#Fay Writes Things | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ehlnofay · 7 days ago

Text

Efri knocks on the door, which she doesn’t normally do. It’s so ridiculously loud it feels counterintuitive – she takes a full minute and a fair bit of banging around to shove it open, so he can already hear her, no need for anything else. But this time she knocks.

This time is different. This time is a bit weird, because the Archmage invited her to visit.

Normally, she just barges in when she feels like it, whenever she’s got an hour or so to spare. To look at his magic-grown garden, mostly; it’s a good garden, bright and beautiful and impossible without whatever weird spellcraft set it in place, all kinds of plants with all different needs. Grapes that only grow in the Eastmarch Aalto, mushrooms that only grow in the belly of the earth, flowers that only grow in snow and lichen that only grow in swamps. It shouldn’t be able to all grow together, and yet it does. It’s fascinating. And nice to look at.

So Efri comes to look at it. And sometimes – when the Archmage isn’t being too withdrawn and sulky – he tells her about it, about the care each plant needs, how he has to prune the bushes and pull the fjell’s weave out before it sprawls to take up all the space in the soil. He has gardening gloves, not soft wool like hers but dark leather with dirt streaking the seams. She’s seen him wear them three times.

Sometimes he’s not in the mood, and she looks in silence, and he pretends like she’s not there, and she pretends like he’s doing a good job at that. (He often looks over at her – she can feel his bleeding-red eyes on her back – and sighs, like the weird tired old man he is. She doesn’t acknowledge it.)

But this time he asked for her. Which, unless he’s got a new plant (unlikely) she can’t think of any reason for him to do. It isn’t as though they ever talk about anything else. But Mirabelle found her in the laundry room, pressing soap through Sissel’s favourite blanket because they’d used it for long enough it had started to smell funny, and she told her that Archmage Aren wanted to see her, and she wasn’t going to say no. She was curious. And besides, they’re a sort of friends, she thinks – even if he’s weird and sullen and almost two hundred years old, he still lets her wander into his room when she’s at a loose end, rifling through his things like a careless wind and peering wide-eyed at his garden. He still sits down and talks to her about it, sometimes. So Efri knocks, and waits, uncomfortably, to hear a response.

There’s a faint, “Mirabelle?” through the heavy wooden door. Efri sighs, because she knows he can’t hear her.

“Efri,” she calls back.

A pause. Then, “Ah,” a little louder, and he’s pulling the door open, which is a nice change. That thing is enormous. Hurts her arms to shove at.

Still weird, though.

The Archmage stands, a hand on the door’s fancy-looking knob, wearing his hood again. There’s no rhyme or reason as to when and where he wears that thing, it seems. He took it off on the ramparts, out in Winterhold’s eternal blizzard; he’s put it on now, in his own too-lavish room, where he sits and reads and looks at his plants.

He doesn’t say hello.

“Hi,” Efri says, because she is polite; she ducks under his arm and stands in his little entrance hall, on his nice smooth blue rug. “What did you want?”

“What did I –” the Archmage says; there’s a brief flash of the eyes as he turns, the glow of the mage-lit sconces reflecting off his irises. “Ah. Nothing in particular. Do you mind if I go tend to the garden?”

Efri squints at him. (He’s being strange. In a different way to usual.) Suspiciously, she replies, “All right.”

So he turns and goes. His quarters – spacious and lavish like a jarl’s longhouse – don’t punch the breath out of her like they did the first few times she saw them, but they’re still a lot. The magic lights, the near-glow of the threads of the rugs, the smooth beautiful wood of the furniture. It’s more’n two times the size of Efri’s old house, and that’s before the dragon burnt it down. It’s all full of books and knick-knacks in a way that makes her almost envious. And of course it has the garden; there’s not words for how wonderful the garden is.

The Archmage crosses the floor with neat, steady steps, one hand tugging on the hood of his mantle. His gardening gloves lay creased on a little red-wood desk; he pulls them on and marches over to the garden without so much of a glance.

He shakes, a little, as he crouches down on the edge of the stone steps so he can reach the dirt. Maybe he’s a bit cold – it’s never quite warm in here no matter how the fire burns. Or maybe his knees are aching and weak. Efri understands that old people get that, sometimes.

(She still doesn’t know why he called her here; doesn’t know why he’s not telling her. She doesn’t believe it’s nothing; he’s never done it before, usually seems vaguely put out by her presence, even if it’s in a way she can tell isn’t entirely genuine. If it was something silly, like wanting someone to talk to about a problem with the plants, he’d either wait for her to visit on her own time or just say so.)

(But she often doesn’t understand quite why he does the things he does. So she doesn’t know.)

He stays quiet, and Efri thinks she recognises this quiet – if she talked at all right now, he wouldn’t hear it. Lost inside his own head. She squints at him for a moment, looks around the room; her eyes fall, after a moment, on the polished surface of the desk. It’s cluttered with inkpots and paper and all manner of little mage things; laying open is a book.

Efri takes a step off the rug and onto the stone with a leather-booted foot. She isn’t quiet about it; the Archmage doesn’t notice.

She goes to look at the book.

It’s quite old, she thinks, though not as old as some of the texts in the Arcaeneum; the pages yellowed and wrinkled with time, the leather she can see of the cover soft and supple. The page it’s opened to is covered over with sparse text; handwritten, too, and rather messily. It takes some effort but Efri is able to make out a few words.

Only because they’re familiar, though; only because she’s spent the last few days peering over Sissel’s shoulder as she pores over volumes that might give them the information they need (while still being succinct enough as to be comprehensible). Chapters of histories of the magical institutions of the world with only the vaguest descriptions of the ideas and practices of the Psijic Order; old College record-books that say nothing about an Augur.

On this wrinkled page Efri’s eyes, skimming over the small collections of words in a crisp, crabbed hand, lock onto the familiar shapes of Artaeum – of Psijic – of Winterhold. There are a few other capitalised words that look like names, though none of them mean much of anything to her. Deneth. Antilion.

Efri glances back at the Archmage, who is still crouching on the edge of the garden patch. His arms are limp by his sides, hands spread out on the stone.

