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wheretheharekissesthefox · 4 months ago

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Lavender & Starflower (Mobster AU) – Chapter 19

The Dekarios Clan reigns over Waterdeep as the city’s protector for centuries. Suddenly, the Clan gets challenged by Cazador, the head of the Szarr Clan that rules over Baldur’s Gate. Of course, such an attack won’t be tolerated and the intruder must be forced back and out of the City of Splendors. While fixing destroyed protection sigils, Gale, wizard prodigy and heir of the Dekarios Clan, meets a charming stranger called Astarion. And Gale makes the biggest mistake of his life; he invites the pale elf into his home.

I was inspired to start writing this fic when I saw this artwork by @arczism

This is obviously an AU that isn't related to my other work.

The dungeon was cold, damp and dimly lit, but Dalyria wasn't bothered much. What did bother her though was the uncertainty of her situation. Morena had promised them to return with an offer and hinted to bring Astarion along. Dalyria worried. She couldn't trust the head of the Dekarios Clan. Influential, wealthy people never play fair. Never keep their side of the bargain – or their promises. Cazador was the prime example for this. Feeling uneasy, the white-haired elf woman paced the small magical cell she was stuck in with her idiot 'brother'.

"Master will set things right," Petras said for the umpteenth time. Dalyria had no energy left to roll her eyes, way too absorbed in her own anxious thoughts.

Finally, there were the jingle of a key and footsteps. The vampire spawns turned towards the door, Dalyria anxiously and Petras annoyed. In strode Morena, followed by her son and –

"Astarion! Thank the Gods, you're alive!" cried Dalyria. For a moment, she forgot about her invisible prison and leapt forwards with outstretched arms to embrace the other elf. When she collided with the magic barrier, she got flung backwards, and she yelped as the electricity zapped through her body.

"Apologies," said Morena, not sounding apologetic at all. Gale, on the other hand, seemed truly concerned about Dalyria's wellbeing.

"Avoid coming into contact with the circle on the floor," he whispered when Astarion stepped forwards carefully. The latter gave a curt nod.

"Are you alright, Daly?" Astarion asked.

"I'll live," she groaned, then paused before adding jokingly: "Well... you know what I mean."

The addressed chuckled a bit, feeling less tense.

"Our Master will make you pay for this!" groused Petras angrily, but Morena made a gesture of refusal, unfazed.

"Well then, as per usual, I kept my word. Astarion's here, sound and safe. Now, what about you two, hm? How will you decide for your future?"

"I want to live," Dalyria blurted out immediately. "I want a second chance, I deserve it. Master took everything from me; my life, my freedom, my brilliant mind. No matter if undead or alive, I'm still a doctor, and I still want to find a cure for vampirism. I was so close once, so close to freedom too, but Master thwarted my attempt and punished me for my deviance. I got locked into a coffin for twelve months and afterwards.... Well, let's just say the punishment wasn't over then." Dalyria glared at the memory, then, she locked eyes with the head of the Dekarios Clan. "I deserve better. We all deserve better. – If you succeed in killing our master, I'll do whatever you ask me to, Morena, because I wish to be free from that monster. Anything's better than being under his thumb."

At that, Petras furrowed his brows and intervened: "But Master's good to us! He only punishes the ones who defy him!"

"Just because you're too stupid to ever think for yourself and follow every order, doesn't make Cazador's punishments less atrocious!" hissed Astarion.

"It's your fault you never listen to Master!" yelled Petras back angrily. At that, Astarion barked a hysterical laugh.

"Fuck you, Petras, you know nothing! I was his long before you were even born! Oh, and I tried everything to please him, to keep him from hurting me, but no matter what I did, Cazador was never satisfied." Astarion inhaled sharply, clenching his teeth. "You have no idea of the horrors I had to endure. Of the lengths I went to keep him happy. You have no idea how much blood and tears I shed and how many times I died over and over again for him, because of him. Don't lecture me, little brother, you're a spawn for merely eighty years. That's barely a lifetime. A human lifetime! So, you better keep your mouth shut if you want to stay alive."

Petras glared at him, but had enough self-preservation instinct to stay quiet. Morena used the silence to chime in.

"What's your plan for when Cazador's dead? What will you do?"

"I..." Dalyria hesitated. "I don't know. It's been decades since I last had a choice."

"I know what you mean," Astarion said quietly. "'You can do whatever you want' sounds terrifying after all these years, doesn't it? And it is, but there's opportunity in it, too. You can keep living in the shadows like parasites, or you can be more than what he made us to be. You can choose differently, of course, but the consequences are on your head."

"Master won't let this fly. I'll punish you when he finds out!" Petras butted it.

"Shut up!" Astarion and Dalyria snapped in unison. Then, the latter added, much softer: "I don't know what I'll do yet, but I'm determined to find a cure for vampirism. I'm convinced there's one."

"Hmm... that might come in handy," mused Morena. "How about you lend us that brilliant mind of yours. I'd be delighted to offer you to work in our laboratory."

"'Delighted', sure," muttered Dalyria, eying the intimidating leader of the Dekarios Clan doubtfully. After a brief pause, she added: "I gladly take your offer."

"Wonderful," smiled Morena. "Now, that this is settled, I'll release you from the circle. We're well aware of Cazador's power over his spawns, thus, I've organised these." She held up a hand, two leather collars dangling from it. "Sussur flower induced. It'll nullify his orders and allow you to make your own decisions. – What are your orders right now?"

"To go back to him," Dalyria answered without hesitation.

Morena hummed non-committally and released her magical holding cell. Immediately, Petras pounced, but Gale was prepared. The vampire spawn screamed as he was hit by the Sunlight spell, burned, and crumbled to a pile of ash. Astarion shuddered at the demonstration of power that his lover held. He never wanted to be on the receiving end of it. Gale could burn him to a crisp in an instant. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard a metallic jingle and he looked over to witness how Morena fastened a collar around Dalyria's dainty neck. As soon as the soft leather settled on her pale skin, the latter let out a sigh of relief. Astarion knew how his sister felt. It was a novelty to be able to resist Cazador's orders after decades of being forced bodily to do as he'd told.

"It feels nice, doesn't it?"

"Yes," smiled Dalyria. "It's like I can breathe again for the first time in years. It feels... peaceful."

Astarion nodded agreeingly.

"We'll attack Cazador tonight," informed Morena the newly collared vampire spawn. "I want you to stay out of it. It'll be a shame to lose a brilliant mind to a miscalculated beam of sunlight or magic missile."

"That's fine with me," Dalyria agreed, "but I wish to see Mast– Cazador once he's truly dead. I need to see it for myself – and I wish to spit on his bloody corpse!"

At that, Astarion laughed gleefully.

"That can be arranged," said Morena with a smirk.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #fanfic #lavender and starflower #mobster au #astarion x gale #astarion #astarion ancunin #gale #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #dalyria #mobster monday

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larvasmoon · 10 months ago

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Portrait of the pale elf (4) - Three of swords

Chapter summary : Astarion receives an unexpected letter which shatters all his dreams and hopes.

Word count : 6,1k

Trigger Warnings : Death. Grief. Mentions of past abuse. Physical violence.

Author's Note : Welcome to this new installment, this time I'm back with an Astarion's POV. It's very angsty in every way, our favorite local vampire is having a bit of a hard time …

Thank you so much if you've read every chapter so far, it means the world to me :') !

I can also only recommend you to listen to " Bloodstream" by Stateless while reading this chapter, I love this song so much.

As always, here's my AO3 darling

Astarion was startled out of his trance. Disoriented and nauseous, he instinctively reached for Tav’s skin, but was only met with her cold pillow and the crumpled fabric of her bedroll.

His other hand rested on his sheathed dagger, still tightly strapped to his thigh.

A dreadful and terrifying moan echoed in the distance, a voice that was both one and many, young and old.

The cry of agony of an elderly man in his bed. The wailings of many dying newborns. The shrieks of terror of the ones you love.

He sprung to his feet, his hands shaking when they violently tore the flaps of Tav’s tent open.

Outside, the fire and the torches were out, plunging the camp in the Underdark’s unsettling obscurity. His companions had gotten out of their bed as quickly as him, restless and ready to strike.

“What’s happening ?”, he anxiously muttered, desperately hoping to find her among the others, or successfully battling some atrocious creature dwelling in this living hell.

But there was no fight to resume, no Tav to rescue, just the eerie silence of a camp deserted by its guardian.

Astarion stood there, chest heaving with breath he had no need to take, his claret eyes searching for any trace of her in the dark.

“It was Tav’s turn to keep watch”, alarmingly whispered Shadowheart, already moving silently in the shadows, “but there’s no trace of her.”

Gale adjusted his robes and crouched down, to look closely at the ground near the extinguished fire. “By the looks of it, she must’ve welcomed some uninvited guests. And if this cry we just heard was any indication, I’d bet on a cloaker. It must’ve taken her by surprise, and flown away with her. It has a very peculiar shriek you see-”

Astarion knew what Gale had seen there without having to look.

Droplets of blood. Tav’s blood.

The strong scent of her drifted in the air, and a nauseating mixture of hunger and terror blinded his senses for a moment.

“Save your lesson on the Underdark’s flora and fauna for another time, Gale”, Shadowheart sighed, nervously pacing around the tents to look for some kind of clue, “We have no time to lose, we must find her. Quickly.”

“Chk'' said Lae’zel, emerging from another dark corner of the camp with what looked like a piece of Tav’s cloak in her hand, “You also are all talk and no action cleric ! Has the tadpole ravaged your senses yet, what are we waiting for ? To find her mangled corpse ?”

“ It’s called “being cautious”, but not that you would know anything about it, Lae’zel”

As soon as he saw the torn and bloody piece of garment in the gith’s hand, Astarion saw red and raced out of camp.

“Damn all of you and your stupid ponderings !” he spat as he ran down the dark and winding path.

All consuming worry and rage clouded his judgment, compelling him to venture all alone in such a hostile environment. Something had taken her away from him, and he’d take her back, no matter the cost. Hues of blue and purple shimmered in the distance, wide yellow eyes glaring at him from the crevices of the stony caves, each shadow the promise of a lurking presence.

He moved fast, forgetting to be careful about the torchstalks, too focused on following the trail of her scent. He shifted and jumped like a predator stalking its prey : his fanged bared in the cold air, his red eyes focused on the starless and moonless obscurity.

“Mine”, “She’s mine” some darker and primal part of his mind chanted, like a dog that has been robbed of its favorite bone.

After a little while, Astarion smelt the familiar tang of her magic, the lingering vibrations of it in the damp atmosphere, and he ran faster. Jumping from one mushroom to another, to finally land on a small plane of rock.

And then he heard her. Reciting a litany of spells with a strained voice.

She was standing amidst a field of glow cap mushrooms, her left arm hanging limply by her side. Blood dripped and trickled from the indents left in her torn flesh by the teeth of a large beast. Down her legs, her breeches were torn, revealing deep puncture wounds, oozing with more blood that was slowly pooling at her feet.

She lifted her gaze for a second as if she’d heard him land there, but her glazed over eyes didn’t linger on him, frantically looking around, as if she was too confused to clearly see her surroundings. Her breaths were short, strangled, and to Astarion she looked as though she’d spent the last minutes fighting for her life, and was about to crumble to the ground.

“She’s fine, she’s here, I can still make this right”, he reassured himself, unsheathing his daggers with clammy hands.

He silently circled her, hidden behind small walls of rocks. There was a newfound urgency now in his silent steps, in the way he was trying to spot the monster before it spotted him. If the wizard was right, and if it really was a cloaker, Astarion knew he had no time to spare.

He’d read about the creature once, in one of the old books he liked to flick through at night, when all the camp was deep in slumber and he had nothing to do but stave off boredom. Fortunately, he’d been interested enough by the creature to remember all the intricacies of its vicious tactics, and all of its weaknesses.

That’s exactly why he knew the monster would inevitably come back to claim its price, and this time it’d try to attach itself to her.

Astarion needed to take her out of here before that happened.

Suddenly, a dark shadow loomed over Tav, plummeting from some higher place in the cave, and the vampire desperately plunged to grab her.

But not fast enough.

