#Give or take at least six years before they translate Wind. I will die | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jackrrabbit · 4 years ago

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Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

#overhaul x reader #chisaki kai x reader #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #mha imagines #tw dubcon #tw sacrilege #tw christianity #overhaul #chisaki kai #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia x reader #boku no hero imagines #my hero academia x reader #my hero imagines #boku no hero fanfic #smut

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vivianweasley · 4 years ago

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Let Her Go (F.W. x Reader)

Summary: “Only know you love her when you let her go.” childhood friends to lovers, unrequited love

Prompt: This is for @vogueweasley‘s 1K writing challenge and the prompt is #44 “What am I in your life? Because as of lately I feel as though I’ve been nothing to you.” Congrats again lovely!!

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: angst to a bit of fluff, unrequited love, mention of alcohol (Fred being drunk), language (one curse word), Fred being stupid

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: Did I write another friends to lovers with unrequited love? Yes, but I love this idea and I’m just writing to cope. The inspiration is Let Her Go by Passenger! Hope you guys would like it! (Also, let’s pretend they used telephone)

Special thanks to @valwritesx for the support<3

Disclaimer: all the pictures used in the header are from Pinterest. Credit goes to the original owners.

Please do NOT repost or translate my work on another site without explicit permission! Thank you! Reblogs and comments are always welcome:)

In your memories, you were always following Fred Weasley around.

You followed him around when he and George were throwing dungbombs in their neighbor’s garden. You were six, and he was seven.

You followed him around when it was your first year at Hogwarts. You were an awkward first year, but he has already established quite a reputation.

You followed him everywhere. Whether it was a quidditch game or detention, you were always there with him. Some people called you his sidekick, but you never really minded because you were absolutely head over heels for him.

You knew he knew about your stupid little crush; you weren’t trying to hide your feelings anyway. And you knew that your feelings weren’t reciprocated, but that didn’t matter. Loving him was your own business. Plus, you knew that at least you meant something to him, so you’ve still got a chance.

You loved him with all your heart and without a doubt. It was one-sided and lonely, but you never cared. Well, at least not until now.

It was your party to celebrate receiving a brilliant job offer from America. All of your friends were there.

“I’m so happy for you! But I’m also gonna miss you a lot!” George exclaimed for like the twentieth time today.

You chuckled, “I know, Georgie, I’ll miss you too! And I’m not leaving until the end of the next month. I’ve still got a lot to take care of before I go.” Now that you were actually talking about leaving, the whole concept of living in another country so far away finally began to feel more realistic. “There are just so many things and people I’ll miss.”

“By people, you mean Fred, right?” Ginny teased, “Speaking of which, where is he?”

“I don’t know. He promised he would come,” you replied, couldn’t control the blush that was climbing up your cheeks.

Ginny was right. Of course you were going to miss all of your friends dearly, but you were also going to miss Fred just a little more than the others. And that’s why you were a bit disappointed that he was so late to your party. You couldn’t stop yourself from checking the clock and the door every now and then. The butterflies in your stomach started dancing whenever you heard something outside, but they always die down when you realized it wasn’t him.

The clock soon struck 12, and when you were saying goodbye to the last of the guests, you finally accepted the fact that Fred was not going to show up tonight.

You were helping at the joke shop the next day, and it was already noon when you heard Fred walking down the stairs.

“Morning,” you could still hear the sleepiness in his voice, and you could tell from his messy hair and puffy eyes that it was a hangover. You frowned a little but you tried not to overthink. Surely he had a good reason, right?

“It’s already noon, brother,” George asked the question for you, “where were you last night?”

“I ran into Lee after work, and we went to the pub. Why?”

“Why? It was Y/N’s party last night, you forgot?”

“Wait, it was last night? Ah shit, I forgot. I’m sorry Y/N,” he turned to look at you. You could see the sorry on his face, but you couldn’t hear it in his voice. You knew that expression all too well. It was the same reaction whenever he got caught playing pranks on someone. He was saying that he’s sorry, but you knew he didn’t mean it.

“Fred, you do realize that she’s leaving soon, right?” George was finding this unbelievable too.

“Oh c’mon, last time I checked, we still have something called a portkey. And I’m sure Y/N will be visiting us pretty often, right Y/N?” The carelessness in his voice stung you.

Hurt, mixed with anger, was rushing to your brain. It was the moment that struck you, a moment that should have happened a long time ago.

You always thought that even though Fred didn’t love you back, at least you were still a very important friend to him. But now you’ve finally realized that maybe this was just another self-comforting lie. It was not the first time he forgot something about you, and it seemed like he never cared anyway.

“What am I in your life?” You asked quietly, “Because as of lately, I feel as though I’ve been nothing to you.”

“What are you saying? Y/N, you’re not making any sense.”

“I always thought it’s alright that my feelings aren’t reciprocated because it’s just my own business. But I’m not just that stupid girl who has a crush on you; I’m also your friend! And friends shouldn’t treat friends like nothing.” Your voice sounded calm, but tears were streaming down your face, “It was always me who’s looking for you and thinking about you, but friendship takes two, Fred. Maybe you should start trying too.”

Then you just stormed out of the joke shop, before George could try to talk you round and before Fred could probably tell a joke to laugh it off.

One week later, you left for your new job in a hurry. You said goodbye to every one of your friends, except for Fred.

Fred was feeling guilty but also confused. Why did you snap like that? What he did was surely just a small mistake, right? And he wasn’t too worried. He was sure that you would forgive him and come back to him. You always do. In fact, he was convinced that he could see you again the next holiday.

Halloween night, George had plans, so Fred was in charge of closing up tonight. Looking at the empty bowl of sweets on the counter, Fred thought about you. You always remembered to fill it up, especially around Halloween.

The autumn wind was getting cold, and he pulled his coat tighter as he walked outside. The kids on the street were all dressed up, going from door to door trick-or-treating. Fred remembered how you two and George would always go trick-or-treating together on Halloween since you were kids. Even after you all grew up, you would still drag him to go with you. But now he was walking alone in his business suit, on his way home. This moment he felt as if the kid inside him has left with you.

When he got home, he turned on the TV and started switching channels absentmindedly. You should be there, suggesting to watch a horror movie, but then deciding on something family-friendly. You would always try to have a Halloween movie marathon but end up falling asleep, lying on his shoulder. He found it adorable, but he never told you that.

Fred sighed as he laid back on the couch. This was the first Halloween without you.

Christmas morning, Fred walked downstairs, noticing something was different in the air. The Burrow was quieter. Sure, most of his family were already up and were gathered around the Christmas tree, chatting and laughing. But you weren’t there.

You weren’t there, showing up at the Burrow way too early in the morning. You weren’t there knocking on his door and waking him up using a cheerful, sing-song voice. He would always groan and tell you to give him five more minutes. But this year, when he woke up to the mechanical sound of the alarm clock, he really missed your cheerful voice.

Fred walked downstairs with everyone wishing him a Merry Christmas, but his eyes were searching the crowd for a glimpse of you that was just impossible to be found. This was the first Christmas without you.

New Year’s Eve, Fred and George were at the local pub’s New Year countdown party, along with the other boys. Just like usual, the boys had too much drink and passed out in the pub.

When Fred was only half-awake, he heard your voice calling him, “Freddie! C’mon, let’s get you home!” A soft smile appeared on his lips. You were back! He knew you would be back for the new year. He knew you wouldn’t leave him for too long.

You were always there to pick him up and carry him home after New Year’s party. He was always amazed at how you managed to carry him as he was taller than you, but you were always there for him. He just felt so lucky now to have you in his life, and seeing you in front of him made him smile like an idiot.

You were frowning seeing him lying on the floor, but you soon gave in when you saw that smile. You chuckled and whispered, “Happy New Year, Freddie.”

The soft smile stayed on Fred’s lips. He felt at home.

When Fred woke up again, he found himself lying on the floor of the pub. The pub was already empty. The boys were already gone. Someone must have picked them up, but there was no one for him. He finally began to realize that it was just a dream. You were still in America, and he was still a loser who’s lying alone on the cold floor on the first day of the new year.

Fred managed to walk out of the pub. The freezing wind was slapping on his face, trying to sober him up. He walked past a coffee shop. That was your favorite.

You were all he could think of now. Fred knew that you had a crush on him, but he always believed that it was just a stupid little childhood crush and it would fade as soon as you all grow up. He was just too familiar with you, and familiarity wasn’t what he thought he was looking for in romance.

But you were already in every part of his life. No matter where he goes or what he does, you were always there. But now you weren’t.

There was the first time Fred told a joke, and you weren’t the first to laugh. He loved the way you laugh, for it could always brighten up his whole day, but he never admitted it.

There was the first time he was humming a song, and you weren’t there to sing along. He loved your voice, for it could always calm him down, but he wouldn’t tell you that.

There was the first time when he realized that he needed you in his life.

The first time when he realized that he loved you more than he thought he did.

It was like muscle memory for him to remember everything about you, but he wasn’t even aware of that, and you obviously didn’t know too. Instead of showing you how much he loved and appreciated you, he just took you for granted because he thought you would never leave.

Fred dialed your number that night. He thought he might go crazy if he couldn’t hear your voice tonight. As he waited for you to pick up, he felt the inside of his stomach were all twisted together, but it was soon replaced by butterflies when he heard your voice.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Y/N, it’s me, Fred,” he didn’t know why he stuttered, “S-so, I was wondering...do you know where is the photo of us at the station? It was your first year of school. Did you take it with you?”

“No, I gave it to George. Why?” He couldn’t tell your emotion through the phone. Were you annoyed? Or were you happy to hear his voice too?

“Oh, umm, nothing, just missing the old days.”

“Oh, okay...Anything else?”

There were so many things that he wanted to say. He wanted to tell you that he’s sorry and he missed you so much, but you sounded impatient. So all he managed to say was, “Happy New Year, Y/N.”

There was a few seconds of silence; then he heard you reply, “Happy New Year, Fred.”

Hanging up the phone, Fred felt his heart sank. He hated how emotionless you sounded, and he knew he had to do something. Maybe he couldn’t convince you to come back to him, but at least he owed you an apology.

Valentine’s Day. Evening, you walked out of the building you worked in. It was on a wizarding street just like Diagon Alley, so it didn’t take you too long to adjust to the new environment.

The shops on this street were all having Valentine’s specials, and it reminded you of the Valentine’s specials of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Fred always had the most interesting and romantic ideas-you shook your head. You promised yourself not to think about him anymore.

A shop at the corner captured your attention. You’ve never seen this shop before. You looked for the name of the shop and the sign above read “WWW’.

Just when you thought you were losing your mind and associating everything with Fred again, the shop owner walked out.

Fred smiled when he saw you. The same beaming smile that had you head over heels for him for as long as you could remember. “Hi, I'm new here. Would you mind showing me around?”

A/N: Sorry if the ending feels a bit rushed! I felt like it made sense to end here so the reader could decide if she wants to forgive him or not.

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angelinasway · 3 years ago

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Regaining Hope

Chapter Eight

Pairing: Clark Kent/Buffy Summers Warnings/Triggers:Torture, Violence, Mention's of Major Character Death, Bad Language, Sexual Tension, Eventual Smut, Mentions of Sexual Assault Summary: Takes place during Man of Steel. When Buffy discovers the U.S Military trying to keep quiet about an object buried in a twenty thousand year old glacier, she immediately thinks the worst. However, when a surprise visit to the Canadian Arctic puts her in the path of a mysterious stranger her whole world is changed forever. Authors Notes: Thank you all so much for being so very supportive. You guys have been absolutely wonderful. Seriously I couldn't ask for a better group of readers. I need to warn you all that this chapter has quite the graphic and gruesome scene in it, so if that's not your thing I highly recommend skipping the part where Clark starts to watch the video. Some major questions answered here. Hope you all enjoy, and keep the reviews coming. Special thanks to my ever amazing beta Hipkarma. She always helps and inspires me. Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Previous Chapters: [Chapter One] [Chapter Two] [Chapter Three] [Chapter Four] [Chapter Five] [Chapter Six] [Chapter Seven]

[TTH] [AO3] [FFN]

Chapter Eight

Dawn smirked as she saw the caller ID flash. So, Buffy had talked to Wes. That was good. She really didn’t want to have to break into the Watchers Council just because she was nosy and worried for her sister. Buffy hadn’t told her much when they talked yesterday, just that there was some sort of prophecy about her and this Clark guy, which just raised all sorts of red flags for her. Dawn had insisted on seeing a copy of the prophecy and her hackles raised even more when she found out how quiet Wes and Willow were trying to keep this. Looks like big sis came through however, and now it was time to give the man on the other line hell for keeping something this important from her.

“Xand, honey, can you take Abby? Wes is on the phone and it’s time for her nap anyway.” Dawn said, reaching for the phone.

“No!” Her one and a half your old screeched at the top of her lungs, making Dawn cringe. When they coined the phrase, ‘children are your parents secret revenge,’ they weren’t lying. Abigail was just like her too, even in looks.

Xander came out of their shared office, a crooked and amused smile on his lips. “You should know by now not to say that word in front of her,” He said, kissing Dawn on the forehead before reaching out and swooping up their toddler. “Come on Abby,” he said as Dawn answered her call. “Daddy will read you your favorite story.”

“Try to get Joyce down too,” She added, before saying into the phone, “Hello Wes, so good of you to finally call me.”

She heard the groan on the other end of the line and smiled. “How much do you know?”

“That there’s a prophecy about my sister and some uber-powerful guy she’s been spending time with, on your instruction I might add.” Dawn said in a mockingly sweet voice.

She heard him sigh. “Yes, that is all true. Look Dawn, I’m going to send you a copy of the prophecy through your secure fax now. We’ve been able to translate some of it, but there are certain areas where…I don’t think the language is of this world. It’s nothing like we’ve ever seen in any human or demon writings before.”

Dawn got up and walked into the office, a frown on her face. “You mean like interdimensional, there’s gotta be a reference somewhere Wes.”

There was silence over the line and for a second and she thought Wes had hung up. She’d just opened her mouth to see if he was still there, when he finally said, “No Dawn, that’s not what I meant at all.”

Her frown deepened as the first page spat out of the machine. She slid it off the rack and looked at the prophecy. There were several different languages written on the copy, Etruscan, Ancient Sumerian, Ancient Greek, and Latin. At the top were strange symbols unlike anything she’d ever seen before, almost flowing together like cursive. The next page that came out was Wesley and Willow’s translation of that page. She bit her lip, walking over to her desk and went to work making sure what they had translated so far was correct.

“So,” she began casually, “what I’m getting from the first page is that this guy is much farther from home than just another dimension.” She paused, huffing in annoyance as she snootily added,” It was Sun God by the way, not Star God.” She sighed. “Who are you using anyway, Basile?”

“Vonten,” He answered and Dawn rolled her eyes. Of course, he was using that moron’s guide.

“Vonten is an arrogant prick Wes, that book confuses people more than it helps. Burn it, it’s better as kindling. Bachman is the best at Etruscan and Ancient Sumerian, and you already know Ancient Greek and Latin enough not to need a reference.” She said, before frowning as she came to the part about the soulbond. “Wes, what the hell is a soulbond, and why is this referencing my sister and Mr. E.T. having one?”

As Wesley began to explain what they knew so far, Dawn's face began to pale. Oh, this was not of the good. Buffy was gonna wig to the nth degree when she found out.

"Does she know any of this?" Dawn asked, turning around and grabbing more of the pages that were still spitting out of her printer.

"She knows about the bond. I told her this morning." He answered.

"And what, you’re waiting until she gets pregnant before you tell her the rest?" Dawn asked angrily. "You know this is gonna freak her out..."

"Which is why I decided not to tell her." Wes interrupted.

"If you'd let me finish," Dawn snapped, slamming her hand on the desk. "I was going to say this is gonna freak her out, but it would be better if you tell her now." She huffed in frustration. "This just proves how little you guys know my sister. She absolutely will freak and she'll probably fight it at first. Just the idea of her own children having to live the life she has, is not gonna be a happy, joyous moment for her. She's already worried that Joyce or Abby, or maybe even both will be called one day.” Dawn said, before emphasizing her next words, "However, my sister is not stupid, and when push comes to shove, she'll make the right decision like she always does. I get that you’re worried about the Slayer line Wes, we all are, but keeping this from her is not the right way to go about it.”

She heard Wes’s sigh, “I realize that Dawn, but with the bond itself needing to be fulfilled, I thought that was more than enough for both of them to handle at this time.”

Dawn looked at the pages covered in the strange flowing script, similar to the symbols on the first page. Wes was right, it was a language. "We need to find a way to translate this. Do you think this is Clark's language from his home world?"

The line was silent for a moment, before he said in annoyance, “Yes, that’s what I meant when I said I don’t think the language is of this world.”

“Do you think Clark knows how to read it?” Dawn asked.

A sigh came over the line, “I honestly don’t know. I believe he just discovered where he came from, so I don’t see how he could.” He paused in thought and then murmured to himself, “But even if he can’t, perhaps the ship has a historical archive or maybe there is some form of AI technology that could translate it for us.”

Dawn frowned, “What ship?”

As Wesley explained how Buffy and Clark met and the danger Buffy had recklessly put herself in, Dawn found her ire sparking at Buffy’s stupidity. “I’m gonna kill her!” Dawn growled. “She hasn’t done something that reckless since Joyce was born. God fucking dammit, she promised me!”

Wesley sighed. “In her defense, it could have very well been her fate that made her act so rashly.” He paused before saying, “In any case, Clark was there and according to Buffy, he saved her and watched over her after she went into a healing sleep.”

Dawn was quiet as she processed that information. So, she didn’t die, which meant Buffy actively tried to stop it from happening. That was good, she was still getting smacked when Dawn saw her, but at least she hadn’t completely broken her promise from three and a half years ago. It was also good to see that this godlike Champion the prophecy spoke of wasn’t just a creature with a penchant for destruction playing at being a white hat because of a curse. That was a nice change.

“What else do you know about him?” Dawn asked. “I’m assuming you started trying to find him as soon as you started translating this.”

“Well,” Wesley began, “We first caught wind of a possible candidate about a year ago. We’d been monitoring airwave chatter for possible beings with superhuman strength when we caught a lead. A distress call came in about an oil rig off the coast of Canada in flames and about to explode. In that communication there was talk of a man rescuing the crew members aboard the rig and preventing the tower from collapsing on the rescue helicopter with his bare hands.” He paused for a moment, before saying. “We managed to find a few other incidents of him saving people, one that happened when he was thirteen. According to the incident report, his school bus went off a bridge and into the river. Three witnesses stated that a young Clark Kent managed to push the bus out of the water and rescue his classmate.”

Dawn whistled, “So this guy really is the real deal white knight, huh?”

“It would appear so.” He sighed.

“Wes we’re gonna need to access that ship.” Dawn said, looking over a small section of Sumerian that talked about a trial of choice. The rest of the page was in the alien script however, so any clue as to what that meant was beyond her.

“I know,” Wesley agreed.

“Which means, we’re gonna have to tell Buffy and Clark everything.” Dawn reiterated.

She heard Wesley groan, but he conceded nonetheless. “Alright fine, Willow needs to bring them some pendants to stave off the worst of the compulsion the bond is creating. I’ll have her stop by and get you on her way, unless you want me to tell Buffy myself, that is.”

Dawn shook her head, “No, no. I think it will be safer for everyone if I’m the one to do it.” Then she bit her lip in thought, “And don’t bother with Willow, just call me when she gets back. I think I need to do this one on my own.”

“Very well,” Wes agreed. “Willow should be finished within the next few hours. I’ll call you as soon as I know she’s returned.”

“Alright, in the meantime I’m gonna go over this and make sure all the parts I can read are translated correctly.” Dawn said, adding, "Talk in a few," before hanging up.

She sighed, rubbing her fingers along her forehead. "Well fuck," she muttered to herself.

"Everything alright?" Xander asked, coming into the office.

"No, not really," she answered handing him the translated first page of the prophecy.

She watched his eye scan the words before he blew out a breath. "So, this guys an alien?"

"Looks like." She answered.

Xander snorted, "Man the Buffster really knows how to pick 'em, doesn't she?"

Dawn mock glared, before she couldn't contain her amusement at the absurdity of the situation. "Well, you know Buffy. She doesn't do anything by halves."

****<S>**<S>****

As Clark followed Buffy down the hallway, his thoughts were a jumbled mess. He knew she had been trying to reassure him, but her words only had the opposite effect. Were they only feeling any of what they were because of the prophecy and furthermore, given the choice, would she even choose him? She had basically confessed to falling in love with her best friend. The history they had both shared, as disturbing as it was, was an important one to her. She had cared very deeply for this man. How could he ever live up to the memory of a man who had essentially changed a piece of himself for her? Part of him wanted to erase Spike’s memory from her mind, to do whatever he could to drive this man, this demon from her past and another part of him just felt wholly lost. He didn’t want to be anyone’s second best and he certainly didn’t want her to want him only because some guy thousands of years ago decided they were destined. God, he wished his dad was still alive. This would definitely be the type of thing his dad could help him through.

She stopped at a large set of double doors and turned, catching his expression before he had time to school it into a much more neutral one. She blinked in surprise, "Clark...what’s wrong?"

He shook his head, “It’s nothing Buffy.”

Her frown deepened, “Oh no, you definitely have something face. Talk to me. I promise whatever it is, I’ll try to understand.”

Clark shifted uncomfortably, before finally admitting, “I’m just feeling a little unsure about all this.”

Her eyes widened slightly, “Because of Spike?”

Clark sighed, “Well I mean think about it Buffy. You basically told me that you fell in love with your best friend and were willing to marry him for eternity, but the only reason you didn’t is because you were too scared. Would you even look twice at me if he was here now? Are the feelings I’m having for you even real, or is this just destiny trying to force us together?”

Realization flooded her expression, and she quickly shook her head. “I can’t speak for what-ifs, because I would be lying if I answered that either way…” She swallowed, “As for how you’re feeling, I’ve been under love spells before and granted you usually don’t know you’re under one when you are, but if the feeling’s part was being fabricated, we…we wouldn’t be able to fight this like we are. We would have probably already slept together.” She blushed, looking down. “Fabricated feelings they’re false obviously, but they’re very strong…strong enough to make people dangerous. If what we were feeling was a manifestation, you wouldn’t have these doubts Clark, you wouldn’t even realize there was doubts to be had.” She met his eyes then, her expression serious and stoic. “And as for the fear part, I didn’t want to get into it because…” She sighed again. “You remember how I told you that Angelus showed up right when I was starting to get my life back together?”

Clark nodded, “I remember.”

“Well, what I didn’t say is that I was planning on retiring.” She rolled her eyes, “I had this grand plan of going back to school and getting a degree in Art History and moving to Hawaii to open a gallery.” She shook her head, “It was stupid, I know.”

He immediately shook his head, “That doesn’t sound stupid at all.”

Buffy blushed. “I just mean it was stupid that I ever thought it could happen.” She shook her head, “Anyway, I started training a girl named Rayanne when we were first getting the new Watchers Council on its feet. She was bright, witty, resourceful and she already had the makings of someone who could be an excellent leader.” She looked at her feet, her hands clenching. “Me and Giles had agreed, in three-years-time, when Ray was eighteen, she would step in and fill my shoes. Faith didn’t want the position and the only other possible candidate that actually did, I flat out refused due to her inability to get along with just about anyone but Willow. I mentored Ray for over a year and she became…well, like a little sister to me. After the whole General Voll fiasco, I was ready to promote her to Senior Slayer status. She had been on it more than any other girl at the compound, helpful and demanding when need be. She’d fought through a horde of zombies and we came out of it with zero losses. The attack was completely unexpected and if she hadn’t been there, I don’t know what I would have done.” She met his eyes, “I was so proud of her.” Buffy sighed, “A few months later is when the first girl, Alicia went missing, and by the time Ray disappeared, there were already six that seemed to have just dropped off the planet.” She swallowed, “Angelus revealed himself and killed Giles a few weeks later, and almost three weeks after is when we found Alicia. She was the first and youngest to go missing and she was the first he dropped on our doorstep.” Buffy shook her head squeezing her eyes shut, “I knew what he was doing to Rayanne then, and that she would probably get the worst of it because of her association with me. Alicia was just a taste of what Angelus was capable of.” She opened her eyes, meeting his. “I wanted to have Spike claim me so we would be strong enough to save her and the rest of them, and I was scared because I knew I’d be asking for the wrong reasons. I was afraid Spike would know it too and I would only hurt him by asking. Does that make sense?”

It was Clark’s turn to avert his eyes. “Yes,” he said quietly.

