#I wish the feathers on the wind aura were not quite so Feathers

[batfossil-fr]

a delightfully stinky hatch

[shipwreck-letters]

Year Walk Chapter Eleven: Abide and Hinder

Read on AO3

Summary: Divine Beast Vah Medoh is not working as intended, and Revali has not been seen in Rito Village for days. Urbosa has a plan to wrangle the chaos.

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: Anxiety mention, nightmares

Notes: This was going to be one big chapter, but the word count was already over 3k words and a lot of moving around, so I decided to split into two parts. Please enjoy this new format! The whole chapter will be included in the promotion post, enjoy!

Credits: Poster made in Canva, reblog banner made by @cafekitsune

Mipha's mouth went agape. The cold ran bitterly through her veins. The frost on her cheek brought the pain akin to being slapped in the face.

She might as well have been slapped.

It took an embarrassing moment for Mipha to find her words. "I- I am Mipha Naphela of Zora's Domain, and I assumed that you are Revali…?"

Revali's eyes flicked up and down her body, though not an ounce of joy or interest was visible. He rolled his eyes at his name, shifting his weight before sharply moving his shoulder.

"Just. Revali. Do all royals like you prod around the privacy of a citizen's home, looking for something interesting? I know I am quite the feat, however I'm afraid I'm not giving autographs tonight."

He turned away, grumbling as he picked out a few scarce supplies to heal, but kept his distance still. He did not sit, nor did his feathers relax around Mipha, no matter how gentle or concerned her voice was.

Heal him! Mipha's voice shouted at her. For goodness sake, do something!

And Mipha opened her palm, expecting the thrum of magic, the watery blue aura to call to her hand, and she could finally show Revali something worth remembering. But her palm was trembling, and she could feel no magic, no healing in her soul.

Everything that made Mipha the Zora Princess, the Champion of Vah Ruta, had been stripped away. Now she was shaking on the balcony, freezing in the dark amidst a proper stranger.

"I apologize." Mipha whispered, needing something to say before she ran away. "I…The others have already eaten. Dinner has long been over. But here-"

Before Revali could question, Mipha stepped into the cover of the hut and set the bowl of steaming soup on the closest table.

"Good night, Revali."

And she darted.

Rito Village was made for flying: If you wanted or needed to get away, you could take to a ledge and leap, letting your wings carry you as far and fast as you wanted.

Mipha, however, was not made of wings, and every staircase was filled with Rito, sharing stories and good cheer that made Mipha's mind slip a little more. How could she be joyful? Things were wrong.

Mipha kept her composure; Her gaze panned the wooden floors, her hand sliding across the rough textured stone until someone called her name. She almost didn't respond; the voice sounded so far away, but moving her gaze made her realize that the speaker was a respectable distance, only a few steps.

"Your Highness!"

A light blue Rito waved at her. "You must be cold, aren't you? We have space for you and your crew! Or, ah- Your party? Your…Group?" He scratched his head. "…. It's ready, anyway. You're welcome to get some rest. Princess Zelda and Chief Urbosa are there already."

Mipha forcibly inhaled, catching her frazzled spirit enough to accept. She snuck inside the open hut; Urbosa peered into the Winter night, her heavy coat hung up on a rack near the door. Her shoulders were tense, red hair braided and swaying in the wind.

Zelda was nestled in many more blankets, wrapped in a cocoon of coziness, sleeping soundly. Her hair was wrapped up in a silk bonnet, and a matching blue mask covered her eyes from any world distractions. She looked comfortable, and Mipha wished she could say the same.

Urbosa finally spoke, took a deep breath, and reluctantly turned from the ledge. "Very different from what I'm used to, but I'll manage. And how are you finding things, Mipha?"

Urbosa's eyes settled on her, and something of concern flickered over her expression. "Mipha?"

Mipha squeezed her eyes shut, quickly sitting on her bed with her back turned to Urbosa. As much as she wanted to apologize for her behavior, she was fighting with the instinct to run away, scream, and wail.

And suddenly, a warm hand gently placed on her knee. Mipha dared to open her eyes, staring pointedly at the swirls and symbols on Urbosa's pants. The reflection of light beamed from gold trimmings on her sleeves. The sparkle of her earrings, but she could not meet Urbosa's eyes.

"Urbosa, I'm sorry." Mipha inhaled again. "I…I don't feel quite like myself anymore."

"It's been a very long, intense few weeks, my Mipha. I cannot blame you for feeling disconnected. You especially," Her eyes darted to Mipha's coat, where her scar would be visible and tender.

"You've been through so much, and have kept your grief all alone."

Moving slowly, Urbosa took a seat next to Mipha on the bed. "I have a story that I like to tell Zelda on difficult nights. Would you like to hear it?"

Mipha removed her coat and gloves, setting them aside, before silently returning to Urbosa's side. "If it's no trouble..."

"It was a dark, quiet night in the desert. A young vai woke up in her room and quickly noticed that her older sister was nowhere to be found. But even stranger, a trail of peculiar white flowers bloomed through the cracks of the streets. It lured the curious vai away through the east gate onto cold sand, sure that the flowers had something to do with her missing sister. And when she had wandered far away, something happened…."

Indeed Mipha intended to listen to the whole story, yet Urbosa's voice moved like smooth waves, gentle and warmed by sunlight, that even the frightening details of the story were not pure darkness but a path to hope. Mipha leaned into Urbosa's embrace, her eyes heavy and her heartbeat slowing to a serene pace.

At some point, Urbosa covered Mipha with a blanket and another for warmth. "Sleep well, my Mipha."

---

Absent-mindedly, Mipha fiddled with the ruby brooch holding her cloak together. Her eyes wandered over the buffet table for the third time, yet her plate was hardly half-full of more than a few slices of smoked bass.

Her appetite had been absent since the previous night, gone with the wind like Revali; Strange enough, no one had seen him, and the Rito warriors had flown off to the Hebra mountains with extra bows, spears, and arrows.

She stared at loaves of bread while listening to the village elder speak with Urbosa at the other end of the table.

"It seems our villages share an influx of trouble." Urbosa said. "Blood Moons are scheduled, but the most recent one was completely unpredictable. Many vai were injured, and those injuries still linger in them."

There was a particular pause; Urbosa's head turned to glance at Mipha and Zelda nearby before the elder grunted.

"This Blood Moon has brought trouble for us, as well. Monsters have become comfortable--Or desperate for food, I oughta say. It's my fear that the village will succumb if they are not stopped. The warriors have left, but some return with missing feathers, frostbite."

"I will be glad to lend my aid to you. Tell me when and where, and I will join the fight."

Mipha shook her head to rouse her out of her thoughts, finally noticing the food losing steam on the table. She pursed her lips at the bread and cheese, fish, and berries.

"Oh, what's this?" An array of vivid colors caught her eye; A single slice of fruit cake was left on a tray, which wasn't savory or terribly tart.

Mipha reached for it at the same time as Zelda.

"Oh!"

For a heartstopping moment, Mipha's hand grasped Zelda's, squeezing her fingers. A jolt of electricity and warmth rushed to Mipha's cold hand with a wave of terror.

With her face fired up in a dark blue blush, Mipha snatched her hand back, stumbling over the air until she could only press her hand to her cold face. 'What is happening to me? I can hardly keep myself together!'

"Princess, I- I did not see you," Mipha explained and glimpsed Zelda bowing her head. Was she flustered as well?

"It was I that did not realize." Zelda shook her head and gestured to the cake. "You were here first, Mipha. Take it."

Mipha's heart fluttered away to her stomach. She hesitated, glancing at her plate. "What if we...? Share it...?"

Zelda smiled. "We can share it."

If she was flustered, she hid it very well. A chord in Mipha rang out in her mind, 'You're a princess! This is just a friendly gesture, a moment between friends.'

Mipha closed her lips and passed a polite smile, holding out her plate as Zelda equally cut the slice in half.

"There we go. Mm, I love these kinds of desserts. Have you ever tried...Well, it's quite uncouth. I shouldn't recommend it."

"Recommend...what?"

"-Monster extract, of course! It turns any dish into a devilish violet, and I can only imagine what the essence of monsters will do to one's insides. Perhaps you'll glow, or wake up with a new ability to growl and pick up a weapon over raw steak."

"Zelda!" Mipha giggled. "Where do you even find that concoction?"

"I wish I could study it. I could make my own with all of the remains from the latest Blood Moon. But alas..."

Zelda stabbed a piece of cake and twirled her fork around as she chewed.

"Maybe after all of this is over."

Breakfast was over as soon as it began, and Zelda set off for a hill called Piper's Ridge; Ancient columns rose high into the sky, a quiet Sheikah shrine, and most of all, Vah Medoh perched among the beige rock.

Her stone wings were pressed together, her head frozen and forever staring into the cold Hebra sky. Glyphs and patterns should have glowed a brilliant turquoise, but only amber lines outlined the Divine Beast.

"There's been no movement at all?" Zelda frowned, and the Rito guard beside her shook his head.

"It's strange. Revali's supposed to be the Champion, yeah? It was moving perfectly fine before we got your announcement. As fine as a machine can, I guess. After that day...Silence."

Zelda hummed deeply, flipping to a heavily written page in her journal. Mipha eyed it, curiously trying to make out the scribbled handwriting.

The pen lines were written heavily, deeply set into the paper. 'Urbosa -- Vah Naboris' 'Mipha -- Vah Ruta' 'Revali -- Vah Medoh ?' 'Daruk-- Vah Rudania??'

'Prophecy following...Speak with oracles, ' Mipha read, 'Praying' 'Powers absent.'

Zelda snapped her book shut, tilting her head back to the Divine Beast. "Well, that's concerning. Has anyone seen Revali today?"

The Rito took a deep breath, turned towards Mipha and Urbosa, and pointed between them; An awful storm brewed in the distance, hovering over the mountains far into the horizon. Rugged peaks of sharp mountains loomed in dark shadows.

"He took off early in the morning, but the blizzard I wrote to you about is that way. I would not recommend going there, Your Highness."

Zelda frowned, peering in the pointed direction. Mipha could see a plan brewing behind her dark brown eyes, thoughts, and ambitions building up like coals on a fire.

"With all due respect, we are allied in peace and war."

Urbosa took a deep breath through her nose, lifting her chin. "Zelda. You are a priority in this war, your safety must be ensured at all costs. I allowed you to test the weather, but I will not let you walk blindly into a storm."

She turned her attention to the Rito guard, who straightened his posture quickly.

"Show me the way, give me a weapon, and I will fight alongside you. Zelda is going to stay here."

"What?!" Zelda lit up in defiance, but Urbosa heard nothing of it.

"And Mipha will accompany me."

Mipha jolted, the sound of her name ripping her from her thoughts. "Me? Oh, Urbosa...O-Of course."

The Rito looked just as shocked but quickly snapped his beak shut and cleared his throat. "Let's not waste any time, then."

Mipha swore she could see steam rising from Zelda's head, fist clenched, the other gripping her journal, and Sheikah Slate to her chest.

She took several deep breaths to calm down but trailed alongside Mipha silently as Urbosa talked with the Rito guard.

"Perhaps it is best that you don't risk injury.... It's not very fun." Mipha said. "We will be back before you know it."

Zelda glanced at Mipha, and her eyes slowly moved ahead. "Sitting idly, waiting when all of my loved ones are fighting, working...I abhor it."

She hesitantly opened her hand. Her palm upturned to the air. They both watched as absolutely nothing happened.

Mipha bit her lip, folding her fins closely. What could she say that hadn't been said or thought of that hadn't drifted like a ghost in her mind for weeks?

"One day, you'll get to fight alongside everyone. It will be a day worth waiting for."

Mipha's mouth went agape. The cold ran bitterly through her veins. The frost on her cheek brought the pain akin to being slapped in the face.

She might as well have been slapped.

It took an embarrassing moment for Mipha to find her words. "I- I am Mipha Naphela of Zora's Domain, and I assumed that you are Revali…?"

Revali's eyes flicked up and down her body, though not an ounce of joy or interest was visible. He rolled his eyes at his name, shifting his weight before sharply moving his shoulder.

"Just. Revali. Do all royals like you prod around the privacy of a citizen's home, looking for something interesting? I know I am quite the feat, however I'm afraid I'm not giving autographs tonight."

He turned away, grumbling as he picked out a few scarce supplies to heal, but kept his distance still. He did not sit, nor did his feathers relax around Mipha, no matter how gentle or concerned her voice was.

Heal him! Mipha's voice shouted at her. For goodness sake, do something!

And Mipha opened her palm, expecting the thrum of magic, the watery blue aura to call to her hand, and she could finally show Revali something worth remembering. But her palm was trembling, and she could feel no magic, no healing in her soul.

Everything that made Mipha the Zora Princess, the Champion of Vah Ruta, had been stripped away. Now she was shaking on the balcony, freezing in the dark amidst a proper stranger.

"I apologize." Mipha whispered, needing something to say before she ran away. "I…The others have already eaten. Dinner has long been over. But here-"

Before Revali could question, Mipha stepped into the cover of the hut and set the bowl of steaming soup on the closest table.

"Good night, Revali."

And she darted.

Rito Village was made for flying: If you wanted or needed to get away, you could take to a ledge and leap, letting your wings carry you as far and fast as you wanted.

Mipha, however, was not made of wings, and every staircase was filled with Rito, sharing stories and good cheer that made Mipha's mind slip a little more. How could she be joyful? Things were wrong.

Mipha kept her composure; Her gaze panned the wooden floors, her hand sliding across the rough textured stone until someone called her name. She almost didn't respond; the voice sounded so far away, but moving her gaze made her realize that the speaker was a respectable distance, only a few steps.

"Your Highness!"

A light blue Rito waved at her. "You must be cold, aren't you? We have space for you and your crew! Or, ah- Your party? Your…Group?" He scratched his head. "…. It's ready, anyway. You're welcome to get some rest. Princess Zelda and Chief Urbosa are there already."

Mipha forcibly inhaled, catching her frazzled spirit enough to accept. She snuck inside the open hut; Urbosa peered into the Winter night, her heavy coat hung up on a rack near the door. Her shoulders were tense, red hair braided and swaying in the wind.

Zelda was nestled in many more blankets, wrapped in a cocoon of coziness, sleeping soundly. Her hair was wrapped up in a silk bonnet, and a matching blue mask covered her eyes from any world distractions. She looked comfortable, and Mipha wished she could say the same.

Urbosa finally spoke, took a deep breath, and reluctantly turned from the ledge. "Very different from what I'm used to, but I'll manage. And how are you finding things, Mipha?"

Urbosa's eyes settled on her, and something of concern flickered over her expression. "Mipha?"

Mipha squeezed her eyes shut, quickly sitting on her bed with her back turned to Urbosa. As much as she wanted to apologize for her behavior, she was fighting with the instinct to run away, scream, and wail.

And suddenly, a warm hand gently placed on her knee. Mipha dared to open her eyes, staring pointedly at the swirls and symbols on Urbosa's pants. The reflection of light beamed from gold trimmings on her sleeves. The sparkle of her earrings, but she could not meet Urbosa's eyes.

"Urbosa, I'm sorry." Mipha inhaled again. "I…I don't feel quite like myself anymore."

"It's been a very long, intense few weeks, my Mipha. I cannot blame you for feeling disconnected. You especially," Her eyes darted to Mipha's coat, where her scar would be visible and tender.

"You've been through so much, and have kept your grief all alone."

Moving slowly, Urbosa took a seat next to Mipha on the bed. "I have a story that I like to tell Zelda on difficult nights. Would you like to hear it?"

Mipha removed her coat and gloves, setting them aside, before silently returning to Urbosa's side. "If it's no trouble..."

