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wing-ed-thing · 8 months ago

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Foul Creature (Tobirama x Reader) Chapter IX

Synopsis: The territory between the Uchiha and the Senju dwindles by the day. And in an era where social lines have been blurred, and new clan heads have been chosen, you're stuck between a scorned lover and a man who relentlessly pursues your hand in marriage. You don't have much time before you're forced to confront the sins of your past.

Word Count: 6.8k

Tags/Warnings: Warning for dark themes ahead, including tags for blood and descriptions of gore. Fem!Uchiha!Reader. Please consult AO3 for more specific warnings.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI

Notes: Hopefully we can wrap all this up soon... god willing... but hey this piece finally has somewhat of a direction (?) now.

An Uchiha warrior with a fatal wound should give his life in a suicide attack, but not Izuna. No, the brother of Madara would not die a warrior’s death on the battlefield. Instead, the Uchiha retreated from their path to the northern shoulder, surrendering the territory to the Senju in a victory their rivals would call “The Conquering of King’s Neck.”

The Uchiha returned suddenly, earlier than they should have, and having lost great numbers. Madara did not use the village gates but shot right over the sharpened walls like a deranged comet falling from the sky. He carried Izuna’s body in his arms, holding his brother close to his chest. Both were covered in blood and heavy wounds. They had been the first to arrive, heralding in the news of their defeat without a single word of it uttered.

Madara shouted for medical assistance loud enough to startle the entire settlement, and in a blur of confusion, agony, and chaos, Izuna was brought to a doctor, and the two brothers were sealed inside a private room as quickly as the commotion had started.

The entire village stirred to life with urgency. People emerged from their cottages and herded their children out of the street as the rest of the battalion emerged from the forest and trudged toward the front gates.

The men who had stayed behind rushed the injured to the hospital and hurried around the newly returned soldiers to assist in treating their wounds. Women gathered water from the well, ready to help receive the weary soldiers.

Most injured warriors were gathered in one large room and treated on cots side by side, but not Izuna. Even in the sunlight, gathered citizens could see Madara’s hulking form pace back and forth from inside their private room.

No one else was allowed in except for the best physician in the village, who was currently facing the brunt of Madara’s furious rage. You could hear the clattering of furniture and thrown items hitting the mat floor from down the road.

You clutched your medicine pack, shouting and shoving through the crowd as you approached the triage.

“Make way for the apothecary!”

You came running as soon as you received word. The medics who went to the scene before you had their own medical packs with prepared remedies within them, but if the medics were to perform treatments on such a large group of men, they would need all the medicines they could get.

Madara had, after all, forbidden you from creating more heavy-duty remedies in anticipation of a victory for the Uchiha. He told you that fast-acting cures would be all that would be needed and did not discriminate when it came to potency. The high ground belonged to the Uchiha, and Madara himself formulated their strategy for the ambush. But Madara was left with little more than the taste of defeat and bloodied hands after the battle.

You hurried across the dirt path, the dry pebbles and earth making hurried scratching noises below the soles of your sandals. You clutched your oversized medicinal bag. The material wasn’t strong enough to carry the number of remedies you had shoved haphazardly inside. Your eyes were set on the treatment center where the soldiers were being taken. The little time you had was crucial for saving as many lives as you could.

Time seemed to slow as you ran past the paper door leading to Izuna’s private room, and you failed to notice the large hand that shot out from inside until it had grasped the back of your robes and pulled you in.

You were thrown onto the woven matt floor with barely enough time to break your fall, let alone catch your compilation of medicines. You skidded against the hard surface, ripping the cloth on your shoulder as the fabric folded under you with the motion. Your arms wrapped against your oversized pack, and the glass bottles rattled against one another as you held them close to your chest.

Madara stood over you: hulking, broad, impeding, and crazed, but still as he slowly slid the paper door shut. His palm splayed out in the middle of the door, leaving a streak of crimson across the delicate white material. The air dried the red color into a muddy rust.

An unmoving, pale hand appeared in your peripheral. You scrambled to your knees, grip still clutching your medicinal bag. You hardly recognized Izuna as he lay in front of you.

All color had drained from his cheeks, but you could hardly pay attention to the grayness of his skin in the face of the massive open wound across his stomach. Izuna bled all colors of red, his gash like a gruesome flower clawing out of his torso and streaking across the room. His chest heaved up and down at an inhumanly slow pace, pumping a wheezing sound out of his throat with every strangled breath. Everything smelled of blood, and what used to be an entirely white room was marred with ghastly streaks of gore.

The doctor worked frantically over him, but even looking at Izuna for a second told you all that you needed to know. His wound was already decorated with herbal remedies, the leaves and ground flower buds a stark, soft contrast to the wet, oozing gash that churned just below. The colors illuminated with an effervescent glow under the light of the doctor’s healing jutsu.

Izuna’s head fell to the side toward you, your name dripping from his lips in a voice hardly above a whisper. You scrambled to his side, shedding your bag, and scooping his hand up in yours without a thought.

“Izuna—!”

Your heart sank into the pits of your stomach, and your face felt numb. Tears flooded your waterline as your pulse started to drum in your ears. One of your hands, now sporting a few streaks of blood that you didn’t notice, came over your mouth in mortified shock.

But even so, Izuna gazed at you fondly. His eyes were lidded, pain written across his face, but he did his best to grasp onto you weakly. You stared widely down at his giant wound, almost hypnotized by the terrible sight of it, before returning to Izuna’s face. Your hand dropped back down to your lap and joined the other in morphing over his palm.

Your lips parted, but no sound left them. They wavered in the bitter-smelling air as an ugly sound stalled in your throat. You didn’t have it in you to tell him that it all would be okay. He wouldn’t have believed you anyway.

“I do not know what to say…” Your voice came out in a breathless hiss, your lips crinkling upwards as your brows creased together into two wavy lines.

“I apologize…” Izuna was barely audible, and his words held an incoherent rasp. “The words I spoke to you last were most regretful… and most dishonorable…”

“Izuna, do not speak like this!” Your scolding was less than a whisper.

You looked at the doctor, whose eyes were already on you. Wordlessly, he confirmed your fearful thoughts.

Izuna wasn’t going to—

“How does he appear?” Madara implored. “I demand you tell me. Tell me that you deem him treatable with your remedies!”

Izuna gave your hand a light squeeze. When you looked down at him, two tears fell right onto his blood-stained clothing.

His other hand slowly rose, shaking as he brought it to his face. It stopped, trembling over his neck as Izuna raised his pointer finger. He brought it over his lips.

The sound of your name boomed across the paper room.

“Why do you fall silent? You are able to revive him, are you not?” Madara thundered frantically. “You told me! You told me of your chakra remedies!” Madara’s hand shot out from behind you but missed your shoulder as his fingers grasped about wildly. You could feel the force of his motion in the air as the slight breeze of his movement rattled the hair behind your ear.

He made another grab for you, and you turned to grasp him by the shoulders as if you were taking a bull by its horns, dropping Izuna’s hand in the process. The metal of Madara’s armor was dirty and solid, pinching your fingers as you tried to keep him at bay as he lunged. He ranted something incoherent, nearly knocking you back into Izuna. Your core tensed, trying to keep yourself from falling back onto Izuna’s open torso as you tried to fight Madara away.

“Madara, this is madness!” you shouted directly into his face. Your arms were beginning to shake under the weight of him, the locking of your joints being the only thing keeping Madara from pinning you down in his deranged rampage. But the fear and confusion in your gaze immediately widened as you met his gray irises. “Madara! Your eyes!”

“Clan Head, that is enough!” The doctor had since stood, stepping over Izuna’s body to ram into Madara with his shoulder. Your limbs were granted relief as the two of them stumbled back, nearly punching a hole in the paper wall.

The doctor was not as large of a man as Madara, but he held his own against Madara’s unrestrained rage. His shoulder dug into the right side of Madara’s chest, and the doctor used all his weight to keep him from charging. But he was ultimately not enough to keep Madara restrained.

Madara shoved him back with a violent push to the doctor’s chest.

“Who are you to cease treatment on my brother?! Who are you to attack your Clan Head— I’ll have you banished for your indiscretion—!”

“Madara, that is enough!” You shot to your feet, placing yourself between the two men. One of your palms splayed across Madara’s chest plate. He continued to scream over your head, gesturing pointedly somewhere behind you. Tears streamed down his face as his skin scrunched up in rage. — “Madara!”

— “You dare to impede me? My younger brother lies dying before my very eyes, and I cannot even see his face! And you dare stand against me when Izuna’s chakra weakens! You are traitors! You are traitors to the Uchiha; I will have you banished and then hunt you down myself— why do you refuse to help my brother? —”

— “Madara, please, I implore you to listen—”

Madara’s hand whipped across your face with enough force to make your ears ring. You fell to the ground with a heavy thud, the power of Madara’s strike making you almost spin as you went down. Your hand shot to your nose, which had begun to bleed. Your blood mixed with Izuna’s.

“Madara, that is enough…” Izuna began to sit up somewhere behind you. He groaned in pain, almost collapsing as he propped himself on one elbow. The doctor was already beside him, urging him to lie back down. But the sound of Izuna’s voice appeared to be enough to sate Madara’s mounting rage. He visibly melted, perking up as he tried to pinpoint where Izuna’s voice came from with a rapid gesture of his head.

You were lost, hypnotized by the red that dripped from your nose and onto your hand. The droplets were thick and hot, only diluted by the tears of disbelief that seemed to fall in sheets from your eyes. You struggled to gather yourself as Madara knelt by Izuna’s side.

“We will find a way,” Madara insisted with certainty. He nodded several times, taking up the straps of your medicine pack in his hand. He rooted around in it, searching for powder. “There is an ointment crafted for deep wounds—!”

“It is too late, Madara.” Izuna collapsed back onto his cot. A sharp hiss of pain tore from his throat. Izuna grabbed at his brother’s sleeve, willing him to come closer with his little remaining strength. The hold he had on Madara’s clothes was a death grip. “You must listen to me.”

Madara bowed like a child in prayer, lending his ear to Izuna’s lips. He crouched on his knees, hair cascading over his brother’s pale face as he blindly clung onto any part of Izuna he could reach. Izuna’s voice, perhaps meant only for Madara, faded in and out.

“For the good and future of the clan, you must not fall victim to Hashirama Senju’s trickery… promise me, I…” You could barely hear him. You hovered just behind Madara, sitting with your knees tucked under you and the fabric that made up the skirt of your robes balled in your fists. You tucked your chin to your chest. Hot tears continued to dribble down your face.

Your head spun, unable to listen to Izuna’s words even if you tried. You became lost in yourself, only resurfacing to reality when the sound of your name rang across the room. It was the doctor.

One moment, Izuna was speaking to Madara, and then the next—

“We will be performing an ocular transplant,” the doctor said. “Are you able to assist?” His grave gaze bore into you.

Your mouth gaped. You shook your head in disbelief. You turned toward Madara, who couldn't see you.

“You are taking his eyes?” you asked accusingly. Your tone held a harsh snap. “Are you so obsessed with battle that you dare take the sharingan of your own brother—?”

“Enough.” Izuna’s voice somehow found its way out of his throat. Just barely. His tired eyes met yours. “I forfeit them willingly… for the sake of the clan.” Izuna’s lids fluttered closed, even as you continued to stare. A new wave of tears welled in your vision. You were growing sick of weeping.

“For the sake of the clan…” you repeated, a part of you hoping that if you spoke the words, they would make better sense to you. You didn’t have to yield advanced jutsu to understand the implications of Madara obtaining Izuna’s eyes. With the Senju closing in, you knew there were few other choices.

Madara, the leader of the Uchiha, had exhausted his mangekyo sharingan. Izuna, the second strongest fighter in the clan, was fading quickly as he lay before you. And while the Uchiha had more than formidable soldiers, too many had been defeated in the ambush, and the rest had been injured during their retreat. It was truly up to Madara to protect you now.

Izuna spoke your name again. It would be the final time he would do so.

“I implore you… please, do not deprive me of my final wish,” he said weakly, the frailty of his words a stark contrast to the unfair burden he bestowed upon you. You glanced back toward the doctor. “I need you by my side.”

“I— I just make the medicine, although I— I…” You closed your eyes to shed more tears, but none fell. You tried to blink again, only to find your waterline dry. “I can administer some remedies.”

“The extra set of hands is more than plenty,” the doctor affirmed. “But we must make haste.”

Izuna’s hand found yours. His touch was cold. He gave your hand a weak squeeze.

***

It wasn’t enough to hang onto every moment you could. You tried to take him in during every second of the procedure, focusing so hard on being with Izuna for the dwindling amount of time you had left. You could feel the minutes slipping through your fingers. Your eyes searched every inch of him, trying to hang onto the patches of snowy white skin between the dirt and red stains. Izuna was here now, and you pulled a single moment into a thousand.

And when it was done, and Izuna was dead, you sat back on your calves. Madara lay to your left, his face bandaged with wrappings adorned with healing herbs. And Izuna rested to your right.

He had passed just moments before, long before the doctor had left the room. A thin sheet rested over his head, extending down to his blood-stained boots. But even as he lay such a short distance away, all presence of him had been vanquished from the room. The form under the cloth was an object, a thing taking a shape that certainly wasn’t Izuna.

Your skin was taut from all your weeping. The tears still came in bursts, but the muscles in your face felt fatigued by it all. Any noise from the outside sounded muffled. Even Madara’s heavy breathing didn’t make it to your ears.

You could see the light from the sun behind the paper walls. You stared blankly at the random swipes and spatters of red that dotted the room, staining the light eggshell color of all the fixtures.

You lay down between them, letting your body go limp for the first time that morning. Some medics had since taken your bag of extra medication to use outside. The commotion in the village seemed to have dwindled some. You let your eyes fall closed. Exhaustion had grown so great in your head that your lack of energy made you wired. Your thoughts ran across your brain on their own, and you could do little to stop them.

You could sense that Madara was about to speak even before he parted his lips. He breathed in, taking a familiar pause before his voice dared to break through the silence in the room.

“Your resentment radiates off of you like fire.”

In one of his final acts of life, Izuna had sated Madara’s rage, leaving his brother in this world quiet and pensive. Madara had been eerily silent.

You let your eyes open lazily. They traced the outline of Izuna’s face beneath the cotton sheet.

“Now is hardly the time, Madara,” you muttered.