She pulled out her phone and began to scroll through it, “Well just in case you have any doubts…” She swallowed, “I don’t even know why I kept this. Angelus loved tormenting me and we didn’t know it at the time but there were several Watchers from the old regime who were very unhappy with the way we were running things. Some of them made deals with Angelus, gave out my email and phone number and my location.” She looked at him, her lips pursed in anger. “One of them would even take video or pictures, documenting my pain for him when he couldn’t be there hiding in the shadows to see it.” She handed him her phone, “I’ve never watched this one, it’s the morning I found Rayanne, he saved her for last. I don’t need to see it, I lived it.” She nodded at her phone, “When he sent it, I didn’t even open it. I just dropped it in an archive and it’s been there ever since.” She shook her head, “I highly recommend only opening the third video file, the one that says, ‘Are you broken yet?’ She met his eyes then, “The first two will be what he did to her. So, unless you feel like throwing up, I would skip those.” She gestured with her chin at the double doors. “I’ll be in there beating on a bag, meet me when you’re done.”

She turned without another word and went through the double doors not looking back. Clark looked down at the phone swallowing heavily, before opening the file. The video began with the image of the front of a house, not unlike the one they were in now, except there was a large tree in front and something very obviously dangling from it. It looked to be sometime in the middle of the night or perhaps early morning, but he couldn't tell either way due to the lights on the house illuminating everything.

The person carrying the camera ran towards the house and a refined British voice in distress yelled, "Ms. Summers, come quickly. I think it may be Miss Stevenson."

The front door flew open and there she was, except she looked nothing like she did now, her eyes were wild, feral even, and she was so pale and sucked up. She looked hollow, worn-down, nothing like the girl he’d spent the last couple of days getting to know. The scream that tore from her lips and the look on her face when she saw what was hanging from the tree, tore through him like a tidal wave of emotion. Clark felt himself growing angry at the Watcher, who was obviously playing both sides. Another man with bleached hair and nothing on but a pair of black jeans came flying through the door next, his eyes wild and worried.

The camera panned and followed Buffy as she ran out to the tree, falling to her knees and screaming again. Clark saw what was in the tree then and his stomach almost rebelled right then and there. It was a young girl, no older than sixteen and the only skin left on her body was on her beautiful face and near her pelvic region. The girl’s expression was frozen in a horrified scream that no one who cared ever had the chance to hear. A large white sheet wrapped itself tightly around the girl’s wrists and tied over the lowest branch, the excess linen draping behind the dead girl as some sort of sick backdrop silhouette for the body hanging lifelessly from the tree. There was hardly any blood to speak of, just a pinkish residue from where the body had touched the clean white linen, which told Clark she had been dead for more than a few hours. It wouldn’t be visible to a human through the recording, but because of his enhanced vision Clark could even see puncture wounds in places and deep gashes from where the girl had been restrained.

The blond man came into the picture then and the Watcher came towards them, circling around so he could see Buffy’s expression, or at least that’s what he assumed the person with the camera was doing. Buffy's mouth was open in silent gulping sobs, giant tears dripping down her cheeks.

“Love,” The blond man whispered in an apparent British accent not nearly as refined as the Watchers Clark had heard so far. The man fell to his knees behind her looking up at the tree. He shuddered as tears sprang to his electric blue eyes. “Don’t look Buffy…please kitten, please go back in the house.”

The man placed his hand on her shoulder, and Buffy turned at the gesture and Clark could no longer see her face as she flung herself into the man’s arms and began to sob harder. “It’s Ray,” she howled. “Oh god, it’s Ray.”

“Shh,” The blond man hushed, rubbing hands along her back in a comforting gesture. “I know,” He choked. “I know, love.”

“We…we can’t leave her like that.” She sobbed. “I-I have to get her down.”

Clark watched the blond man close his eyes and shake his head, “I’ll do it. Go back in the house, please Slayer.”

“No,” Buffy shook her head as Clark caught the silhouette of another man flying from the house and over to them. The sound of retching could be heard, and it took Clark a second to realize the sound came from whomever had just come from the house and seen the body. “It has to be me. Don’t you see, don’t you get it? I knew,” she sobbed. “I knew what he was doing to her and I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, sweet girl, you’ve been trying to find her. We all have. This isn’t your fault.” The man choked.

“It’s not good enough,” She screamed, shoving away from him and falling on her rear, “And it is my fault, all of it! They were called because of me, because I was too chicken shit to just except the power that was offered to me!”

A sob broke from her lips, and she turned looking directly at the cameraman a sudden realization dawning in her hollow eyes. “You!” She snarled, her eyes flashing. “It’s you, isn’t it?” She started marching towards the cameraman.

“Ms.…Ms. Summers,” Whomever was holding the camera stuttered and then she was there, a well-aimed kick flying towards the camera before Clark saw sky for a few seconds.

“I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!” She screamed suddenly hovering over the man, the wild fury in her eyes telling Clark that she had every intention of killing this man, and part of Clark couldn’t agree more. “No one else but an Angelus minion would have called me out here for Rayanne! Everyone else would know better!”

Clark watched as she threw a punch, the sickening sound of cartilage breaking ringing through the speaker as the guy howled in pain. The way her arms were angled next and the gurgling sound through the phone told him she was choking the man before three sets of arms suddenly grabbed her, pulling her off. Clark could hear the man wheeze as he tried to catch his breath while Buffy screamed and fought the three people who had pulled her away. Faith was one of them, and then the blond man, which Clark was pretty sure by now was Spike, and another man, tall, brunet, with an eyepatch. He saw Willow in the distance coming towards them and when she reached them, she touched Buffy’s shoulder before she could react and muttered a few words that sounded like Latin. Buffy suddenly collapsed and Clark realized Willow had put her to sleep. All eyes then turned towards the cameraman.

“Get her in the house, Xander.” Spike growled.

“Uh, Spike–” Xander started to say when Spike turned on him.

“Get her in the bloody fucking house, now!” He snarled, a sound like grinding bone emanating from the man as his voice altered to something more sinister. “I’m not going to kill him.” He said turning back towards the camera as two glowing amber eyes stared at Clark.

“Speak for yourself,” Faith said marching towards the man. “I’ve been getting those fucking emails too.”

“So have I,” Willow said, her eyes black as she stared the camera down.

“We won’t have to kill him,” Spike clarified as he fell in step with Faith. “Angelus will do that for us.”

“How you figure?” Faith asked, her eyes just as enraged as Buffy’s had been.

Spike suddenly sprung forward, his arm reaching out and a ripping sound emanated as the man screamed. His hand came back with what looked like a wad of hair. “This enough Red?”

“Plenty,” Willow said, sudden realization dawning in her black eyes.

“Now,” Spike said, a sinister grin stretching his fanged mouth, to the whimpering man. “The way I figure it, you got three options. The first being, you can go back to Angelus and give him this tape, at which point he finds out we now have a way to track you, and oh trust me Marcus, he will most definitely kill you for that.” Clark heard the man begin to sob, and part of him wanted to turn off the video at that point but couldn’t look away at the furious amber eyes that stared back at the camera. “Option number two, you can destroy the tape and run, which if we’re being honest would be the preferable of the three, but I’m sure you are well aware of the kind of wrath he would bring down on you if he didn’t get to see his almost masterpiece complete, so I’m sure you won’t.” Spike’s hand suddenly flew forward and the man screamed in pain, “Or option three,” He growled, “Where you run like a coward and keep the tape for leverage, hoping that your usefulness hasn’t run its course.”

He suddenly had the camera in his hands, staring directly into the screen his eyes burning into the lens. “Looks like your mole got ousted. This is your last one, Angelus. We’re coming for you and when we’re done there won’t be anything left.” The screen suddenly went black as the video cut off.

Clark let out a trembling breath looking around him and realizing he had slid to the floor at some point, his heart pounding in his chest. God, he didn’t know, he didn’t understand until that moment. That poor girl, no wonder Buffy was desperate. How many girls did she find like that before this one was left for her? How many videos did she force herself to endure before this one was sent, even Faith and Willow had said this wasn’t the first one? Clark squeezed his eyes shut, she had told him, so had Gunn but to see it. She was driven half-crazy by what that vampire had done and he could not blame her for that. What would he do if it was his mother in that position? God, he could only imagine.

He shakily got to his feet, listening as he heard the sound of a fist hitting leather, he walked to the doors and threw them open, not stopping when she paused to look at him. He had to reassure himself that she was okay, that she wasn’t that angry creature that he saw in the video. He went straight to her, his arms coming around her in a crushing embrace before his lips met hers. God, she was so strong, he didn’t realize how much until that moment. Buffy immediately melted into him, her lips parting for him as he slid his tongue into her mouth. She was such a small woman, everything about her was deceptively tiny, except her strength and fortitude both physically and emotionally. To go through what she had and still be able to function on a normal level was just short of a miracle.

He pulled away and looked down into her green eyes, haunted by her past but not dead and hateful like in the video. He bent down and laid his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “I…” He started, “I didn’t…I’m so sorry Buffy.” He whispered, and he could still feel himself trembling. “I didn’t… You hear words like torture, rape, and murder but–”

“They’re not real until you see it for yourself.” She finished in understanding.

Clark sighed, hugging her closely, her head resting against his chest. “I get it now, not…but I understand how desperate you must have been to try and save the girls from that.”

He heard her sniffle, “I didn’t know what else to do. I watched all the others you know, even…even what he did to them. It was my fault, you see; those girls lost their lives because they had a connection to me.” She shook her head, “If they hadn’t been called, they would still be alive today.”

Clark pulled away and used his hand to raise her chin so he could see her eyes, “You blame yourself for every one of them that dies no matter how it happens, don’t you?”

She closed her eyes a shuddering breath hissing through her lips, before she opened them, meeting his gaze head on. “How can I not?”

He sighed, hugging her close again and shook his head. He had no response to that; he didn’t think she should. He didn’t think it was healthy, but he didn’t want to get in an argument about it with her right now either.

They stayed like that for a little while before she whispered, “You’re shaking.”

Clark nodded. “I know, the video…I’m still upset.”

She pulled away, meeting his eyes again. “Do you want me to show you how to throw a punch properly? The heavy bags have been warded well, we can start there.” She looked down, “It will…it will help relieve some of what you’re feeling at least.”

“Yeah,” He nodded in agreement. “Yeah, okay.”

****<S>**<S>****

To say Clark was a fast learner when it came to training would have been the understatement of the year. He was an absolute natural. He moved with precision and grace, sometimes striking so fast she almost didn't see him move.

As of now she was simply holding the bag for him as he got comfortable with the rhythm of landing punches and even with the wards on the bag, she could feel the impact of his strikes. At this rate she would need her suit within a few days to let him get the feel of fighting a moving target. At some point she might even bring him back to Cleveland to put him up against multiple fighters and see how he did.

"Remember to move your feet,” She reminded. "A moving target is harder to hit."

He nodded, bounced on the balls of his feet and struck, the impact of the punch making her bones rattle. "Whoa, nice one Clark." She laughed, "Felt that one in my toes."

He grinned, striking the bag again harder. "You were right," he said casually in between punches. "This does help."

She grinned, "Nothing like getting your aggression out with a bit of violence." And then she blushed, smirking, "Well almost nothing."

He chuckled as he threw a few more punches in quick succession, his own smirk forming on his lips. He had a mischievous look in his eyes and had just opened his mouth to comment when Buffy’s phone rang.

Buffy sighed, releasing the bag. "That will either be Wes or Willow."

It was now around three in the afternoon; Clark had told her he had to pick his mom up at six and it was an hour drive to Smallville from where they were. So, she was grateful that they were going to be able to get this taken care of before meeting his mom.

Buffy walked over to her phone and answered. "Hey Wes," she said in greeting. "What's the haps?"

He was silent for a moment and she could almost hear him roll his eyes at her butchering of the English language. "Willow," He began, "should be there shortly. Dawn would also like to see you. I told her I would call her once Willow was done securing the pendants."

Buffy frowned, “What? Why?”

“Dawn and I have come to the conclusion that one of the languages in the prophecy that I have been unable to identify, is most likely written in the script of Clark’s home world.” He paused, “We are going to need access to the ship, unless of course Clark can read it.”

Buffy looked at Clark and raised an eyebrow, but he quickly shook his head. “Only a few words,” He confirmed. “I think the computer on the ship might be able to translate it though.”

“That’s a negative, Wes,” Buffy answered, beginning to pace. “But he agrees that the computer on the ship should be able to do the job.”

“Very well, I’ll inform Dawn to dress accordingly. The ship is still in the same location I presume?” He asked.

“Whoa,” Buffy said halting her steps, realizing what he was suggesting. “You want us to go tonight? Clark has to pick up his mom from work, Wes.”

“I think it would be for the best. The sooner we get this prophecy translated, the better.” He paused. “Lorne told me I needed to send out more Slayers to India, Kansas, and Metropolis within the next two weeks and I would very much like to know if I should be sending two or a few hundred. If this prophecy gives any indication of what’s to come, I would very much like to know what it is.”

Buffy and Clark exchanged worried looks. “He only told me something was coming for Clark, and we’re gonna need all hands-on deck when it does.”

Buffy watched Clark swallow nervously. “He told me my time for hiding was almost up, but he said it was in the coming month.” His eyes widened in realization. “We need to translate that prophecy.”

Buffy nodded in agreement, “And I need to train you harder than just beating on a bag, which means it’s gonna be eight-hour days from here on out.” Clark opened his mouth to argue and she held up her hand, “We’ll get as much as we need to do in the mornings done, but if for whatever reason we can’t, I would loan you the money before I would let you lose your home.”

Clark frowned, “Buffy–”

“Take it from someone who knows what those kinda money troubles feel like,” She interrupted again. “I think in the scheme of things saving the world is a little more important than pride, don’t you?”

His frown deepened. “You think it’s going to be that big?”

“Lorne said all hands-on deck and it’s you. Someone coming after you has got to be as powerful, if not more.” She watched his face fall and reached out her hand out running it down his arm, “You’ll be ready, and now that we have a general idea of where this stuff might take place, we’ll all be even more prepared.”

“Wes,” she said, addressing the Watcher once more. “Were gonna need Willow to keep close, and I would call Illyria back from Cairo.”

“I agree,” Wesley said, just as a portal opened up and Willow walked through. Her smile melting away at the look on both Buffy and Clark’s faces.

“Uh-oh,” Willow said nervously. “I know that face.”

“Is that Willow?” Wesley asked over the line.

“Yeah,” Buffy said.

“Let me speak with her, please.”

Buffy held out the phone to Willow, who frowned but took it anyway. “Hey Wes,” Willow said in greeting as Buffy walked over to where Clark was standing looking more than a little worried.

“Hey,” she said quietly.

He attempted to smile but he couldn’t pull it off. “Hey, yourself.”

She bit her lip watching him, seeing the turmoil play across his face of having an unknown enemy out there that could be responsible for hurting others when they decided to rear their ugly heads. She didn’t blame him, if she needed to pull out her big guns as Lorne hinted then it could definitely get bad. She was optimistic however, because of what she’d had to face in her past. Clark didn’t have that same luxury.

“I-I know you’re not exactly used to going up against big bads, or having to fight gods,” she started. “But I promise you Clark, no matter what it is we’ll deal with it together. Tonight, I’ll have my sister meet us at your place and we’ll go to the ship and find out what this prophecy says. Whatever’s coming, we’ll deal. I promise you; we won’t lose.”

“How do you know?” He asked, a bit of hope showing in his eyes.

She stared at him seriously, “Because I don’t lose when it’s the world.”

His lips quirked slightly, and he opened his mouth to say something when Willow walked up to them. “Wes wants me to fit you for a suit,” She said to Clark, handing Buffy her phone before saying, “And, he wants to talk to you.”

As Buffy reached for the phone Clark said, “I already have a suit and it’s Kryptonian.”

Both Buffy and Willow blinked in surprise at his words, their voices ringing out in unison. “You do?”

He nodded, “Yeah, it’s on the ship still, but I have one.”

Willow smiled, “Well then, that’s gonna make this quicker. Can you bring it to me? I can enhance it with magic, add some safety features and protect you against the mystical.”

“Will that still work, even if the material isn’t of Earth?” He asked.

“Yeah Wes,” Buffy finally said into her phone, pulling herself away from the conversation. So, Clark already had a suit, she wondered what it looked like.

“So, for the time being I’m going to send fifty Slayers to each location, but keep the others on standby incase things go pear-shaped.” He said, already planning ahead. “I’ll also be moving quite a few closer to all three locations, that way all the girls have backup nearby. I think Willow should stay there at the safehouse that way she’s not far from either of you.”

“And Dawn, Xander, and the kids? They live in Metropolis after all.” Buffy asked.

“Perhaps you should explain the situation to her when she gets there. Staying there at the safe house with Willow might also be a wise move for them.” Wes said, adding, “As well as a few Slayers. I know Faith’s been itching to get out of Cleveland for a mission, maybe she and a few of the other girls should accompany her.”

“Just as long as it’s not Tanya, that girl’s a liability and she doesn’t listen to anyone.” Buffy said.

“I concur,” Wesley agreed. “Only the girls who are focused and dedicated will be allowed to participate in this mission. I would like as little casualties as possible.”

“I agree,” Buffy nodded, “What about the mystics, how many of those can we tap?”

“I have sixty-eight on file, I’ll start making phone calls now.” He sighed. “I’m just glad we have this much to go on.”

“Me too,” Buffy agreed. “I’ll call Dawn when Willow gets done here and tell her where to meet us and to put on her suit and a warm hat.”

“Very well,” he said. “Call me when you know more and I’ll begin the preparations.”

Buffy hung up, walking back over to Willow and Clark as they spoke to each other a bit awkwardly. “So, let’s get this over with Wills.”

Willow quickly nodded opening a small bag she brought with her. “So,” she said quickly. “These were a bit difficult to make since from what we’ve read the compulsion itself seems to be based purely on hormones as well as a need to unite your souls.” She looked at them both, “It took me a little while to find what I needed and even longer to put the spell together.” She sighed, “The pendants themselves will be made out of several crystals used to block compulsion, amethyst, ametrine, chrysocolla, and ruby.”

Willow pulled out two small corked vials filled with multicolored stones and handed them to both Buffy and Clark. “Now, hold out your hands and link your free ones together.”

Buffy and Clark did as she asked, holding their hands out palm up. Willow placed a vial in each of their hands and then covered them with her own hands, closing her eyes and beginning to chant. Buffy immediately began to feel her hand heat up and for a second it almost became unbearable and Buffy even watched Clark wince from the heat. It was gone just as quickly however and in its place were two hard looking marble like multicolored stones with a dark metallic chain that would hang from each of their necks. Buffy heard Willow mutter one more spell that she recognized to be a ward against breaking.

“Well go on.” Willow said smiling happily at her work. “Try them on, see if it worked.”

Buffy quickly slipped the necklace over her head and a sigh of relief left her lips. The sexual tension that had never fully abated her all day finally easing enough to where she wasn’t thinking about sex every few seconds.

Clark had a similar reaction, his face seeming to ease slightly, but Buffy was surprised when he turned to Willow and asked, “You said the compulsion is only based on hormones, does that mean any feeling we have that aren’t sexual are real?”

Willow nodded, “Of course, real love is something that can only be based off of free will. Its why love spells don’t ever work. You can’t force someone to love you.”

Buffy watched amused as Clark seemed to sigh in relief, and then quickly blushed when he noticed her watching him. “Come on stud,” she said hooking her arm through his and dragging him towards the door of the training room. “Let me go grab my stuff before we go get your mom,” a grin creeping over her face as she turned and wished Willow a good night and a promise to catch up tomorrow. “And for the record”, she added quietly as they walked out of the training room. “I still want to jump you, that hasn’t changed even with the necklace on.”

He quickly reached out to grab her arm, but she easily dodged him and took off down the hallway, a blush and a giggle leaving her lips.

Clark was suddenly there in front of her, a crooked and devilish smile on his lips. “Is that so?” And then his lips were on hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth as she squealed in surprise.

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une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir · 4 years ago

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random thoughts on jon connington’s chapters

This is part 2, part 1 can be found here.

The Griffin Reborn

Aegon and Danerys

The first part of this chapter details Jon Connington taking over his former castle Griffin's Roost as well as remembering how he lost the Battle of Stony Sept.

Some Daniella stans have cried about how the show made her bad (ahah she's already bad), by giving her Jon Connington's supposed endgame. I believe they're partially right. Jon Connington's thoughts on Stoney Sept are foreshadowing of the burning of King's Landing, but of Danerys doing it.

The Griffin Reborn ~ ADWD

He had lost it all at Stoney Sept, in his arrogance. (...)

And so he swept down on Stoney Sept, closed off the town, and began a search. (...) The townsfolk were hiding him. They moved him from one secret bolt-hole to the next, always one step ahead of the king's men. The whole town was a nest of traitors. At the end they had the usurper hidden in a brothel. What sort of king was that, who would hide behind the skirts of women? Yet whilst the search dragged on, Eddard Stark and Hoster Tully came down upon the town with a rebel army. Bells and battle followed, and Robert emerged from his brothel with a blade in hand, and almost slew Jon on the steps of the old sept that gave the town its name.

For years afterward, Jon Connington told himself that he was not to blame, that he had done all that any man could do. His soldiers searched every hole and hovel, he offered pardons and rewards, he took hostages and hung them in crow cages and swore that they would have neither food nor drink until Robert was delivered to him. All to no avail.

Bobby B was very much loved by the people in general, in fact that's the whole thing with Stoney Sept. The townsfolk hid him because they loved him, despite the violence inflicted towards them. As Connington says, they endured everything for Bobby B's sake, they rebuffed bribes and they endured executions, even a hunger strike. Not one turned traitor, not one turned over Bobby B. Such we have a town hiding a "ruler" they love.

As a side-note, in the books the bells tolled to warn the citizens of the battle and to persuade them to stay inside their houses. It was a statement, marking a rebellion against the invading force and not a surrender signal. I believe it's in the show that is said, bells ring for dead kings, weddings (bride of fire, meaning biurning shit), and the beginning of war (this was waaay before they came up with the accident that is season 8).

Daenerys IV ~ ACOK

(second stanza) A tall lord with copper skin and silver-gold hair stood beneath the banner of a fiery stallion, a burning city behind him. (...) A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd. (...) A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly.

Epilogue ~ AFFC

Aegon has been shaped for rule since before he could walk. (...) He has lived with fisherfolk, worked with his hands, swum in rivers and mended nets and learned to wash his own clothes at need. He can fish and cook and bind up a wound, he knows what it is like to be hungry, to be hunted, to be afraid. Tommen has been taught that kingship is his right. Aegon knows that kingship is his duty, that a king must put his people first, and live and rule for them."

Aegon (who's associated with boats, the Shy Maid) will be loved, he's the cloth dragon the people are cheering for (it doesn't mean he's fake, LMAO) and Danerys will burn King's Landing in retalliation. Like Cersei Lannister ended up "loved" in the penultime episode of the show, when she took the townsfolk inside the Red Keep. Forced, I know, but that's what they depicted and what Daniella thought just before she burned them all, the townsfolk preferred Cersei to Daniella. And we highly suspect show!Cersei took book!Aegon's role, such it will be him that will be sitting in King's Landing in the books.

The Griffin Reborn ~ ADWD

"Tywin Lannister himself could have done no more," he had insisted one night to Blackheart, during his first year of exile.

"There is where you're wrong," Myles Toyne had replied. "Lord Tywin would not have bothered with a search. He would have burned that town and every living creature in it. Men and boys, babes at the breast, noble knights and holy septons, pigs and whores, rats and rebels, he would have burned them all.

he would have burned them all.

This is Bran's prophetic visions in sequence, linking Drogon, flying over King's Landing, then an "equivalence" between Aerys saying "burn them all" and Danerys with Drogon.

It's also worth mentionioning for the milionth of time, that "Daenerys" is is an anagram for "Aerys End", you know the guy who wanted to burn King's Landing to the ground instead of letting beloved by the people Bobby B take the throne.

The Griffin Reborn ~ ADWD

He was not wrong, Jon Connington reflected, leaning on the battlements of his forebears. I wanted the glory of slaying Robert in single combat, and I did not want the name of butcher.

Daenerys IV ~ ADWD

Dany was appalled. He is a monster. A gallant monster, but a monster still. "Do you take me for the Butcher King?"

"Better the butcher than the meat. All kings are butchers. Are queens so different?" (...)

What have I done? she thought, huddled in her empty bed. I have waited so long for him to come back, and I send him away. "He would make a monster of me," she whispered, "a butcher queen." But then she thought of Drogon far away, and the dragons in the pit. There is blood on my hands too, and on my heart. We are not so different, Daario and I. We are both monsters.

Danerys accepting her dragon side, which haappens at the end of ADWD and this is why she manages to ride Drogon, is directly connected to being a monster, a butcher. This is word play that translated to the show as well.

GoT 7x02 - Stormborn

DAENERYS picks up a dragon figurine from the table.

DAENERYS: If Viserys had three dragons and an army at his back, he'd have invaded King's Landing already.~

TYRION: Conquering Westeros would be easy for you. But you're not here to be queen of the ashes.

