you have a stick up your ass for not being cast as Zevran. Let it the fuck go already, they were looking for trans actors anyway.”

Apparently, ghosts got to sit in on casting calls. Who knew?

He scowled as he backed up. “I do not have a stick up my ass about that! He's just completely wrong for the role! His Antivan is atrocious at best, and we have zero chemistry!”

Of course, it was hard to have chemistry with anyone when they were stumbling over their lines and he was coated in fake mud. Miris Tabris wasn't exactly like his other roles, to say the least. The taciturn warrior was really stretching his ability to act, and that was saying something. Unlike his costar, he at least had the accent.

Other things... well, he couldn't help having a dick. It was there.

“Well maybe that's because he's fucking terrified of you. You keep snapping at him every step he makes.” Cherche scowled at him again. “Is this how you treat everyone you have a crush on, or just the people who won't sleep with you?”

Eli felt his face heat up as he turned away. Now they were just getting ridiculous. Well, besides the whole arguing with a ghost thing. To actually imply he liked the Starkhaven stuntman turned actor was ludicrous. Ok, maybe in costume he wasn't so bad... but in an everyday situation, forget about it. He was like a dead fish.

A very muscular, incredibly flexible dead fish, mind you...

Nope, not going there.

“I do not like him.” His voice came out flat. “And if you haven't noticed, I do ok on the sex front.”

The elf rolled her eyes. “You haven't had anyone over in six months because the last one almost found out where your union dues actually go to. It can't seriously still be a big deal that you're a necromancer, can it?”

She didn't get an answer right away. Eli was too busy watching as the skeleton of a cat rose from a plush pet bed and came to rest at Cherche's feet. Then the bones of a squirrel zoomed onto his shoulder. At least Rocky had his back.

He patted the skeleton on the bony head. “It doesn't go with my image, ok?”

“Dorian Pavus seems to prove necromancers can be sexy.” Cherche's hand made contact with Mrs. Kitty, and the skeleton rubbed against her for more pets. “You're just afraid to let anyone actually know who you are. That's why you act like an asshole to everyone.”

Eli didn't have an argument to that. Instead, there was a dark feeling in the pit of his stomach that refused to go away, try as he might to ignore it. Even on his best days, it was always there, waiting for him to drop into it.

Of course he was... people thought he was a freak when they actually knew him. The sexy costar was a fine role to play instead.

Cherche shook her head as she watched him. “Stop being such a dick to Jake. Maybe talk with your coworkers a little bit more. I doubt they'd care you're a dorky necromancer.”

“I am not-”

She shot him a look. “How many skele-friends plushies surround your damn bed, Rodriguez? It looks like a toy store in there.”

Ouch, low blow...

Eli shook his head, frowning. He was starting to feel exhausted, like his body weighed a thousand pounds. The walls were starting to look a little thin too. Even though it had been a while since he had last used magic, he remembered enough. This was the Fade, and he was clearly dreaming this conversation.

Well, that or Cherche had come to personally kick his ass. That was a possibility.

“Just try to give a shit and see where it gets you.” She knocked him on the shoulder. “Or else I'm coming back.”

Then she pushed him back to his bed. “Now get back to sleep, I got two other stops to make tonight and none of them involve you.”

Eli was left sitting on his fade bed, staring as she disappeared from view. In the morning, he would probably chalk this up as a strange dream brought on by reading the script. At least he would tell himself that as he settled back in.

Fucking Fade ghosts... acting like they knew everything.

…

No, it was just his imagination. Had to be.

---

“Rin-Rin, you getting up or what lethallin?”

Five more minutes...

Merin yawned as he rubbed his eyes. The time on his phone said he still had a few hours left to sleep, yet he was definitely awake. He would have considered rolling over and going back to bed, but there was a problem with that. See, he wasn't alone in bed – someone was sitting on the other side, keeping him from getting back to sleep.

Somebody in hunter armor with Sylaise vallaslin...

“You're not Shianni...” He blinked, the details foggy. “Why is Cherche Mahariel in my bedroom?”

She nodded, and maybe looked a little pleased. “You caught on faster than the last guy, thank the gods.”

Apparently, she was dream hopping too. Would wonders never cease?

Merin knew enough about dreams and the Fade to not worry too much. It wasn't like he was a mage anyway – its influence on him was minimal. Still, it wasn't every day he got to talk to source material, he might as well use it.

Besides, he had always been a Cherche fan.

“So... why come visit me? Am I not playing Cahel right?”

Cherche, thankfully, shook her head. “No, he's pretty pleased with your work. Besides, if he wasn't he'd be the one visiting. Even when dead, da'len is stubborn.”

Her eyes were laser focused on him. “No, this is about your love life. Are you going to get that or what?”

His face turned a mix of red and purple as he blushed furiously. “Oh come on, you've got to be kidding me... that's why you're here?”

Talk about humiliating. Here he had thought they were going to actually have a talk about something important. Instead, it was turning into gossip hour at the cafeteria table. He was missing out on sleep for that?

Damn his inability to say no to an elder... especially a dead one as well known as Cherche.

Cherche adjusted her position in bed, stretching out her legs. She was taller than him – damn it all. “Well, yeah. You two keep dancing around each other and it's making me wonder if I've got a bad case of deja-vu.”

Merin's face only got redder as he turned away. “It's not that easy... he's the hottest guy in Orlais and I'm...”

A previously unknown actor who was currently playing the young Warden in his rise to power. The most awkward son of a dick to come out of clan Lavellan since Kaaras Adaar himself. There were plenty of options, and none of them were particularly pleasant as he chewed them over, trying to pick the best one.

Cherche pushed him lightly on the head to make him stop thinking – her hand went through, as if she was tying to grab the thought. “You're worse than they were. Remi's clearly into you, you just don't see it.”

The wind was knocked from Merin's lungs as he sat there, numb. “This is a dream, so how can I believe that? My brain might just want to believe it...”

“Well, then it's clear you want him to want you. Might as well act on it and see where it gets you.” She shrugged. “Worst he could do is say no and then you have to pretend to have sex with him on the throne of Ferelden in a couple seasons.”

Gods, he was still hoping they weren't going to cover that part... it was hard enough covering up the tattoos on his face...

“That's easy for you to say, you're dead.” Merin sighed, running a hand over his hair as he did. “I just get so nervous when we're not talking about work. He's so... nice.”

His ghostly adopted ancestor nodded along. “Yes, he's nice. So if he doesn't feel that way, he'll let you down nicely. But he's totally into you, I've seen him checking you out in and out of costume. Ask him for coffee or something.”

Right... just ask the hottest guy in Orlais if he wanted to grab coffee some time. Like the fans wouldn't eat him alive.

“Rin-Rin, I don't hear confident thoughts coming out of you.”

And there was the nickname. Merin sighed again, feeling the heat from his cheeks slowly leak away. There was no way he was getting out of this without agreeing to her terms. So... he was setting himself up for disaster.

Maybe he could at least get experience for filming out of it.

“Alright, I'll... see if he's free when we're on set tomorrow.”

She gave him a little grin and patted him on the head. “There we go, you're much easier to work with then Eli.”

Then her hand went to the chain he wore around his neck. On it was an old ring, carved from halla antler. It had been passed down his family line for generations, going all the way back to his great-great something grandpa Kaaras. As oldest, he got first dibs.

As oldest, he also knew it came from the antler of the halla that had brought Cherche Mahariel to clan Sabrae as a child.

“This is Kaaras' wedding ring.” Her voice was soft. “Funny, you don't look like you have any qunari in you, Rin-Rin.”

This was where he smiled a little. “I don't have the horns, but I can wear vitaar without getting sick. Don't ask me how I found that one out, it's a long story.”

And then she chuckled softly as she let the ring fall back to his chest. “That's how I know they got the right guy for Cahel.”

She was starting to look less solid – maybe the dream was ending. “You better talk to him tomorrow, Rin-Rin, or I'm coming back.”

Merin was already settling back into bed, sleep starting to take him over. “I will... goodnight, Cherche. Pleasant travels wherever you're heading.”

Then she was gone, and he was left to his dreams. In the morning, he would have to psych himself up to speak to Remi about that coffee. No doubt it was going to come out terribly, but he didn't need the ghost of a Warden haunting him. So... do or die time.

Fuck... he so wasn't ready for this.

---

“Hey, we need to talk.”

Anyone interrupting her sleep was risking a knife in the gut.

Shianni cracked one eye open, glancing around the dark room. Next to her, Maria was still fast asleep. It hadn't been her voice anyway, the accent was all wrong. This one belonged to someone Dalish, but... nobody else was there.

Except the ghost standing at the foot of her bed. Maybe it came from her.

Cherche nodded to her. “So... this is weird.”

Yeah.” She nodded. “Got a final wish or something?”

The elf nodded as well – looks like she had the gestures down pat. Really, it was kind of eerie seeing her standing there. While it wasn't exact, they did look pretty damn similar. If not for her vallaslin being a different color, maybe they could've been twins.

Twins with a dead person – damn her dreams were weird.

Cherche was right down to business, as Shianni figured she would be. She crossed her arms over her chest, eyes burning. “Make sure they make me bisexual in this damn show.”

Shianni would have laughed if it wouldn't have risked waking up her wife. “Wait until Denerim, we're doing the Pearl.”

“Nice. Who'd they get for Isabela? She's gotta be hot as hell to make it work.”

This time, Shianni really did laugh. Luckily, it didn't wake up her hot as hell wife who was still fast asleep. Though, thinking about it, this was probably the Fade, so that most likely was just a projection of Maria sleeping next to her. The actual Maria was in he own dreams, unaware of what was going on over here.

Too bad, she would've enjoyed meeting Cherche.

“I'd introduce you to her, but she's sleeping.”

The elf at the foot of the bed looked Maria over, whistling. “Ok, they're doing a damn fine job of casting then. Lucky you, getting to have a scene with your wife.”

Yep, Shianni was still laughing at about that. Talk about luck.

“Well, you got it handled here.” She was already starting to fade. Looks like the mission was complete. “Keep an eye out on Rin-Rin tomorrow, he's going to be asking Remi out for coffee. I told Eli not to be a dick, but he probably won't listen.”

Shianni nodded as she settled back into bed, eyes heavy. “I'll handle him. Good on you for Rin-Rin, he needs to get that before somebody else does.”

“That's what I said.” Cherche nodded again, almost completely gone. “Good talking to you. Keep your aim steady.”

Good talk indeed – approval from the woman herself. Shianni was more than happy to settle in for some more sleep, plans already cooking in her head for tomorrow. She had coworkers to keep an eye out on, especially if Merin was making his move.

It was going to be busy on set for sure, and none of it was coming from the acting. Somebody was going to cause a storm on social media for sure...

#writober2020 #That Dragon Age Actor AU #ramblinganthropologist's writing

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official-darkforest · 6 years ago

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(Submitted by @midna-magic )

Dad!scourge, mom!brick, poly!jake, among others

Just, combining a few things.

Jake, talltail, and quince are in a poly. Both Toms contribute to quince’s litter. Tiny is jake’s and ruby and socks are talltail’s. Talltail goes back to his clan but Jake hangs out for a bit to raise them. He shows a little favoritism to tiny without realizing it. Ruby and socks get jealous.

Jake then leaves when they’re a moon away from adoption age and ruby and socks take it upon themselves to get back at tiny.

What happens in scourge’s comic happens.

Scourge, like father like son, forms a poly with bone and brick. Bone is infertile so brick’s kits are all scourge’s.

Scourge starts to scare brick and they run away for a bit and hands off their kits, rusty and princess, to nutmeg who is nursing her own litter of about the same age.

