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jflashandclash · 4 years

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Tales From Mount Othrys

Jack: Silenced II

When he thought about rolling over to see Flynn making her bed, Jack smiled. Her muscular figure would be silhouetted by the rays of dawn coming through the window, a tan blur against the black obsidian of Camp Othrys.

She walked around in her underwear in the morning. Luke said it was invitation. Jack knew it wasn’t. It was a marker of tested trust, Flynn’s willingness to be vulnerable knowing that Jack wouldn’t make the first move or ogle her. At least, that’s what Prometheus said when Jack brought up his concerns.

But, when Jack rolled over, there was no Camp Othrys, no line of Flynn’s weapons against the wall. His electric bass guitars were gone, as were all of his sketches of the Orpheus Metal band posters. (They were terrible—Pax had made better ones.)

A harp and loom lingered against one cavernous wall. There was a built-in fireplace roaring, providing some respite to the chilly air. The ceiling was crystalline, reflecting purple, emerald, and blue against the white bedding. Someone else’s bedding. It smelled like someone else.

Jack sat up, shoving the feather pillow away. He clutched at his hair, finding that someone must have trimmed it. He choked at the gap in his memory.

They had fought the Romans—an aerial attack against the Princess Andromeda. Jack was snatched by an eagle. Screams. Flynn’s roar of fury. He remembered falling in the water…

The clothing he wore was white, baggy, and cotton, too much like his hospital garb from the first time Steve, his step dad, institutionalized him. This prank has gone too far, Steve had said, angry Jack would dare scare Ashton and Shelby by claiming the walls were screaming. Jack’s skinny jeans and band shirt were gone. What if all of it had been a hallucination: Camp Othrys, the Princess Andromeda, the monsters, the gods.

Jack choked back a sob. This. This wasn’t the hospital. Jack dug his nails into his pockets, the material too thin and delicate to keep him from clawing his legs in a panic. No Mr. Sunny. His pillbox, and all of his medication, was gone. How much time did he have? He knew the withdraw symptoms: vomiting, hypersalivation, diarrhea, diaphoresis, insomnia, agitation, and rapid psychosis.

He had woken in a cold sweat, but a cold sweat didn’t always mean withdraws.

Rapid psychosis. Jack’s heartbeat thudded in his head. This felt real, but everything always felt real—that was the problem. There was a distant song—lovely and eerie, just abstract enough to question its authenticity.

His stomach churned with ignored hunger. A platter with tropical fruits, bread, and a mug of water lay beside him. Jack knew enough about mythology and fairy tales not to eat something unless you were directly invited and only if you knew that the owner of the food wasn’t a witch with powers to trap you eternally.

She must have undressed me. That girl with the caramel braid. Unease squeezed away any hunger: a stranger had taken off his boxers while he slept.

When Jack got to his feet, his legs trembled and his head pounded. He slipped a blanket around his shoulders. As he wandered towards the cave entrance, he passed a shelf filled with dried and drying plants that smelled of Alabaster’s laboratory. Several ancient tomes lined a desk beside it. One was open to a page illustrating human anatomy with words in… Minoan, if Jack had to guess. Some of the titans at Camp Othrys wrote in the dead language. Jack turned the page and flinched. There was an inked sketch of him, sleeping. He turned the page back.

Was it him? Or had his brain filled in the gaps?

It’s starting. Monsters. He was going to start to see and hear monsters again. Not the real ones. Not the friendly ones on his ship. Not the ones that came to his monster seminars about how demigods were friends, not food. Innocuous, innocent things would become sinister and comfort would lilt to paranoia.

But there were no monsters outside the cave. Just her.

The sun’s amber and coral hues broke against the ocean’s horizon, bleeding into the water and clouds to unite them into zigzagging, heavenly passageways. Crepuscular rays danced through their holes, making this girl’s hair glow as though one more constant in the coming of dawn. She stood, singing, at the edge of a beach. Her bare feet made lumps in the sand, compounding with each flush of the tide; if she forgot herself for long enough, the earth would reclaim her.

Jack swallowed. In the oncoming lighting, he could see the silhouettes of flowers—so many flowers. There was a maze of roses, larkspur, delphinium, lilies, hollyhock, and sunflowers, all reaching towards the sky and curling about with a careless grace that looked both wild and tamed in their pattern. Some whisper cooed that these flowers didn’t belong together, making Jack fear they’d bow and bury him if he dared to walk through.

But he needed to walk through to get to the beach, to follow the siren call. He hesitantly passed the first rose bush, expecting it to jump into Alice in Wonderland levels of criticism.

“Jack!”

The call made him jump away from the roses. After an exhale, he realized it was the girl, not chatty flora. He rushed past the rest of the flowers.

“You’re already up,” she said when he reached her. The comment sounded more surprised than the disappointment he’d detected last time. Her white, sleeveless dress and braid fluttered in an ocean breeze. The effect made Jack’s blanket feel like an epic cloak.

He gestured to his clothing and back towards the cave. “Thank you for the hospitality, Ms…” He trailed off, frowning. His throat felt worn. He’d have to do his warm up exercises. At least there was plenty of salt water to gargle. “How did you know my name?”

“Ms?” she echoed, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Oh,” she giggled, “You talk in your sleep.”

Jack didn’t—or no one ever said he had before. Pax (and Axel under the guise of worrying over Pax) had slept in his room when they’d had particularly bad nightmares. That sounded like something Pax would abuse, even subconsciously, and would result in Flynn taping both their mouths shut. Morpheus liked to keep a strict record of who talked in their sleep, so he could play with demigods that slept through Alabaster’s lectures.

Jack swallowed. “Um, Ms., I hate to be a bother, but I had a pill box in my pocket—”

“I disposed of it. I don’t allow plastics on my island and the contents had been soiled by the ocean.”

Jack choked. That was the first gift Flynn gave Jack—the first time he realized all his ballads, poems, and offers to carry her books hadn’t just annoyed her. She and Phil had been teaching him to carry it on his own, a marker of independence that made him proud, even if Flynn double checked every hour to assure he hadn’t overdosed on anything. Most people didn’t trust him with important things, but she and Phil were entrusting him with that.

“You won’t need them here. Ogygia itself can soothe you—”

Trembles shook from Jack’s core to his fingertips. “Ogygia,” he whispered, taking a step backwards. The beautiful horizon tilted. His hair felt course as he tugged at it. “You’re—you’re Calypso the Seductress, detainer of men—”

Before the words left his mouth, he turned to flee. The sand slipped under his bare feet. The blanket tumbled from his shoulders, disappearing with the sight of that horizon. Jack ran towards the retreating darkness of the island, away from the sunlight that sparkled in that glowing hair.

Others at camp found Homer and Hesiod’s work boring, but he’d put the Odyssey to proper music and knew most verses. He knew of this nymph-goddess.

Each step made Jack’s body feel leaden. His panic numbed with an encroaching exhaustion. He shouldn’t be this tired—he knew his body. He healed fast. This weakness—how could she—did she—?

Jack’s legs failed him while racing through the gardens. Rose canes loomed over him and curled around in a canopy of thorns. In their sharp and cloy embrace, consciousness hazed to nightmares.[1]

***

Pain pinched Jack’s cheek. He jerked away, expecting to see Pax with a super glue tube and fake mustache to make Jack “look more esteemed.” That prank had not gone well. Turns out, Flynn did not like Jack with a Western train-robber look and she did not like how the fake black hairs tickled when he nuzzled her.

Instead of Pax, he saw Calypso with a small bandage that she must have ripped off his face. There was a tiny, brownish-red scab on the other side.

Jack sat up and jerked back from her. They were back in the cavern, on the mattress made of white fluffiness. She had a basket of tiny bandages at her side.

“Calypso the—”

“Don’t.” She placed her hands on her hips, glaring. Considering how she knelt beside him, her regale stature was impressive. “I get messages from the gods, you know. They call you Jak-Jak the Scourge of New Rome, Jak-Jak the Plague Bringer, Jak-Jak the Corrupted Spawn of Apollo. Need I go one? Shall I assume you’re here to plague me? To give me cancerous sores? Shall I make assumptions of your person off hearsay, like you have done with me? How long ago did Homer and Hesiod write that libel about Odysseus?”

Her eyes watered.

Jack frowned. Had his name really traveled that far?

A tear streaked down her perfect cheek: a raindrop down the smoothness of a statue. Rumor had it that Pax could cry on command. What if she could too?

Or, what if she was a good Samaritan helping out, decried, like many women had been, by the histories written by men?

Jack exhaled, telling himself to relax. He tried counting, the way Axel told him to when he got confused. Axel would be furious at him for this kind of assumption, for upsetting a mythological creature based off hearsay. There were lots of fabled monsters at Camp Othrys that were friendly (when well fed. Jack had to make rules about demigods being in the dining hall during monster feed time).

“I—I’m sorry, Ms. Calypso,” he said, looking down at his hands. There were more little bandages tapped across his forearms. From a quick examination of his skin, the thorn pricks had already healed and scarred over. The base guitar chord was still braided in a bracelet around his wrist. He touched the scars there, finding ridges where he’d healed Lucille and Lou Ellen’s skin by peeling off his own. That new kid, Ethan Naka—something, had joked that Jack’s arms would start to match Flynn’s burned face. Jack gave him a case of chicken pox for that. No one was allowed to talk about Flynn’s face, except Flynn herself and their son, Pax. Pax, only because he was a sweet little munchin and the only person other than Jack that could make Flynn blush.

Calypso gently touched his chin. Jack didn’t flinch back this time. “It is alright.” And, she ripped off another bandage. Some hair came away with it, making Jack wince.

Everything seemed… clearer. Sharper than it had in years. His thoughts raced with a hyper clarity that scared him. “What else was wrong from the myth?” he asked, observing the cavern in a new light. The cool breeze that rustled the white curtains was refreshing, intermixing the gentle sweetness of flowers with the herbs in her cabinet. He frowned at the tomes there. Had he imagined the drawing of him?

She dabbed a cool, wet cloth against his stinging skin. Sadness lined her eyes. She hesitated. “I don’t know what you know of this place, brave one. The island is a phantom island, my imprisonment for helping my father in the first Titan War. Time does not have the same meaning here as it does elsewhere.”

Jack glanced past her, to the roaring fire in the wall’s inset fireplace. There was a pot over the flames, boiling furiously. He swallowed, despite her earlier assurance. “You’re not going to… eat me, are you?”

“Eat you, my sweet?” Her eyes seemed to dance.

“Well, that response reaffirmed every fairytale fear that I had.”

Her laugh was melodious. She must have thought that had been a joke. It was not. “I’m afraid we mostly eat vegetables and fish here. There’s a scarcity of cannibalism on the island.”

Jack nodded, somewhat comforted. That hadn’t been in the original tale, but you never knew with Greek mythology. He didn’t want to be rude (again) but, if this was the Calypso, he had an important question. “How do I get off the island?”

“Jack, a terrible fate awaits you off the island. I cannot, in good consciousness, allow you to leave until you are healed, well-rested, and well.” She gestured to his lanky frame.

Once again, Jack considered pointing out that this was his natural state of stick-figure Jackness. He let the offense slide. In the Odyssey, she said something similar to Odysseus. Staying here would worry Flynn, Luke, and the boys, but he had no way off the island unless he lucked into some abandoned boat or cartoon-barrel. In the Odyssey, Calypso gave Odysseus a bronze axe so he could build his own raft. Jack doubted he could lift an axe over his head without falling backwards let alone build a raft with it. Greeks were master ship-builders. Jack was a master builder of group-therapy sessions for monster support, metal bands, and stories to make Luke, Flynn, and his boys smile.

Besides, Calypso helped Odysseus only after she held him captive for seven years and he provided her a son (or several, depending on the author). There were no sons on the island, unless they were hiding in the cartoon-barrels. Maybe the ancient authors truly had discredited her.

“I can stay,” he said hesitantly, “but only for a few days. Flynn, Luke, and my boys need me.”

Calypso’s lips pursed and her gaze softened, making her look both relieved and troubled. She glanced away. “You’re so young to have children.”

“Oh, we adopted.” Jack beamed. “Luke says they’re too close in age to be my sons, and Axel says I’m not allowed to both be the head of our metal band and his father, but they’ve taken well to it. They haven’t started calling me dad yet, but I’ll work them over.”

Calypso looked confused. “Metal band?” she repeated.

Jack leaned forward excitedly. “We already played once at the HMM—a bar for monsters—er—a tavern.” He scrambled to find words that would translate to ones she would recognize. “The crowd loved us. Clops threw a goat at us!”

“A goat?”

“Yeah! A goat’s this four-legged—” Jack fumbled, realizing that’s not the part that confused her. She repressed a smile at the pause. “It’s a really big deal to have a monster throw a goat at you instead of trying to eat it. Kind of like when people throw their underwear at the stage and about as sanitary. Much lighter impact.”

“What?!” Her face scrunched in disgust. The expression was almost cute. It put Jack at ease. This was the first time he felt like she wasn’t acting or hiding anything. “People have thrown their underwear at you while you’re performing? Is that… normal?”

Jack considered this. “I don’t really know. It never happened to me when I did solos in the church choir—” Well, once after service but that was a little different. One of those instances where the boy denied it happened the next day. “—but Pax—one of my sons—talks about it like it’s a marker of success. I think they’re mostly thrown at Axel. He’s a handsome boy and a hearthrob amongst demigod and monster alike. Plus, he’s the guitarist, and the angsty one, and people always love angsty guitar players.”

The look of confusion deepened. Jack absently tugged a lock of his hair, wishing it was a little longer. “It’s like a lute—oh, wait, that was 13th century. Uh, it’s a fretted stringed instrument—anywhere from four to nine strings though standard is six, and you play it by plucking or strumming with one hand while fretting with the other—or picking. Or bapping the body. Uh—how about I make you one? All I need is a box, a longish piece of wood, some sticks, and some of your uncut harp strings.”

I can make an instrument, but can’t make a boat. Not for the first time, Jack wondered why Luke and Flynn wanted to keep him around. He managed to use his powers to save Axel, Pax, and Alabaster (though, really, he thought it was mostly Flynn. She was so incredible). But he still didn’t feel like he was great at the killing department, regardless of Phil’s continuous encouragement. Even during the interrogations he and Flynn had been conducting on Romans, he flinched and shrieked when someone’s finger was broken. Despite all this time, he hoped Flynn and Luke found him useful.

Calypso nodded slowly. “Will you teach me how to play?”

Jack nodded enthusiastically. “The positioning might seem weird, but you’ll pick it up easily. From what I’ve heard of your singing and harp-playing, you have perfect pitch and a natural grasp on music—”

She tucked a lock behind her ear. “You like my singing?”

He tilted his head quizzically. “Of course. You’re incredibly talented, both naturally with your voice quality and the amount of work you’ve put into perfecting your craft.” Jack supposed that’s what he’d do, too, if he had an eternity to work on anything. An eternity of music—the foundations for paradise. Maybe that’s why God is said to have a choir of angels and how he crafted souls: by singing them to life. “Each word you sing weaves a secondary layer of emotion—both melodious and melancholic, interweaving multiple stories into—” He frowned, feeling his explanation lacked poetic value—ah!

“’Tis sweet, when mournfulness enshrouds

The spirit sorrowing and pale,

And gather round the angry clouds,

To take the harp and tune its wail.

‘Tis sweet, when calmly broods the night,

To wander forth where waters roll,

And, mingling with the waves its voice,

To rouse the passions of the soul!”

When Jack was done, she stared at him, her eyes wide and her expression unreadable. He frowned. “I—sorry—” he said, his insides churning. Had he done something wrong? He didn’t feel confused right now. The world felt so much clearer. An uncomfortable dread settled into him upon realizing something for the first time: not everyone burst into poetry at random. How stupid had he been to not know that before?

“No.” She put a hand on his. Her eyes watered. “I—that was beautiful. Did you—”

Jack blushed and pulled his hand back. “No. It’s by John Rollin Ridge, a famous Native American poet. I was just reciting.”

She cleared her throat and looked away. “I—let’s get you a box. I wish to hear this guitar of which you speak.”

***

Normally, Jack felt such mania for whatever project he focused on, everything else fell in the background. As he twisted the tuning pegs of his guitar (sabotaged off Calypso’s extra harp) his mind scattered with worry.

This newfound clarity was almost overwhelming. There was so much wrong in the world for him to mull over. Each time he stopped singing, it hovered on its peripheral, like a night terror lurking along the receding rays of the sun.

Between each question from Calypso—she enjoyed hearing updates from the outside world—he’d hum or sing the ballads he’d composed about Flynn’s ventures. Calypso would pause her work on the strings and stare at him with that unreadable expression.

After she finished with the sixth string—winding them of her hair—she sat closer to him. They worked in the shade, where the woods met the beach. Some distant whisper warned Jack that more time had passed than the evening angle of the sun, but he couldn’t be sure. The sun was all he had to go off of, and he wasn’t used to the awareness of passing time. Normally, Jack felt the passage of existence through the crystal notes of a song, the annoyed flash of Flynn’s smile, Pax’s giggle, or the upwell of elation at the end of monster help session, measuring life in crescendos and decrescendos of energy and joy. Jack didn’t like wanting to look at a clock, especially now that there were none. That was always someone else’s job.

“Why did you adopt children?” Calypso asked it with the practiced calm of an over-thought question.

“Flynn can’t have children.” Jack had to be gentler with these strings than the metal ones from home. He wondered how their sound would differ, and hoped it would ease the 2,000—4,000 year transition in music for Calypso.

“She’s barren?”

“So says the goddess of childbirth.”

“And this doesn’t bother you?”

Another reason Jack couldn’t stay long: it was almost the weekend before he vanished and he and Flynn would need to go to her Nainia’s apartment to sing to her, as they did every Sunday. The kind grandmother’s health was failing and Jack knew they needed to visit more often. “Why should it?” Jack frowned, repeating the question in his head. “Well, it did when I first found out. I wanted a family. Then, I adopted[2] the boys, and now we have one. And, it wouldn’t matter even if she could. We’re not… physical. Recently, we started curling up without clothing, but nothing else. Just snuggles.”

Jack felt his cheeks flush, both at the memory of Flynn snuggled up in his bunk (she never let him near hers; she wanted a place of her own) and that he’d told Calypso about it. Was that something else people didn’t normally blurt out? To Luke or Phil? Sure. To Calypso the Seductress, the Detainer of Men…

Her cheeks rouged. Shame crept along his awareness. You weren’t supposed to blurt stuff like that. Negative two on the Jack social protocol scoreboard.

“Oh… um… But you’ve already adopted—have you two not been married long?” She struggled to maintain eye contact.

Something pinched in Jack’s chest. “Um… she’s not really into the idea of marriage, but we’ve been dating for…” With no clocks on the island, he didn’t know how many days he had been unconscious. Normally, Jack could recite the length of time down to the minute. The thought of Flynn’s blush when he asked her to prom. The day before he met Luke. The day Jack accidentally killed his whole mortal family with a song.

That memory hadn’t resurfaced in so long, not since he was sobbing into Flynn’s arms over it. How could he banish it from his thoughts? It wasn’t like the thoughts of his half-siblings he killed—the other children of Apollo. No. They deserved it. They had reaped the favor of their father since birth. The cessation of that favoritism brought the world back to order, the way things should be to balance the scale that an unfair god created, like correctly a flat note to perfect harmony. But his family… Had he ever even had a funeral? And did it matter?

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Calypso asked.

The funeral part did bother Jack. It took him a moment to retrace the pieces, sliding his fingers along the guitar string. Flynn. Sex. Marriage.

Flynn would puppet and charmspeak boys into their room to humiliate and toy with them, but, she wouldn’t take Jack. Jack never wanted to pressure her, but icy insecurity crawled through him at the thought. What was wrong with him? It didn’t matter that Prometheus said Jack and Flynn viewed sex differently: Jack, as an expression of love; Flynn, as subjugation. Jack didn’t understand that. All he wanted was to be everything Flynn needed, and he didn’t understand why she could puppet others but wouldn’t puppet him. If that’s what she wanted—

The string snapped and lashed him across the cheek.

He shrieked and jerked backwards. Blood trickled down his skin. A full string wasted—an instrument piece dying before it could sing its first song.

Something cool touched his face. Humming filled his ears. The lashed skin tingled and Jack wondered if this is how others felt when he healed them.

When Jack blinked to clear his vision, Calypso knelt beside him. Her too-perfect face rested in a gentle, knowing smile. The strap of her white dress slid onto her shoulder, tickled by the length of the braid. For the first time, she looked like the goddess of the island—something about the subtle shift in confidence.

Jack flinched when he felt her spider fingers in his hair. She must have put them there to hold him steady for a cheek-cleaning. “You ran from me when you first found out who I was. Do you—did you really think I could make you forget Flynn?” The question could have been rhetorical, but there was enough real curiosity to make Jack tremble.

Fear coiled his confidence, the same fear present when Luke lost himself to Kronos or his anger. If Calypso lost her temper…

“Odysseus never forgot Penelope,” Jack whispered, “So the stories say.”

Could that fear come from the possibility of forgetting Flynn? Do people only experience fear when they’re experiencing doubt or uncertainty?

At the watery glisten of her beautiful almond eyes, an idea made Jack sit up and almost clock foreheads with her. She startled at the sudden movement. “And you never forgot Odysseus!” Jack cried. “Calypso, do you always fall for the people on your island?”

Calypso hesitated. A tear broke from the dam along her eyelashes. “I… I try not to say anything when travelers first come…”

“Have you heard of platonic love?”

Her brow furrowed. Her melancholy faltered to confusion. “Platonic? You mean… relating to Plato? Or the idea that abstract objects are objective, timeless, and are non-physical and non-mental?”

Jack would need to ask Alabaster about that later. “Uh—well, I want to be your friend. You’re really nice, but you don’t need to fall in love with everyone you meet, or at least not romantic love. Let’s be friends! I mean—have you ever heard of a rebound?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think you ever fully moved on from Odysseus. So, we should talk about him. Tell me what you loved and hated about him and why you fell for him in the first place.”

Calypso’s expression darkened. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Exactly! You never forgave him for hurting you or yourself for loving him. Both are still hurting you. So, let me be your friend. Let me help you get over him without being a replacement for him. And, after this war is over, we can still be friends! Either we decapitate Zeus and his lackeys and his power no long holds you to the island, or we can keep in touch. I know the myths say I can’t come back twice, but I’ll bet I can Iris Message you. I mean, you have rainbows and Iris can go anywhere rainbows can.”

Her lips cracked to protest. Upon considering his words, she stared off at the coastline. “No one has thought of that before.”

Jack beamed. The fear was gone. He shoved a hand between the two of them (awkward due to the close quarters). “Let’s shake on it?”

Calypso glanced from Jack’s hand back to his face. Curiosity perched her lips. “You’re… one of the oddest men I’ve ever met, Jack Flash.”

Jack blushed. “I get that a lot.”

Cautiously, she shook his hand.

At the time, Jack didn’t think to make her swear on the River Styx.

He should have.

***

author’s note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! This series is going to continue! I’ve just been struggling to focus on writing with some crazy stuff going on at home. ^.^’‘‘‘ Thanks for your patience and continued support!