“But it is true.”

You didn’t answer. You shepherded the silence back into the air, hoping that your ignorance of him would be enough. You couldn’t handle his talk in the face of your bubbling and agitated emotions.

“It is true—"

“Silence, Madara,” you snapped, your words lashing across the silent atmosphere you tried to curate. You held your arms close to your chest, nuzzling your cheek into the side of one of your hands. You curled farther in on yourself, only isolating Madara more. “Izuna just...”

“He is passed,” Madara rumbled solemnly with all the clarity of the world. You cast your gaze to the light just outside the paper doors. It looked warm. “And you believe it should have been me in his place.”

“I said no such thing.” Your face was tired and puffy.

“You would be right.”

“Cease with your grandstanding—” You sat up, propping yourself on your palm as you faced Izuna’s body. You could barely keep yourself from collapsing from the mental exhaustion alone. — “It is inappropriate at a time like this.” You could feel the sting of tears shocking the nerves behind your nose, yet your eyes remained dry. “Why must you make these things so difficult?”

“I am making the death of my own brother difficult?” He sat up somewhere behind you.

“Do not twist my words. Timing has never been your strong suit, Madara.” You also rose to sit up straight, now sitting cross-legged near Izuna’s knees.

“You believe that I am not in grief?” He held a thundering bite to his words, although even the slightest increase in volume sounded like a storm within the context of the hauntingly quiet room. “Do you believe that I do not feel deep despair over one who I have loved so dearly?”

“You were not the only one who cherished Izuna!” You snapped around, knees hitting the opposite side of the mat floor. “Of all the times where you must be a fool, Madara! Why must it be now? Why must it have been this past visit to my apothecary? Why must it have been on the battlefield where you could have saved him a hundred times over, and yet you condemn yourself to play the fool!”

You weren’t used to seeing Madara’s face bandaged. He looked like a ghost, sitting upright where he was with his legs outstretched before him. Even blinded, you could almost feel his gaze boring into yours.

When he spoke, his voice was low.

“I am well aware,” he growled, trailing a tense silence in his wake. Madara sat up farther, and it wasn’t until the faint shadow of his large form eclipsed half of your face that you realized how quickly he bridged the gap between the two of you. “I am not blind enough to reflect on my hubris, nor am I blind enough to recognize my own twisted nature in my jealousy.”

You found yourself once again face to face with bandaged eyes, hypnotized by the infinity of cloth strips layered over each other. You took in every fold, watching where blood slowly seeped through the fibers. And perhaps if it had been a more tender moment and if you had loved Madara more, you might have tenderly taken hold of his jaw. But instead, you sat, slowly sobering up to the reality of what just occurred a few moments prior as your face was contorted by a demon of despair.

Your resolve imploded.

“A mere reflection is hardly recompense,” you hissed, your voice coming out as barely a whisper. “How must it feel to have sacrificed your only living blood and continue to prove yourself so fruitless in your rivalry with Hashirama Senju? You have no excuse for your arrogance!” You steadily grew in volume, suddenly finding yourself standing. “So lost in your fruitless rivalry with him, you have indeed been left blind, with your flesh newly broken and easily swayed heart—no, you do not view clearly enough the hubris in your ways! You are a soft man, Madara!”

The tears came back all at once. You shed them like a waterfall as the wind caught in your throat. You gasped for air, hiccupping and choking all at once as the words tumbled from your lips.

“Izuna—" You could hardly get his name out between gasps. “He—! Izuna, he thought—!”

And perhaps if Madara had loved you more, he would have done something other than take the brunt of your broken rambling in silence. To him, that was gesture enough. To you, it was an indulgence in self-pity.

He let you leave, and no one stopped to question you as you quickly pushed through the crowd of people back to the apothecary. Although things seemed to have settled compared to the roaring chaos that captivated the late morning, people still milled around, collecting food and fluttering around the loved ones who were fortunate enough to make it home.

You needed more time to analyze things. You honed in on the apothecary doors, barreling through them without regard for the medics coming in and out.

You said little aside from your curt and adamant wish not to be disturbed before retreating into your loft at the far end of the apothecary. You curled in on yourself for what would feel like days, wrapping your cotton sheets around you as you buried yourself further from the world.

The tears seemed to flow without you completely now, soaking the fabric of your pillow to create a wet circle just below your ear. Your thoughts ran on without you, and your heart ached from what felt like a hole sliced clean through it. The grief rested over you like a blanket, coating you from head to foot in numbing density. You would stay like that for what felt like days, unaware of what was happening outside.

And the world would turn upside down, disrupting the mundanity you were trying so desperately to cultivate.

When you weren’t lying in bed, you spent your hours lazily picking at things in your garden. In the rare moments of mustered energy, you would bathe and tend to your hair— more out of a necessity for maintenance than anything else.

You didn’t even know that Madara had left until he returned. And when he returned to the village, he did not seek you out. Instead, a member of Madara’s council visited you at the apothecary.

A young man with a severe face around Izuna’s age, he stood with his back erect on the porch behind the apothecary. You sat in your herb garden, absentmindedly fiddling with a particularly large flower blossom as a small collection of random herbs sat in a basket at your hip. He had called out to you in that militant voice that soldiers tended to use. You had hummed in response.

“There is a truce,” he said. “The Uchiha and the Senju have agreed to unite.”

***

There were so many questions that the village hall overflowed with people. Members of the Uchiha even stood outside, hoping to catch an explanation.

Madara and what was left of his council sat before the crowd, still adorned in their light wrappings from the Conquering of King’s Neck and the second face-off Madara had apparently had with Hashirama Senju. The room chirped, filling with murmurs and speculation. But when Madara began to speak, all fell silent.

“The time has come…”

You watched from just barely inside one of the wide doorframes. Madara stared straight ahead, his voice confident, stern, and sure.

He held himself like a clan head.

“The time has come for wartime to end,” he announced, surveying the gathered crowd. “It is time to put a stop to a violence started long ago, one that has forced our children to pay the price for a conflict started by the fathers of our father’s fathers. For I challenge you to find me a soul in this room that has not been exhausted from war and the act of burial.”

The room remained eerily quiet. You stood on your toes, trying to catch a better view over a man’s shoulder.

“Let me do away with your primary concern; The Uchiha stand on the same ground as the Senju, as equals, and in collaboration with one another. Our combined power has the potential to create a village where all people shall live without fear of violence, and small hands may never know the handle of a kunai nor the weight of the metal. This is a thing that Hashirama and I agree upon, and as the leader of the Senju clan, he has agreed to honor our terms.”

The room erupted in a low clamor, everyone wanting nothing more than for Madara’s words to be true. They held their questions high, finally breaking their collective silence at the mere mention of Hashirama Senju.

The sound of his name struck your heart no differently, and before you could even think, you were a distance away from the meeting hall. Your spot by the door had filled in swiftly. You had one place to retreat, one sanctuary, and you hid yourself in the loft.

***

“I need you by my side.”

You thought it was cruel for Madara to use Izuna’s last words in such a way, but you doubted that Madara even remembered his brother’s last words to you.

The meeting had adjourned late into the night. The people had many questions, at least, that’s what Madara would tell you later. You hadn’t needed him to tell you to believe it.

It startled you when lantern light from the street flooded through the open door of the apothecary. You sat up in your bed, already halfway between wakefulness and mental exhaustion that kept you from falling into a meaningful slumber. Madara always swung the door open wider than he needed, and aside from that, you could place his hulking form anywhere.

He waited wordlessly as you descended from your tower. You did so lazily.

“Are you ill?” you asked at the bottom of your set of steps that wasn’t quite a ladder or a proper set of stairs. “A physician would have an easier time tending to you than I. At the meeting, I do believe I saw—”

Madara pulled you close in an instant. Your sleep-addled mind had little time to process the action as you stumbled over your feet. Your face hit Madara’s chest. He had a strong scent to him, which, while not unpleasant, was as overpowering as the man.

A sliver of light trickled in from where the door sat ajar. It cast a faint highlight around Madara’s figure. Your tired eyes traced the shadows that the faint glow created on the fabric of his sleeve.

It felt out of place being in his arms like this. You weren’t used to him not wearing armor. You could feel it in the tension of your muscles and the awkwardness of not knowing how to touch him in return. You let him hold you, and yet, for how none of it felt right, there was an odd, fragile comfort that had never belonged to Madara before.

Madara, who imposed himself in every space he ever stood and could never be found wearing not even a piece of armor, felt soft.

“I need you by my side,” he had told you. You felt his cheek against your hair. “I need confidence that I am making the right decision.”

“Madara,” you spoke softly, pulling back to meet his gaze in the dimness. “How do you expect me to give guidance on these things? I am not—”

You stopped yourself right there, feeling foolish in less than an instant. Nothing but the chirp of insects outside disrupted the silence of the apothecary. It felt as if so much of your time with Madara was filled with silence. But Madara’s eyes held no judgment.

“Izuna watches over us from the heavens, and I have thought little more than the day he passed and the terrible way I behaved toward you,” he said with a slow nod. His voice held the rich timber that it typically had. Madara brought a hand gingerly to the side of your face. His skin was rough and scarred. He spoke lowly, surprising you with more softness. “I would feel confident with you by my side. You need not labor yourself, nor would you have to speak a word… For you just to be would be enough.”

“What do you speak of, Madara?”

Madara cast his gaze off to the side, his jaw tensing slightly.

“Perhaps Izuna would think it weak of me to bring a woman to such prestigious negotiations…” He pulled back, taking his warmth with him. Madara turned with one hand on his hip and the other clasped over his face.

“Of what do you speak?” You nearly choked on air.

— “But what if said woman was close family?

When Madara whipped back around, he did so in the middle of a thought he did not bother to share with you. You blinked a few times, letting your eyes flutter closed as you tried to gather your thoughts, and to your dismay, Madara didn’t speak a word in your silence. You stared at him for answers, prompting him to elaborate.

“Izuna should be by my side,” he finally said, perhaps a bit louder than he needed to have been. When he continued, he did so with a lowered tone. “Our parents passed when we were young. Izuna was my one and only brother, and he is now gone… And so, I implore you…”

Madara took in a sharp breath, not daring to speak the rest.

“Is that what we are now?” you asked. “You consider me family?”

A familiar silence once again took hold of the space between you.

“Is a wife not considered family?”

It was only due to a moment of shock that you let the question sit in the air.

You turned on your heel, your hands coming to your face as you shook your head with fatigue.

“Madara, must I remind you how terrible you are with time? —”

Your name shot from his lips, as did a hand to your shoulder.

— “Perhaps you should see a physician—”

“You are the closest thing I have!” Madara’s desperate cry halted all words on your tongue. He grabbed you hard enough to leave bruises, forcefully spinning you around as he moved forward, caging you against a nearby counter. His face was so close to yours, and when you looked deep into his eyes, you saw Izuna.

“You and I have known each other for as long as I can remember,” he said with faintness. “Has it not always been you and I? Have you not always thought it was destiny how we have always been brought together like this?”

You couldn’t say why tears began prickling at your eyes. It felt as if anything could make you cry nowadays. Madara brought a hand back up to your face, skimming the wetness from your cheek.

“Please—” It was the first time you heard Madara use such a word. — “I can assure you that things will improve, that I shall improve. Be with me by my side. I do not ask you to marry me tomorrow, but perhaps if you may see— perhaps you may come to see things as I see them.”

“You have always been one to set your expectations far too high.”

“Can you deny that we are as close as family? We have only each other.” Madara’s hand traveled down your arm to grasp your fingers in his. “I do not ask for your commitment. I ask only for the openness of your mind.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, and you breathed out a deep breath. Unconsciously, you leaned into him. Nothing made you feel right now.

“With your track record of anger and empty promises? What have we ever agreed upon?” Your words came out weakly as you met Madara’s gaze in the dimness again.

You wanted so desperately to stop staring into his eyes.

But… Izuna…

“You would have protested such things not too long ago. It all seems quite ridiculous, does it not?” You found yourself laughing, and Madara cracked a smile for the first time in a long while.

It was thin-lipped and, indeed, did resemble a crack. The wrinkles that ripped across his face made him look young, a lot younger than he had been looking as of late. A small chuckle shook his chest and hardly made a sound in his throat. You let out a light laugh. What you said hasn’t been funny, nor was it meant to be.

A handful of memories from when you were a teenager sat at the back of your mind, and perhaps if you tried not to think about them, they wouldn’t hold any importance.

***

That had been a foolish thought in and of itself, and in the days following, you wondered why you had let Madara persuade you. You decided that he had beaten you down with sentiment and nostalgia, knowing that considering any other reason would only disturb what little peace of mind you had.

It would have been wiser to give it all some thought. It would have been wiser to have turned Madara away in the first place rather than humoring his charged words, and yet, a part of you wanted to move forward. Even on your way to the neutral meeting ground, you wanted to be a part of the new dawn, spurred on by a nagging curiosity and a morbid sense of fate.

Foolish. Foolish, with little sense to it at all!

You caught a glimpse of white, and you purposefully averted your eyes. Madara stood next to you, sporting his best robes as members of the Senju unfurled two banners to be hung. The amount of Uchiha who came in support of the agreement surprised you. Most of your settlement gathered somewhat behind you, still unsure what to make of the crowd of unarmed Senju directly ahead.

The two groups remained segregated for the most part, standing around awkwardly even as the banners featuring the Uchiha and Senju crests were hung side by side. You glanced to your left toward Madara, feeling the stuffiness and tension yourself. But Madara remained stoic and upright, hardly regarding you even as Hashirama approached.

“Today is a day for celebration! Why must everyone be so serious?”

And from the tales you had been told of Hashirama, he had not been what you expected him to be. He instantly spotted the two of you as he emerged from the crowd. His round, kind eyes seemed to glitter, along with the perfectly white teeth he bared with his smile.

“Madara! My friend!” Hashirama, an already tall man, held his arms up. He only needed to take a few long strides before he was upon Madara, wrapping him up in a hug great enough to cause Madara to take a half step back. (You almost took a step back with him.) Just as quickly as Hashirama embraced him, he pulled back, planting his hands firmly on Madara’s shoulders. And Madara let him. “It is good to see you!”

Hashirama turned to you and positioned himself directly before you, eyes remaining as wide as his smile.