Brick comes back and says they where stillborn and that they buried the bodies in a friend’s yard.

Everything that happens in the books up to the battle happens and scourge recognizes firestar. He looks like jake, but with scourge’s white paw.

Scourge calls off the battle and he and the remaining clan leaders come to an agreement that bloodclan will leave the clans alone, as long as they get the carrion place and a slim stretch of shadowclan and thunderclan land.

Scourge, bone, and brick join thunderclan and brick is forced to explain themself to scourge and firestar what they did.

Firestar and sandstorm go on their journey to skyclan, brick tags along and ends up staying with skyclan to help them.

Squirrel and leaf are born. Scourge and bone spoil the hell out of them.

Squirrel and the gang leave to find sundrown place and scourge tails them without them knowing for a while until he saves them from a dog.

Bone dies of an illness caused by eating prey that was contaminated by the tractors or something the twolegs brought with them.

Everything happens about the same except grandpa scourge is with the traveling gang breathing down bramble’s neck.

They meet midnight and she is surprised starclan sent a blood-cat.

They head back, feather dies and scourge give crow some comfort and wisdom about death.

They get back to the clans and they find out about bone’s death. Scourge is heartbroken, but the rest of his family and the traveling cats comfort him. Crow reminds him of what he said when feather died and it helps.

They make the journey to the lake, some bloodclan cats go with.

The stuff with crow and leaf happen, but he’s a bit more stable.

Scourge immediately knows that leaf got knocked up once she starts to look a bit bigger and he helps her and squirrel do the coverup.

Scourge is at elder age at this point, but refuses to retire. He wants to get a chance to mentor one of squirrelflight’s kits. Firestar tries to explain that kin can’t mentor kin but then cloudtail is like. “What about us? You mentored me.” And firestar is pressured into giving him lion to mentor. Since holly went to be a med cat, and jay is being mentored by brightheart.

Everyone makes jokes about who’s really the mentor since Lion is HUGE while scourge is tiny.

The fire scene happens, but we get more to ashfur’s motives. Squirrelflight and him had become mates and squirrel had a miscarriage before leaving him for bramble. And now every time he looks at the three he is reminded of his kits that never got a chance.

Squirrel lets it out that the three aren’t her’s.

Scourge sees this and is about to jump in and kill ashfur, but lionblaze beats him to it and kills ashfur. Scourge is so proud of him!

The three avoid squirrelflight and are a bit hesitant around bramble.

Lionblaze confides in scourge that they aren’t kin. That squirrelflight just found them. Scourge stands on his hind legs, front paws on lionblaze’s shoulders, and in a very determined, clear, and warm voice says “does it really matter? My brother and sister where fox hearts! They chased me from home my home. Blood relation means nothing. It’s who you love and who loves you that matters. But, you are wrong on one thing. We are still kin. You and your siblings should ask squirrelflight and leafpool.”

Lionblaze bear hugs him and goes to jayfeather to tell him what scourge said. They get leafpool and squirrelflight together so they can all talk and the two come clean to who their real parents are.

Scourge then retires to the elder’s den and takes on a clan name, (I’m thinking Tinyblaze). He, longtail, mousefur, and Purdy become good friends.

During the great battle, tigerstar is scared shitless when he sees tinyblaze and has darkstripe kill him before he can properly understand what is happening. Tigerstar and firestar have their battle, but ghost Tinyblaze is unable to join in because just then hawkfrost goes in to kill ivypool. Tinyblaze and hollyleaf both jump forward, hollyleaf jumps on his back, making him rear up, and Tinyblaze guts him like he did to tigerstar all those seasons ago. At the same moment firestar kills tigerstar’s ghost.

Hollyleaf survives the battle.

When alderheart goes to find skyclan it is discovered that brick is with darktail’s kin. They had tricked the Tom into thinking they where on his side because they where a bloodclan cat. A clan that was lead by the bloodthirsty scourge who hated the forest clans just as much as darktail.

Brick is almost brought to tears when they see alderpaw and Sparkpaw. Spark looking like firestar and alder looking like a red princess (same face shape, tabby marks, and eyes). Brick has to play it cool around darktail but when they are alone with their two great grand-kits they explain what happened to skyclan.

Alder and his group decide it is best to lie to darktail and say that the other clans perished on their journey to find a new home. But needle lets slip about a few things and darktail pieces it all together.

The clan cats are forced to flee with brick. Needle and alder find twig and violet. Brick recognizes them as hawkwing and pebbleshine’s kits.

When darktail arrives, brick is fast to call him out as a clan destroyer. Shadowclan, having learned from their mistake with sol, do not fall for him so easily. But sleekwhisker, needletail, and a few others do still leave to join him.

Skyclan arrives just before shadowclan is taken over completely. They drive out the kin, but darktail remains alive and pops back up moons later with the new bloodclan, who where lead by barley’s brothers but it is now lead by darktail.

The battle scourge stopped all those seasons ago is now on the horizon yet again.

——

holy FUCK

#OOOOOHHHHHH BABBY #father!scourge au #submission

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raisingsupergirl · 6 years ago

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You Don't Know What You Don't Know

In today's information age, everyone's an expert. Broken dishwasher? Just YouTube it. Wondering who that actor is? IMDB it. Want a DIY chicken coop? Google it. Trying to find an unending stream of #fakenews and fear mongering? Log into Facebook. The problem is, well… we don't always know what the actual problem is. We see the symptoms. We know what we want—the end result—but we're not always sure how to get there. And a quick Google search is all we have the patience for before we jump to conclusions and then blame someone or something else for our failure. Take my recent plunge into fishkeeping, for example.

I've always been an animal lover. I think it's innate in all of us, but not everyone has the right disposition or upbringing to appreciate animal/plant husbandry. As for me, I grew up in the Missouri wilderness surrounded by ponds, cliffs, streams, fields, and forests. Sure, I spent my fair share of time on the Super Nintendo System, but being in the great outdoors was engrained in me from a young age. And more than that, I learned to appreciate the other things out there. I kept just about every animal you could imagine at one time or another (dogs, cats, birds, fish, lizards, frogs, newts, rodents of all varieties, snakes, chickens, geese, goats, a squirrel, a ferret, a raccoon, and even a short-tailed opossum, off the top of my head), and though I was pretty irresponsible with most of them (ignoring for a second that I should have just left them where I found them in nature), I loved nurturing them, and I kept most of them alive. So when my city-girl daughter said she wanted a fish for her fourth birthday, a little piece of my past reignited, and I… may have gone a little overboard.

First, my mom still had the 35-gallon aquarium she bought me for my birthday a couple of decades ago. Back then I just winged it. I didn't have Google. I didn't come from a long line of aquarists. I just filled the thing up with well water, a cheap bag of gravel, a log I found floating in my pond, and the cheapest fish I could find at my local Walmart (yes, Walmart sold fish back then). Of course the tank was full of algae and dead fish in no time, but I kept at it, and eventually I had a few fish that didn't eat each other, but ultimately it wasn't what I knew it could be, so I set the fish "free" in my pond and put a snake in the tank instead.

I used the tank again in college with similar results, only this time I had a filter, did occasional water changes, and had just a few friendly fish, so it was much more successful, though still very "low tech," as they say in the hobby. Since then, I've matured (please hold all sarcasm until the end), and I've learned the value of researching something before attempting it. The change started in physical therapy school when I spent countless hours dissecting and writing scientific papers. It was the literal worst, but it taught me so much about the world. Rather, it taught me how to learn about any particular aspect of the world. You see, in these classes, we weren't allowed to just read the abstract and regurgitate the experimenters' assumptions. We had to read every line, go back and read every line of the sources they cited, and then, once we understood every word, we could start forming our own opinions on the subject. And believe it or not, I rarely found a paper that wasn't skewed toward the writer's desired result in some small way.

So now we get to the heart of things—you don't know what you don't know until you know it. And you won't know it unless you put in the time. We're living in an age of instant gratification. Because there's so much information out there, we only have time to skim. Otherwise we wouldn't have any time to actually live. I recently ran across an inspiration quote by science fiction author Robert Heinlein's character, Lazarus Long:

"A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects."

Sure. Easy for Lazarus to say. As his name suggests, he was over 200 years old and counting at the time of his above quotation (and that's to say nothing of Heinlein's, uh, colorful political and philosophical views). But even still, his words are a nice sentiment, and they resonate with our current zeitgeist. We all want to be experts at everything, but we just don't have the time to do it. So we become Jacks-of-all-trades, and masters of none. And thus, with the dehumanizing help of social media, we get into a lot of stupid fights.

But I digress. Back to my aquarium example. Giving in to my excitement and desire for my daughter to experience thy "joys" of fishkeeping, I reverted to the impulsiveness of my youth. And of the twelve fish I bought those first few months, I killed half of them. Why? Because I didn't take the time to learn about taking a new tank through the nitrogen cycle. I knew nothing of ammonium, nitrite, or nitrate. I didn't know how to promote bacterial colonies in the filter media. And when I decided to add a few live plants to the mix, I didn't know the difference between submersed and submerged, or that PetCo didn't care about selling you "aquatic" plants that would die 100% of the time if completely under water. And that's saying nothing about water pH, alkalinity, fertilizers (NPK, micronutrients, root tabs versus liquid fertilizers, etc), carbon (CO2) availability, substrate differences, etc., etc. I just thought, "these are pretty" with dozens of plants and fish from completely different, delicately balanced ecosystems around the world, and then expected them to flourish when crammed together in the petri dish that was my, er, my daughter's aquarium.

I'll be the first to say that I suck at chemistry. It was the only "C" I received in college. Too many dry facts and things I couldn't visualize. Too much like math. But over the past few months, I've forced myself to dig into the periodic table and the chemical processes of dozens of elements and compounds in order to BEGIN understanding the aquatic world. I'm still so far away from having a solid grasp on the process, but at least I now know what I don't know. And that's a start. And it's a valuable reminder of the ignorance of mankind.

As a physical therapist, it often baffles me when my highly intelligent friends and family don't understand their own bodies. These people are experts in their fields. They're fluent in areas that I'll never even begin to understand. And yet, they can't figure out the simplest causes of their own various aches and pains. And thus, they become easy prey for fad diets, snake oils, and cure-alls. In health and fitness, especially, our connected, opinion-fueled society is playing the willing victim. Like politics and philosophy, we all know there are problems, and we see "experts" offering their solutions constantly, and social media algorithms are feeding into this problem by inundating our news feeds with like-minded (no matter how wrong) individuals. We think, "Hey, everything I see reinforces my ideas, so the must be right!" But really, we're still living in the same high-walled isolation we've always lived in. We just have weapons that can shoot farther now.

So remember, if you haven't spent hundreds of hours researching and forming your opinion, you're probably not right. Maybe you have an idea. It may even be a good idea. But life is complex. It spans millennia of philosophers, scientists, and soldiers. Even if WebMD says you have terminal cancer, you should still probably see an actual MD before you throw in the towel. Because, contrary to Lazarus Long's inspiring sentiment, humanity can still find value in specialization. Life is rich and deep, so take the time to dig.

#fish tank #fish keeping #aquarium #aquarist #plantedtank #planted aquarium #chemistry #diversity #education #informed opinion #research #social media #ignorance #momblr #dadblr #mumblr #physical therapy #specialization #robert heinlein

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jsalim-art · 7 years ago

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You should tell us about your trip from a country that doesnt exist tell us about the people who live there, food, customes, the people you met there and the most notable experience from this trip

So last year in my totally real adventures in traveling I went on a weeklong trip to the remarkable nation of Arborra. It is a country with so many trees as far as the eye can see (other than the airport the only area with no trees). Other than the trees the other thing I have noticed how fresh the air is like breathing it in felt so cleansing. You’d think there would be no civilization from all this trees but again I guess that would be subjective because this place is different from all the countries I’ve visited in my life. At the airport I was met by a husband and wife, they are the family that will be hosting me since the Aborrans don’t have big hotels but most families are willing to take in tourists under their wing.

