#I might try to make up legends surrounding cats from canon like I did that one time with leafpool

[signs-of-the-moon]

I'm still working on posts for thr responsibilities for each job in the Land's Star, but I also wanna start brainstorming lore stories as well. Like tales the elders would tell. I've got a few ideas. Eventually I might put up a poll to have people vote on which one I write first

[cherrymoonvol6]

absolutely no one asked for this but i will rank every kent parson pairing that i can think about (warning: SUPER subjective, but i tried)

kent/bad bob

i don’t even know what to say except NO. come fucking on. -1000000/10

kent/fry guy

i mean... first of all, LOL. second of all, if we take in account that all the times we see fry guy he’s being annoyed by either jack’s or bitty’s accomplishments/happiness, then i can see them bonding over that and going straight to the hook up. but again, come onnnnn in the best cases this is either a blatant self-insert or pushing the concept of a crack-ship, at worst this is deliberatedly ignoring richer characters in the comic in order to pair kent with the LOL option. 2/10

kent/bitty

i feel like this is the one pairing that makes NO sense at all yet i know people are gonna go for it because two conventionally attractive guys together cute. imo a lot of people go into this thinking bitty is morally superior than kent and it’s like an extension of the kent discourse and a form of a “fix-it” for him (and fix WHAT?) (if you don’t, you are so valid and please keep going). like, do you really think kent parson would give a single fuck about eric bittle? i love bitty, but c’mon. this is like the kinda thing bitty would come up with in his own head to make himself feel better about his second-hand feelings of anger and sadness over kent and jack’s history. your only shot at this is to write one or both of them ooc, which, valid i guess. 3/10

kent/holster

same thing with fry guy: holster isn’t very fond of jack, he and kent can bond over that. i can totally see holster being kent’s type, too. maybe holster wants to act some of that steamy jackparse fanfiction with him. 4/10, has potential

kent/ransom

bro did you SEE ransom’s face while talking about parse coming to the epikegster on year 3????? and kent remembering ransom on that forbidden update????? after all, ransom was the one holding kent’s body issue on parse ii. nhl guys are ransom’s weakness, 200%: they’d hook up and then they’d spent the rest of the night gushing about how hot tater is. 6/10

kent/tyler seguin

bro this pairing is like, fucking hysterical. whoever came up with this, i love you because is there anything more on brand for kent than pairing him with the irl hockey player he’s based off??? this is a crack ship done right. 6.5/10

kent/whiskey

listen....... i’d be so up for this. whiskey and kent are essentially the same person. whiskey is literally what kent would’ve been if he had gone to college. they’re SUPER ambitious and competitive, have problems opening up, it’s all about the Fronts(tm), but like. what’s that age difference, again? like, six years? idk. idk, man. if they were to end on the same team, though, they’d vibe so hard with each other... opening up to each other might be pushing it, though. whiskey must have mad respect for him because he’s a great player and same with kent! so like, if i pretend i do not see it, 7/10

kent/scraps

am i imagining it or did ngozi describe scraps as someone who sees kent as the smartest one in the room? or something like that. anyways, it’s about time that kent gets someone on his life that he can confide in and then return some of that love. if they’re not higher on the list is because i like them more as the platonic bond kent desperately needs (also i’m not sure about what the age gap is?), but friends to lovers following deep conversations and personal growth in an incredibly toxic environment? good shit. 7/10

kent/lardo

i feel like this is either a hit or miss with whether you headcanon kent as gay or bi, but even though i always think of kent as gay i’m so up for this pairing. i feel like they have so many things in common and you could truly portray them in such different settings! and i love to think about them opening up to each other. oh, the softness and tenderness that could come out of these two!!! bonus if we get jackshit as the background couple, plus that damn jackparse reconciliation. 8/10

kent/omc

i love kent parson, which means i’m always up for the idea of him getting himself a boyfriend who can challenge him and drive him to want to become a better person so that he can come out of that self-destruction spiral that his life in the nhl has been. free space, you can quite literally do anything with this. 8/10

kent/swoops

i hate to say this but this pairing, though it’s the friends-to-lovers crusade that kent deserves on his nhl life, is kind of a wild card because swoops is just a shell of a character. this pairing is kinda like kent/omc but the omc has actually appeared in canon. but again, FRIENDS TO LOVERS and there’s SO many cute and angsty and wholesome things you could get out of it. 8/10

kent/tater

listen, enemies-to-lovers isn’t my shit, i’ll admit it. but i love tater and i love kent and seeing them clashing looks like so much fun. i feel like once kent shows some of the ugly things he’s hiding inside, these two could click so well. and also that one panel with tater lifting kent off the ground with one hand, out of pure anger at this little shit trying to make jack’s nhl life a living hell, boy oh boy do i love me some of that. with them, and if done right, there could be a great balance between humour and the deep angst we all know and love from kent fics and character studies. plus, it’s going to eventually push a jackparse reconciliation. gimme all that closure baby! 9/10

kent/jack

you 200% expected this if you have seen a single post from my blog. i mean.... this literally has it all. the two characters with the richest backstories and/or development. rivals to friends to “lovers” to enemies to ??? to enemiesANDrivals to eventual lovers??? YOU pick it. you get all the angst, all the conflict surrounding each others’ expectations, the pressure of the hockey world around them, the APOLOGIES and the growing up, the delicious trope of them individually solving their shit and then coming back to each other. all the personality clashes! legends on the ice! kenny and zimms! jack and cat content! absolutely everything you could wish for. hot and steamy? we got it. angry and challenging? hell yeah. soft and forgiving, eventually? just the best of the best. you get the closure that bitty’s pov couldn’t provide, character studies, SO many different types of pining and unrequited and forbidden love... if you’re not on the jackparse life, you are missing out. come join us in hell. 1000000/10

[noythe]

If a thing loves, it is infinte

A small story that I wanted to rewrite, to honor the mighty Vergil and his son. Reader is the mother of Nero.

Originally posted on Ao3, hopefully it is not too awkward. 

Pairing: Vergil/Reader

Warning/Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Torture, Slow-Burn, Awkward-Romance, Lots of Angst and Fluff

Chapter 1 Hell on Earth

There once was a man, feared and respected. Loved and hated just the same.

There was life and death, pain and happiness.

But despite every terror there was on the mortal world, there was some unholy powers, trying to rule.

But what should be ruled, if there was no one left?

There was a group of Hunters, known and led by the famous son of Sparda, Dante.

The Devil May Cry.

But what of the Legends if they go mising?

Heaven, Earth and Hell, what would be the missing piece in this chaotic mess?

The world was a mess.

Where once had been peace and the wonder of creation, was only despair and terror now. Angaelic beings have watched over the mortal realm long enough. Demons only caused chaos, destruction and pain. All they cared for was ruling the world only causing despair. No matter how often humanity had been at the brink of utter destruction, there always was someone to take a stand. One of the most honorable ones had been the Dark Knight Sparda. Had he once been the right hand of Mundus - the king of the underworld - he realised that justice needed to be brought to the world and rebelled against his king, defeating his army and sealing him away along with his own power, leaving him on the human world.

To take revenge upon Sparda, the Demon King ordered his loyal monsters to elimnate Spardas family, murdering his kin. During this attack, his mortal wife Eva got killed, the twins she had born and raised for a few years survived but lived through the trauma differently. And neither of them had a pleasant memory of it. Just loosing everything. Home and family. Years have passed and while one of the brothers became a danger for the world always seeking for more power, the younger twin became a hunter - later creating Devil May Cry.

Hunting Demons and fighting his brother over and over again that was something that never changed, no matter how many years passed. But of course even this time peace didn't last forever.

And again the world needed someone to save it. And one of them was Dante, the now legendary Hunter. Earning  himself quite a name over the past decades as a proud Son of Sparda, wielding the Rebellion and mastering many weapons over the decades. A new demon King alone would have been not a big deal, not for Dante if there wouldn't be that gruesome Demon Tree, now taking a hold of Red GraveCity. Emerging from the ground, raising high into the sky and slowly taking his childhood home apart. Dante did not take this job alone. By his side were Trish and Lady, the most dangerous Women the world had seen so far. If there was someone out there to cut the tree down, it would be them.

But for once, the Son of Sparda went missing.

And that murderous tree was still standing, sucking the blood out of the humans living in that city and as much as the military tried to protect the mortals of Red Grave, their strength was far from enough. And whatever manged to survive the roots, probably got devoured by demons or killed by debris and everything that got thrown around. But if the Qlipoth would collect enough blood, it would grow a single fruit that was forbidden and powerful. Fullfilling the true desire of Urizen: Endless Power, making him the new true King over the Underwold. But also it was rare. Only once every thousand years it could grow.