"It was a dark, quiet night in the desert. A young vai woke up in her room and quickly noticed that her older sister was nowhere to be found. But even stranger, a trail of peculiar white flowers bloomed through the cracks of the streets. It lured the curious vai away through the east gate onto cold sand, sure that the flowers had something to do with her missing sister. And when she had wandered far away, something happened…."

Indeed Mipha intended to listen to the whole story, yet Urbosa's voice moved like smooth waves, gentle and warmed by sunlight, that even the frightening details of the story were not pure darkness but a path to hope. Mipha leaned into Urbosa's embrace, her eyes heavy and her heartbeat slowing to a serene pace.

At some point, Urbosa covered Mipha with a blanket and another for warmth. "Sleep well, my Mipha."

---

Absent-mindedly, Mipha fiddled with the ruby brooch holding her cloak together. Her eyes wandered over the buffet table for the third time, yet her plate was hardly half-full of more than a few slices of smoked bass.

Her appetite had been absent since the previous night, gone with the wind like Revali; Strange enough, no one had seen him, and the Rito warriors had flown off to the Hebra mountains with extra bows, spears, and arrows.

She stared at loaves of bread while listening to the village elder speak with Urbosa at the other end of the table.

"It seems our villages share an influx of trouble." Urbosa said. "Blood Moons are scheduled, but the most recent one was completely unpredictable. Many vai were injured, and those injuries still linger in them."

There was a particular pause; Urbosa's head turned to glance at Mipha and Zelda nearby before the elder grunted.

"This Blood Moon has brought trouble for us, as well. Monsters have become comfortable--Or desperate for food, I oughta say. It's my fear that the village will succumb if they are not stopped. The warriors have left, but some return with missing feathers, frostbite."

"I will be glad to lend my aid to you. Tell me when and where, and I will join the fight."

Mipha shook her head to rouse her out of her thoughts, finally noticing the food losing steam on the table. She pursed her lips at the bread and cheese, fish, and berries.

"Oh, what's this?" An array of vivid colors caught her eye; A single slice of fruit cake was left on a tray, which wasn't savory or terribly tart.

Mipha reached for it at the same time as Zelda.

"Oh!"

For a heartstopping moment, Mipha's hand grasped Zelda's, squeezing her fingers. A jolt of electricity and warmth rushed to Mipha's cold hand with a wave of terror.

With her face fired up in a dark blue blush, Mipha snatched her hand back, stumbling over the air until she could only press her hand to her cold face. 'What is happening to me? I can hardly keep myself together!'

"Princess, I- I did not see you," Mipha explained and glimpsed Zelda bowing her head. Was she flustered as well?

"It was I that did not realize." Zelda shook her head and gestured to the cake. "You were here first, Mipha. Take it."

Mipha's heart fluttered away to her stomach. She hesitated, glancing at her plate. "What if we...? Share it...?"

Zelda smiled. "We can share it."

If she was flustered, she hid it very well. A chord in Mipha rang out in her mind, 'You're a princess! This is just a friendly gesture, a moment between friends.'

Mipha closed her lips and passed a polite smile, holding out her plate as Zelda equally cut the slice in half.

"There we go. Mm, I love these kinds of desserts. Have you ever tried...Well, it's quite uncouth. I shouldn't recommend it."

"Recommend...what?"

"-Monster extract, of course! It turns any dish into a devilish violet, and I can only imagine what the essence of monsters will do to one's insides. Perhaps you'll glow, or wake up with a new ability to growl and pick up a weapon over raw steak."

"Zelda!" Mipha giggled. "Where do you even find that concoction?"

"I wish I could study it. I could make my own with all of the remains from the latest Blood Moon. But alas..."

Zelda stabbed a piece of cake and twirled her fork around as she chewed.

"Maybe after all of this is over."

Breakfast was over as soon as it began, and Zelda set off for a hill called Piper's Ridge; Ancient columns rose high into the sky, a quiet Sheikah shrine, and most of all, Vah Medoh perched among the beige rock.

Her stone wings were pressed together, her head frozen and forever staring into the cold Hebra sky. Glyphs and patterns should have glowed a brilliant turquoise, but only amber lines outlined the Divine Beast.

"There's been no movement at all?" Zelda frowned, and the Rito guard beside her shook his head.

"It's strange. Revali's supposed to be the Champion, yeah? It was moving perfectly fine before we got your announcement. As fine as a machine can, I guess. After that day...Silence."

Zelda hummed deeply, flipping to a heavily written page in her journal. Mipha eyed it, curiously trying to make out the scribbled handwriting.

The pen lines were written heavily, deeply set into the paper. 'Urbosa -- Vah Naboris' 'Mipha -- Vah Ruta' 'Revali -- Vah Medoh ?' 'Daruk-- Vah Rudania??'

'Prophecy following...Speak with oracles, ' Mipha read, 'Praying' 'Powers absent.'

Zelda snapped her book shut, tilting her head back to the Divine Beast. "Well, that's concerning. Has anyone seen Revali today?"

The Rito took a deep breath, turned towards Mipha and Urbosa, and pointed between them; An awful storm brewed in the distance, hovering over the mountains far into the horizon. Rugged peaks of sharp mountains loomed in dark shadows.

"He took off early in the morning, but the blizzard I wrote to you about is that way. I would not recommend going there, Your Highness."

Zelda frowned, peering in the pointed direction. Mipha could see a plan brewing behind her dark brown eyes, thoughts, and ambitions building up like coals on a fire.

"With all due respect, we are allied in peace and war."

Urbosa took a deep breath through her nose, lifting her chin. "Zelda. You are a priority in this war, your safety must be ensured at all costs. I allowed you to test the weather, but I will not let you walk blindly into a storm."

She turned her attention to the Rito guard, who straightened his posture quickly.

"Show me the way, give me a weapon, and I will fight alongside you. Zelda is going to stay here."

"What?!" Zelda lit up in defiance, but Urbosa heard nothing of it.

"And Mipha will accompany me."

Mipha jolted, the sound of her name ripping her from her thoughts. "Me? Oh, Urbosa...O-Of course."

The Rito looked just as shocked but quickly snapped his beak shut and cleared his throat. "Let's not waste any time, then."

Mipha swore she could see steam rising from Zelda's head, fist clenched, the other gripping her journal, and Sheikah Slate to her chest.

She took several deep breaths to calm down but trailed alongside Mipha silently as Urbosa talked with the Rito guard.

"Perhaps it is best that you don't risk injury.... It's not very fun." Mipha said. "We will be back before you know it."

Zelda glanced at Mipha, and her eyes slowly moved ahead. "Sitting idly, waiting when all of my loved ones are fighting, working...I abhor it."

She hesitantly opened her hand. Her palm upturned to the air. They both watched as absolutely nothing happened.

Mipha bit her lip, folding her fins closely. What could she say that hadn't been said or thought of that hadn't drifted like a ghost in her mind for weeks?

"One day, you'll get to fight alongside everyone. It will be a day worth waiting for."

[cuinaminute229]

Like no other pt 3

Part 1  Part 2

Am I sorry? No

...

The sound of soft pattering against the window next to the bed brings you from the land of dreams, the room is splayed in the aura of lazy days full of rain. The blankets are a warm cocoon from the chill in the air. 

You feel safe and content. 

Soft rustling to your left makes the hazy fog of just waking up lessen but you don't want to start the day just yet.

"It's morning." You murmur out into the room before a hand grazes your bare shoulder underneath the blankets. 

"Stay." A whisper that's more of a sigh rather than a word makes you smile.

You immediately want to give in to the plea, you want to stay and ignore the world for just another day. 

"You know I can't." You whisper back and the hand that's on your shoulder travels further south, touch light as a feather, teasing.

"Stay," The plea is stronger now, more word than breath, "Please." 

Fingers graze soft skin that protects your ribs and you fight the chill that runs up your spine. "Stay." 

You let out a soft sigh before opening your eyes to see her.

Her eyes are so very blue, like the sky on a sunny afternoon, so blue and so bright and you feel like you're peering into her soul. 

There is nothing hidden in the depths of her gaze, all the yearning and hoping and wanting, you see it, you see all of it.

“Maria,” Her name a plea of your own. You don't want to hurt her, you don't want to tear this moment away from her, you don't want to do that. She’s so special and so beautiful, and she’s been your friend since forever. You don't want to cause her more pain than you already have.

You close your eyes when you feel her move closer, you can't look because there is so much in her eyes and you want to cry. “Please, please.”

Thunder sounds in the distance, the sky a darker grey. The rain has picked up in speed and force, thrumming against the window. “I want you to stay,”

You can feel her breath fan over your face, you can feel her against you. You feel her warmth and the softness of her skin, and you want to stay, you want to stay so bad. 

She’s slow, cautious when she leans closer, sharing the air you breathe. Giving you plenty of time to deny her, but you don't, you can't. 

You let her steal your breath, you let her pull you in, you let her make your choice.

…

The sky is blue when you look up, the few clouds are scattered to win a race that declares no winner. 

The sun is bright and daring, and looking down on you as the minutes tick by as you wait. Birds chirp and prance around the sidewalks as they look for anything edible, children laugh and scream in glee as they explore the park as parents watch like guardian angels.  

It’s peaceful.

“Hey there stranger, long time no see.”

You’re brought from your thoughts when you hear her voice and you give the blonde a smile when you catch sight of her, walking towards you with purpose and a smile.

“It’s good to see you too Carol.” You barely have time to stand from the bench before she’s pulling you into a hug that steals the breath from you. You’ve forgotten how strong she is, how amazing her hugs are as you relax in her embrace. “You can't leave for that long again. I won't let you.” 

You chuckle at her declaration. “I don't doubt it.”

Light brown eyes search your face when she pulls back, hands still on your shoulders. “How are you doing?” She asks and you give her a soft smile. “I’m doing good.”

She nods with a smile that you know all too well. “I’m glad you’re back, now come on.”

You follow her, slightly behind but close enough. 

“Where exactly are we going again?” You wonder aloud as Carol slows to walk beside you. She glances up as she thinks and you wonder if she misses the stars, the need for nothing to hold her down. “Where do you want to go?” She asks after a few steps, turning to look at you and the sun makes her hair shine enough that you remember the first time you saw her glow, she was glorious and proud and showing no fear. 

Carol Danvers is a sight to behold. 

“Lost in the stars?” She nudges your shoulder when it takes too long to respond. 

“Not the only one,” You tease her and she shakes her head with a grin. “Always.”

“How was the mission?” She rolls her shoulders back and pushes her hands in her front pockets as the two of you stop at a crosswalk. 

“You know I can’t tell you.” You say as you press the arrow button three times just for good measure. Turning to her when it repeats that you have to wait. 

“Well,” She shrugs her shoulders and you raise an eyebrow at her as cars breeze past, people hurrying to work or doctors appointments or to meet family, everyone seems in a hurry to get to where they need to be.

“You know the rules, captain.” You remind her as you reach out and press the arrow again because you can. “Yeah,” Carol lets out a sigh before she takes a step closer, her eyes glued on the traffic light. 

“You’re okay though, right?” She sounds concerned and you choose not to look at her as the light turns green and the two of you start walking. 

The seconds count down as you walk across the street, big and red as it gets closer to zero. It reminds you of a timer and you find yourself biting your tongue to stay in the moment, away from the memories that have shaped you as you are. 

“I’m back,” You tell her as if she doesn't know. “I came back when I didn't want to.” 

“I know.” Voice low and soft, a realization to what's already known.

…

The whispers of the morning linger as the day draws on and you’re not quite able to forget what happened. 

You don’t think you’ll ever forget what happened. 

The echoes that were drowned by the pouring rain, the feather light touches that seem to linger still, the view you see when you close your eyes makes you wish this morning never ended.

She was so beautiful, so willing to give you everything. So very- 

“How’s Natasha?” Maybe you're trying to distract yourself from your thoughts, maybe you really do want to know how she’s doing. Maybe you still aren't running if you ask about her.

You glance over at Carol who’s picking apart her sandwich, pulling the bacon off and placing it on the side of the plate, she looks deep in thought and you don't want to repeat the question again, not if she’s lost to the stars at the moment.

“She was worried.” Her words are well thought out, slow and calculated and you know she’s trying to say the right things. “When you left, everyone was.”

She wipes her hands off with a napkin and you wonder if she will continue. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you were leaving?” She finally looks up from the food to look at you, she looks hurt and you swallow the guilt that you feel. 

“I did tell someone.” You respond after a second where you wish you didn't have to face what you did. Carol nods and you choose to grab a fry and eat half of it so you don't have to say anything more.  

“Yeah, you told one person.” You see her nibble at her bottom lip and yes you do feel guilty. 

You clear your throat before explaining more. “I told who I needed to, that was it.”

“But you didn’t tell her.” No, you suppose you didn’t.

She picks up her sandwich, elbows on the table as she goes to take a bite and you want her to let this conversation go, let it drift past like the wind that rustles the leaves that still cling to the tree.

But she stops short, looks you in the eyes when she says her next words, and you swear for just a split second she wasn't your friend anymore.

“You hurt her.”

You look away from eyes that have seen past the universe, eyes that blaze like burning suns. You look away and pick up the napkin that’s resting next to your drink, bring it into your lap and wad the tissue up in a ball.

A part of you knows she doesn't mean to hurt you with her words, hopes that she doesn't intend to rip open old wounds and let them bleed free, prays that she doesn't mean to blame the pain you feel on you.

“She hurt me.” Your words are a weak whisper, a declaration on your behalf. She knows this, the entire team knows this.

It’s not a secret well kept.

You let out a sigh when you accidentally drop the wadded up napkin on the ground, watch it roll away like it doesn't want to share your burden.

“You hurt everyone when you chose to run away.” The judgment in her voice makes you clench your jaw. “Do you know what happened after you left?”

“Do you really think I’m oblivious to the pain I’ve caused?” You look at her and you make sure not to let her see how much it hurts. “Do you really think I did this on purpose? I left because if I didnt I don't know what I would have done if I stayed.”

Maybe you ignore the knot in your stomach that makes you want to vomit, maybe you ignore the look in her eyes when she realizes that she might have pushed you too far, but you dont ignore the people who turn your way, the ones who eavesdrop and gossip.

The two of you have brought more attention to you than you're comfortable with. “I’m leaving.”

Your half eaten sandwich and few fries that are left stay on the table as you get to your feet and walk away.

…

The smell of salt and the view of the sea does nothing to help the nausea you feel. It should be relaxing and calming and able to push your worries away but it doesn't help.

You see the waves crash and chase each other, never still for more than a moment. The gulls that ride the breeze as it drags the smell of the ocean through the air, the pelicans that are not bothered by the crashing of dominance as they only look for fish close enough to steal.

It reminds you of home, of days full of sun and sand. Treasure hunts to find the biggest and prettiest shell you could, races to see who could build the tallest sandcastles. 

You wish it wasn't accompanied with the guilt in your stomach and the weight on your shoulders.

You want to run back to before you left your bed, you want to feel what you felt then. Safe, content, loved. 

You want to hide under the covers and bask in the warmth of the person next to you, you want to memorize the depths of the sky.

But here you are standing alone on a pier looking out at the sea feeling sick to your stomach and terrified of what you have to face.

You feel like such a terrible person.

For running, for feeling so many things you think you might break, for wanting to hang the towel up and say that you’re done, for begging for an excuse to not look her in the eyes. 

You wish that you never bought that ring, you wish you never even considered the idea. To want to marry her, to want to share her name, to want for things you knew were out of reach.

With a breath that brings you almost to tears, you try to ignore the way your feelings seem to bleed out for all to see.

You love her, you still love her. You don't think you'll ever stop loving her. But Natasha chose what happened, she decided that you weren't enough, that she wasn't enough.

“I’m sorry.” You watch as a boat moves through the sea at a crawl, slowly growing smaller as it bravely sets out for some adventure you hope is fulfilling. 

