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theonceandfutureking6481 · 3 years ago

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BBC's Merlin Season 1 Episode 5: Lancelot Analysis

It's Lancelot's first episode which is tremendously exciting. I remember the first time I watched this show (last year- I really make it sound like it was much longer than it is), I wasn't particularly attached to him but on my second rewatch I loved him, I loved his and Merlin's friendship and I loved his sheer nobility and decency. Lancelot is of course typically one of the most central characters in telling's of the Arthurian legend, so of course his appearance is exciting. Also excitingly an episode where I talk about someone other than Arthur! Yeah, if you can't tell Arthur's my favourite character. I'm not sure how clear my point is throughout all of this, its hard to articulate but I hope I've done it justice.

"Sir Lancelot, the bravest and the most noble of them all"

This is a quote from much later in the show but it explains something very fundamental about Lancelot's character. Lancelot is supposed to be the chivalric ideal, in most versions of the story he is portrayed as such, as the only knight who really comes close to fulfilling it. Lancelot's fault that puts the dent in him being the true epitome of the noble chivalric knight is his love for Guinevere, and its actually his son Galahad (who doesn't exist in Merlin) who achieves this ideal. However, the point remains that Lancelot is almost there, his character is typically about a person who almost achieves this ideal of chivalry, and they run with this in Merlin, out of all the knights he is the most knightly, the most committed, the one most devoted to its ideals.

Lancelot talks like our idea of a knight, its kind of hard to explain but the way he talks is straight out of chivalric romances, out of films about knights. You notice it because everyone in this show talks in quite a contemporary way, its an Arthurian legend for people of today and the characters talk like it, but Lancelot just doesn't, he talks like a knight from a fairytale. It's just a small detail, but it really plays into the perception of Lancelot as the epitome of chivalric honour.

I'd argue that he represents a knighthood Arthur believes in, before he even realises it himself, a kind of honour that's about devotion to one another and helping others and fighting injustice. Arthur and Lancelot do get on extremely well, despite the fact that Lancelot, in Arthur's own words, doesn't sound or look like a knight. His passionate defense of him to his father, as well as the fact that Arthur releases him from prison without his father's approval is because Arthur respects him and admires him and probably because he sees him as a friend. King Arthur's court is often the ideal representation of chivalry, stories like these about chivalrous knights were very important to aristocratic culture in medieval times, and Arthur's court was at the center of it. The thing is that there is a code of honour and chivalry before Arthur in Merlin, the knights of Camelot already exist, and they are often honourable. But Arthur's task will be to reset the idea of chivalry and honour on new grounds, in new ways and Lancelot in many ways exemplifies this ideal

There is a huge emphasis in Lancelot's character in serving with honour:

"It's not my freedom I seek. I only wish to serve with honour."-Lancelot

"He laid down his life for me. He served with honour."- Arthur

"He meant no harm I am sure of it... he only wished to serve."- Arthur

I'm not exactly sure how to define honour, its kind of an abstract concept but I do know what it means, its acting with integrity and respect and honesty. It's a concept central to the Chivalric code, that knights should behave with honour, so its inclusion here further cements the idea of Lancelot's character as representing the ideal of chivalric knighthood. Also the concept of servanthood comes up again, Merlin emphasises (through Merlin most of all) the honour in being a servant, you don't need to be great or noble or a great leader, the world needs people who are willing to serve and that is just as noble as leading.

Chivalry as a concept is inherently bound up in the concept of nobility. The etymology itself is from the French word for knight/horseman, of which only nobles could be. However, one of the points of Merlin through many of its characters is upsetting this class divide so prevalent in Arthurian stories, not just in also including the stories of those who aren't noble but in setting up a code of honour that applies to everybody. Lancelot epitomises this, he is the knight who most represents the ideal of chivalry to Arthur, he's also not a nobleman. Just like making Gwen and Merlin servants, making the most noble knight not a noble sets up this shift, highlighting the capability of everyone to the kind of goodness and nobility that Camelot's ideal will represent. Because fundamentally what's the point of an ideal if it only applies to some people, ideals should inspire everyone to be better, they should make everyone's lives better not just a small subset of people.

As Gwen says that in Arthur's knights "we need ordinary people like you and me."

Arthur and Uther

Importantly Arthur realises the injustice of laws in his father's kingdom and you see the contrast between him and Uther.

"The code bends for no man."

"Then the code is wrong."

Uther is stubborn, we know that, he's unwilling to admit the fault in his rules, in his ideas even when the evidence is right in front of him and that is a fundamental fault, you can see it in his treatment of those who use magic. Arthur by contrast is someone whose views haven't been set, partly because he is still young, but also because he is a better person than Uther in the ways that matter. He's not going to purposefully blind himself to the truth. For Uther he is also one with a worldview of absolutes, all magic users are bad, laws are laws there is no room for argument or nuance, and I'm sure Uther would see accepting argument or nuance as a weakness.

It is also important that in recognising that the code should bend, Arthur recognises the essential flaw in Uther's construction of society and chivalry. The idea that knights should all be noble, Uther literally says that it is the fact that all knights are noble that binds them together, and this is emphasised by the fact that Uther created the first code of Camelot (also the fact that its the first code- makes this seemingly small law much more important). This is a premise Arthur does not agree with it, this episode proves what it really means to be a knight in Lancelot, its a willingness to do your duty and act with honour and self-sacrifice. It is not confined to class, and thus plays into merlin's wider subversion of chivalry as only being for knights, its a code of honour and behaviour that all people can aspire to, and the ability to live and die for noble causes should not be the sole preserve of knights. The Arthurian ideal is so premised on nobility, for the rest of the kingdom, yes they have a just king and presumably they are protected and safe but they are kept from the dignity of being allowed to be noble, being allowed to be considered a part of the nobility and goodness of the Arthurian ideal. It's significant that the first figure to represent this isn't noble.

Other Stuff

"I owe Lancelot my life and I am paying for that in the only way I can."- Merlin--> This is the worldview of knights and debts of honour in its own way as well

Gwen and Lancelot are just awww, like so sweet

"Merlin would do anything for anyone."- Gwen--> True and I love that about Merlin, even as he becomes more jaded as the seasons go on this doesn't change that much—>he's wonderfully decent

"You're the only thing I care about in this world."- Gaius to Merlin--> That was just sweet and kind of sad He's encouraging Merlin to put himself in danger and Merlin reacts with anger because its like does anyone care what happens to him—> but the point is Merlin can help Arthur and no one else can so he has to do it because its his job and its his job because he's the only one who can do it--> Duty is doing what you have to do, doing the right thing even when you don't want to

"It's my duty knight or not."---> Similar to Merlin—> Lancelot believes in being a knight so whether or not he actually is one he has a duty to act like one—> he is a swordsman he is skilled and (theoretically- if they weren't creatures of magic) could defeat a Griffin so he has to do it—> because he can and its his duty to his worldview And Gwen's response- "You really believe that don't you. I don't think I've ever met anyone like you."

"You've already proven that to us"- Arthur "But I must prove it to myself."- Lancelot--> Isn't there just something very noble in that- In the desire to prove your ability to yourself above all others- to hold yourself to a high standard not just to expect things to come Will parallel Arthur in later seasons as he tries to prove his right to be king to himself--> It's funny the scene when Arthur pulls the sword in the stone (much later) is the moment when he proves his right to be king in every version of the story- but usually its proof to others- In Merlin it was trying to prove to himself

"Till next time then, Sir Lancelot."- Merlin- wonderful way to end the episode on an acknowledgement of Lancelot's role in the wider story- he is a legendary figure

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animemangasoul · 4 years ago

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You Are Wanted Obi-Wan Kenobi

Summery: Summery: Qui-Gon lives and Mace gets a new Padawan.

[In which Qui-Gon repudiates Obi-Wan and Mace isn't about to let the kid leave the order without a fight.]

Chapter: 8/10?

His mission debrief was held in private with only himself standing in the middle and Master Yoda sitting across from him. Feemor was grateful for that. It was a small thing, a tiny gesture of consideration but it meant a lot to him and Feemor was sure his Great Grandmaster was aware of it, after all, Yoda had always been kind to him and that hadn't changed even after Qui-Gon Jinn disowned him.

So standing there; ignoring his throbbing knee for all it was worth, he carefully and with enough detail to suffice, summed up his mission.

The disastrous mission that nearly cost him everything. Might still be costing him everything. With the haunting voice at the back of his mind, echoing a constant reminder off his stripped humanity, of his lost dignity of……

When he closed his eyes at night, he could still hear it. The roars, the thirst for blood, the calling of death. He could still feel the grim of filth under his nails, the rot of expiration on his skin and he could taste it, the pain.

He'd fought in the Pits for over a year and a half and it clung to him like the stink of penance yet to be absolved.

After all, how could he call himself a Jedi if he'd killed to survive?

And yet….. here he was, back in old Jedi robes, skin clean, shaved head although marred with scars, actually alive with dust of blonde locks peaking out and hiding his damaged scalp.

He was tainted, Feemor knew that all too well. Maybe if he'd been a Shadow he would have been able to set aside the disgust, the horror, the guilt, but…. He wasn't. He was just an ordinary Jedi Master who'd gotten himself into more than he could handle and then felt too honour bond not to do the logical thing. The smart thing. He'd let his emotions rule him and now…now he was giving his report as if…. As if what he'd done, what he'd sacrificed had all been part of the mission.

"Hard on yourself you are," Master Yoda spoke up, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts. "Believe this you might not, but the right thing you did. Saved those Padawans and force sensitive kids you did with the choice you made."

Feemor swallowed thickly, eyes blinking furiously to hold back the stinging of tears. The pride in Master Yoda's voice was obvious as the sun was bright and any other day, any other time in his life Feemor would have soaked it in like a starving wild animal thrown a piece of meat . But after everything….. After his failed mission….. After all that he'd been through. The praise felt like hot coal against his skin and he found himself recoiling away from it. Eyes drilling into his boots, bottom lip catching between his teeth.

How had everything gone so wrong?

The mission had been simple. Track down missing lightsabers currently being sold in the black-market by a notorious black-market dealer, known to have belonged to the Coruscant Temple's missing Padawans. Report back and let the Shadows handle the rest. Simple enough. Or it should have been. It's after all the reason why he took it in the first place.

Coming back from a grueling long mission on the outer-rim, Feemor had taken it as a chance to finally get that break he'd been putting off for so long. He would go, track down the dealer, report back and let a Shadow take over.

Simple enough.

Simple….enough.

But it wasn't. Because loathe as he was to admit it, Feemor was nothing if not Qui-Gon Jinn's former Padawan and if there was anything that their lineage was infamous for was their ability to get into more trouble than was imaginable. The simplicity of the mission should have clued him in from the very beginning. But it hadn't and that was his first mistake.

And now here he was, unable to breathe a single minute without remembering the hands touching his skin, without recalling the foul breaths of those masked men, sizing him up like nothing more than the slave he'd become. Unable to go a day without remembering the fear, the terror of even taking something as innocent as a nap for you never knew……

["Left, you could have," Master Yoda had said when he'd come off the ship yesterday. "Choose to stay you did."]

And he had. He had chosen it. No one had forced his hand. No one had been there to force him. The slice of a knife, the burns of hot metal rods, the combats of death, he'd endured it all for a chance to track down the kids. Kids he'd found out weren't actually dead but being……

He'd chosen to stay in the darkness. Freedom had been in touch. Fresh air, warm clothes, home, it had all been so very close. He'd managed to escape the clutches of Mir'randa, managed to collect his lightsaber, info chip in hand, just a step away from his passage out of the accursed planet. He could have taken it, but he hadn't because at the end of it all. Despite everything he'd been through, everything he would continue to endure, he was a Jedi. So when he'd sensed the new shipment.

The force sensitive shipments.

The choice became obvious. So painfully obvious.

They'd been kids after all. Some unknown, unfamiliar but most of them….. They'd been theirs. Jedi Padawans. Their missing Jedi Padawans, and now those kids, terrified, hurt, having been through force knows what were about to be pulled into the very nightmare Feemor wanted to escape, and what had he done?

He'd watched as his window of escape closed. Watched as his last hope off the planet disappeared with a single droid; carrying a single chip meant for the Jedi temple and he'd made his way back inside. Back into the darkness. Back to the clutches of Mir'randa, back to being less than human. Less than a Jedi. Knowing this might very well be the last time he'd be able to sense the force dancing and flittering around him because this time around he knew his force-suppressant collar would likely be impossible to remove.

And for what?

For…..

What……

Gritting his teeth, Feemor dug his fingernails into his palm, the jolt of pain bringing him back to reality. Back from there.

"Sit down, you should." Feemor choked down a strangled noise of despair and shook his head, left knee straining under him.

"No thank you, Master." For he would be damned if he let himself show weakness. Not when he'd failed so spectacularly. Not when he'd only manage to save seven of them. Just seven. Four Padawans and three force sensitive kids.

Only seven when there had been sixteen.

He'd only managed to save seven……seven kids out of sixteen.

His stomach turned. An image of the Pit flashing through his mind for a single agonizing moment before he brutally shoved it to the back of his mind with the rest of his darkest deeds.

Seven.

"Will that be all, Master Yoda?" He managed to keep his voice stable even as his knee screamed, his heart thudded like the dreams of war and his scars ached with every breath. "Because I need to find my former Master and have a long overdue conversation with him."

A flicker of amusement danced across his Great Grandmaster's eyes before it was drowned out by concern yet again. If the concern was for him, for Qui-Gon, for Obi-Wan? Feemor didn't quite know. But he appreciated non-the-less. "A talking to he needs," the old troll rumbled, gimer-stick hitting the ground twice. "But first to the Halls you need to go. Grateful I am for the people of Dugmulo for taking care of you and the young children, but a secondary check up by our own, ease my heart it would."

Feemor smiled, it made his cheeks ache, strain. "Of course Master," he said, clasping his hands under his robes and giving a shallow bow; his knee protested but he refused to let it bother him. "I'll do that right away."

After all, he had all the time in the world now, didn't he?

He'd busted the ring, he'd shut down Mir'randa's Games, he'd…..yes, yes he'd failed to save them all but he'd saved some and those he hadn't been able to, he….. those Padawans, their bodies, he'd recovered them for the proper Jedi burial they deserved and for the others, Master Yoda had secured a journey back to their own families as their last resting place. Had it broken something fundamentally vital within him to do so? Perhaps. Had it cost him sleepless nights fraught with horrors brought on his creaking shoulders, horrors he'd been subjected to and caused himself to keep them all alive for just one more day. Yes, of course, yes. But…..

It was all over now, wasn't it?

He'd come back. He was home. Where he belonged. It had taken weeks.

After the Pit, after the Jedi came to the rescue, weeks of bacta tanks and treatments and several weeks more to ensure the safety and security of those kids who still----

He swallowed thickly, refusing to allow himself to collapse in front of his Grandmaster, no matter how much that might help liberate the choking guilt clawing at his throat because how could any of these kids trust him still after everything they'd seen him do? After the scars and burns and tears and blood. After seeing the filthy arena filled with the bodies of their fallen under the same sky as the cheers of their spectators?

How did anything he'd done to get the word out, to stop the trafficking, how did any of that lessen his desperate actions to keep them alive for another day, another week, another month, year…..how did it make up for it?

But he had all the time in the world now.

All the time.

And he'd come back for a reason. For Obi-Wan Kenobi. Because with all his newly acquired scars, still, no matter how, somehow being repudiated by Qui-Gon ran the deepest.

So what could he do but try and help his Padawan brother the only way he knew how? Running off to go fix what his former Master had somehow managed to break in his absence. As if Xanatos hadn't been enough of a nightmare to deal with as it was.

Maybe after he took care of that he could answer back Kuflo's insisting messages and Androlet's updates on how things were going Dugmulo. Maybe, maybe.

The Halls would just have to wait a little while longer. Because if he could do one right thing today, maybe it would be his first act to wipe away the blood marring his soul.

He took a step back from Master Yoda and turned to the door, wincing at the strain that simple action put on his knee; saying a soft goodbye.

"May the force be with you Great Grandpadawan."

Feemor's lips twitched, it didn't reach quite reach his eyes. "May the force be with you as well, Master." And with that, he left.

One foot in front of the other. Eyes focused on nothing but the path ahead. Ignoring the murmurs around him, the gossip, the looks of concern at his bandaged appearance and his limp. He ignored it all. Only allowing himself the briefest glimmer of satisfaction at the positive mutters on one Obi-Wan Kenobi that he caught every now and then. Apparently being the new Padawan of the Master of the Order was something to behold.

It did hurt a bit, Feemor silently had to admit to himself, not having had the chance to take on the kid himself.

After all, that was the primary reason why he'd wanted to rush back to begin with, despite initially deciding to supervise the imprisonment of the Gamers, but it hurt less knowing that the kid hadn't been thrown to the side for too long. That he hadn't been alone, confused, broken hearted for months as he wondered what he'd done wrong to be discarded like his time with Qui-Gon meant nothing that he was worthle…..clenching his fists tight enough to leave dents, Feemor gritted his teeth.

This wasn't about him. Going down this path would only lead to his suffering. Only reopen old wounds he was not quite ready to acknowledged. So he needed to focus on the here and now. This wasn't about him.

It was about Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon and little Skywalker and what he, Feemor could do to make things better. That was it. Nothing more. After all, hadn't he already lost his chance to get to know his Padawan brother with his own indecisions? He could have gotten to know him any time he'd wanted, but he had….he'd been so angry, so hurt, and he'd refused to have anything to do with the must innocent party in all of it. And that wasn't, shouldn't be an excuse.

So Master Windu was fine. Great even. The perfect Master probably. The one who stepped up when no one else would.

And…. He…..Feemor….he was not well. Not anymore. So taking on a Padawan brother who probably didn't even know who he was, that was just a recipe for disaster. So this was good. 'Yes,' he told himself firmly, taking one step after the other as he traced his steps from the council chambers to the Room of Thousand Fountains. 'This is good. Master Windu is a perfect choice so all I can do for Obi-Wan now,' when his knee nearly buckled under him, he again regretted not putting on the brace. 'Is to find Master Jinn and set things straight. For the betterment of everyone.'

'One problem with that plan though,' he grimaced, slamming a hand against the nearest wall for stability. Taking a moment to be grateful he was in an empty hallway and no one was there to witness his momentary weakness.

Frowning down at his right leg, he bared his teeth in frustration. Looked like his knee would refuse to carry him all the way to his destination after all.

"Kriff it," he hissed, teeth biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. "Kriff it all."

The agony coursing through his leg was almost unbearable. It had stiffened significantly on his walk over to the Council debriefing and Feemor should have known then that he wasn't going to make it but……

Weakness Is Death

That had been a mantra, his mantra that he'd lived by for what felt like forever. Instilled it in the kids. Bad'kuu, Kuflo, Gaa'ah, Androlet…. Everyone. He'd said it so many times it was all he knew how to say to them anymore. Weakness is death. To show a vulnerability was to allow yourself to be broken. To be scrapped from the inside out. The fingers. The touching, the prodding, the dragging…….

Weakness Is Death.

So Feemor refused to show it. To wear the brace, not in front of Yoda. Not in front of those who'd already seen his failures. Not when he needed to be strong and honorable to show…. To show he hadn't fallen.

He hadn't even been allowed to come back until several Jedi Masters had confirmed he hadn't turned. He was good. He was still a good Jedi, tainted yes, but not fallen. Not yet. And what a relief that revelation had been. To know that despite everything he'd done, he could still call himself a Jedi. But he wasn't delusional enough not to know he was still under keen observation. Falter once, fall one time and it was all over.

So, no knee brace.

He'd managed to make due in the Pit. Fighting with a bad knee was disadvantage enough without him broadcasting that fact to the entire arena. Spectators and fighters alike. He'd always had a weak right knee ever since that disastrous first mission he took as a Master, but it hadn't been too hard to deal with at first, even if he'd had to take up Jar'kai to make up for his lack of mobility when it acted up.

Jar'Kai had been a way for him to compensate for his damaged knee at first, nearly two years in the Pit however, and it had solidified itself as the only form he could trust to keep him safe. To keep him alive.

Protect yourself for no one else will protect you under the skies of Miiir.

Sinking to the floor, eyes blinking back the sudden wetness burning at the edges, Feemor allowed himself a moment to just loathe it all. The regret, the pain, the failure, the shame. And then he breathed in and let it go.

It wouldn't do to dwell on the unchangeable.

Shoulders sagging he let his head drop back with a gentle thud against the wall behind him and he let his eyes fall shut. It all felt rather heavy. Being back here, being back home.

Maybe a moment to rest his eyes would be enough. Just a moment. Until the pain dulled. Then he'd go see Master Jinn, talk to him about missing his recent appointments with the mind healers and maybe…..maybe finally get the chance to talk things out. Yeah, maybe.