DAENERYS: No.

DAENERYS puts down the dragon figurine.

TYRION: We can take the Seven Kingdoms without turning it into a slaughterhouse. If the great houses support your claim against Cersei, the game is won.

Danerys clothes when she burned King's Landing have red staining the skirt, like a butcher's apron stained with blood as he works.

The Griffin Reborn ~ ADWD

"Wait, I say. Gather our power, win some small lords to our cause, let Lysono Maar dispatch his spies to learn what we can learn of our foes."

Connington gave the plump captain-general a cool look. This man is no Blackheart, no Bittersteel, no Maelys. He would wait until all seven hells were frozen if he could rather than risk another bout of blisters. "We did not cross half the world to wait. Our best chance is to strike hard and fast, before King's Landing knows who we are.

In the show, Danerys is impatient to attack King's Landing, she doesn't want to wait, and has to be convinced REPEATEDLY to not "strike hard and fast". And in one of them, Daenerys and butchering linked together makes yet another appearance (the script above).

Aegon the Conqueror

Maegor the Cruel

Danerys the Butcher. Bitch deserves it.

Aegon and Jon Connington

In the second part of the chapter, Aegon arrives at the Griffin's Roost and Connington and Aegon discuss the attack on Storm's End.

Sansa VII ~ ASOS

The Broken Tower was easier still. They made a tall tower together, kneeling side by side to roll it smooth, and when they'd raised it Sansa stuck her fingers through the top, grabbed a handful of snow, and flung it full in his face. Petyr yelped, as the snow slid down under his collar. "That was unchivalrously done, my lady."

"As was bringing me here, when you swore to take me home."

She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.

The Griffin Reborn ~ ADWD

A solid man, and true, Connington thought as he watched Duck dismount, but not worthy of the Kingsguard. He had tried his best to dissuade the prince from giving Duckfield that cloak, pointing out that the honor might best be held in reserve for warriors of greater renown whose fealty would add luster to their cause, and the younger sons of great lords whose support they would need in the coming struggle, but the boy would not be moved. "Duck will die for me if need be," he had said, "and that's all I require in my Kingsguard. The Kingslayer was a warrior of great renown, and the son of a great lord as well."

At least I convinced him to leave the other six slots open, else Duck might have six ducklings trailing after him, each more blindingly adequate than the last. "Escort His Grace to my solar," he commanded. "At once."

Prince Aegon Targaryen was not near as biddable as the boy Young Griff had been, however. The better part of an hour had passed before he finally turned up in the solar, with Duck at his side. "Lord Connington," he said, "I like your castle."

"Your father's lands are beautiful," he said. His silvery hair was blowing in the wind, and his eyes were a deep purple, darker than this boy's. "As do I, Your Grace. Please, be seated. Ser Rolly, we'll have no further need of you for now."

"No, I want Duck to stay." The prince sat. "We've been talking with Strickland and Flowers. They told us about this attack on Storm's End that you're planning."

Jon Connington did not let his fury show. "And did Homeless Harry try to persuade you to delay it?"

"He did, actually," the prince said, "but I won't. Harry's an old maid, isn't he? You have the right of it, my lord. I want the attack to go ahead … with one change. I mean to lead it."

As I said in the part 1 of this series, there are many parallels between Aegon's story and Sansa's story. One is a future event, where Sansa and Aegonwill escape the toxic mentors that pose as their fake parent (even if Connington isn't 1/10 as bad as Littlefinger).

In Sansa's case, this most likely will happen when she flees north if "Sansa is Grey Girl" theory holds true (and it happened in the show, moreover this is a parallel she has with Arya and Bran as well, both will also have to flee their toxic mentors soon) and she'll grow more independent from Pedofinger as she regains her identity as Sansa Stark and with her cousin (and the North) by her side.

In Aegon's case, we can see that he's already more indepedent than he used to be (it all started when he stepped up at the Golden Company higher-ups and convinced them to fight for him and his cause). Connington suggests this is because the boy is now Aegon Targaryen and no longer Young Griff, in other words Aegon is growing more confident the more he regains his identity.I suspect that like Sansa, Aegon will grow even more confident with his cousin Arianne (and Dorne) by his side.

Sansa II ~ AGOT

When Sansa finally looked up, a man was standing over her, staring. He was short, with a pointed beard and a silver streak in his hair, almost as old as her father. "You must be one of her daughters," he said to her. He had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did. "You have the Tully look."

Sansa VII ~ AGOT

"I won't." He sounded almost like Marillion, the night he'd gotten so drunk at the wedding. Only this time Lothor Brune would not appear to save her; Ser Lothor was Petyr's man. "You shouldn't kiss me. I might have been your own daughter . . ."

"Might have been," he admitted, with a rueful smile. "But you're not, are you? You are Eddard Stark's daughter, and Cat's. But I think you might be even more beautiful than your mother was, when she was your age."

The Griffin Reborn ~ ADWD

But when Jon Connington stepped out onto the high battlements, the view was just as intoxicating as he remembered: the crag with its wind-carved rocks and jagged spires, the sea below growling and worrying at the foot of the castle like some restless beast, endless leagues of sky and cloud, the wood with its autumnal colors. "Your father's lands are beautiful," Prince Rhaegar had said, standing right where Jon was standing now. And the boy he'd been had replied, "One day they will all be mine." As if that could impress a prince who was heir to the entire realm, from the Arbor to the Wall. (...)

"Lord Connington," he said, "I like your castle."

Pedofinger and Ebonington. Leave the children alone! *screams*

#aegon VI targaryen

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quazartranslates · 3 years ago

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Welcome to the Nightmare Game II - CH11

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

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Chapter 11: Resurrection Overture (XI)

Unfortunately, Qi Leren could escape his “date” with the Illusionist, but he couldn’t escape his one with Chen Baiqi.　　

Since there was no specific time for the day's training, Qi Leren got up early the next morning. When he got up, he thought he would suffer from a sore back due to training too hard the previous day, but except for slightly sore thighs, his body had no symptoms of strain, which made Qi Leren feel incredible.　　

Was it because he’d been blessed by Maria’s holy light?　　

Clearly last night when he’d gone to Du Yue, he’d been as tired as a dead dog. Du Yue had received him warmly and easily agreed to sign the confidentiality contract. According to the contract agreement, he wouldn’t be able to reveal this secret to anyone, whether it was in writing or spoken or even from a mind control skill. As long as it was concerning these secrets, he couldn’t say anything and Qi Leren would also feel it if he did.　　

This was actually an unfair contract that had no benefit to Du Yue. Qi Leren wanted to compensate him with some survival time, but Du Yue didn't agree: "I can earn so many survival days because of the clues qianbei gave me. I’ve already made a lot of money, I dare not ask for your days as well. If there’s a chance in the future, please take me with you!"　　

Looking at Du Yue's earnest eyes, Qi Leren agreed without saying anything.　　

At six o'clock in the morning, Qi Leren arrived at Chen Baiqi's shop and tentatively knocked on the door.　　

The door opened and Chen Baiqi, who had already dressed neatly and washed her hair, looked at him with a smile: "That’s very positive. I thought you wouldn’t arrive till after seven o'clock."　　

Qi Leren said that if he really had come after seven o'clock, he wasn’t sure how he’d be treated by Chen Baiqi.　　

"I’m very pleased to see that you’re so motivated. You’ll report to me at this time every day in the future. You know the consequences of being late." Chen Baiqi's smile widened. In Qi Leren’s eyes, this was really a smile full of maliciousness. "As for breakfast, ask Sissi what she wants to eat and get me the same."　　

Sissi, who came out of the back room with a yawn, said sleepily, "Flatbread fitters, thank you."　　

Chen Baiqi had put an hourglass on the table and encouraged Qi Leren by saying, "Twenty minutes."　　

"It takes at least ten minutes to run from here to the market near the steel bridge!" cried Qi Leren.　　

Chen Baiqi glanced at the hourglass: "Nineteen minutes and fifty seconds. If you feel stressed, I can send a lovely dog to accompany you."　　

Accepting his fate, Qi Leren pushed open the door and started to run as if a three-headed hellhound was eyeing his chrysanthemum behind him—truly, this was the most terrible place.　　

Many years later, Qi Leren still remembered the dominating fear of buying breakfast. In a sense, this period of running for his life in the sunset was the worst time in his life. The shopkeepers in the bazaar remembered this wind-like man. He would rush to the booth with short messy hair right on time at about 6:10 every day to buy two breakfasts. If there were other people waiting in line, his bereavement and frequent glances at his watch would make people suspect that he was manic. The most dramatic time, when he was faced with a long queue, he had resolutely cut in line at the expense of paying for everyone else in the line and disappeared from everyone’s sight like an unscrupulous customer who ran out when faced with the bill.　　

—He runs faster than I did when I learned my wife was giving birth, a stall owner said.　　

—Once, he brought a three-headed hellhound to do his morning exercises and ran faster than usual, another vendor said.　　

—That boy is really handsome. If I’m slow at preparing cakes, he almost starts crying in his rush. It's very distressing, a middle-aged female vendor fondly said.　　

People in the market speculated on his origin, but for a long time no one knew who he was, so the "6:10 rush to buy breakfast" was also included in the top ten incredible sights in the Village of Dusk. It’s worth mentioning that a new addition was also added to this list recently—why are there so many tombstones for Qi Leren on Undead Island?　　

However, Qi Leren, who monopolized these two items on the list, had no idea about his "unexpected popularity" because recently he was living a life that was like death. Chen Baiqi happily told him that because Maria’s holy light had blessed him, his body was very "resistant to exercise" and could accept more intensive training. She used this as an excuse to arrange an inhuman training regimen for Qi Leren.　　

Twenty minutes of hard running in the morning was just an appetizer. It was common to practice shooting at the same time. Even swimming from the Village of Dusk’s port to Undead Island was included in the daily training. Before finishing training every day, there was another "love lesson" by Chen Baiqi, which translates to "teaching you how to be hit by various weapons". Even the day when you dislocated your right hand because of shooting practice, you were not spared.　　

At this time, Qi Leren realized that the training menu Ning Zhou had given him was too easy and that he was too gentle as a coach. Just look at the results of Chen Baiqi's devil training: Within a week, when Qi Leren was chased by the three-headed hellhound outdoors, he was able to climb onto the roof without changing color, climbing faster than a monkey. If Chen Baiqi hadn't forbidden him from doing anything to the dog, he would have jumped at the evil dog with a gun.　　

Yes, Qi Leren also learned to shoot, as taught by Chen Baiqi.　　

Before be taught, Chen Baiqi also asked him how much he knew about guns and which one he wanted to try.　　

Although he was a man, he wasn’t very interested in guns. He said, "I don't play shooter games very much. How about a Desert Eagle? I’ve heard those are very powerful."　　

Chen Baiqi rolled her eyes: "You really do know nothing about guns."　　

Chen Baiqi recommended a revolver similar to a Smith Wesson 625, which had a large caliber, six-chambers, and convenient loading that wasn’t easy to jam. It was said that it was made by a gun fan, and that it couldn't be mass-produced at present with the technological level of the Twilight Township. He earned a lot of survival days thanks to this skill.　　

Qi Leren took the strange gun and thought of the problem of the laptop transformer and charger. The craftsman who was still alive when he’d gone last time had been away on a task, and he may have come back now. He would go see about this after today’s training.　　

While training in the afternoon, Chen Baiqi had a whim to teach Qi Leren how to dive, or dive without any equipment to be exact, to exercise his breath-holding ability, compression resistance, and control of his heartbeat and breathing. Since his profession was that of an assassin, he couldn't do without a well-trained heart.　　

Qi Leren listened in anguish to the main points about diving, put on the headlamp, and looked at the endless sea.　　

"I advocate that every player who focuses on the assassin's route should learn to dive, because to be a good assassin he must learn to overcome his nervousness and fear. There’s no training that can train a person better than jumping into the sea alone to challenge your own limits. As you dive deeper and deeper, the light will decrease. In the end, only your own heartbeat will be left in the dark world. It will seem like your soul has escaped from your body and roamed in endless darkness. You will be isolated and helpless. Nothing can save you. You have to learn to rely on yourself. The water pressure in all directions will become stronger and stronger, but the oxygen in your lungs will become less and less, and death will become closer and closer to you, and you won't even know what depth you’re diving to. You will feel fear, more and more fear, and fear will make your heart beat faster, oxygen consumption will increase dramatically, and you will die faster if you cannot overcome this fear." Chen Baiqi looked at Qi Leren, who was shivering in the wind, and smiled happily.　　

"This area isn’t deep. You’ll go down and touch a shell. It’s very simple to do," Chen Baiqi said.　　

Qi Leren said bitterly, "Can you tie a rope around me? What if I can't come back up from the water?"　　

Chen Baiqi's smile grew deeper, and her slender eyebrows made this smile even more malicious: "Don't be afraid, it doesn't matter if you don't come up for a while, anyway. You’ll slowly float up after swelling a little in two days."　　

“………………”

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Editor’s Notes: The next chapter may be a bit late, as I’ve had a hectic last couple weeks and unfortunately have fallen behind. I will try to avoid this though.

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[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

#Welcome to the Nightmare Game #欢迎来到噩梦游戏 #danmei

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cry-stars · 3 years ago

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Fic Questionnaire

Tagged by @dazais-guardian-angel! Thank you so much, Dana! This is ridiculously long, so I’m putting it under a read-more, but first, I’m tagging @shocotate, @gemstoneslesbian, @theo-sev, @101flavoursofweird, @asa-liz, @teaofdestiny, and @ms-enmystic if any of you would like to do this as well! If anyone else would like to, please feel free, I mean it! I only tagged people that I know have an Ao3/write fics, but if you would like to, please go for it.

How many works do you have on AO3? 41

What's your total AO3 word count? 152999

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Professor Layton, Fullmetal Alchemist, and Lord of the Rings are the ones I’ve written the most for. I’ve also written a few stories for Rune Factory, Ace Attorney, Astro Boy, Ouran High School Host Club, Marvel, and Sonic the Hedgehog.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

The Open Jar, Golden Child, Ambivalence, The Duality of Homunculi, and Responsibilities. They’re all FMA stories; I’m kind of sad that none of the PL stories are on top, since I think I improved a lot since writing the FMA ones, but it all comes down to fandom size, I think.

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

These days, I always do, even if it’s just a short “Thanks so much for reading, I’m so glad you liked it!” I’m just really grateful that somebody would take the time to read the story and bother to say something. It takes a lot of energy to leave a comment sometimes, even a short one, and saying thank you for that is the least that I can do. I had pretty bad depression about two and a half years ago and took a big social media break for about six months; I didn’t respond to any comments during that time. I feel pretty bad about it now, and sometimes I think about responding, but it was so long ago that I feel awkward replying now.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

Maybe that OHSHC fic “Funeral” I wrote years ago where Tamaki gets… shot and dies??? Why did I write that…??? I intended to write a follow-up where he didn’t actually die and recovers, but I never did, so the fic seems to end with him dying. That’s one of the cringe fics that I kind of want to delete now :’) Second-closest (and one that I actually like/don’t find too cringey) is my recent Clora fic “Almost Lost,” which ends with a lot of crying, but it isn’t a tragedy and their crisis is averted.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not exactly. I did get a couple of comments with criticisms on FF.net years ago, but nothing horrible. Sometimes people vaguepost about how Clora is Bad after I post something, haha, but that’s pretty much the extent of it thankfully... I’d probably cry if I actually got a hate comment adsjhkdsaf... :’)

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Asdfhjkadfasdlfaf no. I get so embarrassed even writing about kissing. I’d someday like to write something that actually deserves the T rating that I give to a lot of my ship fics, but I don’t think that I could write anything higher-rated than that, and it’ll probably take me a long time to work up to that.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don’t think so!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, not to my knowledge. If someone wanted to, though, that would be neat!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

A long time ago, my friend and I wrote a very silly LOTR fic where we would alternate writing chapters, with no planning whatsoever. Unfortunately, I haven’t heard from her in years; I wish we could have finished the fic, even if it was garbage adskjhdsf… I miss her. More recently, my friend and I have been co-writing (or at least brainstorming) a Clora story (costarring a cherished OC) set twenty years after UF. Even if the fic takes forever to actually come together, we’ve come up with so many great ideas and it’s been loads of fun.

What's your all time favorite ship?

Clora’s definitely my all-time favourite. There have been a few others that are really special to me, but honestly, Clora has everything I want in a ship. They have so much potential for fluff and angst, and they can get SO much character development together. (and I really relate to/adore both characters sdjkhsadf…) The ship does get hate and that does discourage me at times, but they feel really rewarding to write about; I feel like I’m solving a puzzle whenever I get one step closer to having them get a happy ending together. Nobody had written about them since like… 2016 until I started last year, so I’m really glad that a few other people who also liked the ship have something to read again now.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

Some of my old FMA WIPs… I’m not really into FMA or the characters/ship I used to write for anymore, and I kind of feel like I won’t ever get that kind of passion for the series again, although I still have some good memories of it. Every so often, though, I get a really nice comment on one of them and wish that I could finish them for those peoples’ sake.

What are your writing strengths?

Once I’ve found what emotion I’m going for, I think that I’m fairly good at keeping it consistent throughout a whole fic. I think that I’m also okay at being sympathetic to most characters, even ones that I don’t really like; it feels awful when somebody spitefully writes about my favourite characters, and I don’t want anyone to feel that way when reading my stuff. I think that I’m good at writing about… longing or yearning too, haha… not so good at writing established relationship stuff adshjksfd but I’m getting better.

What are your writing weaknesses?

So much… The biggest thing is getting myself to write at all. I just get so easily overwhelmed, distracted, or discouraged and give up. It takes me forever to write just a oneshot, let alone multichapter stories. I’m also quite bad at planning ahead… I plan major moments in a story, but often, the in-between bits are surprises to me. I do enjoy how my characters kind of take me on a ride and surprise me, but sometimes I find myself written into a corner. I also overexplain. So many of my chapters wind up so long because I feel like I have to explain every little detail.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I’ve never done much of that when writing about real-life languages, but I used to throw in the random Sindarin word in my LotR fics, such as calling someone’s father “Ada,” since that was common in LotR fics back then. If I was to do it now, though, I’d probably only include dialogue in another language if it was immediately translated to English afterwards, like someone explaining what a sentence meant, but I wouldn’t throw in random words unless it was a character’s normal habit to mix languages.

What was the first fandom you ever wrote for?

The Lorax, but it was super cringe, and I deleted the fic… Funnily enough, it wasn’t even about the onceler, it was about my OC dad for him.

My official first fandom in my mind is Lord of the Rings/Tolkien in general. I was a very awkward and excitable teenager, new to the internet, and met a lot of kids on FF.net who were as awkward as me by commenting on their very silly fics/writing very silly fics similar to theirs to try to impress them. I had so much fun and made a lot of friends that way, although I’ve lost touch with almost all of them, sadly… I really miss them. The fics are all on my FF.net profile still, but I don’t recommend most of them aJSDKsdf… Those were the days before I was an angst addict and everything I wrote was ridiculous. Most things I wrote before 2019 aren’t very good to me...

What's your favorite fic you've ever written?

Right now, probably Bright Saffron Dreams… I put so much love and energy into that one, and it has so many tropes that I like in it. If I’d been brave enough to make it slightly more overtly romantic, it would have been exactly what I wanted in a Clora fic, haha...

#my fanfiction #tag games #I'm so sorry if I missed tagging anybody that would like to #please go for it if I missed you!

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lovemychoices · 5 years ago

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RoD- Playing with Fire. CH2 (1/2)

Book: Ride or Die

Pairing: Colt x MC

Once upon a time, an angel fell for a devil and they called it true love. -J.P.D

Kaela Matsuo didn’t think she would fall in love with someone during her senior year of highschool it was the last thing on her mind but then she met Colt while hanging out with Logan and everything changed. After taking down Jason and saying their heartbreaking goodbyes will Kaela and Colt ever find a way back to each other again? And if they do are they ready to face new obstacles together?

Disclaimer : Characters except my OCs belong to Pixelberry, I am just borrowing them.

I’m not a professional writer, just someone with a creative outlet finding a way to express herself. (And trying to improve as I go.) Also sorry for the grammatical errors in advance, I like only double check my work once.

Word count : 2123

Chapter Summary: A heart breaking phone call and a broken Kaela.

A/N : Ha! Finally posted the second chapter of this series. Sorry I’m really bad at updating been busy with life and work stuff, what was thinking doing more than 1 series 🤷🏻‍♀️. This chapter will consist of 2 parts.

Big shoutout to @thecordoniandiaries and @client-327 for listening to my ramblings and throwing ideas around.

Rating : This is a PG-18 series, there will be Violence, NSFW and other PG-18 stuff. If you read this you acknowledge you are above 18 years old.

Warning/ Triggers : A lot Angst, mentions of character death. I’m sorry this chapter might only contain 2% fluff or no fluff at all. If you think you can’t handle this cup of Tea you may skip this chapter. You have been warned!

Tagged list : @thecordoniandiaries @leelee10898 @annekebbphotography @desiree-0816 @emceesynonymroll @jessiembruno @jlpplays1

Rod tag list : @liamzigmichael4ever @client-327 @brightpinkpeppercorn @lovehugsandcandy @lilyofchoices @justdani14 @zaffrenotes @queenkaneko

Song Inspiration: Chord Overstreet - Hold On

Loving and fighting

Accusing, uniting

I can't imagine a world with you gone

The joy and the chaos, the demons we're made of

I'd be so lost if you left me alone

Ximena’s words hit Kaela like a knife to the heart, her breath catches her throat trying to process everything, her body trembled unable to form the next words. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening. “Tell me this isn’t true X, tell me this is just one of Colt’s stupid plans or something.” She stammers. “How do you even know it’s him it could be someone else?!”

“Because. Because we were working together on a job when it happened. Something went wrong the cops got wind of our operation and they ended up chasing him, the roads were slippery from the rain and he. He just lost control. I overheard from the police scanner that he was found dead on the spot. Kaela I really am so so sorry, I know how much Colt meant to you, how much you both meant to each other.” She informs Kaela regretfully.

“W— Where is he?” Kaela asks her breath shaky but Ximena hesitates from answering. “Ximena where is Colt? Where did they take the body? Please answer me!” She pleads desperately. Ximena could feel that Kaela was hurt and being in denial, not wanting to face the reality of losing Colt. She treads carefully before she finally speaks. “Kaela, it’s not a good idea. The accident it messed Colt up badly, he wouldn’t want that image of him to be the last thing you remember.”

“I don’t care Ximena!” She belted. “I want to see it with my own eyes. I have to please, please, please.” Her voice cracks, her eyes start welling with tears. “Please I need to see him.”

Ximena hesitates again but finally gives in, she gives Kaela the address. Kaela quickly grabs her purse and keys from the counter but before she hangs up there was something else Ximena had to tell her. “Kaela before you go you should know, your dad. He is the one who is handling the case.” Kaela pauses at the threshold of the door when Ximena mentions her dad, they haven’t been close ever since the whole MPC argument. Sure they talked every once in a while to catch up on each others lives but things were never the same as they were before.

She closes her eyes then lets out a calm sigh. “Thank you Ximena, I know you’re risking a lot just by calling me right now.” “Take care Kaela.” Ximena advises her then hangs up. Kaela shoves her phone into her handbag slamming the door behind her quickly races to find Colt.

****

Kaela drove as fast as she could, hitting the gas pedal speeding across the highway. Swiftly maneuvering through the city and over taking every car that was in her way, she could feel the rush of adrenaline in her blood. “I promise I’ll find away for us to be together again.” The memory of Colt’s words the last time they saw each other came crashing back, tears began welling up in her eyes once more and she quickly wiped them away. She needed to see if it was really. Please don’t let it be him. She quickly put her car in park upon arriving at the coroner's office. Getting out and slammed the car door behind her, not caring that she was double parked.

“Excuse me miss you can’t be here at this hour.” The security at the front desk exclaimed as she barges into the building. Kaela ignores the security guard, quickly pacing past him looking at the signs above for the morgue. She turns the corner and she sees him, her dad standing outside the door that leads to the morgue. “Dad!” She called running towards him. Mr. Matsuo turns his eyes widen, hands in his pocket. “Kaela? W— What are you doing here?” He stutters. “You shouldn’t be here Kaela.”

“I need to see him.I need to know if it’s really him” She tries to head for the door leading to the morgue but he stops her blocking her path giving her a regretful look. “Dad what are you doing to get out of my way.”

“Kaela please don't do this, don’t make yourself hurt anymore than you already have.” He pleads but Kaela doesn’t listen trying to force her way in. He finally shows her a clear evidence bag to get her attention. “Kaela these are some of the things we found on him or at least what we managed to salvage.” She swallows a lump in her throat when she sees what was in it, among the things was a familiar Jade Kitsune.

****

Flashback here..