“I don't want your pity, I don't want your regret.” You say the words you hope she will listen to as you lean back and gaze at the sky, hands still holding the wooden railing. 

You let out a breath that is stolen by the breeze as you force yourself to leave a fraction of your pain where you stand. 

The view above you is still so blue and bright, not a cloud in sight and you remember this morning with a sad smile.

You've always loved how Maria's eyes share the color of the sky.

“I just want you to be my friend.” You turn to the blonde when you speak those words. 

“Okay.” She nods and you give her a smile before letting go of the railing and walking back to the beach. She doesn't say anything more as she comes to walk beside you and even though you know there is something on her mind you choose to take what she’s given you.

…

Steve greets you with a cautious smile when you finally give in and follow Carol to the compound and even though you still haven't completely forgiven him you smile back.

“How are you?” He asks after Carol excuses herself and you shrug off his comment with a shrug. 

“How are you? You look good.” You notice his hair is a little longer and he hasn’t shaved in a few days but he looks well rested and not so brought down by the weight of so many responsibilities that come with being such a hero. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.” He nods and you watch as hair falls in his face. 

“You need a haircut buddy.” You tease him and Steve glares at you playfully before he runs his hand through his hair and that does absolutely nothing to fix it. 

“I kind of like it.” He admits with a shrug and you nod, it does look good on him.

“You just get back?” He asks and you smile through the lie. “Yeah, just got back.”

You follow him into the kitchen where you hear the familiar sound of the coffee maker, taking a seat on one of the empty stools that stand at the kitchen island as he goes to grab a cup from one of the cabinets.

“Why are you having coffee now?” You ask in curiosity and Steve does a terrible job at hiding his amusement as he places his cup next to the coffee maker and waits. 

“It’s not for me,” He gives no more explanation than that and you only wonder who it’s for, the coffee mug he chose doesn't look familiar.

“Cool, cool.” You nod before silence pushes its way between the two of you, and you can't help the selfishness you feel for blaming him for what happened back then, for not hearing him through when he tried to explain before you left. 

You felt so many things back then, so much and so deeply and you don't even know how you didn’t end up do something stupid or reckless. 

A part of you had wanted to follow her when she walked out, wanted to understand why she thought you weren't enough for her.

Maybe it was your pride, maybe it was your bleeding heart that rooted you down making it impossible to move, or maybe it was the fear of everything blowing up even more than it already had but you let her walk away.

“I don’t want what you want.” 

The words ring in your mind like church bells, loud and all consuming, echoing but never leaving you in silence. 

“I’m sorry.” The soft spoken apology brings you back from thoughts of the past and you blink away the tears that carry your pain.

“It's…” You trail off.

Not okay. 

You wish you could forgive him, you wish you didn't blame him even just a little but you do and you don't know when you can fully forgive him for something that wasn’t solely his fault. “You were only doing what I asked you to, it’s not… your fault.” He nods at your words before turning and busying his hands with pouring the coffee into the mug.

He told you once, before you got the courage to ask Natasha out, that he thought the two of you would be good for each other. That you should face the uncertainty of her feelings toward you with confidence, you would never know if you didn't ask, right?

“You’re still my friend Steve. That hasn’t changed.”

You call out as he’s about to turn the corner to leave the kitchen, you need him to know that. That no matter what, he’s still your friend.

He gives you a nod that lets you know you haven't lost him and you breathe a little easier.

...

“Hey,” You don't turn around to see her, you don't look up from the glass of brandy in your hands, you don't think you can. 

“It’s… good to see you.” 

“Yep.” You mutter as you finish your drink and place it down on the counter. “So good,” The sarcasm is clear in your voice and you ignore the urge to look up when you feel that she’s moving closer.

You don't want to look up, you don’t want to see her a year older than before. You don't want to feel your chest cave in when you see her, when the breath is stolen from you and held hostage.

You missed her, god you missed her so much and now she’s right here and you can’t even look at her. 

“I’m sorry.” Maybe it’s the drinks you’ve had or maybe it's the emotions that keep piling up that pull the words from you, but all you know is that they ring true. 

You’re apologizing to her and a part of you wants to snatch it back before it takes flight, before there is no way you can get it back. 

But you are sorry, for being weak, for falling head over heels for her, for loving her so much that she had to turn away to breathe. 

“I’m sorry.”

...

[handwrittenhello]

gave you wings

T, Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer, 4k, modern-with-magic AU. When Geralt is woken one morning by a crow tapping at his window, he finds that it's no ordinary crow--it's a shifter, bound in animal form by a nasty spell.

read here on ao3, or below:

---

Geralt was roused from sleep by something persistent tapping at his window. With a groan, he rolled over—catching sight of his alarm clock flashing 3:48 as he did—and went to investigate.

He hoped it wasn’t one of the local kids again—lately they’d become far too fond of daring each other to throw rocks at his windows. It almost made him long for the times when witchers were feared and hated—nobody would dare risk provoking him so stupidly.

When he opened the window, though, it wasn’t kids throwing rocks—no, a crow sat on his windowsill, a pebble clutched in its beak, which it promptly dropped when it saw Geralt.

“Scram,” Geralt muttered, waving it away, but all it did was hop sideways a bit before letting out a loud caw.

Geralt furrowed his brow. “Get out of here,” he said a bit louder, trying to shoo it away again. It deftly avoided his hands, flapping a little to maintain balance on the narrow sill, before hopping onto his hands and letting out an even louder CAW.

This was no ordinary crow. Why else would it be tapping on his window so early in the morning, and so unafraid of his closeness? “Fuck,” he muttered, and left the window open while he went to brew a pot of coffee.

--

The crow seemed quite at home perched atop his kitchen counter, watching him with its beady eyes as he leaned back against the fridge and downed a cup of heavily sugared coffee. “So,” Geralt finally said, setting down his mug on the counter. “What’s so important that you got me out of bed at four in the morning for?”

The crow drew itself up and ruffled its feathers, as if readying itself for a speech. It was a strangely human gesture—Geralt was reminded that they wouldn’t get very far with the crow not being able to speak.

“Hm. Can you even understand me?” Geralt backtracked, earning himself an indignant look and a low rattling sound. But the crow bobbed its head up and down in a sure nod. “But you can’t speak.” Another nod.

The crow hopped closer, then, until it was almost atop Geralt’s hand lying on the countertop. Geralt caught a flash of something shiny around its leg—was there something wrapped around it? But when he made to reach for it, the crow skittered backwards, making another low rattle and fluffing up its feathers.

“It’s alright, I just want to look,” Geralt soothed, stilling his hand. The rattle stopped, and the bird hopped hesitantly closer. Geralt waited for it to come to him, motionless and patient. Only when it perched on his hand did he bring it closer, peering intently at its leg.

A silver chain, so fine as to be nearly invisible to the eye, wound its way around the crow’s leg. This close, he could see the barely-there, shimmering aura around it—it was surely enchanted. Likely a binding charm—chains rarely served any other purpose in spells.

Geralt whistled lowly. “No ordinary crow, then,” he surmised, though he’d already known. “Human?”

The crow rattled its displeasure at the term—so it wasn’t transfigured, then. But it was still clearly sentient—

“Ah,” Geralt said, an idea dawning. “A shifter.”

Sometimes called weyr, in the old tongue—as survived in words like werewolf—the species was exceedingly rare. Even before monsters and chaos had dwindled down to nearly nothing, one would be hard-pressed to encounter a shifter, let alone recognize one upon seeing it. In human form, they were indistinguishable from anyone else, by the naked eye or by magic. They retained their wits in their animal form, too, so unless one was careless enough to be seen shifting, it was nigh impossible for them to be caught.

Their rarity had made them a target by mages and non-mages alike—they were either hunted in hopes of harnessing their unique connection to chaos, or else were pursued by the ignorant who feared anything strange.

It was nothing short of a miracle, one showing up at Geralt’s door (or window, rather).

“Someone caught you. A mage,” Geralt guessed. Only a powerful magic user would be able to bind a shifter so thoroughly. “But why are you here?”

The crow cawed and launched itself towards Geralt’s throat. Geralt jerked his head back, but he had nothing to fear—the crow was pecking at the witcher medallion that lay in the hollow of his throat.

“My friend, you’d be far better off going to a mage. I have skill with breaking curses, but none so complex as yours,” Geralt confessed.

The crow let out an ear-splitting screech. Geralt slammed his hands over his ears. That would be a resounding no, then. He decided not to broach the matter of payment just then.

He eyed the crow, wary of another reaction. When none was forthcoming, he cautiously lowered his hands, the crow watching him intently all the while—waiting for an answer.

“I’ll help you,” Geralt decided. Well, he had decided the moment he’d let the crow inside, really, but it was easier to pretend he’d made an informed decision. “May I see the charm again?”

The crow obliged, fidgeting in place but mostly managing to hold still while Geralt inspected the chain. Though it was fine, he doubted it would be as simple as snapping it—that didn’t stop him from trying anyway, though the moment he touched it, the crow screeched and beat him back with its wings, before retreating to atop the fridge. There it huddled, fussing fretfully at its leg—and then Geralt saw, almost obscured by feathers but visible when looking for it, the dark skin beneath the chain, the blackened marks that resulted from a bad burn.

“Enchanted and cursed, then. I apologize.” The crow glared at him, not moving from its spot stop the fridge and out of reach. “I won’t touch it again. I promise,” Geralt vowed, sorry that he had caused any pain in the first place.

The crow huffed, but flapped back down to the counter. It watched Geralt, waiting for his next move.

“Come with me,” Geralt said, grabbing his jacket and keys.

--

The crow gripped the handlebars of Geralt’s motorbike tightly, the wind whipping past and threatening to dislodge it. It kept starting to open its wings, only to force them closed again, as if it was reminding itself that it wasn’t actually flying. Geralt kept a close watch anyway, afraid that if he took a turn too sharply or revved the engine too suddenly, the crow would be thrown off and crushed beneath the wheels of another vehicle.

Should’ve taken a taxi, Geralt thought to himself, but it was too late now. They were already on the freeway to Vengerberg, where a certain violet-eyed sorceress kept a summer home. He supposed he could have called ahead, but he still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of cell phones—always forgot it whenever he went anywhere—and besides, Yennefer always appreciated a good surprise.

Geralt chased the sun east, watching as the horizon in front of him slowly went from indigo blue to purple to stunning gold as the sun rose. They crossed the border into Aedirn sometime mid-morning, and Geralt pulled over to a rest stop to refuel and grab something to eat.

The crow perched atop his shoulder as he entered the gas station, preening its feathers into place after being disturbed by the wind. The attendant stared openly, though Geralt was sure she must have seen weirder. He ignored it and grabbed a packet of sunflower seeds for the crow and some beef jerky for himself.

“Five sixty-eight,” the attendant said when he came up to the register, followed by, “Nice pet.”

The crow looked up from its preening and cawed loudly at her.

“He’s not a pet,” Geralt said mildly, then grabbed his food and left. While he stretched his legs out at a picnic table, the crow stretched its wings, flapping in circles above his head. Every so often, it would land briefly on the table and peck at the sunflower seeds Geralt had scattered there, before returning to its circling.

Geralt ate his jerky leisurely, and debated going back in for a soda.

--

After half an hour, Geralt felt they had delayed long enough. The crow was likely anxious to get going, and Geralt would be lying if he said he wasn’t as well. He got to his feet and whistled for the crow, which had steadily flown in greater and greater circles, and had since disappeared briefly from sight. Geralt wasn’t overly worried—until the crow didn’t show up. Geralt wished he knew what to call it—he would’ve felt stupid calling it ‘crow’.

He whistled again, louder and longer this time. Nothing happened for one second, two, and then Geralt heard it, and only thanks to his enhanced senses—frantic cawing and flapping wings among the trees behind the rest stop.

He broke out into a run, pushing aside the thin branches that snapped at his face as he fought his way through the undergrowth. The cawing was near, now, and Geralt heard tense voices accompanying.

“The cage—get the cage—!”

Geralt broke through the trees to a small clearing, stopping stunned at the sight in front of him. A silver woven net lay tangled in a heap on the ground in one corner, and opposite was a steel cage, door hanging open and waiting for an occupant. There were feathers scattered everywhere, and Geralt smelled traces of blood in the air.

And in the middle of the clearing was the source of the commotion—the crow flapped wildly above the heads of two men, talons extended and trying to scratch at their faces, while they flailed about with nets, not unlike the kind used to catch insects, though a bit bigger. A third man, older, wizened, stood apart, his eyes closed in concentration as he muttered something under his breath. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat.

Stregobor.

It had been centuries since Geralt had seen him, though he’d heard plenty about his latest exploits in the news—he was said to be making great strides in magical research, investigating transformative magic and its applications. Geralt had often tuned it out, but now it all made sense—if he wasn’t the one who had bound the crow shifter to a single form for some nefarious purpose, Geralt would eat his bike.

He wasted no time in instantly tackling Stregobor to the ground, disrupting the spell he was casting. The crow seemed to be holding its own against the two men with nets for the time being, though Geralt knew he needed to hurry—the scent of blood was growing stronger, the crow actively bleeding. He had the element of surprise, and didn’t waste it—he grappled with Stregobor, surprised at the strength the old mage still had even after so many centuries.

There was a sudden cry of pain behind him—Geralt thought it was human and not avian, but he couldn’t tell for sure. It distracted him momentarily, and that was all Stregobor needed to shout something in Elder that had Geralt flying backwards.

His back hit the ground hard, stunning him for half a second. Stregobor got to his feet, brushing the debris from his clothes—he still wore robes, even after all this time—and shot a bolt of light towards the crow.

It hit it in the wing, sending it tumbling out of the air in a heap of feathers. One of the men with a net—the only one still standing, the other writhing on the ground and clutching his bleeding face—slammed his net down onto the motionless crow with far too much force.

Geralt caught his breath and rolled to his feet, launching himself at the man that had the crow captive. He knocked him unconscious easily with a swift blow to the head, but that was as far as he got before Stregobor sent another pulse of magic towards him.

He dodged. It missed him by a hair, screaming past his head and exploding against a tree behind him.

“Stay out of this, witcher,” Stregobor warned, readying another spell. “This doesn’t have to concern you.”

“Let the shifter go and you’ll never have to see me again.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Stregobor replied, and threw the spell at Geralt. Geralt dodged again, but too slowly—it clipped his arm. Hot, agonizing pain spread from the area.

If this turned into a fight between magic and witcher skills, there was no question who would win. Geralt made a snap decision, scooping the crow off the ground and darting out of the clearing, heading back towards the rest stop.

Stregobor was hopefully depleted after the many spells he had already cast—Geralt could only hope that he wasted the rest of his energy by chasing him through the brush. If they could just get to Yennefer’s…

Sure enough, as he sprinted towards his bike, Geralt heard Stregobor yelling curses behind him. Once or twice a bolt of magic went flying by, but it missed every time.

As Geralt broke through the tree line, he hoped that he had finally lost Stregobor. He straddled his bike and tucked the crow inside his jacket, hissing in apology when he jarred the crow’s injured wing. With a roar of the engine he peeled out onto the freeway, speeding east to Vengerberg.

--

Though there was nobody pursuing them, Geralt still felt hunted as he pulled his bike into Yennefer’s expansive driveway. He all but ran to her door, pounding urgently on it, regretting not calling ahead so that she knew to expect them.

Luckily, she answered only moments later. “Do you have wards up?” was the first thing Geralt asked.

“Yes. Do you know how alarming it is for that to be the first thing you say after not seeing each other for months?” Yennefer asked, beckoning him in.

“Have to be sure,” Geralt grunted. “Got a problem, and I don’t know if I was followed.”

“Would it kill you to bring flowers or wine instead of a problem every time you come by?” Yennefer sighed. “What is it?”