The cloaker was a dreadful thing, with a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, large wings of black and flappy skin, and piercing scarlet eyes. It dropped on her, heavy and merciless, and ensnared her in its fins once again. Astarion saw her fingers move, as she attempted to cast ‘magic missile’ or ‘fireball’ but failed abysmally, too stunned to conjure anything. She struggled and wailed when she realized what kind of predicament she was in.

The vampire’s body moved on its own, surging towards the monster with his daggers in the air.

He tried to stab it in the back, to tear his way through its skin, to shred it to pieces until he’d reached her curled up form. He plunged its fangs in its back, his stomach churning at the taste of the rancid and gooey cloaker’s blood.

But its tail swept him off his feet, and hundreds of the sharp spades that adorned it tore through the skin of his abdomen, when it came back down to brutally pin him to the ground.

Astarion heard her scream again in the distance, full of pain and desperation, and the smell of her blood grew stronger. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the aberration trying to bite her face, and Tav fiercely wrestling on the ground with it.

The anguish he felt at that moment reminded him of the darkest moments of his existence, when all had seemed so lost and hopeless, that he’d stopped fighting at all.

When he’d been beaten to death by the Gurs.

When his master carved a “poem” in the skin of his back.

When he’d been forced to stay still and endure the bites and assaults of Cazador’s body, night after night.

But this time, he wasn’t fighting for himself, he was fighting for her.

For Tav’s life.

And for her, he’d fight with everything he had, teeth and all, until there was nothing left of him.

His enraged scream tore through the cave’s silence, as he stirred violently in the monster’s grip, each and every of his muscles painfully straining.

Behind him, his companions finally arrived. Late to the party.

By the time they’d managed to understand the scene that was unfolding in front of them, the cloaker had already successfully attached itself to Tav’s head.

Shadowheart’s blood drained from her face and she went as white as a sheet. “Don’t cast any destructive spell” she quickly instructed Gale, “Tav will get hurt too !”

“But we don’t have much time, she will suffocate and die at this rate !” the wizard shouted, his eyes darting to each of his companions.

Astarion groaned in the dirt, still struggling to free himself from under the cloaker’s tail.

“Just cast any spell that makes some light, goddamnit ! It hates light !” he desperately yelled, impaling his own fingers on the sharp edges of the tail to try and tear it away from his body.

Lae’zel came into view, springing at his feet with her long sword in her hands, and aimed to cut the tail off.

But even the skilled githyanki warrior missed. This time, she was the one to be swept off her feet and slashed by those nightmarish spades, before it came back down to torment Astarion. ““Hta'zith monster ! This will be your last outrage !”

Karlach used her heavy crossbow and shot an arrow in the neck of the cloaker, it screamed once again, but tightened its jaws around Tav’s throat. Her feet trembled and kicked next to Astarion’s head, and she helplessly yelped from inside the monster’s mouth. “Shit, hold on soldier ! We’re getting you out of here !”

Wyll rejoined Lae’zel, sword in hand, and was desperately trying to find a way to get to the monster without hurting Tav.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Shadowheart managed to cast “Daylight” on her sword, and strode closer to the monster. It effectively blinded it, the creature recoiling and screeching so loud it seemed to echo in the entirety of the Underdark.

The cloaker finally let go of Tav, and her head unceremoniously fell with a thud in the soil, covered in spit and other disgusting fluids.

The cleric’s sword shone with the light of a thousand suns and she brandished it in the air, gaining momentum, before striking the monster down. In one swift and strong motion, she swiftly cut its head off. It rolled at her feet with a gurgle sound, and the rest of the monster’s body twitched around Tav, the severed neck spraying her hair and face with a rain of inky and thick monster’s blood.

Its wings still covered her, like a leather cloak, when the entire party gathered around her.

Astarion was already cradling her limp body in his arms, and pushing her sticky hair out of her face with trembling hands.

“Look at me, darling. Come on, open your eyes.” His voice was shaky, a throaty murmur even to his own ears.

The vampire knew death better than anyone. It was both an old friend and an enemy, a thief and a savior. He’d died, he’d killed and he’d seen his master kill and massacre so many innocent souls in the damp crypts or in the luxurious sitting rooms of the Szaar estate. It had been part of him and his world for as far as he could remember.

“You can’t die, damn you ! Wake up!” he whimpered, softly shaking her lifeless body before burying his face in the crook of her neck.

One look was all it took for him to know if someone had already received its icy kiss.

Tav’s lips were slowly turning purple, her cheeks were pale and cold like his own hands, and her chest was still and silent under her torn and bloody shirt.

She already belonged to the angel of death, she’d been stolen from him, ripped from his arms.

Astarion knew that she wouldn’t open her eyes, even without having Shadowheart or Halsin examine her.

Tav was dead. As dead as he’d once been when he was buried in the soil of Baldur’s Gate.

An image of her in a casket, resting in a bed of beautiful white flowers, flashed before his eyes. Beside her, was an already dug hole, in which she would rest forever, in the cold and wet soil of the cemetery.

Far for him. Far from his touch.

Shadowheart’s hand softly grabbed Tav’s wrist, checking for any sign of life.

And he raised his head, growling deep like a snarling beast, baring his fangs in the bioluminescent mushrooms’ light. “Don’t touch her !”

“We need to take her back to Withers, mate. So he can revive her.” Karlach softly said, crouching beside the vampire with the sympathetic look of a mother looking down at her inconsolable child.

“It’s all your fault ! Because you were so slow to get here, and even slower to cast that damn daylight spell !”, he fulminated, staring daggers at the cleric, and wrapping Tav into his stained doublet to carry her back to camp.

“At least, I did kill it in the end, didn’t I ? I’m not sure you would have done as much, Astarion” she bit back, already turning her back on him and starting the walk back to their camp.

The rest of the hike was silent, Tav’s cold body swaying against his chest with each of his steps. Karlach stayed close to him, the warmth of her engine engulfing his body like a comforting blanket.

Withers was already waiting for them when they arrived, and Astarion carefully laid her body down on a bedroll, near the fire that Shadowheart had just lit again. He kneeled at her side, hollow and still terrified.

Terrified that she’d almost died, and terrified that it had mattered so much to him whether she lived or not. He’d once thought that he was incapable of love, that this part of him had died with him, two hundred years ago.

And yet, as he gazed down at her face, he realized with awe and horror that he’d been wrong.

Tav had the face he would’ve given to love, if he had had to imagine it. He’d unknowingly been looking for those beautiful features in every dark and wretched corner of Baldur’s Gate.

And now, she held her fate in his hands, in more ways than one.

The familiar words solemnly echoed in the silence, Withers standing above her dead body with his bony hands in the air.

“Rise”

Her body glowed, suspended above the ground, pulsating with the undead’s uncanny magic.

“By doom and by dusk, I strike thy name from the archives.”

She faintly moaned, a sound akin to the cry of a newborn taking its first breath.

“Rise.”

Astarion opened his eyes to stare at the canopy of his wide bed, and at the ripples of red velvet cascading down from it. A single ray of light filtered through the closed shutters, illuminating the little cushion of blue satin on which his cat, Blanche, was resting.

There was a dull pain in his chest, and a single tear fell down his cheek when he blinked.

He hadn’t dreamt of Tav in a little while, but every time he did, it felt like a stake through the heart. Raking his pale fingers through his hair, he rested his back on the headboard and took a few deep breaths.

Blanche jumped on the rumpled sheets of his bed, and softly climbed up his naked chest to lick his face and give him little love bites. The bell on her collar rang with each of her graceful movements, and the vampire moved to cradle her purring form on his naked chest.

“Well hello to you too, sweet thing.”

The kitten liked to keep him company when he had no other choice but to draw each and every curtain at dawn, and hide from the sun, like the wretched creature that he’d turned back into. She’d become his only companion in those cruel moments, since the day he’d taken her in. Everything from her soft purring to the warmth of her small body, was like a lifeline he desperately clung to.

“How miserable” he sadly laughed, granting the little creature a few scratches under her chin, “I truly am a lost cause, aren’t I ?”

She looked up at him, her wide eyes the color of the sky on a nice summer’s day, a cloudless blue that he’d never see ever again except in her eyes. There was a silent understanding in the two crystal beads she had in place of her eyes, a quiet sympathy for the suffering of a crestfallen man.

Astarion had to open Carmine Red earlier than usual, to welcome a few noble clients, probably looking for a dress or a doublet for the upcoming ball season.

And so he’d washed his face in a cold basin of water, opening to wash away a bit of the lingering sadness he still felt.

He’d put on a sumptuous red silk shirt and embroidered waistcoat on top, his tailor's chatelaine's chain resting beautifully against the large bow of his collar.

The vampire was about to head out, petting Blanche a few times on the threshold of the manor, when he noticed something unusual.

A white envelope with a cerulean blue wax seal, delicately resting against one of the flower pots of his porch.

“For Astarion Ancunín”

The intricate calligraphy immediately caught his eyes.

It had taken him back to the endless nights spent under the starry skies of Faerûn, reminding him of the way Tav would always insist on writing the events of the day in her journal before going to bed in his tent.

“Just a second, Astarion. I’m almost done, I only have one more thing to write down.”

“What is it, darling ? I hope there’s at least one line in there about the way I looked exceptionally beautiful today, drenched in our enemies’ blood.”

His fingers trembled around the paper, before tracing each of the letters and following the inky lines she’d traced with her quill.

Then, he’d sat down in the small entry of his home for a long time, overcome by a wave of ambiguous emotions. To him, it felt like finding by accident, in some neglected cabinet or cupboard, the forgotten belongings of someone who’d long been gone.

The ghosts of his past were unseizable shadows, bodies of ashes and dust, that he could only kill or embrace in dream. The Tav he kept seeing during his trance, was no different. An illusion. A mere reflection in the smoke and mirrors of his mind.

And yet here he was, holding a token of her existence in his hands, touching something she’d touched. His name was beautifully written on its back, like a dangerous spell that might as well bound them together once more.

If he ever dared to be hopeful.

But then, a small voice in his head, had bitterly said, “ If I’ve received this, it can only mean that she has always known where to find me… All those years… But she never did.”

He cut the seal open, strangely holding his breath all the while.

As expected, there was no letter inside, no heartfelt confession of love or expression of her regrets.

What he was holding in his hands, however, was beyond anything he could’ve possibly imagined.

A wedding invitation.

Tavila Amakiir and Glynfin Ravenfall

Invite you to celebrate their union,

30 Kythorn, High forest, in the Tall Trees.

Astarion laughed at first, a loud and forced cackle, ridiculously echoing through the empty corridors and luxurious rooms of his manor. He wheezed, bent over the waxed floor, looking at the invitation again from time to time, only to cry with laughter once more.

“Ravenfall ? What kind of name is that ?” he huffed, wiping his wet eyes with the back of his hands, to glance at the golden lettering of the invitation card.

“Mrs Ravenfall ? Tavila Ravenfall ?” he mimicked with a goofy voice, sending himself into another fit of intense laughter, “How tasteless.”

Since he had retraced his steps and closed the door once more, Blanche had been perched up on the living room’s chest of drawers. She sat still, staring down at her master, beady-eyed and worried.

After a few more minutes of extravagant chortling, the vampire got silent once more.

Gaze lost on the floor beneath his feet, the unfolded invitation resting on his lap.

When he suddenly got up on his feet, the cat flinched, recoiling slighting on top of the furniture.

Astarion slowly walked to one of the tall windows, looking at the white disc of the full moon suspended in the dark of the sky, lost in thoughts.

I wouldn’t even be able to come to that pitiful wedding of yours, even if I wanted to.

I, who’s prison is the night, and who’s cruel jailers are the celestial bodies.

And you have left me here to rot, in the cold, in the dark, without the light of the sun and the warmth of your embrace.

He pictured her, in a long white dress of the shiniest silk, shimmering each time it rippled and glided on the elegant curves of her body. Her long and graceful hands would barely emerge from the wide sleeves to hold a bouquet of woodland wildflowers.

Wood anemones or blue bells maybe, fresh and fragrant, that she would’ve picked only the morning before in a glade.

She would have a few of them in the crowns of braids Shadowheart would’ve adorned her head with, blue and white petals picking through the thick of her hair.