Over two thousand years ago it had been harvested by Mundus, and the tragedy that followed then lead to this day. But without the Devil Hunter, how should they prevent the tragedy to repeat itself? Maybe mankind never learned from it's mistakes... But for the divine and cursed, there was no such rule. As they remembered it all. Stored in ancient tomes and memory, never to be forgotten. Always to be told, even if mortals no longercared, They forgot so fast, life always passing by in a blink.

But not everything was lost. It was just a matter of time and perhaps a young Devil Hunter needed, who was desperate to beat the Demon on his stupid throne, polishing his ugly face. One failure was enough for the kid named Nero. Even after being called a 'Dead-Weight' he tried to help those that couldn't protect themselves, but for that he had to get stronger first. Recover. He was not all alone, yet it might took a little longer than he wanted to, knowing that this was not his final goal. He wanted Urizen. But after loosing his right arm, there was a lot for him to get used to.

And while the impulsive boy cursed Nico and her way to drive that van, the annoying screeching of a bird echoed through destroyed buildings over broken streets and people turned to dust.

"Ey, V! Ey, EY! Are you listening?", Griffon complained, landing on a broken door that was about to break in, caused by the weight of the monster bird. "Of course.", the thud of a closing book followed and the slender man moved into the direction of the bird, accompanied by the constant sound of his silvery cane, hitting the ground to support his steps.

"There's so much pollen here, I might be starting to be allergic!", the bird continued loudly and faked a sneeze.

"But as long as there might be a chance to find someone who is alive, we can buy the boy more time." "Time, time, time. Always the same chatter, You gotta move! Maybe we should get a vacuum. Ey V, can ya use one if I find one? Nah..Whatever.  No time for that, r-rrrright? ", the annoying voice askeed and distanced itself from V, the door finally breaking down as he left his fomer spot and revealing another room that was abandoned and covered in dust and pollen, the remainings of a couple was laying on a bed, their bodies curled around each other, trying to comfort themselves in their very last moments. V just silently passed the room, watching the pair dissolve into a cloud of pollen. It was all Urizens fault. So many lost souls, innocent humans forever gone, who would remember them? For a while it was all quiet and calm - until there was Griffons voice once more.

"Yo! V! You gotta see this!" Silence. "Seriously! I think someone's alive!" That actually made him hurry at least a bit. V knew that he certainly wasn't in shape to run around like the boy Nero. It actually took him long enough, that Griffon met him halfway, urging him to move faster. "Hurry, Shakespeare." The building was too fragile to bust through walls, the risk to injure or kill whoever survived was simply too high and V was on a 'Be-Nice-Trip'. Perhaps they couldn't save everyone, but every single soul that survived, was one less to feed the Qlipoth, even if he was not really the biggest fan of.. helping. It was simply odd for him, Griffon didn't really understand that. Didn't matter, he had a contract with V and did as he said.

His cane scratched over the ground now and then as he made his way over the rubble, trying very hard to not fall over his feet as he barely had the strength to keep up that fast. The screaming of Griffon got louder with every step, that bird certainly growing impatient with every moment that V didn't show up. Griffon flapped his big wings in front of a door, yelling annoyed as the black haired man finally made it to his side. The thing that had kept Griffon from the potential survivor was a door. V rolled his eyes and raised hsi cane to tap against the door. "Are we playin' ''Knock, knock'' or what? Now is not the time,V!", The Bird teased V.  But there was no sound coming from that room, not a single reaction. A black giant cat manifested in front of him and dashed against the door. It had been quite stuck, the frame no longer in shape but at least the door open.

And this had been the only option to get a look inside. He had tried to open it the normal way. But with a malformed frame and all the roots around it of course wouldn't be that easy. V huffed as he finally entered the room, having a quick look around. It had been used as an ballroom, he mused. A few big round tables at the side, surrounded by the equal amount of chairs. Unless they were flipped around, destroyed or pierced through by the Qlipoths roots. The giant chandellier in the middle of the room was no longer intact, half of the luxurious golden branches were wrapped by roots , a few glass shards below it, silvery petals and to Vs surpris: fresh drops of blood. Griffon was flying around and stopped in front of a tall window that was halfly covered by curtains. The drops gathered,until there was stain - as if something had been dragged along. More roots blocked the way outside, but he assumed that whoever had been a victim of the Qlipoth, was outside most likely about to die. Even if the blood was not complely dry.. If there was hope..

The painful scream of a woman pulled him out of his thoughts and made him pick up his cane once more, Griffon already looking for a clot of blood that could help them to make it through. Not in this room. But perhaps in the one below, as some of the roots had made their way through the ground. If they hurried, they might made it in time, finding whoever was standing against the Demon King as well. Chances never were big, but they had to start somehwere, he would meet Nero soon enough. A little detour would not change much, if he was honest. Shadow and Griffon at his side he hurried out of the room again, Shadow dissolving into mist below his feet to make V move without effort and much faster than before. Every second did count. Another scream, followd by a grunt. Metal that was hitting against a solid surface, Over and over again. But with time the beating got less, rapid. As if someone was loosing their power  or the will to fight back. It took him a good while to actually reach the exit of this place, having to face a few nasty demons on the way, but of those he and familiars quickly took care of and finally were able to proceed and stumble outside, walls behind them cracking and breaking down as the support of the roots slowly vanished, now that they were cut off from blood sources. It was bright outside, the sun still fighting against the looming shadow that was cast by the growing demon tree, clouds and rain usually controlling the mood of the day. So it was indeed a surpise that at least for once the sun made it's way through and reached the ground.

And there you were, in the middle of group of Empusa, blood dripping down the right side of your face, a deep cut hovering over your brow. You certainly had seen better days, like everyone who was alive lately in Red Grave City. Your hair was a mess, sprinkled with dirt and blood and stuck to your face. And it was you  who had been fighting, the weapon of choice a rusty pipe that nearly was as long as your entire arm. But to be fair, against the sheer amount of enemies you barely had a chance and every kind of weapon would do. Countless bruises showed up wherever your clothes had been ripped into shreds, your arms and legs suffering from deep cuts as well. It was not exactly a surprise that a civilian wouldn't make it among the Empusa. But it also explained the lack of your strength.

The pipe slipped from your bleeding hands and you forced youself to kneel down and pick it up, smashing it with a feral scream into the next Empusas head. V had the urge the help so he did send his familliars to support you. Those beasts were not a challenge for Griffon or Shadow, but they had to be careful not to injure you by accident. Your reflexes were so slow and it probably was just the adrenaline that kept you standing. "Ahah!", Griffon laughed and smashed against one of the demons, making sure to avoid your arm as you still tried to hold your ground. For a human you didn't do so bad. It could be better, but considering that you were a mere mortal in that mess of this city this was outstanding. With the help of Shadow and Griffon it did not take long and the fight was over, your breathing uneven and fast as the adrenaline still rushed through your veins. You nearly dropped your weapon of choice as Griffon sat on top of it, eying you closely.

"So Missy, why aren't you out of this city?", the bird asked and you seemed unfazed by the fact that there was a speaking bird. But if there were armies of demons attacking a city - a speaking bird should be the least of your worries. "No time." you panted and tried to brush some of your hair back but only made it worse. Ah right, the blood. "Perhaps you should leave now, while you can.", the young man suggested and you turned to the raspy voice, eyes staring at him.

"Your bird...is speaking, Sir.", was the reply you gave him as the said bird landed on his outstretched inked arm. For a while he held your stare, before the corner of his lips twitched up into a smile. "That he does indeed.", the bird ruffled his feathers and tried to present himself proudly. But you barely watched the bird, trying to flex your fingers and try to get a solid grip around the pipe again.

"But it would be best if you take your leave as soon as possible. We can offer you an escort, if you wish.", the man insisted while the bird complained that they had no time for that. But the man just assured the strange coloured avian that it was fine and you breathed through. "I am capable of taking care of myself, I am sure you have something else to do..", a polite decline but your muscles were sore and the cuts needed to be tended to. If there was a spot that wasn't close to falling apart you actully could take a minute. Running water would be great. And bandages. Maybe you should have thanked them. But your mood was as low as it could get. These insects were disgusting. And bug spray did not exactly help. A rusty old pipe wasn't working that well either.. "Let's go V! Missy doesn't need any help and the boy's waiting for us."

You wanted to wave them goodbye, wishing them a safe journey. You wanted to assure them that you could manage. But the ground started to shake and rumble below your feet, the street tipping to the side as another root made it's way to the surface -looking for another source of blood to feed the Tree. But while Griffon pulled V out of danger, you weren't so fast. The fair skinned man turned around as soon as he had solid ground below his feet again, risking a look to see if you made it as well."Oh shit, V. Guess that's it for her." Your upper body was pierced by one of the roots, the bloody tip facing downwards, your life essence slowly dripping down the plant. The impact left no air in your lungs to scream as there just was the shock and pain. The pipe creating a clattering sound as you let go of the weapon, closing your hands around the sharp end of the root as you tried to pull yourself from the pointy end, desperatlly forcing your muscles to make it work. No, you were not done yet. There was no fucking way that you would be stuck on a root and bleed out, No. Fucking. Way. V and his familiars moved again, hurrying to find the source of the root and destroy it. Even if Griffon was pretty sure that you wouldn't survive this. No one would survive that, humans dried out in no time and fed the Qlipoth by that.