But a moment turned into two. And two turned into three and before Feemor could help it, he was clutching at his knee with both hands. The agony unparalleled.

It burned like thousand knives being sliced through his skin simultaneously. Feemor grimaced, head throbbing with the nausea bubbling in the pit of his stomach, screaming at him in aguish. 'Make it stop,' he thought, squeezing harder, fingers digging into the joints, face ashen and bottom lip bleeding. 'Kriff, make it stop.'

And then, it did. Not by much, not even half way but enough to bring a sense of clarity to him. And it was only when his mind wasn't being clouded by the bolt of sheer agony dancing through his body; paralyzing him in place, that he noticed the cold hand resting across his forehead and one atop of his joined hands. Soothing sense of warmth intermingling with his force signature and somewhat dulling the pain coursing through his veins. And Feemor breathed, raising his eyes to come face to face with one Obi-Wan Kenobi.

----------

"Stop," he ordered when he finally found his voice behind the sudden lump in his throat, gently pushing those hands away even as he instantly missed the soothing force healing that came with them. But Obi-Wan looked like death warmed over himself and Feemor would be force damned if he let his first action back home be to hospitalize his Padawan brother. "Thank you, but I'm okay."

The young man kneeling in front of him didn't look convinced, brows furrowing slightly and lips pursed, but he did back away, choosing to sit down next to him; grunting as he adjusted himself against the wall, cane coming to rest by his side. Feemor raised a brow in question, making his Padawan brother laugh lightly.

"Anakin had his first lightsaber practice today," he said in answer, tapping his cane lightly. "I still have a hard time getting around so---" His smile is hallow and Feemor felt it echo in his soul.

"Yeah," he muttered back, looking down at his knee, toes curling with each pulsating burst of electric pain shooting down his leg. He shouldn't have walked on it for so long. "I get it."

"I suppose you do."

Feemor snorted. "When you say Anakin?"

"Skywalker, yes." Obi-Wan's voice was much more lighter this time. "He was….really excited about it and asked me to come so I did. I was on my way back when I----" here he trailed off, but Feemor knew exactly what he was trying not to say, and it made him flush with embarrassment.

"When you found me lying on the floor trying to tear my leg off with my bare hands?"

"Well," Obi-Wan muttered. "I wouldn't exactly say, lying." Feemor stared and Obi-Wan snorted. "Okay, you looked pretty helpless."

"Hey, you don't look so great yourself."

The answering grin was a lot brighter and more real than Feemor had expected and it tugged at his heart. Because somehow despite the dark circles under the kid's eyes, despite the paleness and the fragility to his frame, somehow, when he smiled, really smiled, Feemor could almost drown in the regret of all the wonderful years he'd missed with this kid. The years he could have known him if he had been less of a coward.

Checking up on him religiously didn't make up for not being there for him. For not protecting him against what was likely Qui-Gon's darkest years. To not be a buffer, a confidant, to be a brother. In that sense, Feemor supposed he was a lot like his former Master. Who was just as guilty in tracking his movement as he was in tracking Obi-Wan's without ever taking the first step in meeting the other party half way.

Obi-Wan Kenobi.

His not so Padawan brother. Or all the more his Padawan brother for being tossed aside like himself.

Running a bandaged hand over his head; still feeling that momentary flicker of surprise at brushing against tufts of growing out blonde hair, the broken Jedi Master breathed in deeply and let it all out.

"Feemor," he said, pointing at himself. "My name is Feemor Einar."

Obi-Wan's eyes glittered. "I know."

"Oh?"

The Padawan nodded, fingers tapping away at his wooden cane. "You're the talk of the Temple."

"Is that so?"

"Yes," Obi-Wan's voice was neutral as anything and Feemor silently allowed himself to be impressed. He'd never been very good at keeping his emotions in check. "Sounds to me like you stopped a force sensitive trafficking ring and ended a barbaric gladiator tournaments in one single mission."

Feemor couldn't quite suppress the flinch at those words, and it made him burn with shame. "Not soon enough I'm afraid."

"I didn't mean---" Obi-Wan started, clearly noticing his sudden change in demeanor. The harshness in his force signature, the darkness and Feemor internally cursed himself for losing his grasp over his emotions, for his Padawan brother should never sound so uncertain and worried around him. "I didn't mean to bring it up I only heard----"

"It's okay," Feemor cut him off, careful to keep his voice gentle this time despite how his soul screamed and his heart longed for him to hide away for all eternity. "I didn't mean……" He sighed. "It's just been….tough."

Obi-Wan nodded. "Yeah."

Digging his nail into the crack between the tiles, Feemor focused on the pressure on his barely growing in nails and opened his mouth, keeping his voice playfully light. "I hear you're pretty famous around these parts yourself."

A beat and then another, silence filling up slowly between them and it's all Feemor could do to try and find a way to backtrack and try again? Figure out another way? Help? When his Padawan brother, pressed himself even tighter against the wall and clutched at his cane. "You could say that," he whispered, tone strained and part way broken. "You could say that."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

A single shake of the head.

Feemor hummed softly in understanding. "Then Obi-Wan Kenobi, it's a pleasure to officially meet you."

A huff. "Likewise Master Einar."

"You know who I really am, don't you?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Not for long. Just after," The kid pulled at his braid. "Thanks for the bead by the way."

Dragging his focus away from his knee, Feemor nodded. "Of course."

A welcoming silence fell between them this time and Feemor was content with it. To sit there with his Padawan brother, after everything, just sit there with him. Not moving, not doing anything. And enjoy his company even if he didn't quite know how to connect with him yet. Even if they still had so much to talk about. And it's not like he didn't have a good reason. After all, the simple thought of trying to stand on his busted leg made his stomach do nauseating flips. But he couldn't stay here forever, not when he needed to see Qui-Gon and sort this all out, not when he still had that medical check up and the kids back at----

So when Obi-Wan bumped his cane against his shoulder and said "You look like you need this more than me," it's all Feemor can do not to drag the haunted looking kid into a desperate hug meant to suffocate with affection. Instead he grinned, taking the offered cane but still remaining seated.

"About Qui-Gon---"

"What about him?"

"I'm sorry that he did that to you."

Obi-Wan paused. And then, "I'm sorry he that to you too."

Feemor nodded back. "Thank you." And he meant it. Of course he meant it for there were very few who could truly understand what he'd been through and sympathize, even if he would never wish this on the kid given a choice, he was still so very grateful for the shared understanding no matter how much it grated on his dignity to admit so. "And I know it doesn't mean much, but I promise you Obi-Wan it wasn't your fault. Master Jinn, he's just…." He should really be getting up, but----. "He lashes out when he's cornered and that reflects badly on him and not you." He really really needed to get up and or he might never get up at all today and yet----. "You are wanted Obi-Wan Kenobi, I promise you that."

He should get up, but when the kid took a sharp intake of breath, then tentatively rested his head on his shoulder after a brief second of hesitation; auburn hair brushing under his chin, Feemor couldn't quite make himself do what he had to do because there was something that was so much more important right here, right now. "I'm going to punch him in the face." He didn't know why those words came out, but he meant them. And---

Obi-Wan laughed, it sounded a little bit broken and a little bit wet but it put a smile on Feemor's face and this one didn't quite ache as much. "Good luck with that."

"Thanks," he said, shifting closer so the kid could rest on his shoulder more comfortably. "I'll make it a good one."

Obi-Wan bumped their shoulders together and Feemor bumped him back, eyes feeling suspiciously damp.

Repudiated Padawans of Qui-Gon Jinn ought to stick together after all.

The End

Chapter: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

#Obi-Wan kenobi #obi wan fanfic #feemor #master yoda #star wars #sw #sw fanfic #star wars fanfic #qui gon a+ parenting #ch 8 #you are wanted obi-wan kenobi #fanfic #fic

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scrawnytreedemon · 4 years ago

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Ooh, how about Hojo for the ask meme?

OHOOOO, I HAVE A L O T TO SAY, BABY-- Especially after seeing that final showdown, oh boy.

(hfhdkjfhjkj sorry for this being late!! had many thinsg to do <33)

For context, I know jack-shit about Dirge of Cerbeus, and I’d rather it stay that way. Vee has scarred me enough with her recollections from the wiki alone, and unless we finally do that shit-movie night we’ve been meaning to for awhile, I’m not touching it with a ten foot pole.

First impression: Horrible rat man; nasty. Your run of the mill Mad Scientist except somehow Even Worse. Perhaps a little generic at times. Pervy fuck. Probably has a bunch of obscenely lewd magazines in his study. Fuck him for fucking over absolutely everyone that’s gotten within ten metres of him. This guy fucks, and that’s how we got Sephiroth. -1/10, Worst Scientist, Husband and Father of the Year.

Impression now: I... I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I like him now, unironically. You win, Hojo Fuckers. Seeing that scene at the control panel, I think that man’s genuinely depressed-- Like, ‘I’ve devoted my entire life to my work to numb the pain but now I’ve realised it’s all for nothing and it’s fucking useless and I’m fucking useless and there’s nothing for me to do other than sacrifice myself for my son, who fucking hates me.‘ Like... Jesus Christ, I did not expect him to be so self-aware. He’s still a downright horrendous person and many of the things he’s done, if I believed in such a mindset, are downright irredeemable. Basically, I actually like his character now-- full-on -- even if he’s still a right bell-end.

Favorite moment: The rooftop scene. Jesus Christ, man, that changed my whole view on him. The way he’s actually becoming aware of how wrong he was, and how it weighs on his mind-- How, almost absently, as if he’s saying it more to himself, he tells Cloud he should become a scientist. It’s a small thing... But it speaks to a level of respect I don’t think Hojo has had for anyone in a very long time. He’s been brought to his limit, willing to give anything and everything so that the one thing he’s done right, his son who he gave up to further his now-dead career, succeeds in world-annihilation. What really gets me is that moment in the fight, where you’ve ended the first phase, when he says, apathetically, how he hopes the Mako juice is going-- And then he turns into a monster. This horrendous, twisted thing that’s barely held together by skin and sinew-- Probably one of the most downright-horrifying things in this entire game --And it’s just... like... wow... he broke.

Idea for a story: A fic where him and Sephiroth actually try and make amends. I’ve seen this guy killed off-screen so many times, and everytime, I am deeply disappointed. I get it. Hojo’s probably the worst character in the game. He has no morals and no boundaries, and he’s irritating as fuck-- I get it --But he’s also the reason all of this shit has happened, and is such a vital character in the forming of the story, in Sephiroth’s specifically, that I want him to be done justice. I want to see one of them reach out to the other, and slowly, bit, by bit, by agonising bit piece together something vaguely resembling a foundation for their relationship. I want to see them reminisce over the few good times they had together, and address deeply the many, many bad ones. It’ll be painful, and there will be many bumps in the road where they’ll feel like there isn’t even a point to this shit, and yet push on despite that. Because despite everything, they are family-- And not because they are obligated to, but because they’re choosing to. I want to see that. I really do. I’ll probably write it myself.

Unpopular opinion: I think my newfound appreciation of him in general, lmao. I won’t get into the paternity debate, as I’ve addressed that in Vincent’s post and another one. Perhaps the fact that I think it’s stupid that the scientists in FFVII get referred to by their first names-- Like, who does this shit??? Who out here thinks Hojo sounds like a first name??? It’s just... Really unprofessional and I don’t think Hojo is comfortable enough with anyone to just have them call him by his first name. Also Dr. Faremis Gast sounds better than Dr. Gast Faremis. I know it’s a pun in Japanese but I don’t give a shit. Fight me.

Favorite relationship: Him and Sephiroth, because there’s just, alot of shit. I don’t think he was ever truly close enough to Lucrecia for me to get invested-- It’s clear the relationship, though while initially stable and they probably got along well, was one mostly of work --And I don’t think there’s anyone else close enough to Hojo’s character to serve as another option, either. Maybe Vincent, but again, that was through Lucrecia. Seph and Hojo have this dynamic where strained doesn’t even begin to describe it. Hojo thinks Seph doesn’t know and Seph thinks Hojo doesn’t know that he knows-- And it’s painfully clear that had it not been for Hojo, Sephiroth wouldn’t have been so unstable. There was alot of abuse, physical and psychological, that got framed as ‘work,’ and it’s undoubtebly fucked with Seph’s very concept of ownership, and who owns another. It’s clear that on some level, Hojo feels shame for what he’s done-- Not guilt, shame --And is unwilling to let the boy(and perhaps even himself) from knowing his true parentage. Part of it’s definitely spite for Lucrecia, but there’s more. I could go one for hours, honest to god, so like, feel free to tack on your own ideas, fellow trash conoisseurs.

Favorite headcanon: Him being Wutaian. Not sure if it’s entirely headcanon, but like, it really is ironic. I personally think his family moved to Midgar while he was still young-- Perhaps due to a faction split -- so he grew up on the Eastern Continent, so he was stuck in this weird middle space alot of immigrant or descended from immigrants children where on one hand, you’ve got your family’s legacy, and you probably, if not fluently, speak their native tongue and carry out their traditions, and on the other hand you’ve grown up with people who’ve been here for generations and inevitably get moulded by their ways and their customs, perhaps to the point you’re more culturally theirs than your native land’s. If we’re going with the faction split, I think Hojo leans hard into the latter, out of a deep-seated indignance. Maybe his family were fairly influential, before they had to move to what was, no doubt, a less than idyllic neighbourhood. I think part of what made him want to become a scientist was that need to regain that honour, that dignity-- It’s very self-centred, and clearly didn’t work out.

Thank you Vee as always-- You incredible bastard --For both asking and also rambling with me about this grease-weasel for like, a good long time.

Knowing my luck I just might’ve gotten another hyperfixation. A terrible one. Fuck.

And to anyone who’s read this far, thank you! As always, feel free to throw in your own thoughts, whether they be replies or reblogs. I’m curious to know what the general vibe is about him(other than Haha Stinky Goblin Rat), as I don’t think he’s talked about all that much? Maybe I’m looking in the wrong places.

Anyhow Hojo Fuckers, I owe you a beer. Not a good one, probably tastes of piss, but knowing you lot, that’s probably just fine, lmaooooooo. Keep up the ungodly work <3

#ffvii #professor hojo #ask meme #scrawny speaks #I Have Posted Cringe #headcanons

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silentprincess17 · 4 years ago

Text

Sometimes Things Have To Get Worse Before They Get Better

This is essentially a darker, heavier alternate take on Memory #7 - Blades of the Yiga. I wanted to write a fic with a competent Yiga Clan. (Yes you read that right). It is very angsty in the beginning and then becomes fluffy (hence the title!)

Summary: Link and Zelda have returned from Vah Naboris with Urbosa and have spent the night in Kara Kara Bazaar Inn. Link wakes up and finds her missing.

Cue the angst.

This story is complete and I will post each chapter daily on here but you can read the whole thing on AO3

Rating: Mature (Graphic descriptions of violence) Pairing: Link/Zelda (Zelink) Characters: Link, Zelda, The Yiga Clan, Master Kohga

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

Chapter 6: Dusk of the First Day

TW: rope burns, emotional trauma.

They left her there

In the sun

With a shirt half ripped, mercy to the wind, sand and heat.

He didn’t know where to look.

He wanted to see if she was okay.

But he didn’t want to ruin whatever shred of dignity she had left.

So, he stood sideways. If anything moved into her vicinity he would know. Not like he could do much, but it would be better for him to at least know.

Would it though?

The guilt seared through him, branding him more than the wound under his eye could. He pressed his head against the bars. He felt so wrung out, so weak. He was used to fighting, to being able to actually do something. He’d never been so helpless before. The irony was that he’d received training to deal with interrogation in case the Yiga ever captured him. He’d been trained under Sheikah tutelage, specifically, about methods to hold in one’s emotions and pains whilst imprisoned by the enemy.

But… he had not received training for what to do when it was the Princess being tortured. Whilst he watched. Powerless. What was he supposed to do when the person whose life he was meant to defend with his own was being humiliated in such a vulgar way? The worst thing was that he’d completely and utterly failed to handle the responsibility he has given. She was entrusted to him by the King, and he had failed. He’d failed not only as her Appointed Knight, but as her supposed Hero, and that seared the most. Some counterpart he was to her soul if he couldn’t stop what was happening to her.

Eventually the same researchers came back, this time accompanied by some Yiga Foot soldiers. Link felt unbridled fury run rampant through him at the sight, because despite his fatigue, he still had enough strength to swear on the Golden Three he'd avenge her. He'd find them, and he'd make sure they regretted even setting eyes on his Princess.

"No change still. Hm. Prolonged exposure made no difference. Well, that's... good news. Let her down, now."

Link was extremely confused, at this whole scenario, but he ignored that, right now his focus would be on Zelda. And trying to help her. He pulled his tunic off and turned his gaze away from the world outside.

“Don’t fight Hero, or we’ll put her in chains. Don’t think we won’t. You might want to cover her up. Or maybe you’ll enjoy the sight too, not like she ever gave you much joy otherwise."

Link was too emotionally drained to pay much heed to their words, he'd already seen the clamps in their hands before they brought Zelda over and hence knew it was useless trying to intervene. The same thing that happened earlier today would repeat itself and this time Zelda would much closer and he just-

They snickered away, teleporting out once they shoved her in.

He didn’t look at her, couldn't bring himself to. He felt so ashamed. He offered his tunic to her, with his hand behind his back, still not looking.

He felt her take it.

And then he heard her sink to the floor.

He didn't know what to do. Did he try to step closer? He wasn’t sure that was what she would want right now. Hell, even at the best of times she hated his presence, and whilst it had felt like they’d turned a new leaf last night… a lot had happened since then.

She sniffed. And his heart broke. “Is the sight of a tainted Princess so disgusting that the Great Hero of Hyrule, blessed by Hylia herself, can’t lay his oh-so-holy eyes on her?”

He spun and was by her side in a second, kneeling. “You could never be tainted.”

The sand clung to her hair, and all the way along the side of her face and neck, both of which had reddened a little from all the exposure to the sun.

She laughed but it was sarcastic, dripped in venom. And it made him scared. “That’s the first I’ve ever heard you speak. Keen to defend your honour Hero?” She scoffed. “I’m sure somehow father will still find a way for this to be my fault. If only you spent more time in dedication to the Goddess, then maybe she would have blessed you with the powers that would have allowed you to get out of this situation. You would have been stronger than them. You would not have allowed yourself to be humiliated.”

Goddesses above. The power. Fundamentally, everything came back to the Calamity... It was so powerful, hell, even it's impending arrival had already wrecked havoc with their lives. He didn't have the answer to her powers, but he wasn't so sure the key was with prayer to the Goddess. He was just as clueless with the sword, and if it would be enough, but it wasn't right to bring that up now. It would be like rubbing salt into her wound. Because at least he had the sword. And... he sort of understood what she was doing. And he’d let her do it. She was hurt. He was too, but he’d shoulder any burden of hers he could. “And he’s silent again.”

Crap, he hadn't meant- “I’m sorry Princess. I’m really sorry.” He didn't know what else to say. He bowed his head, the sight of her burnt and upset felt like a stab to his soul. He heard her sigh, and then she knelt back against the very bars his hands had become blistered, red and swollen from hitting so much.

He hesitantly sat down next to her, wary of her boundaries.

They stayed like that for a while, until she caught sight of his hands. She reached over and traced a faint line over where his skin had split open from the abuse it had received. Sand lined the edges of the wound and he would be lying if he didn’t admit that it stung. And then she shuffled just a little closer.

Link took a series of small half-panicked breaths. He moved, very slowly, as though she was made of glass that could shatter and touched his fingertips on her shoulder. She leant back a little, so his whole hand was now touching her. He took that to mean it was okay to touch, and slowly wrapped his arm around her fully. She shivered, and he started to rub his hand up and down her arm, in an attempt to warm her up.

He observed her throughout. At any sign of discomfort, he would stop, but she hadn’t shown any yet, only leaning into his arm slightly.

Her lower lip trembled. He immediately stopped. She shook her head, “I’m overreacting. I just asked for forgiveness yesterday and look at what I’m doing today.” She blinked rapidly; he could tell she was holding back tears. “It. It could have been worse. I still have my chest guard on. So. They didn’t cut through that.”

He was relieved, honestly, because she’d been spared that, but regardless it was humiliating. “It doesn’t make your pain any less valid Princess, regardless of how many layers they cut through.”

She stiffened at his validation, his corroboration that it wasn’t her fault, because that is what this was about truly, that is why she brought up her father, and her inability to unlock the power. She angrily brushed back the few tears that had dared to make their way through.

He felt sick, bruised and battered, watching her. It was heart-breaking. “It’s okay to cry Princess. It doesn’t mean they’ve won.”