Footnotes:

[1] So, Homer’s Ogygia is as Riordan described it. I needed to at least alter the flowers so Jack wouldn’t immediately recognize where he was. Also, flowers for symbolism because I’m a tool.

[2] I kept accidentally writing, “kidnapped” here. Not too far off.

#Tales from Mount Othrys #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #Heroes of Olympus #TFMO #PJO #HOO #fanfiction #Jack Flash #Calypso #My cat is named after Calypso #Her screams are not siren like #especially not at 4:30 in the morning #I hope you're staying healthy!

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my-brothers-corrupted · 5 years

Text

My Brothers, Corrupted

Chapter 1 : Section 1 : The Newcomer

This is how our story begins. From here, everything there is to be found out is found out through your questions.

Trigger warnings: (not necessarily a complete list! Please tell me if you need others added up here because I’m just trying to remember what’s in here) blood, torture, kidnapping, extreme distress, and abuse.

See this chapter’s masterlist here.

Part One of Chapter One: The Newcomer

Cold light drifts in through the window of Trickshot’s nest.

He sits with a blanket drawn loosely across his shoulders, his hand on his sniper but the gun down, down on his lap instead of hoisted onto the sill as usual. Clear blue eyes are fixed on the pine tree view outside his window, watching with an intensity that has only been his characteristic since the early days.

The early days of what he remembers, anyway.

At his side you can make out the shape of another man, asleep under piles of blankets, his face hidden close to Trickshot’s thigh. A soft fuzz of brown hair sticks out from under the blankets. You can hear him breathing. Trickshot plays with the barrel of his gun, staring, waiting, at watch, as always.

Once the sun dawns, perhaps he will sleep, but perhaps not. Today, after all, may well be the long-awaited day.

Eventually, the man at Trickshot’s side stirs and awakens, pushing up out of the blankets with a groan and slumping wearily against Trick’s back. His brother doesn’t respond, fixated on the window. Doktor reaches around to find broken glasses on the floor and puts them on, glancing around the house. There is no static in the air, no flickering lights, not even the soft hum of electricity.

“When is he coming home?” he whimpers, rubbing sleepily at his face.

“Stop whining,” hisses Trick. “Soon enough.”

But he too is beginning to look worn.

Anonymous asked: Hello? Hi? Are you guys okay?

Trickshot starts and glances over at the camera. Doktor grins and goes to pick it up, holding it up so you can see the both of them and the view through the window. “Hello,” he says. He reaches up to itch at a scratch on his face, but Trick smacks his hand away with a pointed “stop picking at that!”

“We’re okay,” says Doktor. “Just bored. We’re waiting for our brothers to come back home.”

Anonymous asked: Oh? Who's missing?

“Red and Anti,” grumbles Trickshot. “And they’re supposed to be bringing someone else home with them.”

A loud thud sounds through the ceiling and Trick and Dok both jolt hard, glancing up.

“He’s probably wearing out,” comments Doktor.

“Who gives a fuck?” growls Trick.

“You should, if he passes out it means something went wrong. Red and Anti only get as many chances as he gives them.”

optimistic-violinist asked: So pumped about this blog!! One thing I've always wondered, who got corrupted first and what was the order after that? Thanks so much!!

The boys exchange glances and laugh. “Corrupted!” snorts Trick.

“I like that, ‘corrupted,’” giggles Doktor. “It is not like this, my friend, it is more like - coming around to something that was always true. Becoming more fully what you always should have been.”

Trick nods solemnly.

“Trick and I came here together. Red and Dapper were already with Anti by the time we did. They were, after all, the ones that brought us home. That is what I remember. What little I remember…”

He pauses, frowning out the window. Trick reaches out to touch the back of his head, just for a second, and Doktor nods, a confirmation of a question they often ask each other.

“You okay?”

“I’m okay.”

Wordlessly.

Anonymous asked: Was that dapper??

“Yeah, he’s upstairs,” sighs Trick. “It’s a working night for him. But if he does his goddamn job right, we won’t have a problem. Dok, maybe you better check he didn’t faint again. He - ”

“Hey,” says Doktor, cutting him off. “Thought I saw something move on the path.”

They both jolt to attention, sitting up like dogs alerted by a squirrel and looking out the window.

Anonymous asked: what's outside?

“Holy shit,” whispers Trick, sinking down against the windowsill. “Holy shit.”

Doktor, for his part, leaps to his feet and hurries toward the door, calling a hurried “is everyone okay?”

The path from their house leads through the forest and out towards the cold fall ocean. Coming along the dirt path is two men in black hoods. Across Red’s shoulders is slung Marvin the Magnificent.

Unconscious.

Bleeding.

Found at last.

“Hey, puppies,” calls Anti, drawing back his hood.

His eyes are green and black. Blood coats his throat and his hands. He is, at last, victorious, and for a moment, your view looking out from the window, you could swear that it is you he is smiling at.

“Look what the cat dragged in!”

Anonymous asked: Oh?? A stranger? A new, old brother? Who's Anti and Red brought?

“They really found him,” mumbles Trick, huddled up in his blankets, gripping the gun frailly. “The magician. We’ve been searching for him for a really long time.”

Doktor grins and runs to meet them on the path, where he is promptly scooped into Anti’s arms and lifted up into a hug. Anti presses a kiss into his hair and slings an arm around his shoulder, turning him towards Red, who stands, panting and pale, with Marvin across his shoulders.

“Look, Dok-Dok, I brought you a new patient,” says Anti. His voice glitches only a little and his form is quite opaque; he seems very stable. He allows Doktor to run anxious hands over his stomach and neck, but there is no wound despite the blood.

“You did it,” purrs Doktor, pushing up against his shoulder. “Finally, we’re all here. Now we’re complete, yes, Anti?”

“Yes, now you’re all complete. Pretty matching set. Red, get him inside, downstairs. Want him chained up before he comes to. He’s still not himself. Has to be broken in. But soon we’ll all be together, just like we were meant to be.”

Trickshot has come to stand in the doorway. He watches, white-mouthed, as Red moves past him with Marvin in tow.

“Hey, Anti.” Trick dares to speak up. “Wh - what’s his name?”

For a moment, Marvin’s eyes flicker over, ever-so-slightly, though only Trick sees. He is stopped short by the look in them - a sudden and painful desperation, complete with agony, turning the warm ocean color of his irises to a terrible despair. Despite his weakness, still there is something in his eyes - his eyes, his eyes, deeper blue than the night sky - that is not quite human.

“This is Red’s twin, as Doktor is yours,” says Anti. He moves to Trickshot and runs a fond hand through his hair. Trick relaxes against his hands, sighing wearily.

“This is Blue.”

With the soft cry of a thing in its death throes, Blue lets his eyes slide shut once more.

Anonymous asked: How bloody is Red?

As Anti moves on, speaking with Trick, Doktor turns his attention to Red and Blue and follows them down the stairs. He no longer needs to be ordered to take care of his brothers - this has been his duty since even before he became Anti’s.

The basement is dark and smells strongly of iron. Doktor shivers as he reaches the bottom of the creaking wood stairs, where flecks of carpet remain affixed to the concrete floor. You can hear Red panting hard as he sets Marvin down in the corner and fetches chain from the closet. There is plenty of it in there.

“Are you well?” asks Doktor, tilting his head.

Red pushes down his hood, revealing a dark stain of blood bloomed like a flower in his hair. He turns, exhausted, to Doktor, and mumbles something incomprehensible. With a soft dripping sound, your attention is turned to his bleeding wrists. They are blackened with deep, weeping burns. Red’s eyes flicker.

Anonymous asked: Is he gonna be okay?

Doktor glances at you and makes an uncertain face. He knows he should move in to help him, but that’s not always easy with Red.

“What happened to your risks?” he asks.

“Wrists, Deutsch,” grumbles Red. “What do you think?”

“The cat can burn like that?”

“He’s powerful,” admits Red. For a second, he shakes off the weariness and straightens up. “And I caught him, so! Anyway, he’ll be a good asset, you know. Anti will be pleased with me.” He grins proudly.

“So sure?” asks Doktor. A grim smile flashes across his face. “Sounded like Dapper wasn’t doing so well upstairs. Maybe you messed it up a few times?”

Red pales. “D - did he faint?”

“Didn’t check.”

Red turns away from him, hiding his fear, panting. He groans through a wave of dizziness and clutches his bleeding wrists.

“Here.” Doktor is suddenly at his side, reaching out to take his hands. “Let’s get these bandaged up. I have some burn stuff.”

“Ugh,” mumbles Red. He wants to pull away, but suddenly it’s difficult to stand. Shaking, he tumbles against Doktor’s chest, and can’t seem to get back up. His head is bleeding rapidly. Doktor swears and sinks to the ground with him, putting pressure to the - oh, shit, his skull is fractured.

“Not doing so hot, are you, Reddy?”

“Fuck you,” groans Red.

“You’ll be okay, but may be a couple painful days. Best hope your concussion doesn’t damage anything permanent. Let’s get you bandaged up, yes?”

Anonymous asked: Did Red get those injuries when Blue tried to defend himself?

“Yes,” grumbles Red, slurring over his own tongue. “I tried… I tried to talk him down… Anti said we were brothers once, and I told him we could be again. But he wouldn’t come with us. I think he was afraid. He kept calling a name, so I guess he expected someone to come help him, but no one answered. I came after him when he ran and he grabbed me. Threw me against the wall too, with this… blue light. He might have beat me, but Anti stepped in.”

Anonymous asked: Is Red gonna be allowed time to recover, Dok? Is there anything more you can do for him?

“I’ll do my best. I’m the best doctor.” Doktor grins slightly strangely, one side of his mouth still frowning. “Come on, Red, let’s go.”

He checks that Blue is chained securely to the wall and heaves Red back up to his feet, pulling him up the stairs and bringing him to the corner on the other side of the room from Trick’s nest, where what was once a kitchen island provides a bit of privacy for a small green sleeping bag. He lies Red down on it and brushes the hair out of his face, grabbing a first aid kit from nearby - always nearby - and beginning to disinfect the cuts and burns. He wraps his head up tight, thinking about all the different things he would do if he were in a real hospital - if he had heavy sutures and oxygen and ointment for the burns…

“I do my best,” he says, to you, to the house, to no one. “I do my best.”

Red writhes in silence on the sleeping bag, gripping the fabric, his teeth tightly pressed together in his mouth. It’s just pain. It’s just pain.

Doktor is the only one allowed to see him in it.

spicydanhowell asked: red, do you think maybe the kitty was happier on his own? if you were brothers once before, do you know why you left him? (also doc, i hope you make him rest. a skull fracture could mean fainting, vomiting, blurred vision, and confusion :( it could take weeks to heal and he seems like he's in a fragile state)

“Happier on his own.” Red laughs breathily, sweating against his sleeping bag. His eyes crack open and he stares at you, blood welling slowly in the white bandages around his head. “Happier… he was miserable! You should have seen him! Curled up on his cardboard, clutching those old pictures to his chest! Crying the moment he saw me, pathetic! And so… so fucking alone.”

He glances up at Doktor and finds him distracted. Quietly, he continues.

“I would never want to be that alone. He’ll be with us now. We’re meant to be together. Don’t you think so? Now he’s here, my twin. Now we’re together, like we should be. Why would he be happier alone? No, no… he’ll be happy soon. It’s going to be okay. I’m going to look out for him. And I’m not - I’m not fragile.”

“He is fragile,” interrupts Doktor immediately.

“I’m not fragile.”

“He is fragile.”

“Deutsch, I am about to - ”

Doktor tightens the bandages and Red yelps, falling dizzily against his bag.

“Fucker,” he groans, and Doktor laughs.

“He won’t get weeks,” admits Dok. “But maybe a little time off… unless Anti’s mad at him, for exhausting his little puppy.”

Red snickers and then groans, covering his face with his hands.

Anonymous asked: oh! if blue and red are twins, and doktor and trickshot are twins, would that make dapper anti's twin?

Trickshot is curled up in his nest, cleaning his gun, looking white. “In a sense,” he sighs, and spares you a smile, because you’re not wrong and he likes having someone to talk to. “That’s a good enough guess. Functionally, I suppose. Twins sleep in the same bed and Dapper sleeps up there with Anti, when Anti sleeps. Twins look after each other and Anti and Dapper watch each other’s back, unless Anti is angry with him. But twins are equals too, or close enough, and Dapper, no matter how fucking spoiled he is - ” His voice cracks and he scowls, gripping his gun too tight. “ - Dapper is not that.”

Trick pauses, glancing up at the light from his window.

“Anyway, Doktor and I are usually together. And Dapper - Dapper spends his days alone.”

Anonymous asked: can you guys even see Dapper? When was the last time any of you interacted with him?

“We aren’t allowed to go upstairs when Anti is home,” says Trick, pushing overgrown hair out of his eyes. “I suppose Dapper is just too… fucking pretentious to…”

His voice shakes and he stops, sinking down tighter in his hiding space. “I used to see him a lot. Not any more. Doktor checks on him sometimes, when Anti’s not home.”

“Did you check on him while we were gone?” asks Anti suddenly.

Trick jolts and looks up. You cannot see Anti off camera, but Trick certainly hadn’t seen him only a moment before.

“N-no,” he stammers, clutching his gun tight.

“Hm,” says Anti, and turns away, heading for the stairs.

Trick relaxes as Anti’s focus moves away from him, breathing out a low, shaky breath.

musical-in-theory asked: Dapper, are you okay up there?

“Good question,” says Anti, grabbing the camera as he moves up the stairs. The screen flickers and glitches violently, but when he reaches a room in the attic and sets you down on the bed, it stops again.

You see, in one corner of the room, a young man in a yellow jumper slumped frailly against the wall, looking white. He blinks open tired eyes and reaches out his hands at the sight of Anti.

“How you doing, little one?” purrs Anti, moving over to him and scooping him up on his arms, hauling him onto the bed. He sits down at Dapper’s side and begins brushing his hair out of his eyes, humming.

“Fine,” sign Dapper’s shaking hands.

“Tired?”

“Not so bad, Anti.”

“How many times did you have to redo last night?”

“Just four, Anti.”

Anti sits back and breathes deep, pausing in thought. Dapper shakes quietly at his side.

“Okay,” says Anti finally. “Okay.”

And he disappears in a scattering of static.

Dapper’s hands grip at the empty place where his brother used to be for just a moment, but there is nothing there. Finally he turns to you, frowning wearily, curling his hands in his big yellow jumper.

He blinks uncertainly at you, and then, calming, repeats, “fine, fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. Tired. I’m fine.”

He sighs and rubs at his head, his mouth blueish.

Anonymous asked: so uh, what now? Anti finally has the full set, so what's next?

“Well,” says Trick, sitting up straight. “First of all, Blue has to be turned into - ”

The room explodes into static.

Trick does not even scream, only throws himself to the floor, curling tightly into a ball, gripping at his ears. Your screen has turned a dozen different colors, but the midday sun has failed you entirely; the room is cloaked in darkness. In the other corner, you see Doktor leap to his feet and take off towards Trick, only to crumple to his feet halfway through the room, as a huge black dog appears in the center of everything.

A low growl lives in its throat. Doktor pants at its feet, shaking hard, averting his eyes.

The dog turns away from him.

Doktor scrambles across the room and throws himself over Trickshot’s body, hiding too. Upstairs, sobbing through the floorboards.

“How many times?” shudders Anti’s terrible voice, from nowhere, from everywhere, a shaking, dozen-toned layer of sound. “How many times does the little one have to clean up your messes?”

“Please, please,” screams Red. He is not visible, hidden behind his island, alone in the corner. “I brought him back to you, please! I did it, I did it!”

“On the fourth round,” snarls the dog, barely audible through the awful shrieking, barely visible through the spasming glitches. “Four times, he redoes the night. You’re supposed to be the little hero. Do you want to be thrown out, broken toy?”

“No, please! I don’t even know what went wrong! I don’t know what I did! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

The dog lunges out of your view and a scream echoes through the room. For a second, the screen cuts out.

“Next time,” you hear Anti’s voice say. “Do it right the first time.”

So now - what now? - now they try to survive this.

Anti has things to do. Anti has things he needs them for. That is why they are still alive, and the story is not over yet.

hollenka99 asked: In all fairness, none of you (except Dapper of course) know which attempt you're on. Don't you always assume it's the first go? If Dapper didn't have his watch, you probably wouldn't get a 2nd try anyway.

“Yes,” whispers Doktor. “We never know if something goes wrong, and he must change it back.”

Trick shakes beneath him. They hide against the blankets. Red is moaning in his corner, soft choking gasps cutting through the aching noise.

“So we must just hope - we must just hope that nothing goes wrong. There is no knowing. There is no knowing.”

Anonymous asked: Can you tell us more about Dapper? Or can we talk to him? Thaaanks :) ((and why is his nickname Carver??))

Dapper wipes slowly at tears in his eyes. He is hiding beneath the bed, leaving the camera out in front of him.

“Hi,” he signs, with a fragile, flickering smile, snuffling. “Yes, please, you can talk to me anytime… no one ever talks to me up here.

“Carver’s my nickname because I’m good with a knife. Like Anti. It’s a compliment - I’m like him in many ways.” His mouth trembles and he closes his eyes, sighing deep. “It’s a good thing. It’s - it’s good.”

musical-in-theory asked: Marvin? Hang in there! Your brothers need you to stay strong!

The ocean eyes flicker open, and in the darkness, seem to shiver.

“My brothers,” whispers Marvin.

There is blood on him. You do not know whose it is.

“Look what Jackie did to me… oh, oh, fuck, please, I don’t want to be a slave!” He yanks against his chains, suddenly frantic, panting hard. “No, no, no, not like this, not like fucking this! Jackie! Jackie! Please! Where are my little brothers, where are you? I don’t want to be a slave! I don’t want to be a slave!”

He screams so loud his voice breaks and slumps down in his chains, shaking, shaking like a shot dog.

“Supposed to save them,” he whispers, staring at his shackled wrists. “Not like this, not like this…”

Anonymous asked: Aw, Marv. :( That's rough, buddy. We're rooting for you, though! Do you have a plan for escaping, or resisting Anti? You might not have much time to figure it out.

“Might not have much time.” Marvin laughs breathily, straining off the wall, tugging on the chains. “You’re right about that, my friend. Fuck, resist him - he gets close and I’ll burn him to ash and bone - but then - ” His voice cracks and trembles. “I couldn’t stop him to save Chaser and Schneep, I don’t know that I can stop him for myself. But I - I have to, I will!”

He looks up with teeth gritted, blue eyes flashing.

“I can do this. I am Magnificent. I’ll be the one to kill him. And my brothers… whoever’s left alive… we’ll all go home together. We’ll all…” Tears well in his eyes, he drops his head. “All go home together…”

juju-on-that-yeet asked: you: oh poor sweet marv, who did this to him?? (I had made a comment in the tags of a post asking who could do this to Marvin) also you: *did this to him* (i'm not complaining tho ^^)

Marvin laughs and then groans, reaching up to touch at the dried blood of a thick cut across his cheek. He is bent awkwardly over on himself, breathing thin.

oasisofgalaxies asked: Hey Marvin, all is not lost! I believe in you, I believe you can make it out, you aren't done yet. Keep fighting Marvin, we have you're back!

He bites hard on his lip, looking at you.

“I’ve been feeling like all is lost for weeks now,” he coughs. “Thank you, I’ll try. I think if I - ”

Footsteps on the stairs. He starts and stiffens, teeth snarling back in his mouth, glaring up at the light that falls towards him from the room above, piercing the darkness.

Anonymous asked: Good luck, Marvin! Remember your strengths and your enemies' weaknesses. You can make it! Stay resolute!

“Weaknesses,” whispers Marvin. “Weaknesses, his haste, his fury, I - ”

“Heya, puppet.”

Marvin breathes deep and looks up.

A flash of light, and Anti is before him, his eyes black and green.

“Kitty Cat, you have been a hard little animal to track down, do you know that? I’m so proud of you, what good little sneak you are. What a good little thief you’ll be. Such a clever pet.”

“Fuck off, Anti,” whispers Marvin.

“Not feeling friendly, but that’s okay. Street cats rarely do. We’ll give you some time. We can go easy. Just takes some time, and then you’re mine.”

Marvin kicks out uselessly, trying to strike Anti’s shins, but he can’t reach.

Anti sighs. “Well. Maybe I’ll go easy after I’ve taught you a lesson.”

A glitch and he is kneeling across from Marvin, gripping his face so hard his cheeks will bruise. Marvin yelps, trying to bite.

“Because I’m going to be honest, Magnificence,” hisses Anti. “I have lain next to your darling brothers for weeks and weeks and weeks now. And the only thing I have dreamt of, for as long as I can remember, is making you howl for mercy.”

Marvin spits at him and Anti snarls, turning away to wipe it off his face.

“Kinky!” Marv quips, summoning a ball of fire in his hand.

Anti puts a blade through his palm before he can move. Marvin screams, crumpling in on himself. Blood, blood down his wrist.

florenceisfalling asked: red, are you okay? why do you and doktor not get along?

Red is shuddering on his side of the room, trying not to choke on vomit. His arm bleeds heavily into his sleeping bag. Dog’s teeth, dog’s teeth wounds in his wrist.

“He’s not okay,” whispers Trick.

“I’m not going close to him while Anti’s angry with him,” replies Doktor, shaking. “I’m not. He’ll hit me or Anti will. Do I have to? I won’t. I won’t.”

They are huddled side-by-side in their blankets, waiting for the smell of fury to recede from the house.

“Red’s angry all the time,” says Trick. “Always trying to prove something. Guess who gets smacked around when there’s no one else for him to snap at?”

“I think we used to get along,” mumbles Doktor, his eyes slightly glazed. “Didn’t we? I can’t remember. Anyway, we’re not allowed to talk to each other except in emergencies. Is just me and Trick, most of the time. But now…”

Red lets out a hollow scream. You can hear his head striking against the wood floor as he writhes.

Anonymous asked: Wait, there are actual dog teeth in Red's arm? Anti can transform like that? That must be scary!

Anti whirls on you, grinning. “Scary! Don’t you like a pretty dog?”

He is a dog again, huge and darker than fur should be, his head down, his eyes wicked in the darkness. Marvin screams, throwing himself back against the wall.

“I can be many things,” says Anti, in a voice low, low, growling, aching. He is a man again, faceless. He is a shadow, with a reddened eye. He is a child holding a knife. He is a hyena. A man, horned in a halo. “I can be anything. I can be love, I can be hatred. That is why I have won, time and time again.”

He turns back to Marvin.

“Gods like me make pets of men.”

And then - and then, he is just Jack again, a blue-eyed boy, messy beard and tied back hair, not tall, not strongly built. Just a man in a t-shirt and ripped skinny jeans.

“Wasn’t that spooky!” he says, mimicking the voice Jack used for goofing around. “Oh no, is a demon!”

He bursts into laughter and sits down at Marvin’s side. Marvin is shaking hard, his teeth gritting furiously.

“Fucking monster,” he hisses.

“Hey, man, come on,” protests Anti, smiling gently at him. His voice is no longer high-pitched or glitching. He just sounds human. “Don’t have to be a dick about it. Look, I’m sorry I stabbed you. I have a shitty temper. Still working on it. But, listen, Blue, it’s time for us to bury the hatchet instead of the body. I’m not so bad. I’ll prove it to you. What do you think?”