Geralt unzipped his jacket and carefully extracted the crow. It was no longer unconscious, but drowsy would be an understatement—it looked on the verge of a coma, eyes half-closed and breathing shallow. A few loose feathers drifted to the ground.

“Pest Services might be more apt,” Yennefer started to say, but paused when the silver chain caught her eye. “Ah. Binding spell? Friend of yours?”

“No. I’m for hire,” Geralt said, conveniently leaving out the part where he’d received no such payment. “It’s a shifter. Wanted by Stregobor—probably for research.”

The skin around Yennefer’s eyes tightened ever so slightly—he dared to call it concern for the shifter—and she gritted her teeth—and that he knew was deep-rooted hatred for Stregobor.

“Bring him to my workroom.”

He followed her upstairs, where she kept most of her magical equipment. With a wave of her hand, she cleared the books and various sundries from the worktable against the wall, and indicated for Geralt to lay the crow down on it. He did so carefully, mindful of its injuries, and hesitantly stepped back. Yennefer didn’t appreciate hovering, but he couldn’t fight back his protective instincts that had been roaring ever since the fight.

Yennefer leaned over the crow, inspecting. Her hands went to the chain, and Geralt’s heart skipped a beat. “Don’t,” he warned, stepping forward and reaching out as if to physically stop her.

“I know,” she snapped back. “Believe it or not, I’ve seen a binding spell or two in my time, Geralt.” But she showed demonstrably more care in handling the crow, then, lest he become alarmed again.

She moved on to inspecting the crow’s wing, then, frowning at what she saw. “This was a magical injury, yes?”

“Yes. One of Stregobor’s spells—it was a bolt of light, caught it in the wing.”

“Well, lucky for it, the damage is physical only, from what I can tell. Stregobor likely meant to stun it only. Hence the lifelessness. It’ll wear off within the hour.”

Geralt let out a sigh of relief at hearing the diagnosis. Physical injuries, those he knew what to expect, how to deal with them. Now what worried him most was the binding spell.

“And the chain? Can you remove it without hurting it?”

Yennefer pursed her lips. “No. It’s an extremely strong bond—the sort not taken as a trifle. Forging a connection like this without the shifter’s consent…” She shook her head. “It’s a violation of the worst sort, Geralt.”

Geralt’s heart thudded in his chest. He wet his lips. “So what do we do?” He gazed at the poor crow, looking so small and hopeless where it lay. He couldn’t put words to his horror—being bound body and soul, and to Stregobor, no less.

“There are… theories, things I’ve read, but you have to understand,” Yennefer said, pinning his gaze, “I don’t suggest what I’m about to lightly.”

A pit formed in Geralt’s stomach. “What is it?” It couldn’t be worse than the binding spell, could it?

“If we formed another bond, one even stronger than this, it would give us room to throw off the old one. But the strength required… it would be ironclad, unbreakable. The shifter would spend the rest of its very long life bound to us.”

Even now, some eight hundred years later, Geralt thought back to the djinn in Rinde, to the connection that had once bound their destinies together, and he knew she was remembering it too. “Yen…” he trailed off. How did he put it to words? How did he express his understanding, acknowledge that she was trying to help, while warning her of doing the same thing she’d opposed so strongly then?

But then, looking into her eyes and seeing the haunted look there, he knew that he didn’t have to. She had already had this conversation with herself, and, seeing no other option, had accepted her role as becoming exactly what she hated.

A weak croak caught their attention. Geralt looked over and saw that the crow was looking slightly more lively—it had managed to sit up, at least, though it still looked bedraggled and unsteady. “Are you feeling any better?” he asked, and received a delayed nod. Then a thought struck him. “Yen, can you…?”

“Read his thoughts? I would, but they’re too muddled. I don’t know if it’s the result of the spell or if it’s always like this in animal form. I’ve never met a shifter personally, and gods know there’s hardly any literature on them.”

The crow got shakily to its feet, and before either Geralt or Yennefer could stop it, it flew up to perch on Geralt’s shoulder, nuzzling in close to his neck. He instinctively put a hand up to cradle it in place—the last thing it needed was to fall off.

“Well, then? Clearly it’s gotten attached,” Yennefer said, arching an eyebrow.

“I don’t—I don’t know.” How could he make this decision? It was too big, too important. He held the shifter’s life in his hands, and the knowledge terrified him.

The crow nipped him on the ear. “Ow,” Geralt complained, but was drowned out by the crow cawing in his ear. He suddenly felt very foolish indeed—the crow had heard them discussing it, must have, and they hadn’t even considered asking it its opinion of the matter. “Hm. I’m sorry that we can’t give you a better option.”

The crow cawed again, softer, and nibbled gently at his ear. It’s alright, it seemed to be saying, or perhaps I understand.

“It’s your decision,” Yennefer said. “I can bind you to us—permanently—in order to break the bond with Stregobor. Or, if you’d rather, you can live out your days here, and I give you my word that no harm will you come to you—though the bond would remain.”

The crow rattled in disgust. It nipped gently once more at Geralt’s ear, then flapped-hopped over to Yennefer’s shoulder, where it began preening her hair. Geralt couldn’t believe that she would allow it, but she made no move to dislodge the crow.

“Is that a yes?” he asked nervously, anticipation curdling in his stomach. The crow stopped its preening, looked directly at Geralt, and bobbed its head up and down neatly.

“Alright,” Yennefer said softly.

--

They cleared out all the furniture for the ritual that would replace the bond. The crow watched them, perched atop the table, until they had to move that too, and then it clung to Geralt’s shoulder as he worked. Finally, the room was clear, and Yennefer drew a large chalk circle on the floor.

Geralt took his designated seat warily, nerves making his skin prickle. Yennefer sat opposite him, legs crossed, while the crow was sat in between. Yennefer dimmed the lights and closed her eyes—he copied her, relying on his other senses.

He smelled smoke as Yennefer lit the bundle of herbs she’d gathered, heard the soft susurrus of the crow’s feathers as it shifted. As she began to chant, he felt the characteristic tingle of magical energy settling over him like a second skin—the bonding had started.

Yennefer’s chanting grew steadily louder, and behind his eyelids Geralt saw the light of the candles flare even brighter. The crow’s fidgeting grew wilder, and little croaks began to make their way out of its throat.

Geralt hoped it wasn’t hurting—and if it was, he hoped it would be over soon.

He himself was in no pain at all, besides the discomfort that came with all magic cast on him. He gritted his teeth and bore it, until all at once it stopped—the candles went out, Yennefer gasped once, and the silver chain around the crow’s leg fell to the floor with a soft clink.

Geralt’s eyes flew open, and where the crow had been only moments before, there was now a pair of legs—bare—and when Geralt followed them upwards, there was an entire man—also bare. Geralt blinked a few times, mind blank, before averting his gaze.

“Well,” the shifter said, smacking his lips. “That was unpleasant.” And Geralt watched as his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, too quickly for Geralt to catch him.

“He’ll be fine,” Yennefer said, getting to her feet. She swayed a little as she stood, and Geralt ached to steady her—something she would never accept. “The bonding took a lot out of all of us—him most of all.”

Geralt hummed, gathering up the shifter in his arms. He weighed more than he looked—or perhaps Geralt was simply used to his weight as a crow. While Yennefer put her things back in order, Geralt carried the shifter to the guest room, tucking him into bed and feeling strangely fond as he did so.

“It’s the bond,” Yennefer explained, leaning in the doorway and watching the whole affair. She ambled over to the bed and sat down next to the shifter, reaching over to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Can you feel it?”

He could, he realized, when he reached deep inside. Just beside the djinn’s magic that tied him to Yennefer, he felt a fledgling something, a fluttering newness that nipped and tugged at his breastbone.

“That’s him?” Geralt asked, though he didn’t need the confirmation—he knew it as surely as he knew himself.

Yennefer nodded, dropping her arm and standing up. “Leave him to his rest. I imagine he’ll need some time to acclimate to the bond—we all will, for that matter.”

Though Geralt wanted nothing more than to stay and study the shifter, watch over him until he woke, he followed Yennefer out of the room, shutting the door softly so as not to disturb him.

--

The shifter woke some hours later, after Geralt and Yennefer had eaten a late lunch and were debating if it would be worth eating dinner. The shifter stumbled down the stairs, interrupting their discussion, and said, quite plainly, “Are we talking dinner? I’m starving.”

“You’re up,” Yennefer replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” the shifter—Geralt really needed to ask his name—answered. “Sunflower seeds are nice and all, but really, nothing compares to a good hot meal.”

He was wrapped in the bedsheet, Geralt realized suddenly. Of course—he had no clothes. It didn’t seem to overly bother him, though, as he crossed the room and promptly deposited himself on Geralt’s lap, wiggling a bit to get comfortable. Geralt’s hands came up automatically to wrap around his waist.

“And your wing?” Yennefer asked.

“Oh, good as new!” the shifter replied cheerily, untangling his arm from the bedsheet and wiggling it in demonstration. “Healed right up as soon as that awful binding spell was gone.” He turned to look at Geralt. “Thank you, by the way. You didn’t have to help me—I know it was a lot of trouble.”

“It’s alright,” Geralt answered. “I wouldn’t leave you to Stregobor.”

The shifter shuddered. Geralt held him a bit tighter. “Ugh. He caught me unaware—normally I’m careful, but this very handsome man bought me a drink, and then another, and then before I knew it I was being manhandled into the back of a car. And I thought, well, can’t be manhandled if I’m not a man, but then he had that awful chain…”

“You’re not the first to fall victim to him. Though binding a shifter to him is a new low,” Yennefer said darkly.

Guilt tightened in Geralt’s gut. It was different, what they had done—but was it really? It was still a bond the shifter had been forced into. He moved the shifter off his lap, ignoring the hurt look that he flashed him. “Need to go for a walk,” Geralt grunted, and headed for the door.

“Don’t mind him,” he heard Yennefer say behind him. “Let him clear his head and then he’ll be back. In the meantime—what do you say to pasta?”

The door shut heavily behind Geralt, cutting off their voices, giving him room to think. The bond still pulsed heartily in his chest, but like this, it was muted enough for him to catch his breath.

How was the shifter so blasé about it? Surely he understood the fact that he was now permanently bound to two strangers?

Geralt jammed his hands in his pockets and started to walk, focusing only on his feet hitting the ground and the evening calls of the bird around him.

By the time his thoughts had settled and he’d made his way back to the house, the sun was setting, and a deep tiredness was settling into his bones. The early morning and excitement of the day were catching up with him.

He could hear Yennefer and the shifter inside, chatting, and hesitated on the doorstep. He suddenly felt as if he were intruding—what right did he have to storm off in the middle of a conversation and expect them to welcome him back seamlessly? Clearly they were getting along just fine without him.

The door opened suddenly and a gust of wind at his back urged him inside. Yennefer. He let her guide him to the kitchen, where the shifter stood washing dishes at the sink and she sat on the counter. “Ah, you’re back!” the shifter said, setting down the plate it was washing.

“Jaskier was just telling me about your trip here. It sounded quite exciting,” Yennefer teased.

“I like a bit of adventure, but I could do without the almost-kidnapping,” Jaskier said, leaning in closer to Geralt. “Lucky I had you there, I suppose.”

“Hm.” Geralt hesitantly lifted an arm, and Jaskier wasted no time in burrowing into his side. “Lucky.”

“And lucky you have such wonderful friends as Yennefer,” Jaskier continued, looking meaningfully at Yennefer. She raised an eyebrow, but hopped off the counter and sidled closer. Geralt let her sink into his side too, holding them both tightly, and felt the thrumming bond inside of him settle in contentment at having them close.

Lucky indeed.

[sooibian]

So Let's Runaway - Prologue

photocreds @tuanzie​

Pairing: Kyungsoo x Fem!Reader ft. bff!Chanyeol

Genre / Themes: Fluff, mild angst, travel AU, road trip through Spain, travel buddies Chansoo!

Warnings: Themes of grief / loss, heartache, toxic relationships, strong language, i guess..

Description: An unlikely group of three comes together for the journey of a lifetime.

A/N: This fic is part of @supermwritersnet​ “Around the world in 31 days event”. Inspired by the Hindi movie Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara. Uploading prematurely so as to stop obsessing over the prologue and get cracking on the travelogue which requires a tonne of research. Let me know if you’d like a tag on the upcoming chapter(s) due for upload on 19th July 2021.

Word Count: 3k *unedited*

____________________________

Doh Kyungsoo had dragged his feet up the endless flight of stairs seeking solitude...not drama.

A stranger, just one misstep away from a fatal fall, was the last thing he’d expected to find on the rooftop of Seoul’s Park Hyatt at three in the morning. He slipped the rooftop access key card (that he’d borrowed from the security guard in exchange for a 50,000 won bill) in the back pocket of his trousers while simultaneously dwelling on the depths of the rot of corruption. He had half a mind to turn away and forget that he’d just seen someone contemplating their existence on the ledge of a highrise but there was something about you that rooted him to the spot. Dressed in fine evening wear, you’d stretched your arms out like wings as you looked up at the vast expanse of midnight blue, the wind kissing your wild, waist length hair. From his standpoint, you looked oddly at peace.

Kyungsoo had never been an idealist or a victim of the white knight syndrome. He wasn’t one to delve into the ethical and philosophical conundrums for most things in life because to him it was all just a waste of time. Seeing you on the parapet filled him with neither sympathy nor worry. It was your life after all and with it you could do whatever you deemed fit as long as you weren’t inconveniencing others. Scratch that.

As long as you weren’t inconveniencing him.

But right now, unbeknownst to you, you were inconveniencing Seoul’s hottest financial broker, Doh Kyungsoo.

He wasn’t invisible to the hotel’s security cameras and being labelled suspect in an abetment to suicide investigation wasn't exactly what he was looking for after the day he’d had. Albeit inebriated and heavy-eyed, he could effectively calculate the logistics involved in pulling you off the ledge with the cacophony of the omnipresent Seoul traffic drowning out the sound of his footsteps.

Bracing himself for superficial bruises from the impact of falling to the right side of the precipice with the weight of an adult human pressing down on his 173 cm high frame, he took off his custom tailored blazer (that had been flown in from Vietnam especially for that evening) and folded it in half, making sure that the lapels touched. Some habits are hard to shake. He put the blazer on the ground as a makeshift floorcloth for the rest of his belongings. With his back facing you, he allowed himself a moment's peace as he loosened his tie, languidly rolled the sleeves of his pristine white dress shirt up to his elbows, freed himself off the Rolex Cellini on his left wrist, his Bottega Veneta fine leather wallet, and the cursed Tiffany Blue Box that he simply couldn’t bear to look at anymore and neatly placed them all on the blazer.

Letting out a deep exhale, he muttered curses under his breath before turning to your silhouette only to find it...gone.

Kyungsoo’s eyes narrowed and then immediately grew into large circles as he grappled with the shocking turn of events. An inexplicable heaviness bloomed in his chest and he felt sick to the stomach which, in a state of denial, he chalked up to the dubious mixture of spirits he’d downed not too long ago.

Before he could find his bearings and figure out what to do next, a light tap on his shoulder made him jump. His jaw went slack and his heart threatened to leap out of his chest to find you casually smiling at him. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to climb onto the very same ledge and scream into the void but he simply stood there, mouth agape, wanting to say a million things but he could hardly muster a peep.

Reading the confusion painted across his sharp, well defined features, you uttered an unsure, “Hi?”

“I thought you’d jumped,” he whispered, head tilted to the side, his compelling, bloodshot eyes locked with yours.

“Says someone who’s unusually jumpy,” you jested, but your expression immediately turned solemn when you caught the tremble in his right hand. “Are you on something?”

There came about a sudden shift in his aura. Hands on hips, he deadpanned, “Why? Are you with the cops?”

“No, don’t worry,” you let out a soft chuckle and he started scrambling for his things, “How long have you been standing here?”