She stared hard at his chest, before slowly looking up to him, as if she was seeing him for the first time. Truly properly seeing him. He guessed it was hard to know someone's intentions if they remained silent. He’d promised himself today though, there was no one here to put a façade on for. And he vowed that he would at least try to help her, even if he didn’t know how.

She latched onto his other arm, fisting the fabric in her hand, and slowly laid her head down on his shoulder. He assumed he said the right thing then, and he slowly exhaled a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding in.

Something his mother had always done for him whenever he’d hurt himself as a child was to brush through his hair. He wasn’t sure that would be appreciated here though. He didn’t want to touch her more than she allowed. What else could he do?

… the lullaby. He knew the lullaby. He could hum the lullaby. He waited for a while, letting her breathing settle a little. He wasn’t sure how she’d respond. She felt so fragile in his arms, like a frightened deer and he was terrified of scaring her away, of hurting her more than she had suffered through already.

A few minutes passed and she was still gripping his shirt, still rigid and tense, and he decided it was worth a shot. He could always stop if she told him too.

She inhaled, sharply, once he started. And then she leaned closer still, until her head was practically on his chest, her ear pressed against his sternum. Could she tell his heart rate had tripled since she moved closer?

He felt, rather than heard, her tears. They pierced through his thin undershirt, blot by blot, each one a stab to his heart.

He would be lying if he didn’t cry too, and it messed up the rhythm a little.

And she looked up, sitting up a little so she could see more of him, probably wondering why his voice had cracked halfway through. And she gasped. “What-”

She raised a hand to his face, and gently brushed the tears away from his left eye and then hovered over his right.

Oh. Oh yes, he’d been hurt. He imagined it probably wasn’t a pretty sight, a fairly deep gouge into the skin between his eye and cheek. He didn’t have her needles so he couldn’t fix it. Even if he did have thread, it wasn’t like he could even see it. It throbbed but it felt nothing compared to the turmoil that had run through him the entirety of the day.

“I refused to look.”

And his gaze flitted from her over-filled eyes, the dull haunted look in them making his heart twist for the umpteenth time today, to her wrist.

And he almost had a heart attack.

Dear Goddesses, he was going to end up with severe cardiac problems after this.

He gently grasped her hand and turned it so he could see properly. Her entire wrist was mangled, red, sore… Chapped from rope burns, no doubt, as she tried to wrench free at the posts.

She sighed. And held up her other hand, and then brought her ankles close, all of which were in a similar state, her ankles less so because it was harder to twist against rope with them.

And then she got out her kit. She moved to him first and he was horrified, snatching it out of her hands and pointing towards the designated bed area. She frowned. He didn’t back down. To hell with her taking care of him, after today.

She shuffled across, probably realising that this was a fight she was doomed to lose. As he moved to clean the wound with the little cup of water the Yiga had left them when they’d dropped Zelda off, she stopped him. “We shouldn’t waste water this way, Link. We both need to drink it rather than clean wounds out. Dehydration trumps infection in the causes of death order, Sir Link.”

He accepted; she was right. Who knew when the next water-cup would come? He keenly felt the loss of his pouches, for the small first aid kit he always carried, and the antiseptic cream he had. He did the best he could, using small pieces of Champion blue cloth to bind around her wrists and ankles, in a makeshift bandage. And then he got unceremoniously pushed into the wall, and he grimaced at the sight of the needle in her hand. He wouldn’t be asleep this time.

He still couldn’t really look at her though, he felt guilty, because the wound was proof that he had failed to protect her honour, even from himself.

“None of this is your fault Link.”

How did she know him so well? Perhaps she’d spent more time observing him that he’d thought. “I failed you Princess. Again. I let them take you. I-” His voice broke. He couldn’t actually voice the rest of his apology, the words scraped against his throat, foul and bitter as shame paralysed him.

She swallowed. “We could play the whose-fault-is-it game all day. Ultimately neither of us are to blame. I’m tired Link. I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

He nodded his assent, and he let her fix the wound. She used small careful stitches which he could tell she did as quickly as she could, so that she didn't cause him excessive pain. And then she wrapped some of the material around his hands in a makeshift bandage. The pain was nothing though. Nothing compared to the dread he felt as to what would come next.

Because today was just day one. What would happen tomorrow?

She eventually finished, and then came to sit next to him. They split the water, and although he tried to make sure she got more than he did, she refused and they each got half equally.

“Hypothermia.” Is all she said afterwards, and he knew what she meant.

This time, though he felt her tears instead of her smile, and he felt completely and utterly useless. She didn’t deserve this. No one deserved this. He understood, that perhaps right now they were in survival mode, and that is why she didn’t want to think about it too deeply because who knew what horrors awaited them tomorrow. But he worried for her, he always did, because he knew the scars this whole experience would have would be lasting.

That was a depressing line of thought and he was treading dangerous waters. He needed to think about how they were supposed to get out. He needed to make sure this didn’t happen again. He needed to actually protect her damn it. He leaned back. What could he really do, stuck as they were? What were the tips he'd been taught on how to handle an imprisonment? Perhaps the first thing to do was to try to figure out what the captors wanted. Usually that was pretty obvious, information or money but it wasn’t so clear cut here.

It just didn't make sense, and he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly the Yiga Clan wanted from this. The thing the researcher had said when stopping the Blademaster- something about it not working... was he talking about Zelda's sealing powers not awakening? He must have, seeing as the Blademaster more or less confirmed that when he taunted Zelda for being unable summon Hylia. And then when the researchers had come to let Zelda down, it seemed to be more of a... conclusion to their experiment. Link wasn’t a scientist, but he’d silently observed plenty of simulations that the Sheikah and Zelda had run on various parts of Ancient Technology. It was a process akin to what happened today- there was some sort of plan beforehand, then the “subject” - most often a Guardian - was prepared, and the planned programming was completed and then the results recorded.

But... Link couldn’t match that criteria with what had happened to Zelda. Just what were the researchers trying to get out of the whole thing? What was their initial plan- i.e why conduct, this-this experiment to torment Zelda to try to get the power to show itself? Surely that was counterintuitive to their overall aim? Because awakening her powers would mean the Darkness would be sealed and that was completely against what they wanted? Which brought him back to what, exactly, was their end goal? Had it changed? It didn’t seem so... And why had the Yiga changed their plan from assasination to... torture? For the life of him he couldn’t understand...

Chewing on his lip he decided it was worth a shot, to try to sift through the memories of lives he’d had but not lived himself, and… he even decided to try to look through the last Hero’s one. He sighed, he always felt uncomfortable with the memories. The thing was that they were like snapshots in time, and they were not… organised in any meaningful way. The whole thing was one big mess of emotion, because most of them were glimpses of things that his predecessors had felt strongly about, those were the ones that they unconsciously imprinted on the sword, and it carried those memories through for each wielder that followed. Maybe it thought there was a lesson to be learnt from each one, or maybe it just wanted a memento of each Hero. Who knew, the sword had a mind of its own.

So, whilst he knew he’d transformed into a wolf, he had no idea why or even how it had happened. The only time he'd get a semi-coherent sequence of events was during his dreams. Those often flowed a lot better than him trying to access the memory whilst conscious, which confused him but really, was anything about the Master Sword simple?

And that was why he’d found it so hard to understand just what was going on in the life of the Hero who was his direct comparator, the one who had succeeded the last time this had happened. The truth of the matter was, Link felt incredibly depressed, every time he thought of what happened 10,000 years ago.

For starters, the guy had it all. Link could only vaguely remember something glowing blue with a distinct sense that it was “Sheikah” so he assumed that was from the inside of one of those shrines, and it was accompanied by a feeling of “training programme”. And the rest of the memories pre-calamity were of… well. This was the part that used to disturb and plague him the most, because clearly, this Hero had a good working relationship with his Princess, and it was probably not just working. Okay it was definitely not just working, but Link refused to think further on that before, especially considering his own tenuous relationship with His Princess. The only other significant thing, alongside a bucketful of reminiscences with the Princess of that time, was some sort of glowing hand, which Link for the life of him couldn’t figure out but it seemed important. Oh, and also a crimson-coloured mist thing, but he wasn’t sure- because the whole thing seemed to be blurred around the edges. What was even more bizarre, was that there was barely any feeling of fear associated with the two things, it was weirdly relief more than anything else. And that frankly made him very frustrated. Relief at facing destiny? Just how prepared was this Hero? The whole thing left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, more so than the others because Link felt anything but prepared.

He sighed, the other thing with the memories were that he couldn’t just summon up what he wanted, and it would appear. It was more like he’d have to file his way through, and hopefully happen upon whatever it was he was searching for. And only now, after revisiting Mr Successful, did he actually remember that the Sheikah were still united back then, so there was no Yiga. They just didn't exist. Wonderful. Another reason why he hated to dwell on the seemingly illustrious journey that Hero had had.

He refocused. This wasn’t about that time. Why else would the Yiga have captured them, other than a sick sense of humour with the whole experiment? Was there any other purpose for this whole thing? His mind continued to wrack with the problem, and he watched as the moon moved across the sky.

Eventually, the Princess’s breathing evened out, as she fell asleep in his arms. At least she’d managed to sleep, he wasn’t sure she would, all things considered.

He sighed. The only other idea he had was that the whole thing was a farce, so they could exact revenge against the Royal Family for the humiliation they underwent all those eons ago and were banished. Clearly, they still used Ancient Sheikah Technology, the likes of which he’d never seen before. But still, surely the aim would be to kill them both to ensure Ganon’s revival would be unhindered? Not that he minded they hadn’t killed them yet; it was relieving to know they still had a chance, even if it was due to some sort of study.

He was distracted when she started to shiver, flinching inwards and he could only imagine what horrors she was seeing in her dreams. He grasped her tightly, running his fingers through her hair as he hummed her lullaby, hoping it would calm her, just as much as it did for him. Thankfully it worked, she settled back down, although now her knees were also pressed against his abdomen. He didn’t think it was a very comfortable position, but he didn’t want to disturb her, given she’d only just relaxed.

He, meanwhile, remained wide awake, tensed as bowstring. He would be ready next time.

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frozenartscapes · 4 years ago

Text

New Dawn - A World Without Gods (SS/Modern!AU)

I discovered this as a draft I had started months ago and realized with fit in nicely with this AU. So, let’s call this the first chapter of A World Without Gods.

-- -- --

Byleth had encountered many who begged in their final moments of life. The Ashen Demon had heard pleas, bargains, desperate cries for mercy. Sometimes she accepted if the offer was good. Most of the time, she ignored the words spoken to her. Sometimes, her victims had the honour in them to die with dignity, speaking not a word and merely holding her impassive gaze as she struck them down.

She had never heard anyone plead to take their life. Until now.

The Emperor’s breath came in harsh, agonized gasps. Blood oozed from her wounds, spilling on the marble floor around her. Her shoulders sagged, her body buckled, as she struggled to prop herself up with her sword. The immense weight of the world on her shoulders had finally crushed her.

Byleth met those violet eyes that were once so filled with fire and passion, that reflected the strength and courage of the woman she once called her student. But her heart clenched seeing those eyes now. They were dull, and fearful. The fire had gone out, instead just a smouldering pile of ash in the dark. Even the colour seemed weaker.

Seeing Edelgard like this stirred something in her silent chest.

“Claim...your victory,” Edelgard told her through heavy breaths, struggling even to speak. Their battle had been hard on both, but worse on her. “Strike me down. You must.”

Her voice trembled. Weakness. Sadness. Fear. Such things were all present in a voice that once had so much power and authority. Byleth finally could see past the horned crown, the monstrous axe, the royal regalia - Edelgard was so small.

“Even now, people are out there killing each other,” Edelgard continued, a new desperation creeping into her tone, “You must put an end to this.”

A flash of rage surged through Byleth, then. She thought about demanding whose fault that was, pointing out that the war never would have happened had it not been for the Emperor with a power complex. But then the rage subsided, and she was able to see it: guilt.

‘She thought she could win,’ she realized, ‘That it would all be worth it if she just...’

“Please...” Edelgard whispered, “My teacher...” Those violet eyes met hers again, and Byleth could see the tears forming in them. “Your path...lies across my grave.”

‘This must be done,’ a voice in her mind reminded her, ‘She’s not that little student anymore. She’s made peace with it. Do it now, before she changes her mind.’

Byleth tightened her grip on her sword, and took a step forward. Her feet felt heavy, dragging against the ground in protest. But she closed the distance, and lifted the Sword of the Creator high above her head, preparing to bring it down and extinguish the life of the Flame Emperor.

She closed her eyes. She couldn’t look, didn’t want to look. Never had she been forced to kill someone she so desperately didn’t want to kill.

But she didn’t have a choice.

“I wanted...” Edelgard’s voice came out so small, so helpless, so mournful. “I wanted to walk with you...”

Byleth’s eyes opened, just a crack, and she dared a glance down.

It wasn’t the Emperor who knelt before her. It was a girl, a mere child, beaten and broken by a life of darkness and war and loneliness. She had her eyes screwed shut, waiting, waiting for her miserable life to end.

Byleth let the Sword of the Creator fall to the floor with an unceremonious clatter.

Edelgard’s eyes opened at the sound, but before she knew what was happening, someone was down on their knees before her, pulling her into a tight embrace.

Byleth heard her breath hitch. Edelgard had become a statue in her arms, frozen in shock and confusion. Byleth merely held on, and waited. She waited for the protests. She waited to be pushed away. She waited for the struggle against her. She waited for another fight, for that sword to surge toward her.

For a few, agonizing seconds, nothing happened.

“Why?”

If she wasn’t holding the Emperor so close, Byleth wouldn’t have heard that question.

“I’m sorry, Edelgard,” she uttered, feeling tears forming in her eyes for the first time since she had lost her father, “There must be another way...”

“No.” Edelgard’s response came too quickly, too harshly. “There is no other way. I must be destroyed. I...I deserve nothing better.”

“I don’t believe that,” Byleth told her softly.

“But...” Edelgard struggled against Byleth’s hold, and managed to push herself away just enough for Byleth to see her face. Lilac eyes filled with pain and sorrow met cool, ethereal green. “I can’t do this anymore,” Edelgard admitted quietly, breathlessly, “Please. End this. I...I’ve lost...”

Words went unsaid. Byleth didn’t know the whole story but she knew some of it. Edelgard had lost the war, she lost her Empire, she lost her armies and commanders, she lost her people, she lost the few who supported her - some of them to Byleth’s own blade. She grimaced: Hubert had put up an especially fierce fight.

Guilt surged through her. Edelgard was alone. Largely because of her.

“I don’t deserve it. To live. I...” Edelgard’s voice was so small, so helpless. “If you truly wish to grant me mercy, then you will end my suffering now. Please, my teacher. If no one else, let it be you.”

Byleth wished with all her heart that she still could use the Divine Pulse. Because she would have, in that moment, sent herself all the way back to the Holy Tomb, back to her decision that changed everything.

‘I would have chosen to protect you,’ she thought, ‘I should have chosen that.’

But maybe it wasn’t too late.

“Edelgard... I want to help you,” she said, taking the Emperor’s chin in her hand and tilting her head up, “My biggest regret is hesitating when you needed me. I...I didn’t know where my heart lay then, and I’m sorry it took so long for me to realize... But it’s not too late for you.”

A dry, humourless chuckle escaped Edelgard’s lips. “Have you always been so blindly optimistic?” she asked in a low voice, “It’s been far too late for me for some time now.” Their eyes met, and there was no life left in hers. “You and I both know that this isn’t how it really happened.”

Byleth felt her blood run cold as the realization struck her. The delusion began to fade, and the nightmare began to shift into a memory. A memory of what really happened.

A drop of blood slipped out from under her crown, right in the centre of her forehead. Then the crown itself split, as if it had been cleaved in two. More blood began to flow.

Byleth woke up before the grisly truth was revealed in full.

-- -- --

“Morning Professor!”

Byleth smiled as best as she could at the chipper security guard. His name was Alex, and despite the seemingly mundane nature of it, he loved his job working at the Imperial Palace. He was always there at the start of her day, when she would sign in to work. And his big smile and eager energy always helped get her through the day, especially after rough nights.

“You sure you’re sleeping ok?” Alex asked with concern, taking note of the dark bags under the Professor’s eyes, “No offence, but you look like a zombie.”

Byleth couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. “Just the usual stress keeping me up,” she lied, “There’s that new exhibit about art and the Empire opening soon and we’re not nearly ready, yet.”

“Well, don’t work too hard!” he said teasingly.

She swiped her keycard and gave a confirming nod. “I’ll try,” she said with a wave, “Oh, before I go: any news? I think Frank mentioned something about a new hire...”

Alex thought for a moment. “Nope. Nothing to report,” he stated confidently.

Byleth blinked, and for a brief second, she was back in the past. Eight hundred and fifty-five years. Talking to another cheerful guard with a similar dedication to his job.

“You...ok, Professor?” Alex asked with a tilt of his head, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I... Never mind. Just need some coffee,” Byleth replied, snapping out of her memories with a shake of her head.

She gave Alex a wave in parting, and headed off to her office.

The Imperial Palace was Enbarr’s most valued museums. Each day, thousands of tourists would flock into its elegant halls, taking in magnificent paintings, ancient weapons and tapestries, or wandering the extensive manicured grounds. Not long after the war, it fell to ruin. The Last Emperor was dead and buried, and the opulent grandeur of the marble palace seemed to spit in the face of every peasant in Enbarr. So it was ransacked. Priceless artifacts were stolen, banners and tapestries set ablaze, stone and metal smashed just to let out the anger at those selfish rulers.

Byleth saved what she could at the time. It would be centuries later that she would set foot in the palace again, this time as a generous donor of a large collection of historic artifacts and paintings to the new National Museum. Now the Palace was a gift back to the people of Adrestia, having been restored to its former glory and many of its treasures brought back through gifts and expensive purchases. It would be free to enter, operating by donation and a healthy sum of money granted by the government. And suddenly it was no longer a dark and gloomy ruin sitting on a hill, looming over Enbarr like its shadowy history. It became a point of pride, a place that showed off exactly how powerful Adrestia had once been, and how anyone could see it with ease.

The Old Empire was dead, but this new Palace represented the heart of the New.

The next couple centuries passed for Byleth in a blur. She lived all over Fodlan, each life bringing a new job, a new home, new friends. She had long gotten over the strangeness of immortality. Moving onto a new life was easy for her now, though some things still hurt her un-beating heart. She had friends, but was never truly close to anyone. The odd romance had sprung up from time to time, but they never lasted.

She couldn’t bear to weather another heartbreak like her first.

She would occasionally visit the Imperial Palace sometimes, once or twice in a lifetime. It became easier to do as the world modernized. Travel to such a large and important city like Enbarr had aways been prioritized. But she could never have fathomed to the extent.

The first time she took the train right into the heart of the city was exhilarating.

Enbarr was one of the first cities to install streetcars, making transit much more accessible for everyone.

Then came cars, making travel within the city even easier.

And then there were airplanes. To think, humanity could create something so big and so heavy but able to carry so many people and bags across the whole continent in a mere couple of hours! All without magic, at that.

She never thought she’d find herself living in Enbarr until it just...happened. A couple of years ago, she relocated to start anew once again, and like some kind of twist of fate, ended up as a tour guide for the museum. And she built herself such a stellar reputation as a well-researched academic of the place, she was promoted to curator in no time.

And she was happy, for the most part.

She got to her office and pulled out her laptop from her bag. She sat down at her desk, glancing briefly out at the beautiful view of the fountains sparkling in the sun, before getting to work.

Several hours later, and it was time to go home. But before she did, there was something she had to do, first.

It was the anniversary. A date no one celebrated, but also one only historians knew or cared about. It happened so, so long ago now, and though a pivotal moment in Fodlan’s history, it had so little impact on modern society that no one was ever really aware of it. To everyone else, it was just a date on a calendar.

To Byleth, it was the worst day of her life.

The Throne Room was one of the Palace’s most renowned locations. It had been largely kept preserved as it was, its massive grandeur shown off in its original glory. Obviously some things had been done - the tapestries and banners needed to be replaced, electric lighting had been installed to better illuminate the cavernous space, and the intricate marble floor needed constant restoration work.

But there was one thing that had been added to the space that never was there before. It was a strange thing, something so small and simple, sitting alone in the centre of the floor, before the throne.

A candle, burning with an enchanted flame that would never extinguish.

The museum was closed, so the hall was empty when Byleth arrived. And that solitary candle was alone in the vast, looming space.

Byleth stood before that candle. The floor under it was clean, reflecting the small flame in the multicoloured tiles. Eight hundred and fifty years ago, there was a pool of blood there instead. Eight hundred and fifty years ago, Byleth fell to her knees after pitching her bloody sword as far away from her as possible. Eight hundred and fifty years ago, she held onto the body of a woman she had once loved, still loved, until it had long gone cold and Byleth had cried until she physically couldn’t anymore. Eight hundred and fifty years ago, Byleth realized she had made a terrible mistake there was no going back on.