“Madara, how could you not send notice that you would be bringing a goddess to smile upon the union of our clans?” He fell quickly into a deep bow as you gaped. You instinctually turned to look at Madara, a girlish grin of your own contorting your lips. Madara rolled his eyes with a knowing sigh. Hashirama returned to his full height. “You may call me Hashirama. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” you hummed, offering your name in return. “I hope you do not consider primary names informal as we have just met.”

Hashirama let out a boisterous laugh.

“Are you not all Uchiha as we are all Senju?” Hashirama chuckled, eyes drifting to the crowd of Senju for a moment before he did a double take. “Ah!” He turned back to you and Madara, gesturing to his right. “Speaking of Senju, might I present my brother, Tobirama.”

“Everything is prepared, brother, the people are waiting on you—”

Tobirama’s gaze latched onto yours like a magnet, causing him to stop short just to Hashirama’s right as his mouth snapped shut instantly. Your jaw dropped, and you quickly clasped your lip closed to not bring attention to your light gasp. You prayed that neither Hashirama nor Madara, who stood between the two of you, noticed your out-of-place surprise. Hashirama seemed to breeze past the micro-interaction entirely as he spoke your name.

“This is my brother, Tobirama. Tobirama, this is…” You didn’t take your eyes off Tobirama’s red irises for a second, lost in the pounding that threatened to burst open your chest. You couldn’t stop yourself from moving. Your foot slid back, positioning you just behind Madara’s shoulder. Your hand tightly grasped the back of his sleeve.

Your movement didn’t escape Hashirama. When you looked back at him, you found his gaze anchored directly to the grip you held on Madara’s arm. You watched as his face seemed to droop, his broad smile wavering for a moment as an expression of what you could only describe as genuine sorrow swept over Hashirama’s face. It was a contortion so sincere that you almost felt bad for how your body reacted. But Hashirama recovered quickly as he faced Madara once again with a friendly smile.

“... your wife, Madara?”

You hadn’t realized that Hashirama was still talking.

You and Madara gazed at each other simultaneously, expecting the other to answer, but instead, you found yourselves engaged in a silent, second-long debate.

“This is, uh,” Madara started, now as thrown off as you were. His forehead twitched as he glanced back toward you instinctually.

“I am an…” You made the mistake of accidentally making eye contact with Tobirama once again. He stood stoically by Hashirama’s side, quietly awaiting an answer. Your panicked gaze once again darted between Hashirama and Madara, who didn’t appear to be in a rush to come to your aid. — “advisor.” You nodded with pseudo-certainty. “I am an advisor on the Uchiha council.”

Hashirama wasn’t allowed time to comment.

“Pardon us.” Two members of the Senju tentatively approached your group. Hashirama pivoted a foot to acknowledge them.

“Yes, what is it?”

“All has been prepared for us to begin. We wait only on the two of you.”

Hashirama turned to spare a half-glance over his shoulder.

“Ah, that is what you were here to notify me of, was it not? Telling me to quit my chatter, eh, Tobirama? Why did you not speak sooner?” Hashirama laughed. “Let us make haste and not leave the people waiting longer than they have already. I am certain that everyone would rather be at the banquet than listen to my dry speech!”

With Hashirama having decided to begin, you retreated to the Uchiha side of the crowd and Tobirama to the Senju.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: Hahaha would you believe that I forgot that healing jutsu existed for, perhaps, this entire fic?? I certainly wrote other things with healing jutsu. Hell, I’ve written whole stories centered on it, but this?? WHOOPS.

I thought to myself that I might add another section to this chapter but I saw that 6.8k and went hahahahaha nope!

My grammar checker no longer works on the document that this was originally written on, so I took the chapter and isolated it to do edits... resulting in weird indentation issues. Ah so goes the world...

@gracefulbumblebee @norasincubi @rahatake

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI

Edit: I think I’ll drop the next chapter when this one reaches 100 notes.

#Tobirama x reader #Madara x reader #naruto x reader #reader insert #x reader #naruto #madara #tobirama #Madara uchiha #Tobirama senju #izuna uchiha #hashirama senju #x you #naruto x y/n #naruto x you #izuna #fic: foul creature #naruto fanfic #naruto fanfiction

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s-4pphics · 10 months ago

Text

moth. (e.w.)

Protected by the Crest. Guarded by light.

𝓟𝓡𝓞𝓛𝓞𝓖𝓤𝓔

SYNOPSIS: knights of the devil, you all are to be conquered.

WORD COUNT: 2.2k

WARNINGS: vampire!ellie, vampirekiller!oc, a lot to come FUCK, violence… so blood(drinking), death, murder, gore, suicide, religion briefly, cult-ish bindings, ellie's coven is so cunt, mentions of witchcraft, future tags: hypnosis, abducting, crazy smut

teaser.

1927

Dawn. Combat. Nightfall. Rest.

The cycle formed over the last decade has revolutionized you. It is all you know; the only remainder of solace you have in this dastard domain. The older you've grown, the more burials you attend. For strangers, for comrades. For children who have been brutalized and left to rot like swine. All enacted by the Devils that lurk in darkness. Radicalization overcame your senses; first writhed beneath your bones at the age of thirteen when intent to kill the Earth’s torturers flourished within you. Welcomed your stout standing with an offered, sharply angled wood. You have read. You have fought. You have been scarred and beaten bloody by the Overseers; suffered numerous nights of unrest due to the wails of your comrades under their scrutiny.

Another burial, another Overseer. A prime Hunter that controls your underground dominion, trapped trenches below civilization that beam with only candlelight and the creeping rays of the flaming sun.

Protected by the Crest. Guarded by light.

The lines you march alongside your comrades are congruous; heads covered with black hoods, dozens of silver-soled heels echoing against the tunnel walls. Not one Hunter out of place. Gruesome symmetry. The narrow halls of the tunnel spread into a perfect sphere near its end. Hunters due their promotion disperse along the widening space, encircling the flaming Crest in the center of the chamber. Both rows of teeth are inseparable; a dull ache in your jaw.

Your heartbeat is reminiscent of drums. Each step is calculated. A second of delay, and… your brain cannot fathom the consequences.

Rows of comrades enclose and tighten, standing strong before the risen floors where the Overseers inspect their battalion, hoods removed and insignia burning through their black capes. You sneak glances at them despite the rules of a downcast gaze in their presence; no longer than a second. Their years of battle have overtaken their appearance; gray drapes of wool that cascade their shoulders, creases by the eyes and mouth, hands that tremor.

“Rise.”

Necks crane until straightened. Palms raise for the Uncovering, hoods pushed until they lay flat at the peak of spines. The first time your heads have seen the unnatural light of the underground. Your Overseer from your recruitment has been replaced with anew; woman, tall and eyes as kind as a doe, but just as ruthless, just as conniving as he. Her lips spread around her white teeth, somehow more venomous than the ghouls that taunt the lands.

“Welcome to the commencement of our Prodigies.”

Despite you being only three rows from the raised platform, the Overseer sounds miles away. The rushing in your ears; the thumping in your chest is intruding.

“You are all here to be recognized for your efforts. You should be proud of choosing the path of righteousness. Your dedication does not go unnoticed, and today marks the finality of your attainment.”

“We bless you all with our thanks. For this night embarks society’s next generation of Hunters. You have all accepted your duty as a protector. A leader. A virtuous soldier for our Lord.”

“The battle against Demons will be unkind… Many will be lost, but after years of sacrifice, use this night as a celebration of your bravery…”

Silence. Then a seized breath. Faulting from an Overseer is unforeseen.

“It may be your last chance to witness a night of peace… Of unity.”

Her sudden somber timbre jostles your comrades, backs stiffened under their cloaks. Empathy: considered a display of weakness from your leaders.

The winds of the tunnel shifted, aimed to suffocate.

“Live as kings for this last night. Eat, drink… dance if you must. Because come dawn, you will abandon comfort, and return to the higher lands where anguish awaits.”

One overseer, the man closest to the orator, extends a black, velvet pillow to her. A silver chain dangles from her wrinkled hands; a Hunters pendant, bordering a lit flame.

“As the world’s Hunters, you will be honored with our sanctuary’s Crest. This will be your protection against the Lustful… They have demonstrated a great deal of power as they develop… Their spread is alarming… To even us.”

“Do not fall victim to their allure. Their only desire is our demise. Deceit is their only weapon… But it will never compare to the light in your hearts.”

Rumors have spread through the training grounds; ones of Hunters, Overseers, being blinded by their darkest desires. Controlled by the Devil’s knights to turn against each other. Entranced by pleasure, by riches. By immortality. Their desperation of becoming the rulers of society, tyrants of the land, past the seas… Brought them to their end. Many believed they were created to birth disarray — distrust between comrades. You, still, are not sure what to believe.

“… All of your souls are blessed… Even in death.”

Your palm rests over your pounding heart in oath recitation, promising to die for the cause of freedom. For humanity. The remainder of the ceremony hazes as cloaked patrons emerge from the depths of the cave as the Overseers disperse, dressing prideful Hunters with their pendants. They hang perfectly at the center of the sternum, the flames roaring the closer it lays to the heart.

Your eyes do not wither from the ground, even with the silver shoes before you that penetrate the dirt. An Overseer is not often chosen to promote a Hunter, but she — the orator — blesses you. The heft of your pendant weighs heavy on your shoulders. You sigh a breath of relief at the glow behind metal.

“Protected by the Crest. Guarded by light.” You say, dismissing your shock with a hand on your chest.

“Guarded, you are…”

Her declaration is barely a whisper. She pauses, trembling pupils entangled with the glow of your chain, hypnotized by its glimmer.

“Child.”

You remain indifferent at her condemnation, against the gulp from your throat. She inspects your stance with the strength of a stalking lion before vanishing, cape gusting up dryness from below.

“Someone’s special.”

A hushed snark airs from behind you. Made to be a laughingstock for your comrades once again. But you are not 13. All naivety has been torn from your consciousness, and your vacancies are filled with revenge.

The cave, for the first time since your recruitment, is undisciplined. Bass from the celebratory drums. Laughter… Laughter from your comrades, Overseers, patrons you recall from passing as they cheers with the finest wine. Intimidation and constraint are no longer. And still, you take no part in true fellowship. Jollity is forbidden. Leisure is forbidden. Benevolence is forbidden. You, and others amongst —children— were trained to hunt. To slain those who left the world in shatters. A morphed weapon of justice.

A laid hand on your shoulder makes you jolt, left frozen when you're met with the orator from the commencement.

Come, she whispers, and you follow her path through the tunnels of the cave. She retrieves a lantern from the cavity floors and leads you to its corners, deep and untouched. Never once have you seen an Overseer smile, but she is. A pitiful one.

“Why do you worry, Child?”

“I do not worry,” You bite more than needed, “And I am not a child.”

She takes no offense, “Pardon me. Why do you worry, Hunter?” Her tone is mocking, and your blood churns.

One slip of tongue could earn a blade in your chest. You self-soothe with the foggy air expanding in your lungs. Your agitation calms, only briefly.

“I do not worry,” Easier on the ears, “I am believed to be more than prepared—“

“There is no preparation against the Devils.” The hiss of a viper, her mouth turned down in dissatisfaction of your attitude. Your brows pinch.

“Why have you brought me here?”

Her chest rises and falls and her hands interlock.

“Do you know your history, Hunter?”

“It is all I’ve ever known, Master.” You retort with similar irreverence.

“Not the history of the Devils, you imbecile. You. Do you know of your lineage?”

Your head rattles, “Surely not… A-All outside knowledge of history is forbidden. That is all we’ve ever been taught—“

“Shame on your mother for leaving you useless.”

Her slander resonates through the tunnel and your conscience dissolves. The blade you always wield in your sheath presses against the throat of your superior, indented around the aged skin.

“I did not follow you to be defamed,” You rebuke with bared teeth, “Do not speak of my mother.”

“What spirit…” Others would not blink twice at the mention of their family, dead or alive.

“The Devils starve, Child.” She whispers.

“What.”

“They starve… Desperation grows within them as they migrate. They kill anything they can.” Distress grows in her face as she blathers. “Black magic. I have seen its bounds before my eyes. They have tormented and feasted on the blood of your ancestors! The controller of all Devils… She waits to enslave the last of your name—“

“I HAVE NO NAME!”

Why must she lie? Why are you only hearing of this now? She lies. A shout that cracks through the underground.

“Your lineage is most susceptible to the curse! You…”

Tears hang from your lashes before splintering your cheeks. Panic-struck heaves hit your leader’s, her flyways brushing against her nose.

“They’ll torture you, Child.”

Sympathy. Survival. There is no difference.

“What does it matter?” You whisper painfully, and your blade drops to your side, weeps unmasked. “So many have died before me. I-I do—“

“Your mother was one of us.”

Her wails are quiet and urgent.

“Ask… pray for her guidance.”

“Mas—“

The Overseer advantages the weakness of your wrist; snags your blade from between your fingertips and glides the edge across her jugular, maroon coating her hands as she chokes on her own blood, her eyes glazing as she slides down the wall. You holler, knees weakening when her gargling form collapses into your arms. Life drains from her eyes with every exclamation you throw to the Heavens. You shout for help, but the depths are too narrow.

No one comes.

You, by the grace of your Lord, somehow managed to flee the concaves without being spotted by your commune, cloak submerged in blood that is masked by its darkness. Anxiety forged in the pit of your stomach; unable to return to your base for the last peaceful rest, you ran. You cowered. Just when you believed it was out of your nature.

An Overseer committed suicide, and you were the only witness.

You went to your chambers after the accident—warning? — stuffed what you could into your satchel, and escaped the iron gates of your former home. Scaled them like a rabid hyena until your bandaged soles combined with tall greenery. The scene of never-ending land doesn’t ease your nerves, but you sprint until your lungs burn and your legs give out.

Your path is blind, but your end is near.

All fingers point at you.

The greatest form of betrayal.

The lifeblood of the wealthy always curdles: from concealed shame. From ego. From both; It always leaves a sour film over her tongue. Despairing times. The rosewood floors are bathed in red as the last breaths of her victim shake through her bedroom. A beautiful one, she was; dressed in skirts and stockings that ripped at the lightest touch.

Blood drips down from Ellie’s mouth to the collar of her unbuttoned shirt, stains seeping into the crew of her undershirt. Barely any effort was needed to lure them all in. Desperation makes obscenity much sweeter.

A knock erupts from the other side of her door before a sugary utterance echoes, “May I come in?”