Hastily stuffing everything into the pocket of his well fitted trousers, he muttered something along the lines of ‘Chaos. Just chaos everywhere!’

Leaning into his frame, you quipped, “What’s that?”

Alarmed and goggle-eyed, he snapped, “Nevermind,” and turned towards the exit.

“Hey! You seem to have forgotten something!” You called out after him upon finding his blazer on the ground, the silken sheen of it reflecting a myriad of citylights.

No answer.

“I wasn’t going to jump!” You yodelled childishly but the man was long gone.

.

.

.

Seven Hours Earlier

“Natasha -” Kyungsoo huffed.

The feather light Tiffany 1873 Blue Box in his left hand had suddenly started to feel like a giant boulder weighing down on his entire being. The sparkle of the uncut diamond reflected in his misty eyes as her uncharacteristically stoic silence left him struggling for words. He searched Natasha’s face for a hint of mischief...he so desperately wished for her to crack a sly smile and pull him in for a kiss and whisper ‘Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!’ against his lips like they do in the movies, that he’d almost started to imagine it. It had to have been some sort of an ugly prank.

What reason does she have to turn me down? he wondered.

Kyungsoo breached the uncomfortable spell of silence with a desperate plea, “Say something!” the throbbing in his head intensifying by the second.

Did these three years mean nothing to you? What did I do wrong? Do you hate the ring? Is this not the kind of proposal you wished for? Is it because I left the bathroom lights on all night? Or is it because I forgot to wish your mother on her birthday? A flurry of questions spawned in Kyungsoo’s mind only to die at the tip of his tongue.

“I’m sorry, Kyungsoo, but I can’t do this. I just -” Natasha spoke finally. Gingerly shifting the weight of the box onto the ebony restaurant table, she slammed it shut as if the ring had been eyeing her lecherously.

Meeting Kyungsoo’s gaze almost defiantly, she declared, “Kyungsoo, I don’t think that I could be the kind of wife that would make you happy and I don’t think you could make me happy either.”

.

.

.

Two Weeks Later

Setting your eyes on that distinct pair of Dumbo ears, you excitedly weaved through the peak hour coffee shop crowd with an Iced Americano held firmly in one hand. Slamming the beverage down on the table, you engulfed his giant frame in a back hug and squealed, “Park Chanyeol!”

His wide eyes turned into even bigger brown circles and his mouth rounded into an ‘o’ in surprise. Grinning, he got off the uncomfortably tiny coffee shop chair and wordlessly pulled you in for what was famously known in Uni as a ‘Classic Chanyeol Hug’. You didn’t know how much you missed it until you felt your worries immediately dissipate into nothingness.

He hugged you a little tighter the moment you started to pull away before taking your hands in his and stooping down to your eye level. “Shifu, my love! You’re back in Seoul?!” Chanyeol exclaimed with all the love in the world sparking in the depths of his dark eyes.

Even after all this time, it felt as if nothing had changed….you’d suddenly been whizzed into a not-so-distant ‘Gothic architecture and coffee shops’ past in which a cotton candy haired boy, dressed in a pair of freshly ironed beige chinos and a plain white tee, smiles his sweetest smile simply at the sight of you. Chanyeol always felt like home. Funnily enough, even more so at the moment.

Giving him a good natured smile, you nodded in response, albeit cringing a little on the inside. Having been President of the martial arts club back in the days, you got stuck with an ingenious moniker “Shifu” which you clearly couldn’t shake off even after half a decade since graduation. You did a double take when your gaze veered to acknowledge the person seated opposite Chanyeol who, dressed in an ivory business suit, almost blended into the background. Just the way you could spot Chanyeol’s ears from a million miles away, you could recognize those eyes anywhere and right now they were shooting daggers at you.

“OH! Hi!”

His response to your greeting was a curt nod accompanying a vague hand movement, something between a hi and a failed facepalm.

At this Chanyeol guffawed, “You two know each other?”, his keen gaze rapidly flitting between the two of you.

“Yes -”

“No -”

While gesturing you to take a seat at their table, Chanyeol slumped into his chair and pursued the conversation in a voice laced with amusement, “So which is it?”

You gave your head a little shake, signalling Chanyeol to drop the topic since his friend had made his apprehension quite evident with an unambiguous “No” when asked if he knew you. Which...wasn’t entirely untrue. Even though Chanyeol now seemed to be on the same page as you, for good measure, you deflected his question with a polite, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Absolutely not!” Chanyeol assured, deftly steering the conversation back to you, “We could actually use your advice on something but first, Shifu, look at you! How long has it been? Five years?”

“Five years!”

“Wahhh! What brings you back to Seoul?”

With a wistful smile, you answered, “Appa passed away in April...”

“Oh, I’m- I’m so sorry -” stuttered Chanyeol, immediately placing his hand on your arm and giving it a light squeeze. From the corner of your eye you noticed Chanyeol’s friend chewing on his bottom lip and listening to this exchange with rapt attention.

“No, no, it’s erm...we’re doing okay now, I guess-”

It had been two and a half months but every time you talked about it, a black hole burgeoned right in the middle of your chest, sucking you within itself and rendering you breathless. You still hadn’t picked up the art of condoling the “condoler”. What were you even supposed to say to the faultless “I’m sorry”? Who came up with condolence jargon, anyway?

“I’m sorry we haven’t been in touch - ”

“Oh, please. You know how it is after Uni, isn’t it,” you turned to Chanyeol’s friend to make him feel a little less left out, “what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” he answered in a clipped tone while mindlessly scrolling through his phone.

“Yah!” Chanyeol chastised him with a deathly glare before continuing with an impish smile, “He’s Doh Kyungsoo.”

“Ah! So he’s Doh Kyungsoo! I’ve heard a great deal about you!” Your enthusiasm invoked a quick cursory smile from him. Doh Kyungsoo had apparently made it his life’s mission to make this unexpected rendezvous as icky as possible, leaving you to wonder if Chanyeol had ever discussed your brief relationship with him. Ex-girlfriend meets best friend? Not an ideal scenario in any part of the world.

Chanyeol and you had gone out for a couple of weeks towards the end of freshman year until you both realized that you were much better off as friends. Despite being joined at the hip in Uni, the two of you had gone your separate ways after post-grad. While he returned to Seoul to join the family business, you’d stayed back in Milan to explore job opportunities. Messages and phone calls became few and far between and it wasn’t long before both of you had completely lost touch with each other.

And it wasn’t until you met him again that you realized how desperately you needed a friend considering everything that had been going on in your life. You selfishly wished for Kyungsoo to leave you two to catch up on all these years spent apart but clearly that was a lot to ask considering how tacitly territorial he seemed to be getting about Chanyeol.

“So what was it that you wanted to talk about?” you asked in another feeble attempt to water down the rancour.

Chanyeol’s features flared into a bashful smile but the moment he opened his mouth to speak, Kyungsoo held a hand up to him and insisted, “Allow me to spare you the blushes,” before starting to explain the situation in an uncharacteristically eager tone, “This idiot is getting married in three months -”

Boisterously thumping Chanyeol’s back, you showered him with congratulations which he accepted with a shy ‘thank you.’

Kyungsoo continued, “- and we have a road trip planned for next month. As per the pact -”

Head tilted to the side, you shot, “What pact?”

“Some stupid pact that I have no memory of - ”

“That you conveniently have no memory of!” interrupted a salty Chanyeol.

Kyungsoo grimaced. Rubbing the corner of his eye, he continued with a heavy sigh, “It was supposed to be the three of us...Chanyeol, me, and our school friend Yixing.”

“Oh, okay?”

“So Yixing fell off a tractor and broke his back -”

“Oh, my gosh!” You exclaimed.

Kyungsoo’s mouth fell open. “I wasn’t there but I’d bet my ass that’s exactly what he said at the time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Wait, wait, slow down, why- how- a tractor?”

“He quit his CEO position to become a full time….farmer,” deadpanned Kyungsoo as if it was the stupidest thing Yixing could’ve done which rubbed you up the wrong way and coloured your otherwise neutral expression.

“He basically did what Kyungsoo doesn’t have the balls to do,” quipped Chanyeol, lips stretched into a gremlin-like grin. Kyungsoo returned his jibe with a strike to his arm causing him to let out a dramatic wail thus inviting the attention of everyone around you.

But none of it deterred Kyungsoo. He continued nonchalantly as if presenting a well crafted business proposal, “Since one of us is unavailable it only makes sense to postpone the trip and that’s exactly what I’ve been asking Chanyeol to do but he just won’t listen.”

“You’re getting married in three months and you’re taking this road trip next month. Will you be left with enough time for wedding planning?” you reasoned with Chanyeol, well aware of the kind of family he belonged to and the kind of weddings these families planned.

“Mr. Park here was way too eager,” Kyungsoo butted in.

“Shut up, Kyungsoo!”

“Wahhh you must really love her ~ ,” you sang, moon-eyed.

“Clearly. He couldn’t even wait for the rest of us to finish singing the birthday song for his Eomma.”

“What?”

“Yeah! He popped the question to Aera right in the middle of it.”

“WHAT!”

“That’s a story for another day,” replied Chanyeol in an atypically calm tone, “but you’re right, Shifu, it’s not enough time and that’s why I’ve been asking this idiot to just -”

“All reservations are for three. It logistically makes more sense to reschedule,” declared Kyungsoo with a hint of finality in his tone.

It didn’t. It definitely didn’t make more sense to reschedule but as gullible as Chanyeol was, he said nothing to counter Kyungsoo’s illogical argument.

“Are you sure your friend Yixing would be okay with it, Yeollie? I’m sure you can wait for him to get better and -”

Firmly setting his jaw, Chanyeol looked you square in the eyes and stated, “It's now or never.”

Kyungsoo stole a glance at you and cleared his throat, hesitance betraying his voice when he spoke again, “Chanyeollah, you’re only getting married stop talking like you’re terminally ill.”

Chanyeol's expression softened to convey an implicit plea causing you to tweak your suggestion, “The two of you can still go? I’m sure Yixing won’t mind.”

But Chanyeol hit you with an unexpected proposal. He asked, “Do you want to come?”, in a tone that was way too serious for a road trip.

“What? No!”

“Why not? You’re here and - “

“- and Yixing’s not,” interrupted Kyungsoo.

Ignoring the sarcasm in Kyungsoo’s voice, you turned Chanyeol down gently, “No, Yeol, it’s just- it doesn’t make sense, bub.”

“Why not? We leave in a month and that’s plenty of time to get all your travel docs in order -”

“Travel docs? You mean….insurance?” You asked hesitantly.

“Yeah! Insurance...you won’t need a visa, though.”

“Visa? Yeah, obviously I won’t be needing a visa. Why would I need a visa for a road trip?”

Chanyeol slapped his forehead and wondered aloud, “Oh, shoot! We didn’t tell her, did we?”

Kyungsoo gave his head a little shake, prompting you to ask, “Tell me what?”

“It’s a road trip through uhhh northeastern Spain -”

Chanyeol’s elaborate account of the itinerary was drowned in the whirlpool of emotions that erupted within you at the mention of the country. That part of your life you had locked away in the deepest, darkest corners of your consciousness now stared you straight in the eyes, forcing you to acknowledge a reality far too jarring for your fragile state of mind. You took a sip of your long forgotten beverage to centre yourself but it didn’t take a genius to know that something was up.

Placing a hand on your head, he asked softly, “What is it, Shifu? I understand if you can’t leave Eomma alone at this point...”

“It’s not Eomma,” you took another sip of the drink to fight the lump in your throat, “Eomma is - Eomma is in Bucheon, visiting her sister. For I don’t know how long but...long.”

“Is it work?” contributed Kyungsoo.

“I quit my job,” you answered and he looked at you as if you, a total stranger, had just asked him his body count.

Chanyeol took your hand in his and reiterated, “Come, then? You need this.”

Your gaze bounced between the two men who wore the exact same expression in expectation of two entirely different answers. And whatever you chose to say next, you were sure to disappoint one of them.

Eyes unfocussed, a deafening ringing echoing in your ears, you declared softly, “I need this,” with a million unpleasant scenarios running through your head, making you sick to the stomach.

Chanyeol pulled you in for a bear hug. Kyungsoo rolled his eyes and let out a deep, disappointed sigh.

[courtlyharlequin]

For🌙 - Before me stood the Malleus Draconia himself. He guided me into the more thorny parts of the woods where his castle stood, once inside we had some tea and spent the night talking and cuddling by the fireplace

Aromatherapy

A/N: Not that you need to know, but this fic was inspired by black chamomile bergamot hand soap. It had such a calming effect on me that somehow transferred into my writing. It smells really good I’m ♡♡♡

A/N²: This was a little self indulgent as I wanted to establish some lore of the event into this fic. Also, my writing might be a little rusty after my semi-hiatus so I’m sorry if it’s not up to par as my other works. Thank you for being so patient. I should be able to write more frequently now  <3

A flurry of delicate crystals fell from the sky, nipping the tip of your nose with a slight sting. You held back a sneeze as you quickened your pace. The creatures of the night howled with the wind. You spun your heel, meeting with dozens of glowering eyes that illuminated the forest. They crawled towards you. Each step forward unearthed more grotesque features ranging from more than one set of jaws to foaming mouths. Your breath hitched and you turned around, picking up your pace. Your legs were light as a kilogram of feathers. As the snow fell more vehemently, you prayed that the sun would rise soon.

When the White Rabbit led you into the woodlands, she had stated that you were invited for a tea party, one where you could eat anything you desired– if those things fit weren’t mustard and could fit into the Hatter’s hat that is. Yet here you were, ready to become a night creature’s late night snack. Apparently, slightly crumbled cookies from your basket did not suffice. They discarded the goodies the moment they received the basket. Granted, you did throw it at them as a distraction.

Your foot collided with something underneath the thin sheet of snow. You yelped as you fell to the ground. The snow crunched under your weight as you shifted onto your knees. It was warm, like an embrace. Since when was snow warm?

The beasts’ growls were in earshot. Rising to your feet was a struggle. You scrambled across the snow, but to no avail. At this rate, you were going to be devoured. It was so cold. You were so tired. Perhaps it would be alright to give into a kiss of death. You were alone and lost in the woods, searching for an exit aimlessly. The night creatures inched towards you with precise steps. There were three of them– three ghastly beasts fueled by hunger.  One of them appeared to be the alpha, leading the others towards you. You closed your eyes as it pounced onto you, sinking its jaws onto your calves. The snow was terribly warm. It was almost cozy. You cried into it like a child would into a mother’s sleeve.

Thunder clapped and the night wailed. A flash of green flames illuminated the sky and disappeared as fast as it came. Your legs felt less heavy. Then, the numbness in your leg faded. You groaned. Was that it? Had you perished so soon? 

“Are you lost, little lamb?” a voice cooed.

From the corner of your eye, you saw a figure painted in black from head to toe crouch before you. You felt cold, but it quickly faded as you felt them scoop you up into their arms. You gazed at the ground. They were quite tall or so it would seem. Their warmth differed greatly from the snow’s.

You opened your eyes drowsily, meeting your gaze with your savior. Your senses were hazy, but you were certain that snow was not an ethereal being with long ebony locks, brilliant viridian eyes or sleek horns. Perhaps this being was your guardian angel. Or the devil? Angels didn’t don black cloaks, but he resembled one in every way. Divine. Absolutely divine,

You mewled and hugged him a little tighter, darkness engulfing your consciousness.

There was a bright light. You blinked twice. This was not the afterlife at. Or at least not what you imagined it would be. You thought it would be more extravagant than the interior of a gothic castle. It seemed dull– gray, somber. The candelabras were lit with viridescent flames, adding an eerie and unsettling aura to the bedroom. You sat up, wincing. You felt a small prick against your calves.