It was the night of senior prom, the first time Colt and Kaela confessed their love for each other, it was also the first time they slept together. The first time she gave herself to someone. Kaela nestled herself under his arms, her head resting on his bare chest feeling a sense of total bliss. How could anyone with the tendency to bring danger wherever he goes make her feel so safe at the same time. “What’s on your mind sweetheart?” Colt calmly asked while he traced soothing lines on her arm.

“Just thinking about how much I wished we could stay like this forever. No schemes, no bad guys to take down. Just us.. like this in this moment.” She murmured.

“Believe me I’ve been thinking the same thing.” He replied then heaves a sigh. “But we’re going to have to go back to reality soon.”

Kaela turned stretching her hand toward the side table grabbing her small clutch, she opened it and took out a small jade pendant then handed it to Colt. “Is this a Kitsune?” Colt asked cocking an eyebrow as he rubbed his fingers on the Jade pendant. “Mhmm..” She hummed nestling herself back into his arms. He turned the Kitsune behind and noticed some Japanese symbol engraved to it.

ケイラ

“What does this mean?” He questioned. Kaela rolled onto her stomach, propping her head on her hands and smiled when she saw the engraving on the Jade pendant. “It’s supposed to be a translation of my name when written in Kanji. When I was a child, my cousin was babysitting me and decided it was a good idea to let a six year old watch a horror movie. I was traumatized for weeks after that, I couldn’t sleep without the lights on. Then one day my mom gave me this, she told me that Jade crystals are used in asian cultures to ward off evil and that Kitsune’s are known to bring wisdom, long life and luck.”

“They are also known to be tricksters.” He added with a devilish grin. “You’re not the only one with some Japanese blood running through their veins, remember?”

“Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to you.” She winked. “Really? I thought it was because of how cute I was.” He chuckled and she swats him playfully, her expression quickly changes into something sincere. “I want you to have it Colt. It kept me safe all these years, it would make me feel better knowing you have it with you.”

“Kaela I can’t take this from you. You said so yourself your mom gave it to you. I know that this must mean a lot.” He replied.

“It does, but you mean a lot more to me so I want you to have it. Just promise me you’ll keep it with you wherever you go.” She grinned.

Colt doesn’t answer at first instead he pulled her into a deep kiss, when they parted he tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “I promise you, I’ll keep this close to me until my very last breath.”

***

Present day..

Kaela’s shoulders drop when she sees the Jade Kitsune she gave Colt the night of her senior prom. She felt her body tremble and drops on to her knees, pressing her hands on her head and cries. “No, no, no.This can’t be. This can’t. I can't. I can't. I... I can't. I can't. No. It hurts. It hurts. Just make it stop! Please make it stop! It hurts!”

Mr.Matsuo saw how much the news affected her. His heart feels like it’s breaking into a million pieces watching his daughter like this but what’s done can’t be undone. He kneels down and gives her a tight hug rubbing soothing circles trying to comfort her. “It’s okay Kaela. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

But how could she be? Every inch of her body was hurting when the realization that she would never see him, talk to him or touch him ever again hit her. That last piece of hope that she was clinging on to that piece that kept her going it was gone. Kaela couldn’t think, she couldn’t breathe, She felt like she was suffocating. “I can’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t. Please make it stop. Dad just make it stop! Make it stop!”

****

A few months have passed since she got the heartbreaking news about Colt, they say a broken heart will heal over time but time did nothing for Kaela. Losing Colt hit her hard, she was falling back on all her classes, her grades were slipping, so she decided to take a semester off. She lost a lot of weight because she wasn’t eating well, she wouldn’t leave her apartment unless she had to work or buy some things at the grocery. She isolated herself from the outside world.

“Ah! What the actual fuck?!” Kaela growls as the blinding sunlight pierces through her eyes.

“Get up, we’re going out tonight!” Riya exclaims after opening the curtains, she pulls Kaela’s blanket away from her. Kaela takes a small plush pillow next to her and covers her face from the blinding light, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Go away Riya, I’m not in the mood to go anywhere right now.”

“I'm serious Kaela!” Riya insisted placing both hands on her waist but Kaela pretends not to care. When she sees how stubborn Kaela was being, she drops her shoulders and heaves a sigh. She hated seeing her best friend like this, she takes a sit on the bed next to Kaela. “Listen, I know how much you loved Colt and I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through but it’s been almost 3 months Kaela, even if you’re not over him you can’t just live your life like this forever. When was the last time you went out for fresh air or even had a proper meal?” Riya asked but Kaela still refuses to answer her. “I’m not asking you to move on from Colt if you’re not ready, I just don’t want you to spend the rest of your life miserable and all alone. You haven’t been out in ages, who knows this could be good for you? Meeting new people, opening new doors. Just try Kaela, if not for me then for yourself.” Riya got up from Kaela’s bed and heads for the door she hesitates at the threshold then looks over at Kaela. “There’s a party tonight at Mike's house if you happen to change your mind I’ve sent you the e-vite along with the address. I really hope you’ll come.

Kaela waited until Riya left the apartment before getting out of bed, feeling dizzy as she slowly stood up. She heads to the bathroom dragging her fit. A nice long soak in the tub would be good. She dips her hand into the water to make sure the temperature was right. As soon as the bath was ready, she strips off her clothes and slowly stepped into the bathtub.

She closed her eyes trying to relax, trying to forget until mind slowly drifted and she found herself submerged in the water. But then she hears the voices, a surge of memories come crashing all at once. I love you Kaela.. I promise I’ll find a way for us to be together again.. Kaela I’m sorry… I can't. I can't. No. It hurts. It hurts.. Just make it stop! Please make it stop! It hurts!... I love you, Colt. Hold on to that. Kaela emerges from the water, gasping for air. She could feel her heart pounding as she panted, trying to catch her breath.

Once she managed to compose herself, she gets out of the tub and dries off before wrapping herself in a towel then heads to the sink. Kaela wipes the mist that built up on the mirror, she then leans against the sink staring at her reflection. She doesn’t recognize the person standing in front of her, it looked like an entirely different person, like someone who was broken inside and out. Fuck maybe Riya was right, I need to get out of this apartment a night out should help make me forget.

#playchoice #playchoices ride or die #choices ride or die #Colt x MC #colt kaneko #mc x colt #Logan x Mc #choices rod

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arthurs-wife · 6 years ago

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The Final Push to the Sum

Anonymous said to arthurs-wife:

Hello dear I know you’re requests are closed but please could you do a fic when you have the time where Arthur gives the reader his hat instead of John before he dies and years later she’s still wearing it when she goes with John to kill Micha and Dutch notices the hat on her head and calls her Mrs Morgan when he see her. Thank you 💋

A/N: thank you for the prompt! if you havent noticed i really like translating visual mediums to written ones and boy i sure do fucking miss arthur morgan.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female reader

The three of you saw the top of the hill and Arthur stopped. You turned to see him with his hands on his knees, coughing heartily.

You knew it in your heart and still held out hope.

“Arthur, come on!”

You made to run to him but John grabbed your hand, reeling you back.

“Come on, let’s go!” John pleaded, pulling you with him, “keep pushing!”

Arthur let out a wracking cough, wiping blood from his lip and fixing you both with a sad gaze.

“No,” he shook his head tiredly, “no, I think I’ve pushed all I can.”

“We ain’t got time for this!” John said angrily. Arthur sighed and pulled off his hat, approaching the two of you.

“We ain’t all gonna make it,” he said quietly. He pulled his satchel off and pressed it in John’s hands, “Go, now. It would mean a lot to me if you and this one here got out safely.”

John nodded but you looked between them.

“Arthur you have to-”

“I have to make sure you’re safe,” he cut you off, fixing his hat on your head, “now go, go be with your family and be a god damn man! And you,” he rested his hand on your shoulder, “you stay livin’.”

“Arthur!” John pleaded again but held you back as Arthur climbed up the mountain, “Arthur you’re my brother!”

“I know,” Arthur said sadly, looking back one last time at the two of you, “I know.”

John let out a frustrated growl and grabbed your hand.

“We have to go now,” he said thickly.

“We can’t leave him, John!”

“Don’t make him die for nothin’!”

You finally stopped resisting and ran alongside him, away from the cold mountaintop.

***

Arthur,

We came back for you yesterday. I’ve never seen John that torn apart. I stayed with Abigail to help with Jack and I’m supposed to go visit you tomorrow. I don’t know if I can.

***

Arthur,

I’m not the best at this. I left John and Abigail and Jack last week, they should be better off without me. I’ll try my luck in Rhodes. I always thought that was a nice town.

***

Arthur please come back. I don’t know what to do-

***

Arthur,

John and Uncle came to find me, so many years have passed I almost didn’t recognize him. They want us to build a house out near Blackwater. How about that.

***

Arthur,

Sadie came by and said she found Micah. I’m going to kill him. I know you were never in the business for revenge but I was never as good as you. I wish you were here to stop me.

***

These cold fucking mountaintops were to be the death of you. John kicked open the door to an outhouse and was met with nothing.

“Micah!” he shouted into the wind, “I know you’re out here!”

A door slammed behind you and you both whipped around to see Micah striding out of the cabin.

“Hello scarface,” he hissed, “did you miss me?”

“Not much.”

“Been a few years.”

The three of you circled each other, getting into position.

“I see that whore of Morgan’s is still around,” Micah sneered, nodding his head at you, “and how is yours?”

“She’s fine,” John said, calmer than you knew he was, “reckoned I shouldn’t have come to kill you and all that.”

“Maybe I’ll give her a call when this is all over,” Micah said, “and that boy of yours.”

“We’ll see.”

In a split second he started shooting and the two of you rushed behind cover, taking potshots when you could.

“I’ll make you rich, Marston!” you heard him shout over the gunfire, “I got all the money from Blackwater! You wanna be rich?”

“Sounds good!” John called, popping up to take a shot, “come out and give it to me!”

You slunk behind the outhouse and behind Micah and stuck him in the back with the barrel of your gun, Arthur’s gun.

“Come on out, Micah,” you snarled, “it’s done.”

Micah put his guns in the air slowly.

“Alright hellfire,” he said, stowing his guns away, “alright, you got me.”

You shoved him in the back again and into the open where John came out, gun trained between his eyes.

“Just like old times, huh?” Micah laughed, “a whole manner of folk payin’ social calls.”

The cabin door slammed again and you all turned to see Dutch emerge from the doorway, dual guns trained on the lot of you.

“Hello son,” he nodded at John, then turned to see you, Arthur’s hat fixed on your head like a grim reminder of his sins. He had the grace to look abashed and nodded at you too. “Miss Morgan.”

It stung worse than any of Micah’s words, any of the bullets that had landed on you, and now more than ever you wished your cowboy were here with you.

Perhaps it was the tears in your eyes that made Micah catch you off guard, he wrestled you to the ground and grabbed your gun, wrapping his arm around your throat and pressing the barrel to your temple.

“Now John,” Micah mocked cruelly, “what were you saying?”

John looked helpless, flicked his eyes between you and Dutch.

“What are you doing here, Dutch”

“Same as you, I suppose.”

His tone was tired, a stark contrast to the broken record bullshit Micah spouted.

“Dutch and I are teaming up once more,” Micah said, “we got money, we got dreams. Join us, John.”

“Let her go,” John said. It didn’t surprise you that he wasn’t catching what Micah was throwing but it still sent a wave of relief through you.

“Now I can’t do that John,” Micah shook his head.

“Dutch,” John pleaded with his former father figure, “Dutch come on now!”

“You shot at me, son,” he said and you barely stopped yourself from rolling your eyes, how thick could the man get?

“You started it!” John spat.

“You betrayed me!”

“I could say the same for you.”

The four of you stared at each other in the cold, guns raised, hearts beating faster.

“Arthur,” John started, “saved my life more than once.”

“Arthur’s been dead a long time!” Micah smirked, “it’s a new century!”

The words cut you to the bone and your eyes rested on his hat in the snow between you and John. It seemed the flow of time was cruel to all things, especially in its haste to erase Arthur Morgan from the memories of everyone around him and only you and John cared to remember.

“Don’t make me kill you, Marston!”

“Say something, Dutch!”

The edge in John’s voice seemed to snap Dutch out of whatever trance he had been in and he fixed the man with a steely gaze before dropping the gun on John and shooting Micah dead in the gut.

Micah stumbled backwards, pushing you away and giving you time to pick up your hat and gun, which you pointed immediately at Dutch.

“You shot me,” Micah laughed, “you shot me pretty good…”

John raised his gun one more time and unloaded all six of his shots in Micah’s chest. He reeled for a moment and looked down at what John had done, then stumbled behind the barn raising his hands as if he were just so disappointed in the actions wrought by everyone here today.

His body hit the ground with an underwhelming finality.

John looked up at Dutch and heaved a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he stuttered, “Dutch, thank you, I…”

He trailed off and Dutch just stared, his beard going grey, eyes bloodshot and finally drained of all faith.

He strode past John and stopped in front of you where you lie on the ground. You had finally put your gun down and looked up at him. You weren’t sure how you felt, and you didn’t think he was sure either.

His eyes roamed up to your hat and you hoped you saw the edges of his eyes grow the ever bit shinier, but he turned away quickly.

Dutch disappeared into the gathering snowstorm of the mountain and you never saw him again.

“Holy shit!” you heard John call, “there’s gotta be at least $40,000 in here!”

You pushed yourself up off the ground and followed John into the cabin, hoping that one day the pain would wear off long enough for you to be able to celebrate things again.

At least you still had his hat.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #red dead redemption 2 #my fics

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makeste · 6 years ago

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BnHA Chapter 173: Campus Tour

Previously on BnHA: Class A hashed out everyone’s roles for the upcoming band performance/dance party. Momo wound up on keyboard, Jirou is doing vocals in addition to bass, and Kaminari and Tokoyami will be playing guitar. A staging team was also assembled, consisting of Aoyama, Sero, Kirishima, Kouda, and Shouto. And the rest of class A (as well as Aoyama again, for some reason) will be on the dance team. The next day Deku went to meet with All Might. He explained that he could only maintain 20% OFA for a short while and that it wasn’t enough to beat Overhaul and he needed some sort of long distance attack. All Might was all “then LET’S TAKE THIS OUTSIDE, SON”, and they went out to the forest and he had Deku activate 20% OFA and do a cool wind attack and fuck up some trees! And long story short, basically Deku has to learn how to utilize 20% OFA in just his hands rather than in full cowl, so that way he can whip out the wind attack whenever he wants without putting too much strain on himself. Having settled that, we then fast-forwarded one month later to the day of the cultural fest, (ETA: nope) with Mirio bringing Eri to U.A.

Today on BnHA: Mirio and Deku take Eri on a fun tour of U.A. to help her get a little more familiar with the place before the chaos and commotion of the festival. During the course of their wanderings they first come across the members of class B who are constructing the set and props for the fantasy play they’ll be doing in the festival. They then stop by to greet Hadou (who’s running for Miss Con which is basically a beauty pageant thing) and Tamaki before heading down to the support department, where they ooh and ahh at Mei’s cool giant robot. Finally they take a breather in the cafeteria and ask Eri what she thinks. She says she’s not sure, but since everyone is trying their hardest, she wants to see how it will turn out. The kids take that as a win, and Rat Principal -- who is sitting at a table nearby -- says that he’s excited too. We have a brief flashback to a meeting he had with the Commissioner General, who wanted U.A. to cancel the event. Rat Principal begged him to reconsider, saying that he felt it was necessary for the students. In the end they got the okay, on the stipulation that if the security is breached or the alarm goes off for any reason, the event will immediately be called off and evacuated. Back in the present, Deku bids Eri farewell, and one week later Mina abruptly boots him off of the dance team.

(As always, all comments not marked with an ETA are my unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter. I’ve read up through chapter 199 now, so any ETAs will reflect that.)

did these motherfuckers really just spell Kacchan as Ka-chan

(ETA: the Jaimini’s Box translations have had a lot of issues lately so I’ve mostly been sticking to Mangastream now)

also [whips out nerd glasses] according to the U.A. class schedule from the databook, the kids in fact do not have Saturdays off, typically. though maybe they have this specific Saturday off? since they said the temporary license course group also had a break

anyways, these guys are lucky that I’m in a super good mood and don’t feel like nitpicking too much BECAUSE!

IIDA MOTHERFUCKING TENYA HAS HIT THE DANCE FLOOR Y’ALL

I’m going to create a new folder on my PC right now just for pictures of Iida dancing. once it is full I will post them all, and then whenever I am sad all I’ll have to do is go back and look at that post

(ETA: oh yeah I still need to do that at some point lol. when the going gets tough, remember Dancing Iida)

also it appears that Aoyama has fully jumped ship to the dance team, because the staging team is just Shouto, Sero, Kiri, and Kouda now

meanwhile Mirio is hiding in the bushes plotting some sort of hilarious entrance!

BUT HE HAS BEEN SPOTTED

DAMMIT DEKU

also! I figured that since Eri was there, it must be the day of the festival! but I guess it isn’t! which means he’s brought Eri to hang out with all of her class A sibs early! WHICH MEANS THIS IS GOING TO BE MY FAVORITE CHAPTER OF ALL TIME, ISN’T IT

MIRIO WHAT ARE YOU DOING

I’m crying sob help

lmao Ojiro is all IS THAT SENPAI’S KID?? as though that’s somehow the ONLY POSSIBLE EXPLANATION. not his little sister, not his cousin, not even Aizawa’s kid despite him also being right there. nope. this must be Toogata Mirio’s illegitimate child

(ETA: Mangastream version just says “is that his kid” which makes me think he is in fact referring to Aizawa, which makes a lot more sense but is less hilarious though.)

Ochako and Tsuyu are immediately complimenting Eri’s fucking adorable outfit, which is 100% the correct reaction. FOR FUCK’S SAKE. HER FIRST TIME WEARING SHOES AND THEY GOT HER THE CUTEST FUCKING BOOTS IN THE WORLD. and the little kid purse that matches her outfit. I can’t

Mirio is now hauling himself out from the bushes dejectedly while Aizawa explains that they got permission from the principal to let her visit

apparently the principal quite rightly said that Eri should visit on a quieter day first so she could get used to being around people since she’s been cut off from society until now and they don’t want her to get overwhelmed

and she is indeed shyly running back to Mirio and taking his hand

so now Iida’s coming up to introduce himself

...and Mineta is officially being the MOST cancelled he’s ever been, holy fucking shit. usually I just ignore his crap, but jesus. “I’m looking forward to meeting you again in ten years!” he says. to a six-year-old. how the fuck is that funny. can’t Aizawa just fucking expel his ass already. can we just delete him already please. god

(ETA: it’s even worse coming right off of 172 where he was much more tolerable than usual. one step forward, ten million steps back. took so many fucking steps backward he went and tumbled off a fucking cliff good grief)

ugh. anyway, so Mirio’s asking Deku if he wants to come with them

they’re going to walk around U.A. with Eri and give her the tour I guess

EYYYYY

I was just thinking to myself, it didn’t seem right that all of the other interns got to say hi and not him!

omg

HE’S KIRISHIMA! YOUR NEW BEST FRIEND!

now they should go take her to watch the band practice because I want her to meet Bakugou. I just do. it could go very good or very bad but either way, I’m all in

(ETA: am I the only one who wants this?? I agree with the anon who said a while back that we have been robbed of Shouto+Eri interactions, but also! Bakugou Katsuki, who recently leveled up and got his babysitting certification! Bakugou, who would be so awkward around her, but supposing there was ever a crisis situation though? he would be super gruff and he’d tell her not to worry and that he won’t let anything happen to her and that if any villains try to start some shit he’ll kick their ass. Bakugou who wouldn’t be at all intimidated by her quirk and would think it’s badass. Bakugou who also knows what it’s like to be held prisoner by villains, even if it was only for a short while and under very different circumstances. idk you guys I just think there’s a lot of potential there and I’d love to see it. my list of people who I want to see interacting with Eri is getting fairly long by this point. and for that matter, Aizawa himself is on that fucking list too because even though he’s been acting as her guardian, it’s usually Mirio and Deku who interact with her directly.)

why are these weirdos putting their uniforms back on

is there some rule that you have to be in uniform whenever you’re at school or what

(ETA: actually this is probably the case since everyone else also has either their regular or gym uniforms on)

anyway, they’re running across some third years from the business department, and they seem to know Mirio and they’re saying hi

why is everyone on this damn campus jumping to this conclusion lmao

(ETA: and this time the MS translation is making the same joke. I think)

they’re handing out program fliers to him and Deku and telling them to come visit during the festival

oh dang

holy shit. they’re really going all out. even for something like a culture festival, U.A. don’t play

EYYYYYYYYY

I love that Monoma appears to be standing up on tiptoes to peek at them excitedly. “FUCK YEAH TIME TO INDULGE IN MY FAVORITE PASTIME”

Deku’s asking Eri if she’s okay as though he’s not the one who nearly had a heart attack just now

she says she thought it was the “falling lady”, referring to Ryuukyuu. oh my god. so fucking cute I’m gonna die

(ETA: the notion that Eri’s lasting impression of Ryuukyuu is as the giant dragon that came busting through the roof just tickles me so fucking much you guys)

Monoma is declaring war as usual

WE’LL SEE ABOUT THAT, FRIEND

oh my god

“completely original”

this is the best joke ever if this translation is accurate. please be accurate. class B you are giving me life right now

(ETA: you bet it’s accurate. and since this is the future, THIS SHIT IS ALL IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN NOW, Y’ALL. so put those lawyers away and prepare yourselves for the fantasy epic of a lifetime)

Awase is knocking him out and apologizing because Kendou wasn’t there so “he went unchecked”

OH MY GOD

HE’S RUNNING FOR MISS CON. THIS WHOLE ARC TRULY IS HORIKOSHI’S TENDER, LOVING APOLOGY FOR THAT HALLWAY OF BULLSHIT

(ETA: yet another mistranslation from Jaimini but CAN YOU IMAGINE THOUGH. but yeah, obviously what he’s actually saying is that Kendou is running)

Deku’s still shocked and says Aizawa didn’t say a single word to them about Miss Con. probably because he wasn’t able to mention it to you all at a time when Mineta was conveniently out of the room

(ETA: and also because it’s the least rational thing in the world and he will be DAMNED if his kids get caught up in that nonsense when they have more important things to be doing)

Mirio is apologizing to Eri for “suddenly showing you U.A.’s bad side” lmao

look at his face though

“I’m sorry Eri. Monoma was acting like a cotton-headed ninny muggins”

EYYYYYYYYYYY

she’s got it in the bag this year for sure

she’s floating over to say hi!

IS THAT TAMAKI WITH THE CAMERA??

Deku is so flustered he can’t even make eye contact. U.A.’s very own awkward bi icon

Hadou’s saying that she’s never won and that there’s a girl in the class G support team who beats her every year

in a world of quirks, it occurs to me that even lashes like this might legitimately be “maybe she’s born with it” and not automatically “maybe it’s maybelline”

EYYYYYYYYYYYYY

GOOD OL’ TAMAKI

Hadou is smiling and saying that this year she’ll definitely win

I’m amazed and pleased that she hasn’t started asking Eri inappropriate questions. even she can respect boundaries when it’s important! UNLIKE SOME CANCELLED PURPLE FUCKS

ohhh snap now they’re stopping by the development studio

okay now this looks more like what I was expecting the last time we saw this place

CAN ONE OF YOU GENIUSES PLEASE BUILD SOMETHING TO RESCUE TONY STARK. HE IS STRANDED IN SPACE

Mirio says they’re preparing for the technology exhibition that they hold every year. apparently it gets a lot of media attention

oh here we go

eyyyyyyyyy

so she’s showing off her latest giant robot, and they’re acting appropriately impressed. everyone loves giant robots

she says that for the hero department, the sports festival is where they garner attention. but now their department gets to be the main attraction

although, given the type of attention the sports festival garnered, you might want to reconsider being so pleased about that

also, didn’t Aizawa say that this year’s festival would be more lowkey due to all the shit that’s gone down recently? I mean, that’s the plan, anyway. apparently we’re going to be invaded by a gentlevillain so we’ll see how that actually goes

oh shit, Mei’s robot just blew the fuck up

“AGAIN”

HEY EVERYONE! IT’S A SINGLE PANEL OF THE TENTH MOST POPULAR CHARACTER, SHINSOU

HEY’S STILL HERE. JUST FYI. STILL EXISTS. STILL POPULAR

(ETA: you guys I’m so excited I finally got to the part of the manga where Shinsou Does Stuff Again. you don’t even know)

so now they’re at the cafeteria and Eri’s sitting down with some juice

they’re asking what she thought and whether she thinks she’ll be comfortable at the festival

;_____;

she is so good so pure I love her please protect her always!!!

lmaooooo

ERI YOUR BROTHERS ARE HUGE FUCKING DORKS

OH MY GOD

WERE YOU TWO HERE THIS WHOLE TIME

Rat Principal says he’s also excited for the culture festival and that the students always do their best to create a good time for everyone

oh?