Ellie scoffs at the pester.

“You may…” She replies.

The door opens, and she’s met with soft eyes twinkling with brown and burgundy.

Her brow arches, “Not.” She concludes.

The raven-haired girl squints playfully and shuts the door behind her, “Hush, now,” Her strides are strong and assertive, puddles of red soaking the bottom of her heels.

“Quite the mess,” she mutters at the scene with an upturned nose, “It smells.”

“Who am I to complain?”

“The only one that complains,” Her soft hands land on Ellie’s shoulders, and she sighs, taking in the worn appearance of her partner: under eyes darkened and sunk in, dry lips, voice hoarse.

“I bare news.” Dina whispers.

Ellie curls a tweel of black hair around her finger, “Hm?”

Dina leans in close, arms locking around the back of her lover’s neck, lips brushing Ellie’s ear.

“Our little flower is on the loose.”

Ellie’s body locks, and pressure grows in her fangs. “Liar.” She gasps.

“Nuh uh,” A kiss is planted to the corner of her stained mouth, “Word is she’s fled the sanctuary. Searches are apparently ongoing.”

“Where.” Ellie presses.

“Not sure… I came to ask if we should plan for her… arrival while the ladies are away.” Dina suggests with a conniving smirk.

Ellie’s lips curl dangerously around her sharp teeth, a blinding white. She lifts her darling off the ground, spinning her in celebration as she squeals, droplets of evidence seeping deeper into the floorboards.

“Absolutely.”

wittle taglist :3 HIII DEAR: @elliewilliamsblunt

#ellie williams au #ellie williams #ellie williams smut #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams tlou #vampire!ellie #lesbian #works 𖧧࣪#ellie x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie williams angst

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lordgrimoire · 1 year ago

Text

First of all, I thought of a name for this au, Grave Guard, so there’s that. Now onto the snippet!

(Interview 0032:Major Franklin Kowalski, 1st Dimensional Guard Battalion, Illinois National Guard)

Batman:So what you’re saying is that he’s a child?

Major Kowalski:Yes, and we’re trying to keep his ID just amongst locals, I’m sorry if the Ghosts get a bit defensive but no one wants the kid getting dragged off when he can’t protect himself.

Batman:Hn

M. Kowalski:Yeah yeah I get it, not the best situation, his current getup was partially our fault since you could easily peg who he was before, but that’s for another time, you wanted to ask a question?

Batman:Yes, President Luthor said that he would rather we not go “The Way of Krypton” I would like to know what that means.

M. Kowalski: Alright, so we send in teams into the Infinite Realms now and then, usually one of three teams. During one of these expeditions Team Dogtown found the old Resting Place of the Kryptonians, their Afterlife, or what’s left of it.

Batman:What’s Left of it?

M. Kowalski:Yeah, the Ancients of Krypton, think really old important spirits, maybe even dead gods, and the spirit of their planet were destroyed by something that carved their Afterlife apart to make a place called the “Phantom Zone”, a Prison, we encountered a Prisoner there who was bound to the outside of it, perpetually trapped against it who claimed to be the last sane soldier of Krypton, poor fool, anyways from what we figured out between him and some more publicly available data in the Realms we found out that Kryptons Core, that of the Planet, had already been destabilized, and its spirit was the only thing holding it together so when the Spirit of Krypton got Whacked…

Batman:The World fell apart…Where are we sitting on that?

M. Kowalski:Earth is Geologically Stable, the Destruction of Earths’ Spirit on the other hand…

Batman:Understood, should we assign someone to Amity Park?

M.Kowalski: Only if you feel the need to, Phantom won’t be graduating for a few years yet but if and when that time comes I’ll let ya know. If you want the League to be more prepared for Spooky hijinx like this, well this is likely the safest place to learn.

Batman:Noted, thank you for your time Major Kowalski, I hope this didn’t disrupt your day.

M. Kowalski:You kiddin? I’ve been looking forward to these debriefs, at least this way I don’t have to go over every scrap hoping not to peeve some General. Thank You Bats, now I’m off to my next thing!

(Transcript End)

#dp x dc #danny phantom #dc x dp #danny fenton #dpxdc #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #Grave Guard au

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thepastisalreadywritten · 11 months ago

Text

Inside William’s Next Act: Tatler’s May issue goes behind the scenes as the Prince of Wales is rising above the noise — and playing the long game

The burden of leadership is falling upon Prince William, but as former BBC Royal Correspondent, Wesley Kerr OBE, explains in Tatler’s May cover story, the future king is taking charge

By Wesley Kerr OBE

21 March 2024

When I first met Prince William in 2009, he asked me if I could tell him how he could win the National Lottery.

It was a jokey quip from someone who has since become the Prince of Wales, the holder of three dukedoms, three earldoms, two baronies and two knighthoods, and heir to the most prestigious throne on earth.

He was, of course, being relatable; I was representing the organisation that had allocated Lottery funding towards the Whitechapel Gallery and he wanted to put me at ease.

William is grand but different, royal but real.

At 6ft 3in, he has the bearing and looks great in uniform after a distinguished, gallant military career.

He will be one of the tallest of Britain’s kings since Edward Longshanks in the 14th century and should one day be crowned sitting above the Stone of Scone that Edward ‘borrowed.’

William, by contrast, has a deep affinity with Scotland and Wales, having lived in both nations and gained solace from the Scottish landscape after his mother died.

He’s popular in America and understands that the Crown’s relationship to the Commonwealth must evolve.

The Prince of Wales has long believed that ‘the Royal Family has to modernise and develop as it goes along, and it has to stay relevant’, as he once said in an interview.

He seeks his own way of being relatable, of benefitting everybody, in the context of an ancient institution undergoing significant challenge and upheaval, as the head of a nation divided by hard times, conflicts abroad, and social and political uncertainty.

We might recognise Shakespeare’s powerful line spoken by Claudius in Hamlet: ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.’

With the triple announcement in January and February of the Princess of Wales’s abdominal surgery and long convalescence, of King Charles’s prostate procedure and then of his cancer diagnosis, the burden of leadership has fallen on 76-year-old Queen Camilla and, crucially, on William.

The Prince of Wales’s time has come to step up; and so he has deftly done.

In recent months, we have seen a fully-fledged deputy head of state putting into practice his long-held ideas, speaking out on the most contentious issue of the day and taking direct action on homelessness.

Last June, he unveiled the multi-agency Homewards initiative with the huge aspiration of ending homelessness, backed with £3 million from his Foundation to spearhead action across the UK.

He is consolidating Heads Together, the long-standing campaign on mental health, and fundraises for charities like London’s Air Ambulance Charity.

He was, of course, once a pilot for the East Anglian Air Ambulance services – a profession that had its downside: seeing people in extremis or at death’s door, he found himself ‘taking home people’s trauma, people’s sadness.’

Tom Cruise was a guest at the recent London’s Air Ambulance Charity fundraiser, William’s first gala event after Kate’s operation.

And more stardust followed when William showed that, even without his wife by his side, he could outclass any movie star at the Baftas.

There’s also his immense aim of helping to ‘repair the planet’ itself with his Earthshot Prize: five annual awards of £1 million for transformative environmental projects with worldwide application.

This project has a laser focus on biodiversity, better air quality, cleaner seas, reducing waste and combating climate change. Similar aims to his father; different means to achieve the goal.

On the issue which has caused huge convulsions – the Middle East conflict – William’s 20 February statement from Kensington Palace grabbed attention.

He said he was ‘deeply concerned about the terrible human cost of the conflict since the Hamas terrorist attack on 7 October. Too many have been killed.’

There were criticisms – along the lines of ‘the late Queen would have never spoken out like this’ or ‘what right does he have to meddle in politics?’ – but it was hard to disagree with his carefully calibrated words.

His call for peace, the ‘desperate need’ for humanitarian aid, the return of the hostages.

The statement was approved by His Majesty’s Government, likely cleared with the King himself at Sandringham the previous weekend and also backed by the chief rabbi of Great Britain, Sir Ephraim Mirvis.

Indeed, William and Catherine had immediately spoken out on the horrors of 7 October.

William followed up the week after his Kensington Palace statement by visiting a synagogue and sending a ‘powerful message’, according to the chief rabbi, by meeting a Holocaust survivor and condemning anti-Semitism.

This is rooted in deep personal conviction following William’s 2018 visit to Israel and the West Bank, says Valentine Low, the distinguished author of Courtiers and The Times’s royal correspondent of 15 years, who was on that 2018 trip.

‘William was so moved by his visit to Israel and the West Bank, he found it very affecting, and he was not going to drop this issue – he was going to pay attention to it for the rest of his life,’ says Low.

‘He must feel that… not to say something on the most important issue in the world [at that moment] would be a bit odd if you feel so strongly about it.’

There was concern from some commentators about politicising the monarchy, but this rose above the particulars of party politics.

As Prince of Wales, like his father before him, there is perhaps space to speak out sparingly on carefully chosen issues.

On this occasion, his views were in line with majority public opinion.

On homelessness, news came that same week that William was planning to build 24 homes for the homeless on his Duchy of Cornwall estate.

‘William’s impact is very personal,’ says Mick Clarke, chief executive of The Passage, a charity providing emergency accommodation for London’s homeless.

‘Two weeks before Christmas, the prince came to our Resource Centre in Victoria for a Christmas lunch for 150 people.

He was scheduled to stay for an hour, to help serve, wash up, and talk to people.

He ended up staying for two and a quarter hours, during which time he went from table to table and spoke to every single person.’

Clarke continues:

‘William has an ability to listen, talk and to put people at ease. During the November 2020 lockdown, he came on three separate occasions to help.

It gave the team a boost that he took the time; it was his way of saying: “I support you; you’re doing a great job.”’

Seyi Obakin, chief executive of Centrepoint, one of the prince’s best-known causes, adds:

‘People associate his patronage with the big moments like the time he and I slept under Blackfriars Bridge.

The things that stick with me are smaller in scale and the more profound for it – in quieter moments, away from the cameras, where he has volunteered his time.’

It is a different approach from the King’s.

As Prince of Wales, he was involved in the minutiae of dozens of issues at any one time, working into the night to follow up on emails, crafting his speeches, writing or dictating notes.

Add to that much nationwide touring over 40 years (after he left active military service in 1976), fitting in multiple engagements, often being greeted formally by lord lieutenants.

This is not William’s style. He has commended his father’s model, but he does things his own way.

Although patronages are under review, William has up till now far fewer than either his father or his grandparents.

Charles is sympathetic to William’s approach and his desire to make time with his young family sacrosanct.

They are confidantes, attested by the night of Queen Elizabeth’s death.

They were both at Birkhall with Camilla, reviewing funeral arrangements while the rest of the grieving family were nearby at Balmoral, hosted by the Princess Royal.

Charles has had almost six decades in public life and is the senior statesman of our time, with even longer in the spotlight than Joe Biden.

After Eton and St Andrew’s University, where he met Catherine, William served in three branches of the military between 2006 and 2013, finishing as a seasoned and skilled helicopter rescue pilot.

His later employment as an air ambulance pilot stopped in 2017, when he became a full-time working royal.

At that time, not so long ago – with Harry unmarried, Andrew undisgraced, and Philip and Elizabeth still active – William shared the spotlight.

Now, after the King, he’s the key man.

He can look back on the success of his first big campaign initially launched with his wife and brother in 2016: Heads Together.

‘We are delighted that Prince William should have become such a positive and sympathetic advocate for mental health through his Heads Together initiative and now well-established text service, Shout, among other projects,’ says the longtime CEO and founder of Sane, the remarkable Marjorie Wallace CBE.

‘It is not always known that he follows in the footsteps of his father, the King, whose inspiration and vision were vital in the creation of our mental health charity Sane.

As founding patron, he was instrumental in establishing our 365-days-a-year helpline and was a remarkable and selfless support to me in setting up the Prince of Wales International Centre for Sane Research.’

'Indeed,' says Wallace, 'this is where Prince William echoes the work of his father, showing the same ‘understanding and compassion for people struggling through dark and difficult times of their lives and has done much to raise awareness and encourage those affected to speak out and seek help.

We owe a huge debt to His Majesty and the Prince of Wales for their involvement in this still-neglected area.’

Just as I saw all those years ago at that early solo engagement in Whitechapel, William still approaches his public duties with humour and fun.

‘He defuses the formality with jocularity,’ says Valentine Low, citing two public events in 2023 that he witnessed.

In April last year, while on a visit to Birmingham, William randomly answered the phone in an Indian restaurant he was being shown around and took a table booking from a customer – an endearing act of spontaneity.

On his arrival later that day, the unsuspecting diner was surprised to be told exactly whom he had been talking to.

In October, Low reported, William ‘unleashed his inner flirt as he hugged his way through a visit with Caribbean elders [in Cardiff] to mark Black History Month.

As he gave one woman a hug – for longer than she expected – he joked: “I draw the line at kissing.”

And while posing for a group photograph, he prompted gales of laughter when he quipped: “Who is pinching my bottom?”’

Low believes that when William eventually becomes king, he will be more ‘radical’ than his father but wonders if people will respond to ‘call me William’ when ‘the whole point of the Royal Family is mystique and being different.’

However, William has thought deeply about his current role and is prepared for whatever his future holds.

For now, there is a decision to be made on Prince George’s secondary schooling. It’s said that five public schools are being considered, all fee-paying.

Eton is single-sex and boarding but close to home. Marlborough (Catherine’s alma mater) is co-ed and full boarding. And Oundle, St Edward’s Oxford and Bradfield College (close to Kate’s parents) are co-ed with a mix of boarding and day.

As parents, William and Catherine aspire to raise their children ‘as good people with the idea of service and duty to others as very important’, William said in an interview with the BBC in 2016.

‘Within our family unit, we are a normal family.’ Which may be one reason why he is so resistant to their privacy being compromised either by the media or close family members.

The 19th-century author Walter Bagehot wrote:

‘A family on the throne is an interesting idea also. It brings down the pride of sovereignty to the level of petty life… a princely marriage is the brilliant edition of a universal fact, and, as such, it rivets mankind.’

If hereditary monarchy is to survive, it must beguile us but also demonstrate its utility, that it is a force for good.

William said in that 2016 interview, ‘I’m going to get plenty of criticism over my lifetime,’ echoing Queen Elizabeth II’s famous Guildhall speech in 1992 ‘that criticism is good for people and institutions that are part of public life. No institution – city, monarchy, whatever – should expect to be free from the scrutiny of those who give it their loyalty and support, not to mention those who don’t.’