He turns back to you and winks. “Huh? Whatcha think?”

musical-in-theory asked: Marvin don’t listen to him! Fight, magic man! Fight for your brothers!!

Marvin drives his elbow up towards Anti’s face, but Anti grabs his arm before any blow falls, and then he snatches the other wrist too, and shoves Marvin up against the wall. He’s stronger than he should be. “Now, now, Blue,” he soothes. “Calmer, calmer.”

“Get off me!” screams Marvin, thrashing. Anti pins him tighter, pressing gently on his throat.

“Sh, sh,” he whispers, trying to meet Marvin’s eyes, squeezed tightly shut. “Let’s be okay. It’s okay. Here, look at me, come on. How about a calmative, huh? Come on, open your eyes. It’s okay. Poor thing, all bloody. All alone on the streets, poor stray thing, so scared. Open your eyes.”

He pricks at Marvin’s eyes with his nails, trying to pull up the eyelid. Marvin fights. Anti glitches bright and colorful, spasming with light, and the visual stimulus is enough to make Marvin blink, and then -

Anti’s fucking eyes.

“There you go, there you go,” whispers Anti. “Poor thing, it’s okay. Sh, sh.”

Deeper than oceans, moving faintly through a myriad of colors, and Marvin feels sick, and then well, and then warm, and then cold. He cannot move. You see his arms slacken and fall to the ground. Anti touches his face.

“We’ll just start with a little,” says Anti. “Just to calm down, right? It’s okay. I know new cats need some space. So you promise me that you won’t go running anywhere, and I promise I’ll let you out of those awful chains. Okay?”

Blue gapes dumbly, staring at him, following his eyes like he’s enchanted.

“Okay?” Anti prompts again, softly.

“Okay,” whispers Blue.

“Good boy,” says Anti. “Good job.”

He lets go of Blue’s face and rises to his feet. He turns away and returns a moment later with a key in hand.

“Hey,” gasps Marvin, shaking his head. “Hey! I know what the fuck you’re doing, bastard, no, I won’t let you into my head like this, I won’t - ”

Anti crouches down and takes his hands in his own. Once again, Blue is immediately hooked on his eyes, staring, panting, drowning.

“Haven’t you wondered, Blue, how it is I turned your brothers against you?”

Marvin groans and shakes his head. Fighting, he has to keep fighting.

“There are two things I used. Power - my own, you see, and isn’t it nice? And love. That’s yours and your brothers’. And I’m really looking forward to seeing it destroy you, like it destroyed the others.”

He unlocks Marvin’s wrists and the chains fall away. Marvin stares up at him, glaring.

“That spell won’t hold,” he hisses. “You can’t stop me from running.”

“If it was just power alone, maybe it wouldn’t be able to,” shrugs Anti. “But it’s not. Leave if you can. You’d be the first one to be able to. Good luck.”

His form flickers and disappears.

And it is Marvin left alone, sitting in the basement, unchained.

“What the fuck?” he whispers.

snow-lavender asked: Wait, so what happened to Jack in this timeline?? ...Do we want to know?

“Who?” ask Trick and Dok in sync, tilting their heads in opposite directions at you.

Anonymous asked: What are you gonna do now... Blue?

His eyes flicker irritably over to the camera. “Oh, someone thinks they’re clever, do they? Ugh, I feel like shit, what the fuck?”

There had been a minute there when the pain receded… when it was just him and that power, and he was floating in nothing, floating on the Dead Sea, easy, weightless, drifting…

“Fuck!” he hisses, gripping at his head. “I have to keep it fucking together! What am I going to do now? I’m going to go get my brothers and go!”

He drags himself to his feet, only momentarily blinded by the pain, and pants his way to the bottom of the stairs, determined, ferocious -

Hesitating.

“Are they all… alive?” he asks, shakily. “All they all just… just puppets? Robots, dead-faced, slumped in corners, waiting to be used? Do they still look like themselves? Do they know me? Are my little brothers even alive?”

loganandoli asked: Doktor, Trick, do you know if Anti can hear or see our messages? Asking for a friend.

“Umm,” says Trick. “Probably?”

“He sees lots of e - of elle - of - ,”

“Ee-leck-trick-ull,” pronounces Trick politely. Doktor nods.

“Electrical signals. Messages and such. But things come and go from these cameras, from the town, from the mountains, from the boats on the sea, bouncing off the satellites in the sky and bouncing around. Some things he will only glance at. Some things, though, will catch his attention. But, hey, no need to be worrying! Anti doesn’t seem to mind us having chats, yes?”

Trick hums, leaning back against the wall. “He just keeps us safe, so unless you’re trying to hurt us, why would he care? Right?”

They exchange glances, declare each other’s logic sound, and nod in sync.

“Can we get some lunch?” asks Dok.

“How are we going to do that while Red’s over there by the cupboards?”

Dok sighs and leans back, resigned to wait.

Anonymous asked: I have, uh. Bad news? Your brothers are alive, but.. not well. Mentally and physically. They aren’t too fond of each other anymore. I think. Their memories seem to be gone also...

“Aren’t too fond of each other?” Marvin stares up at the doorway above him. “What do you mean? They loved each other so much. That’s not something even Anti can strip away. Even - even with memories g-gone.”

He turns to look at you, more afraid than he was with Anti standing above him. “Right?”

loganandoli asked: They don’t even know their own names anymore, Marvin. Anti is turning them against each other. We all believe in you!! You can do it!! You can save them!!

“Their names, fuck,” whispers Marvin, tears squeezing out of his eyes. “I called for Jackie so many times but it was like he didn’t even recognize his own name. It’s like he just stripped them away from themselves. I’m so scared of what they’ll be like, I… but you’re right, I need to get them and get out. I need to save them. I can, I can, I can. Jackie, Schneep, Chaser, James…”

Anonymous asked: I'll be straight with you, Marv, it's not good. Jackie attacked you and brought you here in the first place, with Dapper's help; they're obviously not okay. But you just got puppeted by Anti too, and you came back almost immediately. Don't let their current state discourage you. There has to be a way to save them. And even if you can't get them all out now, anywhere's better than here!

Marvin nods, setting foot on the stairs. “Okay, okay. You’re right. Not good. But anywhere’s better than here. Anywhere’s better than here.

“And at least I get to see them again. I get to see my brothers again. Oh, I…”

Anonymous asked: Oh god Marv, yah.. their love has been stripped away and thrown in the scrap pit. Some get alone better than others... but their memories are gone. They’ve started another life in the fearful shadow of Anti.

“Fearful shadow of Anti, fearful…” He wipes at his forehead. “Maybe I can still convince them to go. Does he really treat them so well, that they stay? Haven’t they ever tried to come back to me? That’s… that’s how I got caught, you know.”

He laughs frailly, making his way to the top of the stairs. “Trying to send a signal to Chase and Schneep. They were with me, and then… stolen. I kept hoping… but they never came home to me…”

spicydanhowell asked: hey doc, why won't anti let you near red when he's angry with him? you can't even go grab some food? he'd let you stop red from bleeding out, right?

“I should,” whimpers Dok, sinking down closer at Trick’s side. Trick plays anxiously with his gun, surveying the room and the window, vigilant as ever. He hasn’t slept in a while - he rarely does on Anti’s bad days - and it’s making them both nervous. “But often when Anti lashes out at Red, next thing Red does is lash out at me when I am meant to help.”

A brief fury flashes through his eyes. Trick makes a low rumbling noise and Dok sighs, trying to stay calm, resting his head on Trick’s knee.

“We do need food soon,” he adds wearily. “Kill a rabbit for me, Trick.”

Trick smiles fondly down at him, just for a moment, and turns back to his sight.

musical-in-theory asked: Anti was telling the truth in a way. He’s using their love for each other against them. The same love they had for each other has now been turned to love for Anti, thus pitting then against one another. Be careful Marv. They’re a bit territorial of the glitch.

“Pitting my brothers against each other,” hisses Marvin, gripping the handle of the door. “My brothers, my brothers. No, we need to go. We’re going, we’re going, I’ll - ”

He opens the door.

The red point of a laser scope sits in the middle of his chest.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

spicydanhowell asked: careful marv! they don't trust you now! but they won't hurt you, they wouldn't risk making anti angry

Trick cocks his gun, sliding forward on his knees, so Doktor is behind him. “You fucking sure about that?”

Marvin stares at him, frozen solid.

It’s been three months since he saw him. The last time they spoke was over the phone, and Chase was crying for him to come back, there was someone outside, someone coming for him and Henrik, where did you go, Marvin, please, I don’t want to be Anti’s -

Anonymous asked: Trick, careful! Anti wants the full set, remember? You can't hurt Blue too badly.

“They’re right, don’t do anything crazy,” mumbles Doktor at his side.

“Why are you out of the basement?” snaps Trick.

“Anti let me out,” Marvin manages finally, lifting up his hands. “It’s me, love. It’s okay. Are you two okay?”

“You better fucking pray that’s true,” hisses Trick. “You make one wrong move and don’t think I won’t - ”

He is interrupted by a low whine from the corner of the room closest to Marv.

Trick glances at Red’s island, his mouth tightening uncertainly.

“Who’s that?” asks Marvin, moving towards him.

florenceisfalling asked: please don't hurt marv, blue, whatever- he's trying to help. cant you see that?

“If he looks after Red,” whispers Doktor. “We don’t have to.”

“Right, right.” Trick’s eyes are wide and frantic. He clutches the gun too tightly. Can’t seem to make himself move. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time a threat was actually inside the house, and not outside the window. And there’s so many of those shaky old half-memories he sometimes gets buzzing inside his head, like a swarm of bees you can hear but not see. “Right, I… I’ll just keep an eye on him. I’ll just - it’s fine. Anti let him out. It’s okay.”

Marvin nods slowly, reassuringly, and at last takes his eyes off Trick’s, moving slowly towards the island. “I’m just going to check on this, okay? I’m just going to sit down over here, how’s that?”

“Fine,” rasps Trick. “Fine. Fine. Okay.”

musical-in-theory asked: Marvin, I’m not sure you want to know...

“Oh, fuck, Jackie!” cries Marvin. “Oh, no, no, no, oh, it’s okay, brother, it’s okay!”

He falls to his knees at Red’s side, out of view of Chase’s scope behind the island. His brother - or what was once his brother, he doesn’t know anymore - is lying white-faced as a dead thing on a stained sleeping bag, breathing thin and fast. Blood slicks his bandaged head and his torn up right arm, where teeth have torn apart gauze. His eyes roll wildly in his head; he moans.

Anonymous asked: Oh, Marv, please steel yourself if you go over there. Jackie's not doing too well and he tends to lash out.

“Jackie, Jackie,” whispers Marvin, touching his cheek. “Buddy, hey, are you with me?”

Blue eyes slide open, and so does his mouth, revealing white teeth. Marvin only has a second to register the animal look in his eyes before Red has reached up with his good hand to grab him, tightly, by the throat. Marvin screams raggedly, trying to yank himself away, scrambling at Red’s hands.

“Look what you did to,” chokes Red. “You and Dapper, you and Dapper, you, you - ”

“You were trying to kidnap me!” gasps Marvin, striking at his chest, and then, when that does not free him, reaching out to grab Red’s other wrist. Red screams, dropping him, and they both recoil from each other, slamming against the wall on one side, and the cupboards of the island on the other.

“Okay,” whispers Marvin, panting. “Tends to lash out. Noted.”

Red groans and slackens against the wall, tears running down his face. Ashamed, he turns his head away, mumbling incoherently, delirious with pain. He wraps his good arm around himself and rubs his shoulder.

spicydanhowell asked: doc, red is literally going to die if you don't do anything. who cares if anti gets mad at you for helping him?? isn't red's life worth taking a beating for??

“That’s a good fucking point,” snaps Marvin, watching Red struggle. He puts his head up above the island, frowning. “He could be dying. Why haven’t you done anything, Henrik?”

A shot explodes through the air and a bullet buries itself in the wall a centimeter away from Marvin’s head. Shocked breathless, Marvin falls to the ground as though he has in fact been shot, completely deafened by the shot, loud enough to split eardrums.

“That was your one and only warning!” screams Trick, his voice hoarse. “Next time, I kill you, no fucking joke, do you understand me? Do you understand me? We don’t say that name. If I ever hear it again, I’ll blow your brains all over that wall.”

As though struck down by the effort of these words, he crumples backwards, gripping frailly at his gun, and sits panting hard. Doktor tries to pull his face towards him, but Trick just groans and stares at the floor, shaking frailly.

“Okay,” whispers Marvin. “Okay. I guess I’ll, uh. I guess I’ll take care of this myself.”

Shaking so hard he can barely breathe, he starts pulling open cupboards, looking for the first aid kit.

“Farthest on the right,” comes Doktor’s small voice.

Marvin finds the kit. “Thanks, H - brother.”

musical-in-theory asked: Marvin please get out of there! There’s not much you can do for them while you’re someplace that Anti has influence over

“You’re right,” mumbles Marvin, pulling gauze and a sewing needle and sutures out of his kit. “But I can’t move him like this. He’s lost a lot of blood and I think his head’s… bad. He needs to rest.”

He turns to Red, holding the needle. Red stares back, eyes slitted.

“This is going to be really fun,” whispers Marvin. He clears his throat. “Red. You need to let me help you.”

Anonymous asked: Anti definitely does not treat them well... but you still probably can't count on their help. Literally all they know is Anti, and they just want his love and approval. Maybe be careful about interacting with any of them? Chase and Henrik still seem close, so you might be able to use that if you have to. I think all of them are scared of Jackie.

“Those two do seem close,” mumbles Marv, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t expect any parts of any of them to still be intact, but… they still protect each other. You’re right, I need to be careful. Fuck, I wish any of them were themselves…”

He swallows hard and returns his attention to Red.

“Everybody’s scared of you?” asks Marvin, frowning. “Is that why nobody helped?”

Red stares back at him, sinking down against the wall. His eyes flicker and close.

“It’s okay. I’m here now.”

And, fuck, Marvin can’t help it, he’s crying. It’s been months since he saw him. He spent a long time thinking he was dead, killed when he went to try and save Jameson, and never came home.

“I’m here now,” repeats Marvin, and he slides forward on the floor, and tumbles against Red’s good shoulder, pulling him into one-half of a hug.

Anonymous asked: Red, I think you should let Blue does what he needs to. Anti trusted him enough to let him upstairs, right? And if Anti's unhappy about it, he can take it out on Blue later. But if you let Blue help you now, you'll be able to get back to helping Anti sooner. You've got to interact with your new twin sooner or later.

Red glances over at you, some of the aggression fading from his eyes. He blinks, reviewing your reasoning, and finds it sound. He does want to get better. Then he can make up for failing Anti. And, yes, maybe even help him bring his twin to heel.

He glances down at Marvin, drawing away from the little hug. In an act that surprises even himself, he reaches out and touches Marvin’s back, rubbing gently down his shoulder, just once. Marvin jumps and then relaxes, beaming.

“There you go,” chokes Marvin. “It’s me, do you remember me?”

Red lies back against the wall, staring at him. Marvin touches the side of his face and Red breathes out, letting his eyes slide shut. Strange, Doktor is never so gentle with him. Strange, he can’t seem to remember the last time anyone at all was gentle with him.

“Can I stitch that arm up for you?” asks Marvin evenly, stroking his thumb down his beard.

Red glances over at you one more time, and then nods.

loganandoli asked: Hey Carver! Are you doing ok? You said you liked people talking to you so, where did you get that jumper? Is yellow your favorite color?

Carver stands at the top of the attic stairs, his head poking out from behind the wall. He blinks and slides away again, unable to get a glimpse of the boys downstairs, and not allowed to join them. He sinks to the floor and stares dead-eyed at the floor.

“I’m okay,” he signs, without emotion. “Suppose I should be used to the gunshots by now. I do like people talking to me… No one ever talks to me… Who would want to, I just spend all day up here, alone, alone, alone, while the others are together… Bored, bored, bored…”

This last sign is just a tapping of the chin, and he does it again and again, flatly, more like stimming than signing. One of the sleeves of his sweater tumbles down his arm and he glances at it, eyes brightening slightly as he remembers the other half of your question.

“Anti got me the jumper,” he signs reverently, curling up in the big soft fabric. “He said my old clothes were silly. I don’t remember them, but they must have been. And I love my jumper. I love yellow. He says I’m the only light in the house.”

Anonymous asked: Where does Anti go when he's not with any of you, Carver? Does he leave you unattended often? I imagine it must get lonely.

“Oh, I’m alone often, but don’t - ” Carver shivers and glances around the hallway. “Don’t say lonely, Anti doesn’t like it. When he’s gone, I don’t know where he goes. He never tells me, just says ‘stay put, be good boy.’ So I do. I think he becomes…” Carver struggles to find the right signs, frowning. “Like the internet. In the computers. Lightning, color, screech, glitch.”

spicydanhowell asked: carver, what does anti do when he spends time with you? does he take care of you? does he ever do anything to hurt you?

“Anti,” signs Carver, getting to his feet. You watch as he begins pacing back and forth across the hallway, and then just turning in circles, back and forth, back and forth. “I wish he was here now! We tussle sometimes or I lie on his lap and read if he brings me a book, and sometimes we even watch something on the computer! Old movies, I love them, I love it when he’s home! And then sometimes we go out, of course, and sometimes he wears me and sometimes I wear me, but one way or another we’re together, and we do things that he says are important.”

Apparently dizzy from the circling, Dapper flops unceremoniously to the ground and crosses his legs, peering forward at you. A certain light in his eyes wars with a glazed sort of joy.

“Of course he takes care of me, that’s my big brother and I’m his favorite toy. We eat together and sleep together and he got me my clothes and my charcoal. I love, love, love my Anti. He hurts me when he’s bored. I love, love, love… of course he takes care of me, that’s my big brother and I’m his favorite toy. We eat together and sleep together and he got me my clothes and my charcoal. I love, love, love…”

His hands falter and fall. He stares blankly at the wall.

“I wish someone would come see me,” he sighs. “I wish Poe would come back.”

Anonymous asked: Do you have a window up there, or something to keep you entertained? Maybe we could play a game while we're here!

Dapper claps his hands together and leaps to his feet. “Can we play a game? Can we? Or tell me a story, or anything, anything. Look, come here, I’ll show you my window.”

He picks up the camera and carries you back to the big room in the attic, where a small but comfy bed is still mussed from a nap. He gets on the bed, on his knees, and carries you over to a small circular window. He pushes back the glass and breathes in deep, setting his chin on the sill and closing his eyes. For a second, all his frantic movements and twitching are gone, and he sits at peace, his eyes clear.

Outside the window, pine trees and the rocking ocean. Bird cry and washing waves. Carver whistles a sad little song to himself, breathing, breathing, breathing.

optimistic-violinist asked (similar questions copied and added by musical-in-theory and anon: ((You're probably gonna get a lot of these, but)) Who's Poe? Also, your jumper is lovely Carver. Yellow's my favorite color :)

“It is lovely!” cheers Dapper, beaming at you. “I love the yellow! I am sunny, sun, star, yellow.”

He draws you back slightly so you can get a better view of the pine trees. “Poe is my friend, she comes sometimes when I have food. Clever, clever girl, I love my Poe. But she hasn’t come in some days. Maybe I don’t have anything shiny or tasty enough. I wish she would come see me, even if she pecked my fingers again. Silly. My pretty girl. I need to find something to get her to come again.”

Anonymous asked: So Anti, nice little dollhouse you've got here. I know you've still got a "toy" to break in, but uh what's the plan after your full set is in place? You throwing a house party? Will you invite Jack? Or is he... not in the picture?

Static consumes your screen and then disappears again, revealing Anti now, summoned by his name. He is smiling at you, cool and self-satisfied.

“It is a nice little dollhouse,” he purrs, stepping closer to the camera.

You can’t tell where he is. Nowhere in the house.

“But don’t worry, we won’t be here long. We’ll have to have a house party somewhere else. I still have things to do, hearts to eat… You know how it is. But as for that last idea…”

Anti’s eyes are momentarily distant, he looks away from you.

“I’m… happy with what I have,” he says, drawing away.

He plays with the knife in his hands, shaking his head. “I’m fine like this. Don’t need anything else. I have them to keep me company. I don’t need him. That’s what I told him, that’s what I… he can’t find me. We’re safe.”

He looks back up at you and moves closer again. With surprising gentleness, he picks you up. “It’s just us and the boys,” he says, smiling. “It’s okay. We’re okay. And don’t worry, okay? Don’t have to be so skeptical. I do need to break Blue in, but I’ll be gentle, alright? Just because I like to have my fun doesn’t mean I want the poor thing shattered. I worry I took some of the others too far, you know… my shaky little puppies…”

Anonymous asked: Oh! Is poe a raven?

Dapper waves his hands in silent applause, grinning. “She’s huge and beautiful! I love her! When do you think she’ll come see me again?”

Anonymous asked: I was thinking of I Spy! There's a lot more to look for outside a window than in just the attic. Do you want to try spying for things, Carver?

“Oh, yes, please.” Carver sets his chin on the sill again, looking seriously out the window. “Should I go first? I spy, with my little eye… something. . . I’m colorblind. Uh, something flying! It’s probably orange. Ah! I wish it would come up here!”

Anon asked: Could it be a little bird? And if you don’t mind me asking, what kind of colorblind are you? Spicydanhowell commented: butterfly??? Ari-trash commented: a bird? Snow-lavender commented: Flying orange… Oh! Is someone throwing fruit at the window?

(Reblog) “Throwing fruit at the window!” That makes him laugh, bouncing on his knees on the bed. “No, but good guess, all good guesses! But only one right. It’s a butterfly! Good job! You’re all good at this game.

“And I’m about as colorblind as I can be. The whole world is black, white, and grey to me. But I wouldn’t know any different. Colors are just words to me.”

He puts his hand on his chin and sighs. “Tell you what,” he says, smiling at you. “Come back in a few hours and ask me again, and I’ll spy something really beautiful for you if Anti’s not with me. It’s my favorite thing about living up here.”

snow-lavender asked: Hey Trick, I'm a little confused, maybe you could clear this up. Is there a reason Dok's old name is super-bad-no-no-territory, but Red's isn't?

“Fuck,” hisses Trick. “Did he say his name? When? Did you hear it, Dok?”

“Probably,” shrugs Dok, peeking up from the nest. “But I can’t remember what it was.”

“I need to pay more attention.”

“You did your best.”

“I can’t remember what Red used to be called by the bad man. If you hear it, please tell me. Actually, don’t! I shouldn’t remember it! But - oh, I don’t know.”

His face is white with exhaustion. His stomach is snarling.

“It’s okay,” says Dok, but when he reaches out to touch his shoulder, Trick pushes his hand away.

florenceisfalling asked: what do you mean "[you're] safe," anti? would jack even present a threat at this point? and i also feel like you don't really understand the definition of gentle

Anti snarls and turns away from you. “Jack’s nothing now. They belong to me now and he’s not stealing them away. He can’t do anything. Of course he’s not a threat. As if anything could be…”

He straightens up again and breathes in deep.