She takes the book. (It might be relevant! She’ll give it back later!) She’s got no pockets big enough to put it in, so she hurries back over to the little entrance area and slips it under a dresser. She’ll take it out on her way out – have Sissel help her look through it for anything about the Augur they’re supposed to find or the strange mages they’ve been contacted by – and bring it back, later. No harm done.

The Archmage is still staring at the garden like it’s telling him secrets. She pads over to him on her toes, quiet as a mouse. Even when she’s standing over him, practically looming, her skirt definitely in position to be within the edges of his vision, he doesn’t turn. He’s like this, sometimes. Makes it easier to look through all his stuff without him complaining; makes it harder to talk, if Efri’s in a chatty mood, or to figure out what it is he wants.

Efri waits a few seconds – just to make sure – before she nudges him with her foot.

He startles, whole body twitching under the loose grey cloth of his robe. He looks up.

Efri says, “Are you going to tend the plants?”

The Archmage blinks. “Of course,” he says; his tone is somewhere between curt and bemused. “I was waiting for you to come over here.”

His eyes are fixed on some point on the ceiling, or on the shift of Efri’s mantle. Efri eyes him askance. “Well, I’m here now,” she tells him, like it’s not obvious, and kicks him gently one more time for good measure.

“Don’t,” he says. He doesn’t snap – still talks soft. Efri looks at him even more askance, but he’s already looking away, over his mage-lit bed of plants. They look good, as neat and cared-for as ever, though one of the hardy little bushes is growing more arms than it really needs and the gnarling rock-roots are beginning to drown out the little flowers – the ones that look like goatweed. A garden like this – miraculous, impossible, meddling – takes a lot of maintenance, especially when you’re not a plant-wizard, which, Efri has learned, is a real thing; there’s a surprising amount of plant-based spells, and in Morrowind the wizards actually grow big mushrooms to live in. But neither she nor the Archmage are much good at plant-spells; they have to do it all manual.

Mostly manual. The Archmage raises a hand; Efri watches as ice gathers in the air before his fingers, glittering in the magelight like a sharp-cut diamond (or like the ink-print drawings of them; Efri’s never seen one in real life). With a flick of his wrist he sends it scattering in jewel-bright drops over the patch.

(Efri would have had to get a watering can. Or rig up some complex irrigation scheme. Doing it with magic feels like cheating.)

But it is pretty. “Pretty,” she comments, because if she doesn’t, she is mostly sure the Archmage will forget she’s there.

His fingers curl. “Thank you,” he says. Frost begins creeping over his palm, piling itself on like a gentle drift of snow. After several seconds of him casting in silence and her watching in silence, he speaks again. “That was… a strange incident, the other day. Very strange indeed.”

Ah. The incident.

(The unfamiliar mage that appeared out of nowhere – offering no explanations, would speak to nobody – demanding to see the College’s youngest, newest member. A mage from some important society, no less; magical societies are hardly Efri’s area of expertise, but from the way that both the Archmage and his Advisor were falling over themselves to accommodate his bizarre requests it must be really important. And then they’d messed it all up by insisting that Efri and Kazari go as well as Sissel, even though he only asked for Sissel; and then he stopped time to talk to them and vanished into thin air as soon as he was done. And Kazari said they shouldn’t tell anyone about it.)

(That incident.)

“Mm,” Efri says in vague agreement. (Kazari said she shouldn’t tell anyone about it. And they made fair points. If the not-ghost had wanted the Archmage to know he would have brought him into the fold; Efri and her friends don’t even know what they’re doing, much less who they can trust about it.)

“Very strange,” the Archmage repeats. He curls his hand into a fist and the gathered snow seeps out of it. “And after all these years – he just leaves.” He looks back, the lines of his face stark in the glow of the magelight and the shadow of his hood, his eyes apple-red, and asks, “Do you think we offended him?”

Normally, the Archmage talks kind of blank. Dispassionate. Borderline lofty, borderline lordly, sometimes. This is not that.

(Efri can’t place what it is instead, but it’s not that. She bites the inside of her cheek.)

Affecting a shrug, Efri says, “How should I know? I didn’t talk to him.”

“Hm,” the Archmage replies, and turns back to the garden, a grey silhouette against the colourful shock of the plants.

“He seemed weird,” Efri offers, which is true. (Both versions of events make him seem weird: his cryptic warnings and his cryptic-er silence.)

The Archmage, shoulders slumped, repeats, “Hm.” There is a quiet moment. He says, “Would you like me to show you how to prune the canis root?”

Efri says, “Sure.”

So the Archmage steps into the garden, bare-footed on the sparse patches of free, damp soil. His toes must be very cold. He crouches down, knees clicking as he does – moves to the side of the plant growing sharp and sprawling out of the rock so Efri can see what he’s doing – and unsheathes a wicked little blade that winks in the magelight. He sets a hand on one of the dry, quavering roots (no, Efri notices – the root is still, it’s his hand that trembles) and positions the knife.

A quick, neat slice, right below the bud, to keep the root small and contained, else it might crawl over the rocks and strangle out everything else in the garden. The pruned-off root rests in the Archmage’s palm. He curls his fingers around it; Efri can see the leather of his gloves crease.

“Efri,” he says, sudden. Magelight runs like waterfall rapids down the grey wool of his back, the heavy fold of his hood. “Be careful.”

She’s not the one with the knife. She doesn’t know what he means. But the tremor in his hand is rattling his whole arm up to the shoulder, now, and he still sounds strange. A hundred years younger, maybe. Or much, much older.

“I know you think you’re on the edge of something great,” he goes on, that strange quality to his voice. He sounds like the pruning knife, like ocean storms, like old stone. “You’re curious. You want to know.”

Oh.

“You want to know, too,” Efri says, hand fisting in the pilling warm wool of her skirt. She feels defensive, though she’s not entirely sure of what. “And it’s important. It –”

His shape against the blossoming garden shifts. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe it is. Maybe you are.”

He turns, then; his face stark blue-grey as the ancient stones, and Efri is suddenly, deeply certain that he has been in the College for aeons. He has never left this room. For a moment, all its luxury feels gossamer-frail; the air is heavy as ash and she is choking on it. She can make out nothing in the lines of the Archmage’s face. “Your great discovery,” he says, and it’s like a recitation. “Think about what it’s worth. Think about what it isn’t.”