They greeted me warmly asking how my flight was, in which I replied to be very much glad to be ground than be up in the air. They laughed thinking it to be funny but what they didn’t know I was met with a lot of plane turbulence that scared the crap out of me. I was led to their carriage which is hitched up not to a horse but a big deer. Yes you heard me a deer, definitely not a horse but it is built like a drafthorse. The husband whom is referred to as Venan (his wife’s name being Nandi) chuckled at my amazement at the sheer size of the creature. From what he told me, Nima (the deer) is a domesticated descendant of his wild species which are way bigger than him and is one of many breeds.

The ride to their town took an hour but I enjoyed seeing the scenery of all the trees which are humongous evergreens that reach so high up. I’ve seen an animal pop up once in a while and could of sworn I saw a giant version of Nima but whatever it was the carriage moved too fast for me to comprehend what I saw. Other than the deer thought I saw what looked like squirrels that looked like cats and birds whose plumage resemble the pine needles.

It was dark when we reached the town or what I thought it was like I said all I saw are trees. Venan and Nandi’s friendly demenure turned wary fifteen minutes before our arrival then relief when we finally reached the place. Nandi said that we are lucky not to have to camp outside town if we didn’t reach on time. Apparently at night the apex predatory animals are out during this time and it is obviously not safe. For some reason though the predators never enter the towns as they prefer to be hidden in their habitat than be caught in the towns. I took their word for it because just when we are to enter town I thought I heard an unholy howl that sent chills to my bones although Venan and Nandi did not flinch at the sound as this is something they always heard.

Upon seeing the town this is what I noticed about the trees compared to the giant evergreens. The trees here are not as big but they are deciduous, specifically they are maple tress. This “maple town” is Cernis Town. Dwellings and buildings are either tree houses or the house is embedded into the tree like it is grown to be structured like a house. Venan’s and Nandi’s house is the latter type of house which I could describe to be a two-storey type with big windows. I noticed certain parts of the tree outside and inside are lit up a certain bioluminescence to it.

It is within the house I finally got to meet my host family’s children two twin 8 year old girls that go by Lu and La who seem very excited to see me which I am told I am their very first guest to ever host. The twins were more than eager to show me around the house and I got to meet the family pet which is their “cat” named Kit who resemblres more like a tabby striped puma who is the biggest softie I ever met who loves being petted a lot. After such a harried tour around the house, Venan managed to save me from the twins attempting to show me the town as it was so late.

I was to join the family in having dinner with them. I felt very much at home with them despite my surroundings feeling different than I could handle. Out dinnertime conversations consists of us asking questions with each other and getting them answered to get to know each other better. For example I’ve learned most of their energy is solar based as each tree is fitted with solar panels which is a back up source of energy if anything were to happen to the leaves considering the trees are deciduous. The leaves of the trees are genetically modified to absorb solar energy from the leaves. So certain commodities such as the internet, and electronics here and amazingly I am getting better phone reception in this country than in Canada. From me the family especially the twins were amazed how the houses and my town was like compared to theirs.

Dinner was delicious as the food here is either grown, raised, hunted or gathered. Food is never wasted as the people never took more than they need than hoard it all to themselves as whatever they have plenty they share. For tonight’s fare was roasted venison with tubers that Venan and Nandi hunted and bartered for last week. For dessert is a berry cake made from the berries Lu and La gathered.

Before bed the twins wanted to show me something, they took me to the guest room where I am to be staying for the week. My room had a good view of the night sky which is bright as Toronto at night. I could see every star possible along with the moon. The twins wanted to talk to me more but their parents said there will be more to do tomorrow if we sleep now. I slept my first night seeing the beautiful night sky.

The next day I was woken up by Kitty met with a face full of cat fur and loud purring. It didn’t help that Lu and La came barging into my room and jumping in the bed being all excited. But I didn’t mind as I slept pretty well anyway. We got ourselves ready and I had breakfast with my host family which consisted of eggs given by the neighbor’s domesticated fowl and toast from home made bread.

After breakfast Venan and Nandi had to go to work, Venan and Nandi make a living repairing and managing the tree dwellings of others. The twins and their cat were the ones to show me around, we hitched a ride on Nima and made our way around town. From what I’ve seen so far people are generally friendly to each other. Everything is relied on a trading system and with people having plenty of everything to give each other resources everyone gets along,

The twins showed me the market place where the trading system really is most prominent, since the concept of actual currency does not exist here. At the marketplace there was a small carving that resembles a miniature version of Kitty which the twins suggested I should get which consisted of finding the crafter trading off these carvings who wanted a jar or berry jam and to get that jam I have to get from a woman who makes jam who wanted a certain type of flower and from the florist she wanted me to get her some eggs from the twins’ neighbors which resulted in finding that neighbor who will offer said items if I helped him find his domesticated fowl who were hiding amongst the trees. I felt like I was in a bizarre sidequest but It was worth getting that carving. The rest of the day the twins showed me more of what their town could offer me and I tool a lot of great pictures on my phone.

This is how my week basically went either by myself or with any or all of my host family. I experienced many new things but one even happened where things escalated faster than I can comprehend. Long story short I almost had a near death experience you see La went after Kitty who chased after a small animal outside town when it was dark and I have mentioned its off limits to go out because of the huge predators. Lu and I went after them and we went a not so far distance until we caught up with them Something big was comping towards us and lets just say we ran for our lives from a giant bear creature. It almost got us but the creature stopped short the moment we all entered twon. The creature looked at us hungrily but as if its not worth us being in its gullet the bear creature trundled off. It was then Venan and Nandi saw us and looking at our scared faces knew basically what happened.

The twins were upset but their parents were not angry just disappointed that they wondered off but they are very glad we are all alive and that the twins promised they won’t do that again and ask for help if anything like this happens again. Other than that experience of seeing this creature my trip is uneventful of the huge animal variety. My trip was still exciting none the less as I got to get to know more of Aborra’s people and culture.

The night before I was going to leave back home my host family made a feast in my honor and all the neighbors were invited as well. I was sad to leave and the fact that a week passed by so quickly and the fact I am not looking forward being up in the air in a plane. However my host family invited me to take part in their Harvest Festival during the this coming fall and autumn being my favorite season I look forward to seeing the trees again.

(I pulled this out my ass but I hope the read is enjoyable, still need to work on my writing)

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qqueenofhades · 7 years ago

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So are we going to get another addition of the garcy accidental marriage AU? Because IM DYING HERE! Garcia Flynn is literally the human scum and I want to know how much further in the dumpster of his life he can go. Also I'm loving the flynn/Wyatt interaction so PLEASE MORE- garciiaflynn

After 500 years, I am finally getting to this. The rest of this fic is here. On AO3 here.

Flynn’s first instinct is to reach for his gun. His second instinct to remember that he doesn’t have one, and that even if so, he is not exactly going to be able to shoot his way through a hospital and however many goons Rittenhouse must have outside. Especially when, as the realisation chokes his throat, he doesn’t know where Lucy is. If they’re holding her hostage in her room upstairs, if they’ve already done something worse to Wyatt and Rufus – and yet, even if he did have a gun, even if he was prepared to blast the entire place, he wouldn’t. He remains frozen, knowing that this is absolutely a trap or trick or lie of some sort, but unable to do anything else than stare back at Benjamin Cahill. “What?” he says croakily, too stunned to pretend. “What about Lorena?”

“Do you want to listen to me, then?” Lucy’s father – how could this man have ever made anything, anyone like her? – arches an eyebrow. “Because we can, Garcia. We can talk this through. You just have to do your part.”

Flynn hates this chummy, favorite-uncle act with his entire heart, even more that the bastard thinks he can call him by his first name as if they’re old friends, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He casts an eye at the paper-towel dispenser, calculating his odds of tearing it off the wall and using it as a makeshift weapon – he could possibly concuss Cahill with it, yes, but it wouldn’t do him any good against the legions outside. It’s not exactly bulletproof. He’s still reeling with jet lag and sleep deprivation and emotional exhaustion, and he knows himself well enough to admit that there is no way he can bash his way out of this one. His fists have been clenched, but at that, they slowly, feebly unfold.

Seeing it, Cahill looks satisfied. “That’s better. You know, this really isn’t any place for an important conversation. How about we go get a drink somewhere, and – ”

“No,” Flynn grates out. Like hell is he letting Rittenhouse squirrel him off somewhere alone, possibly with a nice chaser of cyanide in the cocktail if they feel he isn’t being amenable enough to their ideas (which it is almost guaranteed he won’t be). They must need him alive, they must need something from him, which is why Cahill didn’t just pull out a sidearm and take quick and decisive advantage of finding his organization’s biggest enemy alone, unarmed, and disoriented in a public restroom. “We talk here.”

Cahill blinks. “Are you sure you don’t want to – ”

“What did you do with Lucy?”

“As I said, my daughter is currently receiving the best care that money can buy. I went by the front desk – it seems she checked in under the last name of Wallace, that of her stepfather – and told them that anything she needed for her treatment, I would be sure it was paid for. Anything she needed. I’m not a monster either. I’m also a father who loves his daughter.”

Despite himself, Flynn flinches at that. He scrubs his hands over his face again, struggling to muster up any kind of witty or coherent reply. He feels toyed with, the mouse scuttling to and fro under a cat’s batting paws, and he doesn’t like it at all – he is the one who hunts Rittenhouse, not the other way around. “You’re taking your sweet time to get to the point, aren’t you?” he rasps at last. “Just tell me what the fuck you think you have that matters to me.”

Cahill looks straight at him. “The identity of the operatives who killed your wife and daughter. And what happened – or can happen – to them, if you’re interested. Are you?”

Flynn feels punched. At last, all he can manage is, “And you’d ever sell your own men out, why?”

“It’s more complicated than that.” Cahill presses a button on his watch, presumably to deactivate some secret alarm that was supposed to go off if he had been in the bathroom with Flynn too long without responding. “You see, strictly speaking, they’re dead.”

Flynn was just briefly beginning to entertain the notion that he might have any idea what’s going on. At that, he has to dismiss it again post-haste. “The hell do you…”

“You killed them,” Cahill says, with a slight shrug. “You don’t remember?”

“Of course I don’t, because I never – ”

“As a result of you changing history on the Sarajevo mission in 1914,” Cahill says, talking over him, “it bled over into the Lusitania mission, the next year in 1915, and where you killed the men who had carried out the order on Lorena and Iris. So – ”

“Don’t you dare say their names!” Flynn is even more lost, because he doesn’t remember any Lusitania mission, but he’s not about to get hung up on such triviliaties. He wants to throttle Cahill up one side and down the other, but he still can’t. It’s like watching a slow-motion car crash unfold, hurtling and hurtling toward what inevitable end (or cement wall) the son of a bitch has in mid. He can just stand here, in a nightmare, and let it happen.

“In the new timeline, therefore,” Cahill finishes up, “that is how you and my daughter appear to have… ended up together. After you killed those men and apparently found it within you to move on. She never told you, did she?”