"Slice them." Shadow moved quickly through the horde of monsters, Griffon cackling as he unleashed his power upon the enemies. You didn't know where they went but after a felt eternity, you lost your balance as the root dissolved and released your body. Coughing and spitting out blood you sank on your knees, watching the blood pool around you. The taste on your tongue was sweet and coppery, your breathing uneven. "Shit.", you cursed and blinked desperately to keepy our eyes open. You were well aware that if you closed your eyes now it would take long to open them up again. It was getting so cold. So dark. So painful. Slumping to the side you felt blood plastering your skin, starting to dry as you slowly drifted off. You couldn't give up now. There was so much that you needed to do. So much that you wanted to get done. You were going to be fine. Not. But there was not a minute that you could waste on that thought. You couldn't give in. Death was not a option.

"Ey, Shakespeare! She is still breathing!" A warm hand gently moved your chin to the side and your eyes fluttered open once again. Dark green eyes looking down at you. Was there the hint of a smile? Indeed. "Don't worry." What a gentle voice. Maybe it did sound a little different. Maybe just now, maybe it was something familiar... It was hard to tell with the drumming in your head. And while you felt incredibly light and comfortable right now, there was something that just seemed wrong. You didn't notice how the old phone in the distance was used to call for a Van that would pick you up, as he had more..pressing matters to follow. But there was something calming in his voice, as he nearly promised you that you would be fine. And while he waited, sitting right next to you Shadow curled around your form kept you warm company. V pulled the book from his jacked and started to read for you. Voice soft and melodic it was absolutely calming to listen. Neither V or Griffon knew if you would survive this and In case you would loose your life here, he at least stayed by your side  reading  poetry to you. Sometimes, even if only for a short moment of being wake you thought that he sounded as if he was sorry. But then there was the melodic tone again, enevloping you like a blanket, helping you to drift into so much better moments. Now and then a breeze graced your skin, whenever Griffn circled around to check for the Van or your state. What was it now, that made you cling to your life? It was your goal. Your memory, your dream.

"Seems like she doesn't want to die. Reminds me of someone. huh.", You wanted to return something, but your lips didn't move as you wanted to and your tongue was heavy. Your entire body was sluggish and unable to follow even the easiest command. At least somtimes you managed to move the thumb of yours. Just a bit forth and back, trying to focus on the nerves to not loose consciouness. That at least was a battle that you managed to win - no matter how much this man was reading to you. Another felt eternity passed and then even you could hear the sound of brakes, a car that rushed over the broken street and just came to a stop mere centimeters away from you. You would have been unable to move anyway. But that V at least hadn't seemed worried about that part. The sound of the cane retuned and stopped just right next to you.

"It does seem like she can make it." Did he sound relieved? It was so hard to tell right now. "Yo, chickee- out of my way!" Once again you felt even lighter than before, noticing the scent of cold smoke that now surrounded you like a cloud. Your feet bumped against a wall as you got carried somewhere, hearing a woman swear over and over again. At least she didn't try to make it worse, considering the state you were in anyway. "No peeking!" The arms that held you before awkwardly let go of you as you were placed on some sort of bench, your head hitting the rest for the back with a dull sound. And there was another curse from the woman as she tried to have a look at your wounds.

"This Lady had been hella lucky," Your forehead started to burn as something was applied on your cut, followed by a gauze. Same for your arms and legs. Tiredly you groaned and forced your eyes open, it took a good while to focus on something. The room was filled in a big cloud of smoke and the lightning was everything but good for the eyes. But it didn't take long and you noticed at least where you were. Inside a car: a van.  And the woman you looked at seemed friendly. Or surprised that you woke up so soon and stared at her. "Mornin' Sweety. You should take a good nap and I'll drive that Van to the border of tRed Grave, Here's no place for ya."

As much as you wanted to insist, a blanket was laid over you, carefully tucked into your side and it was so heavy and warm.. You didn't have an interest in fighting back anymore. It was so warm and cozy and the pain slowly faded. Still you noticed the constant chatter between the woman and the bird. Now and then the voice of the man breaking through the silence. But you weren't surprised that it was not quiet for long. The door to the Van got closed, a lighter was used and then the engine of the car started to howl. It didn't matter that you were supposed to sleep, your mind tried very hard to stay awake. And in the end, you lost. The next time you woke up, the car was no longer making a milkshake out of you. You felt much better than before. The pounding in your head was gone and the pain in your chest as well. Your skin itched caused by all the dried blood.

"Ey, sleeping beauty is awake!" You slowly tried to sit up, only to be hit with a towel right in your face. "take a shower, sweetie. Just go to the back of the Van." The woman introduced herself as Nico, before she started to fiddle around with a box. Besides the towel she also handed you bandages and some clothing that was not your size but at least it covered more of your skin, that what you were still wearing right now. "Thanks..", you muttered, overloaded with all the stuff that was given to you and bumped your head on a cabinet as you tried to get up. Oh great. The bird started to laugh with a cackling sound and you just growled weakly while squeezing yourself through the Van. Shower..Shower. Ah! Hidden behind that corner. It took a while to arrange yourself, telling the bird to not even dare to peek. V - apparently the guy that had saved you, didn't seem to be type to do something immodest. But the Bird.. Tsk. Stripping out of your clothes you stepped inside the shower, playing around  with the handles to adjust the temperature of the water. While trying to find the perfect setting for yourself, you took of the bloody bandages. The skin underneath was mostly smooth, the tissue of the your skin had been knitting itself together pretty fast. Only a few old scars showed up on your arms, legs and between your shoulder blades. The only scars that you still could feel.. But at least you managed to keep them out of the sight of strangers, so no one dared to ask.

Finally bare you used the water, working your hair with something that was supposed to be shampoo. But it took nearly forever to even get the all dirt out of your hair. The water remained red for a good while, just slowly turning lighter as the water turned cold. Leaning your forehead against the wall you breathed through, allowing the cold water to run over your back, the steady feeling of water drumming on your skin was able to comfort you. You couldn't even remember when you had your last shower. It didn't matter if the water was warm or cold. You just wanted to feel clean, wash all the gore and blood away. You could not stay here forever. Even if the thought was temping, so you hurried to clean yourself up as fast as possible and picked  the towel to rub yourself dry. This probably had been the best shower you ever had taken. Or at least in the last few weeks. Reaching outside to grab the clothes you stared at the bird and the bird stared right back at you.  Was that thing serious? Throwing the blanket at that thing you cursed it, promising it to make some soup out of it as you harshly grabbed the clothes and slammed the cabin of the shower again. Empusa? No problem. But a Demon Bird that had been waiting infront of the shower for you to finish?

Creepy as fuck. With damp hair and dressed you made your way outside and crossed your arms in front of your chest., judging the avian with a look, that made him flee with a screeching sound and landing on the shoulder of his master. "Whass' up, Missy? Afraid to join us?" Well, that didn't work as planned..You certainly wouldn't tell the bird that an apology was in order.. Instead you turned your attention towards the woman at the drivers seat and smiled grateful.

"Thanks for the shower..and the clothes. I will return that kindness to you." "It's fine, Miss. Got the boy to pay for me, ain't that right, V?" The man just huffed and agreed quietly, but didn't look up from his book. He simply turned the page and hit the demonic bird with the length of the cane to stop him from doing more nonsense. Or you really would make some soup out of him. Nico took a pull from her cigarette and leaned over her seat as she eyed you while puffing out some smoke.

You hated the smell, but she had cared for your and still planned to drop you off at the border of the city. As if there was a way for you to leave this place. You weren't done yet. No. The new Demon King needed to be stopped. And there still were people out there that could be saved. And you were able to protect yourself... Just not like this, "Lookin' much better without all the blood.", Nico hummed and eyed you really closely. Did she notice? The eyes behind the round glasses were sharp, but if there was something your host saw, Nico didn't mouth it all.

"And your overall state seems to be fine. You recoverd fast,", the mysterious man mused and you knew that you had to think of a story about that really, really quick. Unless they let the topic drop. By the looks of it he had a contract with demons. That you could see clearly.. But desperate times...

You shook of that thought and turned back to Nico who just inhaled deeply to start talking. "We'll move on tomorrow. If ya want, take a walk outside. V needs to clear the street for me." "Why don't you do that yourself?", the Bird asked and ducked as Nico threw some packaging at the Bird, who simply dissolved into ink and got absorbed by V's body, the small box meeting black hair. He didn't look all to happy with that situation, but you decided to indeed take a walk outside and leave them alone with the discussion.

It was darker than before, cloudy and even a bit chilly. The Van was rusty and severally damaged, now that you actually had a chance to have a look at it.