In the main hall of the College, far below, the Eye of Magnus rests atop a streaming blue-light font. It spins, and spins, and spins.

“You’re being weird,” Efri tells the Archmage of Winterhold, and his lips flatten.

“Think about it,” he repeats with the distant finality of a bell’s toll, and he slices through another grown-out root, sap sticking bloodily to his blade.

#think this is the first writing post of the new year. raucous cheering from the stands #I didn't write this in the new year though I'm afraid... I ventured into the docs for this. braved their many mysteries #one day I will start posting new things instead of forgetting about them for six months and coming back with fresh eyes #but today is NOT THAT DAY #hope you enjoyed !#oc tag #efri #fay writes #my writing #the elder scrolls #skyrim #tes #college of winterhold #savos aren #tesblr

26 notes · View notes

witchtwig · 1 month ago

Text

Rio: Named, Denied

I've seen a few people theorizing that the reason that Agatha never calls Rio by her name to her face during the run of AAA is because that's not the name she used call Rio. (The only time she uses the name is during the morgue scene, and then it is spoken to Billy, not Rio.) And I think it is a fun consideration, but I feel the answer is a lot simpler.

Agatha spends most of her time during the show denying Rio's personhood. She cannot make that mistake again. She cannot allow herself to view Rio as a person, allow her that vulnerable part of her heart. At least, outloud she cannot do that.

She denies Rio's heart. She denies her scar. She denies her name. She even calls her a "bad boy" to write off Rio, to joke around and not really acknowledge what their relationship was (because in a lot of ways Rio is the opposite of a bad boy--she's the laws of nature, she's puckish and fay in her behaviour certainly, but she is a rule follower). She can only afford, for her own heart's sake, to see Rio as Death.

And it is interesting then that Rio's name is Rio Vidal. A name that means River of Life, because acknowledging that, beyond even her own fear of allowing Rio back in--it is also acknowledging Rio isn't simply Death. She is The Green Witch, she is the cycle of all living things. She is (99.9% likely) the other parent to Nicholas.

Agatha in her sensitive, guarded heartbroken heart cannot let herself see Rio as a person--when she does, when she listens to the scar story--she immediately allows herself to embrace her love again. She is still so deeply in love with Rio, but she is so afraid of it.

But yeah, those are just my thoughts. I still have so many thoughts about Agatha, Rio, Nicholas, and Billy especially that I eventually need to sort out (including all of the textual nods in the series to Rio and Nicholas' connection/Rio as the other parent).

#agathario #rio vidal #agatha harkness #i love agatha she's so deeply sad and hurt as a person and the one person who sees her fully scares the shit out of her #1 for seeing her fully #2 for taking their son #3 for being the thing that agatha herself is so afraid of #4 because she still loves her so damn much #it is part of the tragedy of their relationship--rio cannot be fully rio with agatha because she does have to do her job #a lady cop cannot be good at her job and have a healthy personal life at the same time huh rio #i am someone who loves fay; eldritch entities; and cosmic beings and the question of identity formation v much #what constitutes a person; is it not human to see it reflected back in the divine #i am a big believer that agatha and rio shaped each other in indelible ways #their identities are a shared construction it's why they have so many physical actions that are mimicries #speaking of fay thinking about fay and puckish rio is--how important names are to fay hmmmm #i really want to write a fay rio fic someday

17 notes · View notes

spellsparkler · 6 months ago

Text

most relaxed girl in the world (who wants to kill you). everyone say hiii elias

#MY DARK URGE CHARACTER EVERYBODY. CUE RAUCOUS CHEERING FROM THE STANDS (my 5 followers on this account)#I wanted to doodle some more ideas for her hair and try to figure out her armour etc but it was taking forever and I was impatient #so here is my first attempt at figuring out her face !! and one of these days once I've done a bit more of her playthrough I'll post some #writing. so far I have just over 10k words and none of it is very good lol #design notes: her face is inspired by statues of saints. I'm going hard on the religious connotations apparently #the krumau madonna was particularly helpful. thank you whichever artist carved it #she always has this exact expression. the slight mona lisa smile. her face CAN do other things but it looks weird when it does #and the little scribble next to her is her name in elian script. too perfect not to pass up #in this universe it is a cipher that she invented and almost no-one else knows I decided #ANYWAY. bedtime #oc tag #elias tag #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #dark urge #my art #durge #fay draws

13 notes · View notes

solokabuto · 2 years ago

Text

i blacked out and somehow this was sitting in my ibispaintx without further clarification

#they hurt me sm #the last two sections were written by me so congrats to fate for getting me out of my writing slump!#this is crossposted on my tiktok hence goenshin instead of solokabuto #something about self sacrifice and holding an insane burden does something to my brain #is probably because i was raised catholic #i need to stop rambling in the tags #oh yeah the stuff about artoria comes from the drama cd about fate's arthurian lore #it was avalon something i forgot and i don't feel like checking #artoria pendragon #morgan le fay #artoria caster #jeanne d'arc #fate #fgo #this entire thing is part visual poetry part nonsense and part enlightened insanity #castoria

80 notes · View notes

girlvasectomy · 1 year ago

Text

everytime i think about fnaf my autism gets stronger

#fay draws #fnaf #five nights at freddy's #fnaf human #freddy fazbear #bonnie the bunny #chica the chicken #foxy the pirate #it's kind of in honor to the film #i liked the movie. it wasn't the movie of the century for me but it was a good movie #i have so many things to thank fnaf for. it was my first fandom. it's the whole reason why i started to write and draw and that's how i #learned english #so thanks fnaf <3

30 notes · View notes

basicallyahedgehog · 2 years ago

Text

Happy birthday darling Fay @thesleepiesthufflepuff!!! You are such a ray of light and a joy to know, and I am so so so grateful to be able to call you my friend. You deserve the whole world, but I hope this fluffy little thing inspired by Clodagh and her jammies will suffice. Wishing you the happiest of birthdays and all the puppy snuggles today.