Flynn has been wondering how on earth he and Lucy would have ended up married – he would have guessed a number of other things, but not that – and he can’t help a flicker of curiosity, not that he’s going to trust any version of events they give him. Still, he’s unable to deny it as easily as he wants to, for any number of reasons. “Lucy would have told me,” he says at last, reflexively, not even knowing why he believes it. Not as if he’s given her much opportunity, or hint that he’d be open to hearing it. “She would have told me.”

“I’m afraid she didn’t.” Cahill shakes his head. The faux sympathy is nearly thick enough to slip in, Flynn thinks loathingly. “As you can imagine, Rittenhouse has quite sophisticated mechanisms in place to track any changes or alterations to the timeline and our own operation, and I can independently verify everything I’ve just told you. You must have known that either Lucy didn’t want to tell you, or was afraid to tell you, and either way, that’s no foundation for a relationship, is it? It’s just an accident of fate that has thrown you together, and seeing as you’ve been trying to reject it as hard as you can, I know you’ll do what both of us know is the right thing. Difficult as it may be for you to comprehend,” he adds, rather scathingly. “You know, there were plenty of the brass who just wanted you dead, but because I do care about Lucy and want to see her happy, even in an unfortunate matter like this, I proposed a different approach.”

“You know,” Flynn says, lip curling, “that’s the what – third or fourth time in this conversation that you’ve insisted how much you care about her? It’s almost as if you think I might not believe you when you say it.”

“I wish it could have been different,” Cahill says, in the tone of a candid admission that is clearly supposed to make Flynn think he is being humble and reasonable about this. Flynn himself is not an expert on being reasonable about anything, but he is still perfectly capable of smelling bullshit. “But for once here, our interests are united. Do one small thing for us, one favor to reset the timeline to the one where you aren’t married, just as you want. Right now, the operatives who killed your family are dead, but your wife and daughter aren’t back, because you killed them after they already had carried out the hit. I will give you their names and their birth dates, as well as the names of their parents. We will allow you twenty-four hours of no interference, for you to do exactly as you wish with this intelligence. Once you have, I presume, killed their parents, they won’t be born, the Lusitania mission won’t take place as it did, and history will unbend. You will no longer be married to Lucy, and Lorena and Iris will be back. Just as you want.”

Flynn’s mouth is dry as sand. He wants to say Cahill is lying, because he’s Rittenhouse to the bone, of course he’s lying. “So you’d just let me kill two of your men. Why?”

“We have plenty of men.” Cahill shrugs. “You know that. These two aren’t anything special or irreplaceable. They’ve had a few disciplinary problems anyway. As the CEO of my division, I can make a decision which employees are expendable.”

“Usually that means handing out pink slips,” Flynn sneers. “Not death sentences.”

“Do you suddenly have a problem with killing our members yourself?” Cahill snaps, dropping the urbane, nice-suburban-dad act for a moment. “Please, don’t try that to my face.”

“I don’t, no.”

“So…?”

“What do you want from me?” Flynn knows this isn’t being offered freely, knows there must be a poisoned hook dangling somewhere, but he’s tempted. God, he’s so terribly tempted, and he has no idea what he’s going to end up doing. “To go away and pinky-promise never to interfere in Rittenhouse’s business ever again?”

“That would be the gist, yes. As long as you remained totally removed from our operations in any capacity, you, Lorena, and Iris would be guaranteed your safety, as well as a large payout for your trouble. Starting at seven figures. Enough to buy you all new identities, a new house, a new start. We’re very good at that sort of thing. Anywhere in the world you want to go. Paris penthouse? Malibu mansion? You can give them everything, Garcia. You still can.”

Flynn turns away, gripping the edge of the sink until he’s half afraid it will break off. He never got into this insane mission intending to kill all of Rittenhouse. Just as much as he needed to to ensure that the events of the night of July 7, 2014 never happened. He thinks of dancing with Lorena on the balcony of a new house, of seeing Iris turn six, seven, eight, more. Thinks of watching her graduate from high school, from college. Of walking her down the aisle at her wedding. Of all the time she should have had, paid back to her. Rittenhouse owes them that, at least. If they’re willing – they’re liars, but if they’re willing –

“Are you interested?” Cahill says, when Flynn has no answer. “Well?”

“I…” His voice is a croak. “Lucy. If I said yes. What’s going to happen to Lucy?”

“Lucy will have the wonderful life she was always meant to. She can get out of this terrible, draining business of running here and there through time. She’ll be a renowned and respected history professor. Just like you, she’ll have everything she wants.”

“Everything Rittenhouse wants, you mean.”

“I think we’ve established that doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

Have they? Flynn isn’t sure. No wonder Cahill thinks this is a good deal – the lives of two low-level grunts, who are technically already dead, in exchange for Rittenhouse having a clear playing field. He must be unable to believe his luck, thinking that he might be able to purchase world domination so easily, because Garcia Flynn – the single greatest nemesis Rittenhouse has ever had – is standing here seriously considering their settlement offer, to take the handout and go before they change their minds. When you can give even your sworn enemies exactly what they want, no wonder absolute power is almost, tantalizingly within your grasp.

He wants it. He can’t deny he wants it more than anything, if only he could forget who was offering it. The possibility that if it suits their needs, they could yank it away for a second time, as nonchalantly as they gave it back. Flynn doesn’t trust any Rittenhouse guarantees of safety as far as he could wad them up and throw them. And yet, at the very heart, that is not what is forming the core of his final objection. It’s the idea that he would buy this, his happy ending, his returned family, the one thing he has always sworn he’d do anything for, by hand-delivering Lucy to these bastards. Made to live the life Rittenhouse wants, writing the history Rittenhouse makes, doubtless marrying the handsome Rittenhouse doctor they match her with and having several Rittenhouse children. To exist in Rittenhouse’s machine, and to know the entire time that he was just fine with putting her there. After everything.

Flynn tells himself that this should not matter.

(It matters.)

“Well?’‘Cahill says. It’s clear that he considers this all over except for the haggling. He holds out his hand. ’'How about we do some business, Mr. Flynn?”

Flynn stares at that hand. There is a possibility – remote, but still a possibility – that if he takes it, his long nightmare will be over. He will wake up in bed next to Lorena, and Iris will run in to jump on them. They will all eat breakfast and talk about ordinary things, not time travel and murder and sinister intergenerational organizations and the rewriting of history. They might not know anything was ever wrong, and he’s briefly curious as to how a restored timeline would explain his nearly three-year absence, if they’ll have happy memories of an uninterrupted existence, or something else. He can find out. He can find out everything.

All he has to do is shake Benjamin Cahill’s hand.

“Come on,” Cahill says, as if coaxing a skittish dog out from under the bed. “We both know it’s the best thing for Lucy too, for you to take this. Things got a little mixed up, you thought some things that weren’t real, and so did she. Just let us sort it out. Rittenhouse is a family business. That’s our values. We’ll do right by her.”

“Family business?” That, somehow, strikes something through Flynn’s catatonia. Sounds like the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar energy conglomerate at the site of an oil spill, lying though his teeth about how much they care about this disaster and everyone it’s affected, pledging to never do it again. As if. “A family business. Just like the mom-and-pop hardware store on Main Street, that’s you. If only you had brochures. Glossy posters. I’m sure it would go great on the front.”

“Well,” Cahill says again, with a forced chuckle. “Not really our style, but I suppose there’s always room to – ”

“A family business,” Flynn repeats, for a third time. “That sent a squad of hitmen armed with military-grade automatic weapons to my house in the middle of the night, to kill my five-year-old little girl in her princess pajamas, and my wife, because I cottoned onto them. In case it escaped your notice, Benjamin, that’s who you work for. That’s who you’d ask me to trust with their future.”

Cahill is starting to sweat. “I agree. That was an excessive response. I didn’t give that order, and we disciplined the asset who did. So – ”

“Disciplined? A write-up in his file and a few percentage points off his stock share?” Flynn’s roar rattles the mirrors. All at once, whatever trance he’s been in, this sweet, sweet impossible dream, it snaps. He doesn’t know if he’s throwing away his last chance to save Lorena and Iris, but he does know that he’s not, he’s never, he can barely believe that he was actually so terribly close to doing it like this. As Cahill senses danger an instant too late and fumbles for the buzzer on his wrist, Flynn grabs his arm, yanks it over his head, and with the other hand, crushes his fist violently into the bastard’s smug, avuncular expression.

Cahill yelps as his nose breaks with a crunch, flailing at him ineffectively, as Flynn hoists him by the expensive suit jacket and throws him bodily into the wall of sinks. There’s a crash of breaking porcelain and a hiss of spouting water, Cahill’s head slumps, and Flynn is left to consider luridly that if this is not actually the worst it has ever gone when meeting the in-laws for the first time, it has to be pretty damn close. He has an utterly ridiculous urge to laugh. Then he runs.

He bursts out of the restroom, remembers in the nick of time that the lobby must be crawling with Rittenhouse agents and there are about thirty more seconds until they discover their boss bashed over the head with a urinal, and if he surfaces in the middle of them like a surfer among a posse of great white sharks, this will all be useless anyway. He skids to a halt, reverses direction, and runs to the back corridor and one of the service elevators. He slams the button and swears at it, just before a harried and overworked resident in scrubs rounds the corner, sees a large and agitated man with bloody knuckles, a rumpled suit, and a, to say the least, unbalanced expression, and stares. “Sir. Sir, this is not a patient or visitor area, I have to ask you to – ”

“GET IN THE ELEVATOR!” Flynn is going to need some sort of expert help or override to get into Lucy’s room, and if this puny underling makes a single move for his walkie-talkie, he is going to deeply regret it. “NOW!”

“Sir, one more warning, and then I’m – ”

Flynn lunges for him, shreds the buzzer off him, and snatches for his hospital ID/access card, just as the elevator door dings and opens. A few nurses shuffle out, at the end of their shift and too intent on making it to the hospital cafe alive to even notice their sputtering colleague being literally held up by a lunatic, and Flynn forces him inside before they have time to remedy that oversight. “Floor 8,” he snarls, jabbing the button and swiping the card. “Or else!”

The door shuts, they start to rise, and Flynn sees the resident eyeing the emergency call button. “Don’t,” he advises, “even think about it.”

“Are you crazy?” The resident clearly decides that is a stupid question the instant it is out of his mouth. “You’re in so much trouble, man, I don’t know who you think you are, but – ”

“Just call me Dr. Kovac,” Flynn grunts, wondering if all hospital elevators go this slowly or it is just a conspiracy against him. If this stops at another floor, he’ll – well, he’ll solve that problem later. After forty-eight of the longest seconds of his life, they reach the eighth floor and march out into the recovery ward. Flynn can’t physically drag his hostage without setting off a full-house alarm, but he keeps the pace brisk and the looks threatening. If she’s not here, if they’ve already moved her –

They turn down the hall to Lucy’s room, where Wyatt is perched on an uncomfortable chair – or rather, just getting off it, as he is clearly under the impression that Flynn has absconded again and will need to be dragged back by his ear. Upon seeing Flynn racing toward him with a very unhappy employee of this fine medical establishment instead, he goes blank, then furous. “Jesus Christ, what are you – ”

“Shut up!” Flynn restrains himself from throttling the shorter man with a terrible effort. “They’re downstairs, they’re here, they’re all here! He’s here too! Her father!”

Wyatt’s eyes flick from Flynn’s bloody knuckles to his face to his general demeanor. For once, mercifully, he is quick on the uptake. He wheels around as Flynn swipes the card into Lucy’s room, more than half expecting to see some Rittenhouse agent propped up in her bed and wearing her nightgown, like the wolf after eating Little Red Riding Hood. But it’s just her and Rufus, apparently none the wiser, as they stare and Rufus jumps to his feet. “Flynn?! You have the absolute hell of a lot of nerve to just – ”

Flynn is aware of the fact that he will be and probably deeply deserves to be yelled at in great detail, but now is not the time. “Rittenhouse,” he says. “They’re downstairs. They’re waiting for us. It was a trap. We need to get out of here right now.”