William saw close up his mother’s ability to bring public focus and her own personal magnetism to any subject or cause she focused on.

He admires his father’s work ethic, the way he ‘really digs down,’ sometimes literally (I understand that gardening is giving the King solace during his cancer treatment).

But the biggest influence for William was Her late Majesty, as he said on her 90th birthday.

As an Eton schoolboy, William made weekend visits to the big house on the hill, being mentored by Granny rather as she had been tutored in the Second World War by the then vice-provost of Eton, Sir Henry Marten.

William said in 2016:

‘In the Queen, I have an extraordinary example of somebody who’s done an enormous amount of good and she’s probably the best role model I could have.’

That said, his aim was ‘finding your own path but with very good examples and guidance around you to support you.'

Queen Elizabeth II had a brilliant way of rising above the fray and usually being either a step ahead of public opinion or in tune with it.

If you are at the helm of affairs in a privileged hereditary position, your duty is to serve and use your pulpit for the benefit of others.

In a democracy, monarchy is accountable.

The scrutiny is intense, with an army of commentators paid for wisdom and hot air about each no-show, parsing each announcement, interpreting each image.

William takes the long view. He has ‘wide horizons,’ says Mick Clarke.

‘There are so many causes that are more palatable and easier to achieve than ending homelessness, but his commitment and drive are 100 per cent.’

The prince seeks a different way of being royal in an ancient institution that must move with the times. His task? To develop something modern in an ever-changing world.

He faces all sorts of new issues – or old issues in new guises.

Noises off from within the family don’t help – Andrew’s difficulties, or the suggestions of prejudice from Montecito a couple of years ago (now seemingly withdrawn), which prompted William’s most vehement soundbite: ‘We’re very much not a racist family.’

William is maybe a new kind of leader who can keep the monarchy relevant and resonant in the coming decades.

Queen Elizabeth II is a powerful exemplar and memory, but she was of her time. William is his own man.

He must overcome and think beyond ‘the unforgiving minute.’

Indeed, he could seek inspiration in Rudyard Kipling’s poem, If.

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch[…]

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

This article was first published in the May 2024 issue, on sale Thursday, 28 March.

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askarsjustsoswedish · 3 months ago

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GENERATION KILL - MILITARY TERMINOLOGY AND SLANG USED IN THE MINISERIES (Part 2, N-Z)

N.J.P. (Non-Judicial Punishment): next to a court martial, the most severe form of punishment to which a Marine can be subjected. It usually involves a loss of rank and pay grade.

Navy Hospitalman, Doc Bryan: the medic, though medics in the Marine Corps are technically part of the Navy’s hospital corps and are never referred to as “medics” but as Corpsmen.

Negligent Discharge: accidental firing of a weapon; aka N.D.

Nine-lines: a procedure for directing air strikes on ground targets.

No salute zone: forward areas where officers are not to be acknowledged with salutes, in order to conceal rank from potential enemy observers.

O Dark Hundred: until darkness falls. Note: “O dark 30” typically means half an hour before dawn, or any ridiculously early hour of the morning.

Oakley sunglasses: surfer sunglasses worn by just about all Marines in Iraq. Iraqis believe Oakleys give Marines X-ray powers to see through women’s clothing and are a constant source of tension.

One M.E.F. (First Marine Expeditionary Force): the overall Marine invasion force in the Middle East, which comprises the First Division (ground troops) under command of Gen. Mattis, the Air Wing and a logistics battalion. The entire One M.E.F. is under the command of General James Conway.

Oscar Mike: “On the Move” from the phonetic alphabet.

Overwatch: a position that offers protective fire for a given area.

“Paint me”: to paint something is to shine one’s gunsight laser designator on a target in preparation for shooting it.

PAS-13 Thermal: a night vision device, about the size of an old video camera, that can see heat signatures. Note: A single device is usually referred to in the plural, e.g. ,“Pass me the thermals” refers to one device.

Pec-fours, Pec-thirteens: night and infrared vision scopes.

POG (Person Other than Grunt): a pejorative term for anyone who is in the rear echelon and therefore not in a recon or infantry unit. This is one of the most insulting terms in the Marine Corps, almost the equivalent of the “N” word. Note: POG is pronounced with a long “o.”

Police: to clean up or correct, as in “Police your tent,” or clean it up. (1-16)

Psy-Ops: Psychological-Operations units, which in Iraq relied on leaflets, radio and loudspeaker broadcasts to encourage enemy forces to surrender.

Pyro and Smoke protocol: codes involving use of smoke grenades and flares.

R.C.T. (Regimental Combat Team): a super-regiment of about 7,000 Marines; the First Division consisted of three RCTs – RCT 1, RCT 5 and RCT 7 – plus First Recon, which operated on its own.

R.C.T. One (Regimental Combat Team One): a motorized, armored infantry regiment of about 7,000 Marines.

R.O.E. (The Rules of Engagement): the all important, ever-changing and always ambiguous rules governing when a Marine may fire his weapon.

R.T.O. (Radio Transceiver Operator): radioman, the most important guy on the team and usually the calmest and smartest next to the team leader. (1-23)

Rack: nautical for sleeping area.

Ranger Graves: sleeping holes dug by marines to protect from shrapnel and gunshots.

Raptor: radio call-sign for First Recon’s Charlie company.

Recon Mission: a reconnaissance mission performed specifically by Recon Marines who are the Marine Corps special forces; there are only a few hundred Recon Marines in the entire Corps.

Red-Con One: a loaded weapon with a round in its chamber, but with the safety on.

Revetment: crude fortifications made from earth or concrete or sandbags.

Ripped Fuel: brand name of a popular over-the-counter stimulant, banned by the military but widely used.

RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade): anti-tank rocket first developed by the Germans as the “panzerfaust,” then adopted by Soviets and as common to Iraqi forces and insurgents as Skittles candies are to Marines. Not very accurate, but devastating when fired in mass by five- or ten-man RPG teams. RPGs were famously used to bring down U.S. Army Blackhawk helicopters in Somalia.

S.O.P. (Standard Operating Procedure): S.O.P. is sometimes informally used as a synonym for common sense.

Saffwon Hill: a low hill on the Iraq side of the border with Kuwait, believed to be the locale of a dug-in Iraqi division.

Sapi plates: 12-inch square ceramic plates worn in front and back of one’s flak vest, rated to stop the enemy’s preferred 7.62 round.

Schwack: to kill; origin believed to be a popular video game.

Screwby: either “That sucks,” or “That’s really cool,” from Cpl. Stafford’s personal hip-hop lexicon.

Senior NCOs: anyone from staff-sergeant to Sergeant Major. Corporals and Sergeants are also NCOs, but they are never referred to junior NCOs, simply as NCOs. (1-18)

Sergeant Major: the highest possible rank a non-commissioned officer can earn in the Marine Corps; invariably a ball-buster who speaks in a semi-illiterate southern sounding accent no matter where he is from. This battalion has just one Sergeant Major.

Shamal: hellacious wind and dust storms endemic to Iraq.

Sit-Rep: situation report:; often used as a more confusing way to say “situation.”

Skittles: chewy fruit-flavored children’s candy, which is a dietary staple in U.S. military.

Slackman: team machine gunner, armed with a SAW.

Snatch: a specific Marine term for abducting an enemy combatant in order to gather intelligence.

Soft Cover: same as a boonie cap. Note: the word “hat” does not exist in the Marine Corps; anything you place on your head is a cover.

Sparrow: a small reaction force held in reserve while another unit attacks; an “eagle” is a large reaction force.

Spread load his excitement: to calm down; from the tradition of foot patrols spreading a heavy load equally among all troops.

T-55: Soviet-era tank ubiquitous in Iraq; older and much less feared than the newer, but less-common T-72 Soviet tanks also in Iraq.

TAD-two, TAD-three: Tactical Air Direct radio bands for communicating directly with pilots in attack aircraft.

Task Force Tarawa: a four thousand-strong Marine unit outside of the First Division Command Structure. This American unit was initially put under the command of the British at Basra, then moved north to Nasariyah.

Team Leader: the sergeant in command of each combat team. Fick’s platoon is divided into three teams, but spread across four Humvees (not counting Fick’s command vehicle, the fifth Humvee). Since Fick’s platoon is a special forces unit trained in coastal raids, they have no experience with Humvees. Technically each team has a specialty, with team one being the dive (or SCUBA) team, team two being the boat team and team three the para-jump team. But here, ironically, they are all in a desert.

The Three: the battalion’s intelligence unit.

T-rats: T-rations; pre-manufactured military food heated and served in mess halls of forward units.

Triple-A: Anti-Aircraft Artillery; towed or self-propelled guns designed to shoot down aircraft but often used by Iraqis against American forces on the ground.

Two o’clock: direction of enemy forces. Orientation of the lead vehicle puts 12 o’clock at the center of the hood and six o’clock at the rear.

Two-Oh-Three: an M-203 grenade launcher, which is a single shot self-propelled weapon mounted beneath the barrel of a standard Marine rifle. The M-203 fires the same 40mm round as the M-19.

Unfucking: a verb peculiar to the Marine Corps meaning to get out of a fucked-up situation.

U-two: a reference to venerable U2 spy planes.

Victors: vehicles. The military uses the phonetic alphabet as a shorthand code: the phonetic alphabet replaces letters with words, i.e., Alpha, Bravo Charlie, Delta, Echo. These phonetic word for each letter of the alphabet can be used to replace any word starting with the corresponding letter. Hence, vehicle becomes “victor,” terrorist becomes “tango” and white trash becomes “whiskey tango,” as in, “He grew up in a whiskey tango trailer park in the Ozarks.”

Whiskey Tango: white trash, from the phonetic alphabet version.

Zil truck: Russian-made truck popular in Iraq.

#generation kill #hbo #military terms and slang #2 of 2 #n-z #gk #ajss13 #gki

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thefirstearthbattalion · 22 days ago

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#TheHolzhofEnchantment

Halo Platoon, Chime Element Halo Platoon

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#Chime Element #First Earth Battalion #Halo Platoon #MetaAI Art #The Holzhof Enchantment

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barbwritesstuff · 5 months ago

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Dearest Barb, I have (another) vampire question. Does MC have a scar from where Blackwell bit them and ultimately killed them? Iliya still has his scar, and the idea of him and MC both having visible memories of what killed them did make my sentimental sappy heart go !!!!

I'm sorry, but no.

Iliya has a scar because it's a bullet wound that happened days before his death. He was lying in a medical tent, mouth bandaged up, badly infected, feverish, but alive for long enough to develop scar tissue.

He doesn't remember the vampire that killed him. In his own words:

You turn to look at him. "How'd you die?" He glances over his shoulder. "I was shot." "By a vampire?" "By a Nazi." He gently touches the scar on his lips. "I was taken to the medical tent. I languished for days… but it was the nights that I remember. There was a priest who was following the regiment. He prayed by my bed. I wonder if, perhaps, he was the walking dead, or if it was another." It takes you a moment to realise what those words mean. "You don't know the vampire that made you?" He shrugs. "The battalion had been plagued with strange stories since Poland. Sometimes, fallen comrades would be seen in the woods, following us at night. Sometimes, men would go talk to them, and never return, or return wrong. Sometimes, darker, stranger things would happen. Sickness, weakness, bloodlessness." You consider this in silence. "The General called us superstitious fools," Iliya continues after a moment. "But the commander ordered all of our dead to be burnt or buried in chains, vertical, head down." "They didn't burn you." "No. They didn't bind me either. I think they were out of chain. But they buried me upside down. I am glad I remembered. If I hadn't, I would've dug down into the earth, and be trapped there still. Instead, I dug up, and escaped. I was strong, even newly made. That is how I was able to do it, I think." "Fuck," you whisper. He smiles. "It was not too terrible. I was afraid at first. I did not know what I was. When I tried to return to camp they fired at me. That was when I realised bullets did not hurt me. My heart did not beat. But I hungered for those who's hearts did." "What did you do?" "I found the Nazi that killed me and returned the favour." Thicker Than - Chapter 10

His scar is a war wound he got in 1945.

Vampire bites don't typically leave scars. Vampire saliva is ridiculously good at healing wounds. MC doesn't have a scar from their death.

#thicker than if #Iliya

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wixelt · 1 day ago

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Grian, Gem, and a continent of snails that are visibly at the very least very rated very high when it comes to animal intelligence seems like a massive headache for Andrias and later Sasha, and possibly Valeriana, Wartwood, and Newtopia considering they two are probably getting up to Snail Shananigans before they even meet up. I don't have ideas about what the two get up to, but snail behavioral patterns are going to be notably altered by the time the hermits leave Amphibia.

Also the only reason the Snail Shananigans stop being a headache for Andrias is because they graduate to being logistical issues.

(Sorry this took me 5 months. Was mentally blocked on replying at first, & then my mental health took a nosedive.)

A continent full of molluscs goes exactly the way you'd expect.

Initially split up, both Gem and Grian see the plentiful population of giant snails & get ideas. It takes time for things to get off the ground as Grian's initially under the thrall of spores & Gem has other matters to attend to with Valeriana, but once they're able to put time into training a few snails to do their bidding... hoo boy. :P

While perhaps not an issue for Valeriana, for every major villain its a nuisance at best and at absolute worst a logistical nightmare.

Sasha's face falls as - already blindsided by the skill & power the Hermits bring to bear & Anne's utter defiance of her attempts to "help" her - a small battalion of shelled horrors surges over the walls of South Tower. She turns to Scar, knowing he won't help her here but still wanting his advice... only to become paler still at the trickster's expression of perturbed resignation (best described as "oh no, not again").

For Andrias, meanwhile, the level of difficulty he faces with the snail legions runs the whole range depending on where in the story this falls. In the midst of Season 2, Grian's getting snails to ferry information & do recon is mildly useful, but is entirely outweighed by his use of them as pranksters, spies & pieces in his schemes. The game of tag he begins in Newtopia is almost entirely fuelled by snails used as proxies & instigators.

This only gets worse when False brings Gem back to the city with her after one of the temple outings.

Come the war in Season 3, it doesn't matter that Andrias & the Core have False's intelligence on their side. Nothing - & I mean nothing - can prepare anybody for snail guerilla warfare. Trade convoys are disrupted, supplies stolen & soldiers befuddled. The finest strategic minds in the Newtopian military are left flailing in confusion.