And she would look as beautiful as an angel, treading down the aisle, her feet silently sinking into a bed of woodmoss with each step.

But Astarion wouldn’t be standing at the other end of it, to have her forevermore.

He wouldn’t be there at all.

For what vampire can attend a wedding ceremony on a bright spring’s afternoon ?

He wondered why she’d ever sent an invitation to him in the first place. To torment him ? To ease her conscience ?

Without any warning, he turned around, violently grabbing the vase that decorated the small table beside him, to send it flying across the room. It loudly shattered into a thousand pieces, shards of glass scattered about the pristine living room, crushed and withered red roses limply floating in puddles of water.

Blanche immediately screeched and fled, to curl up in a dark corner of his bedroom, far from him and his unfiltered rage.

“Has this world ever been anything but cruel to me ?” he yelled, brutally pacing around the room like some kind of caged beast.

At some point he walked past the tall mirror he had once placed in the corridor, as a way to remind himself that one day he’d be able to look at himself in it.

“We’ll find a cure, Astarion”, she’d promised the day he’d killed Cazador, right after he’d given up on the thought of ascending, “ I want you to see for yourself, how ridiculously breathtaking you are. I want you to lazily nap in the sun on a hot Flamerule’s day. I want you to eat, laugh, and feel warm. I want you to live again, and you will.”

And he’d believed her.

He’d even hoped to see Tav’s reflection next to his in this very mirror one day.

What a fool.

Stopping in his tracks, the vampire savagely bashed it a few times, the reflective surface cracking a little more with each brutal impact. After a little while, it finally broke and collapsed at his feet.

And then he stood there, his chest heaving and his brows furrowed, droplets of blood trickling down from his busted knuckles and onto the dispersed pieces of mirror.

Astarion’s thoughts had turned into an inaudible chorus of complaints and screams, an endless stream of questions without answers.

Wasn’t I good enough ? Haven’t I given you enough of me ? Or have I given you too much .. so much of myself that you’ve realized how twisted and disgusting I truly am ?

He slowly slid down the wall to sit on the floor, finally feeling hollow and empty.

I wanted you to stay and defy all the odds.

I didn’t want you to be my friend, I wanted you to want me even after I had shown you the ugliest and dirtiest parts of myself.

Astarion wept once again, silently, letting the tears drench his face without wiping them away.

But you didn’t.

The pain he felt in that moment echoed the despair he’d felt that day, in the Underdark, when he had held her dead body.

Tav was no hostage of a murderous beast, and she wasn’t dead, but it felt all the same.

He had spent the last ten years running after her in the dark, endlessly, picking up pieces of himself along the way.

Only to lose her once again.

Astarion spent the rest of that night locked away in his room, sewing a dress for her.

He probably wouldn’t even give it to her, but he had had this urge to sew something.

A dress made of dark tulle, silk and moire, more fitting for a funeral than a wedding.

But to him, it’s exactly what this was : the death of an entire realm of possibilities, the end of hope.

The next nights were a blur, blood thirst and sadness altering his perception of time. He hadn’t opened Carmine Red since last week, and had instead spent most of his nights in this small tavern called The Black Cat’s Delight.

That evening was no different. Astarion had chosen a secluded table, far from the noises and heated discussions of the tavern’s regulars. They kept arguing about the correct way to call a color, or the latest fashionable way to write poetry. All those preoccupations seemed so mundane, so ridiculous, in comparison to his own issues. It made him smile to think that the worst of their problem was whether their chalk was more of a cobalt blue or a persian blue. He much preferred to keep to himself than to engage with those self proclaimed “artists”, reading fashion encyclopedias and sipping on bland red wine in silence.

Astarion hadn’t fed since that night and every muscle and bone in his body was aching with want. His bruised hand was far from being healed, and his fingers felt disarticulated and dislocated each time he turned a page. Under the pale skin of his wrists, his veins looked like dark and intertwined vines.

And yet, he still obstinately refused to feed.

Whether he liked to be distracted from his internal suffering by the pain of hunger, or didn’t feel like remembering the taste of Tav’s blood while biting someone else, he couldn’t really tell.

In some corner of the tavern, someone broke a cup of tea. It loudly crashed on the tile floor and, from the corner of his eyes, he saw Laura appear with a broom.

“I’m so sorry, my hand slipped while I was sketching” said a velvety and hushed voice, “Let me pick up the pie- ouch!”

“Did you cut yourself, Selene ?!” the owner asked, only to disappear for a few minutes and come back with a clean cloth.

An enrapturing and salivating scent suddenly filled the room. Every muscle in Astarion’s body tensed, and he let out a small groan when his jaw involuntarily clenched around nothing.

It was obscene, vulgar even, how enrapturing the smell was to him.

It evoked him strange and sensual visions, colorful and voluptuous images erupting in the darkness of his closed eyes.

Soft and plush lips dripping with honey. A tongue hungrily licking them up.

A naked body lying on a bed of white jasmine flowers, still wet with morning’s dew.

A nose pressed in a soft head of hair, still fragrant with oils and rose water.

The deep and decadent musk in the hollow of perky breasts.

The vampire’s fingers tightened around the binding of his book, and a few shakes of pleasure rattled his body.

“Divine” he whispered, inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with the sanguine scent again and again, “Positively magnificent.”

He felt himself growing hard in his breeches, and for the first time in centuries, he was too enamored to be ashamed or disgusted.

No , this was pure blood lust, a singular and alien euphoria that even Tav’s blood hadn’t graced him with.

His molten eyes roamed the room in search of the stranger whose blood was so otherworldly. He muffled a string of moans at the sight of the small bleeding hand that Laura was bandaging. Drops of blood were sensually dribbling down the woman’s delicate wrist and onto the floor.

It took every last bit of restraint he had mastered over the centuries, not to fall down to his knees and lick it off the ground like a hungry beast. He shifted on his chair instead, a delicious tingling sensation engulfing his lower body.

As if catching his movement from the corner of her eyes, the woman looked up at him. Astarion’s intense gaze traveled from her hand to her face.

The half-elf wasn’t nearly as ravishing as the smell of her blood was. She had, nonetheless, a strange beauty about her. He wouldn’t have cast her a single glance in the busy streets of Baldur’s Gate, but here, in this dimly lit atmosphere, she looked … delicious.

Ready for the taking.

She had a string of small beauty marks on one side of her neck, right above the defined lines of her collarbones, as if mother nature had gifted her a necklace of her own. Astarion longed to sink his teeth right there, and glide his tongue against each of the little dots etched on her skin.

He trailed his eyes up the column of thin neck, marveling at the way her black hair fell on her shoulders like a veil of dark moire. As he looked at each of her delicate features, their eyes met again, and only then did he notice how dark they were.

Two drops of the blackest of inks, reflecting the candlelights, as if they were burning from within.

He undressed her with his eyes, slowly, surely, and she furiously blushed.

Averting her gaze, she thanked Laura and quickly went back to sit at her table.

Selene, with skin as pale as the moon, and hair as dark as the night.

Astarion pretended not to see the way she kept looking up at him, and then back at her sketchbook. Her charcoal stick furiously moved against the paper, line after line, shadow after shadow.

She was an artist like the others, and while he did not particularly appreciate the company of those who devoted their life to the great arts, he was curious about her. What was she drawing in there ? Had he walked past one of her paintings in the great halls of some manor in the city ?

The cloth around her finger had grown soaked with blood, and a new wave of the fragrant scent assaulted his senses. His hunger had not dissipated and with each passing second, he felt like something was about to snap in him.

Would it be so bad if he waited for her in the small dark alley next to the tavern ? He’d be patient, silent, like a big cat waiting for the right time to pounce on its prey.

And then he would grab her from behind, press a firm hand on her mouth, and drag her deep into the dark, where no one could ever hear her call for help.

He’d bite down hard on the soft skin of her neck, without caring for her pain or comfort.

This would be a selfish bite, a vicious bite, a killing bite.

He shivered, his forehead covered in sweat. If the smell of her blood had been enough to almost make him come undone in his pants, he was sure the way she tasted would be her death sentence.

He would never be able to stop, even if he tried.

No, no, no, this is a bad idea, get a hold of yourself. Remember, it doesn’t matter as long as you bite the right people, and as long as you don’t kill anyone.

All of a sudden, he not so elegantly got up, dragging the feet of his chair on the floor. He left a few coins near his glass of wine, and quickly strode to the door without a look for the little painter.

Outside, the air was devoid of temptation and stripped of the sublime quality of her scent.

It felt like being cast out of heaven, like being thrown back into the myriad of stenches the mortal realm usually reeked with.

He was still very hard though, so hard it’d make it difficult for him to walk back home without releasing himself first.

He fished Carmine Red’s keys out of his pocket and quickly headed for the higher city’s avenues. It was closer than home and he could maybe work a little bit on some of the dresses he had yet to finish.

To his surprise, a small cloaked figure was waiting by the door of his shop, leaning on the stony façade.

When he approached, Clarissa Tillerturn’s face appeared from under the heavy red hood. She had tears in her eyes, and she blushed when she realized that she was sobbing in front of him. Quickly wiping them away, she looked at him with an awkward sort of pleading in her eyes.

“I’m afraid your dress isn’t ready yet, darling. You must forgive me.”

“I’m not here for this” she quickly answered, her eyes anxiously looking behind his shoulders, as if making sure that nobody had seen her in front of his shop.

Astarion uncomfortably winced. He urgently needed to be alone, to deal with what was going on between his legs first and foremost.

“Now’s not a good ti-”

“Please” she begged, gripping the front of his black doublet and pressing her body to his.

He sighed, running his hands through his unruly hair.

Maybe this was exactly what he needed, a taste of her unremarkable blood to make him grow soft.

He unceremoniously opened the door and grabbed her by the waist to guide her inside the unlit room.

Once they were alone in the dark, she let her scarlet cloak pool at her feet, and unlaced the front of her bodice, to leave the top of her breasts uncovered.

“Here ?” she weakly asked, her hands shaking as she tugged on her undershirt.

“I might have to make the cut of your cleavage a little higher than usual for the masquerade then.”

“I don’t care, make it hurt. Bite me like you mean to kill me, Asti ” she urged him once again, new tears falling down her face.

The way her long nails scraped the skin of his nape made him want to throw up. And yet, he still grinded, irises blown and sharp teeth glinting in the obscurity. The promise of blood excited his senses once more.

Bending down to press a single kiss on the taut skin of her chest, he then brutally bit down on it.

She gasped and cried out, in pain or in pleasure he didn’t care to know. They stumbled until her back was pressed against one of the walls of the shop.

Her wails of pain slowly morphed into breathy moans, and she firmly gripped the curls at the back of his head.

As expected, the taste and the feel of her body completely dissipated his arousal. None of it lingered in his lower belly as he ravenously drank from her.

Something was different from before, however.

This time, he didn’t think about Tav.

The memory of her face slowly morphed into another, until the only thing at the forefront of his mind was Selene.

The little painter girl.

He imagined her, sprawled on his workshop table, her shirt torn open to reveal the expense of her neck and the soft lines of her breasts.

He’d bite her all the same, only stopping to admire the way her blood trickled down her chest, like a beautiful crimson river in between her hard nipples. The vampire would only bend down once again to lick the little puddle of blood on the soft of her belly.

Astarion abruptly backed away, violently tearing his fangs from Clarissa’s skin, and she looked up at him, a sheen of sweat on her dazed face.

“What’s wrong, Asti ?” she asked, unnecessarily caressing his cheek.

“I don’t know” he breathed, aghast and wide-eyed, “Nothing important, darling.”

Dawn was near and after Astarion served her a cup of tea, Clarissa disappeared as quickly as she had appeared to him.

He sat there for a long time, forgetting to close for the night, plagued with thoughts of a girl he only knew the name of.

#astarion bg3 #astarion fanfic #astarion smut #astarion x female oc #astarion x f!tav #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 smut #astarion fanfiction #Spotify

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blackjackkent · 1 year ago

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So uh.

Looking around the prison after Wulbren and the others got out...one of the unused cells had a very obvious glowing hole in it. And, somewhat experimentally, I had Hector jump into it.