“Lucy isn’t – ”

“They’re here?” Lucy interrupts, looking stranger – and angrier – than any of them have ever seen her. “What, to collect me?”

“I’ll tell you. Later.” This is the least thing from a tactful or tender reunion, not that Flynn was expecting one of those anyway. “Your wretched father, he – ”

“Benjamin Cahill’s here?” At the mention of the donor of (unfortunately) half her DNA, Lucy’s nostrils flare. She goes ice-white, momentarily mute, as Flynn casts an edgy eye for any SWAT teams rappelling off the roof and through the window. Then Lucy spins to face the resident, who has clearly been hoping that if he closes his eyes and blinks hard, this will all go away. “Take me off all this. Now.”

“Mrs. Wallace, the hospital still has not recommended you for discharge, and even if they had, it would be a serious breach of professional standards to allow you to accompany these total – ”

“I am ignoring medical advice. You can put that on the record.” Lips grim and furious, Lucy holds out her arm with the IV and heart monitor. “Now!”

She sounds impressively like her husband when she says this, which is possibly what makes the resident jump, scuttle over, and obey. He unhooks Lucy as fast as he can from the various machines and drips, as they can hear raised voices in the corridor outside. Lucy slides off the bed and runs to Flynn, who gathers her up automatically, and Wyatt draws his gun. Then, with Rufus grabbing a fistful of syringes off a nearby tray, apparently to porcupine any oncoming Rittenhouse agents to death, Wyatt jerks the door open, they leave the resident to probably be put into Lucy’s vacated bed in her place, and book it.

They reach the end of the corridor, force their way through a secured door after Rufus disables the alarm in ten seconds flat, and race flat-footed down the back stairs. Lucy clings to Flynn’s neck, his arms hooked around her back and under her knees, and he briefly considers carrying her fireman-style instead of bridal-style, but decides that that would put too much pressure on her still-raw gunshot wound. It’s been cleaned and stitched and bandaged, of course, but she’s not about to compete in any triathlons or anything of the sort any time soon. She catches his eye as they reach the landing, clatter down the next flight of steps, and pick up speed, and he can tell that when and if they get out of this alive, she is very much intending to shout at him thoroughly. Fine, then. He’s almost looking forward to it.

They reach the ground floor, spill out a fire exit into an alley, and realise that seeing as Rittenhouse probably has all the hospitals in the city, and the entire Bay Area, under surveillance, there’s no way they can just drive to another one and check in. There is only one way to buy them some time, literally. They can’t go back too far, as there is a certain point at which medical care will regress to the prescribe-strong-opiates-and-hope-for-the-best sort of thing, and since Flynn, the oldest member of the team, was born in 1974, they have to go before that if they’re traveling together. As to where, or when, that might be, well –

He holds her tighter. They can hear sirens. It’s odd, and it’s terrible that it’s happened like this, but they are all, at this moment, finally and unquestionably on the same side. Go figure.

They need to get to the Lifeboat. If Rittenhouse hasn’t found it already. It’s their only chance.

And so – the Time Team in arms, for the first time, as a full and formidable foursome – they do.

—————–

Where ends up being a small town in Saskatchewan, Canada, and when is 1967. This is about the most out-of-the-way place anyone can think of, nothing interesting happening for miles, nothing major of any kind to draw Rittenhouse’s attention, and while it’s not a permanent refuge, it may at least allow them to catch their breath. Lucy is checked into the tiny local clinic with a farmer whose foot was run over by a tractor, and Flynn, Wyatt, and Rufus sit tersely in the wood-paneled lobby, listening to the clack of the beehived receptionist’s typewriter as she regards them judgmentally from behind her cat-eye glasses; it could not be any clearer that they are Not From Around Here. But since it’s Canada, she’s polite about it. Besides, it’s ‘67. Young American men aren’t exactly an uncommon sight up here, draft-dodging from 'Nam. As for Flynn, she probably thinks he’s a commie, but Flynn gives that unavoidable impression wherever he goes.

At last, since sexism is also what the sixties are about, the doctor comes out in his Coke-bottle glasses and white jacket, and asks which of them is Lucy’s husband. Flynn glances almost diffidently at Wyatt, giving him the chance to volunteer – it seems to make more sense, that way, especially after Wyatt has gone through on her behalf. But Wyatt stares just as determinedly back at him, perhaps also intending to be sure that Flynn gets the chewing-out he properly deserves, and so, Flynn sighs deeply and gets to his feet. He follows the doctor back to an even tinier office, where the man turns and asks, “How did your wife get shot? It’s clearly been tended already, and quite well, but for the purposes of the record – ”

Flynn mulls a number of potential answers to that question, among them a certain annoyance that he is expected to explain, when Lucy is a bit drained and tired and has lost some blood and her father is a raging dick, but otherwise compos mentis and perfectly capable of doing it herself. So he shrugs. “She was shot in 1876, at the Battle of Little Bighorn,” he says. “We were there because we were trying to stop Rittenhouse from changing the outcome, with Custer. We managed that, but she was hurt in the process. So we traveled back to 2017 in our time machine and got her to the hospital, but after some… difficulties, her father, who’s one of the highest-ranking evil bastards in Rittenhouse, found us there. We had to jump here because we hoped it would be the safest. Oh, and nobody is ever going to wear mustard-colored tweed again after this abortion of a fashion decade is over, so burn those trousers, and next time, try asking the woman herself. I promise she can actually talk.”

The doctor stares at him for a moment, completely flummoxed, until a dawning realization crosses his face, and he nods understandingly. “The Harvard Psilocybin Project,” he says. “I see. Dr. Leary certainly had some interesting ideas, but there have been a number of issues raised in regard to all that. I can give you some literature. Are you all right?”

“I – what?” It is Flynn’s turn to be baffled by this response, until it hits him that the doctor is convinced, not without reason, that he is tripping the light fantastic on a whole pharmaceutical cornucopia of LSD, magic mushrooms, and God knows what else. After all, it is the sixties. “Look, can I see my wife or not?”

The doctor nods again, puts a sympathetic hand on Flynn’s arm as if to assure him that they will deal with his raging drug problem later, and leads him to the small white-washed room where Lucy has been set up. They can’t really do anything for her that hasn’t been done, but they’ve fixed her bandages and made her comfortable and given her some morphine, and she flashes a tentative smile as Flynn hovers awkwardly in the doorway. Then the doctor shuts it behind him, unfortunately, which leaves them together. Flynn wonders if he could fit through the window. He’d have to do it right in front of her, though, and that seems… well.

Once she’s sure they are alone, Lucy’s smile fades. She stares at Flynn for a long and excruciating moment, as he tries to brace herself for – he has no idea what. Curses, anger, even thrown objects. Finally, all she says, very softly, is, “You son of a bitch.”

That, somehow, stings the worst of all the possible rants she could have gone on. Flynn looks down at the off-white linoleum, which is clearly not going to age well. He looks back up. She is still watching him with that calm, level dark gaze, not overflowing with fury, but still not about to kiss and make up without a damn good explanation, which he currently completely lacks. Finally he says, “I’m sorry.”

Lucy’s lips tighten again, as she brushes a thick lock of hair out of her face. His fingers itch with the sudden need to do it for her. He is not sure if he has been granted permission to approach, however, so he just stands there, looking at her, small in the white bed. He left her. Fell directly off the cliff, and left her behind, and whether or not there is love of some sort between them, somehow, she cannot excuse that at once. Nor should she.

“Cahill,” Lucy says at last, her voice rusty. “What did he… what did he say to you?”

Flynn supposes that this will be a conversation easier to have sitting down, so he moves forward and takes the chair across from the bed. To his surprise (well, it’s only taken weeks, multiple fights, several beatdowns both literal and verbal by Wyatt, her serious injury, his running away to Tokyo, them nearly all being caught by Rittenhouse, and the rest), he finally sees no reason to be anything less than forthcoming with her. Quietly, he tells her what Cahill told him, about her knowing that in this timeline he had supposedly killed the men who murdered Lorena and Iris, the offer made for him to get them back. That he doesn’t know what has happened, isn’t sure if he can have gotten his revenge if he doesn’t remember doing it, and still isn’t sure how all of this was snarled enough to wind up with them married. But if she wants, even apart from anything to do with Rittenhouse, he can find a way to un-twist it. Or, they can just do the simple and logical thing, rather than cooking up another half-baked plot to alter reality, and go their separate ways. If she wants that, if she does not want to be married to this broken and half-functional (at the high end) and damaged and otherwise deficient version of the man she thought she was taking till death do us part, Flynn will more than understand. If there are papers to sign or other legalities to attend to, he will do them. She just has to say so.

Lucy’s lips go tight again. She leans back against her pillows, taking this in, reserving judgment. “I’m sorry,” she says at last, as well. “I should have explained all of this to you, right away, when it became clear that things had changed. How we had ended up together, and what had happened, and… all of it. But I – ”

“This is not your fault.” Startling both of them, Flynn reaches out and catches her hand. “This is not your fault. It’s mine. All of it, it’s mine. And I’ve hurt you – I wish I could say unintentionally, but too many times, I meant to, I wanted to – I don’t even know what I wanted, other than to just…” He trails off, staring down at their fingers. “You can slap me now.”

Lucy laughs, more than a little painfully. “I’ll save it until I won’t break my stitches.”

Both of them are quiet then, listening to the tick of the clock on the wall. Then Flynn says, “I wish I could be him. The man you… the man you married. I’m sure he wasn’t worthy of you either, but at least he might have had enough sense to know it.”

Lucy glances at him sidelong, under her eyelashes. After a long pause, she says, “I’m not sure. The man sitting next to me now looks at least a little familiar.”

Flynn is startled. “You… you recognize me?”

“Yes,” Lucy says. Her thumb circles on his palm, her eyes too bright. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Flynn’s gaze takes her in, long and soft and slow. “And I recognize you.”

They remain looking at each other for one last moment, and then, at once, they lean forward. Flynn’s thumb traces Lucy’s chin, and he tilts her face up and kisses her lightly and gently, combing through her hair with his free hand. She sighs and puts her arms around his neck with a muffled grunt of pain, and he is careful not to put too much pressure or weight on her side, even as he draws her forward. They turn their heads, deepening the kiss, aware that this is not the time or place to get any more carried away – but both of them can sense the renewed possibility, the spark between them that is more than just their physical attraction to each other, which has been there from the start. This is stronger. Deeper. Truer. Real.

“Well,” Lucy says at last, when they pull back. She giggles breathily, painfully. “Garcia, are you…” She hesitates. “Are you all right?”

Flynn supposes wryly that this is a fair question for her to ask after kissing him, given his recent reactions to such an event. It surprises him, therefore, that he – well – he almost thinks he is. And he isn’t. And he is, and it’s the most confusing thing he’s ever known. There is a deep, unspeakable, unbearable grief welling in his chest until he can’t breathe, the ever-present ache of missing Lorena and Iris, of wondering forever what might have been. Yet he also has an unexplainable and overwhelming sensation of standing with them on something that looks like a beach, and there is brightness to every side, and Lorena has kissed him, and Iris has hugged him around the waist and told him that she loves him, she always will. And then, even as he watches, his girls take hands and start to walk. He’s not sure to where. Away from him, yes, but it doesn’t feel like defeat, sundering, severance, agony. It feels like… peace.