If it wasn't for all the aces they have up their sleeves now, Andrias is convinced the Core might otherwise go full scorched earth with the volume of the frustrated screeching False's body is making.

#hermitcraft #hermitblr #amphibia #hermitcraft au #amphibia au #hermitphibia au #grian #geminitay #falsesymmetry #anne boonchuy #amphibia valeriana #andrias leviathan #amphibia andrias #sasha waybright #goodtimeswithscar

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hailturinturambar · 15 days ago

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This is loss, my dear.

Pairing: Elrond x Galadriel

Word count: 3.183

Author's Notes: English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes or confusion. It's also my first fic in years. Requests are formally open, for trop x reader, or any trop x trop character. I won't write them all, obviously, I'll still post a complete list of who I'm going to write for, but you can still send them.

Warnings: Angst, emotional distress, injuries, blood. Mention of Sauron.

Summary: On the brink of war, Elrond recalls the moments he spent with Galadriel, his best friend and most secret passion, while he must make a decision: choose the safety of all Middle-earth or protect the one he loves.

The blood reminded Elrond of a ruby, he thought, watching the dense trail soak Galadriel's robes. The dirty blade continued to sink into her neck, her elven blood gushing like a spring from the purest river in Valinor. Elrond took a deep breath, trying to concentrate, as he galloped towards Adar's battalion.

He couldn't let Galadriel get hurt, he wasn't going to. And Adar knew it, watching him intently, almost as if foretelling Elrond's next steps. He was deeply confident, Elrond understood. Why else would he look at him with such satisfaction? Oh, he knew perfectly well what he was doing.

Exposing Galadriel before Elrond, as a spoil of war, a bargaining chip. Because Adar knew Elves like Elrond. Good, honest, selfless. Always trying to protect everyone, always determined to play the hero. But Elrond didn't feel like a hero, stopping his gallop, shouting at the troops not to go any further. How could he?

Galadriel's eyes opened and she took a deep breath, the blade no longer pressing into her neck. That was when their gazes met. Elrond looked at her for a few seconds, before keeping his attention on Adar, never letting his guard down near his enemy. Galadriel was afraid, why had he stopped? Why hadn't he left her, even after promising that he would never let Nenya get to Sauron?

“Welcome, Commander Elrond.” Adar said. He sounded so formal to Elrond, so composed. So different from the Uruk who had kidnapped Galadriel.

“You are in Elven lands.” Elrond shouted, staring at the Uruk. “And in possession of one of the most esteemed warriors in the kingdom of Lindon.”

Adar agreed, looking at Galadriel, who remained silent. So this was Elrond, the current protector of Nenya, one of the Three Elven Rings. Adar remained silent, facing Galadriel's cage. She shuddered and turned away, disgusted by Adar's betrayal. Disgusted by his trap.

“And that makes her valuable, Commander Elrond.” Adar didn't suspect, he knew that Elrond cared for Galadriel, that he wouldn't be able to move on, not while she was at risk. “Come, Commander. Let's talk like civilized allies.”

Elrond sighed, looking at Gil-galad. The High King was suspicious. He didn't want to bargain with Adar, with an Uruk, a former ally of Sauron and Morgoth, who would soon be leaving for Eregion. On the other hand, they were at a disadvantage. Only Elrond could get information out of Adar.

Gil-galad nodded to Elrond, who dismounted from his horse, following the Orc who had just pointed the blade at Galadriel's neck. He didn't set off alone, but it didn't matter in the end. The putrid stench of the camp clouded Elrond's senses. He grumbled when one of the Orcs bumped into him, pushing him to hurry. It was almost impossible to walk in the camp. Mud, armor and bodies infested the place, making the air heavy and malevolent.

Vorohil and Elrond were pushed into the largest and furthest tent in the camp. Elrond smiled with disgust, wondering if that was Adar's tent. Adar, however, was not there. Neither was Galadriel. They would leave them waiting, increasing his despair, his mistrust.

All Elrond could think about was Galadriel. If she was all right, if she was safe. Of course Adar wouldn't kill Galadriel, not if he believed he had a chance of convincing Elrond to give in. But Elrond had seen too much pain, too much death to trust Adar, no matter how much the Uruk stood to gain from Galadriel's life.

Sitting in the dark tent, listening to the battle cries of the Orcs, Elrond closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He began to cough, the air impregnated with evil affecting his elven senses, his blood pure like that of his ancestors, free from the evil of Morgoth's creation.

As a child, Elwing taught Elrond and Elros to fight their fear. When the night was dark and sinister, and the wind seemed alive, she sang to her children, stroking their hair, holding them protectively. She would say “When you're afraid, when you can't stand where you are, close your eyes.”

“Close my eyes?” murmured Elros, confused.

“Yes.” She smiled, covering Elros' eyes with her hands. “Think of a place where you were happy and forget the world around you.”

“What if I can't?” Elrond asked fearfully, squeezing his small brown tresses.

“Just think of someone important to you, and you'll be fine.”

Vorohil spoke to Elrond, but he didn't open his eyes, he didn't answer. His mind was too far away, too focused to hear the elven warrior's words. Because now, Elrond was in the past. Trapped in his memories.

Elrond was there, when Galadriel introduced Celeborn as her husband to Gil-galad. She smiled so much, so carefree and happy, stroking the arm of her husband, who smiled at her with deep affection. Gil-galad blessed them, wishing Galadriel and Celeborn all the best. And indeed he did. The High King was concerned for Galadriel's well-being, his concern for Galadriel was almost paternal.

Elrond understood Gil-galad's concern. Since her departure from Valinor, Galadriel, according to those who knew her in earlier days, had never been the same. She deeply resented her relatives and their cruelty. But, whether through the work of Eru or the Valar, she found happiness again. As she danced with the Elves of Thingol's court and was watched by Celeborn.

Celeborn won Galadriel over immediately with his kindness and intelligence. And Elrond was happy for his friend, of course he was! She deserved to be happy, to feel safe and protected, loved after losing so much. How could Elrond not be happy for her?

Yet Elrond was miserably unhappy. He smiled, courteous as ever, and greeted Celeborn, welcoming him with open arms. And the Elf returned the affection, soon becoming Elrond's friend. Elrond had to drown his words, his feelings, as he smiled and chatted nonchalantly with the couple.

In the back of his mind, in his sadness, Elrond thought he had fooled everyone. But he had never fooled Gil-galad, who looked at him confused and worried. The golden days had left even the court of Lindon and Elrond had other worries.

When war came, Galadriel despaired at Celeborn's departure. She wanted to fight by his side, to protect her husband. But Gil-galad forbade her, separating them in the war, fearful that proximity would do her more harm than good in times of war.

Elrond stayed by Galadriel's side, comforting her, promising that Celeborn would return to her. But Celeborn never returned, despite Galadriel's efforts, despite the troops sent by Gil-galad. Celeborn was lost, as was Galadriel for Elrond. She set out, determined to find Sauron, the Dark Lord, and take revenge for the murder of her brother, for the loss of Celeborn, for all her suffering.

For countless centuries, Elrond waited for Galadriel to return. Alone in the flowery, illuminated halls of Lindon, covered in the golden petals of the Great Tree of Lindon. Elrond wandered alone, alone once more.

In the silence of the night, when the castle of Lindon was at peace, Elrond thought of Galadriel. How he had stopped being lonely when she had found him and helped him.

Until now, because Lindon was too big without her, without her stormy temper and melodic laughter, like the Song of the Valar at the beginning of time. Elrond hadn't heard Galadriel's laughter for longer than was fair, even for an Elf.

In fairness, Elrond did try to move on. After all, Galadriel is his best friend, his best friend who is married and completely in love with her lost husband. It was a waste of time, Elrond knew that, but he couldn't resist, couldn't fight the feeling.

He felt so selfish, each day that passed and Celeborn didn't return, believing that it was one more day without Galadriel being taken away from him. So he felt deeply guilty, weeping against his scrolls. It became too heavy a burden to carry.

Elrond knew that when Galadriel arrived, she would have to leave for Valinor. Gil-galad was firm and didn't let worry flood Elrond's mind. Galadriel would arrive soon, after her troop had reached the kingdom of Lindon before her.

And when she returned, Elrond felt as if, for the first time in a long time, the light of Valinor was shining down on him. Despite Elrond's feelings, it had not been an easy reunion, Galadriel was resolute, unable to give up her pursuit of Sauron. Long ago, when Galadriel had met him, she had been his foundation.

And now Elrond would be hers. But Galadriel refused Valinor's blessing and left without saying goodbye to Elrond, never to return.

Elrond left with Celebrimbor for Khazad-dûm. Elrond still remembered how the light of the Great Tree of Lindon shone against Galadriel's hair, but he pushed those feelings aside, focusing on his mission, his fight to protect the fate of the Elves from eternal damnation.

It was a surprise for Elrond to find Galadriel in Eregion after so long, when he believed she was living in Valinor, and what's more, accompanied by a Man. Elrond should have known better, Galadriel never gave up fighting easily, never abandoned battle without good reason. Elrond was afraid of Halbrand, a Man with no past, no history.

But he trusted Galadriel's judgment, trusted her word. The wet parchment in Elrond's hand was proof of all his fears, of how he had been right all along, even if he hadn't known it. Galadriel had lied to him, of all people. He felt betrayed.

Perhaps Galadriel would hate him forever. But when Elrond saw her enchanted gaze at the Rings, he knew he had to protect her, protect everyone in Middle-earth. Elrond ignored his fears and set off from Eregion with the Rings. If he was lucky, Gil-galad would listen to him, but that wasn't the case.

Even with Galadriel in Lindon, swearing she didn't know about Sauron, Elrond still felt so disappointed. He trusted her and knew about Sauron's powers, he didn't blame her, he just wished she had been… honest with him.

Gil-galad asked Elrond to leave with Galadriel, and he accepted. He would never let her face Sauron alone because of a small mistake. Elrond tried, tried with all his might to drown his sorrows, but he couldn't understand why she refused to trust him. When Galadriel was taken by Adar's army, he finally understood. Her shame was so great, so cruel, that she preferred to hide it from him.

Elrond opened his eyes, hearing the tent cloth being moved. The Uruk that Adar called Glûg, pushed Galadriel handcuffed into the tent. Elrond clutched the arms of his chair, hating himself for not hiding his discomfort.

He sighed, pulling his hands away before Adar noticed his reaction. The Uruk whispered something to his Orcs and sat down, facing Elrond. The tension in the tent was palpable, possible to cut with the smallest blade.

"The Ring you carry. Show it to me." Adar said, looking intently at Elrond, Galadriel's eyes widening.

“A foolish act if I had brought it here.”

Well, Elrond almost wanted to pat himself on the back. It had been his best lie yet. But he didn't really have a choice. Galadriel had entrusted Nenya to him, he couldn't leave without the Ring.

“You are a courtier. More suited to wielding a scroll than a sword.”

“You've never seen me wield either.” Elrond sneered.

Adar didn't know the real Elrond, the one who would fight for his kingdom, for his king, for all the innocents of Middle-earth at the first sign of danger. Still, Adar held all the cards here. Galadriel spoke, trying to help Elrond, but Adar was quicker.

Elrond and Vorohil reacted quickly. They wouldn't let Adar hurt Galadriel. Elrond wouldn't allow him to hurt her. And Vorohil, a loyal soldier, also recognized Elrond's true concern.

No matter how hard Adar tried to bargain, Elrond would never trust him. Elrond knew that the same had happened to Galadriel. She wouldn't have been shackled if she had given in to Uruk.

Elrond cared little for Adar's false promises. He was more concerned with the cost that his supposed alliance could cause to all the Elves of Eregion.

Adar was right, Elrond knew more about the court than the battlefield. Elrond also knew the power of words. His clear eyes followed the Uruk's movements intently, the curved sword still pressed against Galadriel's throat. Elrond moved closer to Adar. In war, words can cause as much ruin as sword strokes. If possible, Elrond would turn Adar's sons against himself.

“Not before you have painted the sands of the Glanduin black with the blood of your kin.”

Grunts filled the tent, the motivations of the sons of Adar being shaken. Elrond noticed when Adar's most trusted Uruk faltered.

“My children have endured cruelties your bravest couldn't bear to hear spoken aloud.”

“Are you prepared to spend their lives so freely, Adar?”

Elrond noticed the fruit of his words, how calling Adar by his true name weighed on his actions, and above all, how uncomfortable his children were with Adar's ease in sending them into Sauron's hands.

“Are they?”

The sword left Galadriel's neck, while the Orcs watched Adar, waiting for an answer to Elrond's words.

“The Ring for Galadriel's life. What is it to be?”

Elrond had been expecting this since the second Adar had observed him on the battlefield, when he alone had attracted the Lord Father's attention.

Elrond turned his back on Adar, glancing briefly at Galadriel to prevent the Orcs in the tent from understanding his intentions. His hand went up to his cloak, loosening the pin calmly, his movements as discreet as possible. Galadriel stared at Elrond, frightened that he would choose her instead of the Ring.

Seriously, Elrond stared at Adar, approaching the Uruk.

“Ask me on the field, when the neck with a blade against it is yours.”

“Very well.” Adar said, oblivious to Elrond's words. Cruelty hadn't frightened him for a long time. “I will meet you there, with her head on a pike.”

Elrond stood his ground. Adar wanted him to give up, to protect Galadriel, to be weak. But Elrond wasn't weak, and he wouldn't risk so many lives. He didn't even believe that Adar would keep Galadriel or him alive if he got what he wanted.

“If that is to be the way of things, I should like to bid her farewell.”

Adar watched Elrond, pondering his words, looking for the deception behind them. But not even Adar could understand Elrond's attitude, the genuine concern. He still hadn't agreed, until his Uruk confirmed that Elrond was unarmed.

Taking advantage of the truce, Elrond moved away from Adar, hoping that the Uruk would leave Galadriel free. And he did, keeping his sword away from her as Elrond approached.

After so many centuries together, so many sorrows and joys shared, Elrond never thought he would find Galadriel in the hands of the enemy, bound by chains and shackles like a beast. He hated what Adar was doing to her. Was this the end of everything? Defeat? No, Elrond would not accept it.