You lifted the covers to reveal your leg. It was bandaged neatly and elevated on a small throw pillow. Your eyes drifted to your clothing. In exchange for your cloak and travelling ensemble, you wore an oversized silk dress shirt. The hem barely covered your knees while its sleeves extended to your thighs. It was comfortable nonetheless.

“You’re awake.”

You were alive.

You hugged your legs and nodded sheepishly. There he was, an angel. Your savior set down a tray at the nightstand.

You stared into his eyes. Though you were certain that this was not in the afterlife, this man was an angel. No doubt about it. His presence said it all. It radiated power. He was ethereal. He had long ebony locks and porcelain skin. His eyes were akin to emeralds. He stood tall, towering over you with his arms crossed and a faint pout evident on his lips.

“Well, Child of Man?”

You broke eye contact.

“Child of Man,” he said.

“Hmm?”

“Perhaps you would regain your focus if you help yourself to some hazelnut soup,” he gestured to the tray.

You peered over his figure to examine the foodstuff. He saved you, treated your wounds, and now he offers to feed you. Truly, he was a seraph.

What could you possibly do to repay him? Did he desire compensation? Although you were hungry, guilt swelled in the back of your mind.

“It’s edible. The fair folk have a reputation for being terrible cooks, but I assure you that the fire fairies in my castle are well immersed in human cuisine,” he said.

“Fae?”

“My, you /are/ a lost little lamb, aren’t you?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Wonderland. A forest.”

“Anything else?”

“The White Rabbit said something about a tea party,” you said.

He straightened his posture and bowed.

“So you are the Hatter’s guest. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. One moment please. I won’t be long. Help yourself to the soup in the meantime. I know the fire pixies won’t be pleased if you let it grow cold,” he said, walking out of the room.

Hatter? Fire pixies?

His footsteps echoed throughout the hall. You stared at the tray. Alongside the ceramic bowl, there was a small dinner roll, a side salad, and a cup of tea. You clutched your stomach as it growled.

You swung your legs over the mattress and let them dangle off the bed. Your eyes trailed down to the ornate carpet. You were famished. The man did tell you to eat. It would be rude not to comply with his request after he nursed you back to health.

You bit your lip as you reached for the tray, setting the cool metal surface onto your lap. You took the spoon and raised it to your lips, blowing the ribbons of smoke away as if you were making a dandelion wish. You wrapped your lips around the utensil, taking in the soup’s warmth. It was rich, sweet, and  creamy with an earthy undertone. A sigh escaped your lips.

“Not bad, I presume?” your savior chuckled.

You flinched. He had returned.

He received a hum of affirmation in response. With that, he pulled a wooden chair from the bedroom’s study area and placed it beside the bed, directly in front of you. He sat down, crossing his legs. He opened up a leatherbound book, raising an eyebrow at you. You nervously grinned and fiddled with your thumbs. It was a decent sized book, not too large, but not too small to be a novella either. It was worn and torn around the edges though its gold detailing on the spine was still prevalent.

He met your gaze then snapped his fingers. Your eyes widened as the tea cup on your tray multiplied into two and the contents changed from a murky green to a cozy brown. They then lifted themselves off the tray and waltzed in the air for a few moments before stopping on their own saucers at the nightstand.

“I heard chamomile tea calms the nerves… for humans, anyway. I do love the flavor of it as well. Would you like one lump or two?”

“Are you not human? And two please.”

He blinked. The sugar cubes sunk to the bottom of your cup.

“I am affiliated with the fair folk,” he said.

He waved his hand around, dismissing the fact that he had summoned another teacup along with matching saucers and sugar jar and changed the teas with the snap of his fingers. Having been in this wonderland for a while now, you were familiar with magic. The possibility of fair folk couldn’t be ruled out, but you had never considered much about their existence until now. Then again, you didn’t know what night creatures were either until recently.

“Who are you?”

“A fae who happens to live in these parts and nothing more,” he said.

“And nothing more… then do you have a name?”

“You may call me anything you’d like. I do not have a preference. Names are merely labels no?”

“I suppose so.”

“There once was a little beastie that called me Tsunotaro. You may call me that if you’d like.”

“Tsunotaro?”

“Yes, I’m quite fond of that name too. You remind me of them therefore I shall allow it.”

“Alright then.. Tsunotaro.”

The light in his eyes faltered. He turned past the title page.

“And what do I call you, lost little lamb?”

“(y/n),” you said curtly.

“(y/n)... I like that,” he whispered softly, “Well, then (y/n), welcome to the Tugley Woods. We are in the northern part of Wonderland. It’s a hub for mana which draws in a plethora of characters such as merfolk and beastmen. Are you familiar with mana? It’s essentially a life force used as a catalyst for magic.”

You hummed along to the inflections of his voice.

He continued: “Perhaps you encountered some paragons of mana on the way here. Or wherever your destination was. They’re troublesome bunches, really. They have their own territories. Anything that trespasses those borders is beyond my control, even as the Prince of Thorns, I—”

You fidgeted with the sheets, a minute action and yet the fae’s eyes peeled up from the book.

“Does the origin of the woods bore you?”

You shook your head, “Not at all. I’m just having difficulty visualizing the entire forest and the factions. It must be vast.”

The fae grinned. With a flick of his hand, he conjured green flames within a furnace, illuminating the side of your bed with a faint yet welcoming warmth.

He rose from his seat, edging the covers, ushering you aside as he climbed into the comforters. He shifted around. Once he was satisfied, he propped open the book, continuing on with your history lesson. There was a large map sprawled across the thin pages. The words were racked from Tsunotaro’s memories.

You leaned on his shoulder. He was oddly warm despite his pale, lifeless complexion. Tsunotaro’s voice soothed your soul, spelling away all your fears— no matter how grand or horrible they may be.

“The West is guarded by the beastmen. They aren’t aggressive when you cross borders, only when you mess with their prey. They congregate here due to their affinity towards the mana here.”

Malleus pointed at the map. His fingernail made the book sound hollow.

“This allows them to use their magic easily as the area’s terrain is filled with sand and earth magic despite being surrounded by trees. You could say the same for the merfolk in the East as well. Except that area consists of woodlands with a large loch in the middle. The loch is deeper than it seems. It leads to the Coral Sea, I believe. The ‘monsters’ —”

“Why must they be monsters?”

“Aside from their appearances, the beastmen and the merfolk are experiencing a mana drought as of now as a majority of the magical energy here has ceased over the years. The ley lines have been exhausted due to constant irrigation and migration of the forests’ inhabitants. Nowadays, they attack travelers, driven by their hunger and thirst for mana to strengthen their magic and sustain their own livelihoods. Aside from them, there’s also night creatures. Those were the wolves that attacked you on the first day. ”

“And what does that make you?”

“Certainly not a monster if that is what you were implying. The fae generate their own mana. In fact, this castle is fortified with mana spun on a single spinning wheel. This prevents attacks from the other night creatures,” he said.

“That does not make the others monsters if they were merely trying to survive.”

“Did they not attack you on your journey?”

“They did, but it was the wrong timing. Besides those were wolves, I’m sure the factions have their own reasons.”

“Touché, Beastie,” he said.

Tsunotaro glanced upward.

“Oho?”

“I suppose they all have their reasons. As you said, they might just be doing so for their survival. Though the fair folk could never empathize with them, we are typically not shackled by the limits of age nor are we familiar with death. We create our own mana and we seldom consume food for survival, only pleasure.”

“I see…”

You yawned. He placed a slender ribbon in between the worn pages of the book. It clapped into place as he set it on the nightstand.

“Perhaps I’ve said more than a beastie could handle. Nevermind that. The chamomile must finally be settling in on you.”

For a mere moment, his eyes flashed into silts and glowed. Your lids were heavy.

“Rest well, Beastie—  for you have a long journey ahead of you.”

He rose from his seat, striding towards the door. The candles’s flames extinguished as he walked past them.

“You too, Tsunotaro.”

The fae halted.

“Yes… thank you, Yu—,” he paused, “(y/n).”

He sighed.

“Thank you, (y/n)” he said.

[kettlequills]

C3: a wife to remember

god i love this fic so much. a03

A hag had many resources at her disposal, not at the least, her fellow sisters of feather, and Moira had a problem. She did not know the Dragonborn, and Moira did not much like not knowing things, especially when it pertained to the fruits of her bargains. The Dragonborn had not seemed adverse to Moira on the basis of being a hag alone, but accepting talons and feathers was quite different from permitting her to actively work her magics. There was too much that Moira did not know.

Moira planned to speak to someone who did.

Moira hauled her smoking cauldron into the garden patch, hissing at the weight and thinking longingly of the corded muscle that had braided the Dragonborn’s tanned brown arms, how easy it would be for them to move a cauldron almost as large as Moira was. She idly plucked a few of her own feathers and added them to the steaming brew until the liquid was thick and purple.

Her arms screamed when she took up the stirrer and laboriously fought it through the viscous liquid. Prickles of sweat broke out on her brow, and she leant her full bird-boned weight into the motion, adding an extra push with feather-fluttering hops. This cursed potion would save her days of pointless travel, but it exacted its price here, she thought irritably. Still, Moira had made it enough times before, if not for many years, that it did not take longer than a few hours before she was dipping salvaged bottles with peeling wine-labels into the mixture.

The bottles appeared largely spontaneously, washing up in the banks of the river not far from Moira’s house from Blood-Made-Pleasure’s daedric revels upstream, within the soft fold of Oblivion. Moira hunted along the banks come the morning for mortals, hollow-souled and blown from the Myriad Realms like scrunched daisies, and the trash from endless parties – human viscera, empty wine-bottles that stung the nose with haunting fragrant scents, fake cocks of shattered glass, snapped dremora horns. Sometimes, the blood-sports of the Prince of Plots bleeding over from the nexus of their shrine not far from the snow-city of Nord kings made their way to Moira’s stream, too. The river ran red for days to her mage-eye, and Moira would be weeding femurs and teeth out of her garden patch for even longer. But since Moira’s pact with Sanguine, his realm was closer, and Moira had more empty bottles than she could ever use.

Greatest power wrapped around your finger, for a single night of revelry.

She uncorked one such with her teeth and swigged from the potion as she labelled the others in spidery daedric letters that would make little sense to one foreign to haglore. When her gums began to prickle with chill, Moira kicked over her cauldron and let the dregs of the potion water her deathbell flowers. She left it there, staring hollowly out at the damp trees, and went to her roost. The potion took hold of the daedra inside her heart and dragged, and Moira’s spirit pierced the skin of Oblivion and rose on flapping raven-wings.

Witchmist Grove shimmered with ghostlike mists when she flew above it, the magic of Oblivion searing the trees tall and gloomy with the prescient tendrils of Moira’s magic soaked into the ground. The roost of a hag, visible as a thorny spot nestled like a canker around the soil. The dragon-cairn over the ridge glowed dully with trapped soul energy.

Not for the first time, Moira overflew her home and cawed at her cleverness. The necromantic energy of the dragon’s old servants and its own aedric glow nearly eclipsed Witchmist Grove, and the lines of power that hazed the ground was broken into the rippling hot pools, confusing the scrying-eye. Her own wards against magical predation still held strong, but she had been wise enough to choose a good spot to make it harder. The Grove would shelter its witch well while her mind attended to her business.

It was the work of a moment to envisage the heart of the plainsland, and a second later Moira was soaring through the cloudless blue skies of Whiterun – crisscrossed though they were by the fading trail of a dragon. Still, that was not too unusual in this season of change, and Moira made for the human city where the answers to her questions resided. It pulsed whitely in her mage-eye, the vast wings of the Skyforge spread over the city like a gargoyle. The eagle shrieked as Moira swept lower, and for a moment, its beady eye fixed on her. Her wings faltered in surprise. After a second that felt like an eternity, the eagle tucked its head back against its chest, satisfied, it seemed, that she posed little threat.

Moira’s talons clenched uneasily. The Skyforge was impersonal as the wind. Last time she had come here in this way, its wings had barely twitched when she’d landed on its head. That it was so riled up did not bode well.

Her disquiet mounted as she flew lower to the city – or what was left of it. Radiating outwards from the pulverised remains of the gates was a blast radius of crumbled stone that had reduced the surrounding timber houses to splinters. A wooden palisade had been erected, manned by guards whose spirits flickered dimly with fear to Moira’s mage-sight. Grief hung over Whiterun like a pall, and, pressing against the wall that separated Oblivion from the living, ghosts wandered dully through the streets, torn too abruptly from their living bodies to look for the way to Aetherius just yet. The living tree within the heart of the city was bowed double under the strength of their sorrow, its roots choked by a strange power crawling down from the heart of the prison of dragons. Familiar, daedric darkness, soft as poetry and suggestive as a whisper. The Webspinner, moving openly to claim the city, and, from the look of it, mostly unopposed. Even Hircine’s Underforge was muted. Well, good for the Webspinner. Moira had never liked Whiterun much.

Still, Moira noticed with some relief the burning-bright soul of the one Whiterun resident that she had come to see. Olava the Feeble was waiting for her, playing cards with a small child that shivered at Moira’s approach.

“Go along now,” Olava told the child, who wriggled in her chair. She had untidy brown hair and looked thin, but there were fresh crumbs on her ragged dress, and smears of jam on an empty plate on Olava’s table.

“But we weren’t done playing,” said the girl, and Olava smiled mysteriously.

“Yes, we were,” she said, and tapped the table between them. Moira saw the magic inside Olava flare, and the child gaped down at the cards in her hands. There was dirt caked under her nails.

“How did you do that?” she gasped. Moira sensed a curious flicker in the girl’s own fledgling spirit, as if she was trying to see as a witch did.

Food for a starving waif, and a light-show of no substance? A more obvious hook had never been planted. Moira cared not for Olava’s interest in a ragged child, but surely it would be easier to simply tell the girl whatever it was Olava wanted from her, and claim she was mad or dispose of her if she broke Olava’s cover?

“Charlatanry,” Moira commented dryly, amused at Olava’s transparent recruitment effort, “You didn’t need to touch the table at all for such a simple trick.”

“An old woman never shares all her secrets,” Olava said to them both, and then shooed the girl off. Once she had gone, perhaps a little faster than she would have if it had not been for the invisible presence of a hagraven glaring at the back of her neck, Moira fluttered down to perch on the back of the chair she had vacated. Her talons gripped the wood, but left no mark on it. She was not, after all, truly there.

“Sister,” said Olava plainly, “What can an old woman do for you?”

“Do you not need to maintain your quaint cover?” Moira asked, electing to preen herself. She tugged an errant feather back into alignment while Olava chuckled.

“Not at all.” Olava’s eyes were crinkled up at the edges and her smile was kindly, as if she really were simply nothing more than an old grandmother. Convincing, were it not for the aura of twisted power that radiated her from her like a dark sun and the way that her eyes were holes to the Void in her skull. “My neighbours think nothing of an old woman talking to herself.”

“As you wish.” Moira spread her wings and eyed them critically, as if it were more important than the task that had brought her here. “I propose a bargain of knowledge. I need to learn hand language.”

What better way to learn the ways of her new … spouse… than to prise them from the Dragonborn herself?

Olava hummed, pleased. “You have come to the right place, then. Which sign language is it you need to know?”

Moira ruffled her feathers. “How should I know?”

“Ai,” sighed Olava, “There is more than one. It would help if I knew who you need it to speak with.”

Flaring her wings, Moira shrieked her harsh raven’s cry. It echoed jealously, ear-splittingly loud. Under the eclipsing shadow of her wings, her true shape flickered and burned like coals. She would not share this knowledge. The Dragonborn was vulnerable, for now, ripe for the uncovering, and Moira would permit no other witch’s claws to steal in on her prize. Bad enough that she shared with Sanguine’s hook, that her own hold was as tenuous as the Dragonborn’s word.

Olava leant back in her seat to watch and rose a thin white eyebrow. Her face, for all it was wrought and wrecked by the passage of time, hid a mind no less canny.