Eight hundred and fifty years ago, Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg, last of her name and warmongering tyrant, was killed by the saviour of Fodlan, the Enlightened One.

“I’m sorry,” Byleth whispered to the candle, “I wish things had been different. I wish I could have saved you.”

Every year since she started working at the Palace, Byleth would visit the candle on this day and make the same wish. Sothis was long gone, having been merged with Byleth for centuries. And yet even with the divine power of the Goddess mixed with her blood, there was nothing Byleth could do to make that wish come true.

But then the lights flickered. Odd. There must have been a power surge somewhere...

They flickered again, then shut off completely, plunging the Throne Room into darkness. Only the minimal light from its ancient windows and that solitary candle chased away the darkest shadows.

And then all hell broke loose.

There’s a flash and the world seems to spin on its axis. The candle at her feet is blown out by a strong gust of wind. And as Byleth recovers from the initial shock, she practically falls over when something even more insane registers before her.

It’s the Emperor, on her knees, breathing heavy and body battle-worn. Just like she looked when…

Through her heavy breaths, Edelgard pants, “There you go, again…my teacher… Hesitating…”

She looks up, finally, to see a completely different Byleth standing before her. No Sword of the Creator, shorter, styled hair, strange-looking clothes. And completely dumbfounded.

“Professor… What’s going on?”

#fe three houses #fanfic #ss/modern!au #a world without gods

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mypoisonedvine · 5 years ago

Text

I Never Danced Until I Met You - Chapter 4

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3]

Taglist: @a-banana-for-your-thoughts @saint-hardy @sophiasescape @letscici @itsametaphorbriansblog @wackiekebab @tinyybiceps @lilredbird101 @ultracolorfulnerdcollection @terrainhead @100percentamess

Word Count: 4k

Rating: E (less E than last chapter but yknow. still E lol)

Before we start, a warning that this is the final chapter... thank you so much to everyone for reading, it has truly been a pleasure. Love to you all!! xx

Everything had felt so right this morning. Laying in bed, holding each other, sharing whispers and kisses and soft touches. Now it was the afternoon and you were in the same room, your own room, but it was so much colder than before, and the three of you were standing around and it might have looked like a normal conversation but really, your heart was breaking. How had everything gone so wrong so fast?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, fighting the emotions threatening to taint your speaking voice.

"I didn't know how to say goodbye,” Jaskier admitted. “I've never been good at goodbyes.”

"You must've known we couldn't stay forever," Geralt posited.

"You must've known I wouldn't have- we wouldn't have- I would've done things differently," you said to Jaskier with a pointed tone, hoping he understood what you were referring to, "if I'd known you'd be riding off a day later."

Jaskier looked down to the floor shamefully. Geralt’s eyes went wide, and he suddenly grabbed Jaskier’s arm, pulling him into an interrogation.

“Care to enlighten me to what she’s talking about?” Geralt asked intently.

“It’s- it’s not what you think,” Jaskier defended weakly, shifting uncomfortably in the witcher’s grip.

“I think you fucked her,” he growled. You felt shame crawl under your skin.

“Oh… er, then in that case, it is what you think.”

Geralt let out a grunt so loud it was nearly a roar, tossing Jaskier to the ground. “I told you to stay away; she’s like my sister. Gods, Jaskier, of all the people you sleep with… you had to pick her?”

You felt sick, your gut starting to twist around itself.

"Is this what you do?” you asked Jaskier quietly. “Ride around the Continent, pick the toughest nut to crack and then… crack it?"

"No, no,” he began to deny as he picked himself up off the floor, but Geralt started laughing.

“He never puts that much effort in, but yes,” Geralt explained.

“Geralt, shut up,” Jaskier grumbled.

Tears began to burn your eyes.

“I can’t believe I fell for it,” you shook your head in disbelief. I can’t believe I fell for you, you added internally.

“No, you don’t understand,” he replied desperately, though you weren’t sure if he was talking to you or Geralt. “It’s not like that. It’s not like the others.”

Something about the phrase ‘the others’ made your blood boil. Even now, perhaps especially now, you were heartbroken that he had been with so many people.

“What is it then?” you asked. “You’re going to tell me I should be flattered that you put so much effort into deceiving me?”

“I didn’t deceive you,” he answered, his tone becoming dead serious.

“You convinced me that I was important to you,” you remembered. “I know we never really talked about it, but it didn’t seem like a one-time thing—”

Suddenly he interrupted: “I love you.”

Instantly, you slapped him across the face, hard. Hard enough that his face spun to the side, cheek already turning red; hard enough that Geralt winced just by seeing it.

“How dare you say that to me? You don’t even know what that means,” you seethed, tears streaming down your face. “All you know how to do is lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” he replied softly. And you almost believed it. But you’d believed the wrong person too many times to fall that fast, at least not this time.

“Get out,” you hissed through your teeth.

You were prepared for him to fight back, to keep pleading, but he didn’t. And so the three of you stood there for a moment, until Jaskier sighed a little and walked out the door. You shared a look with Geralt, briefly.

“Do you have to go now?” you asked quietly.

“If we stay much later, we’ll have to travel in the dark.”

You sighed, and there was nothing good to say, so instead you crossed the room and pulled him into a hug. He returned the embrace, not with much passion or anything but not begrudgingly either, which was nice. You wanted to ask him if he really saw you as a sister like he’d said, but it would hurt too much in a number of ways.

“You’re always welcome here,” you told him as the hug ended, trying not to put too much emphasis on the you since you didn’t even want to think about Jaskier right now.

“Write if you need anything,” he offered.

You looked at each other and you wondered if he was struggling to decide how to say goodbye as well.

As Geralt rode out of the castle gates, Jaskier plodding along beside the horse, you watched from a small window. You saw Jaskier look back, scan around the walls, and you wondered if he was just appreciating the architecture or looking for you. You stepped back behind the stone, not sure you could take it if he looked at you again.

You wanted to run to your room and sob, mourn for your dignity and everything else you couldn’t get back. You wanted to fall asleep and sleep for a week, so that you could soak up the precious nothingness and blissful ignorance. Instead, you went to the training fields and concentrated your anger into some archery practice.

Must have been the will of Destiny, his voice rang in your head as you remembered being here with him, his perfect shot, the way he looked at you when you were standing so close, how exhilarating it felt just to touch him in the most mundane ways. You scoffed to yourself, at least able to appreciate he was an expert in his craft: he’d made it all feel so real. You swallowed uncomfortably as your mind wandered to the night you spent together, which not only felt real but felt like the realest thing you’d ever known. It was everything else that seemed fake by comparison now. Everyone else would say that he took your honour, even that he dishonoured you, and yet every touch had felt like his way of honouring you. Patience, respect, reverence was palpable in everything you could remember about the encounter. You also didn’t feel as different as you expected… for so much drama surrounding it, virginity apparently had no real emotional or physical ramifications. Some things had changed, though: for one, you understood why people did terrible things to each other because of sex. They would lie and cheat to get it, and maim or kill those who got it from someone they loved. And as much as you could never have empathy for their crimes, you appreciated better why people were so obsessed with it. Then again, you realized that maybe all sex wasn’t actually that good… maybe it was just him. Or maybe it was both of you — maybe it was just how good you two were together.

You were trying your best to steady yourself before taking the shot but your patience ran thin. Acting hastily, you ended up releasing too soon and hitting the outermost edge of the target. You sighed in frustration and tried again, only to miss the target entirely. Frustration turned quickly to rage, and you threw your bow onto the ground with a yell.

Looking at it in the grass, the fire of rage died down into the embers of shame. What was it about Jaskier that always made you lose control? Even now, when he should have the least control over you, you couldn’t control yourself. You slapped him, twice. You laid with him, once. And now you’d subjected an innocent bow to your cruel whims.

You bent down and picked it up, seeing that it had survived the throw; you’d never keep a bow around that couldn’t handle that kind of treatment, anyway.

Repositioning for another shot, you closed your eyes in an attempt to still your mind. All you could see when you closed your eyes was him, though, and the way he looked at you in this very place just a few days ago. And the way he looked at you before he kissed you. The look he’d had in his eyes was gentle, and soft, and vulnerable. You felt a tear roll down your cheek; there was love in his eyes, the way he looked at you. And the way he looked at you when he stood outside your door, waiting for you to come back. And the way he looked at you after you hit him, both times… there was love there, too. Even then. Perhaps especially then.

But that didn’t matter anymore, because he was gone.

I’m in love with him, you finally admitted to yourself. Not I was, not I almost, not I could have.

I am. I did. I do.

But that didn’t matter anymore, because he was gone.

Eyes still closed, you raised your bow, pulled back the string, and took the shot. You felt the feathers graze your face and heard the wind whistle around the arrow. You opened your eyes. A perfect bullseye.

You were laying on your bed the next morning, reading and trying not to think about anything, when you heard it. You weren’t sure what the sound was, but it came again, and you sat up in the bed. Looking around, you realized it was coming from the window, you stood up and opened your shudders. You stepped back just in time to avoid getting hit in the chest with a pebble. Peering out, you saw quite the scene: Jaskier, sitting on a white horse (where did he get that?!), lute on his back, pebbles in his hand, love in his eyes. When he saw you, he dropped them, instantly grabbing his lute. He started to sing, and he had to do it pretty loud so you could even hear him from a story down, but even then his voice nearly brought tears to your eyes.

There lives a fair maiden in Revellon, A defender of justice and peace, She’s as sweet as honey but cold as ice, And yet kinder than soldiers should be

I melted her heart with a kiss, And broke it without a goodbye, I long to earn her affections once more, I pray to see her smile,

There lives a bard who wanders the world, Searching for purpose, writing his songs He found what he’d wanted for all of his life But fears he cannot right his wrongs

You were about to ask him what this was all about, why (and when) he came back, what he wanted from you, when he started talking.

“I’m not strong — at least not compared to you,” he shouted up at you. You simply looked back at him with a puzzled expression. “I’m not very brave, either,” he added. “This, right now, is the bravest thing I’ve ever done. Before, it was just… running away from stuff.”

You fought the desire to chuckle.

“I can’t cook,” he continued, “I get jealous too easily. I’m a flirt, and I’ve fallen for the wrong people too many times to count. I'm not good at goodbyes, as we've established. I don’t read enough, considering how much my parents spent for me to learn how to read, and I’m not all that smart.” You weren’t sure you believed that last one.

“But, if you let me,” his voice wavered a little, “I will love you with everything I have.”

You smiled, a tear escaping from your eyes and rolling down your cheek.

“And now that I say it out loud, it sounds more sexual than I intended,” he added nervously. You laughed, aloud this time.

“If not sex, what are your intentions?” you called back.

“Marriage,” he replied simply, and your face nearly hurt from smiling so hard, “with sex to hopefully follow.”

“Well, spell it out for me then, I’m not so good at the inductive reasoning,” you demanded.

He sighed, begrudgingly addressing you by your full name before finally asking: “will you be my wife?”

“Come up here and let’s talk about it,” you offered with your best attempt at a mischievous smile, face still wet with tears.

“You can’t even give me an answer first?” he whined.

“You’re going to like my answer a lot better if you get it in person,” you explained with a wink, slamming your shutters and waiting patiently for his knock at the door. In just a minute you heard his footsteps coming down the hall faster than you knew he could even run. You opened the door before he reached it, and he only stopped running when he had wrapped his arms around you, kissing you like it was the end of the world.

You fell back onto the bed, thankfully taking a moment first to shut your bedroom door.

“Marry me,” he asked again, although it didn’t sound like a question as much as it did a desperate mid-kiss request.

“Hmm, I don’t know, that song wasn’t very long,” you pondered with a quirked eyebrow.

“I didn’t have long to write it! Besides, the next verses were going to be about the bard and the maiden either being together or splitting up, so I had to know what you would say first.”

“Maybe don’t write about this part, specifically,” you suggested as you started to undo his trousers.

“And to think I worried you wouldn’t forgive me,” he chuckled, helping you pull your blouse off from over your head.

“You’re the one who should forgive me,” you replied. “I don’t know why I didn’t believe you, when you told me the truth. And I keep slapping you, so I’m sorry for that.”

“Don’t apologize,” he dismissed as he kissed up and down your neck, “although, feel free to stop slapping me.”

You laughed, and the way his body felt pressed against yours made you wonder how you could ever be angry at him.

Clothes were hurriedly shucked off, and as soon as he could, he plunged inside you.

“Fuck,” you moaned, and he kissed you again.

“I love you,” he mumbled, seemingly with no real prompting. Thankful for another chance to do this right, you smiled against his lips.

“I love you, too,” you replied.

“Then say yes,” he pleaded.

“Make me,” you demanded. He took that challenge very seriously, thrusting into you deeper, harder, faster.

“Yes, yes, Jaskier,” you moaned, gripping tightly at his arms as if it would stabilize yourself.

“Is that a yes to my question?”

You thought about it for a minute. Really you were just worried that once you said yes, this wonderful tension would cease.

“Don’t hold out on me any longer, I can’t take it,” he begged.

“Yes,” you repeated.

“Yes?” he re-repeated.

“Yes, I’ll marry you,” you clarified.

You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him smile quite like he did when you said it.

“You called for me, my liege?”

“At ease,” Queen Araja commanded, and you stood up out of your bow. “I’ve come to give you something.”

“I ask for nothing,” you dismissed.

“I ask that you stay quiet and accept my gift with grace,” she snapped back. You nodded silently.

She motioned for a servant to approach her, and when you saw that they were carrying a box, you assumed they would bring it to you on behalf of the Queen. Instead, she took it from them and stood up, approaching you. To have the Queen walking towards you and not kneel was very difficult.

As she was finally just a few steps in front of you, she stopped and handed you the box. You felt yourself blushing as you accepted it.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, unsure what exactly to say or do at this point.

“Just open it,” she encouraged.

You pulled open the golden ribbon and lifted the lid. Before you even knew what it was for certain, you gasped to see that it was made of purple silk — a rare and precious material.

“Araja,” you whispered in disbelief, a sort of you shouldn’t have being implied.

“Take it out of the box!” she pressed, and you set it down so that you could pull on the end to reveal that it was a gown: ornate, magnificent, enormous. Gold floral embroidery covered nearly every inch of it, with pearls and precious stones sewn on around the collar and sleeves. You were sure you’d never touched anything so decadent in your life.

“I figured it was time that you own your first dress. You might want to wear one for your wedding,” she explained. You looked at her to find her smiling at you with a softness you weren’t sure you’d ever seen on her.

“This is your wedding gift to me?” you asked, eyes welling with tears.

“Heavens, no; this is your engagement gift. Your wedding gift is retirement,” she responded casually, as if it were nothing.

“What?!”

“Your own estate, a little land not so far from here, some servants… and freedom. You’ve been a great warrior, and a great protector, best of all a great friend. Now go live a normal life.”

You looked at the dress, and you looked at her, and you looked around the hall: the same hall where you danced for the first time, as Jaskier guided you through the motions; the same hall where you defended your country when you were only a teenager, Geralt of Rivia at your side; the same hall where you were knighted by Araja, and where you returned after every battle to report on losses and victories; the same hall where so many new soldiers were commissioned, where their funerals were held.

“Your grace,” you began, “I am overwhelmed by your generosity. But with all due respect, this is my home. I cannot abandon my duties.”

“Does your betrothed know that? Would he marry a working woman?”

You laughed. If anything, he’d be disappointed if he couldn’t get to see you in armor anymore.

“He knows that my people come first,” you explained.

“All right. When your final day of duty arrives, if it does at all, your land will be waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” you bowed.

“Feel free to use the space for a honeymoon,” she winked. You shuddered to imagine her concerning herself with things like that.

“You look stunning,” the maidservant said with a smile.

“But do I look like… me?” you asked nervously.

“I’ll admit that if I didn’t know it was you, I don’t know how quickly I’d recognise you,” she answered.

You sighed, looking yourself up and down in the mirror as you twisted your body to see different angles. Araja’s dress — your dress — was stunning, but you wondered if your wedding day was the wrong day to look like an entirely different person. Was this the person Julian wanted to marry?

“You told me to wait for a good man,” the maidservant suddenly interjected. “Have you? Was it worth it?”

“I have, mostly,” you winked, and she giggled. “If it’s worth it, well, I suppose we’ll see in fifty years whether I’m happily married or not.”

“I can’t believe someone who claims to be conservative got married so fast.”

“I didn’t say I was conservative, I said I was traditional: it’s traditional to marry quickly,” you explained. “When you know, you know.”

“That’s so romantic,” she cooed. You weren’t sure you agreed. It was simply the truth.

“Say, what’s your name, girl?” you asked.

“Hana,” she replied.

“Hana, would you like to be my maid of honor?”

She choked a little. “What?”

“Well, Julian made Geralt his best man and I don’t have any friends to even out the whole thing. So, you can be my first friend and be in my wedding, if you’d like. The position comes with a nice dress.”

“Thank you, madam,” she curtsied, “I’d love to.”

She scurried off with another servant to go find an appropriate dress, and you still worried that this look was all wrong for you. You did your best to pick up the skirt, moving into the hallway. You knew where Jaskier was waiting, and you knocked on the door. Just as it began to open, you grabbed the handle.

“Don’t open the door,” you commanded.

“Sorry, I suppose I was thrown off by the knocking,” you heard him reply.

“You can’t see me before the wedding,” you explained.

“Well, it was nice not seeing you, then?”

“I needed to ask your opinion on something.”

“Go ahead,” he offered.

“I was wondering what you think of my outfit.”

An awkward moment passed silently.

“Looks great,” he groaned.

“I know you can’t see it, I just mean…” you trailed off, and started over: “were you expecting me to wear trousers?”

“When I imagined you on our wedding day, I wasn’t really thinking about that.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“I was thinking about how wide your smile would be, how your eyes would sparkle, the colour of your hair when the light hits it just right…"

"...Okay, but was I wearing my dress blues? Or an actual dress?” you asked, confused. He sighed.

“Darling, you’re going to look amazing either way. Wear whatever you want. I’d marry you if you came out there in a burlap sack!”

You smiled, feeling yourself blush. It might have sounded simple to anyone else, but to you, knowing his refined fashion sense, it was quite meaningful.

“Close your eyes,” you instructed.

“Alright,” he replied.

“Are they closed?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Don’t open them,” you commanded sternly.

“Yes, I get it darling, these instructions aren’t nearly as complicated as you’re making them out to be!”

You opened the door slowly, to find him waiting with eyes closed and a small smile. You stepped closer, trying not to bump your skirt into him, and pressed your lips against his. He returned the kiss, and his hands started to reach for your waist, but you grabbed them first, hoping to prevent him from feeling the fabric. He smiled against your lips, his fingers interlacing with yours.

You pulled back a bit, appreciating how lovely he looked up close like this. “Thinking of running off? Again?” you asked.

“Not a chance,” he whispered back.

“You’re not craving adventure?”

“Of course I am,” he answered. “My greatest adventure is right here in front of me.”

The ceremony was traditional, elegant, not obnoxiously lavish: fitting for a woman like you. The reception, meanwhile, was rowdy, energetic, full of laughing and dancing, bathed in orange glow, warm and inviting: fitting for a man like him.

He practically dragged you to the middle of the hall, waving some instructions to the band (which he still played with most of the time at his own wedding) and swinging you into a dance.

“You know, I never danced until I met you,” you told him.

“I can tell,” he replied with a smile. You laughed at the burn.

“I hate you,” you chuckled, shaking your head.

“You love me,” he grinned.

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive,” you countered.

He kissed you; it didn’t feel as different as you expected, now that he was your husband.

My husband Julian, you thought to yourself. It had a nice ring to it.

Time seemed to go by quickly when the two of you were together. A whole lifetime passed in an instant. He had a habit of fiddling with his ring, twirling it around his finger. He sang all the time, most of it just sentence fragments and little riffs, his way of working out new songs. He was a ridiculously anxious parent, barely willing to take his eyes off the kids for a moment. The only time he seemed to calm down was when he was serenading them to sleep. He wrote so many incredible songs in his life; all his best love songs were not about you, actually, but the children. Not that the love songs about you weren’t wonderful, because they were. You had plenty of awkward moments when you met a new person and had to explain that yes, you were the Lady Pankratz of Revellon from the songs— even more awkward when it was someone you were arresting.

Araja wanted you to do something spectacular for your fiftieth wedding anniversary, but you had one appointment you knew you needed to keep. You had dinner with Hana, herself a girl turned wife turned mother turned old woman now (if this little girl is an old woman, how fucking old am I? you’d thought when you saw her again), and told her that you had made the right choice; that all these years later, you were still happily married.