I’m so curious to hear more about U.A.’s behind the scenes struggles. dammit. Rat Principal always gotta keep a tight lid on gossip

now he’s walking off and telling them to enjoy the festival to their heart’s content

YESSSSS A FLASHBACK TO U.A.’S BEHIND THE SCENES STRUGGLES!!

LAY IT ON ME

well now we finally know who this guy is. this is the second time we’ve seen him; the first was right after All Might’s retirement

he’s not wrong. U.A. has been a magnet for trouble lately, and they have several students who are known targets of the League. not to mention a weakened All Might. basically another attack is probably inevitable at some point, and they don’t want to test fate, because if there is an attack and anything goes wrong, that’s probably it for the school and that’s the last thing they need. they desperately need this place to stay open

Rat Principal acknowledges that he’s right, but he says that he considers this event to be necessary for the kids

and that’s true also! they really need the morale boost right about now. they’ve had one hell of a year

Rat Principal, you’re really not so bad for a totally evil guy

so they apparently worked out an agreement, and have fortified security yet again, and if by any chance an alarm sounds -- even if it’s false -- they will immediately suspend activities and evacuate

back in the cafeteria, Midnight says that talk of class A’s program has even made it to the staff room, and she’s telling them to work hard

well of course class A was discussed in the staff room. I imagine they’re the number one subject of gossip most of the time no matter what

Eri’s asking what Deku’s class is doing, and he’s explaining that it’s going to be a dance party

this chapter cleared my skin and watered my crops you guys and it’s just the best

and now we’re cutting to one week later

LMAO

WE’RE SORRY MAN. YOU JUST DON’T GOT THE RHYTHM

ah well. at least he has an adorable little munchkin of a sibling whom he can now spend the day wandering the school with again, maybe. and beating back gentlevillains with his new finger cowl wind move

there is a bonus page but I’m short on time today to include it, so I’ll just throw it in there tomorrow instead! plus ultra!

#bnha #boku no hero academia #midoriya izuku #toogata mirio #eri (bnha)#rat principal #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #makeste reads bnha #brb #gotta go figure out what I did with that dancing iida folder

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scotianostra · 6 years ago

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The following event happened on February 29th1528 but rather than cover it every four years I am highlighting it today.

Patrick Hamilton burned at the stake as a heretic in St Andrews. Patrick Hamilton was the first martyr of the Scottish Reformation – it is recorded that he was the the first person to die for his faith, that is only true in the sense of the Protestant faith, many deaths would have occurred centuries before as Christianity was getting a foothold in Scotland as the pagan rituals of the Picts began to fade away, so he was the first Protestant martyr.

Patrick Hamilton's agonising death at the stake was supposed to scare critics of the Roman Catholic church in Scotland into silence.

Instead, the flames that consumed him over six excruciating hours kindled the country's religious reformation.Hamilton, a preacher and member of the faculty of arts at the University of St Andrews in Fife, was killed in the centre of the town after he spoke out against what he saw as corruption in the church in Scotland.

His trial revolved around 13 thoughts he had expressed in the preceding months which challenged church "hypocrisy" and called for the Bible, then only copied into Latin, to be more available to common people.

We had a young man saying the church has become too powerful, corrupt and hypocritical,it's a pity the Calvinist Protestant that took over was so harsh on the people, as Patrick Hamilton did have a point.

Hamilton was born into a rich and noble Scottish family - his mother was the granddaughter of James II, making Hamilton a distant cousin of the 15-year-old James V.

As a younger son he was destined for a career in the church and in 1517 he was made titular abbot of Fearn Abbey. In 1518 he went to study at the University of Paris where it is believed he first came across the preachings of Martin Luther, a German theologian who essentially founded Protestantism.

He returned to Scotland in 1523 and a year later joined the faculty of arts at the University of St Andrews.

Hamilton's preachings soon came to the attention of the Archbishop of St Andrews and the university's chancellor James Beaton who ordered the inquiry which led to his trial and execution.

One of the reasons Hamilton's death had such resonance was where it took place.

St Andrews was the centre of Catholicism in Scotland having reputedly acquired the relics of the town's namesake in the 4th Century, believed to be the apostle's arm, three fingers, kneecap and a tooth.

The Archbishop of St Andrews was a powerful position that came complete with a formidable castle on the cliffs and great cathedral from which the town's streets radiated. The university was founded in 1413 and, like the church, was an important institution in Scotland.

But also like the church, it did not come out well from the trial and death of Patrick Hamilton.

Not only did the university refuse to help its student against the charges brought by the church, it also helped the accusers compile evidence of his misdeeds.

Patrick Hamilton's trial was based around 13 comments he was said to have made which the church considered heretical.

These included his beliefs that the church's confession service, which cleared people of their sins, was "devilish" and unable to actually provide penance, and that "corruption of sin" remains in children after their baptism.

He was also accused of saying "no obedience is due" to the laws and rituals carried out by the church as they were created by men, not passed down from the Bible.

The church was also angered by his claims that the sacraments - ceremonies intended to bestow spiritual grace - were ineffectual and those who had put their faith in them before their deaths died in an "evil and imperfect faith and are buried in hell".

Hamilton also said tithes - a form of tax - should not be paid to the church and the Bible, which was the word of God, should be translated into English so more people could read it rather than having to rely on priests reading the Latin.

Many of the men who prosecuted Hamilton were probably sincere in their beliefs, but their handling of this incident turned into a public relations disaster for the Catholic Church in St Andrews

Hamilton's death shocked many and inspired others to join the Protestant movement, not least because the details of his last few hours made for an unpleasant account. So in these historians way of thinking, if they just hung him and be done with it there would have been less hassle

The details of his death are that on that day a strong easterly wind blew through North Street preventing the fire at his feet from properly taking hold.

So it was a long, slow and painful process ande is well documented

Gunpowder which had been laid to hasten the blaze merely scorched and burned Hamilton's head and hands. But he remained resolute, refusing the pleas of onlookers to repent.

As the end neared a voice in the crowd called for Hamilton to give a sign if he still had faith in his teachings.

Hamilton raised three fingers and held them high until he died.

Afterwards, one man, John Lindsay, reportedly wrote to Archbishop Beaton: "If you burn any more you will utterly destroy yourselves.

"If you will burn them let them be burnt in deep cellars, for the smoke of Patrick Hamilton has infected as many as it blew upon."

As well as being a subject for debate among its scholars, Hamilton's death has also left a physical mark on St Andrews.

His initials are depicted in the cobbles where he met his end while a face purported to be his was said to have melted into a stone on nearby St Salvator's church tower.

According to university lore, any student walking over the cobbles will fail their exams unless they run into the North Sea at dawn on first day of May.

There is also a memorial to Hamilton and other martyrs who followed his lead and were killed by the church.

Patrick Hamilton was 24 years old when he died.

#Scotland #Scottish #reformation #History

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queen-scribbles · 6 years ago

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Time Well Spent

For @pillarspromptsweekly: Afterword. I kinda stretched it a little, since most of my Watchers got endings to everything I’m pretty happy to leave alone. (There’s always Derrin, but I’ve written that fix-it fic before) So this is me “fixing” the fact that the Watcher always stays in Caed Nua at the end. (Really I just wanted an excuse to write Adi and Kana buddyfic /cough)

Ah-CHOO! It was a big sneeze for a tiny person, and the acoustics of the stone chamber made it echo even louder. Adela sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, picking up the lantern she’d dropped. “Gods, it’s dusty in here.”

Kana’s chuckle echoed much lower than her sneeze had. “Adi, it’s a crypt. No one’s been down here for six or seven hundred years at least. I’d be more surprised if it wasn’t dusty.”

“That would portend some advancement in burial procedures we’ve not yet encountered,” she agreed with a laugh. “I’ve never met a culture that knew how to completely seal a crypt. Coffins and caskets, yes; crypts, no.” She ran her finger through the dust on the wall, revealing a thin line of the colors painted underneath. “Most kith are more worried about grave robbers than a little dust...”

“Which accounts for all the traps,” he muttered, absently rubbing one shoulder.

“I told you to wait,” Adela said fondly. “You’re lucky your reflexes have gotten better and I can yell louder than one would think.”

Kana nodded acknowledgement. “That I am. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

“No, you, won’t,” she laughed. “I’ve heard that promise three times in the span of six months. You forget about it every time you get excited about something.”

He wiped the dust off a larger section of the wall. “I do try. But some of the things we’ve found since you joined me... They’re so fantastic I can’t help but get excited.”

“I know. And I’d never ask you to change. I will, however, tease occasionally.” Adela winked at him before studying the door they needed to get through. “And this is heaps more fun than being Roadwarden. I just don’t wanna watch my best friend die or get hurt ‘cause he was too caught up to properly check for traps.”

She squinted at the characters carved into the door frame. They looked almost familiar, as if from something studied long ago and half forgotten. With a little more concentration, she realized that was exactly what they were. But that only brought more questions. Chiefly, why the blazes there was a dead Ixamitl dialect in a crypt on an island so small it wasn’t even on the map.

But mysteries like this was exactly why Adela had jumped to accept when Kana invited her along on his explorations once he’d made his report to the lore college. She didn’t have anything against being Lady of Caed Nua, but this was type of puzzle she liked to solve. Not how to fund restorations without raising taxes, or work out trade disputes between two groups with equally low opinions of orlans, and thus her.

“Adi?” Kana prompted, dragging her from her reverie.

“Sorry. This is Katl, a dead language, and one I’m rusty on, so it’s taking longer to translate.” She brushed her fingers over the stone, nails catching briefly on the carven words. “This is the way we want, but it has the typical ‘only the worthy’ rhetoric, so...”

“Take it slow?” he finished with a meaningful look. “Look out for traps?”

“Exactly.” Adela grabbed the pulley chain next to the door and hauled on it. Even digging in her heels, it barely moved.

Kana chuckled and reached one big hand over her shoulder to wrap around the handle. It opened easily for him, with the rough grinding of ancient stone they’d become all too accustomed to over the past several months. “There we go.”

“Thanks.” Shaking out stiff fingers, she peered suspiciously down the hall they’d revealed. “Y’know, for a crypt built in an overwhelmingly aumaua region, that looks awfully small.” She looked up at Kana. “Are you gonna fit?”

He took a moment to examine the passage. “I may have to duck in a couple spots, but I believe so.”

“I’m more worried about traps,” Adela said pointedly. “If you don’t have much--if any--extra room, Wael forbid we set anything off. You wouldn’t be able to dodge.”

“Well, then I’ll just have to keep a sharp eye out, won’t I?” Kana said with a reassuring smile. “I’m as curious about this place as you are, Adi. I’ll not be turned back by close quarters.”

Part of her wanted to protest further, but Adela bit her tongue. Risky as it might have been in the close confines of the crypt, it made sense for Kana to go first. He’d always had a better eyes for picking out traps than she did. (Didn’t stop him from triggering them if he was sufficiently distracted by some tantalizing discovery)

So she fell in step behind him and drank in the beautiful--if faded--frescoes that decorated the walls. She was so lost in that she almost missed the faint shink as Kana’s shoulder grazed the wall despite his best efforts. At first, nothing seemed to have happened. Then she noticed some of the floor tiles, scattered in a seemingly-random order, had sunk fractionally further in their settings. Including the one she was standing on.

Oh, no. Adela tensed. Something clicked in the wall and she flung herself forward, rolling past Kana as the tile dropped away completely. “Wael’s eyes, whoever built this crypt really didn’t want aumaua getting in.”

“They picked a bad location for a grave they didn’t want my people visiting,” Kana said with a wry chuckle. “Are you alright?”

She nodded and twirled the end of her braid. “Is this worth it, Kana? I’m just worried you’re going to wind up with more than a bruised shoulder if we keep going...”

“I appreciate your concern, Adi, but we’re almost there.” He gestured at the doorway ahead, flanked by statues indicative of the crypt’s central chamber. “We came looking for something, I’d much rather find it. And we have some questions that need answers, do we not?”

She was rather desperately curious why there was a crypt with Katl inscriptions two days’ sail from Rauatai. “Alright, you have a point. Just be careful, yeah? This hallway turned into a minefield of trigger tiles when you bumped the wall just now.”

Kana glanced at the remaining distance and frowned. “It looks the same to me...”

“Must be ‘cause you’re so tall,” Adela teased. “You can’t see the difference from up there. I’ll have to tell you which ones are safe to step on, then. Follow me.”

Now she took the position of guide, stepping--and occasionally hopping--from one safe tile to the next. Kana followed behind her, laughing that this reminded him of some of the Engwithan ruins they’d explored more than any other culture.

“One more thing to add to the mystery of this place,” Adela rejoined with a chuckle. “Dead Ixamitl language, built near Rauatai but practically designed to keep aumaua out... let’s toss elements of Engwithan design into the pot as well. Why not? It makes as much sense as everything else here.” She paused by the dark doorway, chewing her lip in thought. “Unless... what if our contradictory dead friend was Leaden Key?” Adela curled the tail of her braid around her thumb as she tested the theory. “We know they were... widespread, to vastly understate things, which explains the Katl. That they were missionary, which explains why this kith is here. They were Engwithan, giving the mixed design styles. And they’re blazing secretive, which explains why this place is not designed to accommodate the locals. But they clearly wanted access to what’s in here--hopefully the writings we’re after--hence there being a way around all the traps for kith who know what to do.” She snapped her fingers. “Those who are worthy to find it, as in, other Leaden Key members.”

Kana looked thoughtful, trying to peer through the darkness of the room ahead. “A sound theory, my friend. But if it was of such import, why does this place look to have been abandoned for several hundred years?”

Adela shrugged. “Whoever was responsible for passing down the location died unexpectedly. Or they decided the writings or whatever’s here were no longer important, so they just sealed it up. But with the number of traps in this place, it must’ve been really important.” She glanced at him slyly. “Perhaps the sort of knowledge someone dogged enough to hunt down the Tanvii ora Toa would look for?”

Kana laughed and shook his head. “Dogged is a kind way to put it, Adi. It’s a sound theory, though, far as I can tell. I suppose you appreciate the irony of being unable to avoid the Leaden Key if you’re correct?”

Adela nodded. “That and us finding something that might be ancient Key activity when Aloth’s busy hunting down the more modern branches.” She sighed. “I wish the records pointing this way had been just a little more clear. Knowing what we’re walking into would be nice.”

“It would, but we can manage,” Kana said encouragingly. He gestured toward the doorway. “Shall we?”

Adela gave her braid one last tug and scanned the doorway for any sign of traps. She didn’t see anything. “Might as well.”

The two entered the central chamber cautiously, lanterns held high. Even with the illumination, they couldn’t see more than a fraction of the huge room. Unlike the hallways and entry chamber, the walls here were plain. Not a fresco or inscription in sight.

“Huh.” Adela chewed her lower lip in thought as she examined what she could see. Kana followed as she walked closer to the sealed sarcophagus on the far side of the room, both keeping an eye out for things that might set off traps.

When they reached the sarcophagus, it was plain save a short inscription in Katl along the rim facing the door: Given to the gods and their service.

Adela ran her fingers over the words as she murmured the translation for Kana. He pursed his lips in thought and surveyed the room thoughtfully once more.

“Sadly lacking in iconography if this is truly the final resting place for one of their own,” he commented.

She shrugged. “They are all about secrecy. And maybe they figure everything out there”--a gesture back the way they’d come--”was sufficient.”

Kana chuckled. “Perhaps. What next?”

“Since there’s no writing or decoration on the walls, I’m pretty sure there aren’t any secret compartments...” Adela said under her breath, more thinking out loud then talking to him. She looked at the sarcophagus, eyes narrowing. “Which means the writing we’re after, if it’s here, is probably in with our nameless dead friend.” She tentatively rested one hand against the stone. No enchantments or traps that she could sense. “Help me open it.”

Kana shot her a skeptical look. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“C’mon, Kana,” she wheedled, flashing him a wide smile. “It’s just a box. No harm ever ever came from opening a box.”

He made a noise of not-quite-disagreement and raised an eyebrow. “I seem to recall hearing that one before, shortly preceding a battle with several walking skeletons.”

“That only happened once,” Adela protested, rolling her eyes. “And I hadn’t checked that tomb for enchantments. This one I did.” She pushed against the stone lid, but her slight frame wasn’t even enough to make it rattle. “Come on, we’ve made it this for and we’re so close.”

“If you’re right,” Kana pointed out, then shook his head. “Ondra’s teeth, you know how to use a man’s curiosity against him...” He smiled fondly. “Though I suppose I did know what I was getting myself into when I invited you to join me. Very well, then.”

He swung his pack down from his shoulder to the floor, produced a prybar, and in short order had created enough of a gap they could slide aside the sarcophagus lid. Adela barely had time to register the partitioned inside--one compartment holding the occupants’ bones, the other a set of beautifully preserved scrolls--before a shimmering bluish-white spirit rose between her and Kana and their prize. It paused a moment, as if to get its bearings, before deigning to notice its company.

When it did, Adela felt an icy wave of suspicion radiate out from the spectral form as it spoke imperiously. “You stand before the Keeper of the Book. State your name and purpose.”

Caught off-guard by its presence and manner both, all she managed was a confused, “Huh?”

It was clearly not the answer the spirit had sought. It let out an angry screech and dove toward her. Adela yelped and batted it away with her grimoire.

Knew there was a reason I brought that, she thought with a grim smile as she dropped her lantern to pull out her sceptre.

It was, unsurprisingly, not much of a fight. There were two of them to the one spirit, and they’d been fighting together long enough to make quite a deadly pair when they needed to. Sure, by the end of their scrap Adela’s hair was singed and Kana had a lightning burn along his forearm from the one nasty spell it managed to cast, but they’d beaten the spirit back to a more... charitable disposition.

It still bore an air of supremely ruffled feathers as it resumed its position between them and the sarcophagus, but there was trace more respect in its voice. “Tell me of your labors.”

That’s when it clicked--even though it skipped a question--and Adela couldn’t stop herself from slapping one hand to her face and letting out a heavy sigh. I’m. An. Idiot. It had been her damned theory and she hadn’t connected those dots. “To see that the craft of kith and wilder does not disturb what bones the gods have buried,” she replied.

The spirit flickered approvingly. “And how is your oath guarded?”

“It is sealed by the Leaden Key.” So she’d been right. Galawain’s beard, why couldn’t she get away from these people?

Another approving flicker as the spirit swayed to the side. “And why have you come here, young acolyte?”

“I seek the centuries-guarded knowledge,” Adela said, reaching back to grab the side of Kana’s hand and squeeze as he started to interject. Shhh. “I wish to share in the knowledge and protect it.” By taking it away from here.

The spirit flickered a few more times as it deliberated, then bobbed in assent. “Very well, child. You are worthy to share my knowledge. Treat it with the respect it deserves.”

“I will,” she promised. She waited for the spirit to dissipate before approaching the sarcophagus. Now with time to look, she could see the skeleton that occupied most of the space. It looked to be either a tall elf or short folk from the stature. Any clothing they’d been wearing had long since turned to dust, leaving only the jewelry at hands and neck to show their importance.

Satisfied on that score, Adela turned to the scrolls. Dark green seals on all of them gave off a faint aura of magic, explaining how they were still in such good condition after centuries. She ran a finger along the one on top and felt the preservation spell shiver at her touch. Such a shame most enchantment methods like this have been lost...

“Adi.” Kana nudged her shoulder. When she glanced over, he was holding out one of the extra shoulder bags they brought on expeditions for exactly this purpose.

“Oh, thank you.” She eyed the number of scrolls. “If I hold the bag, can you put them in? I don’t wanna drop any.”

He chuckled and handed it over. “Of course.”

In short order, the two of them had all the scrolls--fourteen, total--in the bag, which Adela shouldered. (It was only fair; Kana was carrying everything else, plus he’d gotten the worst of the fight.)

“Ready to be on our way?” Kana asked, already turning toward the exit. His arm probably hurt like the blazes, Adela mused. She couldn’t blame him for being in a hurry. But just as she was about to agree and lead the way back up that infernal hallway, a flash of pink caught her eye inside the sarcophagus.

“One second,” she said instead. Upon closer inspection, it was a ring on the skeleton’s little finger; silver band with a round, inset pink gem. She briefly battled the little voice screaming grave robber! before giving in to temptation and scooping up the ring.

The crypt didn’t collapse on their heads, and no angry spirits rose to call her a thief, so she took that as a sign she was safe. It’s my favorite color, I’ll appreciate it more than a skeleton can, it’s not like I’m planning to sell it....

Rolling her eyes at the rambling justifications, Adela turned back to Kana and smiled brightly as she slipped the ring on her thumb. “Now I’m ready.” She nodded toward his arm. “Let’s get back to the ship so you can get patched up.”

“I would appreciate that, yes,” Kana said with a sheepish smile. “Hopefully the way out will go more smoothly than the way in, since we know where all the dangers lie.”

“Hopefully,” Adela agreed with a laugh.

It did. The trapped hallway was still tricky to navigate, but she had a good memory and they made it out without triggering anything. After that, it was a short walk back to the beach and an uneventful ride out to the Seeker with a waiting crewman.

“Don’t start without me,” Kana said, tone teasing but eyes serious as he nodded toward the scrolls before heading down to see the ship’s doctor.

“Cross my heart,” Adela promised and headed to his cabin to wait. It was hard--she was so very curious--but Kana had put just as much time and effort into finding the scrolls. It was only fair they read them together. So she waited, all but vibrating with excitement as she perched on the edge of Kana’s bunk, until he showed up. “All taken care of?”

Kana nodded. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked.” He ran his fingers over the bandages. “Carinna said it should be fine, so long as I don’t try to do too much the next few days.”

“I don’t think she has anything to worry about.” Adela grinned and handed him a scroll. “We have a lot of reading to do.”

He laughed and carefully broke the seal. “Indeed we do. Let’s get started on that, shall we?”

So they did. And both considered the next several days time well spent.

#queens fic #pillars prompts weekly #adela tecali #kana rua #pillars of eternity

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self-indulgent-sparrow · 6 years ago

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BIG GOD

Queenie went through a lot of work to get to where she is today. Putting it onto paper was a hard thing to do, for reasons that will become painfully obvious.

Please understand that I've had this concept planned out for at least 3 years now—if it reads like an angst ride, it's because it's something 2015 May had conceptualized, and I've set into stone for years and years. If anything, writing this nailed down some facts about her character and her beliefs that I haven't gotten to really talk about or study in depth.

10.8k. 30 pages, single spaced. Not an enjoyable ride to read. Heavy, heavy lore—there's no humor in this one.

Warnings for mention of suicide/suicide idealization, graphic descriptions of violence and body trauma. Also just general angst. Probably some CPTSD.

BIG GOD

The white cliff side stretched along the horizon, a stark contrast to the blue sky that it cut into, to the black sea that crashed against it. From here, she could see the thin red and white lighthouse, could only just make out the coast that crested partway along the bottom.

Beachy Head was the second of the four chalk cliff ranges she'd narrowed the location to. Mirah had seen the Seven Sisters—had scoped the cliffs for over a week, studying every shadow and dip—to no avail. The scripts had been unclear, only truly describing the cliff-side cave entrance as well hidden, barely a blot against the white edges of Albion, soaked in a history of blood.

In all honesty, she predicted the artifact would be at Dover, near the castle. It was a logical conclusion to jump to—the site had been witness to war, over and over again. The right island, the right backstory, it made sense that the scripts would describe Dover.

But Beachy Head was just east of the Sisters, and she wanted to be thorough. She'd come this far.

–

When she was a child, she devoured stories like they were air. The books she collected on Egypt and Greece and Rome numbered well beyond the dozens, alongside books about dragons and monsters and heroes. Heroes, always heroes.

She excelled in the history, drowned in the beliefs that were, to her, so foreign, but had once been people's lifelines. Dead stories, speaking beyond the grave, still forcing themselves out of the ground to be known. They held their own power. They lived beyond their people.

She had devoted herself deeply to the powerful concepts, needing badly to believe that, even when she was gone, she'd leave something behind. Something more than what she was at the time—a small, lonely creature, whose only friends were the books.

One day she'd tell a story, and it would echo into the years that would follow, without her there to witness it. She'd have that power too.

She had to believe that. She had to believe there was something more than the existence she'd been given.

Time passed. She nearly forgot. She nearly burned away.

–

The boat swayed gently, thumping against the wood and spraying water and foam as it docked. She had barely stepped onto the pier when she was handed the brochure. She opened it with chilly fingers, tucking her chin into her chest.

It proudly advertised the view of the lighthouse, the nearby pub in Eastbourne. It declared she should try the ice cream trucks that traversed the area, should follow the trail on the day hike to really appreciate the whole of the grandeur.

The national parks. The history. The bike marathon.