“I can get you the knowledge of all major forms of hand-sign from here to Black Marsh, but it’ll cost you,” Olava relented. “I’ll have to call in a few favours.”

Moira accepted this irritably, and Olava eyed her, as if curious to see how far she would take this whim.

“I want you to … deliver something, for me.”

“Knowledge for knowledge is traditional,” Moira cawed, “I’m not your errand girl.”

“No,” said Olava, calmly, but Moira could see the tension wound in the leylines of her magic, her future-seeing eyes that glowed with the deepness of the Void, “But good luck finding another sister to help you. Did you say it was urgent?”

She hadn’t, but Moira was not patient, and Olava knew it. Besides, Olava’s demeanour was – reluctantly – intriguing. A witch’s errand was no small thing, particularly if she wanted a hag’s help to achieve it.

“Not that urgent,” Moira snapped regardless, because she did not want Olava to think that she did not see what she was doing by pricking Moira’s curiosity. “Out with it, then.”

“I need you to take an item to a particular person,” Olava said, “and ensure that it does not… leave her possession.”

Moira cawed a laugh. “A curse object, sister? Why, I’d almost do it for free. But why not see to it yourself?”

Olava’s hands smoothed deliberately over the table. She began to gather the cards and answered Moira’s question to their dog-eared and scribbled faces. “It cannot be me directly. The target knows me too well, and the spell must work.”

Moira paused. Olava’s carefully level voice roused her suspicion, and as she watched Olava stack the cards and slide them precisely into a bag woven of river-reeds, she grasped that Olava was not dissembling. She was worried. Moira did not lack confidence in her magical strength, but nor was she a fool. She had no desire to get mixed up in something that was going to require too much of her time.

“You have seen something that you hope to avoid,” Moira prompted.

“Yes,” Olava admitted, freely. “Nothing that concerns you, sister. A few fraying strings will soon be cut, and I have a … vested interest.”

Moira stared hard at Olava, who returned her gaze steadily. She was being sincere, Moira could tell that immediately from the glow and pulse of her magicka, and even more, Olava was letting her see without a single attempt to hide herself from Moira’s mage-sight. Whatever it was, it was important to her, perhaps important enough to ask a hag to do a courier’s job, if only to be sure it was done.

“Where is this target?”

“Falkreath,” said Olava and Moira squawked indignantly.

“It is far from my roost,” she complained, but Olava only shrugged.

“You’re the one who asked for something,” she said, and Moira conceded with a whistling hiss through her beak.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll see your token delivered.”

“Thank you,” said Olava. She smiled, a genuine one, smaller and slyer than her elderly façade. “I will send you a … friend, on the night of the new moon. He will have what you need.”

Three days. Moira shifted her claws on the chair, then took off without ceremony. She beat her wings quickly to rise over Whiterun, and took the precaution to soar some ways away from the wandering eyes of the powers that wrestled beneath the city. It was only once Moira wheeled freely over the stripped bones of a dead dragon, soul-claimed, that she tucked her wings and followed the thread tethering her to her body, and home.

---

Of course, it was not three days. It was two, and Olava’s friend came yowling with his ear in the firm grip of the Dragonborn.

“You’re early,” Moira said sourly, and the Dragonborn’s mouth tensed.

They wore no helmet today, and their greying brown hair had been roughly knotted at the nape of their neck. It was greasy, already damp from the moist air of the Grove. The rude knot exposed the gruesome fullness of their facial scarring, which twisted as they scowled at the terrified Khajiit whose tunic they held. Still broad, still strong, but there was a bandage wrapped around their bicep, several days old if Moira was any judge, and somewhat dirty and stained. The Khajiit in their grasp was a young ginger tom, his yellow eyes slitted with fear.

“Let him go,” Moira chided the Dragonborn, “Have you no manners?”

Moira did not recognise the boy, but she guessed that he had been sent when he offered her with trembling paws a bag marked with the crest of the Nords of Whiterun, a curling ram’s head.

“For you,” the Khajiit whispered. The Dragonborn’s lips thinned unsubtly, and they stalked off to lean against a tree, their back to the Khajiit but their head cocked, as if they were listening.

The boy’s tail lashed. “This one was not trying to sneak, he swears! He was told to bring a message, to the old woman in the grove by the dragon burial, that is all!”

“I am old, and within the grove,” Moira said, flatly, annoyed that she had not seen him coming, and had time to muster her illusions of being a harmless – if unnerving – old woman who lived alone. She had not sensed the Khajiit at all around the brilliance of the Dragonborn’s signature when they entered Witchmist Grove. “Give it to me.”

The Khajiit hesitated, but when Moira flashed her claws he tripped over himself in his rush to thrust the sack at her. It fell at her feet with a muted rattle. The Khajiit withered under Moira’s poisonous glare.

“Well?” she demanded, and the poor boy’s ears twitched. He bolted, and Moira rolled her eyes. “Let him go,” she told the Dragonborn, whose hunter’s eyes had tracked his flight, “and come in.”

But Moira did not move from her position on the top step as the Dragonborn pushed off the tree and approached her with slow, steady steps, their armour – wrapped for silence, again, in the shredded remains of what appeared to be Nordic burial shrouds – reflecting back the whiteness of the magelight Moira had tethered in the mouths of her staked goat heads. They removed their gauntlet carefully, and, without breaking eye contact, they stooped to pick up the sack and hand it to her.

Feeling as if she were moving thrice as slowly as normal, Moira took it, and her feathers fluttered involuntarily when their fingertips – rough and callused, but hot as fire – brushed her skin. Before the Dragonborn could pull away Moira tightened her grip until the tips of her sharp claws pressed into the back of the Dragonborn’s hand. Scarred, even here, with the nicks and cuts of a lifelong soldier.

The Dragonborn watched her. Those dark dragon eyes were steady as granite, and when Moira stared into them she had the odd sense of falling inwards. It was as if she peered into the implacable gaze of a creature so impossibly huge and dense that it warped the world towards it, as inexorable as a bird struck from the sky must meet the stony ground. She wondered how the Dragonborn would look beneath her potion-enhanced mage sight. She wondered how the Dragonborn saw her.

Moira had the height advantage on them from the top step, but the weight of their gaze was so immense that she felt small, like a darting bird before the maw of a dragon. She remembered challenging the Dragonborn to consummate their engagement the second time they had come to Witchmist Grove. Almost involuntarily, she pictured being pinned beneath that suffocating presence, those dark eyes, that searing heat – the enormity of them like a serpent big enough to touch nose to tail around the entirety of Tamriel coiling itself into one short human body that had to tilt their head up to look Moira in the eyes.

Moira was a hagraven, no fragile thing, her body knitted with ancient magics and raven-feathers, and she had birthed horrors on her altar for little reason other than curiosity. But she was also a bird-hearted once-woman, and the strange, arrhythmic pounding in her chest that could not decide what it felt at the warmth of the Dragonborn’s skin on hers disconcerted her.

With an impatient snort, Moira released the Dragonborn, but not before one last, pointed flex of her claws. The Dragonborn did not flinch at the tiny teardrops of blood that welled up from the scratches, just as they had not reacted to the poison tea, and when Moira turned and stormed into her house, she felt the shaking of the steps as the Dragonborn followed her.

As before, Moira filled the kettle and set it to boil, after checking the sack and tucking it away for later in a cabinet. She was curious to see if the Dragonborn would make the same mistake twice. They did not choose to sit down this time, but leant uncertainly against the wall, arms folded uncomfortably across their chest. Moira was expecting the airlessness of the shack this time and took a moment over the smoke of the fire to soothe herself.

A clinking distracted her, and she whipped her head around in time to catch the Dragonborn leaning back like a child caught going for the cookie jar, hand froze in the act of placing something shiny on the table.

“What’s that?” Moira demanded, and the Dragonborn’s grim mouth moved oddly, as if they were trying to smile.

They gestured sweepingly at Moira, and Moira eyed them suspiciously as she seized this latest offering. It was a bottle, a large one, filled to the brim with glittering dust that shifted and shimmered when she tipped it to and fro, like it was trying to escape the directness of her gaze. The aura that seeped off it reeked of death even with the cap sealed with what looked like leather and home-made twine.

“Blood-drinker dust,” Moira identified. Useful in potions, very useful. Her claws clacked when she tapped the bottle, not wanting to admit that she had nearly run out of her own supply. And she had never had so much as this. It was a handsome gift, and practical, as well. A hag had little use for frippery, after all, even if the Dragonborn’s last gift was currently hidden safely under Moira’s bed and warded with her strongest spells. “You hunted all of these yourself?”

The Dragonborn’s scarred face split, and all of their teeth gleamed. They nodded.

“Is that how you hurt your arm?” Moira asked before she registered what she was going to say, and hissed at herself.

It did not help that the Dragonborn seemed equally surprised at her question, and by the way their eyes flickered to the wound on their arm and back, she imagined they were wondering why she was bothered – or perhaps, had forgotten the wound was there at all. After a brief hesitation, the Dragonborn shook their head.

Moira cursed herself to the Void and back. “How then?” she snapped, aware of the brittle anger in her voice. She wanted to know now. Her curiosity had been piqued, and more than that, there was a strange, restless annoyance Moira ascribed to a healer’s knowledge, impatient with the mysterious wound under its dirty bandage.

The Dragonborn’s shoulders rounded, and their movements as they fumbled for their journal seemed if anything oddly shy. They scribbled for a moment, and then avoided her eye when they presented the page.

“Wolf pack surprised me,” they had written.

“You slay dragons, and hunt vampires, but not wolves,” Moira said. “Did you at least clean it?”

The Dragonborn nodded, and then cleared their throat. They were still looking away, and after a moment, Moira recognised that the fire’s warmth on their cheek was not solely responsible for the redness that had bloomed there.

“Well,” Moira heard herself say irascibly, “Wash your bandages, then.”

Scrubbing the back of their neck with their hand, the Dragonborn nodded. The motion reminded her of their skin touching hers, and Moira busied herself with the kettle, indiscreetly bolstering the fire with magic. The heat enveloped the hut, steaming away the perpetual dampness, and Moira heard the Dragonborn sigh with pleasure behind her. It was nearly noiseless, but not quite, and Moira was hard-pressed to tell whether the shiver that went through her was from some miniature earthquake or the base of her spine, which had elected to, for some reason only daedra knew, play host to half a dozen guttering candles.

“So,” Moira said eventually, “What do they call you?”

Silence, not the scratch of charcoal, and Moira glanced over her shoulder to see the Dragonborn’s confused expression.

“Your name?”

With a metallic creak, the Dragonborn’s arms around their chest tightened, and a muscle in their cheek jumped. They shrugged flatly, and then with a weariness that Moira could almost sense bent their head to write.

“I don’t know the name I was born with,” they showed her, “The dragons call me – “

More of the claw-mark letters of the dragon language, and Moira pursed her lips.

“You know I can’t read this,” she said. The Dragonborn’s mouth crooked helplessly, but Moira’s eye was drawn to the smudges of charcoal on their fingers, exposed, because they hadn’t put their gauntlet back on.

“It comes from inside,” they scribbled, and then illustratively clasped their bare hand over their breastplate. A smear of charcoal darkened the fraying edge of one of the ripped up shrouds.

They shifted, and the shadow of their warhammer blotted the firelight over the page. Moira’s claws flexed, and she wondered, briefly, precisely when the fool bird in her brain had forgotten to watch the Dragonborn’s weapon hovering ominously over their shoulder.

“I could tell you my name, but you’ll have to come outside to hear it,” they wrote. Wariness in them then, and wasn’t that an interesting response to their own offer.

Moira weighed her options. Outside would give the Dragonborn more room to swing, but it also gave Moira better manoeuvrability to escape. It was a gamble, but Moira knew herself. She was a fast shifter, and a faster flier.

“Fine,” she said, and the Dragonborn jerked their chin and led the way outside.

They were not content with Moira’s garden, but crunched their way up the garden path and out the gate without a backwards glance. Their stride was aggressive and quick, a beat short of a march, and Moira got three steps after them on her talons and then gave up and took to her wings instead. The Dragonborn glanced up and with narrowed eyes searched among the flapping cloud of black-winged birds that rose like a fanfare at their intrusion into their domain. Moira circled above them, making no move to announce herself, and with an uneasy twitch the Dragonborn continued.

They had a hunter’s instinct, and as they walked a strange, circuitous route out of Witchmist Grove, Moira realised that they were following and walking on top of the Khajiit’s tracks. She wondered at it as she swept along overhead, doubling back every so often to flit down among the trees and feel the heavy leaves weep their burden of rain onto her glossy feathers.

Did the Dragonborn hope to find the boy, or simply to obliterate his tracks with their heavy boots? To stop Moira from following him, or to ensure he did manage to find his way out of the labyrinthine corridors of twining pine and hanging ivy, the nightshade groves and lurking brambles? The enchanted mist worked well to entrap and ensnare visitors, bringing them to the heart of the Grove into Moira’s clutches. Most had some trouble finding their way out without her blessing. Perhaps the Dragonborn had an abundance of caution, to walk only where it was demonstrably safe to step, in a hag’s home.

Moira appreciated it. Some of the moss she cultivated was rather difficult to grow, and she kept it away from the illusory paths for a reason.

The Dragonborn stopped only when they had reached the boundary of Witchmist Grove, where the copse of trees broke into the steaming hot-pools. The sandy-seared ground rose in jagged humps towards Bonestrewn Crest, where the sleeping dragonbones waited like a scar on the horizon. Squat rocks clumped around the meandering dirt path, and heat shimmered lazily, like Sanguine’s ruby red eye. Tensely, they waited for Moira.

Her damp feathers billowed steam in cross-currents and curls as she backwinged towards the ground, already changing. The Dragonborn did not look away, but Moira saw them blink rapidly as the illusions fell away and it seemed as if there had never been a bird there at all, only a hag, feathered and clawed, perched atop a rock that still, technically, was within the boundary of her grove.

The Dragonborn inclined their head, then purposefully, they planted their feet and turned their back on her. Facing out over the steamy barrenness of Eastmarch, their fist clenched nervously, as if they were second-guessing their decision.

Before Moira could demand an explanation, or taunt them to fulfilling their offer, the Dragonborn spoke.

At first, it was noise. Just noise, like the sound of lightning so deep it rumbled in the bones. A flash of awareness like seeing that stark-white fork in the black sky, and then understanding that what she was experiencing was noise, horribly loud noise, like every drum in the world beating at once, every rock falling, every heart stopping. And then it was power – power like every spell in the world backfiring at once immense and throbbing, power like Moira’s first flight, like the buffeting of the wind under her feathers.

In the ringing aftermath, Moira opened stinging eyes – when had she closed them? – and took in a world unutterably changed. She thought that the Grove had reacted to her presence by thickening the mist, and realised with a strange feeling like falling into the Dragonborn’s eyes that no, the grey smoke in the air was neither smoke nor mist, but dust. Dust, all that was left of all the rocks in the Dragonborn’s path, the furrowed brow of the hill that led up to Bonestrewn Crest. Instead, there was a perfectly carved bowl, wide and smooth as any stone-carved arena. It was perfectly done, steady as if the Dragonborn had simply scooped a section of the world away with a giant spoon. Except for the claw-like, shimmering markings that were chiselled in the wall, markings that matched the Dragonborn’s name in their journal.

It was only then that Moira’s ears made sense of the sounds, and the Dragonborn’s name clicked into her mind like a fact she had always known, but had not realised she had forgotten.

“Laataazin,” Moira gasped, and the Dragonborn – Laataazin – nodded slowly.

Greatest power wrapped around your finger. Oh. Oh. Oh. And to think – all this time, Moira had been angry for his trickery, when this was the prize!