With a sigh you tried to fix the pants that you were given. Loose fit at least.. But maybe you needed a belt for them soon. Unlike the Van, the air smelled like rain. You couldn't help but inhale deeply. It certainly wasn't smart to get out with damp hair, but a cold in times like these couldn't be worse than demons and Trees from the Underworld. The street the Van was parked in was meant for one way only and there were some roots in the way, ah - the ones V had to get out of the way.You wondered how far...Oh. Nevermind, you could see the tree from here. A few fragile buildings left and right, cracked ground and so many inncoents that were dried out and leaving only shells behind. The bodies would dissolve fast enough and there was nothing you could do. Only keep the fallen in your memories. How many families were ripped arpart? If the Gates of Heaven would open for the victims?

Walking around the Van you hummed a familiar tune, until you were interrupted by a cloud of black ink, slowly building itself into that bird from before. "So..Miss.", you leaned against the Van and looked up to the Demon, his wings nearly hitting your face as he started to fly in front of you. "What is it, chicken?" "You're not human, are ya?" Raising a brow you crossed your arm in front of your chest and looked up to the bird. "What makes you think so?", was the only reply he would get. Griffon cackled and sat on top of the Van, ruffling his feathers proudly. "Your not dry like a raisin", he squeaked and used his beak to hit your head. As if to play 'Knock-Knock' .. Did his master not know about that birds own mind?

"It runs in the family." I was not even a lie. Just not the entire truth. But there was no reason to explain yourself to a Demon. "Nah, Nah. Not good enough, you hear me? You might fool the others, but you can't follow a Demon. Not the mighty Griffon!" That saved you the introduction. Griffon.. Didn't ring a bell in your head. Leaving the spot at the Van you took a few steps and turned around to face the avian, the hint of a smirk on your lips. "Smart little bird. But does it matter? There are more important matters to focus on." He cackled and there was electricity in the air, his position towards you didn't seem to be friendly at all. "Need to know if you cause any problems for V. So?" His eyes focused you and something was shifting in the air. Demons. "Listen, Demon.. We wish for the same. And now get your master, things are getting ugly."

The street indeed filled with all the nasties, you were unable to count the amount of demons, but thankfully V was leaving the van and regarded you only with a look, telling you to stay inside. "You just recovered, it might be best...to sit this battle out." "Don't worry..V. - I shall be fine." "You can't be serious, now Ihe two watch you both?! I'm not getting paid enough for this shit!" This time you smirked for real, but didn't even plan to go back inside. That bird was right. But thankfully he didn't know about your origin or the abilities that lurked deep within you. There was more to this world than just Devils and Demons.

It was time to bring back the light to this city.

[izaswritings]

Title: the cruel, unbreaking

Synopsis: Some meetings are fated to happen; some pasts are too great to outrun. Bren Aldric Ermendrud knows that better than most.

Sixteen years after the fire, Astrid and Eodwulf hunt down the Mighty Nein.

Notes: This chapter deals with a majority of Caleb’s backstory/training with Trent Ikithon, so... warnings for all of that canon terribleness.

-

AO3 Link is here!

Part I is here!

-

She wakes up with the sharp jolt of the unnatural, the spell's hold breaking apart. She shakes off the haze and her eyes snap open, her arms twisting in her bindings, reaching for her spellbooks, her materials, her magic. It is not a conscious choice, this struggle— this is instinct, pure and simple, borne after nearly two decades of relentless, thorough training.

There is metal at her wrists and a void at her side where her spellbooks usually rest. The kind of stealth and skill needed to slip on chains and rob someone like her, even if under a Sleep spell, is near-impossible. Her head snaps back to spot the culprit, and she catches the edge of a shadow, a small figure darting away, their hood drawn up high.

It’s an ill-advised action: just that slight movement makes Astrid’s vision spin. Her head is still aching from the monk’s earlier blow. She can taste dust in her mouth, turned pasty and thick with a mix of saliva and blood.

She is sitting up, manacles wrapped tight around her wrists, pinned to the earth by cold metal—a sword, she thinks, when the edge bites into her wrists. Dawn bleeds on the edges of the horizon, blue and still, and the pale light casts the ruined campground in a strange glow. They are still at the site of impact, but the group has used Astrid’s unconsciousness to their advantage—the chains, and the half-circle they form around her. One presence at her back, and two by her sides—the firbolg on her right, the tiefling on her left—and the last three standing before her, the shadow that slipped on her chains and woke her, darting beside two taller figures. A human woman dressed in blue, and beside her, pale even in the creeping daylight, is—

“Bren,” Astrid says, and this time it is not a question.

.

The first night after their training with Trent Ikithon begins, Astrid collapses into the bed of her shared room and weeps. Her muscles ache. Her hands tremble. Her magic feels thin and drawn, barely there, a withdrawal that makes her head ache.

“If you throw up on me,” Bren says, from beside her, face down on the pillow, “I will push you off this bed.”

“You would not,” Astrid whispers back, too hoarse to speak any louder. Her throat rasps, and she can taste blood. “Bet you can barely lift your arm.”

Bren hisses into his pillow, and at the end of the bed, Eodwulf sighs. “Shut up,” he says. “Or I’ll push both you off. I can do it, too.”

“You brute, you,” Bren mumbles, and then yelps when Eodwulf pinches his side. “Ow! Aren’t I supposed to be the leader?”

“Just because you can read the spellbooks faster doesn’t mean Master Ikithon is making you leader.”

“Sure it does, Eodwulf, that’s exactly what that means.”

“Wow. You just coast on through life, don’t you?”

Bren protests this, but the argument is playful rather than biting, sleepy and fond. Astrid turns her face into the covers and smiles despite everything. She aches. She aches, so terribly, from head to toe, and her training will only get harder from here. But with Bren and Eodwulf here beside her, with the memory of the way Master Ikithon looked over them today, not proud but still pleased…

On her face, her smile stretches wide and stretches bright. Her fingers twitch with anticipation. Today, she trembles and aches. Tomorrow, she fights. And one day—one day she might even be something.

Her body aches, but Astrid tries not to mind it. One day, she thinks, it might not hurt at all.

.

“Astrid,” Bren replies, after a pause. He waits too long for the words to sound casual, her name awkward on his tongue. His eyes are like hollows in his face. The small figure at his side tugs hard at his coat, hissing something in Common, too low for Astrid to hear.

Her eyes snap to the figure and narrow. The ears, the vivid green skin ill-hidden under the bandages and hood… a goblin? It must be. And yet: the way it pulls at Bren’s coat, familiar, the set of its shoulders— it is not afraid. It belongs?

She looks up to Bren, to see what he thinks of this creature hanging off his lapels, and finds him watching her, instead. His jaw is clenched so tight she can see the tension in his neck. He doesn’t answer the goblin, just reaches down and pushes it behind him, as if trying to shield it from Astrid.

There are words, of course, snapped questions and arguing in the Common tongue. These people, fumbling and ill-experienced, desperate for answers. The monk blusters and the tiefling dimples and Astrid ignores them all.

She doesn’t answer their questions; she is not even listening. She studies Bren instead, drinking in the details she had missed, in that split-second recognition from before. He is—clean-shaven, dressed in a shabby coat and a trailing scarf. Dusty and dirty, dark circles of exhaustion pressed under his eyes like thumbprints. He holds himself tall, but the confidence suits him ill, now—she can read the uncomfortable pinch of his face, see the way his shoulders start to hunch under her attention, as if to hide. He is rumpled, worn, off-balance—but the Bren she remembers stood straight and tall without having to force it, and cut his hair short because he hated the mess, wore the uniform proudly and did not let it crease, not ever.

The man standing before her, sixteen years later, is a stranger and friend all at once. There is a cat winding at his heels and shadow in his eyes. He is Bren, and she knows him, and yet—

“Astrid,” Bren says again, when her silence stretches too long. The others surrounding them have gone silent, sentinel, their eyes on him. The monk is frowning; the goblin’s unnatural slitted eyes peer cold at Astrid from behind his leg.

Bren’s voice is softer than she remembers it to be. There is something raspy and quiet in it, something deadened. She does not know the look in his eyes.

“It has been a long time,” Bren says. He takes a breath, and it looks like it hurts him. “Now. How did you find me?”

.

Training under Master Ikithon is different from training at the Academy. Harder, yes. Tougher. Painful—

But it is necessary, Astrid knows. The endless testing, fighting, struggling… it is all necessary, and in its own way, it is flattering. Trent Ikithon does not coddle them. He does not treat them like children. He treats them like adults, like they are untempered weapons he must make strong, peasantry who will one day become legends. Magic in Astrid’s hands is a tool, in Eodwulf’s a song, in Bren’s a weapon. The magic they learn under Trent Ikithon is worth every second.