#jaskier x reader #jaskier x oc #dandelion x reader #my writing #wow i cant believe its overrrrrrr

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earl-of-221b · 5 years ago

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I'm going to try articulate what it was about RK movie 1′s Battousai reveal that’s so amazing and different from the manga/anime.

In the manga/anime, the reveal is the intro of the entire story and happens fast-paced. The fake Battousai has come to Kaoru’s dojo to cause trouble. Kenshin, in order to disparage this weak fake Battousai using his name, gives a show of ego and power along the lines of “You call yourself Battousai? I am Battousai. Even if I don’t want it, I’m not about to allow that title to you.” It’s cool as shit, everyone gasps because omg!! He’s the real Battousai!! But he’s tiny!! But he’s so Strong!! Fun, clear, simple. Kenshin demonstrates his skills and that’s the general gist.

RK live action movie expands a lot more to this 1 ep plot. Kenshin and Kaoru have a scene that takes places in the Kamiya dojo. Kaoru has been patrolling the streets in order to bring down the fake Battousai. In the movie, the fake Battousai and his handlers have been sort of creating propaganda saying Battousai uses Kamiya Kasshin ryu. This is in order to bring disrepute to the Kaoru’s Kamiya dojo, the legacy of her samurai father, which she singlehandedly runs. (They want to ruin this dojo because it’s on a choice piece of land that the villains want to take.) Since the fake Battousai has started serial murdering, Kaoru’s dojo emptied out because the dojo is seen to have lost its honour. No one wants to learn the style of an evil serial killer - and not just only any old serial killer - but the bane of the Bakumatsu war, the mythical and terrible Hitokiri Battousai, a historical boogey monster. Kaoru’s honour, her father’s legacy, and the dojo itself is utterly ruined.

But Kenshin quite bluntly says, “You should give up on him. He is far stronger than you, Kaoru-dono. A swordsman must be honest about his foe’s skill and his own. You must have realised what will happen if you face him again. The dignity of your school...such a thing is not worth your life.”

Fake Battousai is way stronger. He’s way meaner. He actually uses a real sword, unlike Kaoru’s wooden one. It’s obviously suicide to go after this man. It’s blunt, but important. Kenshin values human life. The dignity and and honour and reputation of Kaoru’s school are abstract things (things he used to operate on, things he used to have, believed in, once upon a time) - but these invisible things don’t mean anything if she’s dead. It’s just not worth it. People are always more important. Reputation is not.

But Kaoru kind of takes his words the wrong way, and it’s completely understandable why. She’s a lone woman running her father’s dojo, who just had to be saved by this wanderer man when facing down the fake Battousai. From her perspective, it looks like Kenshin is looking down her, patronising her. You’re too weak to beat him, just stop. Kaoru goes after a known serial killer every day because she is committed to her dojo and style. The dojo is her duty. Her father’s memory. Her lifeblood. It’s everything to her. She takes immense value on the reputation and honour of her dojo because if she didn’t she’d lose everything. She’d even lose her identity, if she didn’t fight for these things she loves. Some things are worth fighting for. Dying for.

“The sword is not a tool for killing. Kamiya Kasshin ryu sees as ideal the sword that brings men to life.” The discipline that her style teaches is so very optimistic in this kind of abjectly post-Bakumatsu war world: swordsmanship is an art that should be cultivated, it’s a piece of heritage that should be shared, and a thing to make people’s lives better. It’s for protection, for leisure, and not for killing. “For the school to be stained by a sword that kills is unthinkable. But a mere wanderer,” Kaoru says, “can never understand this pain!” Kenshin is stunned a little by Kamiya Kasshin ryu’s philosophy. A sword that brings life. A sword that never kills. Isn’t that completely antithetical? Especially to him, who we know is the Real Battousai, who we just watched straight massacre 30-ish soldiers at the movie’s intro. He leaves pondering, with a quick bow to the dojo before going.

Later, the ronin thugs sent by Kanryu (villain) come to intimidate Kaoru into selling the dojo. They run around in their shoes dirtying the floors, bully Kaoru’s only student Yahiko. Things are bad, Kaoru can’t possibly fight all 30 men. Suddenly, Kenshin bursts in. He tells the thugs, “You are right. Her words are of a person who never soiled one’s hands with a killing. Sounds like childish nonsense. A sword is a weapon. Swordsmanship is the art of killing. No matter what pretty words you use, that is the truth that cannot be changed. But in the face of this awful truth, I prefer the naive words of Kaoru-dono.”

He says it’s naive nonsense. Then he turns around then defends it. He defends Kamiya Kasshin ryu, he defends Kaoru, and he defends the dojo by beating all 30 men to a pulp. First he uses his bare hands. Then he switches to a few wooden swords, which he had to keep replacing cos he’d literally break them. It’s ‘nonsense’ to him because he’s a murderer, he’s been to war, he’s seen the worst mankind has to offer. In the new era that he killed to create, to people like Kaoru, who never had to go through that, it’s not nonsense at all. She believes it. This optimistic philosophy. This kind, sincere thing. And that’s worth defending. Kenshin says one thing and does another. It’s clear where he stands when he takes the time to remove his shoes before going into the dojo where the thugs do not. He takes the time to bow in the doorway before going in.

And then the best and most heart palpitating part. Kenshin says, “The style that Hitokiri Battousai uses is that of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. It’s an ancient style that pits one against many.” Kenshin unsheathes his sword even though he’s already singlehandedly defeated all the thugs. He doesn’t need to do this, they’re already on the floor, but he does. He does it so he can demonstrate his own style, Hiten Mitsurugi ryu.

He has just announced to everyone that he is Hitokiri Battousai, in the flesh.

And more importantly, Hitorkiri Battousai’s style is NOT Kamiya Kasshin ryu.

Think about it this way - Kenshin has spent ten years of his life wandering, laying low, and disappearing out of sight. He hates Battousai because he used to be him. He used to be this great killer lauded for his skills in killing and nothing else, and he has killed hundreds of people before running away from that life. Running away from that version of him, that truth of him he’d do anything to escape. He wanders around, keeping his head down as low as possible. Battousai is even seen as a criminal by people these days, and because of the impersonators. Now after ten years of hiding, Kenshin comes out into the open for the first time to announce, “Battousai uses Hiten Mitsurugi ryu, NOT KAMIYA KASSHIN RYU.” He gets out his sword to prove he is the real Battousai.

And he does it to save the things Kaoru holds dear - her dojo, her reputation, her father’s legacy, her Kamiya Kasshin ryu, her ‘naive nonsense.’ He does everything to clear her dojo’s name. He surrenders himself to the Mortifying Ideal of Being Known to give her her things back, things that he’s tangentially responsible for ruining. Kenshin does it by disgracing himself just by admitting he is Battousai. He even sacrifices Kaoru’s good opinion of him, Miss ‘For the school to be stained by a sword that kills is unthinkable’ who will now obviously hate him. He opens himself to violence and hatred by admitting this. This causes the rest of the movie events to happen because he outed himself as Battousai - he goes to prison, he’s found by Saito, by Yamagata Arimoto, by Takeda Kanryu, Jinei, even Megumi, even Sano - by all these people who want a piece of Battousai.

And he did it for Kaoru, whom he just met. Because people are worth it. And Kaoru and her style and her philosophy are worth it. And his own peace and blissful anonymity is not.

But of course, Kaoru doesn’t hate ‘Battousai.’ Because she gets what he just did for her. That’s why Kaoru pulling Kenshin out of his Battousai craze at the end of the movie matters. Maybe swordsmanship doesn’t have to be the art of killing. You can protect without killing. He defended Kaoru and her philosophy, and its Kaoru and her philosophy that saves him from becoming Battousai again. Kenshin’s entire existence proves that Kamiya Kasshin ryu is not nonsense, does it not? This movie and climax perfectly ties up like this and I love it.

Also. Somehow Satoh Takeru makes beating the shit out of 30 men and then boasting about his legendary sword style look like an act of utter surrender.

#rurouni kenshin #rk live action #rk liveblog #the original manga is good of course - but the movie is placed in a more realistic world #it focused more on being a historical epic #whereas the manga/anime is shounen action #so I think a lot of the movie's additions gave weight that was missing in the manga #'I am Battousai' being an act of surrender #and 'Hiten Mitsurugi ryu is my style' in order to clear Kaoru's name #amazing

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illfoandillfie · 5 years ago

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Congrats you deserve all the followers in the world!! ❤ could you pretty please do a sequel to Make Me? 😁

Thank you, lovely! This was a fun one!