Harry paced restlessly up and down the hallway as he waited for the dog trainer to arrive. It had seemed like a good idea at the time — Dog needed to be trained, and No Bark, No Bite had the highest ratings in the neighbourhood. Harry had been full of hope as he’d filled out the online form, visions of long walks with his faithful companion swimming through his head. It had all come crashing down, however, when the confirmation email came through.

“Draco Malfoy will see you at 10am on Wednesday morning.”

So here Harry was, contemplating whether he could just live with the fact that Dog refused to go outside so that he could escape the doom that was fast approaching.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Malfoy anymore. No, he quite liked the git now that they had all grown up a bit and let bygones be bygones. The problem was quite the opposite, really. Because Malfoy — Draco — was smart and witty and charming and fucking fit. And Harry knew Draco worked with animals. Knew his job was in Harry’s own neighbourhood. And now he was coming here to Harry’s house and he’d know that Harry was fucking incompetent — and a liar, because Harry had told him only three days ago that everything was fine and he didn’t need help with his new puppy but thank you very much.

He was so stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.

-----

Draco chewed on his lips as he walked up the path, once again questioning the wisdom in taking this job. He should have handed the client on to Cassie as soon as he saw the name. Should have packed his bags and move to another country. Because now he had to work with Harry and be professional. Had to pretend that the mere idea of Harry with a puppy didn’t make his insides melt.

He sucked in a breath and knocked on the door, relaxing minutely when he heard a faint crash from inside followed by colourful swearing. At least he wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

Harry opened the door, his hair even more wild than it was on pub nights. A tiny black puppy crouched behind him, eyeing the open door in fascination but making no move to step outside.

“Potter.” Draco held out his hand, determined to remain professional. “How can I help you?”

-----

A disaster. It was all a terrible disaster.

Draco had stayed barely half an hour before declaring he knew the problem, but wouldn’t be able to fix it today. He had almost run back down the street, as if he couldn’t stand to be near Harry any longer.

Harry knew he was weird and awkward, but he thought he’d had it vaguely under control that morning.

Sure, he had a dog named Dog. Well, Dumbledog, at Teddy’s insistence, but even Harry wasn’t strange enough to go around calling the poor little thing by her full name. And yes, he couldn’t work a normal job like Draco did, and yes, Dog was largely purchased with the plan to train her as a therapy dog to help him with his anxiety. And yes, he was so fucking gone on Draco that he could barely string two sentences together.

But that didn’t mean Draco had to run away, did it?

He could only hope that he would be able to hold himself together better next time they saw each other.

-----

A disaster. It was all a terrible disaster.

Harry had been so sweet and so concerned about his dog, all of Draco’s heartstrings had been stretched beyond their limits. And he had a dog named Dog of all things, which Draco would have laughed at if it had been anyone else. Instead it was Harry, and Draco felt all stretched out and upside down. Like nothing in the world could ever be the same now that he had seen Harry cuddle a tiny, wriggly ball of fluff named Dog.

So here he was, a tangle of yarn in his lap, knitting needles in one hand and instruction book in the other. Because poor Dog was cold and there was only one thing he could do when faced with a puppy who refused to go on walks with Harry Potter due to the cold.

Learn to knit doggy jumpers.

-----

Harry was baffled.

“So, Dog was just cold?”

“Yeah,” Draco replied, tucking Dog’s paws through the front legs of her new little jumper. “Hopefully this is enough, but we might need to get her booties too if her feet are sensitive.”

“They sell booties for dogs?”

“The Muggles do, yeah. They’re quite sweet, actually.”

Harry blinked. Had Draco just called a Muggle invention sweet?

“Could we not just use a warming charm?” Dog looked very sweet in her jumper, but Harry couldn’t help be confused by the fact that Draco hadn’t immediately turned to magic.

“Oh, Dog is allergic to warming charms. I checked last time, but you were so worried about her I didn’t want to say anything until I had a solution.”

“Oh.” Harry could only stare at Draco, silently willing his expression into something acceptable. “Thank you, Draco. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

This man was going to be the death of him.

-----

This man was going to be the death of him.

“Dog is allergic to warming charms,” he muttered to himself furiously. “Honestly, Draco, could you have been any more obvious?”

He sunk into his couch, running his fingers through his hair. He didn’t know how Harry hadn’t seen right through him, he hadn’t even tried to hide how stupidly in love he was.

Love. Fuck. He loved Harry Potter and now he’d lied to him and fucking learnt to knit for his dog and…

There was only one thing left to do.

-----

“So she needed the booties, then?” Harry blinked sleepily at Draco, who had turned up unexpectedly while Harry and Dog were having a nap.

“Well, she seemed to walk happily last week, but I thought it was better safe than sorry. How has she been?”

“She’s been great! I think the jacket has really helped, thank you so much.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll leave you to it then.”

Draco began to walk away, and Harry made a snap decision.

“Wait! Did you want to come for a walk with us? You know, to check on Dog’s progress?”

Harry was an idiot. A sweet, bumbling, adorable idiot. And Draco was a fool.

Dog had loved their walk, prancing through the fallen leaves and chasing squirrels as far as her lead would allow. Harry, however, had looked positively miserable as his eyes watered and his nose streamed and his fingers turned blue.

“I told you to bundle up, Potter,” Draco had said, only half of his old sneer coming through.

“I put an extra sweater on!” Harry had exclaimed, as if a sweater would keep his extremities warm.

“What about a hat? A scarf? Some mittens?”

“Oh,” Harry said, tilting his head in thought. “I don’t think I own any. Gave them all to Dobby.”

“Potter, Dobby died ten years ago.” He’d tried to be soft, tried not to snap at the foolish, stupid man beside him.

“I guess I just didn’t think about it.”

And so now Draco was awake at 2am, for the third night in a row, knitting furiously.

-----

“And I thought he’d just bought the little sweater for Dog, and I thought it was sweet that he’d found booties that matched. But…but these all showed up on my doorstep yesterday, and they all match Dog’s things, and I don’t know what it means.”

Harry sat on Ron and Hermione’s couch, head in hands, a pile of knitwear on the floor in front of him. The hat, scarf and mittens had been on his front step that morning when he and Dog went for their first walk of the day. There hadn’t been a note, but the yarn was so distinctive. They could have only come from one person.