“Nothing threatens me. Time itself belongs to me now. Without mortality, what is there to present a threat?”

cutiepotato777 asked: Anti. Who is your favorite puppet and why? :P

“There’s a real question.” He pulls you closer. “Favorite? I try not to have favorites, they all just need to be treated in different ways. Some of them are more timid than others. Some of them need more affection, some of them need more punishment. Obviously little Dapper, so powerful, so erratic - he has to stay close to me. But Trick and Doktor have learned to keep each other in line, and Red works best when he feels like he’s failing. So you see they all get what they need, and I still love them all despite their differences.”

He smiles into the distance. It’s growing closer to evening and he’s outside, cool fall sunlight drifting over his brown hair and turning it red. His eyes are full of clear lovely light.

“My puppets. My family. I still love them all.”

florenceisfalling asked: dapper, if you're /completely/ colorblind, how do you love yellow so much?

“Anti tells me it’s nice! He says I’m the only light in the house. Did I tell you that already? I love yellow. Anti likes it. And my jumper is yellow, and I love my jumper. Happy color. We’re happy here.”

spicydanhowell asked: marv... i hate to say it but maybe you should just look for a way to slip out now. come back for them when your strong enough, yeah?

“Okay, yeah, yeah.” He’s finishing bandaging up Red’s wrist and his brother is slack against his shoulder, his face still taut with pain. “Yeah, I’ll just… go. Maybe I could, um…” He glances at Red, and then at you, and mimics falling asleep. Glancing back at the med kit, he searches for something to stop his pain and let him sleep.

“Doktor, do we have any morphine?” he asks.

“Is Red… calmer?”

“Yeah, he just seems exhausted, and he’s in a lot of pain.”

There’s a long pause. He hears a creaking noise, some heated whispering from the other side of the room, and then, a moment later, Doktor appears in the camera’s view, standing behind Blue.

“I might,” he says. “Or something for the pain, anyway.”

Marvin chokes on a sudden wave of emotion, staring up at him. “Okay,” he manages. “Um, I’ll just - I’ll just let you handle that.”

“No, wait a moment,” protests Doktor, sitting down beside him. “Let me see hand.”

“Look, bud, I have to go.”

“Hand,” demands Doktor, adjusting his broken glasses.

Marvin glances at you, but holds out his hand, slicked in both Red’s blood and his own.

“I must stitch this up for you, is all the way through.”

Not waiting for an answer, Doktor picks up the needle and thread. Both Red and Doktor hold onto Marvin. Trick, anxious without his twin, sits pointing his gun at the island. Marvin’s eyes flicker frantically back and forth as he considers.

Anonymous asked: hey carver... do you feel well? in your head and in your body? are you safe? fed? you can tell us if you're not okay

For a second, Carver just stares out the window.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he signs after a moment, not looking at you. “Some days, I think I’m losing my mind. I’m scared. I don’t know what’s happening to me anymore. It’s like my brain knows something I don’t. I’m supposed to be happy. Usually I am… but it’s so much happiness… it’s so much happiness at once, and I sometimes faint I’m so happy, with my heart going so fast and everything so white and then… it’s darkness again…”

musical-in-theory asked: Dapper, are you sure that’s happiness?

“I feel wonderful when it happens. I don’t know what else it could be. I just wish it wasn’t so painful afterwards. It just - ”

The camera screen glitches hard. Anti appears in the doorway, looking a little worn, wearing Jack’s form. Dapper turns quickly, his heart jumping, and his face lights up with relief when he sees him. “Anti!”

“Hi, baby.” Anti comes up to him and plants a kiss in his hair, sitting down on the bed and then pulling him to lie down beside him. Dapper goes willingly, curling up on Anti’s chest, and Anti closes his eyes, sighing deep.

“Feeling better?” he asks. Dapper nods against him.

“M’kay. Good.” He opens his eyes up again to look down at him, smiling faintly at his big blue eyes. “They talking to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Being nice?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, they better.” He covers Carver’s eyes with a gentle hand and turns his head to you, smiling coldly. For a second, his eye is vividly red. “And not ask any stupid questions if they want to keep talking to you.”

Anonymous asked: Marvin, for the moment at least, I suggest sitting your ass right down. All eyes are on you, tensions are high. They're expecting you to pull something and they're not having it. As much as I want to see you escape, I want you to escape with as few bullet holes as possible. In the meantime, build up a somewhat stable level of trust, yeah?

“But this might be my only chance to - ow!” He winces as Doktor pricks his skin, beginning to sew up both sides of the wound Anti gave him. Red, only partially conscious, growls out a warning, and it’s Doktor turn to flinch - but they all fall silent, and nothing happens. In short order, Doktor cleans Marvin up, bandaging his hand and even his bruised ribs, looking him over with hands just as warm and as careful as they were the last time they were together, on the run, whispering reassurances to each other in the darkness, we’ll be safe, it’s okay, we’ll get Jackie and Jameson back, don’t give up on them, don’t give up on yourself…

Marvin blinks away tears, staring at him. “I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers.

Doktor cannot meet his eyes. “I don’t remember you,” he says. “And I’m not the person you used to know.”

“Aren’t you?” asks Marvin.

Doktor ignores him. He gives Red a mild sedative and together they lie him down inside his sleeping bag, mostly out now, and still clinging to Marvin’s hand.

“Is he out?” asks Trick warily.

“Yes,” calls Doktor, wiping his bloodied hands on his jeans.

“So we can get something to eat?”

Doktor bites his lip and glances at Marvin, closer to the cupboards than he is. “Um… Could we have something to eat, Blue?”

Marvin blinks. “Fuck, why would you need me to decide that?”

“Red usually keeps track of the food… We’re not to take things without permission.”

Marvin turns to the cupboard and begins pulling things out. “Okay, guys,” he sighs, glancing back at Doktor’s hollowed face. “What do you want to eat?”

musical-in-theory asked: Well, Anti? You have your little kitten down there making friends, yanking on your strings. How pompous do you have to be to expect him to not have an impact on your stupid manipulations, you glitch bitch?

“Oh, no,” moans Anti, frowning at you. “Oh no, whatever will I do?”

He pulls Dapper closer to his chest, grinning slowly as he runs his hands down his back, kissing gently at his hair. “What would I possibly do if something went wrong? If only I had cameras all over the house and a time traveler and a sniper and could turn into a hunting dog and hadn’t enchanted him or cut a liter or two of blood out of his hand and wasn’t right upstairs and…. I’m boring myself. Leave me alone, will you, it’s time for bed.” He grips Dapper’s cheek and pinches it hard enough to make his little brother grimace. “Isn’t it, baby? Get under the covers, you must be tired. Let’s get some sleep. Let Blue have his few days of resistance. He’ll falter fast. All’s well.”

Anonymous asked: how much food does red manage to get? do you all get to eat every day?

“That’s a good question,” says Marvin, digging through the cupboards. “How much do you all get? Where does Red get it?”

“From in town,” shrugs Doktor. “What do you figure?”

“Anti gives him money.”

“Yeah, or someone steals it.”

Marvin grimaces, but Trick and Dok are just watching his hands as he pulls out granola bars, apples, some wheat cereal, canned fruit, blueberry bagels, a little tin of tomatoes, uncooked noodles, beans - “Protein,” Trick mumbles, reaching out to take them from him.

“Tell me this isn’t it,” sighs Marvin.

“Well, usually we have more,” grumbles Trick, picking the can open with nail-cracked fingers. “And I’m pretty sure Red hides a lot of other stuff, for in case we get hungry, or if Anti decides… But, well, lately everybody’s been focused on catching you.”

“Do you get enough to eat?”

Trick and Dok exchange glances.

“In your medical opinion?” suggests Marvin, turning irritably to the older of the two.

“Mhhh,” Doktor hums. He opens his mouth after a second, but a quick shove from Trick shuts him up again, and the two sit in silence, avoiding Marvin’s eyes.

Marvin sighs and slides two cans of peaches and the whole box of wheat cereal over to them. He is rewarded, to his surprise, with bright smiles from the both of them, and they scoot a little closer, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“I’ve got to find more food,” mumbles Marvin, rubbing his head. “This isn’t enough to run away on, and you’re looking like some hungry little motherfuckers, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Well, then, you better be good,” suggests Dok, nodding practically. “That’s how you earn more to eat.”

“Maybe Anti’ll even let us go into town instead of Red,” sighs Trick. “And we could get real food, cooked stuff…”

He sighs. He is hungry. He’s not always hungry, but… he is hungry.

At least the newcomer seems pretty cool. For now, anyway. Inevitably, Trick has found, at the end of the day there is no one who can be trusted not to turn against him and Doktor.

He does what he has to to keep them alive.

Anonymous asked: Marvin... psst... hey Anti’s asleep and he thinks he’s got you pinned. Now would be a great time to pull a trick and get away.

Marvin glances at his little brothers, eating, and at Red, asleep beside him. Extricating himself from Red’s grip on his arm - Red moans, reaching out for him - he brings himself to his feet, still wincing from his injured ribs.

“Um, I’m just going to glance outside,” he tells the boys. Trick glares narrowly at him, but Doktor doesn’t even bother looking up, and Marvin makes his way to the door of the little cabin where they live, putting a hand on the doorframe and stepping over the -

Stepping over the -

“What the fuck?” chokes Blue, shaking in the doorway. “Why can’t I move?”

No, no, nope. He’s not getting stuck like this. He’s not going to be a prisoner of his own head. He can do this. Focus! he tells himself. Focus!

“Hey,” growls Trick, turning his attention to him.

“Best not to strain yourself,” warns Doktor.

No, no. Block them out. Focus. He’s not a slave, not a pet, not a pawn. He’s Marvin the fucking Magnificent, and he -

He sets his foot over the doorstep.

“Holy shit!” he cheers, panting hard, his hands on his heart. Relief floods up his chest and he balances himself against the side of the house, gasping. Okay, he wasn’t actually sure he could do that. But he could! It was just -

Flick. Flick. Flick.

Marvin turns his head.

Anti is sitting on a log in the front of the property, flipping a silver knife over and over and over in his hand, staring out at the sea.

Terrified, Marvin swallows hard and creeps back into the house, falling shakily to his knees and bending in on himself, trying to breathe.

“I thought he was asleep upstairs,” he gasps.

It’s kind of starting to hit him that this is real.

Anti caught him. Anti caught him. After all this time, Anti caught him, and he’s here, and he’s very, very, very scared of what’s going to happen to him and his family.

He begins to cry.

Doktor and Trick watch him.

“He’s always watching,” mumbles Doktor.

And upstairs, curled against his little brother’s body, Anti turns over in his sleep, smiling.

Anonymous asked: Dapper, you mentioned anti gave you charcoal. Do you draw? Can you show me what you use it for?

Morning breaks cold over the house, and Marvin wakes up ashamed of having slept.

Trick and Doktor, after a heated debate in the corner, eventually gave up one of their blankets so that he could lie down beside Red, and then retreated to their nest. You saw Trick spend the night curled up, but Doktor sits awake, watching out the window. A few hours ago, Trick was whimpering, but Doktor shook him a few times and he quieted again.

Red wakes up and sees Marvin a couple feet away. He moves away, watching him suspiciously, but he’s too tired to get up. He eats a granola bar, carefully taking stock of everything they have, and looks carefully over his own injuries.

And Dapper?

“Oh, my charcoals!” he signs, leaping to his feet and grabbing the camera off the windowsill. “Silly, silly, should have showed you right away, look, look.”

He turns you to the walls, once painted white, now chipped and coated in black chalk. Dapper whistles and spins you slowly around the room, showing off proudly.

They’re stunningly intricate and very lovely, except for that some of them appear to have been hastily drawn over, like the big deer in the corner - gorgeously depicted in careful, curving lines, only to be marred by huge dark streaks of charcoal drawn haphazardly across its face. On another wall is a pair of wings curling around a human body, and on another, Anti, or one of his brothers, anyway, low to the ground, turned away from him, holding a knife. The fourth wall is just the same pattern, a tiny swooping curve, over and over and over again, until the whole wall seems to shift with movement as you watch. This piece does not seem to have been done entirely in chalk, as parts of it shine darkly in the morning light.

“Good?” he asks, turning your view back to him. Suddenly he is shyer, brushing unkempt hair out of his face and watching you carefully, his cheeks slightly flushed. “I have more in the hallway, do you want to see?”

loganandoli asked: Of course we want to see more Carver!! Those drawings are beautiful! Did you use references or did you just draw most of them from your imagination?

He smiles brightly at you and all but skips into the hallway besides the stairs, showing the wall. This is a huge drawing of a raven’s head from the side. Sharp eyes stare darkly at you; the bird is shaded and coated in shadow, and as you watch, Dapper reaches out a careful hand and smooths a stroke of its feather with hands deeply scarred.

He turns you back to him for just a second. “Need to fix this,” he says.

He disappears and you see the wall behind him - a cracked mess of charcoal in a shattered wall that looks like it’s been stabbed a time or two. You think there used to be a landscape there, but it’s been smeared and destroyed past recognition.

Dapper reappears with a short stick of charcoal in one hand. He smiles at you and leans down to pick you up, a little shakily, with one hand, and turns you back to the drawing. The camera sways and Dapper gives a little gasp, reaching out to steady it before he drops it.

There is a quick thunk of something hitting the floor, and then rolling. Seeing that he’s dropped his charcoal, Dapper sets you down hastily and scrambles after it, reaching -

Too late. It goes thunk, thunk, thunk down the stairs.

He stands with empty hands, staring after it, despair written all over his face. His hands reach up to sign, but he can’t manage to say anything at all. He slides back into the darkness, staring down from the attic, torn between one of his only sources of entertainment - one of his only sources of expression - and the order Anti gave him.

Stay in the fucking attic.

He sinks to his knees, covering his mouth with blackened hands.

Anonymous asked: Are you allowed out in the hallway, Dapper? Do you ever get to go downstairs? But yes, I like your art very much and would like to see more!

“I’m allowed in the hallway but not downstairs,” he signs frantically, squeezing back tears. “Thank you, though, at least… at least I have the pictures still… even if I lost my…” He sniffles and wipes at his eyes, bitter. “No, I never go downstairs. And no one ever comes up. The other ones hate me, did you know… I think we used to be friends, but not anymore. You should see how they look at me… nobody wants me but Anti… They’re not going to get me my charcoal, even if they wanted to, Anti doesn’t allow them up here with me.”

Anonymous asked: 'Morning, Red. How are you feeling?

Red swallows dryly and glances at you. “Um, better,” he says, trying to muster a smile. “It’s just pain… I slept better than I usually do. I hope I’ll be able to walk around. I need to go into town and make sure the boys have enough food. Blue, too now, oh… I need to get him a sleeping bag and some clothes and things. Fuck, and Dapper’s meds!” He runs a shaky hand through his hair, looking stressed. “I don’t have hardly anything saved, I don’t know if we’ll have enough this week.”

He glances up at Marvin, who’s closed his eyes and laid back down on his blanket. Watching him, Red’s face softens slightly.

loganandoli asked: Hey Marvin.. did you hear that thumping noise by the stairs? If you did, you should check it out.

The thud of the charcoal falling down interrupts them all.

Doktor tenses over Trick’s sleeping body, curving a hand around his shoulder and grabbing his brother’s gun, just in case. The younger of the two is the better shot, but Deutsch has steady surgeon’s hands and he knows how to use the sniper. One of them is always keeping watch.

Alarmed, Red tries to rise, but he can’t get himself up on the first try, and Marvin reaches out to push him back down. Red jolts away from his touch, snarling.

“Chill out, man!” snaps Marvin. “Goddamn! If I was going to hurt you I would have done it already! Here, stay there, I’ll go see what that was.”

“It might be dangerous!”

Marvin rolls his eyes and points at you. “They said I should check it out, didn’t they? Try to calm down, man. I’ll go look.”

He gets up and steps around the island. The little chunk of chalk sits by his feet. Frowning, he reaches down to pick it up, and earns a soft gasp from the top of the stairs.

He can see no one above him in the dark attic. Holding still, Marvin squints up, and waits, in the tense silence that follows, for anything, for Anti.

A small movement in the darkness, nervous, shy.

“Hey,” whispers Marvin. “Is that… you? Jameson?”

There’s a low hiss from Red and Doktor, and he turns to see them moving away from him, shaking their heads, real fear in their eyes. Ugh, they’re so fucking paranoid about names. Marvin puts a foot on the bottom of the stairs, trying to smile up at Dapper, and this is enough to elicit a full cry of warning from Red, peeping his head up over the island.

“Blue, don’t go up there!”

“My name’s Marvin,” he snaps, and moves towards his little brother.

Anonymous asked: what is anti going to do with marvin now? he's trapped, but he's still totally himself

Your screen fizzles and words play across the image of Marvin moving up the stairs in glitching zalgo font.

“I don’t punish til the rules are broken,” reads Anti’s message.

Marvin is not yet in the attic. Dapper is not yet on the stairs.

“But once they are…”

A black shadow flashes over your vision. “Blue,” warns Red, louder. He cannot drag himself to his feet. “Blue, come back, don’t go up there!”

“That is when the learning happens.”

musical-in-theory asked: Anti, you mf!! Don’t you dare lay a hand on him!!! If I wasn’t trapped via the laws of fictionality I’d come beat your ass into next week myself!!

Laughter in the back of your audio.

“Hey, hey,” Marvin is soothing, making his way up the stairs. He can make out Dapper’s body now, huddled against the back wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. Did you drop this?”

Dapper’s fingers twitch. He hides his face.

Marvin rises, a step away from the attic floor, and stops, waiting, trying to give him time to uncurl. He stares down at his youngest brother.

He remembers a man as sharp as the blade of a knife but infinitely kinder. Talented, passionate, clever gentle Jamie, picking up violin one week and art the next, making suet for the birds and spending hours digging up weeds in the garden before darting off to whatever job he’d found for the week. He was unpredictable until you needed him, at which point he could, with an emotional astuteness Marvin had never seen anywhere else, appear like a little ghost to check on you.

Marvin doesn’t believe that a man like that could ever just be erased. This is still his Jameson.

He hasn’t seen him in more than a year.

Long curls fall into his silver eyes. Shifting a little closer, Marvin reaches out and brushes them away, revealing tears and a dangerous sort of wariness.

“Here,” murmurs Marvin, holding up the chalk. “Here, it’s okay.”

With shaking hands, Dapper reaches out to take it from him.

“There you go!” gasps Marvin, tears building in his eyes. “There, it’s okay! It’s me, it’s Marvin. Fuck, I - I’ve missed you so much!”

He reaches out to grip Dapper’s hand. Dapper jumps, and then his mouth splits into a huge and joyful smile, uncurling slightly, letting his knees drop and reaching out for some affection, touching Marvin’s cheek. Relieved to find one brother apparently cognizant of who he is, Marvin grabs his little brother’s hand to kiss it and steps up besides him, murmuring, “Jamie, Jamie, I’ve missed you-”

There is barely time for the fear to return to Dapper’s eyes before Anti appears.

Marvin gives a choking cry, staggering back as something slices hard against his neck. Anti flashes into existence in front of Dapper, reaching out to grab Marvin by the bleeding throat.

“Touch my baby!” he screeches, shaking him hard. Marvin tries desperately to scramble away. “Touch my little one! You are not allowed up here! No one is allowed to be up here with him! How dare you lay your fucking hands on him!”

There is a slam as Marvin is slammed against the side of the stairs, and then Anti spots Dapper scrambling away out of the corner of his eyes. “Oh, think you’re off the hook? As if you didn’t smile at him? As if you didn’t - ”

Marvin yanks himself from his grip and tumbles backwards, falling down the stairs a lot harder than a chunk of charcoal.

spicydanhowell asked: fuck, doktor, go get marvin he's hurt really badly!!

“Aww, is he hurt really badly, is he hurt?” Anti mimics viciously, grabbing Dapper’s wrist and dragging him after him as he makes his way down the stairs. “He’s not fucking hurt yet, is that what you think the worst of it is?”

“Anti, he didn’t know, he didn’t know,” cries Red.

“He knows because you told him!” snarls Anti. “You did what you were supposed to. Doktor and Trick know that what you say goes. But our little cat needs to learn his lesson. Then he’ll know.”

Marvin is splayed out on the bottom of the stairs, screaming. His wrist is completely shattered and the rest of the pain is not something he can pinpoint - just a terrible agony through his whole body. Anti grabs him by the back of the hair and drags him up, up, but he can’t make himself stand.

“You’ll get up,” snarls Anti. “Or you can go down these stairs the same way.”

Dapper is yanking against Anti’s grip, weeping. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” he signs, over and over again, shaking his hand up near his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Anti, so sorry, please, please!”

Anti shoves him towards the basement and drags Marvin up after him, opening the terrible door to the basement.

It falls shut behind the three of them with a terrible finality.

Red lies slumped against his bag, too numb to cry. Trick and Doktor sit next to each other shaking, staring at the crushed piece of charcoal lying at the bottom of the stairs.

Anonymous asked: What are you guys going to do with blue now?

“Well,” says Anti, setting you on a shelf in the basement. Marvin is writhing on the floor, while Dapper backs towards the corner. “First we string the puppet up-”

His body glitches out of existence and something flashes like a shadow across Dapper’s body, you see him jerk backwards, still begging with his hands “no, no, please, please!”

His body spasms and he tumbles to his knees. Colors pass over him in sharp bursts of light, making him shake his head and cover his eyes. You see, for a second, a face that is not his own, and then -

Then he is rising to his feet, eyes pitch, and he reaches down to drag Marvin to the wall, chaining his wrists again, the one broken, the other bandaged from the knife wound.

“Then we carve the puppet,” signs Anti, pressing Marvin against the wall and pulling out a knife. Marvin begins to scream, slamming his head against the chains in his desperation to get free.

“It’s a process, you see,” signs Anti, pausing between slashes. “It’s a shattering, and then a rebuilding. A stripping away of everything, an offer of all he never knew he wanted. It’s affection one second and blood the next. It’s… an art.”

Dapper’s hands are still smudged in charcoal. Anti leaves it all over Marvin’s chest and arms. Marvin screams for a long time.

The feed stays up the whole time, but, eventually, you turn your eyes away.

End Section 1 of Chapter 1: The Newcomer

Find this chapter’s masterlist here.

#in writing #section 1 chapter 1 #the newcomer #blood tw #abuse tw #major abuse tw #kidnapping tw #torture tw #writers of jack

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myakkoh · 4 years

Text

built from love

(Read here on Ao3!)

Birthday present for @cherfleur! Hope you enjoy, Cher!

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Soft laughter is carried along the breeze and reaches his ears with soft fluttering of flowers next to him.

Nie Qiuheng rests his chin on the palm of his hand, his elbow on the edge of the table, watching Nie Mingjue interact with Wen Xu in the garden ahead of him. It’s good, good to watch his son develop a relationship with the Wen boy, something that will end up as good relations with both of their sects. Perhaps Wen Ruohan would permit Wen Xu to visit the Unclean Realm.

Maybe Lan Qiren will allow Lan Xichen to come along, seeing how the boy may need friends from other sects. Nie Mingjue and Wen Xu seem both friendly enough with each other, enough to encourage the shy boy to join them the next time they meet up.