It all begged the question, she thought, as she made her way to the entrance of the dock, where the cab drivers waved at the tourists to beckon them over. With all this tourism, with eyes on the cliff-side at almost all times—

How could anything hide here? Would it truly not have been found?

(Underneath the listings and advertisements, she noted quietly, was a plea that, if one was contemplating suicide, to seek help immediately.)

Mirah looked out along the bottom of the cliff face, her eyes narrowed. It just out from the water in a sharp line, almost perpendicular, almost a straight shot upward. For miles, there were no coastlines along its base.

Soaking in a history of blood.

–

When she was six years old, Mirah would look out the window of the car, her seat-belt digging into her neck. She would fantasize, then, in the quiet of the drive, about jumping off high cliffs into the ocean to her death.

She would think about being dashed against the tall rocks at the bottom, barely hurting for more than a moment before disappearing into froth. Six years old, and she wrote out the suicide notes in her head. The people she'd leave behind, the blame she'd pin, the guilt they'd drown in. The voices they'd hear that weren't truly there. Her voice, living long after she did.

An event that would mean something to other people. A way to live through words long after the body had slipped away.

Strange. She would always find herself crying at the idea.

She didn't know for a long, long time, that six year olds shouldn't be thinking about that.

Strange.

–

The hotel was barely ten minutes from the trail. She reeked of tourism and sweat, an out of place form in the quiet bedroom with its warm lamps and soft bed. It barely complained when she dropped the weight of her backpack onto it, the sheets calling to her, the hot shower calling to her.

She chose, instead, to unzip the pack, and began to pull out her maps. There was little time to worry about showering—Beachy Head was a long expanse. It would take time and focus to study its rough white face, to narrow down possible cave entrances.

She dropped her maps and script translations onto the small desk, flicking the light on. The translation sheets rolled—she pinned them down with her travel mug, full of the crap hotel coffee and four bags of sugar.

Mirah dropped into the chair and bent over her studies, like she had every day for the past month and a half. She laced her fingers, putting them under her chin, and began again.

Her eyes ached from the effort. They begged for rest she did not give.

The trail of Beachy Head could be traversed in a single day. Along the path, members of the chaplaincy patrolled, to ward off potential jumpers, but their patterns were predictable and avoidable, as had been proven by the increase in bodies found in the last month.

She divided the cliff-line into portions with care, opening the journal she'd used for documenting the progress she'd made. Painstakingly, she pasted portions of one of the maps into the pages, dedicating a few blank pages to each one.

The patrols would be little problem. She had no plans to die.

It neared two-forty in the morning when she checked her phone for the first time in the past forty-eight hours. Her mouth became a hard line.

You have 2 (Two) missed calls

Blocked Number

You have 2 (Two) new voicemails

Blocked Number

She deleted them without listening, and turned her phone off again.

–

She was sixteen she she finally saw someone for her depression. The room was south facing, the sunlight slanting through the blinds. The woman she met was old, and kind, and stern, and she wept in that room more times than she could count.

“What made you decide to see me?”

Mirah dug her fingers into her plaid school skirt. Her eyes flicked to her mother's form in the chair beside her, and to her knees.

“I nearly crashed my car.”

That day had been a bad one, like so many before it. She had--

She had told her father, time and time again, that she was sick. She was sick and sad and she needed help, she needed to get help, and he had told her, with all the kindness in the world, that she could always talk to him about her problems. He had bought her lunch, and that was it.

She was his little date.

–

On day four, she stood at the highest point of Beachy Head, gripping her journal tight to her chest against the cool wind that bit into her cheeks. The lighthouse was a slender thing thing from here, below her. Here, there was no coastline, just the crashing water over five hundred feet below her.

When she looked down the face of the cliff, she could see the jutting rock, the dipping shadows. They dipped and warped, wrong, like they were falling into unseen crevices.

She flipped the journal open and marked the location studiously, sketching the lighthouse to size for reference. Her eyes narrowed, watering from the cold. When she looked up, the sunlight glinted off the ocean.

It really was beautiful here. The sky was clear. The sun was high.

She hadn't been focused on a goal like this in a long time. It was the closest she felt to alive again; the closest she could come to joy and satisfaction--

It was nice to care about something again.

The devil was in the details. She opened her journal and continued her work. If this was it, she needed to do everything she could to get it right.

–

She decided, at one point, to disappear. She hurt everywhere, she hurt all the time. The people she loved didn't love her back. The people who said they loved her hurt her, over and over and over.

She'd never been anything to anyone. She felt, all the time, little more than a burden, little more than a weight around people's necks. There was a weight on her neck, something keeping her tethered, something that kept her head bowed to the earth.

There was no pride. There was no passion. There was just her, little more than a ghost.

At night, she dreamed that she stopped existing, and nobody noticed.

–

The night was cold and still as she trekked up the trail that followed the cliff side. Her headlight bobbed along the dirt path, its dimmest setting still painting stark shadows from the pebbles and the long grass. In the dark, she could hear the high cry of unseen birds overheard.

Her pack dug into her shoulders as she walked, quick and quiet. She paused for hardly a moment, ducked low, and turned her light off, listening hard. A minute passed, then two, before she stood again, continuing forward to the high point. She left her light off, now.

She'd timed the patrols, learned the routes. They followed the road in search of cars in the night, then moved up the trail—if she was right, she had about a half hour to set up her posts and begin rappelling the cliff-side before the first patrol would pass it. That was not a lot of time.

She'd have to get it right. Lucky for her, she'd become somewhat efficient at this part.

The anchor posts were cold and heavy in her gloves. She drove the first into the ground, striking it deeper with the mallet. The noise was muffled by the rubber head, but the strikes resonated through her. The second post, ten feet from the first, went in easier. She looped and knotted her rope onto them, double checking her harness knots and descender. They were stable, secure. They would hold her weight.

She tightened the leg loops of the harness on her body, checked her headlight. In her inner coat pocket, easily accessible but secure, were her maps. Her glasses were strapped on, and would stay in place.

She stood at the edge of the cliff, inhaling deeply the painfully cold air. It smelled of sea salt and ice. Her body trembled—the rock felt ready to give way underneath her feet. An illusion, her own mind playing tricks on her. Terrifying and exhilarating all the same.

She hoped beyond hope that she wasn't wrong, but she didn't bet on it.

Mirah took one last huff of breath, turned her headlight on, gripped the rope in both her hands, and began her descent.

–

She stayed alive.

A spiteful action. She stayed alive, holding her bleeding heart in her hand.

She could never explain why she chose, or when she chose, to try to love herself. She'd not been loved for a long time, and somehow the biggest insult she could provide to others was the attempt to provide what they refused to.

Mirah was nearly eighteen when she finally ran away. Ties were hard to cut—she did her best, blocking phone numbers, changing bank accounts. She came as close as she could to becoming a new person, and she ran so far she crossed an ocean. Her funds had always been low, but school was always hosting classes abroad.

It was easier than she expected, and equally as hard. She had no foundation—but she had never had one, really. The foundation she'd been born with had been rotten from the beginning. It was a miracle she had chosen life.

She had made her own miracle. She'd pulled herself from her own grave. Somewhere along the way, she chose to love.

–

She shuddered against the wind, pressing herself to the rock face. Her boots were braced against the chalk, and she could feel the gentle slide as it gave and came loose in places.

This was insane, a weak voice pleaded in her head. Go back, go back. This was too far, it begged. She stepped down, down, down. The white stone swallowed her entire vision on all sides.

She was keenly aware, now—of the ache of the harness where it dug into her shoulders and thighs, of the stretch and burn of her knuckles where they gripped the rope and let it slide through their creaky joints. Of the way her skin was freezing cold and burning hot all in one moment, from adrenaline.

Down. Down. Down. Her rope unwound from the descender slowly, surely. Down. Each step down the wall was careful, bracing, in an attempt to find footing against the eroding stone. Down. She'd descended how far now? Forty feet? Fifty? Was she close? She must be close. She had to be close. Down. How much longer did she have before the patrol crossed? Down.

The next step downward struck the cap of her boot—her foot slipped and failed to brace and her knee struck the jutting rock. She swore hard and corrected, her jaw tightly clenched from the sudden pain. It was fine—she was fine. She should have expected the sudden slope outwards, should have prepared for it.

Here came the hard part. With careful movements, Mirah edged backwards down the slope, her eyes on her rope. She'd have to keep it in place when it caught on the slope, swing herself back to the wall of rock and the mouth of the potential cave, and be able to pull herself up it again.

It was a feat of strength, which she only barely had enough of. She edged over the furthest point of rock, and she could not resist the urge to press her hand flat to the scratchy white stone. Even this high up, she could see the spray of water from the ocean glistening against it.

There were no grips to the chalky surface, but that was fine—she just wanted to touch it. It was real.

This was real. She was scaling a known monument, a historical landmark, in the dead of night. She had made it to this place—this gorgeous site, drowning in history—all on her own. She was—this was insane. This was spectacular. Mind-boggling.

Mirah turned her head to look over her shoulder, out to the ocean that was as loud in her ears as the blood rushing through her. She could see the lighthouse, its light like a star on the water.

For a blinding moment, she was struck with the urge to weep.

She swallowed the growing ache in her throat and turned back to the cliff.

Down. Down.

When she pressed her toes forward, she could just feel the rock face at the tips. Still, she lowered herself with care, until she had fully passed the jutting lip of rock.

Mirah stared at the flat wall that met her.

There was nothing here.

Her chest heaved hard. Fine. That—it was fine. She'd hit dead ends like this before. It wasn't her first empty lead, and it wouldn't be the last. It hurt like hell—like she had failed altogether—and she'd have to pull herself all the way back up the cliff-side to make it to the next map point, but. It was fine.

Mirah gripped her cord tight in her fingers, her entire form curled and tensed. A strangled scream escaped from her despite her best efforts—a choked sob followed, and the dam broke. She began to cry there, hanging in the air, her headlight bouncing along the rock and painting uneven shadows everywhere.

Her breakdown was short, though it left her shaking. She braced herself against the rock again, her gloves pressed flat as she tried to compose herself again. A deep inhale, a shaky exhale. Another. When she swallowed the rest of the tears, she turned to look down the length of the white wall.

It was then that she saw the stark cut of shadows, maybe two meters away.

The mouth of the cave was not a mouth—it was barely more than a crack, a cranny, an uneven, imperfect overlap of rock against rock. It was so terribly small—barely enough for the average person to fit.

She was so small.

A choked noise escaped her as she rocked herself along the rock face, struggling for purchase against the crumbling stone. She reached out with near-desperate fingers, and grabbed the sharp lip of rock. With all her strength, she pulled herself towards and into the crevice, her face pressed into the wall. Her light painted stark bright light into the tight passage—she could hardly fit, through the layers of clothing and the harness.

Still, she forced the snug fit, her breathing shallow and strained. It was too tight—she wouldn't fit—

All at once, she fell into the open, dark cavern.

Her aching knee throbbed with a vengeance when it struck the uneven floor; she threw her arms out and her palms hit the ground with a jolt of pain that had her landing on her side, gasping hard. Her body trembled from the exertion of the fit and the pain vibrating through her palms.

She lay there, catching her breath, headlight shining along the stone of the bottom of the chamber. The air was musty with dust, salty with ocean. Dust particles swirled through the cold light in lazy patterns. When she turned her head, she could see the stalactites that descended from the ceiling of the cavern. There was the very gentle drip, drip of the water that had collected at their tips.

She'd found it—well. She'd found something.

Fingers trembling from weariness, Mirah pushed herself into a sitting position, her breathing labored and her harness's rope looping out in front of her. From her small hiking bag on her waist she pulled out a water bottle, and she downed half its contents with near desperation. Fuck, that had been hard. When she finally set it down, she gasped again for air, wiping her mouth on her coat sleeve.

Now the harness was strapped off, left to lay on the floor several feet from the entrance. Through the crack, she could just barely see the ocean and black sky. When she stood, her knees shook as they supported her weight, but they did not buckle.

The cavern was cold and nearly perfectly round, its walls rough and uneven. The stone was not white like the rest of Beachy Head—here, it was varying shades of brown and gray, nearly rust colored in places. She crossed the length of the chamber, her steps quietly echoing as though she was in a space larger than she realized. At the other end of the dark space, she realized why.

The cave was merely an antechamber, an entrance. In front of her was the tall mouth of a tunnel entrance.

She pulled her headlight off and held it in her hand, aiming it into the tunnel without entering. It sloped upward slightly, so she could not see where it ended. Around the entrance to the tunnel were engravings she could barely discern for how high they were, a stark contrast to the antechamber's rough, nearly natural appearance

She braced herself and entered the tunnel. She'd come this far—she would not stop.

The walls of the tunnel were engraved—along the top half were tall figures, ancient symbols. Hieroglyphs at the expanse of the bottom half, where she pressed her fingers. Her neck craned upward, eyes wide.

She wanted to see it all. She wanted to see every detail. There—the sun disk. The eye of Ra. The heron.

She'd been right. She'd gotten it right. The hours of studies, the painstaking translations, the numerous maps and countless markers she'd gone through tracing a path here—

She'd gotten it right.

She walked up the sloping tunnel, her fingers tracing the smooth carved stone as she devoured the images with rapture. Here—the Ished Tree, the seat of the Great Heron. There, the Obelisk of Heliopolis. The Benben stone, hovering above the Nu, the sun shining upon its face.

She had started there—she could remember the way her hand pressed carefully to the class that had encapsulated the black stone. She had begun, like all the stories had, at the Benben stone. How far she had come—how so like the ancient scripts.

Everything began at the Benben stone.

Mirah reached as high as she could, and pressed her hand to the bottom of the Sun Boat. Her chest shook, threatening to heave with tears of wonder. Her face hurt—she realized, belatedly, she had been smiling.

The end of the tunnel widened suddenly into another cavern. This one was massive, far larger than the antechamber, and oblong, slanted away from the tunnel and warmly lit. At the far end of the chamber was a brilliant light she could not make out, that filled the whole of the space like a fire would. She turned her headlight off, shoving it into her pocket.

The floor glittered—when she looked down, she found it covered with solid gold feathers, like golden down. They were spread across the floor of the chamber, away from the tall figure that stood at one end of the cave, nearest to the tunnel's entrance. Its form glistened in the light, hauntingly terrible and beautiful.

She approached the still figure slowly, careful to not touch the feathers scattered along the ground. They gathered in circular waves around the statue, more and more abundant at its base.

It was an enrapturing thing—a woman, nearly six feet tall, posed like a titan against some force of nature, her hair blown back and away from her face. Her arm was outstretched towards the light source of the room, as though reaching out for it, or trying to ward it away.

Her long gown stretched out behind her, blown away from her in uneven curves and near-jagged edges. A close inspection revealed—its hemline was carved into feathers like those that filled the room, caught in the midst of a transformation into something larger.

The woman was beautiful, her face detailed to the eyelashes, to the wrinkles in her jaw and the pull and strain of muscles in her throat. The attention to the smallest ridges were exquisite, yet there were no tool marks. It was as though a human had been perfectly frozen in gold.

Despite her beauty, the woman's face was hard and angular, expression twisted into one of rage. Her earrings, large diamonds that framed her jawline, were blown back into her hair, the strands and curls chaotic twists, caught in an unseen storm.

Near reverently, Mirah's hand rose, struck with the urge to stroke the long exposed neck, to press her fingers to the column of golden throat.

AWAY FROM THERE.

The words were not spoken aloud—they did not echo throughout the room—but they filled her head as though they had been whispered directly into her ear. The voice was hers and was not; it was one voice whispering and a thousand shouting, all in the same moment. It sent shivers up her spine—she twisted to where the statue was facing, its arm outstretched to the other end of the cavern. To the light.

Every step across the chamber seemed heavier than the last. Her heart was loud in her ears, loud like the words that echoed through her entire body. Closer, closer.

YOU HAVE FINALLY ARRIVED FOR ME.

It wasn't a question, but she found herself nodding. The room was warm—she shed her coat on the smooth floor without pausing in her slow stride. When she spoke, her tone was hushed with awe.

“You're—alive. You're a living thing. I—“

She had expected magic. She'd known in her core that there were different kinds of magic, artifacts that held power and strength. This was another thing altogether—this was a sentient being. The divine creation of a god, and it lived.

“I. The scripts—I knew you'd be powerful but this is—“

At the other end of the chamber was a circular raised pool, large and shallow. The water inside rippled, reflecting the trembling gold of the light onto the ceiling in constant shifting patterns.

In the center, an obelisk rose from the water. Its point was capped with black. And, hovering at its tip—

“You're beautiful,” she whispered. Her eyes were wet.

When the Sun Disk spoke, it was not in English. It didn't have a voice, not really—but its presence in her mind was like her own voice in her head. It was like an alien presence in her head, that was and was not her.

THE SCRIPTS YOU SPEAK OF WERE WRITTEN BY THOSE WITH LIMITED KNOWLEDGE. THEY HOLD LITTLE VALUE.

It shone spectacularly. Mirah stood at the edge of the pool, staring long after it had burned light patterns into her eyes.

WHY HAVE YOU COME TO THIS PLACE.

Her hands pressed to the smooth raised edge of the pool. She looked into the golden water, and then up again, her eyes narrowed in thought, the skin of her lip caught in her mouth.

TELL ME, WHAT DID YOU EXPECT WHEN YOU ARRIVED HERE?

She stepped back from the edge of the pool, and dropped to a knee to unlace her boots, one after another.

“I—honestly? I don't really know. I mean, I knew there would be an artifact—I figured out its name, and—“ she yanked the boot off “��I. Guess I thought I could find it.”

She was silent for a moment, pulling the other boot off, and then she added, “Sorry, that's not very descriptive. It wasn't really that I cared about some great fancy treasure.”

NO.

“No, it was—I saw a story. Yeah.” She set the boots aside, worked her gloves off. Layer by layer, she shed the clothing. They stuck to her skin from sweat.

“I saw something like a story, and I loved stories, you know? It looked interesting, like it had potential to be a big grand story—but it was missing so many details. It had all these gaps,” she explained, with a little gesture, her fingers outstretched. She looked at the spaces between them. “Like a jigsaw puzzle that was missing some of the pieces. And I saw these parts and—I don't know, more than anything I wanted to fill in the blanks.”

WHY.

“I don't know why,” she said, trying not to be sharp. “It—I felt like I had to so badly, and I don't know—it was like, if I didn't, I would wonder about it forever.”

She could feel the stretch from the curve of her back as she pulled her socks off. She stretched her toes out.

“I started looking for the pieces and,” she swallowed, “For the first time in a really, really long time, I started to feel full again. I could feel excited again. Christ—I saw so much trying to get here. I learned so much just to get here.”

She had taught herself to read ancient languages. Had learned mountain rappelling, had forced herself to stay up into the early hours of the morning inscribing, translating, journaling and researching. Had visited country after country to get here, to this place.

TELL ME WHAT YOU HAVE SEEN.

Even as she stared at the Sun Disk, her mind reeled back the memory. There was something in her throat, like a fluttering bird. When she spoke, she felt miles away.

“I saw Egypt. Heliopolis, in Cairo. It was—you could drown in the heat and the noise and the color. All that desert and there was still so much color, so much noise. And then, at night, it was so cold and quiet. At—At night, you could see the stars over the pyramids.”

AND.

She inhaled deeply, her chest trembling.

“Greece, after that. As many of the Cyclades islands as I could get to, and Crete too. The water was as blue as the sky, and those buildings built onto the waterfront were—they were just as grand as all the marble and bronze in the museums. Christ, all that blue.”

AND.

Her fingers rose and pushed into her hair, pulling loose the band holding her curls back. She hurt, in a deep, impossible to describe sort of way, deep in her center.

“Scotland—Alba, and then Albion, as you probably know it. I saw the old castles being eaten up by the landscape again—and hills so green they looked like fairy lands, and the white cliffs, and no wonder people believe fairies come here. It's old magic, isn't it?”

She stood again, and stepped to the edge of the pool. She found, belatedly, that her cheeks were wet and her brow was furrowed. Her throat was locking up—Mirah forced herself to breathe, pushing her glasses up and wiping her face.

In place of answering her question, the Sun Disk asked, as though it already knew the answer.

WAS THE QUEST THE GOAL ITSELF?

She yanked the lenses off altogether, the band holding them to her face relaxing with a snap. Without much thought, she dropped them on the raised edge of the pool. Her jaw was tight. She forced the muscles to relax, but her grip on the sharp ridge tightened enough for it to hurt.

“No. It wasn't that—I already said, it was the story. Maybe I saw a lot of beautiful places and learned a lot of new things, and maybe there's something great in that, but I didn't do it for that. It didn't fill me with nearly as much excitement as figuring out the puzzle.”

As she spoke, she lifted a leg and placed it on the ridge, fingers on the hem of her jeans. Rolling the edge up her calf, she continued, slowly.

“Everybody always goes on about the journey being more important than the destination, but that's rarely the case for me. It's important, sure, and maybe it's as important, but it's rarely the deciding factor. The end result has to matter or else everything will feel like a waste of time. It'll be disappointing if the goal isn't important—and I'm not disappointed.”

The leg of her jeans was cuffed above her knee. The other leg, now.

“I think the goal was solving the puzzle. Doesn't matter how small the project or big the task—I get satisfaction out of a job well done. I did it, I did something nobody else had accomplished, and I did it without any help.”

She stood, back straight and shoulders back, squinting at the Sun Disk. She thought, maybe, she was trembling, but when she held her hand in front of her face, it was perfectly still.

“I didn't quit when it was hard, and I didn't let anything get in my way. I wanted to do something big, and I succeeded, and I wanted to be here. I proved I could do it.”

For the first time, she allowed herself to feel proud.

“I did this, I proved that I deserved to be here, right here. I deserved to have this.”

She had done an impossible task. Despite everything, she had won.

I AM NOT A PRIZE TO BE WON, CHILD, it said, and through the echo of its words, she thought she heard the cool tone. She fought the urge to bare her teeth at the name. Her displeasure was painted on her face.

“What are you, then?”

The light that radiated off from it flared, painfully bright, like looking into the center of a star. She raised her arm to shield her eyes, grimacing.

I AM THE BEGINNING OF THE BEGINNING. I AM THE CALLER OF CREATION. I AM THE SOUL OF THE SUN.

It was a roar—it was her blood boiling and her eyes burning, streaming with tears. It hurt—she clenched her teeth and felt them grind. Its outburst continued, wide, filling the room.

She realized, suddenly, that'd she'd been wrong about something incredibly important. Her throat went dry. She lowered her arm.

“Bennu. You're Bennu.”

As sudden as it had begun to flare, the light dimmed, low enough to nearly go out. The pounding in her head ceased, though the ringing was slow to dissipate. She could see the outline of light around the silhouette of the Sun Disk, cutting in clear lines the head of the snake, the detailed edge of its scales.

I am, it said, hushed. She continued, her chest heaving. Her voice was stronger now, bursting with something she could not explain.

“You're the Bennu Bird—The ba of Ra, his soul. The bird that flew over the Nun and made the call for creation, that which created himself, you. You're not just the creator of the artifact, you're the Sun Disk. You're—you're still here. The gods are still here, they're real, you're real.”

She was smiling widely, eyebrows turned up in wonder and awe. Her chest hurt, heart aching.

She was witnessing a miracle. She was looking at a deity given form—not just a divine creation, but an actual, physical god.

It was more than she had ever expected. It was almost too much for her to truly grasp.

I AM, it said again. Its voice, she thought now, was beautiful, and grand. She was understanding, finally, all the parts of her scripts that she could not make sense of. It slid into place, a significant piece to a grand mystery that she had solved herself.

She was in the presence of something so much bigger than herself. It almost made what she was about to do seem horribly blasphemous.

The water of the pool was warm against her calves when she stepped into it. The gentle splash seemed loud in her ears.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DO?

She swallowed, then nodded. Her steps were slow.

TELL ME.

“The scripts—they said there, there was a ruler,” she spoke haltingly, and licked her lips. They had dried and begun to crack from the heat. “A deity, a being that wore the Sun Disk and ruled its first subjects. The first beings, the ones that resembled its first form the most. The—the birds.”

The water splashed against her knees as she waded through it.

“The Disk was passed down, to those who proved their potential.”

AN APT WORD.

ARE YOU A RULER?

Mirah nearly scoffed at that. “Christ—I don't know. Maybe? I make things, I'm an artist. I'm stubborn, and I know right from wrong, and it matters to me, and I'm loud about it. Does that sound like a ruler to you?”

YET YOU CONTINUE TO APPROACH.

YOU THINK YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO RULE?

Closer, she stepped. Closer. From here, she could see the jewel in the eye of the snake, and the unblemished face of the disk. Her face looked back at her, through her blurred vision and the pristine surface.

"I think I'd be an idiot to get this far and not try. Don't you?”

STOP WHERE YOU STAND.