Elrond walked slowly towards Galadriel, firm and brave, implacable in his gaze, until the last Uruk was gone. Galadriel looked defeated, waiting only for Adar to decide what he would do with them. She sighed, relieved for the first time, looking at Elrond.

“Forgive me.” Elrond whispered in Sindarin. Those words were for Galadriel and her alone. Not for Adar. Not for his children.

Elrond felt the tears pricking at his eyes, the weight of all Adar's words, of everything that had happened recently, falling on his shoulders. He felt so helpless at that moment.

Galadriel, it was the opposite. He was wrong, she wasn't defeated. She looked firmer than ever, stronger and more beautiful than ever.

“Win.” She said.

Elrond would do it, for her, for him, for Celebrimbor, for everyone in Eregion.

Elrond's breath wanted to leave his body, his nervousness wanting to take over after so much calm. He was bluffing, of course. He wouldn't let Galadriel be killed, no matter what she said. But would Adar really trust his bluff?

Elrond's hand reached for Galadriel's face, uncertain. She was delicate to the touch, a contrast to his fierce, warrior spirit. But she was everything at the same time. Maiden. Warrior. Princess. Prisoner. His best friend. Her secret and impossible love. Galadriel's eyes closed briefly as she waited for Elrond's next move.

If this was the last time he would see her, he wanted her to know how he felt, even if they might not survive. Elrond moved closer to Galadriel, letting their lips meet. He would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about what it would be like to kiss Galadriel.

But for Elrond, it wasn't out of mere desire. He loved her, deeply and eternally. And he wanted her to know that he was really sorry, that he was sorry for getting angry with her, for walking away. That he understood what she had done, and that he forgave her and hoped she would forgive him.

What Elrond didn't expect, of course, was that Galadriel would respond to the kiss with the same intensity. Elrond could dwell in that kiss, drowning forever in the sensation of feeling Galadriel's lips against his, of their spirits seeking peace in each other, when they were all that was left of each other.

Elrond didn't want to go away, he didn't want to be away from Galadriel ever again. But Adar couldn't think that he loved her so much, that he would take such risks for her. But, for the Valar, she was addictive to his soul and he felt at home after a long time.

Elrond forced himself to stand back, panting, his heart racing for the battle to come. Galadriel stayed close, still as unable to move away as he was. Her free hand found Elrond's, taking the pin he offered her. His job was done, he had managed to distract Adar, but why couldn't he move away? Why couldn't she move away?

Elrond's hand caressed his face one last time. Galadriel looked at him in surprise, not understanding the overwhelming feelings that were taking hold of her. Unable to cope with all the love and affection that had been trapped in Elrond for so long. Slowly, reluctantly, Elrond's hand moved away from her.

This is loss, my dear.

He didn't look at Adar as he walked away from her, calling for Vorohil. No, he wouldn't let Adar see his feelings in his eyes. Elrond just left. Adar, too surprised, didn't stop the Elves from leaving.

Vorohil followed Elrond, questioning why Elrond felt so confident. The Dwarves would come to his aid, not even Adar could defeat two armies. Vorohil nodded and left.

Elrond took one last look at Adar's camp, wondering if Galadriel had a chance of escaping. He hoped so. He really hoped so. They would meet again and maybe things would be different.

I hope you enjoyed it. Reblogs, comments and likes are always welcome! And please don't copy my work or post it anywhere else.

tag: @valar-did-me-wrong @redrosesandcharmingsouls @queenwholovestoread

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storiesoflilies · 11 months ago

Text

Of Angels and Curses

Synopsis - In a world where Angels and Curses are locked in a never ending war, an unsuspecting seraph becomes entangled with the very thing she is fated to eradicate.

Pairings - Curse!Toji Fushiguro x f!Angel!Reader. Curse!Ryomen Sukuna x Reader. Angel!Satoru Gojo x Reader.

Warnings - Descriptions of violence and injuries, eventual smut. Cannibalism(?) (idk it’s Curses eating each other), violence of war. Toji being a lil spicy ;)

A/N - Apologies for the delays with this one! The edits for Chapter 6 and 7 really took it out of me (if you haven’t re-read them yet, then I highly recommend you do!) Anyways, enjoy this chapter! Ko-Fi.

-•-

Chapter 8

It was frightening how easily Y/N slipped back into the dance of war.

But then again, it was second nature to her; a tune to a song that had been sung for a thousand years. It was etched into her very being, she’d heard the words sung from inside her mother’s womb, felt its resonance the moment she was born, and sung it herself when she descended to Earth from Heaven. No Angel, from the dawn of time, had ever escaped the call of this haunting song.

However, the song had a far different tune in Hell than it did anywhere else.

Battles won on Earth had been marvelous victories, where just a bit more sin had been cleansed from the world. But here in Hell, sin multiplied tenfold, especially after a battle was won. Y/N didn’t know why every victory she won felt like a loss. Perhaps it was the sight of her own soldiers feasting on the corpses of the dead, both enemies and comrades, their greed knowing no bounds as black blood gushed forth to make the ground muddy. Perhaps it was the fact she took no prisoners of war, leaving none alive because the severity of torture they would face would be a waste of her soldiers time. Or perhaps it was the persistent feeling that, despite every victory, the end was nowhere near in sight.

Naoya and Jogo’s soldiers proved relentless, pounding against Geto’s borders without pause.

Again.

And again.

And again…

Y/N hadn’t slept in seven days, and how could she? There was no time, and it was far too dangerous to sleep. She hadn’t seen Geto for nearly a month; any and all correspondence was done via Suda, who never rested either as she relayed messages between all Geto’s different battalions throughout Hell. While her brother fought more offensively, assembling his most savage and strongest Curses to directly attack Jogo and Naoya within their own borders, Y/N was charged with defending their own lands. Their enemies could instantaneously appear in the hundreds – if not, tens of hundreds – across various locations.

For this reason, Sukuna’s ring of teleportation had been particularly invaluable for her defense.

It was eerie, almost as if the King of Hell had somehow predicted the war and their strategies. Y/N had been reluctant to even put the ring on, but as soon as she did, sliding it on the exact same finger as Toji wore his, it had shrunk and hugged to the exact size of her finger. She told herself it was a necessity, as there was no way she would have worn it otherwise. Y/N often wondered what Sukuna thought of all this, if he even cared that his Curses were busy slaughtering each other instead of the seraphim. But this wasn’t the first war of Hell, and she guessed that if he hadn’t intervened previously, then it was unlikely he would care now.

Despite when Geto had claimed, even challenged, that this would be the most bloody and violent war that Hell had ever seen.

Y/N often found herself lost in thoughts of what might have been. Amidst the seemingly endless time loop of a fight, her body moved with pure instinct in the dance of death. She didn’t need to use her mind to fight, and so it often wandered to a future that didn’t exist – one where she had become Gojo’s wife, fighting alongside him against the Curses she now fought beside. That would have been a holy and noble war, enacting God’s justice against those that turned against his light. Sometimes, Y/N glanced at her fellow soldiers, and wondered if she would have been forced to kill them in a world where she remained an Angel. A world where Satoru loved her, and she returned it equally. So strong was her daydream that her old soul almost took over, and time seemed to slow as her blade hovered dangerously close to her own soldier’s neck.

Until its maw opened unnaturally wide, and its razor-sharp teeth buried into an enemy Curse’s head. Y/N pulled back sharply, her mind and soul snapping back place as her body recoiled.

How had she not noticed her foe approach her? She would have been deep within its clutches if not for her fellow Curse, whom she had almost contemplated killing.

She cracked her neck with an audible pop and rotated her wrists, feeling the tension release with each twist, and nodded at the Curse who had saved her. It stared at her expectantly like a lost child, haunting vulnerability in its eyes, pink flesh dangling in shredded ribbons between its stained fangs. In one swift motion, Y/N swung her katanas in her hands, and her companion startled out of their momentary trance, returning to the savage dance of the battle around them.

There was something so beautiful about that moment, but Y/N couldn’t place her finger on it.

She wanted to chase that feeling.

If this war was to be so vicious, then Y/N embrace it all and return it tenfold. She readied her body to dance as her soldiers rallied around, completely surrounding her. The notion might have once frightened her, but not anymore. There was nothing to fear, only death and the beautiful song of war.

And then, hellfire started to rain from the sky.

Jogo…

Now this, is what the end is supposed to look like.

“Y/N!”

Miguel’s familiar voice shouted from a distance, causing Y/N to swiftly turn in its direction. In an instant, he was next to her. “Y/N! Suda has just informed me; Geto has begun the siege on the Zenins!”

Her eyes narrowed. “So Jogo sends his soldiers here. He thinks we cannot fend him off with only half an army.”

She surveyed her own force, rapidly formulating strategies in her mind. It was unclear how many Jogo had sent to the border, but one of the Curses was definitely one of his higher-ups, judging by the hellfire. Y/N doubted Jogo himself had come, not yet anyways. Suddenly, a blast of fire erupted outside her circle as a droplet landed beside them, and a Curse screeched in agony.

“Find Curses to form a barrier above us,” Y/N said urgently, shielding her head as another bout of fire erupted near her. “We cannot defend ourselves with this.”

Miguel nodded, sweat beading on his forehead. “And you? Do you need more soldiers?”

She looked at the Curses surrounding her, their gnashing teeth and pounding legs thumping the ground, as if they were her hellhounds eager to be off their leash. Y/N shook her head. “No, these are all I need. Send more to protect the supply outposts. We cannot afford to lose another.”

Miguel nodded and disappeared, leaving Y/N to take charge. She roughly dragged a Curse from the circle closer to her, then placed a hand gently on its head, as if seeking to make amends. She whispered softly, her voice like a soothing prayer that she found Curses responded well to. "Go and find me the one responsible for the hellfire.”

The Curse blabbered nonsense, its cloven feet stomping into the dirt, before speeding off into the fray, barreling into enemies and swinging them into the air with reckless abandon. Y/N raised her katanas over her head and launched herself against their foes. Her soldiers followed closely behind, swept up in the fervor of her charge. Y/N was the relentless tide crashing against the shoreline, the herald of a catastrophic tsunami that would engulf them all.

It was some time before her hoofed Curse returned, it’s battered and bloodied form charging towards her. With a powerful thrust, it impaled into an enemy Curse that Y/N had suspended high into the air with her katanas. The Curse snarled and spat, but she knew to follow its lead. And through the maze of death and corpses it led her, a twisted beacon amidst the darkness and chaos.

Straight towards Jogo’s second in command.

Hanami.

For a split second, Y/N was gripped by sadness. Why had fate forced them to cross paths? Yet, it seemed inevitable; the two generals of the Kings must be the destined to confront each other. Why did God make such things come to pass? Hanami was innocent, a Curse born from the fear of Gods own nature that he himself had created. What was there truly to fear? Hanami embodied nature’s beauty as much as much as its cruelty. Thorns and vines coiled around Y/N’s soldiers, ruthlessly tearing them apart, but she couldn’t shake the memory of her fever dream. The voice that had condemned her to be scratched into pieces. Was it actually a vision from this very moment? Was Hanami to be the orchestrator of her demise, strumming the strings of her death like a harp?

Y/N thought it was what she deserved, to be killed by God’s nature from which she had turned her back.

Hanami seemed to finally notice her, releasing the soldiers entangled within her thorns and spreading out her arms as if welcoming Y/N home. She wanted to cry; both with homesickness and with the sickly sin she was about to commit. For she had no intention of dying, even if it was what she deserved. Yet, tears slipped from her eyes regardless.

“Why do you cry?”

It was Hanami’s voice in Y/N’s head, and it startled her. All the Curses around them had turned to fight each other, paving a makeshift pathway directly between the two of them.

“Do you cry for yourself? For your mate who shall surely grieve you?”

“No, I cry for you.”

“For me? You don’t know me.”

“And I never will, but I would have liked to.”

“I have been charged with your death, and I will not fail as Mahito did. If you must know me, then know this. I do not hate you, I only seek a world where my nature can thrive. You and your brother stand in the way of that.”

How cruel, God why must you do this to me – to her? She would have been a wonderful Angel.

“We should have been on the same side then, because I don’t hate you either.”

With that, they launched themselves at each other through the garden of thorns and ruby roses. Each step brought forth a flurry of petals, swirling around them like a tempest. Y/N's blades sliced through the flowers and roots, yet Hanami countered her with a strength and speed that seemed to match the blooming growth around them.

They collided in a chaotic tangle of petals and gleaming metal, the air thick with the sickening scent of blood and blossoms. The behemoth Curse’s vines and thorns twisted and writhed, entangling Y/N in a deadly embrace, and the ground beneath them trembled with the force of her strikes against the roots. The air crackled with raw energy, as victory remained shrouded in a misty cloud. Through their bond, Y/N felt Toji’s essence urging her on desperately, and she clenched her jaw in determination.

This would end, one way or the other.

-•-

She trudged through from the portal with a slight limp, dragging the full weight of Hanami’s body behind her.

Y/N hated how this was so undignified for Hanami. She deserved a proper burial, or at least a smiting, but Y/N had no more divine energy to spare for that, and Curses would never bury their enemies. This was the way it had to be done, what was expected of her. The village she had teleported to was one of the largest at the border, serving as Y/N’s base to travel between. As the Curses around her stared, taking in the lifeless body of Jogo’s general, they erupted into frantic joy. Y/N was too tired for it, too saddened by what she had done, to find any enjoyment in hearing chants and cheers of her name in reverence.

Her bones ached, and her eyes felt as dry as sand. Y/N knew she needed to sleep, but she could hardly bring herself to do it. Every time she closed her eyes, she was haunted by that nightmarish red color, and a phantom pain bloomed over her face where Mahito had touched her. To sleep felt like a death sentence now, and it was beyond infuriating that their enemies had stolen her very basic right to rest and sleep.

On top of that, Y/N missed Toji fiercely.

The exhausted part of Y/N wished she had taken him up on his offer, because then she would have been at peace and safe. But the rational part of her would never allow it, standing firmly in her resolve not to run away from this war. But still, Y/N felt as if their bond had shifted to something more… intense. It was as crippling as it was exhilarating.

Suda and Miguel were waiting for her outside an old stone house that once belonged to a local villager, but now served as her own personal quarters. Miguel looked exhausted, but still kept up his cool demeanor in front of Suda, whose eyes widened into saucers as she took in Hanami’s body.