Quiet footsteps echo behind him, makes him slightly turn his head to see white and blue robes at the edge of his vision. Lan Qiren sits down beside him, narrowed dark golden eyes softening at the sight of the boys playing in front of them. The man seems more at ease than before, which says plenty from the times he stubbornly stayed away from both him and Wen Ruohan.

A breeze picks up, skids around them and tugs playfully on Lan Qiren’s forehead ribbon, the ends of it fluttering in the air. Nie Qiuheng remembers the same forehead ribbon, wrapped around Lan Qiren’s wrists rather prettily the other night. The other could have easily broken out of it, torn the ribbon apart and get a new one for himself, but—he trusted him, trusted Wen Ruohan, trusted them to not break him.

It says everything and how Lan Qiren feels about them. It warms him, doesn’t make him say it outright, but the way Lan Qiren allows him to lace their hands together is enough. Fleeting, yet, enough. Just for them.

He still doesn’t know what to call this, with what’s happening between him, Wen Ruohan, and Lan Qiren. A relationship? Partnership between three men who has seen the world at its worst? No. It’s still fragile, no matter how warm, so easy to shove down into the deepest, darkest part of his mind and bury it under his own duties. They have no name for it.

It’s just them.

Pale lips twitch into a faint smile, and Wen Xu is showing Nie Mingjue a small flame flickering in the palms of two hands. Nie Mingjue seemingly makes gestures, mouth rapidly speaking, makes Wen Xu incline his head and blow the flames to the sky. Said flames turn into a lantern, floating in the sky.

“Enjoying yourself?” Lan Qiren asks, and he probably already knows the answer.

“Indeed,” Nie Qiuheng says mildly and feels his lips curl into a soft smile when Lan Qiren leans closer, dark golden eyes trained on the children. “Are you feeling fine?”

“I will live, Sect Leader Nie,” the other says dryly, like the sudden shift of discomfort isn’t visible. It’s barely visible, shouldn’t be too uncomfortable, yet Nie Qiuheng wants to tell the other head back to the guest room Wen Ruohan set up for all three of them. His chest tightens, and suddenly he can’t breathe much.

“We are on equal grounds as of the current moment,” Nie Qiuheng says, then adds, “Qiren.”

Lan Qiren eyes him carefully, as if he doesn’t expect Qiuheng to mean it. Then quietly, with uncertainty– “Qiuheng.”

The whisper of his name makes him gently squeeze the other’s hand, turn his gaze back towards the children. Wen Xu seems to be copying movements of a set from Nie Mingjue; dancing movements from one of their festivals. Feels his lips curve into another smile when his son corrects Wen Xu’s posture and resumes the lesson.

Lan Qiren lets out a noise of aggravation as his hand tightens around his own, makes him look over to the other, who is staring behind them. He looks younger without the goatee, Nie Qiuheng thinks absently as he turns to see Wen Ruohan walking towards them with an uncharacteristic smile on the man’s face. The man’s robes are mostly parted to reveal a bare chest, and... a bite mark.

Ah, he thinks, so that’s the reason why Lan Qiren is annoyed, with dark golden eyes narrowing in frustration.

“Shameless,” Lan Qiren mutters as Wen Ruohan steps up to them.

“You were the one who was rather shameless last night, Qiren,” Wen Ruohan tells the other with a smirk, looking smug when Lan Qiren looks as if he’s about to hit the man. It’s deserved, but that seems to be exactly what Wen Ruohan wanted. “Who was the one begging Qiuheng and I to hurry up again?”

“You are ridiculous,” the other retorts, turns away, ears burning a bright red. “And I was not begging, only merely calling out your names.”

Wen Ruohan softly lets out a laugh, caresses their joined hands with a gentle touch before reaching to grip Lan Qiren’s shoulder. Leans forward across the table to press his forehead against Lan Qiren’s, the other’s eyes fluttering shut. It’s astonishing, to see the fearsome Sect Leader Wen quiet the Lan Regent down with a couple of words and gestures.

Then again, he’s been seeing it for the past few days now, the way Lan Qiren silences Wen Ruohan with a look, their touches gentle and lingering, the sarcasm and harsh words spoken with no heat behind them. Nie Qiuheng does not wish for this to end for the world, nor does he want it to stop.

Doesn’t move when Wen Ruohan moves his head back, grins that impossible smile of his, all sly and lazy, and turns towards him. “Qiuheng,” he greets cheerfully, like Lan Qiren isn’t giving him another glare. “Would you like to see Qiren in red or in that dark green?”

Lan Qiren splutters. He stares. That’s... that’s a question? Does Wen Ruohan wish to see the other wearing their sect colours? Nie Qiuheng licks chapped lips, tasting the sweet iron taste of blood on his tongue as he continues to stare. “Red and white with gold?” he says with slight confusion.

“He would look better in red and gold,” Wen Ruohan says thoughtfully, a pleased grin spreading across his lips.

“Do I not get a say in this?” Lan Qiren complains lightly.

“I like seeing you dressed in my clothes,” Wen Ruohan offers nonchalantly, and Lan Qiren flushes a bright red before looking away from him, “however, I believe you’d like a different set of clothes so you don’t have to get your current ones dirty.”

“You made them dirty,” Lan Qiren mutters.

“Perhaps because he was rather excited to see you out of them,” Nie Qiuheng says mildly, feels his lips twist into a smile as both men turn to look at him. The other narrows his eyes at him, expression perfectly neutral except for the betrayal in his eyes. Wen Ruohan simply laughs. “Seeing how he nearly ripped them off of you.”

“Like he did to you?” the other challenges.

Nie Qiuheng softly snorts, feels his cheeks heat up, and notices how Wen Ruohan places his hand on top of their hands. It’s easy to lose himself within the others’ companionship, the way Lan Qiren gives his rare smiles freely to them and Wen Ruohan discards his role as Sect Leader. It shouldn’t be happening between them.

Yet, it already does. Nie Qiuheng knows what kind of tea Lan Qiren favours during the morning, and what snacks Wen Ruohan prefers to eat when with them. He knows how Lan Qiren acts much softer with no heat behind words, and how Wen Ruohan makes sure they’re both alright with whatever the man plans.

Knows how easily Lan Qiren can coax Wen Ruohan out of doing paperwork with few words, only drawing back when Wen Ruohan tells him to. Their relationship with each other has already been established, years ago, and yet—Nie Qiuheng finds himself in the middle of it, watching the two dance around him and each other, all unsure of how to proceed, especially when they’re all so tired.

Glancing out of the corner of his eyes, he watches as Nie Mingjue and Wen Xu dance in the ring of fire together, both boys smiling brightly at each other. Behind him, something shifts and a calloused hand grasps his chin, makes him turn around to see Wen Ruohan towering over him. The man is as tall as him, yet, he looks more of a giant who seems to love getting the attention of both him and Lan Qiren.

“Qiuheng,” Wen Ruohan murmurs, low and deliberate, crimson eyes dancing with mirth. “Have you ever thought of yourself in red?”

Either the man means in the Wen Sect colours of red, or bathed in scarlet when slicing through hordes of Fierce Corpses. Nie Qiuheng swallows, and steadily meets Wen Ruohan’s eyes with his own lips settling in a straight line. Lan Qiren’s hand tightens on his, as if reassuring him everything would be alright.

It would, though. Wen Ruohan would never harm him, nor would he harm Lan Qiren. That’s how much Wen Ruohan seems to care for them, even if Nie Qiuheng has seen Wen Ruohan murmur forbidden words in Lan Qiren’s ears. And after figuring the man was corrupted with resentful energy, after cleansing him with the Song of Cleansing and Hekai, well. He hasn’t seen signs of the man trying to harm them.

His heart beats rapidly as Wen Ruohan leans closer to him, hand still gripping his chin. Feels his eyes fluttering shut when the man gently kisses him, soft and sweet. Hands tighten on his own, and Nie Qiuheng feels teeth suddenly biting down on his lips. Not enough to draw blood, but—enough to make him grunt and draw back.

The man cares about them. He would never harm them. Nie Qiuheng knows it all too well, especially the feeling fluttering in his stomach as Wen Ruohan grins sharply. Love is too strong of a word to describe them, and yet—it fits them just fine.

“I thought of sleeping in red blankets,” Nie Qiuheng says steadily, like he hasn’t just been kissed and had his lips bitten on.

Wen Ruohan stares at him. “... what. What, no,” the man squawks, and jerks back. The wide-eyed look on the other man’s face makes him snort. “I am not talking about blankets or sleeping! Where did you even get that idea?”

He turns to meet dark golden eyes, pale lips curling into a faint smirk. “I, too,” Lan Qiren says, which would have been a straight face if not for the smirk, “would like to sleep in red blankets.”

“Qiren, not you, too!”

Yes, Nie Qiuheng thinks as he watches Lan Qiren lean up to kiss the complaint out of Wen Ruohan’s open mouth. In front of them, Wen Xu and Nie Mingjue let out soft peels of laughter as they dance within the ring of fire. He wouldn’t trade this for the world.

#my writing #mdzs plunny hell #mo dao zu shi #nie qiuheng/lan qiren/wen ruohan #nie qiuheng #nie dad #lan qiren #wen ruohan #nie mingjue #wen xu #fluff

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theholycovenantrpg · 4 years

Photo

CONGRATULATIONS, TARYN! YOU��VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF CASSIEL.

Admin Jen: You entranced me with your vision of Cassiel from the first moment, Taryn. The way you introduced the themes of beauty and power, explored the entanglement of the two, and linked it all to Cassiel was so compelling, and I loved the way you expanded on it later on and tied it into your future plots. There is such tangible power to your portrayal, and every single portion of the app burns with it -- not just in a manifestation of Cassiel’s hunger, but in a captivating expression of its intensity and prowess, the way it bleeds into every aspect of who she is. I can’t wait to see her wreak absolute havoc on the dash! Please create and send in your account, review the information on our CHECKLIST, and follow everyone on the FOLLOW LIST. Welcome to the Holy Land!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS

Taryn

AGE

21+

PERSONAL PRONOUNS

She/Her

TIMEZONE

PST

TRIGGERS

REMOVED

HOW DID YOU FIND THE GROUP?

Admin referral.

IN CHARACTER

CHARACTER

Cassiel

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

Beauty fascinates me, and it has in a various number of ways for several years. I’ve written about it in plenty of variations, but never seen a character that investigates so deeply the query of what happens when beauty is not only undeniable, but perfect and absolute to the point of literal personification. I see Cassiel and her beauty as the cup that fills to the point of surface tension: she exists in the incorporeal space above limit, law, natural reason, always on the edge of overflowing. When you talk about her beauty, it’s no longer about the simplicity of being beautiful, but of the concept itself, the embodiment. What I kept coming back to when thinking about Cass was the adage Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and stems that flowered from it: could one replace the word power with beauty in that statement and have it be wholly, undeniably true? Why or why not? Where do we rank beauty among the concepts that we agree, in society and heart and literature, reign above all others: power, love, hate, goodness, evil. What is its place, or does it have one at all? Which of the others are its twins, which are its enemies? Is it merely symptomatic of one of the others; if so, can it be corrupted? Literally, what is beauty?

Even moreso, what is it to exist in a state that embodies any of these notions so completely? How does it grow or gnarl the soul, what are the effects and blessings and curses of living in this strange way?

I know that’s a lot of questions rather than answers, but I think that’s almost my point: Cassiel is not just a character I already feel I know intimately and love for what I see, but a vessel through which I get to explore things I can’t (and don’t yet want to) answer. That’s super exciting to me — a character I not only adore now, but gives me the license to question.

WHAT FUTURE PLOTS DO YOU HAVE IN MIND FOR THIS CHARACTER?

It makes sense to me that on the whole, Cassiel’s plot points should be very interaction- or dynamic-driven. That certainly isn’t to say that Cassiel isn’t self-motivating or responsible for her own actions — because she certainly is — but that in the narrative defined of her character so far, the crux of what drives, propels, and motivates her always seems to be something external. Where she once craved adoration and veneration, now her appetites have swelled to power and worship — a goal that, while perhaps somewhat singular and inward, is still defined by its far outer reach.

So on that note! The plots I’ve expounded on below largely hinge on varying relationships and interactions with other characters because I’d love to explore that thematically: that as selfish as she is, Cassiel needs others.

HUNGER THAT DOES NOT DISCRIMINATE. I don’t particularly care for ascents that are made without meeting a loose-fitting rock, or grasping a serpent tail when you think you’ve reached a vine. Though I can imagine an end where Cassiel takes her seat upon the throne she now paws at, I’m almost more interested in the steps taken to reach that conclusion.

( A ) In the same way that Cassiel named the Cherubim without anticipating all outcomes and consequences, I feel that her current pursuit of power is half-abstract and in some way not fully formed. She eyes Caelum’s throne because it is the most readily available sight, but I don’t believe Cassiel has considered strategy for what might be done after ascending a throne (whether that be in the seat itself or directly at its side), nor even if Caelum’s rulership is the most viable for her position/wants/needs. She is clever, ambitious, ruthless in many regards; she has the hunger and shrewdness to potentially make her way to the highest seat, and has proven her resourcefulness via her renewed place among the Virtues. But what does she know of rulership? Of queendom, of subjects? Nothing. She knows undeserved and total veneration, which is another thing entirely. I want to see this reflected in her initial actions as the roleplay opens: half-blind movements and machinations, a kind of elegant stumbling towards an ill-defined end.

( B ) I think Viktoria is right in some way to await a misstep, to judge her as over-eager and insatiable. Much like my view of Cassiel’s beauty as the lifted bit of water that rests above the edge of a cup, I think that same surface tension is an apt way to describe her ambition currently: overfull and ready to spill over for the first tremor. An appetite so large and desperate will consume the other things around it, in this case Cassiel’s tact: she is going to pitch herself into the first opportunity that opens itself wide enough, potentially at detriment to her overall plan (or reputation), though not necessarily. The actual action of this plot is vague and undefined because it’s not really something I can craft (instead something that should come up naturally within the game/other characters), but I’m not so picky about what it is so long as it affords the space for Cass to leap without looking in her pilgrimage back to greatness.

ONE TASTE IS ENOUGH. Once you’ve fed a hungry woman, what does she grow into? Again to draw from my overfull cup metaphor, my thought is that once a measure of her starvation has been sated by the initial jump mentioned above (whether it has positive, negative, or neutral results), it is essentially poured from the chalice that is Cassiel’s soul. Having executed her first (in-game) move or scheme, there is now a space inside her no longer occupied by desperate, demanding hunger which once filled everything to the point of bursting — allowing a space that gives her the ability to think more clearly, with greater nuance. This is when her machinations begin to build in true.

( A ) She starts to examine what it is she is aiming for, both in what is required of Caelum’s rulership and if that specific seat is best suited for her and the final result she craves. Viktoria is a good candidate for this, should they be willing to mentor her further, but I think the better option is to have Cassiel observe others in positions of power — Zadkiel, Damien Ward, Michael. She excels at endearing herself to others, which would likely be the course she takes, though the roads with Zadkiel and Michael are perhaps more winding than Damien’s. Zadkiel is going to have his own plot/bullet point, so I’ll expand on that later. Michael is a convoluted and dangerous relationship, but one that I feel Cassiel will seek out when she comes into her violence: he, technically, is responsible for all that was taken from her. Though cozying up to the King may be arduous or out of the question to do perfectly, helping to fracture the trinity of Michael/Gabriel/Raphiel from the inside. If he will not love her, then no others shall love him.

( B ) Her action, even by way of inaction, becomes very purposeful: in essence, after a potential failure, Cass will begin to lay out the strings to the final nest she plans to take. I do want to see Cassiel forge her way onto a new pedestal, one raised even higher than the pillar she sat upon previously, and that is the overarching narrative I’d like to take her on as a character — but I can’t say I’m 100% sure that it will be Caelum’s throne or the right-hand of it. Though Cassiel is experienced in crafting and stoking veneration, and therefore the authority that comes with it, the ladder of power and the games one plays to climb it are new to her. As she makes this climb, I expect she’ll find rungs she did not anticipate before, possibilities and avenues she could not have realized previously. Perhaps her attention will shift to the Tridium, her envy taking her by the leash and leading her to overthrow Gabriel in order to debase Azazel and remove her as the Moon. Maybe she will band with Viktoria and the Horseman. Mayhap she’ll create a new allegiance and look to usher in an Age of the Lotus, where everything must be drowned in mud before it can emerge beautiful and petalled (and what is she, if not the pinnacle of these things?). In plain, my goal is to see her shoot for the stars — which burning sphere she lands upon is not the most important part.

A WINGED BEAST. I love, love, love her connection with Azazel, and I want to see it go absolutely nowhere good. Particularly, I want to use their dynamic to open up the dark spot her petals have closed over and kept concealed since she was created, the truth buried below all others: that she is an animal. That she could have only ever been an animal, nothing more or less graceful despite her wings, for the way she has lived as One Thing and One Thing alone, like mindless predatory beasts who know only bloodlust and the pursuit of satiating it. Cassiel has weaned on, lived, and hunted for that one thing — adoration above all else, above all others — and so Azazel stands as the highest adversary and natural enemy. Because of that, it is her alone that could drag out the latent and feral nature of Cassiel, and I want to see it arise in a way ugly, cruel, and wild. I see a kind of genuine savagery at her core, animalistic in the sense that it’s natural and arcane, esoteric and terrifying in the way we used to recall angels of the hundred-eyes and bright blaze. Let Azazel have another victory over her, be it immense or mild, and drag the carcass of Cassiel’s defeat in front of her to see how the frenzy starts. I want to see Cassiel lose all composure, both as a delightful creature and as an Angel of Virtue, and bare her teeth — perhaps even literally. She wields a sword well, but a weapon is too refined for the kind of rage — teeth and claws are better suited for something so furious. Aside from this manifesting in potentially a literal and physical attack on Azazel, I imagine this moment further alerts Cassiel into not what she is becoming, but what she has always been. Unlike Arianne, who I think shares a great deal thematically with Cassiel, I don’t believe Cass is quite as vindictively-natured as the human. If she is cruel, it is not usually for the direct purpose of watching another suffer; it is merely that the act of cruelty is natural to her in the same way that a predator sinks its teeth into a doe without remorse. To offer a quote to sum it up, Peter Beagle in The Last Unicorn: “‘Cruel?’ She asked. ‘How can I be cruel? That is for mortals.’ But then she did raise her eyes, and [...] with something very near to mockery [...] she said, ‘So is kindness.’ That is essentially what I mean when I say as an angel, Cassiel is animal and savage and cruel and immaculate all at once, but in a way entirely unlike the humans. I don’t even necessarily feel this contradicts or cannot cohabitate with her saccharine nature, that which remains iridescent and lovely. She exists in multitudes, some of them made of spun-sugar and full of wonder, others death-touched, and that is what I see Cassiel fully coming into as Azazel’s opposition drives her mad: I am wild, and wild things know no Kings. Let her eye turn to Michael with new understanding.

THE LITTLE DEATH, MANIFESTED. I see this as potentially contingent from the previous bullet, seeing as this kind of rage needs a catalyst, but as a fun little aside (maybe more of a headcanon??) I’d love to see Cassiel kill a mortal NPC in the middle of sex — unintentional, perhaps, though not necessarily. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen The Boys, and please do if you haven’t omg (and tiny spoiler ahead!), but there’s a scene where a superhero character has sex with a regular human while on a mind-altering substance. She ends up crushing his head in the middle of cunnilingus. That’s essentially the vibe here.

LAMB BLOOD ON THE ALTAR. Just like with Azazel, I adore Cassiel’s connection to Zadkiel.

RUN. Zadkiel exists, undeniably, as a keystone to Cassiel’s better nature. She has changed from who she was, certainly, and the shift has seized from her much of that which might be called goodness — still, ebbing portions or ghost-limbs of it remain. As does the loose thread of guilt, which Cass knows only Zadkiel’s hand can find and tug. To that end, and what I feel is most likely for the very start of game play, is Cass still trying to run from him and avoid any interaction.

TURN. The benefit of the sheep is that it can be sheared a hundred times, though slaughtered only once — so Cassiel must hope that this is one more coat she can shed before Justice, showing him a pink skin and claiming I am borne anew. I am remade. I have risen again, like God’s own son. Likely after realizing she is not yet ready to take on Michael’s throne and therefore needs aid, Cassiel may attempt to endear herself once more to Zadkiel, the angel once so dear to her.

HOLD. This is definitely equally up to how Zadkiel’s player feels and wants to portray their relationship, but I have a very strong feeling that Cass adores/adored Zadkiel to the point of — possession, maybe? Particularly if their relationship starts to repair in any shape (even through Cass’s falsehoods), I could see her teeth growing sharp over the relationship/bond he has with Isolde; a matter of jealousy, a repetition of what she is subjected to feel in Azazel’s presence: second place. Singular-minded as she can be, this could derail her overarching plans for the momentary sabotage of their relationship, or of the Priestess herself. Another aside: Cass shifting herself to match Isolde’s visage when speaking to Zad? Phew.

THE KNIFE YOU HAVE CHOSEN. It would be a mistake to assume that a thing you chase your whole life is not hunting you in turn — the man that goes into the jungle with a gun is not safe from the tiger it follows; the wielded blade does not blunt itself for the hand holding it. For all Cassiel devotes herself to the attainment of idolization — for all that cunning and guile — it has to be said that she, too, is in some capacity ruled by it. To that, I have a couple thoughts on how her obsession bites back:

Cassiel at the dais of another, sprawled at their knees, arms draped over their thighs, head in their lap. I love you as I never did God, she says. I worship you as I do myself and none other. Child, they purr. Angel, that’s blasphemy. Yes, she agrees. Give me my sin again. I’d like to see her have someone she wholly, thoroughly venerates in a way that surpasses her previous affections for God. They don’t, and perhaps could not, rival her love for herself — but it could be challenged. I love the idea of the duality within her: the capacity to put herself before all others, ever and always, and the flaw in her mechanism which sees Cassiel naturally inclined to offer herself as a devotee, made as she was as His creation, His pet. That isn’t to say such a thing comes about easily, that her soul yearns for someone to kneel before, nor even that God had her heart in such a manner — I lean to the idea that he never did, and her place as Cherubim was merely situational; that Cassiel would have had her seat aside any All-Knowing Being, no matter who it was. But to think that perhaps there is an individual who would ignite this impulse again after having laid dormant for so long, or perhaps never truly emerging, is delicious. I feel it would have to be a complicated, consuming relationship, something braided with romantic love and lust (or what angels can feel of these things). They would also have to be exceptionally wicked or brilliant, carrying attributes that Cassiel wishes for herself, and an individual who she wishes to make a proper mate and to rule beside or jointly. Then, ideally, I want to see them discard her. Perhaps they outgrow her, or never truly returned the affections she gives so endlessly, only using her for their own ascent — it doesn’t matter. But I think it would be a delicious parallel to have her worship at the altar of another, only to be ripped into nothingness the way she allowed the Cherubim to be.