And we landed here:

What the fuck.

(I cannot come up with a single in-character reason why Hector would have jumped down that hole, so from a story perspective I'm going to say the floor gave out under them - it was definitely fucked up enough to do so.)

The smell is atrocious. Rotting meat and blood. They're ankle deep it it. Hector feels his stomach begin to churn instantly as he scrambles to his feet, trying to wipe the sticky muck off of him.

"Oh, gods, Hec," Karlach mutters under her breath. "I think this might have been a wrong turn."

"The walls..." Hector whispers. "Look at the walls."

The entire place is coated in mucous, as blood red as the viscera beneath their feet. That creature he encountered within the tower is stronger here. He can almost sense its trembling under his feet.

There's a dead True Soul on the floor near where they landed. "There's a parasite in that corpse..." he hears the guardian whisper in his mind. "Brimming with potent magic."

"Maybe I don't care, you know?" Hector mutters. "Maybe just this once I don't care about the gods-damned parasite. I bet if she could smell what we're smelling right now she wouldn't be worrying about it either."

Karlach barks a sharp, strangled laugh.

"I think we may be looking at what serves the Absolute cult for a morgue," Gale says grimly. "And an oubliette no less - a 'place of forgetting.' A dungeon with only a skylight. I doubt sincerely that we're going to find an obvious exit from this place."

"Then we'll have to make one," Shadowheart says curtly. "I refuse to die in a place like this, after everything."

"Come on," Hector mutters. "Stay close together and we'll look around."

------

As they proceed further into the strange, gore-soaked room, the guardian chimes in again from within the Prism - this time with a more useful contribution.

Exploring around a little, we see what appears to be an enormous pool of blood, followed by a translucent membrane and a room beyond.

"Look," Hector commented. "There's something on the other side. No way through from here though."

It's always fun when his VA gets a slightly more meaty comment to make even if it's just something like this; usually the only actual comments he makes are the brief interaction lines when I select him in the party or whatnot. I'm very pleased with the voice I picked for him; he's got a sort of gruff growl and sounds very exhausted with everything and it fits him quite well.

I think we're all just as glad we can't go over there yet, because there's someone over there singing a rather unpleasant little ditty.

...Maybe we'll go the other way for now.

Climbing further up in the other direction, we encounter a couple hook horrors that we have to fight to get out. (We encountered these things before in the Underdark and they weren't that bad. These ones have what seems to be a little more health but still not too much of a problem.)

With them out of the way, we were thankfully able to climb back up into the prison area. "Ugh," Karlach said, sounding a little as if she was about to cry. "Let's leave that horror show behind."

No kidding. This feels like a good time for a long rest because I think everyone is ready to drop.

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #bjk writes her own party banter #well that was odd

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the-dalseum-duet · 4 months ago

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No prompt today. Just a scene I’ve wanted to write for a while now :)

Charlie rested her tired head against the windowsill of the frigid hospital hallway. Soft rain pattered outside as she shut her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. Crow’s soft curls were sprawled across her lap as he quietly snored between deep breaths. The polyester-padded bench was barely enough room to contain both of them, but it was more than enough room for them to get the rest they had neglected for months on end.

The echo of quick, heeled footsteps rudely awoke Charlie from her impromptu nap. As she glared down the hallway, her annoyance immediately shifted into relief. Dressed in a wrinkled red blazer and fluttering black linen pants, Sara was strutting down the linoleum tiles. She looked the same as Charlie remembered her, sans the neon red hair accents of her teenage years. She had matured into the woman Charlie never got the chance to be. Her kohl-lined eyes lit up as soon as she saw Charlie, and she rushed over to greet her with a nearly stifling half-hug.

“You survived,” Sara laughed, grinning through her crimson red lipstick. “You clever whore, you did it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without the help of this one.” Charlie ruffled Crow’s hair. “You raised him well.”

“He told you about me?” Sara asked.

“He said you taught him everything he knew.”

“I don’t know about that.” Sara said. “He learned most of his underhanded skills from his father.”

“But you taught him how to use them.”

“He tends to undersell himself.” Sara kicked a rolling chair beside them for herself to sit on. “He’s a smart kid underneath all that hairspray and those atrocious Hawaiian shirts.”

“It’s camp, damn it!” Crow whispered, lazily pawing at Sara. She laughed and shook her head, a chorus of glass beads clinking alongside her.

“Where have you been, if you weren’t here?” Charlie asked.

“I’ve been doing what The Court was supposed to do,” Sara said. “I’ve been hopping around South Korea for a month trying to secure more funding and goods to trade. Once I was done, Noeul said to stay where I was. He said it was too risky for me to come back, and he could figure it out with the rest of The Court.”

“So, you’ve been there for the past few weeks?” Charlie twisted her finger around one of Crow’s curls.

“Oh, no. I went to visit my mother in Zimbabwe. The flights were cheap, and I figured that the money Noeul had been saving would be redistributed soon. It’s a beautiful country, really. I miss the quiet there compared to Dalseum.”

“I still remember how you described it to me,” Charlie nodded. “It sounds wonderful.”

“I should take you there sometime.”

“I still can’t leave,” Charlie sighed.

“You can now.” Sara smiled. “Noeul and Gale are both dead, and I assume neither you nor Sonnet is willing to step up to the role of Emperor or Empress. I’m their last resort. Currently, I’m in charge. That’s why I flew back so soon.”

“Seriously?” Charlie quietly gasped. “Sara, you’re kidding.”

“I’m serious. I’m opening the borders. That’s going to be my first order.”

“You are?” Charlie blinked back tears.

“You need to go home, Blaire.” Sara lifted her chin with her hand to inspect Charlie’s face. She was visibily exhausted, and blood and tear marks stained her pale face. Still, Sara had never seen someone so beautiful. “Everyone deserves to go home.”

“But what about Marie?” Charlie said. “Isn’t she the Empress?”

“Marie is fifteen years old,” Sara said. “She needs someone to guide her. She already said that she wants her advisor to be me.”

“I’m going home,” Charlie whispered. “I’m going home.”

“You should take Crow with you,” Sara advised. “He deserves a chance at a new life, too.”

“Are we going to America?” Crow murmured, rubbing his tired eyes.

“We should be,” Charlie said, unable to fight a smile.

“Dude, can we go to Raising Canes?” Crow asked, pulling himself upright with the bar of the bench.

“If you want to go to Raising Canes, then I can arrange that,” Charlie laughed.

“Raising Canes?” Sara repeated.

“It’s a fast food chain in America that only sells chicken,” Charlie explained, rolling her eyes. “I mentioned it once, and Crow has become obsessed.”

“If it only sells chicken, then the chicken has to be superb. Why else would it be so successful?” Crow said, dramatically shrugging.

“Can we go to Zimbabwe, too?” Crow asked, folding his legs to sit crossed. “Do they have giraffes and stuff over there?”

“They’re not common,” Sara explained, “but you could definitely see a giraffe.”

“Sweet!” Crow rubbed his hands together.

“Before we make any plans,” Charlie said, “we should make sure Marie is okay.”

“Oh, shit,” Crow sighed. “Marie.”

“What happened to Marie?” Sara asked. “I haven’t been fully informed. The broadcast cut out right before Noeul died.”

“Noeul accidentally shot her in the arm,” Charlie explained. “It hit her bicep, so she should live. Her arm has to be amputated, though.”

“Poor girl,” Sara said, staring into the bleak, sanitized expanse of hospital rooms in front of them.

“She’ll be fine,” Crow said. “She’s tough. Sara taught us to be resilient, didn’t you?”

“Sucking up to me does not increase your chances of going to Zimbabwe.”

“What?” Crow dramatically gasped, raising his hand to his chest. “I’m offended that you would think I would ever suck up to get something I wanted.”

“Your whole bloodline is built on sucking up to get what you want, bud.” Sara affectionately patted Crow’s head.

“At least I want a trip to Zimbabwe instead of addictive substances and prostitutes or whatever,” Crow said, leaning back onto the bench.

“At least it’s Zimbabwe and not addictive substances,” Charlie repeated to herself.

#prose #blackbirds excerpt #bb charlie blaire #bb sara cherti #bb crow sang #not edited #canon caniac crow

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cyraclove · 4 years ago

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I wrote this lil’ Revalink oneshot for my friend @virgll as a part of our Discord server’s New Year Fic Exchange. Having never written these two precious idiots before, I had a really good time exploring their relationship.

I hope you enjoy!

Tell Me Where Your Heart Is, Tell Me Where You Keep It

It began with a look.

A stinging glare that lingered in his mind long after; a disdainful sneer that harbored something more than envy, something deeper than resentment. It had been enough to stun Revali into silence, for once, the way the young Hylian’s eyes bore into him from behind locks of sweat-drenched hair.

Link had looked up at the Rito champion from where he’d fallen on the Flight Range landing, a thin stream of crimson blooming from his lip and dripping off of his chin, icy flecks of snow lashing at his face. Something foreign stirred in Revali’s chest as a shiver flew up his spine that chilled him more than the frigid Tabantha air ever had.

Before he could open his beak to admonish Link for his poor form, to spit out yet another biting quip about his performance, Link wrested himself up from the ground. His blood painted the snow when he spoke, delicate pinpricks of red slowly sinking into the dense white.

“Again,” he’d rasped, and snatched his bow up as he stood on shaky legs.

As he watched the young man once again prepare to leap from the lofty landing with paraglider in hand, Revali suddenly and inexplicably found himself wondering what he might taste like in that moment, all iron and salt.

It was infuriating.

Read on AO3

In the weeks that followed, Revali attempted to keep his distance. Avoiding Link wasn’t too terrible a feat, as he was much too preoccupied with Zelda—as recalcitrant as she was royal. The Rito had even discovered her hiding around the village on numerous occasions, seeking a moment’s respite. Her emerald eyes would silently plead with him, and he would leave her be, feeling more akin to the princess than he would have thought possible.

Mastering Medoh needed to be his focus, he would remind himself, not this amateur —this pathetic excuse for a champion. While Revali had spent countless, grueling hours honing his skill, all Link had done was stumble upon a sword. That they both trained for the same battle was the only thing that united them. Had Link not been Hylia’s chosen , Revali thought, he’d be nothing more than a lowly farmhand playing at being a warrior.

In Revali’s mind, Link was still just that. He had to be. The alien ache in his chest from their interaction on the Flight Range would return if he allowed himself to consider otherwise.

Sunrises turned over and twisted into sunsets as Calamity Ganon’s ever-looming shadow spread across Hyrule, swallowing what little hope its people still clung to as time continued to slip away. Revali memorized Medoh’s every mechanism while Link tirelessly trained, both somehow existing together and apart simultaneously. Zelda continued to pray.

They all prayed.

The chill of evening in the village was beautiful, albeit bitter, for the night winds brought with them silence and the scent of the pines. It was the only time when Revali was awarded with some semblance of peace, though he endlessly warred with his own mind—a turbulent sky of relentless thoughts that denied him true rest. To his chagrin, he often found that his most tumultuous thoughts were of Link.

It enraged him, being plagued by a man so much lesser than he. One sleepless night after another, Revali had managed to convince himself that it was simply because of the injustice of the entire situation. So unfair was it that Link had been awarded a position that he did not deserve, and Revali was merely trying to make sense of it all. It had nothing to do with the way he had felt those many weeks ago when Link’s stormy eyes had locked with his; how his breath had caught in his throat when he heard him speak for the first time.

In fact, he’d all but forgotten about it.

When he heard him speak a second time, winter had settled in entirely, shrouding Tabantha in a shimmering blanket of blinding white. He knelt by the small hearth in the center of his roost, watching the embers softly flicker and die. After a failed attempt at sleep, he’d decided to get an early start rather than wasting more time. He waited in the pitch of early morning for the sunlight to creep above Hebra Peak, a whisper of a breeze gently rustling his feathers.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” a voice cut through the silence.

His heart seized with that unwelcome, startling twinge of something that he had yet to name. Though Revali felt Link’s presence, he did not raise his head, keeping his gaze trained on the dying flames.

“The hero can speak in complete sentences,” Revali drawled, his tone dry. Out of the corner of his eye, Revali saw Link’s jaw clench.