Y/N finally stopped dragging the body and let go, and it thumped loudly as it hit the ground. “Bring her head to my brother,” she instructed, making it clear that she would not be maiming any corpses herself.

Suda grimaced further, lip curling in disgust. “Anything else?”

“Tell him not to worry about us, and to focus on the siege. Just let us know when he needs supplies so we can send a group to transport it quickly.”

Suda nodded and looked at Miguel for support, who began to drag Hanami away from Y/N. With a sigh, Y/N pushed open the door, stumbling through and hoping nobody saw her. Hanami’s thorns had cut through parts of her armor, creating deep welts that throbbed and bled. One of the vines had gripped Y/N’s ankle so tightly that it was a struggle to walk straight. She knew she needed to sleep; it would help heal her wounds, and probably her ankle. But the sheer amount of obsidian blood covering her body, red rose petals clinging to it like feathers in tar, was a reminder that sleep was out of reach.

Y/N knelt at the edge of the bed, clasping her hands together as her knees scraped harshly against the floor. Prayer kept her from falling asleep, and from staying awake, fearing an assassin lurking in the night. And in some strange way, she felt as if God was still listening, even all the way down in the depths of Hell.

“Dear God in Heaven,

I ask that you deliver me from this darkness.

Help me cleanse this sin, and bring forth light an-”

“What are you doing?”

She’d never sprung into action so fast in her life. Her body acted on pure instinct, all speed and rage as she crashed directly into the bulky form of the stranger in her room. It was unnerving, frightening, that Y/N hadn’t heard anything approaching her, especially after swearing to herself that nothing was going to sneak up on her again. Her attacker grunted in surprise, and they wrestled for just a moment until Y/N registered Toji’s bright green eyes and familiar shaggy black locks. She had him pinned to the floor, her forearm pressing deep into his neck, and her dagger delicately close to his temple. He was breathing hard, nostrils flared in alarm, and tense.

“It’s me,” Toji whispered, with just a hint of panic in his eyes. “It’s just me.”

Y/N groaned, her head hanging low as her heart pounded, as if it took great effort for the muscle to pump anymore adrenaline through her veins. “I-uh, sorry.”

He tentatively rubbed her arm, the metal still pressing uncomfortably hard into his neck. “S’ok, you want to let go now?”

She awkwardly rushed to get off of him, and extended her hand for Toji to take. He accepted it and pulled himself up, his intense gaze weighing and sizing her up.

“When’s the last time you slept?” he asked gently, still hesitant, as if she was going to attack him for the slightest thing.

“Tch! It doesn’t matter,” Y/N muttered, moving over to the edge of the bed and sitting in a slump.

“It matters,” Toji started, and she could feel the beginning of a lecture coming on. “When you can’t even hear someone approach you. Why don’t you just sleep?”

“You know why. Just leave it.”

He moved over towards her, sitting beside her, his spread knees touching hers. “You still pray,” he stated, more of an observation than a question.

“Yes,” Y/N replied, the exhaustion creeping back into her voice as the adrenaline left her body. “It helps. It keeps me awake and stops me from thinking.”

“About?”

Flashes of pain.

Burning blood and bones.

Foggy visions of something seen long ago, but never to be remembered.

Y/N cracked her neck suddenly, feeling her bones crunching. “Mahito, I suppose. And Geto fighting so far away.” Toji hummed, and she suddenly felt quite nervous. “You’re not going to… judge me for this, are you?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “For praying?”

“Yes.”

“It’s something you do alone, and if it helps, then why stop? It has nothing to do with me, so I’m not going to judge.”

For some bizarre reason, the anxiety and tension she had been holding in her chest dissipated, and Y/N sniffed as she wiped her nose.

“Thank you,” Y/N whispered, voice cracking.

Toji looked at her strangely and said in a low rumble. “There’s no need for that. I told you before that I don’t care about Fallen or Angel customs.” He looked away shyly and added, “I just want you to be well.”

She blew out a deep breath and slumped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I will be when this war is over.”

He slowly joined her, their shoulders and knees touching. “And how’s it going? I heard Geto has started a siege on my old home.”

“Oh, yes he has. Mei-Mei?”

“Her crows are everywhere.”

“Even here?”

“Especially here.”

“If you want to see me, then you should just do that. No need to spy, Toji.”

“I’m not spying, just… keeping an eye on you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

Toji looked over and gave her a pointed look. “Of course I do.” He looked back at the ceiling and huffed quietly. “Stupid thing to say.”

Y/N snorted, perhaps due to her exhaustion, but also partly due to a giddy nervous part of her soul that came out when Toji was around. She couldn’t help herself, and erupted into a fit of giggles. He looked over at her in amusement, and chuckled lowly along with her. They eventually settled into a comfortable silence, with her head slightly tilted towards Toji’s. Suddenly, he took her hand in his, observing her bloodstained nails and thorn cuts.

Displeasure…

“I killed Hanami,” Y/N confessed, as if bursting forth a deep secret she couldn’t withhold anymore.

Toji nodded, his fingers tracing the lines of her hands. “Good. It will take Jogo some time to re-organize his forces.”

She hummed, quiet tears spilling from her eyes onto her cheeks. “I suppose so, yes.”

He looked at her with concern deep in his emerald orbs, and gripped her hand tighter. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, I just… really didn’t want to kill her.”

“Why’s that?”

Y/N didn’t really know herself, and so it took her some time before she could finally come up with somewhat of an answer. “She was part of nature. It felt like killing an Angel.”

Toji was moving each of her fingers back and forth. “Hanami was no seraph. You should have heard the things she’s done to Angels.”

“I’m sure it’s not much different to what Angels have done to us.”

“Do you not think you could do it, then? If you ascended and came across a seraph.”

No.

Y/N didn’t need to say it aloud; Toji knew her answer from her soul speaking volumes through the bond. They lay together in hushed stillness, interrupted only by Toji curling her fingers into a closed fist. His hand covered hers, offering silent reassurance.

“You need to sleep,” he finally said gently.

“I know, but I can’t.”

“I’ll stay with you, then.”

“Won’t you get tired?”

“Pft! No.”

“Toji, are you sure?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty head about it. Just sleep, nothin’ll get past me.”

Y/N smiled softly at him, and moved up higher onto the bed, not caring about dirtying the sheets with the stains of battle. Toji stood and pulled over a chair closer to the bed, spreading his legs out and crossing his arms. The flickering candlelight cast a shadow on his chiseled features, adding to his alluring enigma, and she wanted to keep discovering everything about him. His gaze darkened, and she knew that he could sense her desire trickling into the bond like a gentle rain.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Y/N huffed, burying her face into her pillow.

“Like what? I’m supposed to be watching you.”

“Yeah, but not like that.”

“What do you want me to do, stare at the ceiling?”

“No…”

Y/N heard the chair scrape even closer to the bed, and she peeked out from the pillow to see Toji resting his upper body on the bed while still remaining seated on the chair. He nestled his head on his crossed arms, alarmingly close to her face, and closed his eyes.

“Better?” he quipped.

“Mhm.”

“Good, now sleep.”

-•-

Toji’s hair was the first thing Y/N saw when she woke.

The top of his head was directly in front of her, black curtains spilling onto the bed. His arm extended out, as reaching out to try and touch her. He seemed like he was asleep, but Y/N knew he probably wasn’t. This was the most peaceful she had ever seen Toji look, and she would be lying if she said she didn’t find him alluring. She reached over and softly stroked his hair, and Toji groaned softly.

“You slept well,” he grunted, pushing his head closer to her and leaning into her touch.

Y/N hummed, twirling strands of his hair between her fingers. He moved his head, resting his chin on his arms, green eyes trained watching her toy with his hair.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“You’re beautiful,” Toji remarked, a smirk playing on his lips. She smiled widely, humming again, but more shyly. He took her hand that was playing with his hair and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, igniting a wildfire deep within her.

More…

His green eyes blazed with emerald flames, and he pressed featherlight kisses along each of her fingers. Her breath hitched; nothing else in the world felt real anymore, except the sensation of his lips on her skin.

One.

Two.

“Did you dream of anything?” Toji rumbled, rubbing his cheek into Y/N’s fingers.

Three, four…

She shook her head, looking at him with eyes wide and pupils blown. “No, nothing at all.”

Five.

He moved to her other hand, and Y/N wondered just how far she would let him take her.

One, two.

“So, you want me to stay with you every night?”

Three.

“You couldn’t do that.”

“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you wanted me to.”

Four.

“Of course I do, bu-.”

“Shh! Then that’s what I’ll do.”

Five.

His hands enveloped hers, rubbing them tenderly.

“Toji!”

“What?”

“Toji, you can’t do this every night! And I don’t expect you to either.”

“Y/N, if it means you’re safe and sleeping well, then I’ll do it.”

“But your people need you more than I do.”

“Fucks s-, why won’t you let me help? You won’t stay with me, so why can’t I stay with you?”

Y/N cupped Toji’s face, her thumb stroking his cheek. She craved him; he made her pliable, like clay in a sculptors hands. In that moment, she wanted to give him everything he wanted. There was nobody else more willing to help her pass the time in the night. Who else could say they could fight off her nightmares with his bare hands? Toji was made of smoke and steel, breaking through and sliding between every crack and crevice inside her.

“I want you to, but we can’t indulge this,” she whispered, her tingling lips almost unable to speak. “Not now, not until the war is over.”

Toji groaned with exasperation and fell silent. Y/N could feel him thinking hard, and she indulged in his distraction, exploring his face with the pads of her fingers. She traced his furrowed brows, smoothing them out, moving on to the strong bridge of his nose and his smoky lashes.

“What’s the point of praying?” Toji asked suddenly. “How do you know God even listens?

Y/N’s finger froze, just as she was about to trace the scar on his lip. “It’s just what faith is. There’s something that happens when you pray. You can feel God’s presence watching and listening.”

“So, you can still feel it? Even here?”

“Not anymore, but I think he’s still able to listen. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious, I like to know how you think. I want to know what you expect from me, because I don’t really understand your… customs.”

Toji stood up, almost reluctantly, and Y/N’s inner voice cried out as he untangled their souls from their intimate moment. “Where are you going?” she whispered, urgency lacing her words.

“I’ll be back here tonight. Wait for me,” he replied, stroking her cheek before disappearing.

Later that night, true to his word, Toji was there waiting for Y/N, but he wasn’t alone. He was with a with a girl, her shaggy cropped hair framing her face, with a thousand and one angry scars crisscrossing every bit of her skin. There was an undeniable connection between her and Toji; their auras mirrored each other, as if they were cut from the same cloth, made of the same blood and flesh.

Y/N hesitated slightly but approached them nonetheless, regaining an air of authority as she walked. Today’s battle had gone awry; Jogo’s soldiers had overwhelmed them completely at a supply outpost. It took both Miguel and Larue to drag her away from the fight, so strong was her desperation to defend their resources. Now, she was left drained and filled with dread, knowing that Geto’s army, as well as her own, had lost even more supplies for their war.

I’m sorry, brother. I will do better.

Concern…

Y/N shook her head at Toji, hoping he understood that now was not the time or place to discuss her feelings. He frowned, seemingly conceding, and introduced the girl beside him. “Y/N, this is Maki Zenin.”

She raised an eyebrow at Maki, though not entirely surprised at the revelation of her relation to Toji. “Zenin?”

“Not anymore,” the girl interjected, her tone a touch sour. “Just call me Maki.”

“I see,” Y/N replied flatly, unimpressed with Maki’s tone, and turned her gaze back to Toji. “And why exactly is Maki here?”

“She left the Zenins and joined my court,” Toji answered, looking at Maki with reserved interest. “But I think she would be able to help you win this war.”

“Is that so?” Y/N sized Maki up, assessing her from head to toe. “Why did you leave the Zenins?”

Maki’s demeanor seemed to shatter and harden instantaneously, her voice strained as she muttered through gritted teeth. “They murdered my sister.”

“And you want to join us because you want revenge? This war isn’t your emotional playground.”

“It’s not, no. And I don’t want to join Geto, just you. Fushiguro is the only family I have left, family that I’ve chosen, and you’re his mate. That makes you my family too, and no more of my family is going to be murdered.”

Y/N’s resolve softened, and she glanced at Toji, who regarded Maki with just a slight hint of pride. He turned to her, and said lowly. “She’s not like them. I trust her to fight alongside you and watch over you when I can’t.”

She clicked her tongue in thought and nodded. What was there really to lose? If Toji trusted her, then Y/N would too. “Fine then, Maki. You can join us.”

Relief…

“Maki, give us a moment,” Toji said, and the girl nodded before walking off into the hustle of the barracks.

“You didn’t think I’d let her stay?” Y/N questioned, her gaze following Maki as she was stopped by Larue, who immediately seemed to be trying to provoke her.

He sighed and stood beside her. “I didn’t think you’d let just anybody get that close to you.”

Y/N hummed. “She doesn’t seem like just anyone if you let her stay with you.”

Toji’s eyes darkened, and he muttered. “I know how it feels to be chewed and spat back out by that family.”

Larue poked Maki’s scarred arm, and she swiftly had him pinned to the ground in a headlock. A group of Curses gathered round, egging on the confrontation, their appetite for violence and bloodshed insatiable. This was the brutal hierarchy of their world, where strength was the only clear language understood. Maki could either overcome it, or crumble. Y/N expected her to survive, otherwise Toji’s plan would have failed before it even began.

“She’s fast,” she commented, and Toji nodded.

“Maki’s like me, nearly fights exactly the same. Through her, I may as well be fighting this war with you.” He nudged her gently, his gaze softening. “What happened today?”

Y/N sighed, pinching her nose. “We don’t have the numbers to defend ourselves and our supplies. We’ve lost too many resources already, and Geto needs all the help he can get to wage out the siege.”

She knew that Toji wasn’t going to offer aid. Doing so would risk openly aligning his kingdom with theirs, and subjecting his people to the wrath of two layers. It would plunge nearly all of Hell into chaos, and subject his people to the same suffering that Geto faced.

Nearly all of Hell.

But not all…

“What will you do, then?”

As Maki brought her clenched fist straight into Larue’s throat, the beginning of an idea started to form in Y/N’s head. Toji chuckled beside her, the ghost of his hand next to hers, as he watched his younger cousin establish her dominance. Though he may not have realized it yet, by bringing her to Y/N, Maki’s willingness to switch allegiance opened up new possibilities.

“I think I might go and visit someone.”

-•-

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