She stopped midstride, breathe caught in her throat. With a sort of defiant slowness, she straightened, her head help up, chin raised. She could not yet reach out to touch it, but from here, she could see the black obsidian head of the obelisk, a sharp diamond. In its face were deeply carved runes.

The Sun Disk pulsed, the light pushing out, pulling in, like a heartbeat.

YOUR QUEST IS NOT YET COMPLETE.

YOU WILL COMPLETE MY TRIALS. YOU WILL PROVE YOUR WORTH.

Her brow furrowed in momentary surprise.

“....okay?”

IF YOU FAIL, YOU WILL PERISH.

Ever the stubborn one, she said, her cheek pulled into her mouth with disdain, “What is this, Indiana Jones?”

WHAT IS THAT.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Um. A joke. Don't worry about it.”

It continued, without even the slightest change in infliction.

DO YOU ACCEPT THE TERMS?

The light was becoming brighter, the gold edges becoming crisp white. The pulsing was expanding, thudding in her ears. Her mouth became a thin line again, her gaze narrowed. She could feel the pinch of her brows where they furrowed.

“Yeah. I accept.”

It flared, a supernova. It filled everything—everything disappeared. All that remained was white light, blinding her even as she raised her hand to protect her eyes. And, then—

For a moment, there was nothing at all.

–

The waves crashed loudly at the bottom of the cliff behind her. With hesitance, she lowered her hand from her face. Above her, the sun shone intensely, though it did nothing to hinder the sharp cold wind that blew harshly against her.

She pushed her hair away from her face, looking along the grassy hill she faced. The Sun Disk spoke again.

BEFORE YOU STAND TWO ARMIES. FOR CENTURIES, THEIR NATIONS HAVE BEEN AT WAR.

In front of her, two lines stood apart in the long grass. The wind blew between them, their individual flags waving wildly in the air. Beyond that, they were still and silent. The gap between then could not have been more than ten yards, that she looked along with slitted eyes.

OF THE NATIONS, ONE HAS A LARGE ARMY AND SUPERIOR WEAPONRY.

As if on cue, the footmen on her right raised their spears above their heads. The movement caused the shuddering of steel on steel, yet still they were silent. Did they even see her?

THE OTHER NATION MAINTAINS SUPERIOR STRATEGISTS.

On her left, the men raised their shields into the air as one.

Every face was unique, undoubtedly alive. Mirah's teeth dug into the flesh of her lip.

IN THIS WAR, WHO DO YOU BELIEVE WINS?

Her eyes flicked to the English sky, following the clouds that pushed ever closer. When she looked back to the scene, the armies made no movement.

At her sides, her hands curled and uncurled.

She didn't understand this scenario. Was she to guess the winners, or was she the deciding factor? Were these the only options she had?

The volume at which she spoke was not quite a shout, but was nearly there.

“Why--” she licked her lips, dry from the wind. “Why are they fighting?”

THE REASON HAS BEEN LOST.

She frowned.

“Wait, do they know why they're fighting?”

IT IS IRRELEVANT.

“Like hell it is!” she found herself saying, turning away from the field to the cliff, out to the sun. “Do they even speak the same language? Can they communicate at all?”

NO.

“Well,” she said, and it caught her by surprise how much impatience was in her own voice. It was sharp with distaste. “There's your problem! How are they supposed to come to a compromise when they don't even know why they're fighting? When they can't even talk it out? How can they come to any kind of peace?”

YOU HAVE MISSED THE POINT OF THE SCENARIO.

“No!” she shouted. Oh, it was suddenly like she was in middle school again, the eyes burning into the back of her neck as she stood at her desk. “This puzzle or scenario or whatever you want to call it—there are no winners! I can't pick out a winner here, when—when they've been fighting for so long, and nobody's won.”

There was silence. She continued, fierce.

“And even if I was supposed to pick a so called winner, the winner wouldn't be here! These are just soldiers! They're going to die! Here, there aren't any winners, and there won't be any winners until somebody tries to talk it out! But they won't even try! So nobody wins.”

THAT IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE ANSWER, the Disk said, as she turned back to the hill. The footmen were staring at her, now—they could see her. She swore, looking along the faces she could see, that there was fear in some of them. Resoluteness in others. Acceptance.

They knew they were going to die, she realized.

“Fine,” she said, nearly a snarl. “Then Death wins. Death wins two whole battalions to carry to the afterlife. That's my answer.”

There was a beat.

THAT IS AN ACCEPTABLE ANSWER.

“Wh--”

The wind picked up—she curled around herself, fingers digging into her upper arms. Her hair blew into her face again.

“Are you serious?!”

YOU HAVE PASSED THE TRIAL OF THE MIND.

“But--”

She twisted her neck, letting her hair blow back. Something in her boiled, made her head hurt.

“Why did you accept that answer and not the first?!”

WHY DID YOU NOT CHOOSE ONE OF THE TWO OPTIONS OFFERED?

She squinted, trying not to let her teeth chatter. “Because they both sucked?”

THERE IS YOUR ANSWER, HOWEVER INELOQUENT.

Her lips pressed together.

“Peace is not a bad answer,” she mumbled, tucking her chin into her chest.

In front of her, the battalions turned and began to march. Closer and closer they advanced to the edge of the cliff—to her, they were coming to her.

“Wh--”

She stepped back, glancing behind her to the approaching ledge. It was uncomfortably close, enough for her to be nervous for her balance.

“What's happening?”

THE NEXT TRIAL BEGINS.

The battalions stopped. From the masses, there was a shuffling deep within, and then as though in sync, each party shoved a form forward, onto the flattened grass in front of her. They fell to their knees, heads turned down to the ground.

The wind died.

“What's...”

To her right, a man stepped forward. He pointed at her, then to the body kneeling on the grass. When he spoke, it was in a language beautiful but incomprehensible, and filled to the brim with barely-controlled rage.

She was reminded, for a sickening moment, of her father. Mirah swallowed. She glanced up again to the sun.

“C—Can you tell me what's going on, here?”

From each mass, another man stepped forward, and they pulled the prone forms to their feet, yanking their heads back by the hair to reveal their faces. She nearly reeled backwards, toeing the edge of the cliff. Her eyes widened.

They were children.

The both of them were young, young as her if not moreso. Each of them wore rags with the color of the opposing armies, their wrists and ankles shackled. Even without the wind, the cold air did little kindness to them—she could see their shudderings. A murmur of noise filled the air from each battalion.

Something in her mouth tasted suspiciously of bile.

PRISONERS OF WAR, the Sun Disk said, numb to the drama. EACH OF THEM HAS COMMITED CRIMES TO THEIR OPPOSING NATION. THE RIGHT OF BATTLE BELONGS TO WHICHEVER NATION'S KIN IS STRUCK DOWN FIRST.

“Are,” she started, her voice breathless in a desperation she couldn't place. She inhaled deeply. “Are you shitting me? Are you kidding?”

AS AN UNBIASED PARTY, YOU MUST CHOOSE WHO HAS FIRST RIGHTS.

“You want me to pick which kid is supposed to die?!” Her hands flew out in front of her, gesturing at the madness unfolding. “They're kids!”

Her stomach churned—the muscles in her neck and throat were tight from horror, from rage. She twisted again, on the edge of the cliff, to face the vast, black ocean.

THEY HAVE COMMITED CRIMES, AND ARE NOT BLAMELESS.

“This is wrong! These—these 'scenarios' are flawed and you know it! The choices are too black and white—the world doesn't work like that! Just because somebody did a bad thing, doesn't mean a nation gets to go to war over it! Nobody has to die over it! You can't expect me to choose who gets first dibs on bloodshed, I won't play that game!”

The wind picked up again, biting her face, her eyes. YOU ARE A PACIFIST?

“I'm sensible!”

THERE MUST BE BLOOD. YOU MUST CHOOSE WHO HAS FIRST RIGHTS.

It spoke over her, like she hadn't spoken at all. Like she wasn't there at all, she was nothing.

Yet this was her decision?

Her decision, and yet if she provided any arguments, any other choice, it would ignore her.

That wasn't fair. That wasn't right.

She turned to the prisoners. Eyes burned into her skin—hundreds of them, thousands, maybe. They stared at her, and all she could see were the freckles under the eyes of the children, the little scars on their lips.

There was a little lump in her throat. She looked out to the cliff, her eyes on the frayed edge. She could just see the sea foam at the base of the cliff, where the water crashed unforgivingly into its side, again and again.

Oh.

When she was six years old—

How many times had she dreamed—

Her eyes narrowed. Her jaw set.

“Someone has to die? For the battalions to choose who goes first?”

YES.

Mirah stepped away from the cliff. The children in front of her quaked, the wind cruel against their skin. The flags blew and blew and blew.

Her chest shook with each breath. Was this even real? This scenario—maybe it was all in her head. Her stupid, stupid head, these grand puzzles designed in the perfect ways to make her blood boil.

Could she really imagine something so cruel?

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

When she was in front of the children, they shook, but she didn't stop—she walked past them, her body between theirs and the masses. She looked out to the individual faces.

Could she really imagine the amount of detail and care here? What if she was wrong?

“What if it's me?” she said, her voice cracking down the middle.

YOUR REASONING?

That wasn't a no.

“This,” she started, haltingly, “this is just another puzzle. It's another impossible choice, like before. You—you say somebody has to die, there has to be blood, but choosing a kid—it'd be based off nothing. There's no context and there's no crime big enough for this. So—So I can't pick one over another, and that only leaves picking both of them.”

Her voice strengthened, firm, unyielding.

“I refuse to do that. That's wrong. You can't make me their judge, and judge over this whole stupid war. It's not my war.”

She braced herself. Her fists were curled tight, nails digging into her palms as she looked out along the wall of people in front of her. Behind her, one sea. In front of her, another. Both unforgiving.

“But you won't let me not choose, so there's got to be a third option. There's always a third option. It's never so black and white.”

Her hands shook.

“So, me. I'm the third choice, and I'm unbiased. I don't belong to either party, killing me won't anger the opposing nation. They get their blood, and the fight's over. It's—it's the way to keep peace.”

She paused, and looked up.

“Right? Am I right?”

For what felt like an eternity, the Sun Disk didn't speak.. And, then, it asked:

YOU WOULD SO EASILY LAY YOUR OWN LIFE DOWN IN PLACE OF STRANGERS? YOU DO NOT KNOW THEIR CRIMES. HOW CAN YOU BE SURE?

“I'm not sure!” she shouted, baring her teeth. “But it's because I don't know them, and I don't know anything about them! Whatever they did, whatever stupid crime you can claim they're guilty of? They're kids! It can't be so big they can't learn! You can't just punish them for making a mistake! You can't put a whole battle on their shoulders!”

She threw her hands out, a frantic gesture. “It's this or I let someone I don't know die, just to decide who gets to throw the first stone! I'm not okay with that, I refuse to have anything to do with it, and you won't take no for an answer, so here's your goddamn scapegoat! Right here!”

Her chest heaved. The wind blew fiercely around her, trying to shake her, to knock her down. Still, she braced, eyes on the gathering storm clouds.

“I'm not taking no for an answer this time.”

As one, the footmen approached her. On all sides they surrounded her, cutting off her view of the cliff's edge and the ocean past it. The clanking of their armors and their weapons and their boots were loud in her ears. She shuddered.

THIS IS AN ACCEPTABLE ANSWER.

They raised their weapons, blotting out her view of the clouds.

Down they came, and their aim was true—every time, the aim was true. Again and again spears dug into her chest; swords slashed into her back; hands grabbed at her arms and twisted and pulled them. Again, again, again.

Through the barrage, she did not black out. It would have been a welcome reprieve to the drawn out slaughter of a single individual, but unconsciousness did not come. She did not become numb. Every strike felt like it was the first.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. She was dying. She was bleeding. Maybe she was screaming, she wasn't sure over the noise and the ringing in her ears.

On and on and on. Maybe this would go on forever. Maybe that was the final trial. Maybe she was supposed to die forever and ever, on this cliffside.

The sky finally disappeared from view, though, maybe, it was just her eyes finally giving up the ghost. She was drowning in what must have been her own blood, filling her lungs with a warmth they shouldn't have known. Then—

YOU HAVE PASSED THE TRIAL OF THE HEART.

Breathe.

When she opened her mouth, it flooded with water. Her body spasmed up into a sitting position, wretching and coughing, choking on what tasted like iron and chlorine. Her chest burned as she gasped desperately for air.

She became vaguely aware, after a period of time, that she was in the pool again. Her body was slumped against the obelisk at the center, and now she curled in on herself. The water was tainted red where it spread around her aching form.

The wounds, she realized faintly, were real. The pain was real. It was like dying—no, that wasn't accurate. She was dying. That was a fact, wasn't it? She was bleeding out. Her vision was fuzzy; was that because she had left her glasses at the edge of the pool? Or was it the blood loss getting to her brain, shutting off her senses one by one? Was it the call to fall unconscious altogether and rest so she wouldn't witness it?

She didn't know. It scared her that she didn't know.

THE NEXT TRIAL BEGINS.

No more, begged a pathetic little voice in her head that still clung to awareness. No more, please. She swallowed hard—it was like choking on needles, coated in rust and tearing her throat open.

YOU ARE DYING.

And like that, it was a thousand times worse.

The numbness that had begun to spread was gone, replaced with the distinct impression that every inch of her was screaming. Her body curled tightly in the pool of water as she opened her mouth and wailed, the sound reverberating through the chamber back at her and causing her ears to ring. Her fingers felt broken and mangled—her eyes were bleeding. Her brain was full of thin long needles. Her mouth tasted of nothing but iron.

Her spine—every vertebrae seemed to unalign and snap her backwards, arching her ragged bloody chest into the air out of the water. Every breath she tried to take seemed to fill her lungs with more and more fluid—coughing made the agony and the weight worsen, aggravating whatever wound was causing it. She thought, maybe, her ribs had shattered and lodged into her heart, piercing the tissue and causing the arteries to spurt everywhere into her.

Oh, god. She was going to die here, like this.

YOU ARE SUFFERING.

She was going to disappear. She was going to go slowly and painfully, and nobody would even miss her. She would vanish, and nobody would even know it had happened. An unrecovered body at the suicide jump. A statistic, a tally on a board. She'd never had any more merit—she'd never been more. She'd never done more. She'd never done anything for anybody, and now it was too late.

Was she still screaming? Did she even really know how to anymore? Was her body capable of it?

YOU THINK WHAT YOU FEEL NOW IS PAIN? THE EXISTENCE YOU SEEK IS PAIN. IMAGINE, CHILD, THIS AGONY TENFOLD. EVERY MOMENT. EVERY DAY. AN EXISTENCE OF THIS SUFFERING. THIS LONELINESS, THESE CHOICES, FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY.

Nobody loved her. Nobody had ever known her enough to love her—to love her, the person she was supposed to be and not the one they'd all wanted her to be. She could have been so much, she could have done so much more, and nobody even knew her real name. Her life was over before it had ever really begun to be hers.

YOU SEEK A PURPOSE, DO YOU NOT? YOU SEEK TO BECOME PART OF SOME GRAND SCHEME. TO BE HEARD.

THIS IS THE FATE YOU SEEK?

She sobbed distantly, and the motion tore her chest. She ran her mangled fingers through her hair, clawing at her scalp.

It was in her head. It wouldn't get out of her head.

YOU ARGUE THE CHOICES I HAVE SHOWN YOU ARE FLAWED, BUT THEY WILL OCCUR AGAIN. THEY WILL BECOME YOUR EVERY MOMENT. THE PAIN YOU CHOSE IN YOUR SELECTIONS, YOU WILL HAVE TO CHOOSE AGAIN. AGAIN. AGAIN.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND? THIS IS THE FATE THAT AWAITS YOU.

LET GO.

There was no more air in her lungs—every breath she tried to take was shallow, pained, a wretched little gasp she could barely hear over the pounding in her ears. It was impossible, that she was still alive, and yet, still, she was alive. For however little time left, she was still alive.

I WILL END YOUR AGONY. I WILL LET YOU REST.

LET GO.

She couldn't think. She couldn't focus. She wanted to focus.

Focus.

The children on the cliff-side that she'd put herself in front of. Were they alive?

Had that been real?

When she was a little girl, she had been told that her every moment was preparing to take care of her elders. She had not been offered comfort, and so had never sought it. She had spent thousands of moments by herself, pushing herself, holding herself, giving herself the only comfort she could.

She had mastered, at a painfully young age, the art of silent weeping. Crying so hard your body shook, while the wails you were desperate to release wracked your lungs. When it was over, she, a child, had wiped her face and straightened her shoulders, and that was it.

Countless moments by herself. Hundreds of nights silently imagining a world where someone loved and cared for her. It had taken an impossible length of time for her to realize children shouldn't experience such things.

Children were supposed to be protected. Children were not supposed to carry the weight of responsibilities. They weren't supposed to be told that their pain was their own fault.

She'd been told, when she begged for help, that it was her fault. It was always her fault.

Even here, aching in the water, for her own stupid decisions—

She hoped those children were alive.

It's funny, the morals you gather in your life. Of all the nightmares, and the loneliness, and the cruelty, she'd come out furious. All of it, and she'd come out with the fierce belief that—

That children shouldn't have to hurt like that.

LET GO.

She—

She wouldn't—

LET GO.

She wasn't going to—

A noise forced itself out of her throat.

“Nn—“

She choked on her tongue, sobbed. Her wrecked fingers scrambled on the tiles at the bottom of the pool as she struggled, blindly, to push herself onto her knees. Get up. Get up.

It hurt. She hurt.

LET GO.

“N—No, no.”

She wouldn't die. She wasn't going to die here. She refused. She refused.

When she was sixteen years old, she had nearly run her car into a building. At seventeen, she dreamed she stopped existing, and she waited day after day for the right moment to disappear altogether.

And she didn't. She didn't do those things, despite how badly she wanted to. She had come so close to the edge of despair, of giving up, of giving in, of letting go.

She stayed alive. She stayed. She chose life. Again and again.

It had been out of spite, mostly. Spite and anger had fueled her, had strengthened her. She had a desperate need to prove she could do what everyone had said she couldn't do. She was going to stay alive, and she was going to help people where people hadn't helped her.

She wasn't going to die here. She wasn't done being spiteful and angry. She wasn't done helping kids who hurt like she hurt. She wasn't don't protecting people who needed protecting.

She wasn't done.

LET GO.

“No!”

There was a heat in the tips of her fingers. She could feel the strain in her shoulder blades, the way her twisted neck ached as she forced it to obey her.

“I won't!”

Through the haze she forced herself to wade through, and the persistent shrieking every muscle made, she was struck with the overwhelming sensation that the Sun Disk was examining her. Inspecting her; the broken creature on the bottom of the pool that dared defy it, and its bizarre and broken mind.

She shuddered and ignored it.

Get up. Get up.

She'd felt worse, she told herself. She'd wanted to die before. It had been more overwhelming then than it was now.

She could get through this. She would prove to this thing, too, that she was stronger than whatever it thought would be enough to break her.

She couldn't stand, couldn't find the footing, but her hands pressed to the flat face of the obelisk in front of her. She pushed herself against it, pressing her forehead to the smooth stone. Her fingers pressed into the sharp edges. It was a hot surface, towering over her. The light at its peak hovered at the edges of her failing vision.

YOU CHOOSE TO LIVE, DESPITE THE CONSEQUENCES?

The heat was spreading rapidly, through her forehead and fingers, into her aching limbs and mess of a chest. The pain had begun to fade in its place, until all that remained was a dull throbbing.

YOU CHOOSE LIFE?

She made a faint noise of affirmation into the stone face, her eyes shut. She could barely feel the water anymore.

YOU HAVE PASSED THE TRIAL OF WILL.

I YIELD TO YOU.

She was tired, her cheek pressed to the obelisk. There was little room for satisfaction or pride through the exhaustion.

TELL ME YOUR NAME.

She could breathe again. The wet ache that had threatened to drown her was gone. Yet, her breaths still shuddered from the effort. She whispered into the stone, resigned.

"Mirah. Mirah."

THAT IS NOT YOUR NAME.

Her eyes snapped open.

It knew. Of course it knew—it knew everything. It had known from the beginning, hadn't it? It had known who she was. It knew what would make her fight harder than anything.

It had known she would win.

“You're right,” she hissed. Her teeth were grit again. Her palms dug into the edges of the obelisk, stinging and burning as she pushed against the rock. She wanted to stand.

“May. My name is May.”

She'd chosen the name herself, years and years ago. She knew herself as no other name, despite the one she'd been given at birth. She'd always been May, the moment she started living outside of how she'd been told to.

No one had ever referred to her by it but herself, but it was her. The person she'd always been.

I YIELD TO YOU, CROWNBEARER.

REACH FOR ME.

May lifted her head to the light, the lines of her face cast into sharp illumination. The Sun Disk shone. She lifted her hand, reaching up, up.

REACH FOR ME, MAY.

Her fingers traced the smooth golden face. She spoke, her throat dry, her intent filling the cavern with a power to rival its own.

"Make me a queen."

The pool glowed with its own golden sunlight. The ceiling of the cavern was painted with its patterns, shimmering brighter, brighter. The warmth of the water turned to boiling, then to burning.

Where her fingers touched the Sun Disk, there was a deep, firey sensation that swelled inside of her. It was sharp and piercing—it made its way out her chest and to her skin and her face. When she looked up at her fingers, she found them coming undone. Golden ash where the tips had been, floating serenely in the air. Her hair, now, too, came apart, the strands crushed to fine gold.

She began to scream again.

She was torn to pieces, shred, taken apart until all that were left were the atoms, glowing bright like stars. And, still, she was present. Still, she lived.

It burned, like standing in a bonfire, but there was no smoke. There was only heat, and fire, only the intense flash and the stars, the billion billion billion stars that had once been a person.

She lived, she died. She lived.

And, then, again—

Breathe.

She gasped hard, her body shaking against the obelisk. The light of the cavern began to dim to little more than a faint glow, as though lit by a weak candlelight.

Her body was whole. Her fingers were pressed to the stone, she could feel its engravings under her nails. The pain that had flooded her—the pain of coming apart at the seams—slipped out, as though it would spread through the water instead.

Her sight returned. When May looked up, she could see, even in the dim glow, the details her face, reflected into the smooth face of gold. Her vision was clear, crisp.

Slowly, she braced herself against the obelisk, and pulled herself to her feet.

The Sun Disk hovered in front of her. With lidded eyes, she examined the object, her gaze cool, and then, as though she was grabbing her keys, she reached for it gracelessly. It changed in her hand, but she did not bother to look at it as she waded across the water to the edge of the pool.

She forced it to sit atop her head. It stayed there without her holding it—it belonged there.

She began to gather her belongings—her coat, her boots—as though nothing had happened. Across from her, the statue stared at the empty and dim pool.

Your predecessor, the Disk whispered. And, then, as an addendum, Do not fail me like she has.

She said nothing. As she walked past the statue, the gold feathers that covered the ground in front of her parted, like real feathers, blown gently by the wind.

Her footing was somewhat shaky. The walk down the tunnel to the antechamber was a slow one. This time, she paid no heed to the inscriptions on the wall as she braced her hand against her. With each step, her firmness grew, until, as she made her way to the mouth of the cave entrance, she was standing straight.

The harness lay forgotten on the ground. She didn't need it anymore.

Through the crack that was the entrance, May could see the light of breaking dawn. The ocean shimmered with breaking sunlight. She climbed through the crack, holding herself against the walls that kept her from falling into the crashing waters below. From here, she scanned the horizon with narrowed eyes.

It was like seeing a new world.

Ataret, the Sun Disk called. Distantly, she recalled the word as Jewish. Ataret, choose your form.

She thought, the idea rolling in her head. Below, the water continued to spray cool mist up towards her.

She chose.

The change felt like nothing—it was like shedding a loose layer of clothing from her frame, shaking it off to reveal her shape.

From the crack along the side of Beachy Head, a small bird, barely a blot along the white wall, fluttered and took flight upwards. The sparrow went unnoticed by the humans that stood at the edge, studying the anchor posts that anchored nothing. It dived down the hillside, over the cresting peaks, and then disappeared.

#may writes

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ginyang98 · 7 years ago

Text

Duck Avatar AU Chapter 1

Ok, now I accept I am crazy, but I really loved this AU.

Also, really thanks to @adamarinayu forhelping me with the translation <3

Chapter 1: Burning the ship.

When the triplets hatched, there was no one caring for them. There was only a single lamp above them to keep them warm, protecting them from the frozen wind of the South Pole awaiting them outside. Naked with yellow feathers and with no one there to care for them, one by one, with only a few seconds between, they broke through their shells and left that safe place to enter this world alone. But even though an act as beautiful as birth, especially that of triplets, becomes sad with no one there to hold them and keep them warm, there is still something even sadder; Death. In the moment the ducklings were breaking through their shells, elsewhere with the strike of lightning and upon the glass-strewn ground, before his best friend’s very eyes an important public figure died. But what was special about this person? The fallen one was the avatar, the only person capable of mastering all four elements. And what does this have to do with the birth of these ducklings? One of those newborns was his successor.