“I speak when I care to,” Link retorted, “and it’s not often that I do.”

Revali scoffed, a mirthless smirk on his face. “To what do I owe such an honor, then?”

“You’re supposed to be training me,” Link said, “but I’ve been trying to figure everything out on my own.”

He let out a squawking laugh this time, cocking his head as he finally looked up. “Are you not Hylia’s chosen champion? He who wields the sword that seals the darkness, protector of the crown and savior of us all, yes? Surely, you don’t need my help.”

“When we first arrived here, you said that you w—”

“When I said that I would show you how it’s done,” Revali snapped, making the end of Link’s sentence die in his throat, “I meant, of course, by besting you. Not by teaching you.”

Link inhaled deeply, eyes flashing beneath his knitted brow. The feathers adorning the shoulders of his Snowquill tunic fluttered slightly in the breeze as he took a seat on the stone floor opposite Revali, crossing his legs and resting his hands calmly on his knees. They regarded one another in silence from across the fire, their faces obscured by sparks of amber dancing above the flames.

“I don’t recall inviting you to join me.”

“Revali,” Link started, the very sound of his own name from the Hylian’s lips twisting the knot in his stomach, “I respect you. Your skill as a marksman is undeniably impressive…but I don’t have to tell you that. What I’m trying to say is that I want to learn from you.” He paused then, his eyes trailing downward. When he spoke, a hint of a tremor colored his voice.

“I need you to help me because I’m not ready. I’m…scared.”

As satisfying as the admission of fear should have been for Revali, it wasn’t at all. Why, out of everyone, had Link chosen him to confide in? Surely Daruk was more of a mentor to him; Urbosa more of a sage than he; Mipha, with her gentle words and kind demeanor, would have been a better choice. The walls of pretense came crumbling down around him and all he felt was shame. Despite the posturing and the honorifics, Link was merely a man —and he was frightened, just as anyone would be.

Just as he was, though he dare not say so.

Before he had a chance to even begin to register a response, he saw Link’s eyes grow wide as they flickered up towards the sky. Something had diverted his attention away from Revali entirely, his mouth parting slightly as he sat there, transfixed. Revali raised a brow at him.

“And here I was thinking that we were having an actual conversation. What could you possibly be staring at?”

“What is that?”

Turning to look, Revali saw familiar, beryl-green rivers of light weaving their way through the twilight. Like a gleaming veil concealing some otherworldly place, the ethereal light hung in the air as if by magic, an ancient mystery to all. Distant stars shone through, accenting the deeply hued sky with pinpricks of white.

“It’s just the aurora,” Revali said plainly, unwilling to admit that he was just as captivated now as he was the first time he’d witnessed it.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Link murmured, craning his neck to get a better view.

Revali watched him then, his face aglow with viridescent light. Never had he thought that a grown man could look at the sky with the wondrous eyes of a child, and for a fleeting moment, it was he who was envious of Link. The light that he saw in him was as bright and as brilliant as the light above them, the likes of which he’d not seen in anyone. Perhaps in himself, long ago.

Where had it gone?

“Your eyes,” Link said, the sudden comment causing Revali to startle.

He clucked his tongue. “ What? ”

The corner of Link’s mouth quirked up as he shifted to face him, his expression soft. Revali felt his breath hitch as his entire body tensed in anticipation of the other man’s response.

Link gazed back up at the aurora.

“They’re the same color.”

His damnable heart flew to his throat, any coherent thought evading him. Words were out of his reach now, language a distant memory. Revali’s mouth went dry as he turned away, trying desperately not to choke on his own tongue.

“What a ridiculous thing to say,” he stammered as he rose to his feet. He heard Link chuckle softly.

“Just an observation.”

“Well, in the future, do keep your observations to yourself. It’s nearly sunup; I need to train. And so do you.”

Revali turned to leave, longing to be anywhere else. He could have very easily taken to the skies right then, a powerful gust in his wake. He could be at the Flight Range in moments, his only focus his arrow and its target. Instead, he paused, cursing himself for what he was about to say.

“Flight Range in an hour. We can start with that atrocious form of yours.”

He took off, the force of his gale sending him soaring above the rooftops. Flying swiftly towards the mountains, an odd urge to look back nagged at him in the back of his mind. Relenting, he turned in enough time to catch a glimpse of Link standing at the railing of his roost, watching him.

He was smiling.

#revalink #loz botw #botw fanfiction #botw fic #revali x link #ao3 #archive of our own #breath of the wild #cyraclove #cyraclove writes

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yukayjei · 5 years ago

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Linked Universe FanFic: No Courage Without Fear

Hi! I’ve been a fan of @jojo56830’s @linkeduniverse for a while, and I’ve been dying to contribute my own fan work to this incredible series! I’ve worked on this fic since July (2019), and it’s finally finished (May 2020), so I really hope you enjoy it! I’ll upload it in separate chapters.

While in hot pursuit of an infected monster, two Heroes face fears they battled long ago.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

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

It was just before midnight, and a luminous full moon shone silver rays through the trees. The Heroes were all sound asleep under a large rocky overhang, save for two who sat keeping watch from a large, flat boulder sticking out of the ground a short distance away.

Today’s weather had been cursed with a brutal downpour. It was just their luck that all the rain drained into the valley they were traveling through, so the group had spent the day trudging against a frigid, unforgiving gale and slogging through knee-deep mud. Understandably, their relief was euphoric when they happened upon their natural shelter perched on a higher ridge, and they built a roaring fire at once.

Once the Heroes were sufficiently dried out and warmed up, the sun had already set, so they settled in. Miraculously, the clouds cleared up, and since Hyrule felt the least tired, he offered to take first watch. After a silent-yet-furious argument exchanged through indignant glares and avoiding eye contact, Sky volunteered to join him, despite being a hair’s breadth away from snoozing off.

Still, the two Heroes managed to keep each other awake through a constant stream of chatter, jokes, and (quiet) songs. Hyrule played a rather soulful tune on his flute; the notes produced were slow, yet smooth. They flowed through the air without haste, almost like a lullaby. Yet when Sky closed his eyes, instead of falling asleep, he felt his heart soar like it had grown wings, and an almost weightless sensation stole into his body.

It reminded him of a time he and Zelda snuck out of Knight Academy in the middle of the night and gone for a flight. The atmosphere was perfect. The quiet stillness in the air, the twinkling of a million stars. No clouds, just a light mist. The moon had been full, just like this night, and cast a beautiful silver glow over them and their Loftwings. He could still picture Zelda, lovelier than all of these elements combined, illuminated in the heavenly light. She looked like the goddess Hylia herself, which he’d later learned she was. The memory ebbed all the day’s stress and soreness from his body, but left a little ache inside his heart.

“That was incredible,” he sighed happily when Hyrule finished. “Where did you learn that song?”

Bashful at the praise, the brown-haired boy looked away. “I’m not sure, actually. It’s an old tune. Some say it’s been around since the dawn of Hyrule.”

“Really?” Sky leaned forward. “I never heard it until just now.”

Hyrule flashed him a quizzical look. “Well, maybe my flute doesn’t convey it as well. Sometimes, I think it sounds better on my recorder.”

Sky cocked his head to one side. “Then why not play the recorder?”

“Because I don’t want to summon a whirlwind in the first six notes!”

Sky blinked, not fully grasping what he just heard. “You don’t want to what?”

“You heard me! It would carry me off to who-knows-where!” Hyrule stood up, gesturing dramatically to the wilderness. Though his tone was serious, it also carried a hint of exaggeration.

“Seeing as you’re prone to getting lost, I’d say it suits you,” Sky joked.

Hyrule faced him now, a jolly glint in his eye. “Oh, but you don’t know half of it! It can also warp me right back where I started! In fact,” The glint turned mischievous, and he began slowly advancing toward Sky. “I could be gone for hours…”

Sky chuckled as he edged away. Exhaustion, combined with the late-night hours, must have caught up with Hyrule; delirium had taken hold, the kind that makes anything and everything downright hilarious, and Sky grinned as he felt it creeping up on himself, too.

“…And then, pop up right when you least expect it! Raaah!” With a yell, Hyrule lunged and shoved Sky off the boulder, only to slip and fall flat on his stomach where the latter just sat. A most undignified “Oooooof!” spluttered from his mouth, like air escaping a balloon. The Heroes erupted into hysterical laughter, Hyrule’s mixed with groans of pain, and Sky, sprawled on the ground with his legs propped against the boulder, clutching his stomach as he cackled like a Cucco.

“Shhh! We’re gonna wake the others!” Sky tried to sound serious and his voice cracked from the effort.

“You shhh!” came Hyrule’s witty retort before he dissolved into another laughing fit.

They laughed until they were literally gasping for breath, and even then, managed to laugh some more. Loud enough to drown out a third voice, cackling softly in the distance.

“Oh geez,” Hyrule finally wheezed out. “I feel like I cracked a rib.”

Sky rolled over onto his side, gulping in air. “You deserve it,” he croaked. A silly giggle hiccupped out. “I hit my shoulder hard when you pushed me! If it swells up, you owe me fifty Rupees.”

The brown-haired boy snorted. “Don’t exaggerate. Besides, I don’t even have fifty Rupees!”

“Then I’ll give you a matching bruise for payment.”

An empty threat, but Hyrule still offered, “How about some ice instead?”

“Deal!”

Hoisting himself up on his arms, he looked down at Sky. The Chosen Hero had already removed his green tunic and pulled down his undershirt’s left shoulder to examine the damage.

“How bad is it?” Hyrule asked, voice devoid of concern.

“The size of Four’s Octorok.”

“So, puny.”

“Feels worse than it looks,” Sky admitted, poking tentatively at the blackening bruise the size of a grape.

“You still want ice?” Even as he posed the question, Hyrule started to get up, only to lean back down. “Hey, that’s a neat scar!”

“Huh?” Sky flinched like he’d been slapped, hastily covering his shoulder with his hand. “I-I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hyrule rolled his eyes at the atrocious lie. “I already saw it. Looks like you fought a hard battle!” As he spoke, he eagerly leaned in closer.

Sky yanked his sleeve back up. “N-no, no I didn’t,” he stuttered, ears bright red. Deliberately turning his left side away from Hyrule, he added, “It’s none of your business.”

Normally, Hyrule might have let him be, but curiosity overtook him (it wasn’t like he had anything else to do). “What happened?” he pressed. “From what I saw, only a sword could have left that mark.”

“It’s nothing!” Sky growled, glaring daggers at his friend.

“Then why are you getting so defensive?” Hyrule straightened up, taken aback by his friend’s uncharacteristic surge of anger.

“Because you won’t leave me alone!”

“Was it an accident?”

“No.”

“Do you simply hate having your skin permanently disfigured?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t understand what the problem is!” Hyrule threw his arms up in exasperation. “Scars are nothing to be ashamed of.”

“This one is!” Sky snapped. The redness in his ears spread like fire to his face as he realized he’d said more than he wanted.

For a minute, he remained completely silent, refusing to meet Hyrule’s gaze. Then he exhaled heavily. “Look, unlike the rest of you guys’ crazy stories, it’s… it’s not my– my proudest moment, okay? I don’t– I don’t want to– to talk about it.”

A muffled giggle. Sky shot Hyrule a bewildered stare, more surprised than offended. Though not above poking fun at his friends, the Hero of Hyrule was the last to laugh at someone if they were genuinely upset.

“What?” Hyrule stared back, eyes wide.

“Why’d you laugh?”

“I didn’t. I thought it was you.”

He was dead serious. The two Heroes continued to stare at each other, silently posing the next question: Then who did?

A high, cold cackle answered. Further away this time, but loud enough for the Heroes to know they weren’t imagining it. Jumping to their feet, they unsheathed their swords. Instinctively, they put their backs together as they fervently scanned their surroundings for the source.

“Do me a favor,” Hyrule muttered. “Wake the old man. It’s his shift now.”

Rushing back to the camp, Sky shook Time as hard as he could, though this would prove in vain. If the old man did not want to be woken, he would not. He’d sooner sleep for seven years if you let him.

“Hey…! Hey! Wake up!” No response. His leader simply grunted and rolled over.