“Harry.” Hermione spoke gently, as if she had something important to say and didn’t know how Harry would take it. “Why would Draco buy Dog a sweater instead of just using a warming charm?”

“He said Dog was allergic to them. Said he checked on his first visit but didn’t want to worry me.”

Ron made a strange choking noise before excusing himself to the kitchen.

“Harry, charms can’t cause allergies.”

“But…why would he buy her a sweater then?”

“Harry…” Hermione looked at him softly, as if pleading with him to figure out what she already had. He looked again at the bundle of yarn on the floor, at the uneven stitches and slightly lumpy shapes.

“He didn’t buy them, did he?”

Hermione grabbed his hand. “No, Harry. He didn’t.”

“But, why?”

Ron’s voice came from behind them. “HE’S FUCKING COURTING YOU, MATE.”

-----

Draco trudged up Harry’s front path. He’d promised himself after last time that he wouldn’t be back, but he’d gotten a text from Harry that morning asking him to come over.

He’d tried not to hope, tried to ignore the warmth swelling in his chest.

If Harry had figured it out, surely he would have said something before now. After all, it had almost been a week since he’d dropped off the knitwear.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the door opening, but he couldn’t ignore the exuberant ball of fluff jumping all over him. The exuberant ball of fluff wearing…a knitted bow tie?

“She was meant to give you this, but she was too excited to wait for me to tie it on.” Draco looked up from Dog to see Harry standing in front of him, a timid smile on his face as he held out a small roll of parchment. Draco took it tentatively, eyes flicking back to Harry as he unrolled it.

My owner is an idiot, but some would say that makes him cute.

Will you go out with him? Dog is optional on dates.

Harry rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet as Draco read and reread the scroll.

This was a terrible idea, he should have bought flowers or whiskey or-

Draco dropped the scroll, his face unreadable as he stood. Harry opened his mouth, unsure of what he was going to say, but then it didn’t matter because Draco was reaching for him and cradling his head and kissing him.

Maybe he hadn’t been so stupid, after all.

#happy birthday Fay #i love you to the moon and back #you deserve the softest coziest things in life #drarry #drarry fic #now i want a puppy called dog #my writing

129 notes · View notes

faislittlewhiteraven · 10 months ago

Text

Undertale/ISaT crossover thoughts 3

(aka the 'Sif and family explore The Island' edition)

Had a lot of Undertale/ISaT crossover thoughts (here's the post for how I'm crossing them over in general, and here's the post for an overview of each of the three major plot lines) but most of my actual thinking has been about Sif and family exploring The island so I'm gonna go into some depth for once rather than overview and hope this is useful for ideas for anyone writing any sort of 'Sif and family go to Sif's homeland' fic rather than the Undertale crossover centric stuff most of the other posts have been.

Side note: Location names in my notes is very minimal at this point as I generally look up names last when plotting anything. But er, working name of the Island is The Isle of Chara (because Undertale's Chara is kind of a big deal in this actually and good odds the final name will probably have Chara in it) so please keep that in mind in case I somehow end up typing that somewhere here in my notes.

---

Start:

Sif and family's plot starts with the return of colours and memories (caused by the breaking of the Barrier by the monsters). A day is spent kind of just 'emotionally reacting' to all that (Sif's kind of overwhelmed and in tears) but next day the group actually sit down and discuss whether it's worth them going or not because, yes they are the Saviours of Vauguard and yes they're right next to Bambooche but well, who knows what state the Island is in right now and if it turns out to be... Unpleasant, it is definitely going to hit Sif hard.

Siffrin, naturally does want to go, but am definitely having Sif mentally going over all the potential horrors of the situation (everyone just... Vanished without a trace leaving empty streets and homes? Piles of skeletons because everyone died in an instant? His parents completely untouched by the passage of time wondering why he, an adult stranger covered in scars is claiming to be their missing child?) before confirming with the others he's up for this and that they'll need his Island language skills in case of survivors and for reading signs and records anyway.

How do they get there:

At first the think of taking a boat but well, turns out the Island wasn't the only thing erased from memory and as they reach Bambooche it becomes apparent that- Oh! That 'spooky hill everyone just avoids' is actually a really big and complete with steel, concrete and 'our world modern' tar road bridge, that goes all the way out over the ocean and clearly extends towards the Island.

Cue Party stopping by Bambooche's harbour and the local House of Change to get an idea of options: The House also wants to send people to Vauguard's new/old neighbours (in general all the Houses in Vauguard are very curious and there's a ton of messengers and 'Message Craft' going back and forth everywhere right now) and they promise to get the word out to everywhere (including the press) that the Saviours of Vauguard are investigating so no one has any reason to worry. Cue awkward/nervous Mirabelle laughing and trying not to freak out at the pressure of being so important... Again! While many local sailors are willing to make the trip but well, prepping the ships for an unknown landing will take a while and everyone is nervous about the 'was apparently always there' giant bridge looming overhead (what if bits of it fall?).

So after a bit of back and forth the party go for the bridge. It needs people to check it for structural damage and Sadnesses anyway and the party have people capable of handling both (gives Nille construction analysis skills) so welp!

Bridge:

Actually approaching the bridge the party spy some weird 'metal lumps' that as they approach several members of the group (not just Sif) recognise as long abandoned cars. Which are everywhere, to the point its genuinely hard to get around them, and the group realise the 'little building next to the bridge' is actually the entrance for an underground car park. Cue the group finding a 'building' built into the base of the bridge; sadly the door is locked and despite Isabeau and Nille's best efforts they can't smash it open, but Sif's pretty sure it's probably the door to a train station judging by the glass and metal tube they can see running from the side of the building base all the way under the bridge.

Cue talk on what the crab a train even is as they make their way back onto the actual bridge and start climbing and hopping over the sea of cars (Odile wants everyone to know she hates all this jumping btw), but the silly vibes stop dead when the groups starts seeing the remains of car wrecks and some never buried corpses left at the wheel/caught between two lots of crumpled metal (it's been like 18 years so they're pretty much all picked clean skeletons but yeah, Bonnie is definitely having their eyes covered by Mira). ...Isabeau points out that all the cars and remains here very definitely indicate that the people of the Island were not instakilled/frozen in time by whatever happened and, most likely, they were hit by the memory erasure effect and those who could remember how tried to flee the Island for places less detrimental to their psyches but... It's honestly kind of amazing that there aren't more crash wrecks and bodies given how mentally distressed everyone driving must have been.