A duck entered the room where three little ducklings were sleeping together in the large cradle they shared. One of them was wide awake, moving around in the crib despite being wrapped in a blue blanket. The elder watched him and only smiled, and he took the duckling in his arms. He began to sing a lullaby, trying to soften his hoarse, harsh and sharp voice so that he could lull the little one to sleep. When the child started to yawn, the duck lowered him back into the cradle and wrapped him back in his blankets. “I wish your mother was here. SheShe would be so proud of you ... You are growing very strong,” the older one smiled, and he gave each of them a kiss on the head: first the one who was wrapped in a red blanket, who yawned softly as he shifted; then the one with the blue blanket, whose eyes were half-closed as he fell back into Morpheus's arms; and lastly the one with the green blanket, who smiled a little, revealing small dimples in his cheeks. “... Why do they look so much like you…?” As he walked away, tears gathered in his eyes. He was not their father, he was just a relative who would take care of them from then on. Uncle Donald ...

Donald wrote letters every day. He repeated them but he always ended up burning them all in scorching fire. What did they say? Nobody knew, but it was for someone important. For whom?… The only thing anyone really knew was that he began writing them after his nephews hatched. The nephews were normal children, or at least they looked like they were. The three of them were special, but it first showed up in the eldest triplet. Do you know the legends of this world? There are people who are able to control a natural element: water, earth, fire, air ... The eldest brother had manifested the ability to control water at six years old. For this reason, he helped his uncle with some domestic tasks that included the use of the skill. However he hadn’t really trained his ability, at least not until he became a part of the "Boy Scoutz: the Junior Woodchuck" group. Louie also developed this ability a year later, but more vaguely than his eldest brother. In truth, every time Dewey or Huey started to bother him when they were out of the house, small cracks formed in the ice at his feet, but they went unnoticed. At least they did until one day, when Dewey was being bothersome, Louie threw a blow and accidentally made the ground crack, causing them both to fall into the water below. And Dewey ... Well, we'll talk about Dewey a little bit later.

The letters never stopped- he wrote them and always burned them- but they did decrease in number. At first there were five letters, but in the end there was only one with five names in it. Burned in the fire, his words became smoke.

“Listen to me all! A story for dinner time!” shouted an old dog with large ears, dressed in the typical fashion of the Water Nation, though his clothes looked very worn. His eyes looked crazy, but the inhabitants sat around the fire to hear him speak, as if he were the wisest of them all. “Hey, Huey, do you really think those clothes keep him warm?” asked one of the children around the fire, chuckling. This child was a duck, and he was sitting in between two others who, curiously, looked very similar to him. The only thing that differentiated them were the feathers on their forehead. “Yes, they do, Dewey,” answered Huey, a boy with a small winter red cap, contrasting completely with the blue suits worn by the populace. “We, the Junior Woodchucks, made those thermal clothes so that old Jenkins doesn’t die of the cold.” With a call from the eldest of the family of ducks, who wore a sailor’s hat, the two little ducks fell silent. Thus, the story began: stories of the different "avatars" of the world: about the avatar Felix and how he accidentally caused a small fight between spirits and mortals, about the avatar Julius who was one of the most violent and died in the spirit world, of the avatar Walt who was the first of them all, of the avatar Pattience who was the first woman and who gave the official order to learn the elements, about more avatars, about the spirits, about the white lotus and how these together with the great spirit master Yen Sid maintain the balance of the world... But the one who he spoke of the most was the avatar Mickey and his team, to the disgrace of Donald.

The old man in town knew who Donald Duck was. Or rather, what he had been. He told stories of epic battles, about the great waterbender he was, about the most powerful avatar up to that point, about a warrior from the Earth Kingdom, about a reporter from that same nation, about the princess of the Fire Nation, and the last female airbender in the world. He told of the great team they were, the "avatar team" as they called them: Mickey Mouse, a benevolent and childish young man who kept at bay a growing war until his imminent death at the hands of someone who is currently in prison. Donald did not like to hear this, but he always ended up listening to the old man for his nephews: Huey, Dewey and Louie. Especially for the middle one, who seemed to be even more excited than the other two about the stories each day. Donald never denied having done such feats, but he never confirmed it either. What has happened to this poor man to only be present for his nephews and not for himself? ...

“Imagine that the avatar is in our tribe! Just imagine that!” Dewey said to his brothers excitedly, raising his arms and pretending to do the motions that the old storyteller made when relating historical events. “It would be great to meet the avatar. I mean, that guy is a celebrity since his birth…” the third child who, until now, had not spoken, smiled, and amusedly tried to imitate the one with the wild hair, pulling from the ground a small, inconstant flow of water that floated around him, which due to little experience fell back to the ground without warning. He let out a small, disappointed sigh. “Well yes, Louie. It would be pretty cool... but I do not think he'll show up again. According to the old Jenkins and the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook, it's been seven years without an avatar and he was supposed to be born among the air nomads but…” the eldest of the triplets gave a grin, remembering the old man's words saying that the cycle was broken since there were no more air nomads in the world. Or well, there was one but this guy didn't have kids. “Oh, come on. All this is a matter of magic and those things, right?” said the youngest of the three, draping his arms around his brothers’ shoulders from behind, looking from one to the other. “I mean, you have that weird magic too.” “It's called Waterbending and it's not about magic. It has to do with energy and our brains,” Huey scolded Louie, annoyed. “And you’re also a waterbender, I'm not the only one!” “Magic, energy, whatever.” Louie raised both eyebrows, smirking in amusement. “The avatar has to exist! ... yet…” Dewey said, looking thoughtful, before he finally smiled towards his two brothers confidently. “I know it. I mean, he could not disappear just like that.” “Oh, yeah? And how do you know, dear Dewford?” Huey raised both eyebrows as a challenge, jokingly. “... Maybe intuition? I don't know.” “Maybe you are the avatar!” Louie said mockingly, giving a little push to the elder, who did not hesitate to push back. “Boys, stop talking, please,” their uncle said, turning to look at them with irritation. “Yes uncle Donald…” The triplets chorused.

Years passed. Donald raised them, burned letters, trained in secret to not forget anything he knew... and in the meantime, the boys played, studied and were protected by the eldest of the house. Typical in a small and broken but good family... One day, however, that protection turned into overprotection, as just a month after Louie’s ability made itself known Dewey’s own revealed itself. But it was not water. It was air.

That day Donald wrote letters again, two to be exact. One was addressed to four people, and the fifth was going to only one person. Who…? But these... He did not burn them.

Donald's nervousness increased, and he had the three locked in the house most of the time. Huey was no longer allowed to be part of the woodchucks, Louie couldn't get along with the other children in the town, and Donald never took his eyes off of Dewey. He had even forbidden the use of airbending in public. Although in the beginning this bothered the children a lot, they managed to survive their paranoid uncle for three long years. Sometimes they even ran away from home to have fun outside, and although he always found them, they remembered those moments of freedom with joy. They really did not understand the current danger ... At least Dewey, who was the most daring of the three, did not understand. The moment came when their uncle locked them up when he had to leave. This was the moment Huey realized why his uncle was so paranoid.

“Water, earth, fire, air. When we were little the old man of the town told stories about a person, born every so often between each nation, who could control the four elements they called "the avatar". He told how the last avatar maintained peace throughout his time until he died due to the betrayal of one of his relatives and that, due to this, a war was about to begin. I also heard the stories, told by that crazy man, of how the avatar had had a group of companions in which my uncle Donald was listed as a great waterbender and sailor. I personally did not believe these stories and I was skeptical. Seeing is believing. We all knew that the next avatar was among the air nomads, but according to the old man there was only one, who didn’t practice the air nomad habits, and, according to him, had no children... Strangely, my younger brother, Dewey, was an airbender. Uncle Donald, after my brother showed his power, did not let us out of home. Would he be the Avatar…? No, I really do not believe, it's just coincidence ... It has to be coincidence.”

The situation of confinement worsened with the passage of time, to such an extent that Donald no longer allowed them to even help him clean up at home, as if he thought that they would escape or something. Unconsciously, this caused fights among the children: Louie blamed Dewey for the situation, Huey was not a great mediator and only took care to make sure they did not get hurt from the blows, Dewey blames the other two for doing nothing against Uncle Donald, Huey yelled a lot at both of them (especially to Dewey because the child is too reckless)... it was just a disaster. One day, when one of these fights occurred, the brothers were in the kitchen. Louie boredly watched as Dewey tried to create a swirl of air in his hands, another good excuse to get into trouble. “Leave that, you'll never make it,” Louie said mockingly, leaning his elbows on the kitchen counter and his head on the palms of his hands. “Do you want to try?” Dewey glared at Louie, crossing his arms. “... No thanks. I'm not an air person, you know…” He turned to a small glass of water, trying to move the water without success. “... Meh, one day I'll get it…” “You know you have to practice, right?” Huey asked, and with a single motion he lifted the water from the glass and put it back into it. “Stop doing that, kids!” Donald's scream was heard from the top floor. “I do not want you to get hurt or something!” Louie leaned on the bar, face down, in frustration. Dewey grimaced. Huey just sighed in resignation... “This is impossible…” said the middle brother. “You said it,” Louie’s voice, muffled by the large jacket he wore, grumbled out an agreement. “We'll find something to have fun. We always do…” said the eldest, trying to encourage the other two. And so, Dewey just started hitting the bar like it was a drum. What? He was bored. It did not cause Louie to flinch, nor did he lift his head from its place on the counter. Huey, on the other hand, did react, and he raised an eyebrow questioningly at his brother. “Excuse me, but what are you doing?” “Rhythm…?” Dewey answered, and he continued to beat lightly on the counter without noticing that each tap left a small black spot on the wooden bar. “I'm bored.” “Eh... Dewey…” Huey, noticing those little marks, tried to make his brother stop. A second blow on one of them generated smoke, but the kid with ruffled hair did not flinch even a little. Huey kept trying to make Dewey stop, but as if believing it was a challenge the younger kept on even stronger. Annoyed, Louie looked up to try to make them shut up for once, but felt a strong blow to his right arm, on the sleeve of the jacket, and stared at it in shock. After a few seconds watching a small incandescent light on the garment he finally screamed. After him was Huey, and in the end Dewey shouted.

Donald heard the cries of the triplets and, surprised, he ran awkwardly down the stairs. What was found was something unpleasant; his kitchen was on fire. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!” With nothing more to think about, he grabbed them one by one and took them out of the house while the flames swept across each and every piece of furniture, through every room. And in the distance, the family watched the flames destroy their home. “... Now… eh… Pay me, Dewey…” Louie, freezing without his large jacket, just stretched his arm to Dewey, waiting for something. Dewey, without even looking at his brother, just took out of his pocket a pack of dry meat and a few coins and gave them to Louie. “I can’t believe you were right…” Dewey just whispered, with shock written in his face.

“I didn’t wanted to believe, but THAT day arrived. The day that Dewey accidentally burned our home down with his hands, since he actually controlled the air. My uncle Donald went into such a great panic that he took us out of town a few hours after that, in a boat that he says he bought. I could see the terror in his eyes and I did not know why, but I was also very afraid. The avatar was born again, and it was my brother... What could be worse than this?”

First chapter.

OKEEEEY NOW THIS IS IT!!! I wish you like it... eh. I’m going to feel free to tagg a few people...

@donaldtheduckdad @squorkal @colutm @miilkyprism @tricia-morvill@heythatsdeep @tiaradrawsnotthatgreat @cartoonfan7 I wish you like this guys!

Again, thanks @adamarinayu for helping me at the translation!!! <3

#duck avatar Au #ducktales #ducktales au #disney au #fanfiction #mickey mouse #donald duck #Huey Dewey and Louie #dewey duck #Louie Duck #Huey Duck #avatar au

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thebibliomancer · 7 years ago

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Essential Avengers: Avengers #137: “We Do Seek Out New Avengers!”

July, 1975

And you’ll never guess who forms this new roster- Oh. The cover spoils it. Twice.

Well, at least this is one cover that is a more or less accurate representation of the contents of this issue.

Since last time was a rerun of a non-Avengers book, lets catch up on what has gone before.

Previously, we finished the Celestial Madonna Saga. The Vision, Scarlet Witch, Mantis, and Swordsman have left the Avengers for reasons of marriage, marriage, marriage, and death. This leaves the Avengers with just Thor, Iron Man, and Hawkeye.

Which isn’t a very good roster. Iron Man and Thor have stuff to do in their own books and Hawkeye is one imagined slight from rage quitting the team. They need to boost their numbers.

Hence, they do seek out new Avengers (but not New Avengers. Not yet).

But I get slightly ahead of myself.

We actually begin with the Avengers plus Moondragon plus Agatha Harkness returning from Vietnam.

And Agatha Harkness continues to be a shipper on deck, stating to Hawkeye’s claim that Vision was sly to marry Wanda, “Enlightened’s more like it, I’d say -- to seek a life with my Scarlet Witch.”

Shipper or at least immensely proud of this woman she’s known for a couple days.

Anyway, Iron Man and Thor notice that the Celestial Madonna star is still above Avengers Mansion (but looking much cartoonier) even though Mantis has gone off and married a tree. They suppose they’ll never learn how it got there.

But we will because according to a caption, the “Trial of the Watcher” arc in Captain Marvel explains it.

Are you ready for this bombshell revelation?

Uatu the Watcher made the Celestial Madonna star there because he wanted to feel like a part of the moment.

Source

That’s it.

Oh, also Rick Jones drops some acid. That’s not related necessarily. But I thought I’d mention it.

Yup.

Anyway, the Avengers return to the mansion and Agatha Harkness gets snarky at Jarvis and then heads to her guest room. So I guess she’s staying despite Wanda being gone. At least for a bit.

She also comments that “Your Wanda will never be a great witch, much less a sorceress -- but she will be very good!”

Which is kind of a mixed compliment but whatever.

The following morning, Thor broaches the topic of having only three Avengers being kind of not ideal. As mentioned, Thor and Iron Man have their own books going on so they’re forced to be part-time Avengers.

Hawkeye is weirdly hostile to this entire topic for some reason. Maybe he figures that he has better chance of becoming chairman if there are fewer candidates but when Iron Man and Thor insist on a membership drive, Hawkeye insists on getting veteran Avengers back instead of new members. And you’d think he’d want new members because they’re less likely competition for him. So I don’t really understand his motives.

I do have a theory. Hear me out: he’s being ornery for orneriness’ sake. Because Hawkeye.

Anyway, Iron Man goes ahead and proposes Moondragon to be an Avenger. Because she’s available. She’s just right there. (He will live to regret this decision)

Moondragon speculates that the nomination is because he sees much of Mantis in her but says she’s her own woman. But she’ll accept the offer. She’s had her interest reawakened in Earth anyway.

Anyway, to Hawkeye’s inexplicable dismay, she accepts.

But Thor proposes that they call up former Avengers and see if they want to rejoin.

Black Panther has a long-winded answer that Thor mentally translates to “Nay.” Apparently a swipe at the verbose nature of the Jungle Action book under Don McGregor.

Which is a throwing rocks in glass houses situation, Englehart. You just got off the Celestial Madonna Saga. You’re in no position to judge.

Quicksilver tells the Avengers to fuck off for asking him to rejoin when they let his sister marry a robit.

Captain America has Red Skull related things to deal with and rather than have the full resources of the Avengers on it, he’s going to deal with it himself. But hey, he’s back in the Captain America jammies. Progress?

Black Widow declines since she and Daredevil’s relationship has gotten more confused than ever but she’s not ready to break it off. Lamentably.

Hercules is enjoying being at loose ends currently. “And there shall I remain, Thunder God. I have enjoyed myself hugely since I have once more trod this world -- and I nurture no desire to limit my freedom of action now.”

Sounds like he’s taking some personal days.

Finally, they contact Wasp and she agrees to rejoin the team. In fact, she was about to call them. SHE’S SO BORED LATELY. And Hank has been having adventures on the side with the Defenders which is rude. So she went ahead and decided for him that Yellowjacket is rejoining too.

Which. Actually. Forgot to mention this earlier. Fuck you, caption box on the cover. THE WASP IS REJOINING TOOOOOOOOOO. STOP FORGETTING TO COUNT HER OH MY GOD.

Anyway. How about some fanservice?

Check it. We peek in on Wanda and Vision on their honeymoon and look who is showing some skin.

He’s rocking it.

Anyway, the two are vacationing on Rurutu, French Polynesia. Apparently in the short time she had to sight see before a Quinjet was blown up with her inside it and then was nearly sacrificed to a volcano, Wanda evidently decided that this island where she nearly died twice was where she wanted to go on her honeymoon.

And the locals do feel just awful about that volcano thing so they agreed to give the couple some space.

Meanwhile, across the world. The Avengers are sulking. They got two yeses out of the seven people they called.

Hawkeye speculates that its because of all the different groups that have sprung up since. There’s X-Men, Defenders, Inhumans. Not to mention that being a solo super-star is a dream that some people have. The Avengers are the old-guard. Easy to take for granted after all these years.

There’s a bit of a flaw in his premise. None of the people they contacted were busy with the X-Men, Defenders, or Inhumans. Its more that they were busy with personal business of some kind or another. Also, unless the person in question is a mutant or an inhuman, the X-Men or Inhumans wouldn’t accept them anyway.

Your argument is stupid, Hawkeye.

And also, provokes Iron Man who thinks Hawkeye is saying that the Avengers are out of style.

The Wasp arrives, having flown past security by slipping through a keyhole. Which again proves that the Avengers’ security is kind of shit.

But because of stuff happening in other books, Hank isn’t size changing anymore. He’s got a microbe in his blood which one trapped him at ant-size. So she left the door unlocked behind her so he could just walk in.

Sup, Yellowjacket.

And he immediately picks a fight with Hawkeye. Because... Hawkeye? I honestly have no idea. Maybe he wants to show off.

Iron Man asked if the Defenders had let Yellowjacket go, but in a friendly way. Yellowjacket immediately gets defensive, turns on Hawkeye and says that people are free to come and go from the Defenders as they please. LIKE HOW HAWKEYE WAS WITH THEM DURING THE AVENGERS/DEFENDERS WAR but now spends a lot of time putting them down.

And after he provokes Hawkeye into shooting a FOOM! arrow at him, he counters with his cellular disruptor gun and stuns Hawkeye.

And then, after provoking a fight, says he doesn’t feel like fighting. And would rather spend his time with his research. BUT HE AND JAN ARE A TEAM!

Plus, Jan claims that without her, he wouldn’t even change his own socks. Which, come on, get your shit together, Hank.

Anyway. Yellowjacket comes up with the idea that if they’re still short some members, why not just put out the word that they’re looking for new blood. Like what the Avengers did to set up the kooky quartet roster.

Hawkeye disapproves. Perhaps based on principle. And storms off to steal Dr. Doom’s time machine to go back in time to the 12th century and ask Black Knight if he wants to rejoin. Because dammit. Someone around here has to be thorough in asking every former member.

Its around this point where Thor does his ‘we want you’ television ad and then we cut to Yankee Stadium.

Its deserted because of reconstruction and securely locked up. So obstacle one for any prospective members: have the skill and determination to break into a locked stadium to audition with the Avengers.

And only one person does. Edward G. Robinson.

Kidding!

It’s Hank McCoy, aka the Beast, in a rubber mask.

A lot more laid back then he was in the reran issue from last time.

He recaps his recent past: how he quit the X-Men to get a real job, how he mutated himself with a concoction and made himself furry and couldn’t change back, and how he eventually gave up trying to maintain his old life through rubber masked trickery.

How he dropped out of sight and let time pass however it wanted. Really binged on old movies. Sounds like he was depressed, honestly. He also listened to a lot of Stevie Wonder. And Jay and Miles speculate that he may have indulged in some reefer.

And after his little hermetical hiatus he realized a couple things. One, any mask he wears - even his old face - is just pretend so why limit himself? His mask making skills are so good he can pretend to be practically anyone with some prep work. (PARANOIA!) So, yes. Officially, Beast is bringing ‘mask making’ and ‘acting’ skills to the team. But revelation the second, he realized he missed superheroing in a group.

And then someone loudly announces that Beast will die with this group. Someone shrouded in shadow, hiding in the upper tier of the stadium seating.

And he wants to play a game.

Oh god. A mashup of Saw and Marvel heroes. I feared this day would come.

Mostly kidding!

No, but the mysterious stranger does want to play a game with the Avengers. And he’s filled the arena with hover-mines while they were chatting. Only one in five of the mines are armed. But the ones that are armed contain “unearthly power!”

So the Avengers have six minutes to navigate the mines and reach a disarmament lever before the Stranger (for that cosmic jerk it is) detonates everything.

Showing the level-headed strategic thinking that characterizes the Avengers and makes them a team people are clamoring to join, Thor decides to bull straight through the mine field trusting in his durability as an immortal to-

PTAM! WOM!

Thor is down.

So Iron Man, showing the level-headed strategic thinking etc decides to fly through the mine field, relying on his maneuverability and almost equal durability to- wait, shit. The mines are now drifting about because of how Thor disturbed the field.

KLOM!

Iron Man is down.

Wasp decides that obviously she’s the obvious choice for this hazard undoubtedly. And maybe if she had been sent first, like she should have been, it would have been no big deal for her to clear this trap. She’s small, she’s maneuverable.

Thor really wasn’t acting like much of a chairman. He didn’t assess the team he had available to him and decide who would be the best fit. He just decided to barrel on through. For shame.

And Wasp is out of practice after not flying much over the past two years. And with the mine field disturbed by Thor and Iron Man, the mines are moving around too much.

BWAM!

Wasp is down.

Yellowjacket, as should be expected at this point, completely loses his chill when Wasp is endangered. He starts to run into the mine field to grab her so Moondragon uses a “total mind-thrust” to stop him.

Yellowjacket is down.

Which just leaves Moondragon and Beast. Moondragon does what Thor should have done and suggests thinking through the situation dispassionately before attempting any hasty action.

And then Beast nominates himself. See, while everyone else was getting themselves exploded like an idiot, he has been thinking through the problem. And with his visual acuity, agility, and reflexes, he has decided he’s the best for the job.

So he acrobats through the dynamic mine field of death, leaping and diving and twisting and turning and basically doing anything but charging right ahead like a dumbass.

And he clears the hazard so acrobatically that Moondragon, best female athlete of Titan, is like hot damn.

Anyway, he switches the switch and checks on the Avengers.

Iron Man and Thor are both alive and mostly well.

But the Wasp won’t wake up and barely has a pulse.

A despairing Yellowjacket shouts for the Stranger to come down and fight like a man.

So the Stranger does. Mostly because he’s a bit disappointed nobody died yet.

Also, is it just me or is the Stranger’s chest insignia a mustache?

That’s weird, right?

Anyway. The Stranger proclaims that Moondragon isn’t the only one with MIND POWERS and engages her in a MIND-O-WAR. Or something.

Iron Man and Thor know that Moondragon is skilled but she’s outclassed by the Stranger. So while she’s distracting him, they plan to charge the Stranger.

Except, instead of outclassing Moondragon, the Stranger gets... bored? And teleports away? Yelling that the Avengers haven’t seen the last of him?

So the Avengers have survived their first challenge as a team. But with the Wasp in such a fragile state, they can’t take much triumph from it.

“It is a sobering beginning.”

And kind of a bullshit one.

I like the Beast’s introduction here. His weird mask thing makes for a memorable first impression and he shows his stuff both analytically and acrobatically with how he handled the mine field.

And Moondragon was quick on her feet too, stopping Yellowjacket from getting his fool head blown off and being smart enough to know that they shouldn’t go at this half-cocked. Although not quick on her feet enough to say anything before half the team blew themselves up? They are veterans though. They shouldn’t need her to babysit them.

But its annoying that a challenge is set up that seems like it perfectly suits Wasp’s skillset instead horribly injures her so we can have another tense ‘the Wasp has been injured’ cliffhanger.

And makes her look like an idiot to add insult to injury. SHE JUST GOT BACK. CAN’T SHE HAVE NICE THINGS?

And I disagree that the Avengers survived this challenge as a team. Because they evidenced no teamwork. They acted like a bunch of dumbass gung-ho individual heroes instead of a team. Thor absolutely failed at behaving as any kind of leader and made the situation worse for those that followed him.

And what beef does the Stranger have with the Avengers? Well, he first appeared in an X-Men book. So I guess he’s Beast baggage. Or rather, I already know what his deal is and it is revealed next issue.

#Avengers #Thor #Iron Man #Yellowjacket #Wasp #Beast #Moondragon #the Stranger #?#the Vision #Scarlet Witch #on honeymoon #Essential Avengers #Essential marvel liveblogging #quite an ignoble showing for our heroes #except beast #you did alright

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