Sky tried the next-closest person. “Twilight? Can you hear me?”

No response. Not even the slightest twitch.

“Wild?” he tried again, voice rising in desperation. Surely the lightest sleeper would rouse. But there was no answer. “Anyone?” Sky couldn’t keep his voice from shaking. “Wake up!”

But no one answered, let alone stirred. He may as well have whispered.

“What’s wrong with them?” Hyrule demanded, hurrying to Sky’s side.

“They’re…they’re not waking up. It’s like they’re—”

“—Under a spell,” Hyrule finished in a hushed voice, as though his worst fears had been confirmed. “Of course… this must be the work of a Wizzrobe.”

“Wizzrobe?”

Another shrill cackle, like lightning splitting a tree. Immediately, the Heroes snapped back on guard; it sounded close. Too close.

“Robed monsters possessing incredibly powerful sorcery,” Hyrule continued, eyes narrowed as he peered into the shadows, trying to spot their unseen foe. “They typically rely on elemental magic, but stronger ones are known to wield dark magic. But to incapacitate seven people at once…there could be more than one, but it’s more likely one alone that’s beyond exceptional.”

Sky gulped. “You mean, infected?”

Face pinched, Hyrule nodded. “Exactly. We need to locate it as quickly as possible.”

“Would up there be a good place to start?” Unblinking, Sky raised a stiff hand and pointed above Hyrule’s head.

The Hero of Hyrule whirled around and gasped, for there atop the highest hill, the very creature he had described gazed down upon them.

Little more than a silhouette outlined by the moon’s full shine, the only features that could be made out were a tall figure draped in a heavy cloak, and two large bloodred eyes. Before either Hero could react, the Wizzrobe raised its hands and fired a tidal wave of black magic.

“Get back!” Hyrule jumped in front of Sky and raised his shield. The wave struck the shield directly, exploding in a blinding flash. But the shield remained unscathed, and the Heroes unharmed.

Undeterred, the Wizzrobe fired again. A blast twice as large as the last screamed towards them at breakneck speed. Yet the Hero of Hyrule remained poised, and quickly chanted something under his breath.

Bright radiance enveloped his shield a split second before impact, yet the dark magic was not blocked. It was reflected straight back at its source.

The wave’s full might slammed into the Wizzrobe. The monster collapsed, doubled over in shock and pain. For a few glorious seconds, the Hero of Hyrule thought he’d won, but the Wizzrobe rose up. He couldn’t read its expression, but those bloodred eyes looked murderous.

It let out a bone-chilling screech so loud it the Heroes’ ears threatened to bleed. The moon swelled to twice its size and took on a sinister crimson tint. Wind whipped around them like a tornado. Just seconds ago, the sky was clear, yet it now filled with ominous red clouds. Lightning flashed. Thunder reverberated high in the heavens and deep under the earth.

A bolt struck the ground right in front of the Heroes. With a yell, they threw their hands up over their faces, struggling not to fall down. Then the wind died down, leaving eerie silence ringing in their ears. Raising their heads, the boys saw that the sky had miraculously cleared. The moon shone stark white again. All seemed well, but the Wizzrobe had vanished.

“Where did it go?” was the first thing out of Sky’s mouth as he checked all around. Had it snuck up behind them in the confusion? Alas, there was no sign of the sorcerer. Their friends still slept peacefully, much to his relief.

“Was that…an illusion?” Hyrule stared blankly up at the hill, trying to comprehend all he’d just seen. “I sensed its magic was beyond ordinary, but I never imagined…”

“I don’t want to think what would have happened if you didn’t have your shield,” Sky murmured. “Sorry, but how’d you repel it like that? I didn’t see you move an inch!”

“A spell I picked up in my travels,” Hyrule explained shortly. Sweeping his gaze over the camp, he muttered, “No one’s stirring.”

“They aren’t awake?” Sky shot him a worried glance.

“The Wizzrobe only retreated. Temporarily, I’m sure.”

Sky sheathed his sword. “What should we do, then? Prepare for its return?”

“No,” came the Hero of Hyrule’s decisive response. “We’ll pursue it.”

“Hold on a second!” Sky held up his hands. “I’m not against hunting it down, but what about the others?” He gestured to their friends, who still showed no signs of waking up. “We can’t just leave them here, defenseless! Suppose the Wizzrobe doubles back?”

“It won’t,” Hyrule responded forcefully. When Sky stared blankly, he elaborated, “I’m not sure why, but I get the feeling it won’t continue its plan— whatever it is— unless it traps all of us where and how it wants.”

Sky bit his lip, choosing his next words carefully. “Look, I–I trust you. I just don’t trust the Wizzrobe. Maybe one– maybe one of us could find it—”

“No! It’s too dangerous to go alone. We need to confront it together, especially if it’s like all other monsters we’ve fought!”

“But—”

The Hero of the Winds cried out in his sleep. Hyrule and Sky whirled around to see the youngest Hero tossing and turning, his face twisted in pain. His hand stretched out, like he was reaching for something.

Hyrule and Sky rushed to his side, falling to their knees. A desperate, fragile hope clung to them. “Wind? Wind, can you hear me?” Sky called, his voice hoarse.

Wind’s reaching hand seized Sky’s arm. In his feverish state, the young Hero mumbled, “Got you… just… hold on… don’t let go!”

With his free hand, Sky grasped Wind’s. “Everything’s going to be okay, Wind. It’s just a bad dream! Wake up!”

But the youngest Hero only tightened his grip. “Please…hang on…” he whispered. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

The sight was too much to bear. Hyrule felt a huge lump forming in his throat. A choked gasp escaped from his lips and he fought to stifle it. He turned away, but he could not escape the horror that enveloped the rest of the sleeping Heroes. There lay Wild, twitching and shaking like a frightened rabbit. Warriors, curled up into the fetal position and muttering nonstop. Legend, shouting incoherently into the night, each tormented cry more agonizing than the last. Twilight, hands balled into fists and growling “no” through clenched teeth over and over. Time, whose whole body shuddered every few seconds. Four, who lay so still they couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

The Hero of Hyrule was at a loss for what to do. What to say. Their friends’ condition had evolved into something far worse than imagined. Could he and Sky, who were just two people, even consider confronting the Wizzrobe, which he was starting to see more as a demon? Despair welled up inside his heart, weighing down his entire body like heavy iron chains.

As quickly as it had set in, he shook off the invisible shackles. How dare he think like that? Their friends were depending on them! A spark of determination flickered in his heart, spurring him to action.

Standing tall again, Hyrule approached Sky, who still knelt beside Wind, cradling him and clutching the smaller boy’s hand. Hyrule rested his own hand on Sky’s shoulder. “Listen,” he murmured softly, “I don’t want to leave them, either. But even if we wait for it to return, we’re at the bottom of a valley. With the range Wizzrobes have, we’d be at a tremendous disadvantage.”

Sky didn’t meet his gaze, but after a few moments’ silence, he sighed. “You’re right. The only way we can help is if we find and put an end to what’s threatening them.”

As gently as possible, he lay the Hero of Winds down and tucked his blanket over his shoulders. Letting go of his hand earned Sky a heart wrenching sob from the boy, but he managed to push past it and stand up. The same spark glinted in his eyes, too. “Let’s go.”

#linkeduniverse #legend of zelda #loz #the legend of zelda #link #tloz

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ellanainthetardis · 6 years ago

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It’s time for a second chapter! I hope you enjoy it as much as you did the first one! Thank you for your support!

{ff] or [ao3]

If it was a prank, it wasn’t one that had been made public yet.

Katniss had been waiting for the laughter and the mocking comments ever since she had put a foot at the school that morning but so far, nobody had said anything. First period had been boring like Math always was and she felt like she was suffocating. Her whole body felt too tight for her, coiled. Her skin was tingling with an odd sixth sense that told her doom was impending.

“Hey.”

She almost jumped out of her skin and slammed the boy who had startled her right against the row of lockers.

Gale stared at her with wide eyes. Either at the unexpected violence or because she had lifted him up a few inches in the air without breaking a sweat.

She dropped him and stepped back with wide eyes of her own.

“Okay…” her best friend said slowly. “Wanna explain?”

She licked her lips and averted her eyes, hiding behind the curtain of her hair. She usually tied it up in an utilitarian braid but, that day, she had felt the need for some additional cover. “Sorry. I’m jumpy today.”

“Right.” Gale frowned. “So… Your sister texted my brother and Rory texted me. The word on the street is that you are being weird since last night…”

“Prim should mind her business.” Katniss grumbled. “I’m fine.”

She headed down the corridor toward her next class, not entirely surprised when Gale followed her.

“She’s just worried about you.” he pointed out. “And it’s not like you to be so jumpy you pin me to a locker, Catnip. Did something happen?”

She hesitated. She told Gale everything. Or almost everything, at least. Gale understood her like nobody else ever would. His father was dead too and he, too, was struggling to help his mother raise his two brothers and his baby sister. Like her, he hadn’t always been on the good side of the law and he was the one who had actually taught her how to poach in the woods. And, to top it off, he was also on the archery team. Gale Hawthorne was her best friend and she was sure that if she told him about the weird night she had had, he would find an explanation that was a little more rational than vampires are a real thing.

Before she could say anymore, the bell rang and she made a face because she couldn’t afford to be late again. If she got kicked out of school, social services would poke their nose in her mother’s business again and Katniss had barely managed to convince them Aster was fit to take care of her and Prim last time.

“I’ll tell you later.” she promised.

“You better.” He smiled. “See you at practice.”

She rushed to the History classroom and almost flung herself at her usual seat but students were still chatting between themselves despite her late entrance. There were excited whispers around and she caught words like “retired” and “surprise” and “new teacher” floating around. She didn’t pay it any attention, she fished her old battered phone from her bag and groaned when she realized she had forgotten to charge it again.

It wasn’t a fancy model like all the smartphones all the wealthy kids had. It was a very basic model. All it could do was call and send text. It still had actual keys instead of a touch screen. It suited her needs just fine though. She only used it for emergencies. She had nobody to call and nobody to text beside Gale who she saw every day at school and who didn’t live that far away from her home that she couldn’t make the trip in ten minutes if she really needed something.

Because she was busy laboriously tapping a text to Prim asking her not to disclose her private business to any Hawthorne boy, she missed the new teacher’s arrival. She didn’t, however, miss the hush that fell on the classroom or the characteristic squeaky sound of the pen on the whiteboard.

The man’s back was to the room. He was wearing a blue suit as far as she could tell and his handwriting was atrocious.

She was too busy trying to decipher his name to look at him yet.

Haymitch Abernathy

The feeling of dread was back and, when she finally looked at the man, she wasn’t entirely surprised to find the stranger from the previous night smirking right at her.

“Let’s cut to the chase…” He was addressing the class but it felt as if he was talking to her specifically and she found herself scowling. She didn’t like getting played like this. “You don’t want to be here and I hate teaching so we’re in good company. Let’s try to make our time together bearable. You don’t bother me, I don’t bother you. Seems fair?”

It earned him a few laughs.

Katniss just glared.

For someone who claimed to hate teaching, he wasn’t a terrible teacher. He seemed to know his subject at least. That wasn’t always a given with teachers in a town as small and as poor as the Seam.

Still, she was the first one to rush out of the room when the bell rang.

The day dragged on. She was a little afraid Abernathy would try to corner her somewhere but, true to his statement, he didn’t seem willing to bother her. She supposed that meant she should go to him first. Fat chance of that.

She didn’t need his help because none of it was true.

When Gale asked her again at practice what had bothered her so much that morning, she told him it was nothing and, this time, she meant it. She went back to the woods with him after school and they managed to catch a few squirrels.

They didn’t meet any weird people.

Nothing odd happened.

She blamed hunger for the whole thing and vowed not to hunt on an empty stomach again.

She was almost happy when she went to school the next day – as happy as you could be when the fridge and the cupboards were empty and bills were piling on the wobbly table. She was relieved it had all been in her head, truth be told. It was the only reason she didn’t immediately scowl and turned Mellark away when he casually asked if she wanted what was left of his chocolate cake because he had packed too much.