She knows this. She does. When she swallows down unknown potions and coughs up blood, Master Ikithon keeps a hand on her shoulder and tells her so. When she casts so many spells her voice withers, she closes her eyes and repeats it like a mantra in her head. When she breaks down and cries in the middle of the night, curled over the crystals in her arm, mourning the pain of the procedure and the healing and the way magic feels when forced through her veins, it is Bren who reminds her most of all. Bren, who sits down and bandages the wounds, and grips her wrist tight.

“I know it hurts,” he tells her then, hushed under the firelight. “But it’s necessary, you know? We can learn so much from this. We can gain so much more. He chose us for a reason, yes? Let us not prove our teacher wrong.”

The fire reflects bright in his eyes, glints off the crystals splintering through his own arm. When Astrid looks up, though, all she can see is his smile.

“I know,” Astrid says, and wipes away the tears with the back of her hand. The blood drips red down her wrist, and in the candlelight, the bloody crystals shine pale and bright.

“I know,” Astrid whispers, and tries with all her might to believe it. One day, she will be strong. One day, she will be enough.

One day, it won’t hurt at all.

“I know, Bren,” Astrid says, and finally smiles back.

.

He is speaking in Zemnian, and by the looks of the others, they do not understand him. She takes this in, and hope twists viciously in her chest.

Astrid ignores his question, the dread on his face; her mind is whirling, now, pieces coming together faster than she can blink. “Bren,” she says finally, in the same language. He winces at the sound of his name and she feels near breathless at the confirmation. It is him. Is it—? “Bren, how are you here?”

His eyelids flutter, the barest hint of breath hissed through his teeth. “I am not interested in playing games. How did you—”

“Why are you here?” Astrid presses, cutting him off. “Master Ikithon—he said you were in an asylum, you were being cared for, how—” A thought occurs to her. “Are you healed? Have you returned to us? Has Master Ikithon asked this of you?” She would not put it past her teacher, to let them know of Bren’s recovery in such a way, to put Bren on a mission and send them colliding unknowingly into each other. Her heart lifts with sudden hope. The others do not understand Zemnian, and if she is right, then perhaps… “Are you—”

The words catch in her throat before she can finish. The look on Bren’s face—it is indescribable. White-knuckled, wide-eyed, tight and cold. Not quite fear, not quite anger, not quite hate. She does not know what it is, but she knows what it means.

“…Ah,” Astrid says, and her throat closes up, stones weighing in her gut. She has never felt so cold. The missive in her pocket burns like dry ice, the inked orders like a branding, searing through cloth unto her skin.

The Mighty Nein, a nuisance to the Empire. The Mighty Nein, a threat. An ally to Xhorhas.

Traitors.

“Bren,” Astrid says, and she has never felt so cold, so distant, so terribly gutted—“Bren, why are you here?”

.

Three months into their training, the first traitor comes in.

He is a man—human, small, thin and weedy. His eyes dart to and fro between their faces, a beady blue color, pale and insincere. His skin is white against his scraggly dark hair, against the bloodstained cloth gagging his mouth. There is a hole in his stomach, blood slowly soaking his tunic. He is chained in the field outside of the home where they train, left out on the flowers to bleed out and die.

He is a murderer, Master Ikithon tells them, when they walk outside. A spy, a fool, a disgusting liar who sold out their soldiers for gold. He is a man who seeks to send their great Empire falling to the ground.

They stand there, the three of them. Astrid, waiting; Eodwulf, unsure; Bren, silent and still. Master Ikithon lists the man’s crimes and then he steps away, steps aside. He does not tell them what to do. He does not tell them what they are here for. He does not need to.

Bren steps up first, but Astrid is right behind him.

Her hands shake, after the deed. Her hands shake, but this is for the Empire, this is necessary and needed and right, and she is strong enough for this, she is good enough, she is enough. She wants this. She has never wanted anything more.

The next time the traitors are brought in, Astrid does not hesitate.

.

“I am asking the questions,” Bren says, but he speaks stilted, as if forcing the words through his teeth. His skin is almost colorless. His teeth are grit. His hands are clenched into fists by his sides, but his face is pale, almost sickly. The goblin holds at his wrist, and he doesn’t react in the slightest.

Astrid sits up straight in her chair. “You’re with them?” She is stunned at the thought, the possibility like a slap to her face. “With—” Bren, the best of them; Bren, loyal to a fault. The Bren she remembers would never— “They are traitors to the Empire!”

“Stop,” Bren snaps. “Stop, stop talking, you do not—” He makes a sudden noise in the back of his throat, sharp and terrible. The goblin tugs at his wrist and hisses another question in Common; this time, he shakes it off. “No,” he says in Common, “Stop, I am fine, I am—” He shakes his head, turns back to Astrid, his Zemnian clipped and hurried. “I—I am asking the questions here. Astrid, how did you—”

“You are running,” Astrid realizes. The way the group clusters around him, his earlier comments on finding, the way he shifts on his feet: the understanding leaves her cold. “You are running—from us? The Empire? Master Ikithon?” She cannot fathom it. “Bren, why? What has happened to you? Why are you here?”

Bren has gone still. His fidgeting silenced, his face slack and cold. He is breathing hard, gasping, as if running out of air. He says nothing.

“Bren,” Astrid says. The sound of his name is strange on her tongue, an old habit worn nearly to nothing from disuse. Horror twists like a snake in her belly, rising like bile in her throat, beginning to boil into a fury. Outrage chokes her. She has known, always, that Bren was broken. That he was not as strong as she always wanted to believe, that he was—not weak, maybe, but just… not enough. Not enough. She knows that. After all these years, she has accepted that.

But she has never once dreamed that Bren would become a coward.

“Bren,” Astrid repeats, and behind her back, encircled in iron, her fingers clench into fists. “What have you done?”

.

The months pass by, training and studying and fighting—learning how to survive, how to excel, how best to silence a wandering tongue and the quickest way to execute those that need to die. Bren is the best of them, the most driven, the last to hesitate— but Astrid is forever close behind, and Eodwulf never far off.

The months pass, and their training comes to a close. Her arms scar over and her magic blooms brighter than ever. And then, three weeks off from their projected graduation, Trent Ikithon sends them home.

“Your duties will carry you far,” he says, as they leave him. “See your family while you still have the time, my students.”

They are grateful, all three of them. Delighted at the respite, at the gift of homecoming, at their budding success. They go home with smiles on their faces.

They return different people.

.

“Done?” Bren echoes. He laughs, short and ragged, and there is nothing kind in the sound. “You—you don’t understand.” His words don’t rise but they bite, in a way that is alien to her. The Bren she once knew would not speak like this. The Bren she once knew—

She searches his face, but this time the action is cold, cynical. She is trying to find betrayal there, trying to see the fear of all traitors in his eyes. Inside, she is screaming.

Bren doesn’t seem to notice—he is breathing hard, his whole jaw clenched tight. He closes his eyes and inhales through his teeth. “No,” he says, and his voice is quiet again, smothered in his throat. “No, no, I don’t want— this— Astrid. Astrid.” He opens his eyes. “And Eodwulf, too, I—I did not expect to find you here. Either of you. Here.” His breathing is funny. “I can… explain. Later. Just, please. Please. Tell me how you found me.”

But he is too late; the first shock of recognition has finally faded into reason, and Astrid can see past the nostalgia blinding her eyes. “Why?” she asks, and does not mean to make it snap—but it does, anyway, and something in Bren’s face goes cold at the sound of it. “So you can know how to avoid us, next time? So you can know whether Master Ikithon is tracking you down?”

He stares at her. “You don’t understand,” he says, again. And the worst part is—this, this is almost familiar to her. The insistence. The knowing. The certainty in his voice. Bren as she used to know him, the leader, the one who had all the answers. But now his voice stutters, and his words catch, stumbling and unsure. “You don’t—understand. I cannot go back.”

Astrid shakes her head so hard her hair hits her face. “Listen to yourself. What has happened to you? Whatever it is, it is not too late. If… you are here. You can redeem yourself, I know it, if you just speak to Master Ikithon— ”

“I will not go back.” The stutter has fled. Bren’s voice cracks, not with pain or fear, but with an icy hatred that stuns her. A disgust that is more than skin-deep. “I am never going back. I never want to be that person again.”

She doesn’t know what to do. Her head is pounding and her heart is like a drum in her chest. This is a group of traitors, but Bren—Bren is here, and yet, the things he says—

She doesn’t know what to do, and all she can manage is a question. “What,” says Astrid, “are you talking about?”

.

They conspire the very evening of their return— Astrid, the first to offer her findings, and the others quickly following suit. Bren had heard his parents speaking in the dead of night; Astrid at the door, receiving a letter; Eodwulf in the fields, walking home.

Her heart is like a lead weight in her chest. Her mouth is numb. She does not—she cannot describe it, the twist in her gut, the feeling she sees reflected in their faces. Shame, perhaps. The sharp acidic bite of betrayal, because these are her parents, her parents, and everything she has done she did it for them, and they dare—

“Is it just them?” Eodwulf asks, “or the whole town, maybe—” but Bren is shaking his head.