Flynn only realises that his eyes have been closed, that he can barely catch his breath, that his world is swimming in tears, when Lucy touches his hand in concern. “Garcia?” she says again, clearly bracing herself for another meltdown on the spectacular side. “Did I…”

“I’m all right.” Flynn heaves down a deep, shuddering breath, and knuckles his hand across his eyes. He’s not, and he is, and he’s not, and he is, and it keeps filling him up, until he gulps in another breath, and another, and marvels what it feels like to do that. “I can – you know. Go.”

Lucy’s tender expression turns exasperated, as if to remind her that she wouldn’t be dealing with Garcia Flynn if he ever drew the correct conclusion from all this. “If you want to,” she says at last, carefully offhand, as if it doesn’t matter. “If you wouldn’t force me to stay married to you, I’m certainly not going to do that either.”

“But… could I?” Flynn doesn’t want to suggest it too quickly, feels like a child trying to be casual about telling their parents what they want for Christmas. “Stay?”

Lucy’s eyes sparkle somewhat more brightly. She glances away. Both of them know that this will not erase everything, wipe the slate clean, take away the weight of his transgressions and his failures, the trust that remains to be rebuilt, if it can be at all. They are fifty years and however many hundreds of miles from home, Rittenhouse is still out there, and the war is not won. This does not mean a happy ending. This does not mean it all goes away.

And yet.

It does mean a beginning.

It does mean a chance.

“Yes,” Lucy whispers at last, her hand coming up to cup his cheek, as they lean together, foreheads touching, sharing their breath, their hope, their future. “Yes. You could stay.”

(Fin.)

#lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #married au #pumpkinspicecandy #ask

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saturdaystories · 8 years ago

Text

“Masha, wake up.” Simmy’s voice was gentle, her fingers cool on Masha’s cheek. Masha twisted in her blankets and tried to bury her face into her pillow. “Ah, ah, ah,” Simmy told her.

“But I’m still sleepy,” Masha complained.

“Do big girls complain about waking up, or do they simply wake?” Simmy asked her and Masha sighed and sat up, pouting. Simmy laughed and kissed her forehead. “I’m surprised. Last year you were up before I came upstairs to wake you up.”

Masha didn’t say anything. It was true. She’d been very excited for her birthday last year. They’d had a cake for her with yellow sugarplums and she’d eaten so much of it that she’d gotten tired and they’d had to put her to sleep before she’d even gotten to her presents. It wouldn’t be the same this year.

“Up, child,” Simmy told her, and she pulled Masha’s blankets back.

Masha dressed herself—she was old enough to now—and pulled on her shoes and socks, and then took Simmy’s hand and they went downstairs together.

“When do I need to be back?” Masha asked Simmy over breakfast of eggs and toast.

“When you’re hungry,” Simmy shrugged, her usually dull eyes twinkling. “Or whenever you fancy.”

“What if I want my presents now?”

“Greedy girl.” Masha flushed, and plopped more of her egg onto her toast, while Simmy gave the food on her plate to Catch the dog, who was whining at their feet.

Masha finished her breakfast and slid off the tall chair. “Come on, Catch,” she told him, and waved to Simmy and she and the dog went out of the little house.

It was a cold morning. Masha’s birthday was at the end of autumn, and there were no leaves left on the trees. Once she’d found a squirrel that had been dead for so long there was nothing left on its bones. She’d picked it up and brought it to Simmy and told her that the bare bones looked like the trees around her birthday. Simmy had laughed, and pet her hair, and told her how clever she was. “Just remember,” Simmy had told her, “The trees aren’t dead in winter. They’re alive.”

“They look dead,” Masha had replied.

“Not everything that looks dead is dead. The trees come back to life in spring, remember? And Catch—play dead!” The dog had lied down on his back and stuck out his tongue, but he hadn’t closed his eyes, he’d just lay there with his paws in the air and Masha had giggled.

“Catch, play dead!” she told him as they walked down the dirt road. Catch threw himself eagerly onto the ground, and Masha squatted down and rubbed his belly vigorously while he licked her face. Catch was the best friend a girl could have, apart from Simmy.

It was quiet on the road, but it was always quiet. Masha and Simmy lived on the edge of town, and Masha didn’t play in the town. Simmy said she had to wait until she was a big girl, but the woods outside of town were fine to play in, so long as she brought Catch and so long as she stayed within sight of the field.

Masha never went in too deep. She didn’t want to get lost. She didn’t like being alone very much. It’s why she was glad she had Catch.

Masha bent down and picked up a stick, and Catch stiffened, alert. “Are you ready?” she asked him, and she threw the stick as far as her little arm could and Catch raced off. Simmy could throw sticks harder than Masha, but Simmy was a grown up. Being a grown up seemed like it would take forever, but Simmy said she had to be patient. “You’ll miss being a child when you’re my age,” Simmy had said only the night before when she’d tucked Masha into bed. Her eyes had been dull then. There was no twinkle. There was rarely a twinkle. “Enjoy it while you can.” And Masha tried—for Simmy’s sake.

The sky was clear and Masha and Catch walked for ages. When Masha grew tired, they sat down and she stared up at the clouds, or pulled at the dead grass that lay beneath her. There was no snow yet. Masha loved the snow. She loved the way it melted in her mouth, and the way Catch would shake himself and it would sparkle off him like magic.

Simmy didn’t like the snow because it got everywhere, melted, and took ages to dry. Maybe that’s what it meant to be a grown up, not liking magic in the world.

“You like magic, don’t you Catch?” she asked the dog.

Catch didn’t understand, but he let out a bark anyway, and Masha smiled. She looked around. There wasn’t anyone nearby, and no sound but the wrestling of the skeleton tree branches brushing against one another when the wind blew. She didn’t see any grownups anywhere nearby, and she’d given up hope of seeing other children like her ages ago. There weren’t any other ones in the village. It was just her. Her, and Simmy, and Catch. She hugged Catch. He was warm and was very patient when she hugged him. Simmy was her best friend in the whole world, but Simmy didn’t like hugs very much. Catch was warm, and he licked the tears from her face.

“All I want for birthday,” Masha told Catch, “is a friend. A human friend. A child friend. I love you, Catch, but you don’t talk back.” Catch barked at the sound of his own name, and Masha giggled through her thick throat. “I want someone to play with, who’ll see the skeleton trees and the magic snow and…” she sighed. Saying it aloud felt stupid. Masha didn’t like feeling stupid. No one ever told her she was—not Simmy when they were at lessons, or Old Man Cobb when he came to teach her the things that Simmy didn’t know. But sometimes she did anyway, just because she was young. I’m not as young today, she thought fiercely. It’s my birthday. But she didn’t feel any older, and in that moment, she didn’t feel any less lonely either.

Masha got to her feet. “Come on, Catch, let’s go.” And Masha and the dog went deeper into the woods than ever Masha had gone before.

It was nearly dark when they came back to the house. Masha’s big breakfast had carried her through the day, and they’d found a trove of nuts a squirrel had hidden away and Masha had eaten a few of the walnuts she’d found after smashing their shells off with a rock. Masha liked walnuts. Once, Simmy had made a walnut bread for her to eat and it had been the sweetest thing she’d ever eaten—except maybe the yellow sugarplum cake she’d had last year for her birthday.

She was tired and her feet hurt as she pushed open the door to the house, and Simmy was there waiting for her. “I was almost going to worry,” she teased, pressing Masha’s nose. “But I knew you had Catch with you so I didn’t. Do you want to wear that to your party, or do you want to change?”

“Will there be anyone new there?” Masha asked hopefully.

“New? Have you made any new friends in the past year? Have you been a bad girl and played in town without me?”

Masha shook her head. “I’ll not bother changing, then,” she said. Her socks were a bit dirty, but no one would care. “Are we not having the party here?” She looked around the house, but saw no signs of birthday festivities.

“No,” Simmy’s eyes twinkled. “No, we’re going to go to Bez’s. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

Bez’s house was one of the biggest in town. Bez had a lot of books, and a big fat cat named Constable who would jump onto Masha’s lap and purr and bury her face into Masha’s body.

It was fully dark when they went into town, and the shops were closed, or closing. Everyone stared at Masha as they passed, and Masha did her best to put on her brave face. Part of why she was never a bad girl and went into town without Simmy was because of the stares. She was the only child in the town, and her skin was flushed and soft and springy. Everyone else’s skin wasn’t soft or springy, and it was pale and tired like Simmy’s. Simmy didn’t stare, but Simmy was used to her. Masha rested a hand on Catch’s back. Catch wasn’t human, but Catch was a friend, and the rest of town may be nice enough, but Masha felt so alone, so different. The stares didn’t help that.

“Is that the birthday girl?” Bez clucked happily when opening the door. “She’s growing so tall I almost didn’t recognize her!”

“Hello Bez,” Masha said happily, and Bez squatted down.

“Give us a kiss, then?” she tilted her head and Masha leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Bez’s cheek. Bez put two fingers under Masha’s chin and tilted her head up slightly. “And growing so pretty, too. Clever and pretty and growing every day.” Masha flushed. “And her cheeks so pink!” Bez pinched one of Masha’s cheeks between her thumb and pointer finger. Her hands were chilly. “So warm. But you run warm, don’t you.”

“She does,” Simmy said and there was something strange to her voice. Bez stood and extended a hand. Masha took it.

“Constable will be happy to see you—if Catch ever lets her near you. He’s a good dog your Catch, and so protective. I’ve a good bone for him to chew on for your birthday as well.”

The house was full of people. Old Man Cobb had come, his face wrapped in his usual bandages to keep his scarring hidden. Simmy said that he’d had an accident years ago and didn’t like people to see him that way. Masha was curious, but ultimately knew better than to pry. Moriah and Dan the blacksmith were there, and Fez the candlemaker and Jules the Carpenter and everyone that she and Simmy saw on errand days except Niles the grocer, because Niles brought things directly to their house and, as far as Masha knew, didn’t live in town. She’d never seen him there. Niles was young enough to still have pink cheeks, and he never stuck around for very long.

Everyone was happy to see her, and when she sat down at the dinner table, Constable leapt into her lap as she always did, kneading into Masha’s lap with her paws and purring so loudly that even Dan and Moriah at the other end of the table could hear her. She must not like Bez’s cold hands, Masha thought as she pet the cat, feeling the cat’s heart pump beneath Masha’s fingers in time to her purrs.

“And here we are for the birthday girl. Are you ready?” Bez asked, and Masha looked up eagerly. It wasn’t cake—not yet—but there was a rabbit that looked as though it had been glazed and cooked on a plate for her, with root vegetables that had been baked in a pretty circle around it. “Simmy says you like hare—that it’s your favorite. Happy birthday sweet little Masha!”

The table echoed Bez’s words and for a moment, Masha stared at the rabbit.

She’d never seen it cooked whole before. She knew of course that meat came from dead animals. She had once tearfully asked Simmy if that meant that when Catch died she’d eat him too, and Simmy had assured her that they only ate certain dead animals, not all. But it was the first time she’d seen it cooked whole like that, and not cut up into meat chunks so that she wouldn’t have known, if she hadn’t been told, that it had once been a rabbit.

“What do we say to Bez?” Simmy prodded gently, and Masha looked up at Bez. Bez’s lips were chapped, and her eyes were glassy and her skin in this light looked more blue than pink. Masha could hear the crackling of fire, the breathing in the room, the purrs from the cat, and the pumping of her own heart loud in her ears. She looked between the dead rabbit and Bez, then at Simmy, then around the table. Everyone was staring at her, and there wasn’t enough rabbit for all of them.

“Thank you, Bez,” Masha managed. “There’s not enough for everyone, though.”