It doesn't help cheer anyone up but the observation is noted (Sif keeps getting shoulder pats from everyone since well, this isn't the worst case scenerio but it's pretty bad), and the group continue walking until finally they reach a 'Craft' Station (think gas station but like, magic wish stuff for fuel or something. Thinking there's a favor tree 'tank' next to the building and everything) where they find a few scribbled notes in Vauguardian from the last worker there (bilingial type, lived on the island, trying and failing to remember the island and 'something, someone?' important they left there, decided to head for Vauguard but only after noting down everything they can and making sure all the 'time preserving seals' on the food storage containers are working properly. Just in case someone needs them) and a whole heap of fridges and 'glass cases' with somehow still fresh food inside them. Sadly the cooking implements in the building weren't nearly as resistant to the flow of time but the group decides they'd rather spend the night outside in their tents anyway so they set up camp, Sif shares more of what they do and don't know about all this weird stuff they keep encountering (some but not a lot; Sif recognises the appliances and roads but their coastal hometown was much more 'traditional' and they don't have a clue how all these high tech craft machines actually work outside of making sure they're set up right and flicking a switch) and have a nice dinner before going to sleep.

Next day is walking, with a side order of more walking. Mood is a bit better after talks and rest, but most of this gets skipped (during which the precipitation that collected on the bridge during the cold night evaporates into a thick fog, and then starts slowly clearing up under what looks like strong sunlight) until the group finally see the actual island itself for the first time and- Oh wow. That's an actual city (for an idea of the visuals please imagine the city in the background of the Undertale credits scene where Papyrus is driving along a bridge in a car). Group are blown away because, damn, somehow they weren't expecting that (this is waaay too big a place for them alone to explore, thank goodness the Houses will be sending teams in soon) except for Siffrin who promptly recognises the place as something of a tourist/heavily Vauguardian influenced city that he used to visit on rare occasions with his parents: Usually for big events like going to see a big theatre production on his birthday or to attend the Island's biggest Change festival (brought over by the large Vauguardian immigrant population) which his mom's family always loved attending.

The City:

Takes the group another hour or two to actually reach the city itself (walking takes time alas) but when they get there, yep there sure are a lot of signs in Vauguardian and little Change God statues everywhere. ...Also a lot of signs of looting and unchecked plant growth and 'feral' animals everywhere but most of the buildings look pretty good (Odile is still instantly 'none of us are entering going up or down any floors past ground level in any of these without good reason before Nille/other professionals can check them over for instability' though), and though it takes a bit of awkwardly trying to read a rotting signpost map, Sif is able to guide everyone to the central train station...

Which still has its automated trains working!!! (Sif takes a moment to brag about how 'of course they're still fine! All public transport systems are safe guarded by the best protections applied Wish craft can manage' before wondering why they feel so proud of that something their dad used to say a lot?) Cue party quickly finding the 'Vauguard line' which, yes is working and is just waiting for passengers, and (before proper discussion of 'do we take the train back to Vauguard and unblock the station doors on the other end' can be had) a trainline that stops by Siffrin's home town down by the Island's Southern coast.

...Needless to say, they go for Sif's hometown first (they're 100% planning on unblocking the Vauguard station's door at the nearest possible opportunity afterwards though).

Cue silly scenes of everyone boarding the train, comments being made of the silly 'mascot' figures in black and white everywhere (thinking I may cameo Ingo and Emmet in setting), Odile mentioning that she remembers riding trains -much less sleak and automatic than these ones- in Ka Bue during her youth (presumably their use being associated enough with the Island they were forgotten about when the Event happened), Isabeau turning out to be majorly freaked out by the closing doors and general nice vibes before whooosh they're off to Sif's hometown.

Siffrin's hometown:

Party get a nice scenic view of the coast and a lot of 'old fashioned if fancy' looking coastal buildings as the train zips along and pulls into an elegant if overgrown looking station (I'm thinking greek column/smooth plain stone everywhere vibes and IDK why).

One side of the station leads away from the coast in the direction of what looks an actual town, while the other goes towards the coast and in general seems like a much quieter 'district', with lots of more old fashioned looking buildings (some clearly more damaged by the years without care than others), lots of trees, boat houses and cobbled pathways.

Naturally Sif immediately heads in the direction of the coast, at first slow then running ahead as he recognises the streets and houses before finally stopping at a house in very good condition. Party catch up and yeah... This is Sif's home. That tree had a swing, the marks on the door are from when Siffrin got it into his head to try carving 'stars' on everything for 'good luck', that over there is the 'public door' to Dad's observatory he left open to the public because all Islanders deserve to have unrestricted access to the stars but just as often people from town would just walk right through the house to get there because Mom loved having so many guests and their 'private family rooms' all had locks so letting people freely wander their home was fine and-!

...Yeah Siffrin is terrified of going in alone but fortunately their family of choice is there and well, in they go.

Everything inside is in equally good nick (the place itself is simple and homey but also clearly high quality stuff everywhere) and somehow only very barely dusty, though the group are quick to notice that all the cupboards are bare, there's clear signs of someone searching and packing away things (books all over, things left open, scattered things like bowls and cups -someone trying to decide what to take?) and well. There's a bunch of notes, written in Vauguardian on the kitchen table. Odile reads it out:

The writer cannot remember her name, or where she is, her family which she knows she must have because there's three plates here, just as there are three bedrooms and one of each is for a child she can't remember she can't remember but. She can think enough to write things down, to check on her neighbours and get them to eat. ...No one can stay here. She remembers Vauguard so it must be safe, and... There's a boat, in the warehouse, she and others can take. She and the friendly boulanger she can't remember he's her friend but she can't remember know how to rig and sail it and they're more coherent than most everyone else so... If they head there, maybe things will be fine? She's always liked Vauguard and the Change religion, always thought about changing herself a little even if he likes her as she is She can't read that last line and Changing would be nice, she thinks. ...though, if the family she must have are looking for her, she'll need to keep some things the same. Darkless kinky hair is unusual isn't it? Especially with the darker skin she inherited from her Vauguardian mother so she'll keep those, but... Oh what if she makes herself really stand out in other ways? Then. Then maybe they'll notice and be drawn to her even if they can't remember any better than she does! She lists the things she does remember about herself once more, where she plans to lead everyone (Dormont is a nice place. The quiet slow pace there might help the others adjust), all the supplies she plans on taking (a porcaline doll. Her 's favorite. Hugs it constantly even though it feels awful), a few complaints about people who absolutely refuse to leave even though they're every bit as mindblanked as the rest of them and leaves an end note inviting anyone who reads this account to please enjoy their rest in her home but to please, please please not damage anything because- Someone else might not want it damaged and. She can't remember, can't handle even entering some of these rooms it hurts too much but. Please. She wants everything here to remain where it is, until the people who belong here can return.