“They are colluding, I think,” he says, and there is something bitter in his tone, something deadened and disappointed. “After we left the Academy to train with Master Ikithon—it must have been then. Our parents all probably sought comfort together, and then… but they are alone in the town with their— sentiments.” He almost spits the word. “They were looking for more allies.”

Astrid shifts. “I heard them over a letter—they might be sending news out already.”

“But,” Eodwulf says. “If they need people… allies… what are they planning to do?”

At this, Astrid is quiet. Bren doesn’t answer. For the first time in a long time, they hesitate.

For three days they remain this way, silent and unsure. Bren pushes for the axe—to tell Master Ikithon, to take care of it quietly, to do what they must. Eodwulf wavers, but the line of his mouth grows grimmer by the day. Astrid—waits. Considers. Thinks. Lets the news, and the implications, sink in. Lets her heart harden.

And then, two days before their graduation date, Master Ikithon summons them and congratulates them. Their skills are such that he trusts them to be ready. There will be no test. No final exam. From all he has seen this past year, he knows that they are enough.

“Hold your heads high, my students,” he says, and his colorless eyes are piercing in their pride. “For I know you have the will and the strength to do whatever it takes to keep our Empire safe.”

“Yes, Master Ikithon,” Astrid intones, and something settles in her chest. Bren’s pale eyes burn with certainty. Eodwulf looks grimly determined. She looks across and meets their eyes, and this time there is no question.

.

Bren looks near-feverish, his face pale. “You know,” he insists. “You must. We were… what we did… I know you know. Our training—”

She has no patience for his madness. “Our training was necessary.”

“—we tortured people. We killed them. We didn’t even need a reason, whoever they wanted us to kill and we did it, we wanted to—”

“Perhaps we started a little young, yes, but we learned so much. You, out of all of us—you were the one who said it most of all!” In the dead of night, in a quiet whisper, in a snapped reminder when Astrid was silly and stupid enough to feel resentment over the training, guilt over the deaths. “You always said it made us strong, and you were right.”

“I was wrong!” Bren shouts. His eyes are wild. Sparks flicker at his fingers. “I was—Astrid, Astrid, listen to me—he lied to us. Trent, he played us, our parents—your parents—”

Her anger, her pity, turns ashy on her tongue. The reminder grits at her teeth. “Bren.”

He falters, almost a flinch, but then his jaw tightens and he keeps speaking. “It changes nothing, in the end,” he says, and the words are rushed, heavy with loathing. “Because we wanted to do it, and we did it, but— Astrid, they were not traitors, you killed them for nothing. We killed them for nothing. The memories were false, he… Trent, he gave us the memories. He created a lie and then we executed it, like good little soldiers. I— it changes nothing. But you should know.” He stops, breathing hard. He opens his mouth like he has more to say but nothing comes, and his jaw snaps shut, his teeth clicking. The monk has a hand on his shoulder, now, steadying him, looking between them as if trying to decipher their conversation through expressions alone. The goblin is tugging hard at his wrist.

Astrid stares at him. Bren stares back, and he... he is so much older, Bren. Not just in years, but in his eyes. There is an exhaustion there—a defeat—a desperation.

Astrid blinks, and lets his words sink in. And then she starts to laugh.

.

They do the deed one by one, without anyone else knowing. Eodwulf, then Astrid, then Bren. They wait by the road as Eodwulf walks home, the death silent and swift. They go to dinner with her parents and sit serenely as Astrid’s mother and father choke and foam at the mouth, slumping limp in their chairs. They push the cart in front of the door, and then Bren sets the old wood walls aflame.

They stand outside Bren’s burning house, and wait to hear the screams.

.

Astrid laughs. It is not a quick thing, not a broken thing, not mocking—a hiss through her teeth, a bark of humor, burning bitter in her throat. “Oh, Bren,” she whispers, and her heart aches in her chest. It should not feel like a betrayal, and yet—it should not feel like losing him again—

“Did they tell you that?” she asks, almost pitying, and Bren looks at her like she’s a stranger.

“W-what?” he says, but he is already shaking his head. His hands are trembling. “I—You—I am not joking, Astrid, our parents—they were innocent—”

“They were traitors, Bren.”

“They were innocent and now they are dead —”

“They were traitors, Bren!” She wants to shake him; she settles for raising her voice. “Have you still not understood that, even after all this time?”

But Bren isn’t listening to her. “They were innocent,” he insists, and there is something feverish there, now, something almost like anger in his voice. He stops and starts, a broken record, as if he can’t settle on what he wants to say first. “I am not—how can you—and even if they weren’t —if they were traitors—and they were not, they were not, but even if… they didn’t deserve that. What we did to them. For us to want to kill them, for us to do it, how could we—how could you —”

“I did it for the Empire,” Astrid snaps, furious. “I did it for my home, Bren—all of us, all three of us, we did it because it was right! “

Bren stares at her. “We killed them,” he says, quiet. “We wanted to kill them. Our parents. Lovely, kind people, who raised us, who never hurt us, who loved us. It was—a despicable, awful, horrible deed. And we wanted to do it, and that is the worst part of it all.” His hands are shaking. “And you tell me you believe it was right?”

She lifts her head and gives him a hard look. “It has nothing to do with belief. It needed to be done, and we did it.” She looks him dead in the eyes. “I am proud of it.”

And Bren goes still.

.

Bren sparks the flames, and the fire burns steady. It climbs up the walls, eats at the low roof, coils mercilessly at the doors and exits. The taste of smoke sits heavy in her throat, the smell ashy and thick. They stand at Bren’s back, her and Eodwulf both, and watch as the flames burn Bren’s past away at last.

Astrid doesn’t move until she can hear the screams, and then she nods and turns away. She doesn’t smile, but there is a pale warmth in her chest, mingled with pity and lingering grief. It is terrible, what they’ve had to do here tonight. Terrible, but necessary. She wishes it had not come to this, that her parents had not made her do this, but she takes comfort in the deed. It is done, now. It is over. Everything has been set to rights.

She turns to walk away, Eodwulf by her side. The fire crackles, bright against the black night, and the screams rise. Astrid does not look back. By the time she realizes that Bren isn’t following, it will already be too late.

.

Bren is silent for a long time. Around them, the group shifts, whispers of concern and questions hissed over their heads. Bren doesn’t respond to them. He is looking only at Astrid, and the blue of his eyes is bright and empty.

“I see,” he says finally, and there is something—off, now, about him. A blankness, a deadness to him, that she cannot place. Something shattered behind the eyes. “Well, then. You were right, I suppose. It has been a long time, Astrid. So long. We have much to catch up on, don’t we?”

He does not say it like a question, like he wants to know; in his voice, in his words, it is an accusation. It would almost be biting if not for the tremble she can still see in his hands. “All these years,” Bren says, and he almost spits the words, his eyes flashing. “All these years, Astrid, how have you and Eodwulf been? What have you been doing? What sort of killings does the King send his Vollstrecker to commit, what sort of horrors?”

“Necessary things,” Astrid says. “Righteous things.” Her hands feel numb. “Are you a traitor, Bren?”

“Have you seen Xhorhas? With your own eyes?”

“Have you sided with the monster, Bren? With those things?”

“They are people. There are good people there. And in the Empire. And—everywhere, everywhere, there are good people, if you look. Astrid—Astrid, my friend, what have you been doing?”

“Have you betrayed us, Bren,” she says, and he shakes his head and steps away from her.

“No,” Bren says. “No. No. My friend—but you aren’t, are you? You are me. You are what I could have become but—you are, you are— you have become this. The both of you—Eodwulf—you have become this. The product of our teacher’s lessons.”

“Bren—”

But he has closed his eyes to her, and his hands grip his hair, pull tight at the strands. “Do not call me that,” Bren says, and when he looks at her, his eyes have gone wild. “Do not… I don’t know you. I don’t know you.”

“Bren,” she snaps, but when she meets his eyes it’s like looking at a stranger.

“I was wrong,” Bren whispers, finally, and something has gone cold and ashy in his face, in his eyes. “I was wrong, you cannot be—you are the same monsters as I but I finally understand—I finally understand.”

The light in his eyes is terrible and bright. “At least I know the kind of monster I am,” Bren tells her, and lifts a hand towards her face. “But you—you don’t know at all.” There are voices around them, rising, arguing. Hands pulling at his coat, trying to pull him back, pull him away—but Bren’s eyes are fixed on her, and his hand is steady. At his fingertips, fire sparks.

“Astrid,” Bren repeats. “I always wondered. That day, when we killed them… when we went home, and murdered our families in their beds… I broke that day. I did. And I’ve always wondered.”

His face is white, but his eyes are cold and certain. There is no mercy there. No give. And it is, strangely, the only time in this whole messy reunion, when she can finally see the boy she once knew in his face.