“It’s rude to eat before the birthday girl,” Fez said genially, but they were all watching her as though they were starving, and Masha was suddenly afraid. She twisted her hands together in her lap and could feel her heart beating faster than it should through the skin of her hands.

“Masha?” Simmy asked quietly. They were all staring—staring as though they were everyone else in town and not the people she knew, as though she was some sort of spectacle. “What’s wrong, dear?”

Constable shifted on her lap and Masha took comfort in the cat’s warmth for a moment before turning and smiling to Simmy. “Nothing’s wrong,” she lied, because she didn’t know what was wrong.

“Here,” Bez said from Masha’s other side. “Let me cut the rabbit up for you.” She leaned over Masha and took up her knife and began to cut into the dead meat on the table, and Masha’s head hurt for just a moment. It’s just rabbit, she told herself. You eat rabbit all the time. It’s just dead is all.

Dead like the squirrel bones, dead like the trees outside.

It’s not dead if it comes back to life. She remembered what Simmy had said and she reaches out a hand under the table and finds Simmy’s. Simmy’s hand was cool in hers, and as Simmy squeezed it reassuringly, Masha was sure, quite sure, that she couldn’t feel a heartbeat at all.

#fantasy fiction #fiction on tumblr #fantasy #fiction #creative writing #saturday stories

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bluraaven · 8 years ago

Text

We are the Flame

1. Dismas

The stagecoach rattles and leaps as the driver steers it into every bump and pothole he can find with those withered raisins for eyes. Dismas believes the old codger is nuttier than squirrel droppings, but the Caretaker, as he had introduced himself, also happened to be the only person willing to brave the trip to the undoubtedly delightful destination everyone else simply refers to as the Hamlet. 'It has to be quite something,' Dismas thinks, 'If no one's ever bothered naming it.'

And that's exactly where he's bound for now, with a defective spring coil digging into his backside through the cushioned seat, worn threadbare with age and use, and his teeth clattering. One of his companions is a mobile armour fondling a rosary in a most unsettling manner, the other an Heiress to a disgraced family name and some ratspit village in the last forgotten corner of the world.

Which suits him just fine. He deserves to be forgotten, to fade from the memories of everyone he ever encountered, far away from the things he tainted with his touch.

The Old Road cuts a serpentine swathe through the Weald, the fucking Weald, of all places on this gods-forsaken earth. Dismas sits hunched over, with his shoulders defensively drawn up, his chin propped up in the palm of his hand as he watches the countryside pass by. He knows the stories surrounding the Weald. Of the army Emperor Harauld had lost to the malevolence of these woods when he had decided to make land on the east coast to take the kingdom by surprise. Wandering between the dense tress one could still come across the bones and swords of the men who had perished here, and their spirits were said to haunt their last resting place.

Beyond the window, the milestones flash by one after the other, worn almost beyond recognition, moss and lichen devouring the stone underneath. In the gathering twilight tendrils of mist form milky pools close to the ground, and that's when he catches sight of a flash of white. Where there was nothing a moment ago, a translucent figure stands between the trees, emitting an eerie pearly flow.

Dismas feels his veins fill with ice as it looks straight at him, then stretches one skeletal finger to point down the road, in the direction they are going.

He jerks back with a curse, kicking the knight in the process, hard enough to rip the man out of his self-inflicted coma. He turns with a heart palpitating wildly in his chest and a sickening churning in his stomach, but the specter is gone, and the woods are dark and empty.

"What is it?" the knight asks, bending forward as he tries to follow Dismas' gaze.

"I thought I saw- ," a ghost. "Nothing," Dismas says, dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. What he needs is a drink. "It's nothing." He can hear the knight frown.

"We should be there soon," the woman opposite them says coolly, her hands clasped in front of her, white-knuckled but steady.

He nods and doesn't reply.

The first time he saw her, she was dressed in a severe-looking black attire with a high neck that was more a suit than a skirt, the likes of which have been out of fashion for at least a century, if not more. Her knee-high silver-bucked riding boots showed signs of hard wear, the leather smooth and polished.

She had stood out in the tavern enough to draw the curious glances of both patrons and the innkeeper. The establishment was well frequented at this hour, with all the tables occupied – all except for one. Drunks, barmaids and common folk alike gave a wide berth around the lone figure nursing a mug he had not lifted once.

A hood drawn deep over his face could not hide that the man was a Crusader. The eight-pointed star of the Order of Light was embroidered boldly on the chest of his crimson surcoat in a blazing gilded thread. A sword in pristine condition, yet showing clear signs of use stood propped between the knights legs.

Dismas had had one look, and decided that standing next to the fireplace suited him just fine. What the holy warrior was doing this far south was anyone's guess, but he knew for sure that he wanted none of it. Religious zealots were pretty far on top of the list of things Dismas did not need in his life.

But all thoughts of the knight were soon driven from his mind, when the strange woman spoke up, addressing everybody present in a clear voice. She offered them work and good coin, but when they asked her to show some if it, her reply had been, "I do not carry it on me."

At least she had some brains, but the admittance had only dawn sneers and laughs from her audience. These people were not highborn. Promises did not mean much to them if you could not make good on them. Dismas himself was no stranger to the honeyed lies of conmen.

And he did not for one second believe she was one. There was just something about her, standing with straight-backed composure after being laughed in the face. Before he could put his finger on what it was, however, the old man had burst from the back, falling to his knees in front of her, clutching one of her hands in his gnarled ones. Dismas pushed off the wall and moved closer.

The noise had risen again to a clamour, and the words exchanged between them were lost to him. By the time Dismas was near, the geezer was sobbing into the back of her hand while she stood frozen in something akin to shock.

"The letter. Ah, the letter! Your venerable grandfather, milady, your ancestor, the noble sire, he – "

Dismas had suppressed the urge to throw up, lest the force of the cat knock out his front teeth, and decided to be a gentleman and help out a damsel in distress.

"Oy! Leave milady here alone, you!" He pulled the old man back by the shoulder, and off the woman, who reclaimed her hand with a look of complete dismay. Dismas did not dare to get his hopes up that it wasn't partially directed at him.

The man, who he had later learned only had a profession for a name, gifted him with a smile that perfectly showed off his missing teeth, and bowed deeply, stammering, "Good sir, kind sir..."

"Don't even start with me," Dismas cut him off.

Someone on his other side had snorted. He turned to find the Crusader had walked up to them. The other man was a good half head taller than Dismas, and he had the bulky frame of a warhorse.

"Are these two bothering you, my lady?"

"Behold! It speaks!" Dismas said. Having kept a close eye on him, knew that the knight had not exchanged a single word with anyone since he had entered the tavern.

"Nervous talker?" the Crusader suggested in a humourless, dry voice.

"Shut up," Dismas grunted, realizing the irony of the situation too late.

The armour had laughed at him. That was about the extent of their conversation. Anybody reasonable could tell they were practically bosom buddies.

And then, pouring salt into the wound, he had to go down on one knee and ruin Dismas' one perfect moment of chivalry.

"Allow me to offer my services to you," he had said, pushing back his hood to reveal a face framed by tousled light brown hair that fell into his eyes and a short beard, both of which could use some grooming. But beyond that, Dismas remembers being shocked to discover that he looked young. Possibly a decade younger than Dismas' own mid-thirties.

"You shall be recompensed generously for your service," she assured, "Yet I need to warn you that the road ahead may be fraught with many dangers."

"I am not a stranger to peril, or to the bloody work of the sword."

"Yeah," Dismas cleared his throat to remind the two that he was still there. "I'll come too." Eloquent as ever, Dismas.

"Then I accept." She tore her eyes from the knight who rose to his feet." Are you a warrior too, ... Sir?"

Dismas, whose ears had picked up at the word 'generous' was willing to forgive her the lapse. He had been many things in his life, but never worthy of that form of address. "I've been in my fair share of fights," he said, following it up with, "Best shot you'll find this side of the Channel."

The crusader's eyes narrowed. "And what, pray tell, is your profession?"

For a heartbeat Dismas was lost for an answer. Then, "I've worked freelance." Slitting throats, ambushing nobles, raiding and roving the countryside. Until...

Until.

The knight was not convinced. "What honest man goes masked?" he enquired. "Or do you have something to hide? Why else cover your face?"

"Because I'm an ugly fucker, that's why," Dismas drawled, and smiled behind his scarf.

"Please."

Their heads turned back to the person in their midst.

"I am in no position to decline help, if it is freely offered."

"Actually, I hoped to be included in said recompens-"

"Excellent! Shall I ready the coach, milady?" the Caretaker, whom they had all forgotten by now, butted in. "Soon," the woman decided. "I have ridden all day, I would eat first."

"I have a table," the knight proposed. Indeed, no one had dared to remove as much as a chair in the knight's absence.

She smiled up at the shining heap of metal. "That is very kind of you."

"Bandits! Bandits on the road!"

Dismas is ripped out of his thoughts by the Caretaker's shrill scream. His head is not the only one to snap up. In the next instant they hear the crack of the whip, and the coach lunges forward, when the horses pulling it break out into a wild gallop.

"Isn't this dangerous, in the dark?" the Heiress asks.

Her answer comes a moment later. The coach swerves wildly, turning crossways, then, almost like someone had slowed time, it begins to tip. There is a moment of confusion, before the world turns upside-down.

They're flung from their seats. Dismas notes a feeling of weightlessness before he is sent crashing into something – no, someone. A scream, followed by pain, darkness, and more pain, and why won't it stop?

Everything grinds to a halt a moment later.

Dismas draws a shaky breath, filling his lungs with the air that had been knocked out of them. He is bruised and battered, but very much alive, and just for a while it is enough. Slowly, his surroundings begin to filter through his muddled mind. They're lying in a heap on the floor. Which used to be the side of the coach. He had the good fortune to land on top of the knight. If it were the other way around, he might have been squished like a bug.

Dismas rights himself slowly. Nothing appears to be broken. Good. That's... good. He kicks open the doors of the carriage, now broken and useless, and climbs out, reaching down to help his companions. Whatever their differences, they're in this together now.

The crusader and the Heiress both sport a look of dazedness that Dismas is sure they can see on his face as well. He seems fine and while she is pale, the lines around her mouth are firm. The heiress disentangles herself from the knight's supportive grasp and goes to help the Caretaker free the draught horses from their harnesses. How the geezer survived the accident without snapping his withered old neck, Dismas cannot begin to guess. Divine intervention, most likely.

One of the horses breaks free and bolts, and the man takes off after it. Spry old bugger.

"Hey!"

No one pays the crusader any mind.

"Bloody fucking hell," the highwayman mutters, and kicks a stone, watching it disappear in the high grass of the unkempt roadside. The crusader shoots him a dirty look, but keeps his silence. Good. There's a lot more where that came from.

The knight bends down to inspect the coach, while the Heiress soothes the two remaining horses with touch and a gentle voice. They seem to be unharmed, and her own black hunter nuzzles her elbow.

"Axle's broken," Armour tells no one in particular.

"You're very perceptive," Dismas retorts. The wheel is also gone, lying several paces next to the coach. Yep, they're screwed.

"How far behind us do you think they are?" she calls over, casting an anxious look over her shoulder, where the shadows gather and close in on them.

"Not far enough." Dismas' response is grim. "Do you know how to fight, lass?"

She replies with a most unladylike roll of her eyes. "Do I look like a soldier to you?"

"I say we make our stand here," Dismas suggests. "We've got the coach to provide some cover. If they have men in front of us too, we'll be caught right between them if we try to run."