Make Me

1000 Follower Celebration

~~~~

Roger’s hand left your throat, leaving a sting on your cheek where he slapped you. Not as hard as you knew he was capable of but things were bound to escalate, you were going to make sure of it. If you were going to beg for him, and that was a given, he was going to have to earn it. Before you could say anything to egg him on his hand closed around your throat again and he backed you up against the wall. He brought his lips to yours again, a continuation of the kiss he’d started in the kitchen only more savage. No chance to draw another breath with how he had your throat pinned, even as he pulled away, your bottom lip between his teeth. When he finally released you, let you gasp for air, you felt lightheaded and unsteady.

“Beg for it,”

“Make me,”

Another slap, harder than the first. That was more like it. You were still breathing hard when his hands fell to the waistband of your pants, tugging then down quickly. He gave you a moment to step out of them, kick them out from under your feet before he pressed his fingers to your clit over your underwear.

“I’ve known you a long time, love. And we’ve been fucking for a good chunk of that time. So I also know how to make you whine and moan. I know you love it when I rough you up. You shiver every time I choke you. Get soaked every time I spank you. You like it hard and rough. You’re a dirty whore and I know how to make you beg for me.”

You made a noise of protest but he dragged his finger over the front of you more-than-damp knickers and laughed.

“See, all it took was a slap or two and my fingers squeezing your throat and you’ve already started to drip,” he laughed again, a rough sound that sent heat straight to your core, “I know it’s partly because I’ve been away. You’ve missed being treated like this. Wouldn’t have been so eager to tease me if you hadn’t. Asking me to make you beg as if you don’t want to.”

Suddenly he slapped you again, a single stinging slow directly to your cunt. You moaned. Not that you’d intended to, if you’d known it was coming you could have held it together, played at being disinterested a little longer. But he took you by surprise and you couldn’t stop it. You were sure he was going to do it again, staring into his eyes waiting for more. But then he took a step back. You could still feel his hands on you though they very clearly weren’t, the warmth fading until you felt almost cold, standing against the wall for no other reason than you didn’t know what was happening. Roger turned around and walked over to the couch, flopping down into like nothing had happened, like you weren’t standing there with soaked panties and a heaving chest, still trying to pull yourself together enough to work out what to do.

“Rog?”

“Yes dear?” you could hear the shit eating grin even if you couldn’t see it.

Slowly, uncertainly, you stepped away from the wall, following Roger’s path over to the lounge, “I thought...”

He looked up at you from the seat, legs outstretched, feet up on the coffee table, the TV remote in his hand like he’d been about to turn it on, “You thought what? That I’d push you to your knees? That I’d edge you until you were desperate enough to actually beg? No, I’m not doing that.”

“But-”

“But you’re wet?”

“Yes,”

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

“No. I’m not doing that either,”

“Fine, I’ll go do it myself then.” You took a step away from Roger’s chair but his voice stopped you.

“No you won’t.”

Once again you began to protest but once again he cut you off.

“I mean you could. More than welcome to, actually. But you won’t. I know you won’t because you love my cock and my fingers and my mouth. Can’t quite cum the same without me, can you?”

You didn’t know what to say. He was right of course but admitting that would be giving in and that wasn't the game. Though the game had clearly changed from what you were expecting. It left your whole body feeling tense, like a wire about to snap.

“And the only way you’re going to get anything from me is if you beg.”

“No,”

“Alright,” Roger shrugged and made himself more comfortable on the couch, wiggling into the cushions further, and dropped the remote beside him. Without so much as glancing at you he began unbuckling his belt, unzipping his pants, pushing them down until he could free his semi-hard cock. You watched silently as he began to stroke himself, the hand he’d had wrapped around your throat now wrapped around his cock. You were glued to the spot, unable to look away from him, unable to think about how badly you wanted him. If you’d been a little stronger maybe, at least a little less surprised, you would have dropped into the seat beside him and started your own show. Seen if you could break him. As it was though you could barely think straight, so taken aback by what he was doing.

Roger’s laugh brought you back to reality, “God you’re worse than I thought. I expected some sort of fight from you. But you can’t even take your eyes off it. Bet your mouth’s watering as much as your cunt it.”

“What are you doing?” it came out quieter than you planned, more need than contempt.

“Wanking, whats it look like?”

“Why?”

“Because if you’re not going to beg to suck me off, beg to swallow my cum, beg for the honour of worshipping my cock like a good slut would, then you get nothing. You can stand there, dripping, and watch me, or you can give in and beg me like we both know you want to. Those are your options.”

You broke, “Please let me suck your dick,”

Roger’s hand stopped his movement, “What was that, didn’t quite hear you?”

“Please let me suck your dick,”

“Again?”

“Please, please Sir, please let me suck your dick. I want you to fuck my mouth and make me choke on you, please.”

“Sir?” he chuckled, “that’s rare. You must be fucking desperate. Can’t really say no to that,” he clicked his fingers and pointed to the floor, “crawl.”

Without thinking you dropped to your hands and knees, crawling the small distance between you. Roger took his feet off the coffee table and guided you to the spot between them. He told you to take your shirt off, leaving you in just your underwear. Then, being gentler than he had been since you first told him to make you beg, he brushed his fingers through your hair, pulling it into a makeshift ponytail. You were breathing hard again, anticipation making it as difficult to breathe as his choking had. Once he was satisfied with his grip on your hair, he used it to pull you closer and hold you in place. You’d lost all sense of dignity, giving in and begging again when it became clear he wasn’t just going to let you have what you wanted. Finally though, he couldn’t hold back. He let you have some control to start, his fist still tangled in your hair because he knew the feeling made you squirm. Gradually, as you adjusted and relaxed your throat, he used the grip on your hair to guide you and then to control you. All you could do was try to stay relaxed as he forced you up and down his shaft, only able to stop for a breath when he allowed it. You took him deeper and deeper, the way he wanted, until your nose was pushed into his pubes and you were choking on his entire length. He held you there, counting slowly down from five to help you stay calm even as your chest tightened with the lack of air and your fight or flight reflexes tried to tell you to escape. When he pulled you up you gasped for air, able to feel the strings of spit connecting your lips to him and running over your chin. Tears were rolling down your cheeks and you knew you must look a mess but Roger seemed to enjoy the sight.

“Do you want more?”

“Yes please, Sir, please make me choke on your cock again,”

There was the sharp sting of another slap to your cheek and then he smiled and pushed you down again, no counting this time, holding you in place until he deemed it long enough.

“Once more, slut. And this time I’m going to cum.”

You nodded and let him tug you back into place, bobbing your head a few times before you were shoved all the way down again. You whined when he pinched your nose shut, his cock twitching at the feeling, pushing him into his release. Your chest and throat burned from lack of oxygen and rough use but you gladly stayed in place until he pulled you back, cum dripping over your lips and his cock. If you’d looked a mess before, you must have looked twelve times as messy now. He grabbed your shirt from where you’d thrown it onto the couch beside him and used it to wipe up your face.

“Clean me up,” he said, his fingers finally disentangling from your hair as you sucked breath after breath into your lungs, “and then we’ll talk about what else you can beg for.”

#my writing #my blurbs #smut blurb #roger taylor smut #roger taylor x reader #1000 follower celebration #Anonymous

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kuningannasansa · 5 years ago

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A musketeers rewatch (that nobody asked for) 1x04

(warning: not always complimentary towards all characters, especially not aramis, anne and athos. dont like, don’t read)

We start with Louis being a prat and in this instance I love it!

Richelieu is wearing his red robes over the hideous black outfit. I wish it was just the robes.

Athos wonders what’s wrong with Aramis and Porthos says “have you forgotten about the massacre at Savoy?”. This is clumsy exposition. Realistically Athos the character would not have forgotten but I guess the viewers need to know.

“A strategically important pimple” - Lmao! Who says Armand hasn’t got a sense of humour!

This marks the beginning of these strangely depopulated court scenes. I do wish they had been able to afford more extras!

The Duke’s name is Victor... idk how I feel about that

The conversation between Marsac and Aramis is very well written, the exposition feels natural and also Aramis handles the situation quite well.

Now the Duke is mad and everyone is trying to calm him down. Treville points out that they should wait for the facts and Anne says that the shot could have hit any one of them, they are family and should stick together. This is why I liked her back in season 1! She was clever, had some political acumen and was good at playing her role as queen (women being seen as the gentler sex whose job it was to calm mens anger) while still maneuvering and getting her own way.

It is funny thou, how everyone else is making good points and Richelieu is pacing around in a panic not saying anything at first, not even responding to Victor’s insults. And when he does speak he miscalculates and angers the duke. He is brilliant when given time to think and consider, but not always quick on his feet lol (as pointed out by @tatzelwyrm in her wonderful fic Reformation, which I really must remember to review cause I fucking loved it).

Louis calls the duke a pomous arse and Richelieu points out that France needs Savoy, but his face says he agrees xD

There’s definitely some sexual tension between Aramis and Marsac. Or maybe I’m just a shameless slasher...

“If this gets me hanged, I’m going to take it very personally” - lol, I do love musketeers humour!

The scene between my dear grand deceiver and his bluff honest man of action is SO GOOD!! The dialogue, the delivery, the acting in general!

Richelieu’s room is ridiculously large and empty thou xD

“Death in battle is one thing, but your world of back alley stabbings and murder disgusts me” - that seems to be the show’s morality in a nutshell and I don’t like it. Whether you’re killed by Milady’s dagger between the ribs or a musketeer sword, you end up no less dead. Sometimes secret assassinations are necessary, that’s why countries have spy agencies. And while yes, in battle you can see your opponent coming and have a good chance to deny him, I am convinced that a big part of why killing in battle is seen as more honourable is that it is the more traditionally masculine option. Also, it is an option most easily accessible to able bodied men. Everyone else can’t always afford to “fight fair”.

“Not everything I do is pleasant, but it is all necessary.” - well, that’s not true either. Not all.

Richelieu panics again and wants to move the prisoner but Treville says a transfer would only attract attention and Richelieu is like “yeah, you’re probably right” lol. Poor cardinal, he’s trying to run the whole country alone but he needs advisors just like anyone else would to make the best decisions. If he would just admit it, his life would be a lot easier!

Dartagnan gets all jealous and territorial over Constance. I know it’s meant to indicate their true love, but I’ve never found that shit charming.

Aramis ties Marsac up. This is making me horny now.

“I’ve thought of you many times” - omg, I gotta see if there’s fic of them!

Constance finds out that Marsac is a criminal and instead of kicking him out, she kicks D’artagnan out! Bless!

Okay, so the Duke’s men killed the 20 musketeers because the Duke thought that they had come to kill him and put his son on the throne. And Treville told him where to find them through Cluzet (spl?). But actually it was all a distraction to kidnap Cluzet. Noting this down, cause I don’t remember the plot anymore.

PORTHOS DEFENDING TREVILLE!! <3

And Richelieu just couldn’t resist going to see his prisoner!

And Cluzet worked for the Duke officially but was actually a Spanish spy! Okay, that makes sense. I wondered why they kidnapped him lol.

Richelieu is gloating now. He should have stayed away from there.

“Total solitude, unlimited time to reflect... I almost envy you.” - oh Armand! You will learn in the Spanish prison :(

(yes, in this house the Spanish prison AU is canon)

Porthos: “this is the captain we’re talking about” Aramis: “which is why we owe it to him to clear his name” - damn, that’s a good argument! I like Aramis in this episode! That’s probably why I remember liking him a lot when season 1 first aired...

“If it is true, what then?” - @donnaimmaculata made an excellent point about that here: https://donnaimmaculata.tumblr.com/post/109300936446/aramis-was-actually-at-his-smartest-in-this

Louis playing swords with Louis Amadeus is so cute!! And the kid is a more gracious loser than Louis is a winner xD

“I don’t want protection, I want to be treated as an equal.” - that’s a good Constance line, much more feminist than that nonsense about the duchess later in the episode

And D'artagnan apologizes and promises not to lie to her again. Mentioning that cause his respect for her boundaries and acknowledging when he makes a mistake goes totally out the window in season two.

The duke: “Have you captured the man who tried to kill me?” Richelieu: “We should not be distracted by minor issues.” - what is wrong with him this episode?? he is not being at all diplomatic

The duke challenges Athos to a duel and Treville is so cool and quietly confident while Richelieu frets.

And Treville smirks at his evident distress xD

Treville gets mad at Athos for humiliating the duke. He could have defeated him in a way that left him his dignity, apparently. But Porthos says he would have cut his head off, so Treville should consider himself lucky, really.

Porthos is very good at spying!

Treville’s filing of documents is “meticulous”, apparently. Sorry, but that does NOT sound like him!

“I will never believe the captain is a traitor” - that’s noble of you Athos. Maybe you could have extended the same courtesy to your wife?

The confrontation with Treville is so angsty and well acted and tense! This is the show at it’s best, dealing with a serious issue and giving it the weight it deserves. I love!

It’s kind of sad seeing how in love the duke is with his wife! I hope he never finds out she’s a spy lol xD

Now Marsac tries to rape Constance. Was that really necessary? Like, really, why?? We understand he is an antagonist, there is no need to make him cartoonishly evil, especially by using violence against women.

I don’t know what his friend being a seezy rapist says about Aramis thou...

Dart to the rescue, yawn!

I do love how we are led to believe they’re gonna kiss and then she goes “teach me how to shoot” xD

“Honour? There’s no word in the language more likely to cause stupidity and inconvenience” - lmaoo, Richelieu I feel you

“You think I won’t have you arrested? That you’re above the normal rules of soldiering?” - Yesss Treville, have him arrested! You will save everyone a lot of grief down the road!

Aramis punches Treville in the face! LOL! xD

Aramis and Marsac argue how to handle Treville (Marsac wants to assassinate him) and Aramis just cradles his face!

And then Marsac punches aramis in the face and knocks him out cold! LOL! xD

I love how the duke is actually objectively right in this episode. Imperialist France is meddling in the affairs of another sovereign state. The weak suffer what they must. And the musketeers are not on the side of good by helping the King and Richelieu conceal Cluzet. They follow their orders and work for the state, but the state is, well, not always nice. Just pointing that out...

The duchess looks so cool and beautiful riding into the garrison in that yellow dress with her cloak flapping in the wind!

“You traitor!” Cluzet says to the duchess. Pot calling the kettle black

“Not your average duchess then” - I don’t like this line! It sort of implies that an average duchess without fighting skills is somehow lesser and plays into a long pattern in television when women are only valued when they have “masculine” skills. But I do love her character a lot! More on that here: https://kuningannasansa.tumblr.com/post/100754198434/a-duchess-of-savoy-appreciation-post

Richelieu’s FACE when he sees D'artagnan as the guard! xD

But I wonder what his plan was? What if the musketeers had not shown up to save his ass?

“Paris has a number of excellent places of correction, if you’d like a tour of them all?” - aawwww, sassy cardinal!

He even gives Dartagnan a look of acknowledgement. As well he should! The Cluzet switch was brilliant and funny!

Now Marsac is going to kill Treville, but Aramis stops him, saying there should be a court martial. Well done Aramis, keeping your head! Also, justice! It does exist!

This is another very well acted emotional scene!

Aramis shoots Marsac, choosing Treville over him. It’s sad and tragic and wonderful television!

“I love my husband, very much” - I like their relationship

Lmaooo now Richelieu is already plotting the Duke’s murder xD

Wet Aramis at Marsac’s grave is hot!

In conclusion, there were some things I didn’t like, but all in all this was a very good episode!

Red Guards killed in the line of duty: none

Women fridged: also none! this really was a good one guys!

Best dressed: Constance

#the musketeers #bbc musketeers #cardinal richelieu #captain treville #trevilieu #constance bonacieux #milady de winter #musketeers rewatch

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venusofthehardsells · 5 years ago

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I’ll take my heart this time [one-shot]

Empath!ReaderxLoki Summery: After helping the Avengers save the world from an alien army, the reader must confront her life-long devotion to the God of Mischief. Warnings: angst, toxic relationship, mentions of past abuse if you squint A/N: This ended up longer and... very different than intended. What can I say, apparently this Reader does what she wants too. This was written for @connorshero s 2K Song Fic Writing Challenge (embarrassingly late, thanks tumblr for flagging my blog) and my prompt was the song “Better Than I Know Myself” by Adam Lambert, a song I love a little obsessively. Enjoy! _____ Thor stopped on the doorstep when he saw the state of the room. "You're leaving?" The disbelief in his voice, the hurt, resonated within you, but you firmly kept folding the sheet you had taken off the bed. There was no need for an answer. Anyone could tell you were practically halfway out the door already.

You had donned your overcoat and boots, and your few belongings were stashed in a leather bag pack on one of the chairs. Every surface in here had been cleared of things and swiped down. There was only the bedding left, which you were now neatly folding and placing on the naked duvet. "Why?" Your stomach clenched, but you managed to get a calm answer out of the emotional slaughter still raging in your mind. "I promised to stay and help defeat the alien intruders. They are defeated, so..." You left the sentence hanging in the air. "Yes, but there is no need for you to go. My brother... I mean, we all hoped that you would become a permanent part of the team." "You know that I can't." Thor wore his feelings plainly on his face and the way his pale blue eyes now bristled with pity was as clear as day to you. "But you love him," he said quietly. You snorted to hide the fact that your carefully constructed indifference was slowly coming apart from his words. "It hardly matters..." Your voice was trembling now and it made you angry. Why couldn't you control your own damn feelings when it came to Loki? Even after all this time... "My dear, you wiped out an entire army because you couldn't bear the thought of losing him. Of course it matters!" "He used me!," you cried, feeling tears stinging in your eyes now. "He knew how I would react, how I would feel..." It was too much.You crumbled as you set a sheet of tears free down your cheeks and allowed yourself to sob. Thor was at your side at once and gently placed his large arms around you. "He also knew it was the only way we could win," he said reasonably and you were briefly proud your chaotic emotions weren't rubbing off on him. You kept sobbing in his embrace, wishing it was Loki's, wishing you had been a better guard of your heart all those years ago. "Please don't leave him," Thor mumbled after a while when the sobs had finally stopped raking your body and instead left you trembling and silently heaving for breath. "Loki is too proud to admit it, but he is better with you." "You're right," you managed, biting your lip. "He is too proud. And I am a fool for wanting the impossible." Slipping back into a frail shell of the control you usually wielded, you slowly detached yourself from Thor and went to pick up your bag. You grabbed one of the straps so tightly your nails cut into your palm and made little crescent indentations. The pain kept you grounded. "Farewell Thor, Son of Odin. It was an honour fighting beside you." There was something akin to mourning in Thor's expression now as he lightly shook his head but nevertheless he acknowledged your goodbye. "The honour was mine." You swallowed the lump that had built up in your throat again and turned to leave. You had taken less than two steps down the hallway when a shout made you hold your steps. "Wait!" That particular voice made your legs freeze up for about two seconds. Then you resumed your path at twice the pace. You made it halfway towards the lift before Loki's hand was around your wrist. "Please, stop." It was a mistake to turn your head and look at him. Whenever you did, you had to wonder if he didn't have the same powers as yourself after all. Those startlingly beautiful eyes that shone like a pair of bright precious stones always took your breath away. Even now, even hating him, you found yourself short of breath as his eyes bore into yours. "Let go of me, Loki." You were better at controlling your feelings than your voice and it didn't come out as coldly as you wanted it to. "I have a flight to catch." "Whereto?" "Does it matter? This world ought to be big enough for us never to have to meet again." You tore your wrist from his grip. "Is that what you want?" The fact that he had the audacity to sound remorseful beneath the calmness of his demeanour made a spark of anger flare up in you. Did he honestly believe, after everything he had witnessed, after everything you had done, that such a simple acting trick would work in his favour? "How dare you?," you whispered, feeling your throat constrict with each word and breath that left your mouth. "How dare you say it like that?!" "What do you mean?" Loki took less than half a step away from you, but his eyes never left yours. And they were searching. As if he truly couldn't fathom what made you look at him with such contempt. "You are unbelievable! After all this time... how can you possibly have to ask me what I want?" Tears stung in your eyes again, but you suddenly realised you were beyond caring. He had taken everything you could offer him: your love. Your friendship and your council, your unwavering support, your powers, your devotion, your body even, years and years of your life and, eventually, your very soul. Let him have your dignity as well. "I have given you everything, Loki. And you have shown me time and time again that it isn't enough for you. I killed thousands in your name... But I would have killed millions more if it meant winning your heart. I would have done anything. You have known that for as long as you've known me. Isn't that why you asked for my help? Because you knew? Even after what you put me through, when you called I came running. To you." Your insides hurt when you paused to breathe. Your cheeks were wet with tears that wouldn't stop spilling from your eyes and you cursed them to Hel and back for betraying your feelings so blatantly in front of Loki. "But it's over. I am done playing this wicked game of yours where I accept whatever scraps of affection you can spare at the time, like some loyal dog who still licks the hand that beats it. The next time you need help, Your Highness, call someone else." Your voice was in shambles by the time you finished speaking. Every word hurt to get out. From the tips of your fingers through your bones until they scratched their way past your tongue, they burned and seared inside of you, and once they were out they left you feeling empty and naked beneath Loki's silent emerald stare. The worst of it, however, was not how you felt.It was the bitter sting of heartache coming from him. Loki drew in a deep, almost careful breath as if the silence between you following your words would explode if he cut it the wrong way. "You're right," he said quietly, eyeing you with apprehension the way one might a feral animal. "I've always taken your devotion for granted..." You hardly dared move when he whispered your name. "I'm sorry." It felt as if your heart might stop right then and there. You let out a strangled little sort of gasp, clutching your bag pack close like a shield. The fact that you hadn't turned and walked further away from him seemed to reassure him a little. "I want you to know I truly mean it when I say I didn't wish to cause you any more pain when I asked you to come here. Quite the opposite to be honest. I also know you won't believe me..." Loki almost chuckled at that, though the anguish he was feeling was still clear on his face. "I have given you no reason to trust me in the past." You swallowed when he hesitated. "So I'm going to offer you proof instead." Then he held out his hand. Unlike almost everyone else, Loki had in time learned to conceal his true feelings for you or at least make it harder for you to read them. His emotions took a lot of effort for you to make out if he didn't want you to know them. Unless you touched him directly. His outreached hand to you was him baring himself of all defences. If you took it there would be nothing shielding him. He couldn't lie his way out of it; you could completely undress his heart. Your fingers trembled. It would be so easy to reach out and touch those long pale fingers of his and finally find out how he felt. Once and for all. "Please," he urged when you didn't move. There was a slight shiver in his voice that you were sure he hadn't meant for you to hear. He made no attempt to hide the fact that he was growing more and more desperate with every second that passed without you moving towards him.You shook your head. "I can't." A hint of his panic reached you, but you made sure not to mix it with the chaos of your own. "I can't do this again. You've... you've broken my heart so many times, I don't think I'll survive it if you do it again." Your words were barely a whisper, but you might as well have shouted them for how Loki flinched. "I won't. I've been a fool in the past and I realise that you have already given me more chances than I deserve... But I am begging you for just one more. Please..." "Loki..." "Take my hand. I... I need you." His voice fell to a whisper. "I can't lose you." There was no mistaking that his eyes were glistening now. Your name lay softly and quivering on his lips and it felt as if your heart had stopped in your chest. If you hadn't known him most of your life and if you hadn't been in a disturbingly similar situation only a few centuries earlier, you would have leapt right at him with open arms.You couldn't hold back the sob that had been building up in your throat and grown so big it was hurting you. "Stop it," you whimpered, frantically shaking your head now. "It's over. The line between love and hate is the width of a strand of hair, Loki. And I've been stumbling along it for as long as I can remember... You never deserved my love." The words tasted acidic in your mouth. You fixed him with a long, hard stare that was probably not half as intimidating as you imagined given your current state of distress, but you might as well have stabbed Loki in the gut for how devastated he looked. "But the worst part is that after everything, after all you've done... after all you've endured..." Your voice quavered with pent up mourning for him that never seemed to stop. "You don't deserve my hate either. If I leave, you won't have any of the two. You can start afresh." Loki swallowed. Hard. At long last, you could feel him let go of the final shred of pride holding him back. He closed the distance between you and placed both hands tenderly against your temples. Over the past thousand years, you had touched each other more times than you could possibly count, and in much more intimate ways. But it had never felt like this. Despite the cold in his fingertips, rush after rush of warmth spilled from the places his skin touched yours, filling you with a serene sense of comfort and familiarity and, overwhelmingly, bliss. “Please, don’t do this…,” he intoned in a frail murmur, about to utterly shatter. “Don’t walk away. I’m not ready to let you go. I love you.” It felt as if all the air in the corridor was sucked out of your lungs and right out of reach. The tears turned to glass in your eyes. He really meant it. The words you had always longed to hear. He meant them with all his heart. The very thing you had never ever thought would cross his lips. He felt them with all of his being. I love you. I love you. Loki leaned in and the world fell away at the touch of his lips. You closed your eyes and pressed yourself into his gentle hold, into his desperate kiss, his quivering hands, his very existence. You were acutely aware of everything that was him. Hair, skin, bones, blood and the way his eyelids fluttered shut, the movement of his mouth against yours as he hungrily sucked on your bottom lip to press the heat of his tongue against your own in a fervent dance that a part of you never wanted to cease. Loki. Time stilled as you descended into the fabric of his mind. From the wide hallways of his ambitions to the darkest corners of his secret desires, his soul was laid bare to your scrutiny. Oh, the mind has mountains. In that moment, nothing moved outside the two of you. You took your time feeling your way through everything he in his candour offered up. You had never been this deeply connected before. In your youth, your powers had yet to blossom to their full potential and it had been a struggle to forge the control that you now wore as a second skin. Later in your years, you had mastered your powers, but so had Loki. And his magic and mental wards had been almost as formidable as your empathic abilities. Almost. You sucked in a deep breath as you broke away from him. “I believe you,” you said softly, grasping his hands tightly in your own. Your heart was beating evenly for the first time in days, but it was nothing to the clarity that rushed through your veins now. “And I’m sorry.” “What…” “I’m sorry that the first person you trusted enough to be vulnerable with is letting you down. You don’t deserve that either.” You lifted your clasped hands and gently kissed his knuckles without breaking eye contact. “But if I stay here… with you…” You shook your head with a sad smile and the burning agony that shot through your hands then would have made you crumble if you hadn’t felt it so many times before yourself. The feeling of his heart breaking almost made you waver in your decision. But unlike you, he didn’t have to bear it alone. “I don’t understand…,” Loki whispered. His voice felt like a shard of glass against your skin. “I love you…” “It’s not enough.” “Don’t say that. I want you. You’ve always been there for me, I… I can be better.” “I know you can. And you will.” As calmly as you could, you allowed some of your newfound clarity to flow into him and slowly, softly, ease his tortured mind. “If I stay, nothing will change. You forget that I know you better than you know yourself now.” You managed a small smile when you felt the edge crack off Loki’s heartache and leave a dull mound behind where before stood a steep and sharp peak. You were not going to leave him the same broken mess he had so often left you. “I think you always did,” he said quietly, a slight quiver moving his lower lip. “I’m sorry.” He squeezed your hands one last time, leaving several small indents in the shape of new moons on your skin, before you let them fall away. “Goodbye, Loki.” You left him standing in the corridor of the compound, not turning back once. Your heart was still tattered and torn beyond recognition, but for the first time in your life, it wasn’t beating for someone else. You were free.