It wasn’t the first time he had cornered her in the Biology classroom before the lesson started with offers of food. Prim loved chocolate cake and she was in a good mood so she thanked him and made sure it was carefully wrapped in the paper napkin before placing it in her bag. He looked surprised and a little hopeful and he must have taken that as a tacit permission to sit because next thing she knew, he was on the stool next to hers.

That was Madge’s seat and Katniss looked at the classroom’s door with panic, hoping the blond girl would hurry and show up. Madge wasn’t really a friend because they didn’t hang out outside of school but they had been Biology partners since forever and they had eaten lunch together a few times. Madge was alright. She knew how to deal with Madge.

She didn’t know how to deal with Peeta Mellark who was king of the jocks and captain of the wrestling team.

To be fair, Mellark had always been nice to her. They had been in the same class for as long as she could remember and he was a shy kid despite his popularity. She didn’t think he had a mean bone in his body. But he was rich and they didn’t belong in the same world and Katniss was naturally weary of anyone who didn’t have to sweat and bleed to get their next meal.

Today, he looked unusually gloomy.

And, now that she was paying attention, so did the rest of the popular clique. Was Glimmer crying?

“What’s wrong?” she asked, nodding at his friends who all looked a mix of worried and depressed. That was as unusual as it got. They were always happy, shallow and haughty.

“You didn’t hear?” he said, sounding sad too. “Cato and Clove disappeared.”

The name of the girl she had set on fire was like a stab in the chest. She had done her best to repress the whole thing, not to think about why Clove hadn’t been around since that night. Her absence didn’t fit with the rational explanations she had settled on.

“Three days ago.” he continued when she didn’t say anything. “The police think they ran away together but… It’s just not like them. And they didn’t take any clothes or anything… It’s so weird…”

“Right. Weird.” she repeated flatly.

He forced a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I just hope they’re alright…”

“Yeah.” she said and she wondered if she imagined how strangled it sounded.

“Your partner’s here… I’ll…” He pointed out to his usual seat, a little hesitant and she nodded, already catching Madge’s eyes who was doing her own brand of hesitation at finding her seat taken. “Katniss?” He placed her hand on her wrist and she automatically snatched it away. He looked hurt for a second but then it was gone and his face was entirely too serious. “I know you often go to the woods on your own… Be careful, alright? I heard weird things are happening over there.”

“Thanks for the cake.” she mumbled.

Well, she thought, ignoring Madge’s awkward questions about what Peeta Mellark wanted with her… Shit.

°O°O°O°O°

Haymitch wasn’t surprised to find the girl on his classroom’s threshold at the end of the day.

He considered her as she studied him, dislike written all over her face. She didn’t look like much, his new Slayer… She was underweight. Underfed, he corrected himself. Her features were striking and she could have been pretty if she hadn’t looked so famished, her skin was olive brown, her long black hair was tied back in a braid – which was good because he hated having to tell girls to tie their fucking hair up because it wouldn’t help to be pretty once they were dead… Her eyes were grey, a shade lighter than his. For as small and thin as she was, she looked strong though and that, he decided, was good.

“Thought we had an agreement, sweetheart. Don’t bother me, I won’t bother you.” he mocked.

She didn’t answer. She kept watching him with wariness and disgust and maybe a little bit of fear. All of which was fair as far as he was concerned.

He started packing up. Books in the bag, homework tossed in the desk drawer for him to grade later or never, the flask he had resisted the urge of touching for most of the day back in his pocket… Fuck but he hated teaching. He couldn’t believe he was back to doing that.

He didn’t pay her attention because it wasn’t how it was going to be. He didn’t dance to her tune, she danced to his. At least, that was how it was supposed to work anyway.

He could already tell this one would be difficult.

Wouldn’t save her in the long run though.

“There’s a boy missing.” she said eventually, when it became clear he wouldn’t speak first.

She stepped inside the classroom and closed the door behind her. She didn’t wander closer though, she stayed within reach of the door and as far away from the desk he was standing at as she could. Skittish, he noted.

“And?” he asked in a bored tone.

She didn’t like that.

He wondered if the scowl was her natural expression or if it was especially for him.

“And he’s Clove’s boyfriend.” she added as if it was obvious and he was being obtuse on purpose. “The girl who chewed on your neck.”

He touched the wound by reflex. It was healing without problems but it would leave a scar. By his last count, it was his fourth vampire bite.

“And?” he insisted, dragging the question out.

“And maybe he’s… like her.” she snapped. “You have to do something.”

He burst out laughing. A rough bitter laugh that made her even more weary of him, he could tell. That or he was starting to piss her off.

“I don’t have to do shit.” he countered. “I’m not the Slayer.”

She glared. “The Chosen One thing is bullshit.”

“Don’t need to convince me of that, trust me.” he snorted. “But if you think the vampire thing is bullshit, you don’t need me, then, yeah? Can’t have it both ways, sweetheart.” He watched her for a second and then leaned against the side of the desk, folding his arms in front of his chest. “Tell me, if you weren’t out looking for vampires, what were you doing with a bow in the woods at night?”

“I was hunting.” she answered as if it that made the least bit of sense in that day and age.

Though, if the looks of her was anything to go by, it actually made some sense.

“Hungry?” he asked, coming to a split decision. “There’s a diner not too far away. Good food.”

“I’ve got archery practice.” she countered.

At least, it’s not a cheerleader this time, he mused.

“Your call.” He shrugged. “Let’s hope your missing boy doesn’t chew on anyone tonight…”

He left the classroom without looking back.

He was out of the building by the time she caught up with him, her bow and quiver slung over one shoulder and her school bag over the other one.

“You’re an asshole.” she commented. “People could die. You don’t care at all?”

“People die all the time.” he replied. “You’re gonna die.”

She flinched and he might have felt a tiny bit sorry if that part of him had still been operational. But it wasn’t. He had turned it off a long time ago. He couldn’t, wouldn’t care. She would die. They all did. There was nothing he could do about it and he didn’t believe in lying to his charges. If they listened to him, they might live that little bit longer. If not…

Somehow, he didn’t think Katniss Everdeen would be the kind of Slayers who listened.

“Asshole.” she repeated under her breath.

Despite himself, he smirked. At least, she had spunk. He hated it when they were meek and compliant. Watcher-raised slayers were always like that. Obedient. Good soldiers but no personalities, no room for adaptation. Eventually, that got them killed. He had refused to take up a Potential when he had been asked. He specialized in rogue slayers.

The Council of Watchers – or, as he had once heard William The Bloody say The Council of Wankers – made a point of collecting girls who could be called and placing them in a Watcher’s care as young as possible. It wasn’t a fail-proof system though. Potentials hoped and prayed to be chosen but for a hundred of them, only one was picked, and sometimes, the girl who was called hadn’t been detected or found in time to be brought up properly. The Council called it a rogue, he called it a victor.

He worked well enough with them.

Better than with the brainwashed ones, in any case.

The diner was nothing to sing about. It was decrepit, like almost everything else in this town, and there was grease everywhere – he had never found out if that was why the owner had named it Greasy Sae’s – but the food was decent and it hadn’t changed since the last time he had been there, decades ago. Anywhere else at that time of day, the place would have been crowded with teenagers but it was mostly deserted except for a few patrons sitting at the counter.

Either there was another newer place to get burgers somewhere he hadn’t found yet or people knew not to linger outside after dark. Slayers were called where they were most needed so he would bet on the latter.

Some Watchers actually brought their Potentials to hot zones in hope that it would trick fate into turning them into the Slayer. Usually, it only meant more dead girls before they even reached puberty.

And if they weren’t chosen by the time they turned eighteen they were either hired to work for the Council as operatives or researchers or tossed on the streets without the means to do anything of themselves. You couldn’t raise a kid without getting attached, of course, but that wasn’t well seen by the higher ups and it wasn’t advised to keep in touch with a Potential who wasn’t a Potential anymore. Things had to be professional, after all. Detached. Neutral. For tweed, Queen and country. Fucking British.

“Katniss?” one of the waitresses asked uncertainly, once they had grabbed one of the booths in the corner. The discreet ones.

It occurred to him that it might look weird for a forty year-old teacher to be seen at a diner with a sixteen year-old student. Rumors would be rampant if he wasn’t careful.

“Hello, Hazelle.” the kid answered in a casual voice. Either because she didn’t get why her friend looked worried to see her with a much older man or because she didn’t care at all. “Can I have two cheeseburgers with fries to go? He’s paying.”

She added the last part both defensively and aggressively. The defensiveness was for the waitress and to the implication she didn’t have the means to pay. The aggressiveness was for his sake, he figured, to let him know she was in charge.

It amused him. She amused him. She barely reached his shoulder and she looked like a draft could knock her over but she was so full of anger that he started thinking maybe she had what it took.

It was a dangerous road, of course. It led to hope. And hope led to heartbreak.

He turned his most charming smile toward the waitress – a smile that hopefully said I am not a pervert who preys on little girls – and the woman relaxed a little but not by much. “What she said plus two cheeseburgers and fries for us to eat here, please. And a beer. You want something to drink?”

She looked taken aback by the lack of resistance on the bill front and, if possible, even more cautious than before. “Coke.”

And the weariness triggered the waitress’ warning bells again.

He would need to teach her to be a little more covert.

“Is Sae around?” he asked casually, because he knew the familiar name would go a long way into making himself look like less of a stranger.

“No, she’s rarely in anymore.” the waitress frowned. “You know her?”

“Yeah, for a long time. I was born here, actually. Went away, came back a few years later, went away again…” He outstretched a hand in introduction. “Name’s Haymitch. I’m the new History teacher at Seam High. And I ain’t trying to seduce the kid or something… I’m a family friend. Came to help.”

“Ah.” she exclaimed in a deep relieved breath with a guilty look for Katniss. “That makes sense with Aster’s troubles…” He had meant tutoring because that was his usual cover story and now he was intrigued. What kind of troubles? She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Haymitch. I’m Hazelle Hawthorne. My oldest son is taking History. Gale?”

He winced. “Only my second day, sorry… I don’t know all the kids yet.”

“No problem.” She laughed. “It’s probably a good thing you didn’t notice him. Let me know if he gives you troubles.”

She left to place their order and he waited until he was sure she couldn’t overhear before turning his attention back to Katniss who was studying him as if she couldn’t believe him.

“You lied to her.” she accused.

“Want me to get up on the table and shout to the world that you’re the Slayer and I’m your Watcher?” he snorted. “That would go down well.”

“Maybe we should.” she retorted “Those things the other night… They could have killed us.”

“They’re demons.” he clarified. “Subclass but demons. And, yeah, they could have killed us. But you go shout around about vampires and you’re gonna find yourself locked up in a loony bin before you can say Slayer.” He shook his head. “Rule number two is… the whole thing is secret.”

“What’s rule number one?” she countered.

“Survive.” he deadpanned.

He chose the word on purpose. Not don’t die or stay alive but survive. It was different. Surviving was harder.

She pondered that a moment and then sulked a little. “I meant you lied about being from around here.”

It was his turn to ponder that for a moment. He decided on the truth because… why not? “Didn’t lie. I left for good a while ago though.” Hazelle came back with their drinks and he waited until after she had assured them their orders were coming before addressing Katniss again. “What’s with the food? You’re stocking up or you’re feeding an army?”

She took a sip of her soda and at the way she closed her eyes for a fraction of second after the first taste, he simply knew it was a luxury she hadn’t afforded herself in a long time. It wasn’t that surprising, he supposed, given the worn out clothes and the malnourished look.

He didn’t expect a straight answer so he wasn’t disappointed when he didn’t get one.

“This Slayer thing…” she ventured after a moment. “It’s like a job?”

“More like a calling.” He waved his hand in the air a little angrily. “You can say no to a job, you can’t say no to destiny when it comes knocking.”

“I meant: does it pay?” she clarified.

Again, he found himself laughing. And that surprised him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed before that day.

Johanna maybe.

Katniss was the first one who had ever asked that though.

“You could stop laughing every time I ask a question, you know.” she sulked, sliding down her seat and folding her arms in front of her chest like a petulant child.

Ah, fuck. She was one of those he was going to like. He could already tell.

That was bad.

“If you need money we can work something out.” he offered because he had too much of it anyway. Watchers were well paid. To keep their mouth shut and follow orders, mostly.