“I murdered my family and it broke me, Astrid,” Bren says, and the look on his face is terrible. “And I wonder— why didn’t it break you, too?”

.

.

.

“Bren?” Astrid asks, and turns back to look at him. He has not moved. He does not look at her, and he does not answer.

Bren is staring at the burning house, the firelight silhouetting him in shadow. He is trembling from head to toe. His hands have risen to his head. He covers his face.

“…Bren?”

She can hear him breathing, raspy and hard, as if he’s running out of air. He is shaking so hard she can see it—the tremor in his hands, in his arms, in him. There is a quiet, gasping hiss through his teeth, words cut short.

Inside the house, the screaming echoes. Bren lunges for the door.

They catch him, of course. They grab his arms and drag him away, because what on earth does Bren think he’s doing? And he is silent, then, he is silent until they touch him, until they drag him back, and then he starts to cry, quiet and wordless. His eyes are empty. He pulls against their hands, and then he starts to scream.

Astrid thinks it a weakness, then. She thinks it a faltering. She thinks it a momentary loss of composure, and as she pins him to the ground she grits her teeth and hopes, with a furious secondhand shame at his failing, that he’ll pull himself together by the morning.

The screams inside the house go silent.

Bren never stops.

[azeher]

On Queerbaiting, Bad Voltron Bad, and Adashi

I finally found the time and patience to bring you this post. Take it however you want. Unfollow me, love me, fall in love with Ryan Renolds... Just take your pick.

The only disclaimer I’ll make is that the Voltron crew and the marketing team of DreamWorks are very capable of queerbaiting. I’ve accused them of doing exactly that before, but I was just getting ahead of myself. I just don’t think they’re queerbaiting us after all, not on purpose (the voltron crew at least. The marketing team can go eat a spoiled banana). But at the end this is like the Schrödinger’s Cat, we won’t know until we get to see the very last episode of the final season. I mean, korrasami was queerbait until the very last seconds before the credits rolled.

BUT, the crew has made quite the mistakes along the years, and I’m gonna make a list of them:

1- Opening their mouths. Just really, they should have stayed quiet, taken the initial praising and shown gratitude and that’s it. The very first and biggest mistake they made was thinking it was a good idea to talk about the show to the fandom. Not only they never knew how to handle it, sometimes they forced themselves to lie. By creating such an narrow relationship with the fandom they allowed them to ask them for things they wanted into the show. They allowed them to ask them questions they didn’t know how to answer and sometimes they had to be purposely misleading to avoid spoilers.

2- Believing their own misleading answers. And this is how I know they’re not queerbaiting on purpose. Because they tend to get passionate when promoting the show, they’ve said things in ways that could be misinterpreted by the audience. They think they’re saying something harmless, that the small difference between what they say would happen and what actually happens will translate well, but it’s never the case.

3- Not trying to know their fandom. This isn’t entirely their fault. It’s obvious the fandom they got wasn’t the fandom they were supposed to get. I.e., the fandom should be made up of grown ups that loved the 80s Voltron and came back out of nostalgia, and of little kids looking for cool space battles, and of teens that like action and humor mixed together. Because that was their target audience. Rather they got a fandom pertaining to an entirely different genre. They got people who don’t really care for the plot (don’t even try to argue with this. The hundreds of posts I’ve seen the last three years claiming smt along the lines of “Voltron would have to pay me to watch the show for the plot” prove me right) because it bores them, and are only focused on the one thing the show openly isn’t about: Romance.

4- The writing. Legend of Korra didn’t have perfect writing. Voltron doesn’t either. This studio puts all of its effort and talent out there, you can tell, but they still have a long way to go. Still, what they do is not bad, despite what spiteful people want to make others believe. This studio has some of the most beautiful animation out there and their strengths rely on art, humor, fight sequences, music and very dramatic scenes. Those are the five things they’ve mastered. But their writing and character focus are lacking. This is not something they can’t fix. Instead of trying to drag them down and boycott these amazing and talented artists and writers who are also human beings, we could give them the support they need to improve and keep delivering stories and characters we can fall in love with. I mean, we fell in love with these characters even when the writing wasn’t perfect. This season, whether some of you want to admit it or not, had the best writing they’ve offered so far but to dissect this statement would mean making yet another long post and just no.

5- The characters’ arcs. We’ve already established they don’t know how to write characters or romance. They’re good with other sorts of relationships but romance is the thing they’re worst at. And they also suck at being constant with characters’ arcs. The biggest proof? I didn’t know the fucking protagonist of Voltron was indeed Keith until like season 4, and I only found out cuz I watched some episodes of 80’s Voltron around that time and was struck with the realization. It was impossible to tell because so far all the focus of the story had gone back and forth between Shiro and Pidge. Then Keith and eventually Allura got their own arcs. So, how about Pidge makes that math cuz it doesn’t add up? How was acceptable for them to be unclear about who the central figure in the show was? Keith was introduced as the fourth character. And they even formatted the first half of the first episode so it looked like Lance was the protagonist. The second half they were already giving up on him and turning him into a joke and Shiro finally emerged as the central figure.

6- Romance. So they completely suck at romance and they made a good decision about leaving it out. But did they really? Cuz the show says yes, but the crew’s comments and awkward writing say otherwise. And this is what takes us to the next and saddest mistake:

7- ADASHI. I know you all read this far only to get to this point. I’m gonna include Ezor and Zethrid here as well because they’re also consequence from the previous point. Shiro is an amazing character and him being gay IS indeed a big triumph. We will forever know such a great and important Asian character is canonly gay. But the writers made all the rookie mistakes they could make surrounding his sexuality, AND Ezor and Zethrid’s relationship. Don’t get me wrong, I for once don’t mind these lesbians being on the dark side because they were still pretty badass and cool even though they were villains, but they took their ambiguous villainess too far, which wouldn’t have been a bad thing wasn’t it because they were the only lesbian couple in the show. So rookie mistake number one: Picking the wrong characters to be your representation when you’re gonna be so limited with representation. They also killed them off, which, well, they kinda deserved, but again, they were the ONLY lesbian couple, so how about give them the chance to redeem themselves (and your own writers)?

They introduced Adam and established he and Shiro simply didn’t work together but then killed off Adam without allowing us to get to know him, and without allowing him and Shiro to get some kinda closure. But the crew, again, didn’t know how to handle the way to go about hyping the show, and were yet again misleading by letting us believe we’d spend some time with Adam. They genuinely thought there was nothing wrong with killing him because he was no longer part of Shiro’s life and because war’s like that. So rookie mistake number two: Not being honest about the fate of one of the two confirmed queer characters in the show. When you have so few queer characters, and you really think you had to kill one of them, don’t treat it like a spoiler, BE honest, so the public knows what to expect. Soften the blow. Maybe they could have said he wouldn’t be in the show too long, and we would have made our guesses. Rookie mistake number three: Pick him as one of the casualties. I understand the intention of this was to make Shiro lose someone because of the war, but did it really need to happen? Did Shiro really need to lose someone? I’m sure no big plot point in the story would have changed if Adam had lived. Rookie mistake number four: Kill him before we got to know him and before he talked to Shiro again. If the purpose of his death was to impact Shiro or us, it would have had a much bigger effect if they had had time to interact again.

Now, could Voltron as a whole fix all of these mistakes? Yes. Yes they could. For starters, they should start talking with the truth. That would actually help to heal the fandom a lot. At this point, being quiet won’t serve of any purpose. Now it’s their real time to talk, but honestly.

Second, it all depends on how they wrap season eight. If they’re really planning on making a healthy queer relationship canon and explicit, that could be their salvation. They’d have to do it right, and it is possible, but fairly hard, especially with romance not being their strength.

Third. Adashi. Yes. Again Adashi. Remember when I said I had complicated feelings about what they did to it? Well, aside from what I already said, there’s this extra bit. And it is that they truly could have had a good reason to kill off Adam. I know that it makes you angry, but this is a possibility. Maybe the point is to let Shiro move on, find love again. He’s healthy now, not fearing about dying anytime soon and he’s matured. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes. And there are not reasons to believe Adam won’t be featured in another future flashback that could deliver that sense of closure we and Shiro need. So, in short, the reason I’m not as angry as I should be, is because this can still be addressed in the show.

It’s easy to be pessimistic and not to trust the ending. For all we know, eighth season might be just 13 episodes of quiznak writing and the mice founding their own theme park, but until the box gets opened we won’t know if the cat is dead.

[higuchimon]

[fanfic] Rebirth of Kaiser:  Chapter 2

He opened his eyes to the same view that he’d had for the last few years: a simple wooden roof. After the night of dreams he’d had, it didn’t seem right somehow.

It should be white. With blue trim.

He closed his eyes again, focusing on the here and now, not on the snippets of dreams that refused to stay in his memory long enough for him to understand them. When he opened his eyes again, he recognized the roof as his own, and the familiar sense of home folded in around him.