...

So um. Yeah.

Big group hug and tears are had but Sif being Sif tries to push on quicker than they should, group reluctantly accept that he might just need some time to process and with Sif's blanket permission ("It's my family house. You're my family, so you can go wherever you want") most split into smaller groups inspecting all the rooms and things, with Odile and Isa checking out Sif's dad's study, Bonnie immediately poking their nose into Sif's childhood room dragging Sif along to tell them all about everything in there (Sif is having like all the nostalgia, heart ache and 'genuinely wanting to show Bonnie all the cool things, oh! The toy aeroplane that actually flies =D' moods right now), and Nille and Mira giving the more rummaged areas a quick look over since well. Good odds they may be here a while and knowing where stuff is might be handy.

During this period thinking Mirabelle should have something of a mild freakout for many reasons over the thought that Euphrasie -her mother/mentor figure- could possibly be Siffrin's mindwhammied birth mother because Dormont was mentioned, and the Head Housemaiden never really talks about her past and she knew of Wish Craft, and has that genuinely really rare darkless kinky hair and the hand writing on the note seemed familiar and aaaaaaa!!!! Cue giving Nille a scene of trying to help calm Mira down' mostly by pointing out there's no way they could possibly know the truth right now, pointing out that post the return of colours they can't really be sure what 'darkless' they're even talking about here, and Sif still flinches whenever Euphrasie is mentioned due to how much he associates her with the loops so if they ARE related... It's probably going to be a good long while before they can even consider reconnecting anyway so Mira has plenty of time to sort through her feelings on this, talk to the related parties to confirm if her suspicions have anything to them, and Euphrasie would probably need even more time to process it all than Sif and Mira will put together (good odds she'd currently be going through a massive breakdown/freakout back in Dormont over realising she has a kid she has no idea the identity, well being or anything of).

Mostly out of direct 'scene to scene' stuff at this point but thinking the group end up spending the night in the Observatory, which is MASSIVE and Siffrin sort of manages to awkwardly get across that observatories not directly used for study are always like that because they're basically public churches for Islanders since viewing the guiding light of the stars with others is a holy/community kinda thing but... Also Sif's family on their Dad's side have owned this observatory/the 'star viewing area' on these cliffs for generations and it IS totally normal to spend every other night stargazing with random strangers and to be given near constant lessons on stars and proper behaviour by your Dad so all the other families know you're being properly pious and- Cue everyone being like: 'hey Sif, I think your family might've be a little less 'humble coastal folk' and more 'stupid rich' than you might've realised from the perspective of being a 13 year old, also the notes and diaries in your Dad's study scream political work and someone who arranges a lot of religious stuff' and Siffrin trying to wrap their brain around essentially being the Island's version of Mira but with like, a lot of money on top of that.

Other:

They 100% find the body of someone who killed themselves recently when looking around... Somewhere. (too many days ago for them to have possibly stopped this person but definite confirmation that survivors of the Island might've been hit hard by suddenly remembering and having no support)

Probably meet Undine on the rail system while looking for pockets of survivors still on the island - Undine is doing the same on behalf of the monsters trying to set up a new government so um. Yay happy first contact?

Once Sif's group has met up with the Undertale characters there' definitely gonna be some Sif and Frisk friendship stuff, though probably not before Frisk and Bonnie (and MK?) friendship causes mild craziness.

(...Must have Sif, Isa, Toriel and Sans pun off. I can't write for beans but I MUST! For the PUNS!!!!)

Scene where Siffrin learns the Elder guy who's been looking after all the kids in the Village by Mt Ebott (main area the monsters have set up shop so it'll probably be renamed by Asgore 'Home Town' soon), is their grandfather on their mother's side and a bit of family history. - namely that Sif's mother was half Vauguardian (grandma was sickly and died before Sif was even born), that travelling to other countries and marrying 'outside the island' was seen as something very odd (slight xenophobic attitudes to outsiders?) back in Grampa's day, and a lot of little tidbits about Sif's parents like how his mom loved fishheads so so much, it was Sif's dad who cooked amazing Malanga Fritters with green peppers, the two of them had something of a whirlwind romance bonding over making enchanted things together (dad better at ritual work while mom could just boom! Make things off the cuff without thinking too hard about it) and... yeah. Just... Sif finding one living relative who never, ever expected to see any of his relatives again to boot (also Elder immediately being all 'introduce me to your family- Ah so just like your mother you favor big handsome men! Oh and your little one Bonnie is precious!' the second he gets over the weepy 'I cannot believe it' awkwardness because dang it, Sif deserves to find some additional family on this otherwise incredibly heavy trip)

The exploration into the space warped and Sadness filled Island Capital eventially leads to a lot of weird/heavy revelations about the Island for Sif:

Sif on his dad's side is basically the heir to one of THE big families of the Island (they don't like royalty but the Asterion and Chara families were arguably that in all but name).

His dad was very concerned about the heir of Chara because they were never really seen in public despite the Chara family living in/basically owning the Capital.

There was a genuine fear of the Monsters returning and waging war for the sins committed against their ancestors and a union between the Asterion and Chara families was seen by many as 'Universe ordained' protection against this (Cue Sif having a lot of 'trying not to wonder if my country practiced arranged marriage' squick and really appreciating their parents' choice to keep them well away from the Capital/the really religious types here...)