To his great surprise the crusader nods. "I agree. We will take the fight to these degenerates. They tend to be cowardly scum."

Yeah, fuck you too.

Dismas bites his tongue and pulls out his guns and begins to inspect them for any sign of damage.

The ambush, when it is sprung on them, has lost its crucial element of surprise. Up close the outlaws are a ragged, sorry bunch, nothing like well-organized gangs further up north that he had run with. They attack with a frenzy that surprises him though. One look at his tattered overcoat, or the crusader's emblem should be enough to tell them they have precious little to gain and a lot to lose by robbing them.

The knight grips his sword with both hands, his entire body taut, ready to leap into action. He had put himself in the front, and Dismas had not protested. When the first outlaw makes the mistake of going for him, the knight runs him through, ruthlessly kicking the still twitching man off his blade. A part of Dismas admires the grace and deadliness of the other warrior.

Then he has no more time for mooning over the guy, because a few of the bandits made it past the knight, and are now looking for an easier target. One of them spots Dismas, and goes straight for him. Dismas takes aim, and fires. The hammer of his gun clicks, and the blackpowder ignites with a hiss, followed closely by the BOOM of the discharge. The man aiming a blunderbuss at the crusader from the edge of the forest crumbles and falls. The closest brigand laughs, thinking Dismas missed him. He doesn't know that Dismas never misses.

Never.

The highwayman pulls the trigger again, shooting him at point-blank range. The man's head explodes in a spray of blood, brains and bone shards. Dismas grins. Double-barreled flintlock, friend. The second one always catches them by surprise. He holsters his gun, now out of bullets, and reaches for the rifled gun. Before he can pull it out though, another one of the brigands who manages to get past the knight, is sprinting at Dismas. He's got a makeshift spear that makes the highwayman's dagger look like a toothpick by comparison. Dismas curses vividly, scrambling backwards, fumbling for his firearm as the enemy closes in, now almost within attack range.

Then the man is gone, flung through the air like a doll as the Heiress rides her steed into him at a full gallop. Dismas' heart stops in its tracks for the fraction of a second, then it picks up its beat with twice the speed. He sees the next adversary bearing down on him, and turns to face him. His trusty dagger dispatches the bandit quickly, and with no more enemies to fight, Dismas moves to help out the crusader, just as the man pivots, and then almost cuts a brigand trying to circle around him in half with one strike of longsword. The remaining outlaws flinch back and retreat a few steps as the knight bellows out his rage, completely caught up in the bloodlust.

The man is absolutely terrifying, and Dismas, although not a religious man, nevertheless thanks the Divines, that they are fighting on the same side.

He sees the crusader charge their foes with a ferocity that seems to be born of madness, and to his right the Heiress' horse rears up, another bandit going down under blows from her riding crop, and her horse's iron-clad hooves.

Dismas catches movement out of the corner of his eyes, and spins. Too slow. He can feel the cold bite of steel along his side. Muscle memory is what guides his blade across his attacker's throat, and then the ground is rushing up to meet him, – no, he is falling.

Dismas catches the fall with his hands, but the shock of the collision with the ground makes his surroundings lose focus. 'No,' he tells himself, 'You cannot pass out.' For a heartbeat he is not sure whether he can cling to consciousness.

One of the bandits, the one who is held together only by the hauberk he is wearing, is crawling towards him, dragging his entrails behind him. There is no intelligence, no emotion behind his bulging eyes, but his bloody teeth are bared in the parody of a grin, and when he catches Dismas's foot, there is astonishing strength in his grip.

Where is the dagger? His hand feels the ground, but all his fingers encounter is rough stone. Where is the bloody dagger?

In mounting panic he kicks the bandit, once, twice, shattering jaw and nose, but he still won't let go, and just as Dismas is bending his knee for a third and final blow, the crusader's form appears before him.

He bends down, and drags the outlaw off Dismas by one leg, before he stomps on his back, immobilizing him and pushing his sword through the spine right at the base of the man's skull. It's as efficient as it is brutal, and Dismas can feel the sour tang of fear at the back of his throat as he looks into the absolute blackness of the knight's visor. For a moment he is not sure he will survive to draw breath again.

And then the crusader's knees bend, and he crouches next to the highwayman's shaking form, steadying him with one hand of his back.

"Are you injured?" His voice, ruined from all the shouting, rings hollow from the depths of helmet, sounding almost inhuman.

Dismas looks at his side. The patches are probably the only thing holding his old coat together, but now it has a new cut, and there is blood. His blood, warm and sticky. He manages a nod. "Is it over?"

The knight nods back. "It is. Don't move. I have medical supplies."

"Something wasn't right with these men," Dismas states, when the crusader makes it back, a small leather case tucked under one arm. He recalls the maniac, agonized grimace of the outlaw who had clawed at him, and fails to suppress a shiver. "They were more animal than human."

"They were highwaymen," the crusader replies, kneeling down. "Cutthroats and thieves, what did you expect?"

Not this.

Dismas wisely does not comment.

"Is this what you saw earlier?" the other man speaks up again, gently but firmly prying Dismas' hand from his side, where it has clamped over the wound by instinct. Dismas had not even noticed, but lets go, balling his hands into fists instead.

"What?"

The knight lights a lamp, then he lifts his visor to better inspect the wound. His eyes are brown too, Dismas notices. "You said you saw something. On the road."

"Yeah. Must have been." He knows what he saw. He's got excellent eyesight for the distance. It's just when things are too close that they tend to go fuzzy. 'Sharpest eyes and the steadiest hands in all of the Westshire,' he had been proud to boast.

"You know what you are doing there?" Dismas asks through gritted teeth as the other man pushes his shirt up, and out of the way.

"Of course," the knight scoffs. "I'm a soldier, after all."

Dismas sucks in a sharp breath as the knight pulls the wound apart.

"It glanced off your ribs," he announces. "I can see the bone."

"Please," Dismas swallows, "Don't tell me" He isn't squeamish about blood, he just doesn't like to see his own.

"You're lucky it's a shallow wound."

Dismas grunts in answer and watches as the crusader searches for something before pulling out a small flask with a stopper and some clear liquid inside.

"What's this?"

"We'll need something to clean the wound with."

"My pack," Dismas presses out.

"There's no need. I have holy water."

"I'd rather you use the alcohol. It'll prevent infection."

"The water has been blessed by Vestals," the crusader insists. "It is better than whatever you have."

Dismas acquiesces, because he senses that there is no point in arguing. The knight cleanses the wound, then pulls out a small bone needle and catgut.

"Hey." The other man pauses, his eyes meeting those of the highwayman.

"What's your name?" Dismas asks in a rush. "I- I don't usually let people stab new holes into me unless we're on a first name basis."

The crusader's mouth actually twitches in the ghost of a smile. "The name's Reynauld," he says. "Now hold still."

"Dismas," the highwayman answers, and does as he is told. He watches Reynauld work, and finds the man's calm demeanour and his sure, steady hands soothing. He wasn't lying earlier, either. He really knows what he's doing. A few minutes later, Reynauld dabs the neat row of stitches with an ointment, before he presses some clean linen to it, wrapping all of it up with a strip cut from Dismas' shirt. His - formerly - good shirt.

"There," he announces. "The stitches are a little loose so you can still breathe with ease."

"Thank you."

"Will he be alright?" a female voice asks. Dismas had not seen the Heiress behind Reynauld's broad frame.

The crusader nods. "It's just a flesh wound. We will redress it when we arrive at our destination, and then he needs to take it easy for the next couple of days. It's a clean cut. Those tend to heal well."

Listening to their conversation with one ear, Dismas reaches into the breast pocket of his coat, his fingers quickly wencountering that which he is looking for: a silver hip flask. Fuck what they may think, he more than deserves this. He unscrews the cap, and then tugs down his scarf to take a good swig.

The knight's expression is unreadable in the deep shadow of the visor of his helmet.

She at least has the decency not to hide her wince.

He's not a beauty, and he knows it, but he still has almost all his teeth, and he'd made enough gold in his lifetime to replace the ones he had lost.

Dismas holds the flask out, giving it a little inviting jiggle. Reynauld declines with a curt shake of his head. To the highwayman's surprise, it is the Heiress who snatches it out if his hand, tilts her head back, and takes a healthy gulp.

"Easy, there." Too late.

She bends over, coughing and spluttering, and wheezing for air.

"What in the Light's name is this infernal drink?" she presses out once the fit subsides.

"Old Port. Finest batch from Fraehaven," Dismas says proudly. Where they still made it the way it was supposed to be, with sixty percent. "Want some more?"

"No. Yes." He watches in fascination as she takes another sip, the drink barely touching her lips this time, before she shudders and hands back the flask.

"Better?"

"Much. I'm Mallory by the way," she coughs with eyes glazy from tears, one petite hand beating on her chest.

"Dismas," the highwayman introduces himself for the second time today. "Pleasure to meet you."

She hiccups a laugh, then her lips press together in a pout that grows ever more pronounced, until, just like the sun emerging from behind clouds, the smile breaks free. She chuckles, eyes closed, one hand covering her mouth. But the laughter bubbles up even so, and it is amazing how a person's face can be transformed by such a simple thing as a smile.

Dismas too huffs a laugh, anything more cut off by the pain in his side, and runs a hand through his hair, feeling almost giddy with the surge of elation that comes only from having survived a fight.

"You shouldn't drink when you're bleeding," Reynauld interrupts with disapproval clear in his voice.

"Why, will not drinking make me not bleed?" Dismas asks, emboldened by the feeling of being alive.

"No, but- "

"Then I'd rather be drunk while I bleed," Dismas decides. Impeccable logic, that.

"Can you walk?" Mallory enquires.

"Are you offering to carry me?" he counters with a cocked eyebrow. "You must be a mighty lot stronger than you look."

She stretches out an arm, and he is surprised to find there is actual strength in her grip when she pulls him up, despite her stumbling forward one step.

He wavers a bit. The knight's hand clamps around his upper arm like a vice.

"I can walk," Dismas decides.

"We have two horses." Mallory points out.

"I'm not much of a rider," Dismas mutters. "And we'd better load everything we can on their backs, I'd rather not sleep out here tonight."

His words sober the situation up. Mallory nods, and she and Reynauld get to work while Dismas sits down on a crate and closes his eyes. For the longest time, he focuses only on breathing. In, out, the rush of blood in his veins, the steady beat of his heart, gradually slowing down. His side hurts, but in a strangely good way. He had been stabbed before. He is familiar that strange, terrifying numbness that only really deep wounds inflict.

This is all torn skin and muscle, and he is comforted by the knowledge of having lived through worse. When he checks again, the bandage is still mostly clean. He lets his coat cover it up again when Mallory and Reynauld appear, each leading one of the horses, now laden with their belongings.

Dismas heaves himself to his feet. They set out in silence, but the quiet has always made him uneasy.

"Mallory. What are you doing here?"

She mulls over the question for a bit before replying, "I received a letter from my grandfather. These lands belonged to him, but it seems there is something wrong with our ancestral home, and the village."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know," she says with a sideways glance. "But I guess we will find out soon."

Dismas hums an affirmative. "Chin up, lass. Whatever it is, it can't be worse than this, right?"

AN: Thank you for reading! Did you enjoy the story? Please find it also on AO3:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/9482381/chapters/21455927

Annnnd the Typo of the Week Award goes to:

“When the first outlaw makes the mistake of going for him, the knight runs him through ruthlessly, licking the still twitching man off his blade.”

#Rey, you kinky shit #this is probably unsanitary #Crusaders like their popsicles bloody

#blu's corner #writing #fanfiction #darkest dungeon #dismas #reynauld #We are the Flame

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