(...) the mysterious thing you look for your whole life will eventually eat you alive. — Laurie Anderson explaining her attraction to Moby-Dick. Admittedly I’m running a little short on time now so please forgive the sloppy explanation, but essentially what I want to see here is another instance where her obsession with receiving ardour bites back. I don’t have a super specific instance for this to happen, though I’d think the best bet right now is through Cade — in the depths of despondency, how far would she go to feel idolized once more? What landmine would Cassiel, in her mania, step upon when running to a false dais? Let’s see, pretty please.

ARE YOU COMFORTABLE WITH KILLING OFF YOUR CHARACTER?

It depends on how I’ve managed to grow Cassiel, and what I see for their arc going forward. I find it a little hard to say from the far-off place at the starting line, but at the moment I would say if there’s a point where Cassiel dies, it would be far in the future -- and most likely, after she has attained a new title or power.

IN DEPTH

DRIVING CHARACTER MOTIVATION.

I feel like I ruminated on some of this in the Plots section (SORRY), but to say it plainly, there’s a marked severance to Cassiel’s motivations before Michael’s mutiny and after, one as clearly demonstrated as the differentiation she has in favour and position between then and now. Prior to Michael’s usurping and the culling of God and his Cherubim, in the early centuries of her existence, Cassiel was likely an angel most lacking in motivation, plan, or plot — and perhaps that’s why even the angels fell for her, even virtuous and zealous Zadkiel. She knew no want, and therefore could not ask for anything, even within herself: all that she might have required or lusted after was delivered to her, any ache balmed before it could bloom, every cut mended before it could be administered. But as it is with all creatures, even those beloved above all but Him, there is a thing in the center of a soul like a hard pit in a stone-fruit — and if borne empty, it will fill in time. One cannot exist without want. So, naturally, she grew to crave what she was being fed: veneration, adoration, love. But to say that that was all young Cassiel desired would not be true, because she had those things, and one does not covet the treasures already held safe in your chest. She was given mere reverence and devotion, so the want could only be something worse: to be the best of them all, second to only God himself in the reception of affection (and where God was cold, she was all sweet-passion warmth; there could be no comparison). She had to be the most revered, the pinnacle of adoration. And for a time, she was that too. So her motivation, than, was preservation: to retain what was had, to bask in glory. To only ever see beauty, and to live as the embodiment of it. Which is exactly what makes the fall so bone-deep in its lashing: her singular driving force was taken in hand and cracked over the knee.

After Michael and the Angels mutiny against God, preservation became synonymous with survival. Now, what motivates Cassiel is what drives any losing dog in a fight: fear, envy, spite, desperation. To hope to preserve what was once had is not only futile in her current state, but foolish; clever and terrifyingly lovely as she is, the Angels know what treason she committed against her own brethren. In the eyes of her winged brothers and sisters, she has lost that intangible loveliness which saw her reign above the rest: she, too, could commit sins. Cassiel, too, could be ugly as the rest of them. The mortals, though more easily swayed, can also be duly influenced by the masses around them: they have turned from her too. She cannot preserve what has been smashed: but the pieces of that driving force take a new shape, like a beautiful mirror shattered into a thousand sharp blades. And though her aim, like the red circle on a target or the heart of a stag, is power (currently and most specifically, Michael’s) that does not make it the force that sends the arrow. The lust for power, for those not settled with merely a beautiful existence, is for the desperate. It is for those who have known failure and will refuse to meet it again; it is for the ones you have glimpsed the way down, and fear the impact should they topple entirely. It is for the girls who know what it is to rule a heart, but are no longer satisfied with just one organ. In order to feel safe, they need it all. Cassiel can no longer be second to any: not God, not Michael. To be secondary is to be fallible. And beauty, she will prove, stands above all.

CHARACTER TRAITS.

( + ) ADAPTABLE, INTUITIVE, CHARMING ( - ) DELUSIVE, SELF-SERVING, COVETOUS

IN-CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE.

( A NOTE: I’m not entirely sure this is 100% how this scenario would go down — like maybe Zadkiel would have known about Cassiel’s involvement prior to this — but it was felt like a good way to get her voice across! )

When she stands in the banquet hall, it is with the silent quality that befits the scorned and the betrayers (how lucky, then, that she meets at the crux of both, like the brass hinge of a door). Heads do not turn as she takes leave from the great hall as they once did, keeping instead to their new King and celebratory revelry as once-loved Cassiel exits alone into the torch-lit hallways. For all the noises they once made in my honour, she thinks, now they will not even look up with enough haste to track my shadow. Cassiel passes slowly through the corridors of the Archangel Castle, stretches of cold, white marble bearing no life upon it: all that exists in Caelum tonight does so in Michael’s celebration. Even the former Cherubim — what remained after Michael’s tedious, torrid culling — sat in the great hall, miserable as they looked excepting Cassiel. Better to be witnessed in their anguish than found missing, assumed scheming in absence, it seemed. Yet for all their ugly despair, the grim-set mouths and brows so creased with concern they appeared grimy, the new King nor his audience had not once admired Cassiel for her smile, not for the delight she had sent out, like a winged messenger to the field of wounded soldiers: Do not worry, I am here. I am alright. I am still, despite it all, yours. Beautiful. Eternal. She, who had smiled and smiled like endless payment from a bottomless purse, having been charged for a crime that was not her own, and found herself offering restitution nonetheless. As charitable as she is lovely, they should have said. As virtuous as she is a delight.

But they say nothing. They do not even speak it with their eyes. So Cassiel wanders through the palace, disoriented by the lonesome way she must walk, without the arm of another to warm her or cling to. It is not with intent that she finds her way to the throne room; though intent means little in the world of the divine. And none knew this better than Cassiel: righteous acts, ritual acts, and acts of hostility all left the same signature. The fire lit in repeated offering will eventually devastate the brush around it in the same way a single act of malicious arson will. Intent pales in comparison to the impact, mortal or divine. And so all that matters is this: Cassiel arrives. She is there. And soon, she has a hand upon the gilt seat of a God, now a king. A gentle, single caress. It sighs with emptiness.

Down below, music begins. The sound, though muffled by stone, is light and deceptive with a beat kept by tambourine and wound through with panpipes. It crashes and crawls as a serpent through brush, dragging its body across the span of angelic shoulders and up the marble spires until it reaches the slender ankles of high Cassiel above. O, that that song had teeth. It would sink them pit-deep into that lovely ankle. She feels it wind around her as vine to hot rock, seeking, imploring. One palm flattens against the arm of Dead-God-Now-Michael’s golden throne, shivering at its smooth, near-wet chill. Her free hand raises slowly, slim fingers gliding over her collarbone until the full palm rests against the soft skin of her chest. They feel so alike, she and that lonesome, beautiful thing — slick, silken — chilled, lonely, without flaw. Cassiel tightens one hand to the cold edge of the arm, the other slipping deftly beneath the crease of her collar to the smoother skin of her breast. Was is the same there? Did they feel alike everywhere? How gorgeous, how frightening, to touch —

“Cassiel.”

She turns, straightens, sharp as a flower breaking its neck in a stern wind.

It is Zadkiel. Dark, tall, great-winged Zadkiel, usurping the whole of the entrance in his breadth. Her fear of being caught abates. In the glow of the great fires, they are bronze – no – gold. His skin alights in the way the great blessed tools do, a warning; she is radiance to the point of glow, shining that a beautiful thing might find her in the dark. Like calls to like.

Zadkiel, she thinks, has not forgotten me. He has followed.

“Zadkiel,” she says his name and is as raw as the meat newly cleaved from the animal, uncooked, bleeding on the plate. Cassiel makes her way to him, fists clamping as shells into his tunic, making the fabric into cotton pearls within her palm, held tightly and with a reverence that says I believe something good will come of this. He always wanted goodness. It was all he could stand.

Around her, her aura shifts; perhaps not the look of her, but what she knows Ever-wholesome Zadkiel requires. His emotions and entire self countenance was a barrage of full, pure colours: red as the poppy, blue as the sea, yellow as wheat. He moved from start to end with sureness, a bullheadedness and a potency that saw the earth moved on either side of him, as an ox yoked in the plowing fields — one could see the line he left in the dirt, straight and true. In what he felt he felt fully and tangibly, and to call that simplicity would have been a mistake. So she gave him, simply, what he requires: a reminder of the divinity they once served. Shine, goodness, a visage not innocent but one above reproach.

“Zadkiel, isn’t it awful — I couldn’t stand to be in the same room — we had to leave, you and I, didn’t we? For us,” She repeats it again, stuffing their existences into the same velvet satchel, her wings closing around them to craft one white-feather world of intimacy. The bottom petal of her lip juts, a flower blooming in the depths of winter. “Today is so hard for us.”

How sweet she could have seemed, stuck to him then as all beautiful things that last so little, like early mornings and mortal life. How dearly she wanted him to pull her head down upon his shoulder and vow to protect her here and evermore, to remind her she was no less dear to him now than before.

But Zadkiel, dark, tall, great-winged Zadkiel, who usurps the light with his breadth, has not moved. His arms do not move to hold her.

“I know of what you did.” He burns like the darkness, his eyes unblinking, and Cassiel feels the jaws of something open up wide within her, beastial teeth scraping against the lining of her stomach, dark feathers brushing her ribs. “I know you betrayed us.”

Run, the feathers say. Fight, the teeth implore.

Her pout recedes as she pulls away, the gleam around her dimming into something less blinding, more reminiscent of the light on the water than the ray directly from the sun. Her eyes narrow back from their peeled, opened stance, returning from the look stolen from does and maidens.

“Ah.” Her hands clasp at her stomach, wings receding from their huddle to position behind her, her eyes a torch in the dim — she looked as though she touted an oil lamp within her stomach, with the bowl kept still and fire burning above. “So you and I,” she says, shrewd and slender. “Will have the most difficult evening of all.”

EXTRAS

WRITTEN AESTHETIC: Swans locked at the neck in violence, the iridescent guts of an oyster shucked for its pearl, the fall of fabric to the floor; the nude body left standing, a gentle finger extending to break a shimmering bubble, the bleat of a lamb as it is laid down for sacrifice.

HEADCANONS:

She has a large collection of beauty products collected from across the lands, but has become particularly fond of the wares that prove deadly to mortals — polishes infused with venom, powders crafted from ground belladonna. While perhaps she does not need these goods, immortal and ever-capable as she is in becoming one’s ideal, she still enjoys the applications.

Though she is more satisfied wielding her looks before her sword, she is still prideful of her skill with the latter. Zadkiel himself instructed her in its use long ago, and she does not shirk her practice.

In days gone by, Cassiel had mortals engage in an unofficial competition to bring her the most startling, beautiful, or rare animal to be made her companion, always done shortly after the death of her last. I think it’s particularly fitting that the creatures she bonded with weren’t found through a natural interaction but rather through gifting, given that all things in her existence were handed to her without work. Since the revolt and her subsequent fall from the highest pedestal, these “competitions” have not happened in as organized a capacity, instead with her remaining devoted admirers seeking out gifts and Cassiel herself whenever.

Her current companion is a white lion named Oren. He, like others, was a gift from a devotee — and an exceptional one at that. When he was brought to her, the beast’s keeper tremors at the hands, distanced from the great leonine animal who sat with blood on his maw. A thousand apologies, mistress. The beast, he’s — he mauled a doe. The carcass is grotesque — it lays outside — shall I take him away? And Cassiel knows the insinuation, what the mortal means: He has killed. He has ruined himself. Surely, you cannot want him. But Cassiel merely crouches, pouting her lips as her hands slip below his pale chin, fisting into the thick mane. Her palms grow heavy, sticky with blood. He’s beautiful.

( As an aside, I love the juxtaposition that it creates when Cassiel meets with Azazel: the demoness’ sleek, dark gaggle of hellhounds, and the angel’s singular bright, mammoth lion. The image of the animals agitated in one another's presence, the hellhounds as mischievous smoke-hyenas that nip at Oren’s flanks while he swipes with one large paw. )

Her last companion was another male, this one a white and grey Arabian stallion specifically bred for and provided to her by an admirer.

I ran into this image and loved the idea that Cassiel has her own crest, designed some time ago by a particularly ardent worshipper (now long deceased) who worked in the arts. She still has every location where it has been inscribed or inlaid memorized.

If there’s a non-deified individual from history that was Cass hiding her wings (not possible? oh well), its Phryne: the Grecian prostitute and renowned beauty who, accused of a capital crime (blasphemy), stripped before the all-male judges to show her body -- the argument being that beauty was a sign of godly favour in Ancient Greece, and with it came a certain innate Goodness. Therefore, she couldn’t be blasphemous. Or, as a text post said: If the tits are legit, you must acquit.

#accepted #accepted: cassiel

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thiswasinevitableid · 5 years

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INDRUCK 6 PLS (sfw is prob more appropriate for this prompt but idc)

#6: their mentor just died (of natural causes don’t look at me like that). If I went to the funeral out of costume would they recognize me?

Indrid sees the obituary as he’s reading through the tiny, local paper, eggnog latte in one hand a plate of poptarts before him (his metabolism has been odd ever since he got his super powers).

Leo Tarkesian (1954-2020), passed away in his sleep. Mr. Tarkesian was a beloved figure of the Midtown Kepler community. He was dedicated to keeping the charm and friendliness of the town alive.

“And dedicated to being a pain in my ass.” Indrid grumbles.

A small funeral service will be held at Green Hills Cemetery, followed by a celebration of his life at the house of his long-time friend, Duck Newton.

The date and time follows, but Indrid keeps looking back at that name: Duck Newton. Or, as he’s known to Indrid, the Green Knight, superhero and thorn in his side.

Indrid moved to Kepler because it was a small enough city that he assumed there would be no heroes to get in the way of his villainy. Or, what everyone insists is his villainy: the disasters linked to his name were never his fault.

The thievery, art heists, and blackmailing of a few (corrupt) local politicians he takes full credit for.

Leo, AKA Lionheart, was mostly retired until Indrid appeared, at which point he took on a protege in the form of Duck Newton. Along with their friend Minerva (AKA Blue Thunder) they defended Kepler as “The Chosen Squad.”

In truth, Indrid does not bear Duck as much ill will as he should. And most of it is currently coming from the black eye he’s nursing, the result of his last fight with the hero. The man is noble, even as heroes go, never more aggressive than he needs to be, and (annoyingly) rather charming at times.

Then there’s the fact that Indrids powers of future sight have shown him glimpses of Duck’s daily life (those same powers are why he knows his foes’ secret identities, but they have no idea about his). A mild mannered park ranger, a good friend, a bachelor who talks to his cat in extremely funny voices.

He flips through timelines until he lands on what Duck Newton will likely be doing today. In each one, the hero looks worn, and when he wipes his eyes or his voice goes rough, Indrid turns his minds-eye away. Even obnoxious do-gooders deserve privacy.

Would it be strange for him to visit the funeral and offer his condolences? He’s fairly certain his secret identity would stay that way.

No, it would be ridiculous. Leo was well-liked, and no doubt Duck will have plenty of support. There’s no need for Indrid to put his identity at risk just to say “I’m sorry.”

—————————-

Indrid stands at the back of the clump of black-clad bodies. He found a black suit jacket buried in his closet, but no slacks, so he had to opt for the nicest black jeans he could locate. To be extra safe, he’s removed his trademark red glasses. He dislikes how exposed he feels without them.

The ceremony is indeed brief, Duck giving a short eulogy as the casket lowers into the ground.

Indrid waits, letting others speak with Duck in hushed, sad tones. Looks around the cemetery as he does; it’s peaceful, full of flower beds and stone benches, not overly manicured. It might be a nice place to come draw one of these days.

When next he glances back at the headstone, Duck is nowhere to be seen. He must have left for his house already.

Indrid tries not to be too disappointed, turns back towards his car. He’s nearly there when something black catches his eye through a clump of tangled rosebushes.

Duck Newton, alone on a bench, with the bearing of a man trying and failing to get himself together.

Indrid steps through the archway into the little grassy circle, at the center of which sits a fountain, barely bubbling.

“Tissue?” He produces a small packet of them from his pocket. A villain must be prepared for everything, after all.

“Oh, uh, thanks, uh.” Duck looks at him just long enough for Indrid to start worrying. Then he reaches for a tissue and wipes his eyes.

“You, uh, a friend of Leo’s?”

“Not really. But I went to his store regularly, and he was always very kind. It seemed only right to pay my respects.”

(It’s not a lie. Indrid’s loft is on the same block as Tarkesian’s General Store. So what if they were enemies, sometimes you run out of milk).

“That’s, uh, that’s real kind.” Duck keeps his eyes on the ground, and Indrid sits down beside him.

“You are the one hosting the celebration of life, right?”

“Yeah. Guess I oughta head over there, since it’s technically my house. But Minerva already went ahead with the first group of guests, and I trust her and…and well, I needed a moment of not havin to run things.”

“Quite understandable. I will leave you in peace. And I am sorry.”

“You don’t, uh, fuck, I wasn’t tryin to be rude, fuck-”

“It’s alright” Indrid holds up his hand to stop Duck continuing, “You are allowed to grieve as you need to.”

Duck looks at him again, this time more deliberately taking in his features, “Do we know each other? You seem real familiar.”

“I imagine we’ve passed each other on occasion. Kepler is small as cities go. Although I don’t get out often. I embody the reclusive artist stereotype too well at times.”

“You paint?”

“I draw, mostly.” He’s about to stand when Duck leans forward.

“Shit, someone got you good.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Your eye.” Duck taps underneath his own right eye, indicating the bruise.

Cursing himself for his oversight (his glasses normally cover the mark), he blurts out the first explanation that comes to mind, “It was the Mothman, the supervillain, I ran into him in a, uh, dark alley, and there was a fight.”

Duck frowns, “Thought he knew better than to go after random bystanders. Uh, fuck, that is, he honestly don’t strike me as the mean type. Just self-centered and hurt. Uh, that, fuck, that is ah, from what, fuck I’ve read?”

Indrid ignores the terrible lie, clears his throat, “Well, that’s certainly a kinder view than most people take of him.”

Duck shrugs, “Leo always said hero and villain shit was never as cut and dry as people wanna believe. He had the right idea. I think the Mothman might come around some day.”

“Perhaps.” Indrid murmurs, wondering if is inappropriate to ask ones nemesis if they could draw them; Duck’s face is even more striking without his mask.

“I ought to be going. My condolences again.”

“Thank you.” Duck stands with him, walks out the archway by his side before they each turn towards separate parts of the parking lot, “Uh, maybe I’ll see you around some time?”

Indrid can’t stop his grin, “Most definitely.”

#indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #prompt fills #superhero au

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bronzeflower · 5 years

Text

Freckles from Guardian Angels

Also on ao3

Chapter 2: A Teacher to You

-----

“Is that one of the ones who get bullied?” Present Mic asked, continuing when he saw Shouta nod. “You should say hi!”

Shouta was looked extremely apprehensive, despite his agreement beforehand.

“Come on, Shouta! Think of it as an undercover mission! You’re befriending this person to make an ally in taking down a corrupt organization, and it’s easiest to do that by getting people on the inside on your side.”

“I don’t recall giving you permission to use my first name, or even giving you my name in the first place.”

“I’ve been with you for a few days already, and I’ve only heard your mom call you Shouta, so I don’t even know your last name,” Present Mic pointedly ignored the fact that he knew everything about his chosen charge.

“Like I believe that,” Shouta rolled his eyes. “But don’t talk to me at school. I’ll look like a lunatic talking to myself.”

“Alright, alright, but I’m giving you suggestions for conversation topics if you’re stuck!” Present Mic sing-songed. “Now go talk to them!”

“Fine, fine, I’m going,” Shouta mumbled under his breath. “Undercover mission…”

Shouta nervously went up to a girl who was bullied for tucking her shirt into her pants, having breakdowns when different foods on her plate touched, and being a little too excited all the time.

“Hi…” Shouta greeted, a little awkward and unsure of how to progress, but the girl bounded up to him in excitement.

“Hi!” She grinned. “I’m Migakimasu Inku! You’re Aizawa, right? I think you’re really cool! You’re all dark and mysterious. Do you wanna make some flower crowns? I mean, not right now, obviously. Class is about to start! Like, later, at recess. How are lessons going for you? You seem like you’d be pretty smart, but tell me if you need any help with anything, alright? I’m pretty smart myself!”

“They’re fine,” Shouta managed to say. “Lessons, I mean. They’re fine.”

“Say yes to flower crowns!” Present Mic demanded. “Say yes to flower crowns!”

“And I guess I wouldn’t mind making flower crowns.”

“Awesome!” Inku beamed.

Class started, so they went to their respective seats, and Shouta sighed. Inku was certainly talkative. At least she was quiet during class, which was more than he could say for some of his other classmates.

A piece of paper hit him on his head. Present Mic frowned as he watched Shouta open it and scowl at the insult written on the page, but he didn’t do anything about it. Simply folded it up nicely and tucked it into a pocket on his schoolbag.

Recess soon came, and Inku went up to Shouta excitedly as ever.

“Come on! I know the perfect patch of flowers!”

Inku brought Shouta over to where a bunch of white clovers and tallish grass grew. Inku immediately got to work picking flowers and tying them together in an effort for the end result to look like a flower crown.

And she was quiet as she did it, focusing solely on the crafting of the flower crown, and Shouta found himself greatly appreciating the silence.

“Hey, hey, you’ve got to make one too, you know,” Present Mic reminded, and so Shouta picked a few flowers and started tying them into a flower crown.

Shouta was about halfway there when the two of them (or three, if a person was inclined to count the angel most couldn’t see) were interrupted by the bullies of the playground.

Heiken, Shitsurei, and Warui.

“What are you two doing? Making flower crowns? That’s so girly!” Heiken taunted. Present Mic tch’ed.

“He’s just jealous that he doesn’t have the guts to have fun and make flower crowns,” Present Mic said.

Shouta looked up towards his guardian angel before facing back towards the bullies.

“You’re free to join us,” Shouta said. “There are plenty of flowers around.”

“Like we’d do something like that!” Warui shouted. “In fact, I think I’ll burn a couple of these flowers since you’re having so much fun with them.”

Shouta had that feeling again, with the pressure behind his eyes.

“Wh-what?” Shitsurei looked scared. “Are you some kind of demon?”

“Hm?” The confusion made Shouta blink, and the pressure was gone, and his eyes felt dry.

“Come on, he’s no match for us!” Heiken insisted. “And neither is that crybaby!”

Shouta glanced over to Inku, who had started sobbing during the ordeal.

“D-Don’t,” Inku sobbed out. “Don’t be me-mean to him.”

“Eh? And what are you going to do about it, Ms. Annoying?” Warui threateningly held up a burning finger.

“Stop,” Shouta glared at Warui, and, once again, he felt the pressure behind his eyes, but, this time, he saw the light on Warui’s finger disappear.

“I can’t use my quirk,” Warui breathed out before glaring at Shouta. “You. What did you do?”

“I can...erase other people’s quirks,” Shouta admitted almost sheepishly. He looked down, which caused the connection of his quirk to break. The flame that was held by Warui came back in full force.

“Can’t keep it up for long, clearly,” Heiken mocked while Shitsurei still looked somewhat terrified.

“Do you want me to yell these guys away?” Present Mic asked, very much annoyed by the bullies.