#loki laufeyson #loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki angst #loki laufeyson x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson x you #sadies2kfollowersongficwc #marvel #marvel fanfic

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cheryl-in-a-barrel · 6 years ago

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i'll only go if she stays - choni oneshot

Fangs drops his jacket at Jughead’s feet, and then storms off to his trailer with his head held as high as he could carry it. He could hear Sweet Pea shouting objections behind him, but Fp grips Sweet Pea by the shoulders before he was able to go after his best friend. Fangs figures it was for the best.

Cheryl and Toni are taken aback by their King’s actions. Truthfully, Cheryl didn’t believe Jughead had it in him to really ban all three of them. Not to mention, it was a dumb move. The serpent’s needed all the numbers they could get, and Jughead’s willing to let three of them go over petty crimes?

Hypocrite.

Cheryl wonders every day why Jughead Jones is the one to sit atop the throne when it should be Toni in his place.

Toni, who was born into this gang, who’s family founded it, who has the southside serpent’s running through her damn blood.

Jughead joined only a few months ago, and prior to, he wanted nothing to do with his father’s gang.

Oh how things change.

They’ve all broken laws.

Jughead abandoned them when they needed their leader most, and yet he gets to come back and pick up like nothing happened?

Like it wasn’t Toni, Fangs, and Sweet Pea holding down the fort and keeping them alive this entire time.

“Turn in your jackets and go,” Jughead mutters, turning his attention back to the couple in front of him.

Fp is sighing heavily behind him, and Betty is looking down with something resembling guilt on her features.

Yeah right, Cheryl thinks.

“Seriously, Jones?” Toni speaks up, her jaw is clenched, and Cheryl can feel the hand Toni has wrapped around her wrist grow tighter. “I’m a serpent by blood, you can’t take that away from me.”

“You broke the code,” Is all Jughead says in means of explanation.

Cheryl can hear Toni’s breath get caught in her throat, can feel her girlfriend’s hand all but cutting off the circulation in her wrist, can sense that Toni’s a few seconds away from either socking Jughead in the face, or breaking down in tears. Probably both.

She didn’t want this.

It may not be right, but Jughead is the Serpent King and he’s made his decision. They fucked up, Cheryl fucked up. And now Toni was going to lose everything over it.

It’s not fucking fair, but it’s what’s happening.

“We’re keeping the jackets,” Cheryl speaks with a harsh bite in her tone.

He can’t take everything from them.

But then again, he already has.

Jughead brings his hand up to his face tiredly.

“Fine. But I need you to give me that egg.”

“Not happening,” Cheryl scoffs.

“It’s part of the deal. Veronica will only give us those jobs if I get that damn egg back,” Jughead looks at her with a deadly serious glare.

They were equally through with each other’s games.

Jughead couldn’t take another second of Cheryl’s unpredictable behaviour, and Cheryl couldn’t handle another second of Jughead’s holier than thou attitude. The pair had finally reached an impending crossroads. They both knew this moment was coming, Cheryl just never thought Jughead would have the upper hand when it did.

“Why the hell would I care? I’m not a serpent anymore,” Cheryl kept her own gaze as steely and cold as Jughead’s.

Did he think she was going to make it easy for him?

Cheryl Blossom doesn’t lose without some sense of dignity still intact, and although the words are a lie, she’ll say whatever she has to right now in order to keep Jughead from seeing even an ounce of weakness on her face.

She’ll give the egg back to Veronica herself if that’s what it takes to employ the serpents, she’d never leave them high and dry, even if she wasn’t one of them anymore, they treated her like real family these past months, and that’s something Jughead can never take away from her.

“Because I still believe you have some sense of honour, Cheryl,” Jughead moves closer, getting into her face.

He’s getting nervous, Cheryl can tell. This doesn’t work unless she complies with his wishes.

It feels nice for a moment, to have somewhat of an upper hand again, but the the feeling doesn’t last longer than ten seconds.

Toni’s quiet beside her, either, too angry, too shocked, too heartbroken, or most likely all three, to say anything.

And that’s what hurts most.

Not this sudden ambush against her serpent membership, not being belittled for stupid mistakes in front of an audience by Jughead of all people, not even losing her right to stand amongst the group of people she calls a family.

No. None of those things even come close to hurting her as much as knowing that because of her, Toni is losing everything she’s ever known.

“I don’t believe what you really want is to leave us all with nothing,” Jughead finishes.

Toni’s hand slides down from it’s place on Cheryl’s wrist, and fits itself in her palm instead. Toni squeezes her hand, and Cheryl takes it as Toni asking her to let it go.

Toni knows more than anyone how badly the serpents need these jobs, she wouldn’t let her own, or Cheryl’s, pride stand in the way of that.

Cheryl glances away from Jughead’s angry scowl, instead turning to meet the soft eyes of her girlfriend.

Cheryl’s facade of strength crumbles then. She tries to silently tell Toni how sorry she is for letting this happen.

But God, there’s no look Cheryl can give her that will make up for the devastation written all over Toni’s face.

Cheryl can tell Toni isn’t even mad at her, and for some reason that just makes it worse.

Here this woman was, willing and ready to do and be anything for Cheryl, and she’s repaid by being exiled from her family’s own gang?

Cheryl’s fucked up a lot in her life, but she absolutely refuses to let this be another one of those times.

“Under one condition,” Cheryl whips her head back around to look at Jughead. The HBIC persona she’s perfected over the years firmly in place. She may be feeling broken and weak on the inside, but right now, she’s determined to push those feelings down like she’s so used to doing, and fight for her girlfriend.

“You’re under no position to be making demands,” Jughead jeers back at her.

“Toni stays,” Cheryl states simply, disregarding the Serpent King’s previous words.

Jughead lifts his eyebrows slightly, not being able to hide the fact that the words, and the determined tone they were spoken in, do take him by surprise.

“You both broke our law,” he argues.

“She stays or I smash that egg to pieces,” Cheryl says.

The entire yard of serpent’s are silent. Watching and listening to the exchange intently. They all have their opinions on the matter, some finding it much more difficult than others not to speak up. Either way, they all bite their tongue in this moment.

“Cher…” Toni quietly speaks, looking up at the girl and trying her hardest to read the expression on Cheryl’s face. However, not even Toni can manage to break through this icy exterior she’s put up.

Cheryl needs to make sure that Jughead knows she isn’t kidding.

Toni doesn’t know what else she’s supposed to say, and Jughead beats her to the conversation before she figures it out.

“You’d really do that to us?” he asks, lips pressed together, and voice eerily calm.

Cheryl takes one calculated step forward until her and Jughead are closer than she ever would have liked them to be.

“I think you’ve greatly misjudged something about me, Jughead. I may have grown to care about all of you here, but there’s only one of you I love.”

Cheryl can’t bare to turn her head a couple inches to the left, where the woman who she’d do anything for stands.

“I’ll let you all go hungry and homeless if I have to,” She lies.

Jughead’s eyes flick over to Toni’s for the first time since they’ve started talking. Honestly, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her before now. He knew the guilt would creep up on him if he did, and boy, was he right.

Toni stares right back at him, the rims of her eyes are red as they sting from the threat of tears desperately trying to push through, and she looks at Jughead like she doesn’t even recognize him, like she couldn’t believe the boy she gave a chance to, all that time ago at Southside High, is the same one standing in front of her now.

Jughead sighs.

He spares more glances around to the rest of the serpents. To Sweet Pea who looks furiously at him, to Fp who looks curious by what he’ll choose to do, and then to Betty, who looks at him with gentle eyes. Through such a simple look, Jughead understands everything she’s trying to tell him. She wants him to remember who he is, deep down, before the serpents, before all the responsibility, and chaos. She knows what he’ll choose, because she knows him.

“You don’t exile Toni, and I’ll give you that egg and stay out of your way from now on. So, do we have a deal or not?” Cheryl impatiently proded.

Jughead studies her for just a moment longer.

“If I let her stay, you don’t ever come back,” he stresses.

“I know,” Cheryl says.

“Then we have a deal.”

Jughead finally turns back around and walks to his self-proclaimed serpent throne. Betty gives him a nod, silently telling him he did the right thing.

Even Fp looks a little relieved at the outcome. Although he wouldn’t question Jughead’s decisions in front of the whole gang, he has to admit he didn’t want to see Toni go. She belongs here.

“This is a serpent meeting, anyone who’s not, can’t be here,” Jughead says once he’s seated back on his chair. It’s the nicest way he can think of telling Cheryl it’s time for her to go.

Cheryl nods.

She was done fighting.

She got what she wanted.

What she needed.

Toni got to stay, and that’s all that mattered.

She finally did something right.

Suddenly, Toni is pulling her towards herself and kissing her without a care in the world for all the serpents who are here watching them.

Toni is still for a loss of words, even now.

No words she could possibly say would ever tell Cheryl just how thankful she is anyway. There’s not a single doubt in her mind that this is the girl she loves, and is the girl she wants to spend forever with. She would have felt that way even if it had been the both of them walking away from the serpents tonight. She would feel this way no matter what.

But there’s something about the way Cheryl stood up for her, something that no one’s ever done for her before, that has Toni really thinking about how this is the girl of her goddamn dreams standing in front of her.

They pull apart, and Toni whispers, “I love you,” when they do.

“I love you too,” Cheryl responds without a second thought, and the first tear of the evening slides down the redhead’s cheek.

In fear she can’t keep her walls up any longer, Cheryl untangles her hands from Toni’s, and walks away, not even sparing another glance over her shoulder, knowing that the sight will only make her cry harder.

Toni watches her go, gripping the edge of her own serpent jacket tightly. A reminder that she’s still here, all thanks to that sensational girl who wasn’t given a second chance.

One of her boots steps forward without her even meaning to, an instinct to go over after Cheryl coming over her. Toni doesn’t know how she’s supposed to just leave her alone at a time like this.

A voice from behind her stops her in her tracks.

“If you go after her now, you better not come back.”

It’s harsh. Even for Jughead.

But he’s trying to prove he can be the decisive, headstrong leader they need. A good leader can’t waver, or bend the rules.

The thing is though, he already has countless times.

Toni’s relieved that she’s still here, that she can still proudly wear the southside serpent symbol on her back, that she hasn’t been exiled from her home. It’s not going to be easy though. To go back to how things were. To look at Jughead like he’s anything more than a hypocrite.

She’s still a serpent, but that doesn’t mean that tonight doesn’t mark a significant change.

Toni turns around, plants her feet firmly where she stands.

Jughead relaxs slightly at the action, and just like that, he goes back to talking about serpent business.

Toni isn’t listening though, not while a million other thoughts are running through her mind.

She meets Sweet Pea’s eyes from across the yard, and sees a fire in them that she guesses must reflect similarly to the look in her own eyes.

That’s all it takes for her to be sure.

This isn’t over.

#choni fanfiction #choni #riverdale #cheryl blossom #toni topaz #southside serpents #jughead jones #Betty cooper #fp jones #fangs fogarty #sweet pea #i'll only go if she stays #fanfiction

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animemangasoul · 4 years ago

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You Are Wanted Obi-Wan Kenobi

Summery: Qui-Gon lives and Mace gets a new Padawan.

[In which Qui-Gon repudiates Obi-Wan and Mace isn't about to let the kid leave the order without a fight.]

Chapter: 4/10

Obi-Wan came to, to a throbbing headache, a flaring pain in his abdominal region and two warm bodies sprawled on top of him on either side. Full awareness had yet to sink in, faint traces of nightmares still clinging to his consciousness; threatening to drag him back under.

But the painful memories they spun through his mind were not easy to shake off. The warmth of Master Qui-Gon's presence dimming under his desperate hands, his own injuries screaming in agony, the tears, the horror, the force within him, building and building until it burst. Until there was nothing.

Until he was nothing.

He remembered it all so vividly. Even weeks later, those excruciating moments clawed at his chest, screamed in his soul, choked his heart.

It had hurt, Obi-Wan remembered that much. Being stabbed by the Sith had nothing on the pain that came after forcefully healing his Master with everything he had. He'd never been a proficient healer, had never learned nor mastered the art, but fear and desperation had forced his hand and as his Master had begged him to let him go, begged him to not endanger his life, begged him to train the Chosen One, Obi-Wan remembered shaking his head; tears running down his face, remembered how he'd let his emotions rule him.

How he'd clung to a man ready to join the force. How he'd exhausted himself, holding onto a soul ready to depart as he poured his very essence into his Master, until there was nothing left in him anymore.

And he remembered, Qui-Gon tears splattering against his hands. Remembered how his Master had tried to heal him in turn, but his body had rejected it. As if the force required penance for his crimes. As if by giving himself fully to bring Qui-Gon back, the force shied away from him.

It was the last thing he recalled. That face, his Master's face marred in so much pain, so much horror, so much desperation and so much grief.

It had been the last thing he'd seen. His Master alive and breathing. Obi-Wan had thought then that his time had come and if, he'd wondered as his gaze connected with the pleading eyes of Master Qui-Gon Jinn, if he was to go saving his Master, then there was no greater honour. And so he'd let the darkness take him, consciousness fading to declaration of love and sobbing demands to please wake up.

'If I die saving you, Master,' he'd thought, wrapping his thinning force presence around the grieving man in comfort. 'Then I'm glad. I'm so very glad.'

And then, there was nothing.

A blissful moment of silence. A fleeting moment of peace. Until he was forcefully dragged back,

Until he opened his eyes and found himself alive.

Oh and if the reality he woke up too wasn't a nightmare he rather not have laid his eyes on. Even now, his eyes stung thinking about it. The betrayal, the abandonment, the…….

His Master had repudiated him, hadn't he?

Clenching his teeth, Obi-Wan blinked frantically to stave away the oncoming wave of tears.

'No,' he hissed at himself. 'I won't cry anymore. Never again. Not over this.'

What was done was done. No amount of self-pity and confusion was going to clarify it. And Obi-Wan couldn't linger in the past, not anymore.

'Here and now, Padawan,' he thought bitterly. 'keep your concentration here and now where it belongs.'

He gritted his teeth and sighed, feeling exhausted even as it appeared that he had actually gotten a goodnight sleep, going by the bright morning light breaking through the window.

A soft mumble against his ear snapped him out of his grief and he blinked. Turning ever so slightly as not to disturb the man sleeping next to him he came nose to nose with the peaceful face of Quinlan. His best friend making a little noise at the back of his throat, brows furrowing before he sighed and leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest on Obi-Wan's shoulder.

Exhaling gently, Obi-Wan ignored the painful twinge of his heart at the action and carefully pressed his cheek atop the crow of the other man's head. Closing his eyes in silent gratitude.

Leaving the Halls had been such relief, but he'd also dreaded it. Maybe that's why he'd been so cooperative with Master Che; the healer endlessly suspicious of his respectful attitude and his lack of attempts to flee the scene. It was unusual for him after all, to be so obedient. But he hadn't done it out of any sense of respect, not really. Because despite his reckless need to be independent and his bone deep fear of medics, the outside world was so much scarier than the white walls of the Halls.

To cry out for independence and for it to thrust into his lap in the cruelest way imaginable. It rattled him. And in a way, he found hiding within the Halls of Healing, away from the prying eyes of the public, gave him the only level of dignity he could be afforded.

Sighing, he allowed himself to drown in the two force presence surrounding him. Little Aayla's force signature still a little unfamiliar to him, but all the more welcoming. The newly minted Padawan had practically shadowed Quinlan for as long as she'd been at the Temple, and while Obi-Wan hadn't had the pleasure to talk to her often, her gentle kindness had been a balm against his burned soul these past couple of weeks.

Smiling softly at the Twi'lek girl pressed against his side, Obi-Wan fumbled for Quin's hand, squeezing it lightly even as the sudden movement; little as it were, sent a flash of pain across his chest.

Still, the presence of this particular Master, Padawan duo made the turmoil of his current situation just the tiniest bit more bearable.

He hadn't wanted anyone to come along when he'd left the Halls, all the attention and broadcasted worry by his friends and new Master, making him uncomfortable. So he'd left them with a grateful goodbye. Master Windu pushing him to their newly shared quarters.

It had been embarrassing, being fussed over. Master Windu clearly had other more important businesses and order meetings to take care of, but somehow the man had made himself available for his discharge and kept a steady follow of conversation between them as he guided the hoverchair to Obi-Wan's new home. "I can walk, Master," he remembered saying; face ducked into his chest to avoid the curious glances sent his way. "You can go if you want." And he remembered Master Windu placing a gentle hand atop of his head and patting him gently in response.

"I know you can kid," he'd huffed. "But there is no need to strain yourself when you don't have to." And that had been the end of it. Somehow the warmth emitting from Master Windu's force presence curling around him in soft comfortable that Obi-Wan didn't quite know why it made him want to cry. So he only flushed deep red and nodded. Content in sharing this little moment with his new Master.

Rarely had Master Qui-Gon been so open with his worry and concern for him, his action of course spoke louder than words and Obi-Wan vividly recalled his former Master's arms around him as he sobbed into his hair, begging him to hold on. But his mind, his thoughts had always alluded him, so to experience Master Windu's care for him, so openly, so unrestrained, it had been….. Comforting.

In the end Quin and Aayla had greeted them as soon as they'd arrived at Master Windu's quarters. Grinning at him with little Aayla rushing forward to give him a tentative hug. His weeks in the hospital had brought them closer with Anakin and her forming an adorable friendship and secretly Obi-Wan was thankful. For as sweet as Anakin could be, sometimes being in his presence, remembering how Qui-Gon chose---- sometimes it was difficult to be kind, so Aayla whether she realized it or not had been a force blessing in disguise.

The Master, Padawan duo had refused to leave of course and with Master Windu backing them--- "It's your first night out of the Halls Obi-Wan, it's best to be careful with your recovery," there was nothing Obi-Wan could do but let them stay.

Master Windu left shortly after that. Helping him to his bedroom first; quickly snatching up what suspiciously looked like Soresu training leaflets from the covers with fond exasperation and nearly tucked him in if he hadn't caught himself last minute, much to Quinlan's amusement and his own mortification.

While Quinlan's presence was annoying as ever after that, practically lounging in his bed, taking up more space than required and forcing him to watch stupid holodramas. His and Aayla's company pushed away the dark thoughts clouding his mind and even as he grumbled and frowned at his best friend, Obi-Wan found himself relaxing. And just like that, their laughter and jokes, Aayla's timid little smiles and mischievous tales of her and Anakin's exploits, Quinlan's snarky comments and embarrassing retelling of Obi-Wan's childhood stories, lulled him to sleep. Holodrama forgotten and for the moment, Master Qui-Gon too.

Now here he was, eyes tracing the ceiling of this unfamiliar bedroom, lingering ever so often on the scorch marks; likely done with a lightsaber and wondering how Master Billaba had gotten away with practicing her lightsaber forms inside her kriffing bedroom. It's the funny mental image of Master Billaba slashing across the walls, while Master Windu frantically begging her to stop, that accompanies him back to sleep. Aayla's fingers curled around the hem of his tunic and Quin's breath fanning warmth across his skin, grounding him as he slipped away into a dreamless rest.

-----------------------

When he woke up next, it was to a dull headache, pain bursting through his guts and a distinct lack of bodies clustering around him in his bed.

He sighed, arm coming up to cover his eyes, teeth digging into his lower lip to keep himself from yelping at the sheer agony that flared up at his action.

Obi-Wan took his time dragging himself out of bed. Fingers grabbing for the note by his bedside, eyes skimming over Quinlan's chicken scratches and snorting at the hurried explanation for their departing-- "Ay needs to get to class!! Can't believe I slept in!!!! You Obs make a hell of a pillow!" and of course the threats for him to take his medication or else--- "Take those pills man or I'll sic Bant on you. Don't think I won't!!!" With a crude drawing of Bant with a pitchfork.

Obi-Wan wondered how Quin had found the time to draw the picture if he was in as much of a hurry as he said, shaking his head fondly. Clearly he'd taken his time with it too, going by the erased lines and all the redraws. Snorting in amusement, he threw back two pills, ignoring the warning of eating something first; the pain was borderline on unbearable at this point, and slowly eased himself up and in the direction of the bathroom.

Every apartment in the Temple were simplistic and almost identical in their designs; the only difference being the size and number of rooms depending on one's status as a Jedi, so Obi-Wan managed to get through his morning routine with relative little difficulty. The shower taking the longest time as he struggled to stand through the hot water cascading down his back. He should have just settled for a sonic, he thought bitterly, but the pelting droplets of water somehow elevated the coldness in his chest and loosened his muscle; unknown tension draining from his figure and even as he pressed his face against the cool glass, legs barely able to hold him up, so he couldn't find it in himself to regret his momentary reprieve. Constantly as it might have been.

Still, even with the painkillers dulling the pain coursing through his veins, Obi-Wan stumbled out, breath coming in gasps and even drying himself off taking more energy than his body was capable of providing. His bandages had come off around a week ago, the bacta tank having healed the external wound to a degree but Master Che fearing infection, had kept them on for a time. The healers were extra careful in how they treated him, and from the way his stomach and his insides, from the way it all burned, Obi-Wan couldn't fault them for treading lightly.

Collapsing on the bed; pants all he'd managed to drag on, Obi-Wan scrunched his eyes shut, the trickle of tears sliding down his cheeks joining the splotches of dampness on his covers by his poorly dried hair.

'Just a minute--' he thought, swallowing down the misery, muscles screaming from unused exhaustion.

It appeared to be that no amount of physical therapy could make up from weeks suspended in a bacta tank. 'Just a minute.'

At last he found himself making his way out of his new bedroom and wandering into the living room; a simple tunic the only outer layer he had any strength in pulling on before his body once again bucked against him in protest.

Fingers clutching at the doorframe, he let his eyes scan the vast space.

Looked like Masters on the council had much larger living space afforded to them then just being a Master. 'Or maybe it's just the Master of the Order,' Obi-Wan thought, eyes landing on the floor to roof length windows stretching from wall to wall and the meditation space separate from the living room itself and finally the modest sized kitchen down the hall that he couldn't quite see from his position.

He'd heard rumours that outside of important council meetings, council sessions between select members were often held in Master Windu's quarters for convenience, and from the several chairs surrounding a round table by the far side and the datapads stacked like mountains in the corner, Obi-Wan was inclined to believe the rumours to be true.