The Chara family was apparently in charge of protecting and aiding any Monsters found outside Mt Ebott (of which there were actually quite a few!) but according to the official paperwork all of them requested to join the rest of the Monsters under Mt Ebott? (All monsters helping the party point blank state that no one, monster or human, entered the Underground from the Surface before Chara fell)

...Notes on how Monster dust is raw Wish Craft in physical form in the Chara house...

Notes in the Chara house on how the Chara heir wasn't particularly liked, to the point they weren't being given a personal name until they did something to earn it.

Horror lab eventually found in the Chara house. Lots of dusty cages, notes on how people injected with monster dust react to it, etc.

Chara's room. Bare and empty aside from a few potted golden flower plants, a few letters and pictures stuck up on the wall (cue Sif doing a double take recognising their childhood name on some of them -Chara was that penpal of theirs that never responded?), and a few loose floor boards which underneath have scribbled escape plans, very expired food rations, carefully drawn and folded pictures of non human figures crying in cages, and bandages.

--- And... yeah. That last part is very much the 'Chara plotline' stuff kicking in hard but trying to think of little puzzle pieces for Sif and Co to find and slowly piece together into a big old ball of 'Wow, I DO understand why this otherwise very nice and did not deserve this country got accidentally ERASED by this kid actually' hints so um yeah.

Hope you like all the world building/stuff before it gets all 'period horror/drama' at the end there and do feel free to use any of this/give feedback as well. I've spent too long typing this out, my brain is pudding and I'm done on this thinky think train for now XD

#isat #in stars and time #undertale #ut #undertale spoilers #isat spoilers #fais fanfic rambles #post game #fusion fic #writing stuff about the island #fanfiction #worldbuilding #having too much fun with the 'what else did everyone forget' thing #islander euphrasia theory brought up in universe (and set aside because yikes that's heavy given the circumstances)#Siffrin is not having a great time (learning a lot though)#Lotta horror aaaa stuff in the last part for Chara backstory #cw suicide mention #...I need stuff for the non Sif parts of the team to do. Outside of Sif I mean #Like Bonnie running off and uncovering 'kid secrets' with Frisk is easy #but still brain blank on the others mostly #eh got nothing for the undertale cast and loop either so later I guess #for now i sleep #oh apologies if bambooche is misspelt. forgot to look it up and too tired to edit it now so hopefully you all know what I'm on about anyway #cw car accident #cw mention of death #cw implied abuse

18 notes · View notes

disorganizedkitten · 1 year ago

Note

Oh but you should expand on the rarepair things. Whomst is Cecilia? And why is Fay & Harry so low?

Why thank you for asking!

Realistically, Fay and Harry is such a small tag because she's only important in one video game, so all fics are from us writers hunting her down through various wikis or fics and deciding she's cool. I think I first heard of her in A Different Professor by AsphodelWolf15? Which isn't even IN the Fay Dunbar & Harry Potter tag. Tragic, really.

In case you're interested, my fics in the tag are so far Emotional Support Cookies and We'll Take Our World By Storm. She's a main character in Not (Our Parents') Children, though, so that number WILL go up as I write the au. She's also the main character in Dark Magic for Dummies, but that hasn't left my documents yet.

Cecilia! Alright, so, in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, we meet Voldemort's parents. And in the scene where we meet his dad, Tom Riddle Sr. is riding on horseback with a pretty lady, who he tells to not look at the Gaunts, as they're so disgusting. He calls her "Cecilia, Darling." Now, Voldemort's mom is Merope Gaunt, and canonically we never see Cecilia again. But in the Magpie's Hoard discord, I posited a prompt about 'what if when Tom Riddle went to meet his dad, he met his stepmother too, and she decided to take him in'. That sparked a truly beautiful discussion, of course, and I decided I liked her. She'll appear later on in Hyacinth, but for now I have Judge My Carmine Fingertips (it won't make them clean) and Gentle as Flaking Blood.

Canon rules: nail it or screw it, you know? It's my playground now.

12 notes · View notes

faillen · 4 months ago

Text

Every single thing I write for Peaceful Property turns out to be for the exact same fic and I’m annoyed

#I keep finishing things and being like. aw fuck #that’s just another section not a standalone #and then I copy & paste it into the document #hopefully I’ll finish it cause if I don’t…#fai writes

5 notes · View notes

nightfayre · 2 years ago

Text

next chapter will be posted a bit later than expected 🫶🏼

#I’m not sure how late but it’ll surely be late atp #thank you for being patient with me <3 #(<- see I’m figuring out new ways to avoid saying sorry when there’s nothing to be sorry for! 💛 thx to those who remind me of that 🫶🏼)#anyway i just bought the biggest bottle of wine and I’m planning to write/edit for as long as possible tonight #whenever i try to write/draw when intoxicated it either turns out brilliant or is the worst thing i’ve ever seen the next morning…#i’ll roll the dice! :]#fay talks

7 notes · View notes

ehlnofay · 4 months ago

Text

One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he’s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.

#posting these two one after another is. fun :)#I lovee characters that just slightly misunderstand each other. causing pain and suffering for ever and ever #martin goes this will be sad for them... but at least I can apologise before I go. and at least there will be people to care for them #and I will at last atone for my many horrid sins (mostly existing and bearing witness to the terrors)#meanwhile to pax. the only person that cares about them + figurehead for their entire sense of purpose and confidence has abandoned them.#the Big Dragon Statue is apt because when martin died he made himself a monster #both the only good thing in the world and the thing that took it away #pax hates him. hates herself for hating him. loves him. hates herself for loving him. cannot fathom anything she knows to be true #about their relationship #If He Cared About Me He Couldn't Have Done This. so he never cared #so the dragon with its head arched to the sky is insult to extremely literal injury #so I will NOT be comforted or looked after thanks. I will die at your feet cursing your name and failing that I will lash out as hard #as I can and then disappear from historical record #(to go break into a physician's office and stitch himself up. pax says to himself that he's had worse but Worse was also major abdominal #trauma that caused hypovolemic shock. the perspective is skewed)#and everything is so so sad forever THE END thanks for reading :D #oc tag #pax #martin septim #the elder scrolls #tesblr #tes #oblivion #fay writes #my writing #hero of kvatch

39 notes · View notes