“No,” Shouta answered, doing to the duty of both responding to Mic and Heiken. “But I have a quirk, so you can’t bully me for being quirkless anymore. Less fodder for you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re still antisocial and a loner, and no one is ever going to like you!” Heiken blurted out.

“Wrong!” Present Mic blurted out. “He’s going to be an awesome hero, have a ton of friends, and an amazing husband!”

Shouta had flushed at the comment Mic had made, and, hoping that the others would think it was in anger, yelled.

“I’m friends with Miga-chan!”

“You can call me Inku-chan, you know,” Inku said, her tears apparently drying up at this point.

“Well, then, she’s still annoying and way too particular, and, even worse, she’s a suck up!” Warui attempted to keep it up. “There’s no way anyone would like her either!”

And that’s when Shouta punched him. So Warui punched him back.

Heiken and Shitsurei were cheering on Warui while Inku stood frozen.

Present Mic evaluated the situation to figure out what to do. On one hand, he didn’t exactly have the authority to stop the fight-he wasn’t exactly tangible or visible to anyone but Shouta, but, on the other hand, Shouta could get seriously hurt if he didn’t step in.

So, Present Mic stepped in between the two fighting boys.

“Stop fighting!” He shouted, putting a little bit of his quirk into it. Not enough to damage by any means, just enough to be heard.

Warui stopped in surprise. He collapsed to the ground, staring up at where Present Mic was for a split second.

“What was that?” Warui asked, his voice trembling in fear.

“What was what?” Shouta countered, glancing towards Present Mic, who was, of course, still visible to him.

“The blond man,” Warui said seriously. “With the wings. You saw him, right? I’m not going crazy?”

Now, while this would be a perfect opportunity to mess with him, Shouta wasn’t actually the kind of person to lie.

“The man in all leather?”

Warui nodded.

“Do you think he was an angel?” Warui asked.

Shouta laughed.

“I AM an angel, excuse you!” Present Mic huffed. “And you both really have to go to the nurse’s office! You’re covered in dirt and grime, and there’s no way I’m letting my charge die of an infection!”

That just made Shouta laugh harder.

“Hey, what are you laughing at?” Warui questioned. “Hey, hey, guys, this guy is creepy…”

Shitsurei fervently agreed, running off with Warui before Heiken could say anything, causing him to run off as well.

Finally, Shouta and Inku were alone, their flower crowns forgotten.

“Thank you for saving me,” Inku said. “Do you wanna be my boyfriend?”

“...What?” Shouta stared, shocked at Inku.

“Do you wanna be my boyfriend? You saved me, so it’s kind of like when the knight rescues the princess, and then they get married, right? And, also, you’re cool, so it would be cool to date!”

“Um,” Shouta froze, not really knowing what to say.

“Usually this is where you either accept or reject the offer,” Present Mic coached. “Do you want to date her?”

“Um, no thank you,” Shouta decided.

“Okay,” Inku seemed to have no emotional change at being rejected. “But let me take you to the nurse’s office, at least. You’re all bloody and gross.”

Shouta nodded and allowed himself to be dragged to the nurses office.

The nurse patched him up, and Shouta was now waiting for the go ahead to leave.

“You know, they say kisses always make injuries feel better!” Present Mic said. He’d always done that for Eraserhead, but he wasn’t sure how Shouta would feel about it.

“Is that so…” Shouta thought about it for a moment. “Then...could you?”

“Of course!” Present Mic started with the injury on Shouta’s cheek, giving it a light peck before giving his other injuries the same treatment. “There we go! All better!”

Later, in the privacy of Shouta’s room, Shouta asked about things.

“You said I would have an amazing husband,” Shouta mentioned. “What’s he like?”

“While I would love to tell you about your future husband-” Present Mic held a strange pose in the air. “I’m worried that telling you too much about him will make it so that never happens, and that would be so sad!”

“I guess,” Shouta pouted a little at not getting to know. “Is he going to be a pro hero like me?”

“Yeah! He is!”

Much later, when Shouta gets to okay to remove his band aids and bandages, he finds freckles where his injuries were.

-----

“Mommy says you’re my guardian angel,” Hizashi said to Eraserhead one day, a little bit after he learned how to speak reasonably well and figured out that Eraserhead wasn’t just a nanny.

“If you want to call me that, then yes,” Eraserhead responded.

“Mommy says you erase my quirk sometimes.”

“When it gets dangerous, yes.”

“Is my quirk bad?” Hizashi asked, the beginnings of tears in his eyes, and it made Eraserhead’s heart wrench out of his chest.

“No, it isn’t,” Eraserhead answered. “It’s just going to take a lot of work to learn how to control it, okay?”

“How?” Hizashi hiccupped, a sliver of his quirk letting loose.

“Practice,” Eraserhead said. “Maybe you can ask your moms to find you a big empty space where you can do that.”

“Are you gonna help me?” Hizashi looked up at him with large green eyes, and there was absolutely no way he could refuse.

“Yes, I am. But don’t think I’m going to go easy on you just because I’m your guardian angel.”

Hizashi giggled.

“Plus Ultra!” Hizashi yelled out.

“Yeah, Plus Ultra.”

After that, Hizashi managed to get his moms to find him a kind of training grounds way outside of the city and covered in trees. It was very similar to the training grounds that UA used for the summer training camp.

Hizashi got special permission to use it. There was no one else in the area except for Eraserhead, and they were all treating it kind of like an errand.

“Alright, so what do I do?” Hizashi questioned.

“You’ll need to figure out the range of your quirk, so start by yelling as loudly as you can. It’s easier to know how to control something once you know your limits.”

“Is that really okay? You’re going to get hurt if I do that.”

“Kid, you can’t physically hurt me,” Eraserhead deadpanned. “I’m intangible to pretty much everything in this form except under special circumstances.”

“Oh, so it’s okay? I won’t hurt you?”

“You won’t. Go ahead. Put on your headphones though. Just because I can’t get hurt doesn’t mean you can’t.”

And so, after getting the go ahead, Hizashi screamed. The trees swayed, but it was nowhere near what Hizashi could actually do.

“You’re holding back,” Eraserhead said after Hizashi’s scream.

“I’m used to-” Hizashi winced at the way his quirk went into his voice, and then he spoke much softer. “I’m used to holding back.”

“Relax and try again.”

Hizashi repeated the process a few times, progressively getting louder and louder as time wore on before he was too tired to scream anymore.

“That’s good for today,” Eraserhead stated. “I’d advise resting your voice for a while, so just use sign language for the time being.

‘Ok,’ Hizashi signed, a little too exhausted to argue, but also understanding the reasoning behind the decision.

It became a regular thing after that. Hizashi would try to reach the limits of his quirk and then not speak for a few days, and then they started with keeping certain volumes and figuring out which ones did a little damage or a lot of damage or whose only purpose was to disorient. Then they started on switching between volumes, going from loud to quiet or slowly going from being quiet to making a few trees fall with the force. Then, they started working with tones, figuring out which pitches affected the environment around them.

Of course, all of this progress happened over the course of several years, but Hizashi felt grateful that Eraserhead was always by his side.

#erasermic #eraserhead #present mic #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #bnha #my hero academia #freckles from guardian angels #ocs

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roraruu · 5 years

Text

wip: caught

more vamp!au. tw: for blood mentions and mentions of a lost limb

Mae says she almost catches him, slinging fireballs and thunder at him. Silque knows that it is nothing he cannot handle, nothing he cannot overcome. He disappears again, slipping out of Novis for a while until he returns. They all speak of it in hushed tones at the Priory. No one knows his name or face, so they cannot place who he is.

“If I had’ve just been quicker, I would’ve made him into a lightning pole with all the metal he wears!” She jeers. Her words frighten poor Genny, who’s barely able to hold her staff when they go on hunts.

Celica hushes Mae before Silque can hear anymore. The vampire’s warning rings in her ears, making her sick to her stomach.

They had been safe from his kind for a while. But she supposes that moment of peace has ended. Too abruptly; the Pegastym is almost upon them, when the land’s harvest is ripe and ready to be picked. All capable hands from the priory will be pulled to help in them fields, as will hers. They will be left open for attack, for the vampire to make his move.

It makes her both nervous and angry. Why had he picked Novis? Why not the mainland? No... either way they are damned just like him; in the end he will always need to feed and they will be forced to drive him back to his cemetery.

Mae’s pride sets her off more than usual. She finishes her regular duties of caring for the young, sitting confessional and offering food to the poorer sections of the island and then holes up in her room, devoting herself to prayer. It is the one thing that clears her muddy mind and stops her shaking hands.

She never closes the door to her room, instead leaving it ever so slightly open. No one ever enters or bothers her. Interrupting prayer is a holy offence, it is like interrupting a close and private conversation between friends or family.

In her prayers, Silque always asks for the priory—for the Mother to continue to keep it safe and provide Novis with enough. It is continuous, going on for hours and hours until Silque sways in her spot and her mind swims with thoughts.

Moonlight steeps through the lace curtains of her room. The moon is startlingly bright tonight, almost pure white. For once, her room is light. It always seems too dark, barely bright enough to write sermons and hymns even in daylight.

Her hands drop from their clasp and she turns to face the window. Such a bright and pretty night. Her eyes scan the familiar priory—the gardens that grow beautiful and plentiful flowers and food, the courtyard that hosts many a training session for their mages and knights, the large trees that children play under in the warmth of Flostym.

She notices something in the distance. A traveller perhaps, probably weary and looking for somewhere to sleep and a good meal. She glances behind her—the hallway is dark, most of the other residents must have gone to sleep already.

Silque pulls a cloak around herself and hurries outside. She knows they have another cot which can be set up in the chapel, and there are provisions in the canteen. Visitors are not unheard of this late at night, although, it’s been awhile since they’d had one so late. It just be past midnight now. She takes a lantern.

She walks out to the edge of the priory, holding her hand out. “Come into the arms of the mother,” she greets in her most comforting voice.

She brings the lantern up to his face. Porcelain skin, blue hair, lips twisted into a haughty smirk and blood red eyes. “I think I’d rather not.”

Him.

She drops the lantern against the earth and lets out a yelp. Silque scrambles behind the stone posts of the Priory before he can lunge. The lantern begins to catch fire on the dry grass and she lets out a cry. His boot comes down, extinguishing it with dark smoke. It smells like burning rubber and salty air.

“You!” She growls.

“Aw, cold shoulder now? You were so happy to see me a second ago.” He says, his horrible laugh following after.

“Why are you here?” She asks, wide eyed and shaking. He stands just before the dividing line of the mundane and holiness—the line that will burn him in holy eminence. Silque is without her hunting gear, no sword, no holy relic to protect her, no magic. And worst, she’s exhausted.

He is in the best position to kill her, here and now, should she step past the line.

“I demand to know why you’re here!” Her voice is stronger now; Celica and her friends are in there, he could kill them all. She needs to protect them, however she can.

He rolls his eyes. “I do have a name you know.”

“Why are you here?” Silque says, clutching the necklace around her throat. It is full of Mila’s tears, a safekeeping for all holy hunters.

“Nice place you got there.” His head flicks back to the Priory. “Love to see inside, I always liked churches when I was human.”

“Where you ever human?” She practically spits at him.

He smirks. “Uh duh. No one is born like this.” He says, gesturing to his bastard of an outfit. New boots are on his feet, they’re lily white and jarring to the eye. “We’re made, like you are. You were made into a hunter, I was made into a vampire.

“Did you renounce your humanity?” She asks. There could still be salvation for him, an exorcism perhaps hidden in some old text or scripture for his tortured soul.

“Next question.”

No hope then.

“What was your human name?”

“Human this, human that. Honest to the mother, you’re just as vain and obsessed as the rest of the holy.” She stays silent as he smirks in the dark. “My name was Python. Still is.”

“Well, Python,” she says. “Why are you in such an easy position for me to kill you?”

“I know you wouldn’t.” He says. “Can’t actually.”

She frowns. He dares to leer closer to the post, almost wiggling his fingers just centimetres away from the stone. She notices that he’s still missing a section of his pinkie, the one that had been claimed by her spell. “Too weak from prayer. Devoting yourself to a Goddess who doesn’t listen.” He leers. “Silly cleric.”

“Silque.”

“Pardon?”

“The cleric’s name is Silque.” She snaps, releasing her clutch on the necklace.

Python smirks. “Finally. Only took a year to know my huntress’s name.” He says. “Pretty name too. Like the fabric?”

She doesn’t answer, instead staring him down in the darkness. “Why are you here?”

She hears his feet brush against the ground. Walking, pacing perhaps. “I was just coming by to say hello. Been a while huh?”

“You were gone.”

“And?”

“I want to know where. And what you were doing.”

“Possessive, huh? Didn’t realize you were so smitten with me” He says.

“Speak like that again and the Mother will strike you down where you stand!” She exclaims.

He laughs bitterly and loudly. “Ha! She’s too busy on her throne of depravity. And besides, I already drank one of her girls dry before and she didn’t do shit.” He slurs.

“Then I will strike you down!”

“With what holy relic?” He laughs again. “If you really wanted to know where I was, then I guess you’ll have to come out and catch me.”

She turns around, begins back to the Priory. He cannot cross the line, just as she cannot cross his.

“H-Hey! Where you going?”

“Back to my holy chamber!” She calls. “The next time you see me, it will be with your head in my hand.”

“Silque stop!” He calls her name and it sends a shiver down her spine. He doesn’t say it like Mae, who slurs the syllables together or Genny who draws them out carefully. Hard on the k. It sounds...

She stops. “Tell me where you where.” She says. “I need to know if I must bless any bodies.”

“Ha. Good luck with that.”

She whips around. Terror seizes her, she clutches her necklace tighter. “What did you do?” She breathes, hurrying back to the edge of the priory.

“I was hunting elsewhere.” He says at last, proud that she returned to talk.

She frowns.

“Listen, beggars cannot be choosers.” He chastises. “You said stay away from Novis so I traveled to the mainland and drank there. I think it’s fair.”

“So you caused troubles for another village? Or church?”

“Brigands actually.” He says. “The blood was rank. Tainted really.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Oh yes, clear as day.” He says. He takes a step closer to her, his feet crunching against the dry grass. He comes incredibly close, dangerously close. He could go up in ash should he lean ever-so-slightly over the edge...

“The holy‘s blood is clean. They don’t drink, or smoke or sin. Pure, as Mila intended.” He says. “It’s intoxicating.”

Her brow furrows. He sighs, crossing his arms. The cloak slips away so she can see a dirty, blood-stained tunic on his torso. He shrugs. “How do I explain it to a human... Think of it like...” He laughs. “Well that wouldn’t work for you, you can’t drink...”

“A meal.” He says. “Think of it like your favourite meal. Having it after years of drought, no good crops or kills. And it’s fresh, hot, rich...”

Another shiver runs down her spine. Her hands shake a little.

“That’s the blood of the holy.” He says thinly.

“Is my blood like that?” She finds herself asking.

“I’d need a taste to be sure.” He says. She sees a red eye wink. “Care to share?”

She shakes her head. “Ah well, guess I’ll have to live with your smell.”

“My smell?” She asks. All her texts on vampires and the undead were blank. It said that vampires could not come out in the light, but he didn’t shy away from her lantern, nor does he burn up in the bright moonlight. There is so much she doesn’t know and he is an unwitting player—perhaps he could let lose a trade secret, something that could bring her closer to ending him.

“Your smell is the most excruciating though.” He says. “Every human smells different, it comes from their blood. No matter how many jasmine leaves they dust on them or soap they lather into their hair, it doesn’t leave them.”

“I pain you?”

“The best smells are painful.” He smirks. “But your lady is almost as bad. She has royal blood but in that there is corruption.”

She goes still. She swallows back nervously as he smiles and laughs a little. “How do you know about lady Celica?” She asks quietly. It is still a secret to all of Novis. Should someone find out, she’d have to go into hiding again.

“Smell alone.” He says. A smirk curls on his lips, white teeth gleam in the darkness. “And now you. So what’s she doing in this boring little island?”

Silque bites down on her tongue. “I cannot say.” She says. “Nor will I tell you.”

His smirk fades. Then he shrugs. “Fair enough.” He says. “Not that I was after her per se. Just wanted some gossip.”

His feet crunch against the ground. He’s beginning to walk away. “Take care of her, Silque. She’s a lady that‘s wanted by many heads.” He calls.

“Python?” She calls, running to the edge of the priory. Her hands touch the warm stone, brimming and brewing with the holy spell that protects them. She calls his name again and again, but never dares to step beyond the stone pillars.

#fire emblem echoes #fe echoes #fanfiction #silque #python #ru writes #vamp au #lAYING DOWN SOME WEIRD FUCKING LORE IDK WHAT I’m doing anymore #also 3rd post in teh same day never expect this again ok

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purkinje-effect · 6 years

Text

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 21

Table of Contents Go to first. Go to previous. Go to next.

TW’s for pharmacology weirdness and Jared behaving like Jared. Long chapter ahoy.

Melancholy said nothing how things had gone at the assembly plant once he returned home to the pharmacy that night, and he appreciated that Angel at least didn’t seem to catch on that things weren’t right. With his brain already itching with all the tangential proximity closing in on him to his past life, against his judgment he bestilled it all with a dose of Calmex right before bed. In his position he couldn’t afford REM sleep, couldn’t afford dreams--or nightmares.

The chemist’s first task the following day was to confirm Jared’s belief that hubflower contained opioids. He consulted his Merrick Index at length and returned to it often that week. Plucking a few flowers from the hub plants in his office garden, he shut himself into the lab, whereupon he slurried the hubflowers with a pestle and a can of water, and simmered the paste with a hot plate until the liquid grew milky from latex. As he waited, he read the various periodicals salvaged from the grocer’s, or skimmed the inventory to scrutinize its usefulness to the new parameters of his work.

“Sir...” Angel came into the lab with a carafe, mug, and sweet roll. “Could I interest you in a break?”

“I... would love that.” He wiped the sorry and sweat from his face, at being caught in the act, and closed the gun fanatics’ journal to face his Handy. He accepted the warm cup in his hands, and let the steam fog his glasses. “To address the elephant in the china shop. I know you’re wondering why I’m tinkering on what’s supposed to be my day off. My contract’s... changed a bit. Hopefully, not a long-term detour. But he’s got me studying... these plants. He thinks they’re... medically relevant.” When he couldn’t smooth out his cracking voice, he drank the still-hot black beverage to silence himself.

“You’ve worked so hard for Mister Jared,” it insisted after a pause. “I hope you’re not sacrificing your time off this weekend. With you working today, Mister Jared has allowed you an offset weekend, I pray.”

“He’s given me a week before I have to apply what I’ve learned about these plants for the-- medical purposes-- he’s outlined. It’s all highly specialized study. His outfit is having an epidemic problem, and... hopefully this won’t do more harm than good.”

He crushed the compulsion to doctor his caffeine under his heel, and took another drink. It was almost comfortably cool enough to do more than sip at.

“Oh, how I wish you had as much faith in your talents as I do, Mister Carey! If Mister Jared has the confidence you’re the one who can heal his associates, you should believe it twice over. Look at the bars you port. The Americans won Anchorage in part because of you.”

“Can we-- not talk about Anchorage,” he stuttered quietly. He had to set down the coffee on the counter to keep from spilling it in unsteadiness.

“Forgive me, Sir. I’m an unbridled bundle of enthusiasm. I forget at times how hard it was on you to work all those long hours. I double down on my prior remark--you shouldn’t work yourself to the marrow, no matter the urgency or enormity of scope of a project. Taking care of yourself is just as tantamount. Humans aren’t so different to robots. Operations tend to start shutting down if left untended, if you catch my meaning.”

“I... you’re the only real friend I’ve got, Angel.” Melancholy sniffed, looking to it. “Ever since I thawed out, it’s been nothing but what I can do, what I can make. What use I am. I won’t be of any use to anybody, if I push myself until I keel over dead.”

“That’s the spirit.” It neared him, its ocular sensors small and close together just as his tendrils. “You... you mean it, Sir, that you consider me a friend?”

“Truest blue,” he smiled, putting a hand to its spherical chassis. “In every sense, I don’t think I could do it without you.”

“Oh heavens above, you give my continued operation meaning!” It whirled about eagerly, only making ‘Choly smile wider as he slouched back in his wheelchair with the mug in his hands to watch. In a moment of awareness, it set down the pastry and carafe on the counter, and offered up a fresh canister of condensated water from the corrugation just above its thruster. Then, it sped off in search of something to tidy. “Thank you!”

“No... thank you... To think, a mess of metal and circuitry can have more compassion than fifty men.”

Though the irony of being worked to death to synthesize Psycho was not lost on him, after the exchange the gravity of his work lightened significantly. Grateful that the Mister Handy’s condensators had made pure water slightly less scarce, he added the canister to the simmering vessel, and did so several more times over the course of the day, cooking down the plant matter until it completely deliquesced. He then strained it all and simmered the particulate-free solution until it crystallized.

An unfortunate side effect to working where one dwells, he was forming a track record of falling asleep at his desk. Presented with the clearish opalescent salt mix the following morning, he was loathe to determine through isolation of compounds and a series of acid tests that hubflower did in fact contain a composite of narcotic alkaloids. Morphine, paramorphine, codeine, papaverine... and several he could not identify even comparing the test results to the Merrick Index. The most plentiful of any of these alkaloids, he termed hubeine.

Curious whether he had been tricked as to the ornamental nature of any of the other plants from which he had cultivated his little garden, he too collected samples of each and proceeded to run acid tests akin to those he’d applied to the hubflower. The glowing fungus contained compounds similar to chelation agents, which could form the backbone to synthesizing fresh RadAway, if it came to it. Though the melon vine had not yet fruited, the flowers tested positive for eugeroics, and he wondered what purpose the melon itself might serve. He confirmed with excitement that he’d correctly identified the wrinkly sac-like fungi to be the nootropic brain fungus used to make Mentats. The large aquatic lily-like scarlet flowers with white speckles contained an alarmingly high concentration of tropane alkaloids. He expected it to be more closely related to a waterlily, but it seemed somehow more akin to nightshade. Taxonomy in the Wasteland did not follow his entrenched logic tracks, so he discarded them and simply let the findings say what they would of these specimens.

On the fourth day, ‘Choly with the assistance of Angel made a trip to the apartment complex down the way with the swimming pool. He stored his coat in Angel for the errand. His breath snagged at noticing Jerry watching him sternly from her catwalk, and he wondered who else might be watching.

The two rounded the stairs up to the pool sandwiched between the C-shaped formation of the building itself, and he dismounted from the Mister Handy with his cane, to wade into the shallow end of the overgrown involuntary pond. This was where the raiders had found tarberries. They were so similar to cranberries, down to how they grew on the surface of the water, and yet he wondered if their name was a corruption of barberry... and on that hunch, he crouched at two feet deep to feel around for a few handfuls of the dark wine-colored clusters of fruit.

“Sir...”

The chemist picked up his head to find three raiders standing around the pool with their weapons drawn, but not yet directed at him. Eyes fixed on them, he tried to back up the steps of the entry end of the pool, but stumbled back and fell with a shallow splash and a nervous laugh.

“This doesn’t look like what Jared says you’re supposed to be doin’,” the man said, still holding a makeshift copper-pipe rifle.