Finally, his gaze landed on the stacked boxes by the wall separating his new bedroom from Master Windu's own and he found that he couldn't quite swallow past the sudden lump in his throat.

Those were his things.

He knew Garen had brought them over sometime during the holodrama marathon, even offering to unpack most of it with Quin and Aayla's help; despite Garen having a mission briefing to report to.

Obi-Wan had flat out turned it down. Firmly telling his friends that no, he didn't need help with every little thing in his life. "I'll unbox them at my own time," he'd said, glaring mulishly at them. "Just because I'm a recently recovered victim of a Sith does not mean I can't take care of myself."

They'd eventually relented when he'd threatened to kick them all out if they didn't stop; Quin hurriedly shooing Garen out, claiming his favorite episode was coming up and he couldn't afford to be kicked out now, while Aayla just laughed at them all.

"If you wanna waste time unpacking all this junk, be my guest," was Garen's departing words, saluting them as he went. "Don't come crying to me when you get tired." And his friends had left it at that.

If only they'd known the real reason why he hadn't wanted their help.

Sighing, he carefully shuffled over to the boxes, fingers running over the sealed tape, eyes stinging for just a moment at the thought of Master Qui-Gon packing away his things just so he could give his room to his new favorite Padawan. 'No,' Obi-Wan thought, even as his fingers clenched and jealousy spiked in his heart. 'This is not Anakin's fault.'

Of course it wasn't. He was just an innocent kid, a kid who'd been through hell and now was caught up in the middle of this mess, and yet…..

What it most have been like for him. To be chosen by Qui-Gon. To be wanted, when Obi-Wan begged and pleaded and cried for even a sliver of that attention.

Gritting his teeth, he let his arm drop. Having Gar and Quin help him with unpacking his stuff would have been much easier all things considered; especially since Master Windu would be back around noon to check up on him as he'd promised, but…..

Just the thought of Master Windu's kind smile and understanding eyes froze him in place. Refused to let him even entertain taking the first step in opening those boxes, because…. What if….

What if Master Windu changed his mind?

It's not like their partnership had been made official yet. Master Windu hadn't stood in front of the council and declared him his Padawan. Not yet….. Maybe not ever.

What if, right this very moment, he was thinking his decision over. Realizing a grown adult Padawan was not what he was looking for. What if he was talking with Master Qui-Gon and Master Qui-Gon was telling him about all of Obi-Wan's shortcomings. What if he got back later only to inform Obi-Wan; with that sad tilt of his mouth and calming force presence that this, their partnership wouldn't work out. Because Obi-Wan was too much trouble and no one in their right mind could ever teach him and turn him into a competent Knight.

What if Master Windu was regretting giving him hope, telling him he wouldn't be sent away and now he was stuck with him and there wouldn't be an easy way to let him down and maybe Qui-Gon had been right all along maybe Obi-Wan had never been cut out to be a Knight because if he was meant to be a Knight, why did Master Qui-Gon throw him away!

And oh….

He couldn't breathe.

Slamming a hand against his chest, he tried. His throat tightening up, a wheeze escaping past his lips.

He couldn't breathe.

Shutting his eyes, he counted. The silence, the quiet. He drew it to him. Focused on every inhale and exhale. One, two, three. In and out.

'Breathe,' he told himself, the ghost of Master Qui-Gon's hand pressed between his shoulder blades. 'Breathe Obi-Wan. It's going to be okay.'

It took him several minutes; of what felt like hours, to get his raging emotions under control, but when he did, a loud gasp pushed through his mouth, finally, and he was breathing again. Shuddering and forcefully fighting against the need to curl into a ball and weep, but breathing nonetheless.

Obi-Wan stumbled back, using the boxes for support as he blinked away the dark spots that invaded his sight.

Breathe.

It's going to be okay.

Somehow he found within himself the strength to move over to the couch and sit down. Kneels buckling underneath him as he sank into the cushions. Wiping a tired hang across his brows, Obi-Wan gave himself a window just to gather his sense and it was not a moment too soon for a couple of minutes later a knock alerted him to an unknown guest outside Master Windu's quarters.

"Come in," he called before suddenly realizing that this wasn't actually his old quarters and unlike Master Qui-Gon's not many refused to use access code. But just as he was about to force himself back on his feet, the door slide open and Master Billaba walked in. Hands carefully balancing a tray of food she most have gotten from the refectory as well as a slim wooden box.

"Hello, Obi-Wan," she smiled and Obi-Wan smiled back; albeit with much more restraint and politeness.

"Hello, Master Billaba."

"Depa," she corrected, eyebrows raised.

"Master Depa," he said, bowing as best as he could without agitating his recent injury.

Stepping into the apartment, Master Billaba placed the breakfast tray on the dinner table, before she made her way over to him; wooden box in hand.

"I don't have much time," she said, sitting down across from him. "I'm expected to be present for the council meeting starting thirty minutes from now so I most be quick." Folding her legs, Master Billaba gave him a calculating look. "I have something for you."

Obi-Wan stiffened. He didn't know much about Master Billaba except for her sound reputation and Master Windu's fondness of her.

What could she possible have for him?

'Maybe Master Windu sent her to soften the blow,' a traitorous voice whispered into his ear. 'Maybe he couldn't face you when he rejected you too.'

Swallowing thickly, he schooled his features into serene blankness. "What do you have for me Master Bill---" she gave him a look. "Master Depa," he corrected with an apologetic smile.

"Well," she said, and strangely enough to Obi-Wan's quiet surprise, she sounded unsure of herself as she fiddled with the cover of the box. "I talked to Mace and--" tearing her eyes from his, she exhaled loudly; her force presence coiling around her as if soothing away her worries, concern? "We talked about your Padawan-braid, Obi-Wan. How Master Jinn removed your marks of achievements when he released you from his care."

Obi-Wan flinched, fingers immediately coming up to tug at his braid, long as it were, bare as it was. "Yes," he managed to stutter out. "That is correct."

His pain most have reached her, for Master Billaba sent him a sympathetic smile before carefully removing the lid of the box and looking down at the content. "We both know, that for Padawans, the beads and bands they collect throughout their apprenticeship means more---" she swallowed, blinking slowly. "Means more to them, than any outsider of the Order can ever hope to understand. It signifies our commitment, our devotion, our dedication and---" a pause. "our relationship with our Masters." The last part was but a whisper, as if Master Billaba by speaking softly could somehow spare him the hurtful truth of his repudiation.

It didn't and it was all Obi-Wan could do not to recoil from her words. "Yes," he whispered back. "Yes."

This time, Master Billaba's smile was brittle, pained but when she met his eyes it held the calm resolve of the woman who had ha seat in the council, one of the youngest Masters to ever be appointed. He saw Master Depa Billaba of the Jedi Order and her tranquil presence helped him cobble together a modicum of composure to not fall apart right then and there. "I know Master Jinn took your accomplishment with him when he repudiated you," she said. "And what I have here might not make up for that loss, might not hold the same history or importance to you, but I hope it can give you…., a sense of closure and a sense of closeness to those that do care for you."

Obi-Wan blinked, confused. "What---" he started, but before he could even formulate an appropriate question, Master Billaba stood up and gently placed the open box in his lap and when Obi-Wan looked down he saw beads of several different colours.

Blue and red and pearl white and, was that Bant's pale green band that Tahl had given her for all those years ago?---- "I don't understand," he mumbled, a single finger running over a diamond shaped bead that distinctly looked like the one he'd seen in Garen's braid just a cycle ago. "I don't….. What is this?"

Resting a hand on his shoulder, Master Billaba projected warmth, comfort and calmness through to him and Obi-Wan found the tension within his body slowly easing away. "Your apprenticeship is nearly over and I felt that it was wrong for you to have to finish it without all the accomplishment you have achieved with your own merits on display like every Padawan that came before you and will come after you. Therefore I had an idea--" she squeezed his shoulder slightly. "And so I ran it by Mace and your fellow Jedi and it looks like many of your crèchemates and friends value you dearly Obi-Wan Kenobi. Those beads are either from their former Padawan braids that they have requested from their Masters or from their current braids in the case of Padawan Eerin and Padawan Reeft. Each contributed a single bead or band, to you." Leaning over so she could meet his eyes, Master Billaba smiled, soft, kind, gentle. "You are very loved Obi-Wan, I wished for you to know that."

"Oh."

For what else could he say.

Here were all the….. The evidence of how much…..

He hadn't been the brightest Youngling nor the strongest Initiate and his years as Master Qui-Gon's Padawan were fraught with controversies and infractions, and for the longest time he'd known, in his heart of hearts that he was destined for infinite sadness. That in his path lay nothing but misery and suffering.

So to see, despite of his current predicament, despite his rejection, despite his bone deep loneliness, this level of kindness. It…..

Every bead and band gave of little pulses of familiar force signatures. Without needing to concentrate Obi-Wan could feel them all. He could feel Quin and Bant and Reeft and Gar. And he could feel Master Billaba, Master Windu and Master Plo Koon. His crèchemates and Masters Friends he'd met throughout his years as a Padawan and…..

Obi-Wan didn't quite know when he started crying, but when the first droplet of water splashed atop of the silk green band, he raised a finger to brush against his cheek.

'Would you look at that,' he thought, faintly aware of Master Billaba coming to sit next to him. 'I'm crying.'

"Who's this one from?" He finally managed to whisper after an infinite time of him just staring down at a gift he didn't know quite what to do with. "I don't recognize….the force signature?" Obi-Wan had asked in hopes of distracting himself from his embarrassing display of emotions but holding the green little orb in his hand, the question still held true. This bead was the only one whom its force signature was wholly unfamiliar to him.

"That one belonged to Feemor," Master Billaba said, eyes far away and lips drawn into a sad frown. "He is an old friend."

Curiously staring down at the green bead, Obi-Wan wiped away his tears and felt for the gentle force pulsing from it. It was calming. "Could you… thank him for me? All of them I mean. I…. I'm not quite sure how to react, it's….. Thank them for me?"

Master Billaba squeezed his shoulder again. "Of course," she said and with that was on her feet making her way to the door. "Oh and Obi-Wan," she called back.

"Yeah?" Fingers digging into the wood, he barely managed to tear his eyes away from it.

"Mace told me that your Padawan announcement will be held in front of the council tomorrow afternoon and if you're not up for it physically it will be held here, in your quarters."

"What?"

Master Billaba's force presence wrapped around him in a hug. "You will officially become my Padawan brother tomorrow, Padawan Kenobi. Congratulations."

"I…. I don't--"

What do you say in the face of such overwhelming kindness?

"Thank you," he said, face probably blotched, nose red and eyes stinging. "I will be ready to go to the council….when I'm called."

Master Billaba nodded, her fondness all but ruffling his hair and Obi-Wan found himself ducking, blushing at the carefree display of affection. "Take care, Obi-Wan," walking out the door, she nodded at the dinner table. "And eat your breakfast."

Letting out a watery chuckle, Obi-Wan shook his head. "I will."

And with that, Master Billaba was gone, vanishing out the door as quickly as she'd walked through it. Leaving behind a new legacy and a new bond.

Obi-Wan sat on the couch for a long time simply looking at the handful of beads swimming at the bottom of the box, silently wondering how Quin had managed to keep it a secret from him this whole time. It most have taken so much effort. Knights like Gar and Quin having to go back to their former Masters to request a single token from them and they'd done it all, for him.

Closing the box with a gentle click, Obi-Wan stood up. It was time to unpack his things.

"One step at a time," he told himself, a tiny smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

Maybe after all these weeks he could finally move forward. Maybe Master Windu was right, and it would all work out in the end.

Maybe, just maybe.

The End

Note: In this AU I'm going by the popular headcanon that Feemor had a previous Master who died and Qui-Gon picked up his training and saw him through to knighthood. Half of Feemor's braid is therefore put under his bed with his former Master's belongings and the other half he gave to Qui-Gon and that's how he could also give Obi-Wan his bead. Also it paints an interesting parallel between the qui-gon who helped a padawan who lost his master to knighthood and the jaded qui-gon of today who is the one abandoning a padawan willingly to train the chosen one.

Chapter: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

#obi wan kenobi #obi wan fanfic #qui gon jinn #depa billaba #quinlan vos #aayla secura #star wars #star wars fanfic #fanfic #you are wanted obi-wan kenobi #qui gon a+ parenting #Mace is best dad #chapter 4 #yawowh chapter 4

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mayareth · 5 years ago

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My other Cradlesona

Basic Infos:

Name: Cassiopée

Nickname: Cassie (by Fenrir only)

Birthday: August 22

Age: 23

Height: 166 cm

Blood Type: O

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

Personality Type: ENTP-T

Physical:

Eyes: emerald green

Hair: shoulder-length wavy dark brown hair (same as Dita Von Teese)

Accessories: diamond earrings (from Fenrir, of course), sometimes wear a red flower in her hair (like Frida Kahlo)

Social:

Affiliation: Red Army -> Black Army

Occupation: one of the best inventor in all Cradle (with Oliver). Since her childhood, she spent her time to create weapons, fashion accessories and other gadgets, girly or not. Like to make pastries and to train (running, fighting, ...) during the weekend. She is from the upper class so she has to attend a lot of parties, where her glamour is always noticed.

Relationships:

Lancelot Kingsley: cousin

Luka Clemence: cooking partner

Jonah Clemence: first crush

Oliver Knight: genius inventor partner

Seth Hyde: fashionista partner

Personality:

Once again: too honest! She doesn't hesitate to fight against what others believe just to see what could happen. She doesn't care enough about emotions or what people think, she just does as she thinks it's the right way to handle things. Sometimes, she will debate defending an idea she doesn't even support just to see things from a different angle or simply because it's an unpopular opinion. Smiles a lot, could have been a really good spy. DARK. HUMOUR. She has a lot of stamina too. Creativity click dose maximum! Feminist, she values freedom for all above all else. Has a pretty anarchist side and would have loved rock and metal music! She is a vegetarian, as well as all my other Ikesonas.

Family and History:

Cassiopée is the only child of Lancelot’s aunt, his mother's sister. She received the best education she could have had so she is intelligent. She has developed very soon an ability to create things with everything she could find. It started with toys, then little ”houses” and products for insects and animals, jewellery and finally, as the rebel anarchist teenager she was, weapons. Of course, it displeased her family a lot but she saved her honour with her good manners and her oh-so-glamourous style. She first met Jonah at a party when she was 15 and loved his porcelain features combined with his dignity and the regal atmosphere when he was around. Also, their favourite dessert is millefeuille. When Lancelot found out (he secretly spied on her young cousin by reading her diary), he immediately told her to stay back, that his right-hand man only needed to focus on his duty and had no time for women. Cassiopée had her heart broken. Since then, she decided to get out of her bubble and spend more and more time in the Central Quarter.

Skills:

Guns specialist whether it's to shot or to create them

Mind reader, reminds me of IkeSen Mitsuhide

Will always find the perfect outfit!

Professional prankster, Seth and Sirius know what I mean, just imagine her teamed up with Fenrir

Paired with: Fenrir Godspeed

Life in Cradle:

One day, Oliver noticed her reading a book about some complicated mechanical process. Seeing her potential, he asked her to help him in his workshop. She was 18 at that time and began to work on Fenrir’s weapons. One day, when the Ace of Spades came to fetch his new gadget earlier than planned, he noticed the young woman. It wasn't the best start between these two. Fenrir asked where was Oliver and what a weird girl was doing with what he ordered. Cassiopée fought back with a punchline that knocked out the magenta-haired man. Once he had recovered his mind, they started to fight and Cassiopée used the weapon Fenrir had ordered on him, making him sound like a chicken for three hours. When Oliver came back and see the mess his workshop was, with the Ace of Chicken in the middle of the room, he immediately understood what happened and scolded the two culprits. When Fenrir learnt who was Cassiopée, he felt really sorry for what he has done and invited her to eat some sweets in Cradle. She reluctantly accepted but soon, they were talkin as if they knew each other for ages. They reiterated the experience every weekend, with more and more teasing every time they meet, and started to train together. Of course, the Red Army didn't know all of that until Edgar spotted them laughing together, guns in one hand, making each other tasting chocolate covered fruit with the other hand. Cassie was severely punished and was locked up in her bedroom but somehow managed to escape and flew to Blanc’s house. When Fenrir heard what happened, he immediately came to check on her. She was completely lost, crying and wanting to leave this prison that was her world. When he took her in his arms, it was clear for both of them that what they shared was more than just friendship. That's when they exchanged their first kiss. Soon after, Cassiopée moved to the Black Army, where she met the other Chosen Thirteen and shared a room with Margareth (my first Cradlesona and Ray’s girlfriend because yes, my Cradlesonas live in the same AU), who soon became one of her best friends, before having her own bedroom.

Yes, I was inspired and created another Cradlesona for my second best boy! If Margareth was really a Cradle version of the real me, I tried to give Cassiopée a really different personality. Hope she will please you!

I might create an other Cradlesona soon for Jonah (because he deserves to be loved too).

Please welcome another daughter, Mother of all Cradlesonas @lovingsiriusoswald 💕

#ikerev #cradlesona #Cassiopée #fenrir godspeed #my writing #my cradlesona #ikesonas #my ocs

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letgraysonsheart · 6 years ago

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Dynamic duo - #DickandDamiWeek2019

Damian doubts, and misses what once was. (Or in which Damian observes Bruce and Dick fighting, again)

A/N: Haven't written fics in forever so please excuse any grammar mistakes, its set sometime after Bruce came back from "the dead" that one time he was lost in a time stream, and Dick has gone back to being Nightwing. Once again I have no beta, and also the comic continuity confuses me so sorry if theres anything wrong canon-wise. Other than that, I hope its not too bad!

Damian have no problem admitting to himself that he cares for his father, a great deal. Even loves him, not that he would ever admit that to the man. He has some pride left, some pitiful excuse of dignity, even after all the fluff Grayson has put him through. Father knows anyway, he assumes. He has to have some sort of inkling that Damian, his unruly son, does actually care.

Father.. he tries. He has his tendencies and very own way of thinking, but still - he tries. Damian can’t deny that, can't hold that against the man. Still he is not always easy to be around, to work with, perhaps especially when its father and son.

Then there is Grayson, he is something entirely different. How people, people who know both Dick and Bruce, can get themselves to say that they are so alike - they must not know Dick at all. Then again Dick is a great actor, having practiced his whole life. Grayson is amazing at setting himself into a situation, and figuring out the role he needs to play. It’s scary how quickly he reads a situation and completely alters his own mood, his own role in it, in a matter of seconds.

In some ways, Damian figures the real Batman will always be Richard Grayson in his eyes. Even as he swings from rooftop to rooftop with his father by his side every night, he sometimes catches himself wishing it was Grayson under that cowl. That it was he and Grayson fighting criminals together, huddling together for warmth on particularly cold stake outs (something father never allows). He wishes it was Grayson trusting him with more than Damian ever thought someone could be trusted with, let alone him.

He can’t tell Grayson that, no, never. It was quite obvious how much it hurt Richard, having to wear the cowl and step into the role of the dark knight. The embodiment of everything Grayson did not want to become being forced upon him, and even if his older brother honourably tried to hide it - Damian knew Richard had hated every second in the suit, playing the role of the world’s greatest detective not because he wanted to but because he had to.

Damian knows his father is capable in almost every way, a great hero, one of the best there is, and yet, Damian sometimes finds himself longing for what once was. It is horrible of him, really. Father had been gone, presumed dead. Damian had mourned for what he thought would never be, Dick had mourned for yet another father lost, Alfred had mourned a man he viewed as his own son. Their whole family had suffered massively those months, and yet Damian has caught himself wishing for some of those moments back. That he could have some of all that was bad again, just so he could relive the good too. He knows he can never voice this, not to anyone.

It is selfish, he knows that, he has never been one to lie to himself. Grayson is still a big part of his life and Damian knows he should be thankful. He has father, Grayson, Alfred, Titus.. he has so much. It is more than he ever thought he would have before his mother brought him to the other side of the world and left him at the doorstep of a man he didn't even know. Even so, when Grayson gave father back the cowl, Damian couldn’t help feeling that Grayson was in some ways giving him back to his father too. It was almost like Grayson's shift as the babysitter was now over, and that it was Bruce’s time to take care of him. How long until father grows bored of him and his unruliness? How long until his patience runs thin, for real?

“You need to try harder, Bruce,” Grayson says, bringing Damian out of his own head and breaking his train of thought. They don’t know that Damian is spying on them from the top of the ridiculous dinosaur in the cave, or maybe they know, and can’t be bothered to try stopping him. He wouldn't put it past them, both Grayson and his father have a habit of disappearing into their anger more often than not when together. It is one of their few similarities, that and black hair. Damian knew that Grayson’s relationship with father had been.. complicated, at best, but he had never really understood the reality of it before seeing it with his own two eyes after father came back into their lives. It was quite terrifying at times, and heartbreaking at other ones.

“Damian.. he needs rules and stability, but he also needs patience. He needs time to understand, to feel understood, he needs to feel that there is room for him to be himself too. Not just Robin, not just your son, not just whatever mold you are trying to force him to fit into!” Grayson continues. His voice is at a decent, normal level, but anyone who knows Richard knows that it is not his regular carefree voice. It is dripping with something Damian can’t pinpoint, and far from cheery and bright. It is heavy with life experiences and feelings Grayson usually keeps hidden deep under his skin. It is saying quite a lot about Grayson's current state of mind, that those hidden emotions are forcing their way through now. Perhaps that is just the effect father has on his children.

“Dick, he’s my son. Do you think I do not know what’s best for him? I applaud the.. work, you two did, in my absence, but he is still my son,” Bruce replies, sounding more tired than anything else. More detached, like it is not his son sounding few seconds from crying standing in front of him speaking. Like it’s all a meaningless discussion to him, that Richard is just being difficult - a child screaming for his attention and Bruce refusing to give it.

Absence, that's a funny word for being presumed dead and gone. A funny word for leaving your family to fall to pieces, for hanging the weight of the world and heavier than that, the cowl, on the shoulders of your eldest son. The one son who had never even wanted it. While saying those words, Bruce sounded more like Batman than ever before. The line between the two blurring even more than it already has in Damian's eyes, maybe in Dick's too, judging by the way he reacts.

Even from up on top of the dinosaur Damian can see Grayson’s whole demeanour change. His whole body stiffens in a different way, looking more resigned and broken than anything else. It surprises him, he has to admit, when instead of the expected volcanic-level burst of anger Dick just gives Bruce what Damian can only assume is an ice cold glare. The older then turns on his heel, in a harsh movement unlike Richards usually graceful and smooth ones, and stalks over to the cave entrance without another word.

Seconds later the roar of Richard’s motorbike echoes through the cave and Dick is speeding away. Away from the manor, from Gotham, probably from Nightwing and Robin’s promised “for old times sake” patrol together tomorrow. Hell, Damian doubts he will see the man in quite awhile, Grayson has quite the temper and will need some time to calm down. He will most likely be spending his time hauled up in his Blüdhaven apartment and taking his anger out on criminals at night, it is the bat way to deal with feelings after all. His father will for sure not do anything to help either, possibly doing something that makes their relationship worsen even more. It is almost like that is one of Batman’s impeccable skills - combat, solving crime mysteries and last but not least ruining familial relationships.

As Damian climbs down the dinosaur he can feel that there is something wet on his face. He insists to himself that it is not tears. He is supposed to know better. If it was one thing his mother taught him before leaving him to fend for himself in a completely different world, it was not to get attached and that display of emotions was for the weak. He is not to cry, Al Ghul's do not cry, he doubts Waynes do either.

With familiar movements he makes his way down towards to the floor, movements more rushed than usual but still he never slips once. He has climbed up and down the back of the stupid T-Rex multiple times with Grayson by his side after all.

Bruce has slumped down in the black leather chair in front of the computer as Damian climbs the last meters. Damian can only see the top of the man's head from his position. The black hair is rich and full, but a hint of grey is revealing of the fact that even the bat grows old. Damian jumps down the last meters, the sound of his feet on the hard floor signalling his presence in the cave if father didn’t know before. Judging by how there is not a single movement, not even a little twitch father did know. Of course he did, he is the Batman after all. It was foolish to think otherwise. Neither of them say anything though, both pretending the other isn’t there. They will most likely have words later, about privacy and sneaking around in the cave when one is not supposed to be there. Yet now the silence feels more suffocating than anything, and Damian doesn’t want to stay in the cave a second longer.

As he climbs the stone staircase up to the manor, he is late for Titus walk he realises, Damian accepts that maybe some dynamic duos aren’t meant to last. He knows that his and father’s for sure won't.

#my writing #DickandDamiWeek2019 #fic #dynamic duo #fic 1 #its so weird posting fic again havent done that since 2016 jeez #dick grayson #damian wayne

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