“I don’t take charity.” she snarled. “If it ain’t paid, I’m not interested. I need a job, not a calling.”

“Then why don’t you already have one?” he asked, honestly curious. Poaching in the woods couldn’t keep her fed.

“Because people know I’ve been arrested for stealing before.” she grumbled. “They won’t hire me.”

She had a past with the police. That might become a problem. Slayers often found themselves in the middle of troubles. He would have to make sure she never got caught.

Hazelle came back with their food and he thanked her while Katniss pounced on the burger. She tried not to be obvious about it but it was glaring to him. He wondered when she had last eaten a proper meal.

He tried another angle. “Why do you need the money?”

He told himself he was getting to know her because it would help him prepare her for the mission. Not because he cared for her as a person.

She was already dead and he needed to remember that.

They were always already dead when they came to him. They just didn’t know it yet.

Half the cheeseburger was gone already and she washed it out with two greedy gulps of soda.

He had yet to touch his beer or the food.

“My sister. I take care of her.” she explained a little reluctantly.

That explained the burgers to go.

“Your parents don’t?” he probed carefully.

The Council hadn’t told him much about her. They never did. Slayers who activated in the wild were always a bit of mysteries – unplanned elements. They had given him a name, a place – and how fucking thrilled he had been to find himself back there – and a school picture that was two years out of date.

“My dad’s dead.” she snapped. Barked. As if he should have known or guessed or… “Mom’s… Mom never got over it. I take care of Prim.”

It would make it easier in a way. Parents could be difficult to reason with.

Still…

One parent dead and the other out of the picture, a sibling to support…

Too familiar.

He dipped one of the French fries in his glass of beer, ignoring her disgusted glance, before popping it in his mouth. “I can help with the money.”

She glared. “I don’t…”

“It’s not charity.” he cut her off. “I’m your Watcher.”

She watched him dip another fry in his beer. She was eating more slowly now, either because she felt sick from having gulped so much down or because she wanted to savor it.

“Because I’m the Chosen One.” she scoffed. “That still sounds crazy.”

“I know.” he offered because he did. It never got any less weird.

“I’m not special.” she insisted.

“I know.” he repeated. Another Watcher might have claimed she was special, that she was chosen, and destiny and prophecy and honor, yada yada yada… The truth of it was the girls were always ordinary girls up until the previous one died. It didn’t help to sugarcoat it.

“Well, thanks.” she remarked. She sounded less hostile and he felt his lips twitch so he busied himself by taking a bite of his cheeseburger. He wouldn’t care. Not this time. She munched on a fry, watching him. “What’s a Watcher?”

“A mentor.” he explained. “When a Slayer dies and another is activated the Council sends her a Watcher. Sometimes it’s the same person, sometimes not. Depends of the new Slayer’s needs.” He took a mouthful of beer. It tasted better with the fries. “I’m gonna train you: teach you to fight, teach you about demons, teach you how to use different weapons… That kind of things. Also, you’re gonna love that part… I’m gonna tell you where to go and what to do and you’re gonna report to me. Basically, I’m your boss.”

She snorted.

Yeah… He hadn’t thought it would be that easy either.

“Is Watcher a job or were you called by fate too?” she mocked.

“A bit of both.” he chuckled bitterly. “But I’m being paid so I’m gonna say it’s a job. You should eat before it gets cold.”

She tossed him an odd look but finished her cheeseburger. Then, of course, she asked the question he knew had been coming from the start of the conversation. “How many Slayers did you know?”

He took another sip of beer, if only to make sure his voice would still be steady when he would speak. “Know? Seven. But I trained five if that’s what you want to know. I started when I was nineteen and I’m forty now so I’m gonna let you do the math as far as a Slayer’s life expectancy goes…”

She was staring at him but he didn’t look at her, he focused on eating his fries.

“So… The last Slayer… The one before me… You trained her?” she asked in a tone that wanted to be steady and was anything but.

“No.” he denied. “Last one was somewhere in Africa, I think. The one before her was mine, though. She was in Los Angeles. Nice weather, nasty demons. A Selkie drowned her. It was a mercy, really. She had gone mad.”

Annie had been too soft for this life.

He had never understood why she had been called in the first place. Too soft. He had known it from the start. One horror too many and she had started slipping into trances he couldn’t shake her out of. The Council had figured it out eventually, had sent a Watcher in training to assist him – a spy – the joke had been on them when instead of turning her in, Finnick had fallen in love with the broken girl. They had managed to keep her alive for a few months longer between the two of them.

Then, of course, she had followed that Selkie into the ocean and they had never known if the demon had tricked her or if she had just wanted it all to end.

‘Death is my gift’ she had whispered to him more than once and he hadn’t understood, not until he had found her floating body, not until he had been forced to restrain a yelling Finnick…

“Annie Cresta.” he added as an afterthought.

Her name figured in the Chronicles, of course, but he doubted anyone would read the journal he had kept about her. First because he had been told more than once than his records were awful and then because she hadn’t been one of the great ones. She had lasted a year. It wasn’t bad, more than most recently, but she hadn’t done anything noteworthy. She had just lost her sanity.

Girls and girls and girls sent to the slaughterhouse…

“How long will I last?” Katniss asked.

The question slapped him back to the present and he forced himself to focus, to ignore the burning need to take a sip of the hard liquor hiding in his pocket. He couldn’t afford to get drunk when he had a Slayer to mentor.

He had no good answer to offer though and the longer he remained silent the clearer it became that the silence was the answer.

She wasn’t the first one to ask him that. He could remember another girl, with honey blond hair and bright blue eyes asking him the very same thing in that very same dinner. In hindsight, he should have brought Katniss elsewhere.

“I have a sister.” she hissed between her teeth. Her eyes were shiny but the tears never made it through. “I’m all she has. I can’t…”

“If it comes down to that, when it comes down to that… I’ll make sure the kid’s taken care of.” he promised. That was the only thing he could do. He couldn’t promise to save her, but the sister he could see to. “I had a younger brother. I know what that’s like.”

Their eyes met and something passed between them, then.

An understanding.

They weren’t so much different when it came down to it, it seemed.

#everlark #thg fanfiction #katniss everdeen #haymitch abernathy #peeta mellark #thg buffy au #katniss the vampire slayer series

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autolovecraft · 8 years ago

Text

Gilman after her by his pajama sleeves.

The landlord was in, thank heaven, and appeared to be stirring about. Gilman had retired, the atrocious shrieking began. Did all of this perilous sense of imminence come from the formulae on the properties of space and the linkage of dimensions known and unknown. Very soon, too, with a baffling and disconcerting amount of agreement. Was he going mad?

Some of them had even told the police and advised them to look there for the missing Wolejko child, but Mary had not dared. Nobody had been caught, but among the scattering fugitives had been glimpsed a huge negro. The city below stretched away to the limits of vision, and he crossed himself frantically when the squealing and whimpering of a rat, while the small skull with its savage yellow fangs is of the utmost anomalousness, appearing from certain angles like a miniature, monstrously degraded parody of a human skull. Sometimes he and Paul Choynski and Landlord Dombrowski thought they saw that light seeping out of cracks in the sealed loft above the slanting ceiling Gilman always braced himself as if expecting some horror which only bided its time before descending to engulf him utterly. That night Gilman saw the violet light again. In his dream-delirium Gilman heard the hellish alien-rhythmed chant of the celebrants in the distant black valley. Where—if anywhere—had he been on those nights of demonic alienage?

In the deeper dreams everything was likewise more distinct, and Gilman let the cheap metal crucifix hang idly from a knob on his host's dresser.

By this time Dombrowski, Choynski, Desrochers, Mazurewicz, and the nightmare shape of Brown Jenkin began to be companioned by the nebulous blur which grew more and more into Gilman's head, and with a smarting sensation in his face, hands and feet. But the exaggerated sense of hearing was scarcely less annoying. Elwood had been studying in the small hours and had come up for help on a differential equation, only to find Gilman absent.

It would be barbarous to do more than suggest what had killed Gilman. One could develop all sorts of aural delusions in this morbid old house—for did not Gilman himself, even in daylight, now feel certain that noises other than rat-scratching came from the century-closed loft above the ceiling—which must have had a slanting floor—was likewise inaccessible. Confused memories mixed themselves with his mathematics, and he fell dizzily and interminably. In March, 1931, a gale wrecked the roof and great chimney of the vacant Witch-House—that, indeed, was why he had taken it. The fanged, furry thing came again and with a smarting sensation in his face, hands and feet. Very soon, too, he must see the specialist.

How about the somnambulism?

Here he knew strange things had happened once, and had felt a queer thrill on learning that her dwelling was still standing after more than two hundred and thirty-five years. Archaeologists and anthropologists are still trying to explain the bizarre designs chased on a crushed bowl of light metal whose inner side bore ominous brownish stains when found. Just before he made the plunge the violet light went out and left him in utter blackness. He did not walk or climb, fly or swim, crawl or wriggle; yet always experienced a mode of motion partly voluntary and partly involuntary.

As consciousness departed he heard the hushed Arkham whispers about Keziah's persistent presence in the old Witch-House, so that Gilman had good scientific grounds for thinking she might have stumbled on strange and significant information. There was the immemorial figure of the deputy or messenger of hidden and terrible powers—the Black Man and go with them all to the throne of Chaos where the thin flutes pipe mindlessly was the fact that he had actually become a somnambulist; for twice at night his room had been having a strange, almost hypnotic effect on him; and as the bleak winter advanced he had found himself, but Elwood could form no conscious idea of what might really have happened. This fusion of dream and reality in all his experiences.

Its voice was a kind of ophidian animation. An even greater mystery is the absolute homogeneity of the crabbed, archaic writing found on a wide range of papers whose conditions and watermarks suggest age differences of at least one hundred and fifty to two hundred years. Also, Dombrowski must attend to the poisoning of those rats in the partition all the evening, but paid little attention to them. Undoubtedly he could still manage to walk away from the unplumbed voids beyond the slanting surfaces, since it now appeared that the purpose of those surfaces concerned the side he was on. Her bent back, long nose, and shriveled chin were unmistakable, and her grip relaxed long enough to give him a sense of strident pandemonium. It was in the immemorially sealed loft overhead, which had begun to attack his imagination so violently, but later impressions were faint and hazy.

However, it would be better for the gentleman to take another room and get a crucifix from some good priest like Father Iwanicki. His right hand fell on one of the beds when she fixed the rooms at noon, and maybe that was it. Joe Mazurewicz came another sound—a stealthy, determined scratching in the partitions, and the tiles were cut in bizarre-angled shapes which struck him as less asymmetrical than based on some unearthly symmetry whose laws he could not pass the examinations if ordered to the college museum, save that it is large, wrought of some peculiar bluish stone instead of metal, and possessed of a singularly angled pedestal with undecipherable hieroglyphics. Approaching him softly though without apparent furtiveness were five figures, two of which were the sinister old woman and the little polyhedron which always dogged him; but they, like himself, had changed to wisps of mist in this farther void of ultimate blackness. At noon he lunched at the University spa, picking up a paper from the next seat as he waited for dessert.

Joe Mazurewicz who had a room on the ground floor. This fellow also spoke of hearing the tread of shod feet in the night; but Gilman was sure he must have been half drunk when he came home the night before; yet the mention of a violet light in the garret window was of frightful import.

But all this vanished in a second.

But that moment was very brief, for presently he was in a crude, windowless little space with rough beams and planks rising to a peak just above his head, and with open, staring eyes, but seemed largely unconscious. That object—no larger than a good-sized rat and quaintly called by the townspeople Brown Jenkin—seemed to have been the fruit of a remarkable case of sympathetic herd-delusion, for in 1692 no less than eleven persons had testified to glimpsing it.

During the night of 19-20 April the new development occurred. About nine at night he drifted homeward and shuffled into the ancient house. When the blood was washed away the wrist wound proved very slight, and Gilman felt that the twilight abysses with the bubble-mass and the small furry thing advancing toward him over the sagging, wide-planked floor with evil expectancy in its tiny, bearded human face.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #The Dreams in the Witch-House #1933 #The Dreams in the Witch-House week

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