“Y’coulda asked first,” one of the two women continued with a lyric sarcasm, admiring the blade she’d affixed to a tire iron. “We’d a said no either way, but.” The third raider goose-honked in approval.

“I’m testing a theory for him!” ‘Choly insisted, trying again to stand. The rubber stopper of his cane couldn’t gain traction underwater, even against concrete, and he fumbled again, but stayed standing this time. “I know it’s not hub, but I think these are going to have compounds I need for working with the hub. You... you can be his eyes and ears for all I care. Tell him he was right. After I see if I’m right about these--” He scooped up from the water’s surface what he only then realized he’d dropped, and held out a fistful. “--After I test these, I’ll be able to come talk to him formally and explain the consequences of him being right.”

“Get back to work, chemist,” the third raider jeered.

As he finally afforded mounting Angel again, he mumbled with a grunt, “Thought you’d never ask.”

Back at the pharmacy, ‘Choly went around barefoot in the wheelchair while his dress shoes dried out. With a detached glaze of distress and animation, he popped one of the tart, ripe berries in his mouth and chewed at its firm flesh while he gathered together the materials to test the compounds in the fruit. His sneer at the flavor melted into a comfortable grin as he got to work mashing the berries. Even if not ultimately pharmacologically significant, they sure might make a fine preserve in the right hands. Once he got the pulp prepared, he popped a Berry Mentat and let his mind wander while the lengthy extraction process began.

Concessions must be made. There had to be other chems he could provide. He couldn’t make peace with the idea of solely providing cyclomorphine, or whatever analogue to it hubeine could create, to the inhabitants of Lexington. He couldn’t be the Psycho chemist again. He just couldn’t.

His trauma-addled brain again laced back through the index of hypothetical compounding he’d penned during his Berries-and-Jet evening, and he sat staring at the simmering soupy mess. All work and no play... he’d go insane. A creative mind has to create. Surely, if Jared dabbled in Jet and Psycho up to now, he’d be interested in sampling just about anything in his pursuit of a psychogen--if not for the full purpose Jared had laid out in his terminal entries, then at least for the purposes of ‘growing his ranks’ with the promise of the most lavish and unique buffet of chems in Massachusetts.

And barring opioid manipulation, Melancholy was best at manipulating nootropics. A skill developed out of necessity, under pressure the former necessitated the latter. Mentats seemed to fit the closest description to anything Jared sought to achieve with his manipulation of the human psyche. He could work with Mentats on the side. Test out his theoretical new flavors, bake up classics like Orange and Grape. His sentimentality came in lozenge form.

Doing so would require fresh materials for it. Jared’s outfit might not like scouring the city for mushroom hunting, but the chemist was certain they’d trade the minor nuisance in a heartbeat for the comfort of a warm Mentat. But, how to even get on that line of conversation with the raider leader in the first place...

“I... really did happen upon Eden,” he uttered to himself, awing at the positive test to barberine in the tarberries. “All the pharmacology I could ever need, right down the street, or in my very garden.”

On the tail end of his Berries trek, he threw together a single batch of Grape Mentats from the hubflower extractives--and a little whiskey for good measure. He’d need the anxiolytic and nerve to make it through the next day.

‘Choly slept better than he had in weeks, and awoke rested despite feeling woefully unprepared to face Jared first thing. Before Angel took him to work, he again tucked his Merrick Index back into the Handy’s storage. He could feel supervision at every turn of the city they took to round up to the assembly plant. He wheeled up to the foreman’s mezzanine sucking on a Grape Mentat, where Jared stood waiting, and he went up the ramp to the office. The raider leader came inside and took a seat, kicking his legs up on the desk and pulling out his switchblade to play with it idly.

“So I’ve heard you came to tell me I’m right. I like to hear when I’m right.”

“Good morning to you, too,” ‘Choly huffed, straightening his tie and composure. “Yes, the hubflower contains a lot of the same salts that opium did. I’m sure you’ll like to hear I was right, too--about some of the other wasteland plants being... chemically useful. I can make cyclomorphine for you, or something very, very close. But in order to get that far, you promised me months ago that you had a cache of Abraxo Cleaner. Did you ever intend to pay out on that? I hope for both our sake’s you weren’t bluffing.”

Jared waxed from boredom to zeal to irritation all in a matter of five spoken sentences. He was about to object, but ‘Choly continued.

“Navigating the Jet rig project would have gone much more smoothly if I’d had daily access to Mentats, but I’d had to meter myself because I didn’t have a way to cook the goddamn things. Drawing off gas requires a lot of math, but very little science. And the level of chemistry I’m going to have to utilize to reinvent the wheel will be impossible to reach let alone sustain without the use of my specially formulated Mentats. It was a suggestion before, but it’s a requirement now. I need that soap, Jared. And you need it because you need me.”

Jared could only stare at him at length.

“You trying to tell me that your genius is thanks to some chem? Some chem,” he scoffed, nearly incredulous. “God, your sad excuse for a personality makes so much sense now. You’re in constant withdrawals. Yeah, chemist. I’ll nurse your habit if you hold up your end of the bargain.”

“And one more thing?” ‘Choly flinched when Jared thought it was another demand, but stayed firm. “I’ve noticed more eyes on me this week. Don’t have faith in me?”

“You misunderstand me.” Jared grinned, putting away his knife. “I’m protecting my finest asset. You know, you weren’t the only one doing his research this week,” he began pulling a book from his desk drawer and flipping through it for a particular part. “This is a textbook about the Battle for Anchorage. Here, there’s a unit about the Deenwood Compound. He who controls history, and all that.”

‘Choly frowned and balled his fists in his lap, unsure where this was going. That college textbook had to have been new the very year the bombs fell. With his full attention, Jared continued to read the passage with a vague lyric.

“’Maximizing the efficiency of our foot soldiers’ fighting power helped us meet the turning point to overpower the Chinese and retake Alaska. General Constantine Chase commissioned the Deenwood Military Compound in the New England Commonwealth to synthesize and perfect Psycho (known by the military symbol CM) for our illustrious military. Chase’s keen scrutiny selected the cream of the crop of the Chemical Corps, and from it he forged what is now known as the Pharmaceutical Corps, or Pharm Corps. Our expert knowledge and application of chemistry and pharmacology provided the edge America needed to push past the underhanded tactics of the Chinese.’ --Oh!”

Jared stopped reading a moment to excitedly point to one of the photographs, and he stood to continue dictation.

“Figure 16.4, ‘Major Johnston and Three of His Pharm Corps Chemists.’ We have... Left to right... Second Lieutenant Gary Sydney, and Captains Olivia Francis and Alan Carey. Alan Carey! This is rich. The richest shit on the planet.” Jared shoved the book in ‘Choly’s face and jammed an accusing finger at the photograph where the Deenwood scientists had lined up for a casual photo full of smiles, then at the nameplate on ‘Choly’s coat. “That’s you, isn’t it. It’s you, you freezer burned fuck. 'Cept you weren't in the chair before. ”

‘Choly did his best not to look the part of revulsion, and did his best to unclench his everything. He glared at the photograph of himself, oddly fixated on how badly he missed his crescent half-eye eyeglasses.

“So you’ve been reading a civilian-level textbook about where I worked. You can’t possibly believe you know even a fraction what transpired at Deenwood.”

“And pray tell,” Jared grinned, wild and mocking as ever, “What exactly transpired at Deenwood?”

Speechless, ‘Choly’s jaw hung open and trembled at the mere attempt at humoring this topic. His eyes lost focus for some time.

“Nightmares I could never put in words.” He scowled at Jared, who went from mad to furious. “Do you want me to make you cyclomorphine or not?”

“If we’re done having objections to it,” Jared emphatically smacked the book shut with both hands, “then we’re done screwing around. I know you’re not bullshitting me that you’re a high level chemist. I know who you are. I know what you did before the war. And you’re going to do that for me now.”

The chemist stared at his own feet.

“Loud and clear. But let me make myself loud and clear. None of the patients or soldiers who were administered CM came back swearing they could predict the future. You’re barking up the wrong chem. I’ll do as told, but I won’t make the same mistake I made two hundred years ago. I’m fucking saying something this time. This isn’t the chem that will find your fortuneteller.”

“Do you have a better plan, then...” Jared picked up ‘Choly’s face by the chin to force eye contact, “Chemist.”

“The mode of uptake might be what’s preventing the chem from getting the desired results,” he started, palms sweating. He could palpably feel the Grape Mentats fading right when he needed it most, and his heart raced. “Compounding the chem could alter how the body absorbs it. Which organs it goes through to get where it’s going. I could-- I could compound BuffJet. Make the hallucinogen go straight to the pineal gland. Or Jet-Tats. Make the Jet soak right into the entirety of the grey matter like it’s just another neurotransmitter. Buffout is the harder option, for a lot of reasons. I have way more knowledge with Mentats chemistry, and way better ability to cook up large quantities of it.”

“This is all leading up to another catch. Don’t-- don’t derail me.”

“The catch...” ‘Choly squinted to flinch. “I haven’t compounded with Jet before! It was one of the rarest psychedelic drugs on the market before the war, and there was next to zero literature on it back in my day let alone now. I understand what it is chemically. I just haven’t proven or documented it.”

“Just minutes ago, you were questioning whether I have faith in you. Don’t flip on me, Melancholy. Makes you look like a fucking flake. You were one of the US Army’s best chemists. You’re going to make this compounding work. In the mean time, you’re going to cook us all up a nice big mess of Psycho. And you’re not going to have me lose my patience. You want soap? It’ll be on your stoop first thing in the morning. But you’re going to do as you’re told.”

“Am I being told to get back to work then?” The pained exasperation couldn’t have been thicker.

“You’re being told... to fork over some of your darts.” Jared lunged to reach into the chemist’s coat to withdraw the requested object from one of the suspender cases. He read the box. “Pax Syringes. Hm. And here I thought you cooked your own ammo for that thing.”

“I, I do. Those are just what the gun was made to fire.”

“It can be made to fire whatever the fuck I say it does.” He pocketed it and pointed to the door. “Cook my Psycho. And go back to your showmanship. I’ll make sure you get a real big turnout. This town’s overdue for some fucking revelry.”

“I... I’m being paid in soap for this.”

“You’re the one who named the asking price, you fruit. Sounds dumb as dirt when you put it like that.”

“I... I want the revolver back when you’re done with it. I won’t do--”

‘Choly cried out and tried to shield his face when Jared lunged at him again, only to lean his hands on the armrests to crane in inches to ‘Choly’s face.

“You want your little handgun back. That’s cute. You’re going to earn it. Now GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!”

Jared shoved him down the mezzanine ramp, and only through some miracle did he manage to get enough traction with the heels of his dress shoes to regain control of his own pace. Angel rushed up to its owner and immediately took over powering the wheelchair along.

“Do I need to dismantle Mister Jared for you, Sir?”

He hung his head and withdrew into himself in indignity.

“I’ll do it my fucking self.”

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#fallout #fallout fanfic #fo4 fanfic #fallout 4 fanfic #fallout 4 #fo4 #the anatomy of melancholy #melancholy #the purkinje effect

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thestarguardianbeginning · 7 years

Text

The Prelude

Musical inspiration here

Stars... They cover the universe like an everlasting blanket filling the void with light and life… Though not much is known of their existence, what is know is that they provide the very fundamental necessities to help life flourish. Another unknown knowledge is about the very existence of the magical essence of light, yet plenty know of the titans hands that help create life, forge the very creations of galaxies. What is surprising is there is never really talk about what helps sustain the very existence we know today… The bright warmth of stars help balance the struggle between the dark chilled vastness of the void and the bright, quaint entity of that which is life… Perhaps there lays the biggest secret the universe would ever hold.

There are many examples of existence and the balance that must be held for life to flourish. The planet Ion had held its orbit around a star that was created many eons ago by the great giving.. It’s bluish hue held what seemed motionless within the small solar system, accompanied by a small moon know as Elara. Outwards, many more planets encompassed the white dwarf star along with many other moons and celestial objects.. Life and nature as known was at balance…

Though, with balance and light there is always something or someone, that tries to tip the balance in their favor. Corrupting everything and creating catastrophic deletion of who systems which is commonly known as the dark shattering… Whole stars are torn apart and ripped from existence leaving planets, moons, life to freeze in the deep void and eventually die… The dark shattering is a corrosive plague that hinges over the the light and life.

-Shattered army-

No one really knows much about the shattering light army, but what is know, is they come from a place so deep in space, that even the light does not touch… Some whisper talks of the nathrezim. Others talk old gods, and even worse the void lords.. They carry upon the body their black insignia and dark brandish armors, they leave in the wake smoldering rock, embering forests and the smell of death and sulfur until the black shattering arises and the army destroys the star for their gathering of power and destruction in the process disrupting the balance and murdering the planets that depended upon their star for nourishment.

-Intro to the star guardian-

But, life is such a resilient, precious entity and if there is a will to save itself, it was going to… and it had… Though, not perfect by any means, the Naaru along with the blessing of the pantheon devised such a tool to help protect and defend against such heinous acts of destruction. The pantheon came together against the light shattering army along with the naaru,to put in charge a sole mind to create such a subject. They gave the title to a naaru naming him the architect. The architect knew that it would take Immense power to create such a being. The only way it knew how was to sacrificing one of their own primals and infuse a living stars power to create the star guardian…it would be only then, a soul could be crafted strong enough to fill this universe with strength and fortitude, Not only for the planets and stars that she inhabited, but for all of those around her and out to the distance areas… Due to the intensity of the ritual the soul must be placed inside of a sentient body to contain the soul.. Though it does have time to search for a new host to lay within, it must attach itself to a new body to help survive or all will be lost. On a better note for the universe this helps hide the star guardian’s and forces the armies of the shattered light to replan and re-strategize.

-The Architect-

The architect knew that in order to create such a being into this existence he had to mesh the soul of the guardian with a star, so that magical essence would hymn in junction with all stars and all creation. Though once the architect had finished his job crafting such a beautiful specimen his next was to help craft her eternal guard… soon after the creation of both astral spirits the architect vanished without warning, without say.

-Intro to the eternal guard-

Now that the naaru and pantheon had a way to protect the stars that filled their creation they had one final issue to address. The spirit and soul was very fragile and the naaru knew that if somehow the leaders of the scattered light figured out where the soul was located, it would mean death for entire systems that harnessed life throughout the universe… So they put into work something to help safeguard the Star guardian. Something that would follow her and in hopes they would unify again and again, death after death for all eternity. The war on planet Roth seemed to be that defining moment for the naaru in finding such a position… The touch of a commanding voidlord had sent a spiraling naaru into madness turning it’s pure light into the very opposite… It took the titan Eonar to bend and Weld the broken soul into submission. The corrupted naaru was dying and there was only one way to help save it… Merge it with the captured void general that helped corrupt it in hopes that the light will prevail.. In which it did I’m a way, the creature held up surprisingly against the void and light.. This new specimen helped form what is known as the eternal guard. The main objective to protect the star guardian through her travels.

-Why the soul is important and how it protects stars-

The souls power is of pure titanic and naaru entities, the hymn it sings is so great that at any time a shattered troop would step close enough to a burning star to kill it, they in turn would burn in light, hindering the shatterd light -almost- useless when trying to absorb a star…Though death has a cycle that would continually happen to anyone of a mortal mind and body, the soul would always travel with her eternal guard around the vicinity and always find a way to unite..

-Weaknesses of the star guardian soul-

The star guardians soul never can truly parish, it’s an entity ingrained into the very fabric of space and time… But what it can be is, harnessed or captured and corrupted… Turning that very hymn into a destructive ensemble… It was decided long ago, that her eternal guard was fully immune to the corruption that the void would place upon the mind due to the combination of Naaru and void general. But that did not mean he couldn’t be swayed into a different direction, because the human mind, is just that. Trickery and captivity are not the only things that the guardian soul is sensitive too.. And unfortunately for the Naaru and Titans.. Stars can still be destroyed.. Thus dawned the age of, Callistus the dark exiled…

-Callistus the dark exiled -

Callistus was once a noble man who fought for the very cause of saving the nebulas.. But an unfortunate event would spiral the man down to corruption and soon show how a star could be obliterated without the ritualistic powers of the shattered light. Callistus held the key to bypassing the very hymn and corrupt the star within.. His soul, which was once blessed by the Narru and Titans would be able to cast a protective rune that negated the magical light and commence a black shattering..

The battle for Ion (Final Hour)

Ion was a beautiful planet, filled with rich vegetation, clean air, snowy mountain tops, rivers.. And lands easily tiled.. The Emerald city was the capital in which most business would happen with in.. There were other cities, continents.. But what made the Emerald city so special was that it held the very soul of the Star guardian.. The beautifully technologically advanced city seemed to go on forever, and housed beauty beyond any other nation..

Light taps across the garden floor echoed as the petite redheaded woman glanced over the wonders and varieties of flowers the grew among the area.. A soft gentle hand reached up placing the petals of a flower in her hand.. She smiled softly and watched as the wind blow the flower from her hand allowing it to move back to it’s natural position…

“My queen.. “ A deep voice echoed through the garden.. The star guardian turned her head and shivered.. “ Damn it, you.. “ She said with a smile on her face “ You scare me.. “ The tall general closed the gap between the two, he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed tightly “ My love… “ He spoke softly.. “ The council needs you, it seems our defenses have fallen throughout the system and they are headed for us… “ A distressed look crossed her face.. She looked up to the man, a glimmer in her eye… She could see the concerned expression laced over his features.. The woman grit her teeth and laid her head upon the General’s chest.. He reached up placing his hand under her chin.. “ Let us go..we need to start now.. I will be by your side once I ensure the capital is well prepared.. “ The female nodded softly, as the General lowered his head and kissed her softly upon the forehead… She pulled back and glanced up to the man, studying his eyes.. “ I'm afraid.. “ The general sighed softly.. “ We all are, beloved… Keep faith, we will win this.. “ the general pulled away from her and took to the direction of a small outpost...

“ INCOMING!!!!!!!” Shock waves could be felt around the kingdom as guards around the imperial castle watched in horror, small meteors slammed into the ground of Ion, tearing the land apart and ravaging the castle buildings.. clinking of armor and foot stomps ran across the ground readying for what could be their final hour.. The grand council along with the eternal guardian had already made preparations to expedite the star guardian off the planet and into a safer region… It had come true… There shattered light really did have something to break past the defences.. And how did they figure out where she was..

The long red haired woman stood firm in her decision..

“ I will not leave my people, nor will we cower like dogs! We will hold our ground and fight until our very last breath! “ She screamed at the council…

A councilman rose.. “ Listen to us.. There is no time for discussing this, you will be placed upon a ship and taken out of here.. “ At that very moment a loud slam of the entrance doors echoed through the room and metal armor upon marble floor would be heard stomping.. “ General.. “ The councilman spoke loudly..

The general, stood tall in armor that glared with the reflection of light, He knew exactly what he was to the redhead.. He sighed softly.. “ It isn’t safe, the shattering light is upon us and we need to get you out of here.. Ion is lost.. “ The redheaded queen lowered down to her chair and shook her head… “ No… “ She said, The general growled.. “ There is no decision in this, you know what you are and how important it is to keep you safe from Callistus and his army.. They are over running the empire and their…. RITUAL.. Or whatever it is.. Is almost complete.. Planets around us are crumbling apart and we need to leave now! “

A soft sigh escaped the woman's lips… her eyes narrowed and a small tear for fall.. “ This is what submission feels like… “ The general shook his head “ No! This is not it.. We run and fight another day.. We are out of time……. “ She closed her eyes and spoke “ Ready our ship… We leave immediately.. “ She lowered her head..

All parties of the council ran out to the launch pad and started towards the direction of their ship the Hyperion…

Upon approaching the carrier Knights of the Imperial gathered screaming “ Protect the Star Guardian!!! “ They surrounded the woman with their spears and shields along with the eternal guard finally. They had finally started to approach the ship…The general gave a nod to the captain of the Hyperion and a large ramp started to slowly open and fall to the ground… The general's eyes opened widely.. “ No… “ His words breathless and full of fear and defeat…

Smoke began to billow outwards and a sight that no one could have foreseen happen unfolded… The general clinched his sword tightly and lowered his head.. “ Callistus…..” The shadowed man stepped out with four elite guardians by his side… His helmet covered his face, but the hovering feeling of pleasure could be felt radiating from the man.. “ There you are… “ The imperial guards stood in a long line in front of the Star guardian and eternal guard.. The held out their long spears towards Callistus..

Callistus shook his head and snapped his fingers… The doors behind the imperial guards opened and the launch pad had become flooded with the shattered light… With a wave of his hand black runes formed in front of Callistus he waved his hand in runic patterns and all of the imperial guardsmen fell to their knees and died.. Their spirits manifesting in plain sight and started to gravitate to a small crystal Callistus held within his hand.. He looked up to the Star guardian.. “ Capture her.. She isn’t to die… “

Time seemed to stop for the eternal guard.. The Star guardian screamed in horror and shake helplessly at the man's arm… He glanced down to her and a look of dread crossed his face… He turned back to the guards that laid dead upon the ground and then to the shattered army who slowly stepped closer and closer to them… He sighed, lowering his head.. “ My love… “ everything went silent, even the bombardments, the destruction, screams… All silent.. “ Please forgive me.. “

The eternal guard quickly unsheathed a small dagger and turned to the Star guardian stabbing her in the chest… her eyes filled with tears… his filled with pain and sadness.. He slowly helped her to the ground, placing his blood covered hand upon her cheek. “ Sleep my star… “ he spoke softly tears flowing down his dirty face..

Callistus screamed “ NO!!!! Get the woman! Kill the man!!! “ All guards pulled their swords and ran towards the guard… In a last ditch effort the General removed the same dagger from his loves chest and threw it as hard as he could knocking the crystal from the Callistus hand… The star guardians body started to glow brightly.. Burning all of the shattered light into ash… Callistus was the only one to stand.. The eternal guardian stayed silently upon his knees holding the golden body in his hand.. The star guardian began to slowly fizzle in light and all was back to normal..

Callistus slowly stepped forward.. “ You fucking fool… It matters not where she goes.. We will soon hunt her down.. And take her for our own… “ He glanced down to the eternal guardian who spoke softly “ As long as I still live… You will -NEVER- take her.. “ the eternal guardian looked up to Callistus…. The dark exiled spoke.. “ Then let us tend to business.. “

The scene was darkened and black, screams echoed throughout the air, a roaring fire pit helped keep the room warm as huffing and puffing filled the room.. “ AHHHHHH!!!!” More screaming, came out.. Taps of feet upon the ground could be heard and open doors, slamming doors.. The sound of water in buckets could be heard… It seemed like a crew of...something was about…

quick talk and cries for encouragement.. “ You can do this, you can do this!” A final cry in terror came about echoing the halls.. And finally it happened… An infant was born..

Sohin Lomeriel spoke “ She is absolutely beautiful.. What will you name her? “ The look on his face expressed joy and happiness..

Amenna spoke softly “ Ilyea… “

-fin-

(To my very good friend and Co-writer: @thebuildingcacophony thank you for the fun! and thank you for the help @theoneplainjane could not have done this small ambitious project without you. :3

#starguardia #Theneverendingstory #Eternal guard

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