Slowly he sat up and looked around. Everything remained in the usual place: his favorite jacket on the chair next to the bed, along with his boots. He’d washed his other clothes the day before and they hung outside, drying.

There really wasn’t much to where he lived. One single room, with different parts divided for what he needed. A bed over here, a place to keep his clean clothes – what few he had of those – and a little space with a second chair, for those irregular times he entertained visitors.

Sunlight peeked in through the window, along with a faint gust of wind. He breathed in carefully, not surprised to catch the scent of snow. Winter wasn’t that far away. He would have to take out the extra blankets soon.

Often after he had those nights full of dreams, it was hard to get going in the morning. The dreams sometimes stuck around, if only in the sense that he needed to be somewhere else, that this place was a good and pleasant home, but there was somewhere else.

Today wasn’t one of those days. Today he dressed and headed out for the dining hall with only the faintest flickers of thought about those dreams, and those faded as soon as he stepped outside into the sun.

“Morning!” One of the local sentries waved as he passed by them. He thought it wasn’t legal to be that chipper in the morning. He certainly never was.

But he raised a hand in greeting regardless. No one would be offended. Everyone here, after the last several years, knew what he was like in the mornings.

He reminds me of someone... He wasn’t sure of who. He didn’t remember ever having seen someone like that before. There weren’t many of his type around. But the hint remained all the same.

Had he ever known a Shine Angel before? If he had, it remained lost in the deep darkness that was all he had in his memory prior to the first time he’d opened his eyes in this world.

He shrugged that off, as he always did, and made his way into the dining hall for breakfast, silently greeting a few others along the way. He wouldn’t call them friends – he didn’t think he had friends, but there were people he wasn’t averse to spending time around – but these were at least comfortable acquaintances.

The longer he was in the hall, the more gossip he could here. He wasn’t often fond of the gossip, but it gave him something to listen to, and it could be useful on occasion.

Such as what he heard now.

“He’s coming. It’s that time of year anyway.” The tiny fairy bobbed in the air, morning bowl of stew held between small hands. Tiny eyes shifted over toward him. “You know that, don’t you?”

One eyebrow tilted upward. “I might. If you told me who you’re talking about.”

The fairy – Pixie Guardian – blew air out, wings fluttering in annoyance. “Weren’t you listening?” Before he could give an answer, the pixie kept going. “The Herald is coming! You know, he comes every year about this time?”

Oh. Right. He shouldn’t have forgotten that, but the vague unrest sparked by the dreams drove it out of his mind, at least for now. He shrugged.

“I suppose he does.”

No one knew a great deal about the Herald, only what rumors and legends painted. He looked young, perhaps just coming into full maturity, but there was a dark sort of wisdom in his eyes. He wandered every world known, and quite likely a few that weren’t known, and offered help wherever it was needed.

And every year, as winter drew around, he came to this little collection of huts and homes and spent about a week or so. He’d never said why and no one had the nerve to ask him.

The Herald’s face, with wide brown eyes and a worried expression, was the first thing that he remembered in a memory that contained only a handful of years. That voice was the first one he remembered hearing, asking how he felt.

The Herald’s Voice was also the one he remembered as giving him his name. Just thinking of that moment sent shivers of confusion all through him.

Ryou.

He could not forget that moment, whatever else he forgot or remembered.

His eyes opened and he pulled in a breath of air so clean it seemed like it might come from the dawn of the world itself. He jerked himself up, staring in all directions, before he sank back down, hands rising to press against his own skin, as if he’d never felt it before.

If he had, he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember anything at all save the last few moments.

“Hey.”

He turned at the voice, staring at someone that he hadn’t realized was there. The stranger – everyone was a stranger to him – sat on a rock, a bag in his lap, with a large furry creature seated next to him. Next to him was another creature, this one quite tall, with a broad set of wings, and three eyes that were each of a different color.

“How do you feel?”

He blinked, trying to understand the question. He knew what had been said; that wasn’t the problem. But he wasn’t sure of how to answer it at first.

Slowly he worked out a word. His first word? Maybe.

“Fine?”

The stranger smiled. “Do you remember anything?” it was a friendly, warm smile, and it warmed him all through to see it.

He had to think again to know how to answer the question. His entire mind felt so empty, as if someone had shaken every bit of knowledge out of it. He frowned, reaching one hand up to touch his forehead.

There were things that he knew and didn’t know. He knew roughly what the parts of his body were called and that day followed night and other such common points. He didn’t know who he was or where he’d been or what happened to make himself like this.

“Not really,” he admitted. He turned back to the stranger who seemed so very ready to be helpful. “Who are you?” Another question followed in quick succession. “Do you know who I am?”

The other glanced up at the being beside him. The look they exchanged was nothing sort of raw sorrow that faded the moment he turned away.

“Your name is Ryou. I’m Juudai, this is Yubel,” he gestured to the creature, who nodded in return, and then he rested a hand on the fluffy beast. A cat, Ryou recalled now. A tabby cat. “This is Pharaoh. Daitokuji-sensei’s not around right now, though.”

That didn’t quite make sense, but Ryou suspected it would have if he had all of his memories. Or if he just had memories at all.

“Do you know why I don’t remember anything?”

“You’ve been reborn,” Yubel said, interrupting whatever it was Juudai started to say. “It’s a rare gift and I suggest you let any memories return at their own pace. If they do at all.”

Ryou nodded slowly. He didn’t quite understand what they told him, but he didn’t find himself with the energy to argue at this point. His stomach made a noise and he stared down at it.

Juudai laughed, a bit of a strange sound, but a laugh all the same. “Come on. There’s a village not that far from here we can get some food at. Are you able to walk?”

Ryou decided the only way that he could find out would be to try. He levered his way to his feet, hissing between his teeth when he couldn’t be at all certain that they would carry him at first. Then he steadied himself and took a careful step, hands spread out for balance.

Three steps was all it took before he started to fall again, and Juudai caught him before he got all the way to the ground. Once he was steady again, Ryou made another attempt, this one somewhat more successful.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Juudai assured him. “Come on, you’ll probably feel better once you have some food in you.”

Ryou wasn’t going to argue on that point. The longer he went without eating, the more certain he became that he could and would eat almost anything set in front of him.

The village they ended up at – Yubel vanished somewhere along the way – wasn’t very big; maybe about twenty or twenty-five huts and about the same number carved into the nearby mountain. The place had been built for defense and was surrounded by a thick stone wall twice as tall as Ryou himself – who realized only then that he was taller than Juudai.

A gate allowed entrance, but only after the guard on duty permitted them to pass through. Ryou was too busy staring at it all, soaking it in, to really pay much attention to what Juudai said or did to get them in.

But on the other side, they quickly found the communal eating area, and Ryou had the first meal that he could remember.

This is a good place for you, Juudai told him before he left that first time. I’ll come back and see you when I can.

So Ryou settled into the village life without a great deal of problems. There were empty huts or cottages and he moved into one, taking up the position of guard to earn his food and shelter. There were higher-ranked soldiers there, who dueled, and there was always the chance he could join them one day, if he ever learned how.

And yet he hadn’t tried. There was a small store one could barter for cards at and he’d investigated there several times over the last handful of years. Not a single card there interested him enough to try it for himself.

Once he finished his breakfast, Ryou wandered out to the main square. Today was one of his rare days without a shift on the guard watch, so he could do as he pleased.

The whole discussion, short as it was, on if the Herald would be returning soon hovered in the back of his mind. The Herald – Juudai – visited whenever his travels brought him around, and he always made time to talk to Ryou when he did.

Exactly why they called him the Herald, Ryou didn’t know. He wasn’t sure if they didn’t know Juudai’s name or if it were some other reasons. Some questions he felt compelled to ask – mostly ones that helped him fit in around the village – and some he didn’t – usually anything to do with Juudai.

There were times when he thought he already knew things about Juudai, things that no one here did, but he just didn’t have the words to express them. He hadn’t mentioned that to Juudai, either, during their few conversations.

Now he made his way out of the village and to a place he enjoyed spending his rare free time in: a long, empty meadow with a single stream whispering its way through it. So far as he knew, he was the only one who ever came here. There was a long rock in the center, just enough for him to get comfortable on, and there he settled down, most of his thoughts centered on what he might ask Juudai when he turned up.

The whole time he lay there, though, he couldn’t drift himself into the pleasant half-rest that sometimes brought a few thoughts he wanted to call memories back. Instead, there was a prickle of wariness between his shoulder-blades, and he kept looking around for any sign of anyone in the area.

After all these years, she’d finally found him. Rumor from the other worlds painted it that he was dead, but she’d never put much stock in rumors that traveled so far.

If this person wasn’t him, then they were close enough for her. And now that she’d found him, she would gain the vengeance she’d spent the last decade planning.

To Be Continued

Notes: I am innocently whistling! (Ryou will get his memories back. But I have Plans for how matters will unfold between now and then.)