Moira’s feathers quivered, then her shoulders, and then all at once she was laughing. It was a rusty, inelegant sound, more raven-shriek than human, and when the Dragonborn heard it they startled. After a moment, as Moira continued to laugh at the immensity of the gift that Sanguine had given her, slowly, tentatively, Laataazin started to smile back.

It was small, and sweet, and looked like they were unused to it as it was to their face. But it brightened their eyes and took years from their face, and Moira recognised for the first time the winsome, laughing-loud but shy creature that had come calling to her gate in a night of revelry, and offered a ring paid in blood for a hagraven’s hand in marriage.

[yelenasdog]

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝟏

   ♰ 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔢𝔱

genre: fluff

summary: new school, new faces. or maybe not? part one to a series explaining the pictures of my college au moodboard “new faces”.

words: 2k

warnings: pining, cursing, kissing, lots of inaccuracies to the show, that’s all i can think of.

a/n: i haven’t done anything for cm in quite some time but i got this random poof of inspo so here take it LMAO roger fic coming really soon.

♀♀♀

It was their first kiss. First date, actually.

Emily was a senior at Georgetown, having just transferred from University of Pittsburgh for her last year. Both schools were an odd choice for the young woman, the former proving to be the wrong fit, as it turned out. It angered her mother that she had been transferring so close to graduation, and frankly Emily could care less, but for some reason, she felt her skin itch at any thought of staying at that horrid place just a semester longer.

She wasn’t quite sure as to why. Her questions might have been answered, though, her first day on the new campus. 

The fall air was chilly and crisp, her nose running ever so slightly as she would pull her burgundy jacket tighter around herself in a desperate grab at warmth, it all to no avail. She kept trying, though, pulling the tie around her waist so tight that it felt as if she was in a corset. 

(Not that she would know, she’d refused to ever get near one. The whole idea of them scared her.)

She watched the colorful leaves crunch under her boots, enjoying the sound and feeling a great deal, the texture reminding her fondly of moments from her youth, the few fond ones she had, anyway. She smiled softly, looking up to see the leaves swirl around a familiar looking blonde head of hair.

A few of the leaves got stuck in the hay colored (now) mess, and she only smiled at it, reaching up a gentle hand to pick them out. She grinned down at them and bit her pink lips, watching as they dropped to the cobblestone from her hand. She continued on with a pep in her step, and to put it lightly, Emily was infatuated.

She thought about the blue eyed beauty for the rest of the day, her elegance, her lips that somehow weren’t chapped in the horribly cold weather (which not that Emily knew yet, but was because of the cinnamon peppermint chapstick that the mystery girl kept in her right pocket), and her aura, so to say, as a whole. The voice in her head told her to simmer down, that it was unrealistic that someone as seemingly bright and sunny would even think about spending a flicker of precious time with someone like her. Emily should have been more confident, as she would learn, as mystery girl had been thinking of her, too.

Yes, Jennifer Jareau was thinking of the unknown girl with the wonderfully long eyelashes, and the shiny dark hair that was similar to the shade of black that graced the feather of the crows she would see down by the pond she passed on her morning runs. Her mind was otherwise occupied from all normal affairs, consumed by thoughts of her ripped and pale lips that the enticing other woman darted her tongue across mere seconds after the last time she had, every single time. 

Jennifer had wished to tell the girl that licking her lips only dried them out more, only wanting to help relieve her of any possible pain, as that’s what Jennifer always did. That’s why she told herself she was thinking of the drop dead gorgeous girl who she had sworn she’d seen before, and she promised to herself she would find her and let her know.

And apparently, she would.

It wouldn’t be for a few hours, though, not until they both ended up at the top floor of the library, the quietest one where there was a silent rule that speaking was forebode. Emily internally cursed herself for that, feeling damned that fate would put her in a position of such pining, yearning. It was an ironic situation, though, as Emily would like to believe that she would have the confidence in herself enough to actually go up to the blonde and make conversation, maybe ask her for a study date? But, she wouldn’t. Not today.

Jennifer would, though. Jennifer would catch notice of the brunette lurking behind the single bookshelf in the upper level, as it was only really there for storage and the shelves were sparse. So with her heart beating and her palms sweaty, she went down the flights of stairs, her feet silent against the carpet. They would sound out again when she reached the tile flooring of the second level, and she screwed her eyes shut, hoping that somehow the girl followed her and that JJ would hear her footprints.

She didn’t care how ridiculous she looked, all bundled up and standing in the middle of a group of tables with her eyes closed, almost like she was trying to turn invisible, hiding in plain sight. Honestly, she very well may have been.

A few beats passed, and Jennifer gave up on her non existent spidey senses, deciding to try to actually rid her mind of raven girl, as she had decided to call her until she knew her real name, and study for her upcoming exam that she her until she knew her real name, and study for her upcoming exam that she somehow had, despite it only being the sophomores first day.

So she sat quietly as she read through her criminology textbook, humming some tune that her friend had introduced her to, something by a new indie group. Her humming came to a cease, though, when she heard a thud. She looked up, a small gasp falling from her glossed lips at who was sitting across from her.

She looked right back down to the tanned wood of the table, as soon as she saw warm brown eyes boring into her. Then, it was quiet, just the bustle of those around her. Pages flipping, pencils scratching, and small groans escaping from tired students as they went.

“Why’d you stop?”

Jennifer’s breath caught in her throat, her perfectly manicured hand freezing on the paragraph she was reading. Raven girl's voice had caught her off guard, deep and smooth, like honey.

“I’m sorry, what do you mean?” The blonde stuttered out, still having a hard time meeting her eyes.

“Your humming, I liked it, it was nice. Don’t tell me you stopped because of me!” She leaned forward on her arm, quirking a perfect eyebrow. They both laughed, and Emily felt she hadn’t ever in her life heard such a golden and melodic sound before.

“Sorry, sorry, you just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met, I’m Emily. I just transferred here from-”

“University of Pittsburgh?”

A look of bewilderment came across Emily's stark features, along with a sly smile. “How’d you know,”

“Jennifer. My name’s Jennifer. I came here for my grad studies a while back.”

Emily chuckled again, falling back to her chair. “God, I swore you looked so familiar.” She said, watching as Jennifer laughed and shook her head. Jennifer closed her book, observing that Emily never had even opened hers. She placed it in her bag slinging it over her shoulder. She stood, Emily following suite.

“Small world, right, Emily?”

She nodded immediately, tightening her own grip on her satchel. The leather was cool on her calloused fingers,

“Care to chat with me about it over a coffee?”

And that’s how they ended up sitting in the quaint cafe just down the road, watching as the sun started to sink, beverages in hand. Jennifer had found out that Emily preferred her coffee black, while Emily had found out that Jennifer liked hers with 2 hazelnut creams and 4 sugars. The thought made both girls smile, finding that both drinks fit their personalities perfectly.

Growing impatient, Emily ran her tongue over her lips again, feeling the peeling skin, the taste bitter and the sores burning. She leaned closer to Jennifer, like she had earlier in the library. Jennifer could feel her breath fanning over her neck, and it gave her butterflies, just like the ones she can remember being so obsessed with in her youth.

“What do you say we get outta here, find somewhere to watch the sunset?”

Jennifer only nodded bashfully, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and standing, taking Emily's hand as it had been offered to her, following her wherever she may go.

Now, they were sitting on the concrete of the rooftop to the freshman dorms, Emily somehow managing to get through, claiming she had some friends who would be happy to let her up. Apparently, she wasn’t bluffing.

“Sunset’s gorgeous, huh?” Jennifer spoke, her hands feeling the rough material beneath her, the wind blowing against her face. Her hair floated around her like a halo, and though Emily had lost much faith, if she had to spot an angel, her money was on them looking just like the girl next to her. Her eyes never left Jennifer’s silhouette as she spoke, her focus captured.

“Yeah. Breathtaking.”

Jennifer turned to meet her gaze, both of them fully understanding what breathtaking, really, truly meant in that moment. It was the windswept hair, breathtaking, really, truly meant in that moment. It was the windswept hair, watery eyes, red noses. Bright smiles, hands basically itching to reach for the other.

“Does everyone call you Jennifer?”

“I mean, my mom calls me Jen?”

Emily shook her head, saying “No, that won’t work. How about a last name?”

“Jareau.”

She took a second, using this as an opportunity to stall, decide her next move.

“I’ve got it! How about JJ? Yeah?”

Jennifer or JJ, smiled again, looking to her hands. She loved it, God, why did she love it? She knew the answer to that, because Emily had given it to her, it was new, exciting. Just like her.

“It’s that, or J squared. Which one?” She tilted her head, and then both laughed and smiled, something they found they would be doing a lot of together.

“Yeah, you’re right. JJ is good, it’s good.” She whispered, lifting her head. She was met with Emily, who had some troubled look upon her face. She was conflicted, that much JJ could tell, her few profiling classes she’d had serving her well.

They were close, now, and JJ could finally see the folds and cracks of the other girls lips, wanting nothing more than to just lean in and kiss them, once and for all.

“Y’know, uh, licking your lips makes dryness even worse.”

Emily's mouth made an “o”, a smile coming soon after.

“Really? Well then you’ve got to spill, what on Earth do you do to keep yours so damn perfect?”

“I- Fuck.”

Not waiting a second more, JJ rushed forward, connected their lips in what felt so long awaited, though they had only formally known each other for a few hours. The contrast of their skin was so enticing, so addicting, they couldn’t help but smile, teeth clashing and breaths mixing. They only separated to catch their breaths, chests heaving.

“It’s chapstick. I never leave home without it.” JJ commented, said chapstick having left remnants on Emily's lips. She nodded, opening her eyes.

“Yeah, I got that. Peppermint and,” She quickly flicked her tongue again, recognition becoming prevalent in her features. “cinnamon?”

JJ’s smile widened, as it had never left her face, and she nodded slowly, pulling the tube out from her right pocket. She popped off the lid, shifting positions so that she was straddling Emily's lap, her hair dangling in her eyes.

“Is this okay?” She questioned, the chapstick still in her shaky hand. Emily nodded vigorously, her heart beating quite fast, her mind repeating all the possibilities that could go wrong like some sort of mantra.

“Yeah, this is more than okay.” She laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. JJ did the same, putting on another round of the solution before leaning down and placing a long kiss on Emily's lips. She pulled away, running the tube over them again, “just for good measure” she had said.

When they finally had left the cold rooftop, hand in hand, the sky had turned into an indigo sheet, the stars in it shimmering as bright as ever.

“Em?” JJ had questioned, stopping in her tracks. Emily looked over, raising her brows and tilting her head, resembling a puppy.

“Hmm?”

“Can we do this again?”

The question hung in the air, and Emily savoured it, letting it sink in deeply, as deep as it could go. They started walking again, their heels echoing loudly against the wet stone.

“Yeah, JJ. I’d like that.”

♀♀♀

hmmmmmmm interesting ANYWAY i’ll make a pt two prolly idk peace ily go drink water and eat protein 

edit: i just reread this this is so horrible what the FAWK im so sorry never let me write when im pulling an all nighter ever again

xx hj

[ziggyzagreus]

Active Listening

[Pairing: Charon/Hermes - Fandom: Hades (Video Game)]

[Rating: No Rating Applied]

[Important Tags: Fluff, Getting Together (Kinda), Hermes is Nervous and I love him for that]

[Fic Type: SFW Drabble]

[AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365528 ]

[Summary: Hermes contemplates the growth of companionship between himself and his Professional Business Associate.]

[Note: This was inspired by replies to a post by @deathonholiday where people were just basically sharing their Charon/Hermes headcanons soooo here we go, lol.]

~~~

Hermes did not know at which point he started being able to understand Charon. Or rather, when something had shifted significantly enough for his own mind to slow down adequately for the boatman to worm his way inside, for that somehow soothing voice contrary to the audible sound it had to sound in the Olympian god’s mind and respond to his own ramblings. It certainly had taken a long time, for the messenger additionally could not recall hearing the low drawls of Charon’s scraping voice for the first while of their association.

A shift in character, perhaps it had taken, or something much more interpersonal, between the two of them rather than Hermes’ attention alone.

At the start of it all, quick trips down to the Underworld often left Hermes more wound up than usual, a strange unease always settling over him when things got darker and more claustrophobic. Sometimes the upper regions were quite alright, nice even, but despite the expanse of Elysium and all its chill air, there was a sense of unwelcome that made Hermes’ pulse antsy. A pressure, like the feeling of watchful eyes on his back – even if it were just innocent shades, Hermes felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up practically the entire trip down. So, he’d search for the boatman, quite literally dashing in to dump his wares and the soul identifications on the polished albeit ancient boat, prattle off on their uses and what messages to be delivered, and be on his way.

Charon would always watch him as well, burning violet gaze just visible under the brim of his wide boater hat, and Hermes would use an old salesmanship trick – staring right at the bridge of the nose, well, should the individual possess one, which Charon did not – to finish his delivery in record time. Charon would nod, weight leaning heavily on the oar, and that same searing gaze would bore into the back of the Olympian as he darted off to leave this wretched place behind.

Those hollow eyes, teeming with a deep energy, were always on him, and initially they had carried that same feeling of watchful unease that Hermes shivered off once finding his way back home.

Then, it came that Charon would begin meeting Hermes closer and closer to the surface; how the boatman came to expect his arrival was unbeknownst to the messenger god, but he appreciated the gesture all the same. It was as if Charon could tell how jumpy Hermes got, the way he couldn’t even hover still and the slight tremor to his rapid speech. The boatman awaited his arrival closer to the surface, and in his company, Hermes found himself speaking more, the tiniest bit more slowly, and biding their time. The more at ease he became, the easier it was to fall to his dispositional pattern of chatter.

Hermes filled most silences. In Olympus he was well known for it, rather rudely to be perfectly square, and especially now when the only companion in this dreary place seemed to have no words of his own. Figuring he was mute, with little to no intention to speak, Hermes had no issue prattling on about anything and everything.

Eventually, Hermes felt sorry, too, for being so fleeting in the past; and now, he allowed the realization of a sort of warm safety from being in the presence of the Chthonic minor god, aware that nothing dare cross the planks of his Narrowboat lest they be lost shades with little will stored in their spirits. Nothing could truly come to harm Hermes down here, and so, relaxation came to follow with the pleasure of Charon’s company.

Of course, though, as time went on, he wondered if the boatman even understood a word he spoke while they were together.

He received nods, and Charon followed directions, but that seemed to be the extent of it all. He never uttered even a sound in return, and while Hermes was often the one to interrupt things, a strange thought occurred that he himself wished to be interrupted, if only for once. Prompting place for it, asking questions, and waiting a beat for a response all seemed futile. Plus, Hermes himself often answered the question allowed, or rushed off to speak before he could stop himself.

And so, it came to pass in such a shock when one day, Charon spoke.

Hermes adjusted the strap of his bag, keeping what wares inside from tumbling out, and skidded to a halt at the ledge in Elysium where Charon often arrived to pick him up and spare him from a solitary trek down through Asphodel or Tartarus.

To the god’s surprise, the boat was already there at a standstill, its proprietor waiting to the side calmly, dark aura instead the most welcoming feature of the Underworld as far as Hermes was concerned. One of Charon’s arms crossed his chest, slender hand hidden within the folds of billowing robes, and that same penetrating violet gaze fixated as if he knew precisely where the god would appear.

Hermes opened his mouth to speak, a grin tugging at his lips, already sucking in a breath for the tumultuous expulsion of words sure to come: stories of where he’d been and the functions of the goods he had to deliver to his dear associate. But the words fell flat when Charon instead drew his hand out into view, a palm-sized bottle of golden nectar held delicately in his grasp.

“Charon, chap, is this…? Erm, well, of course I know what it is, but are you gifting this to me?”

And for the first time, Charon spoke. He had a voice like no other; and while to many that would be derogatory, speaking volumes of negativity towards the scratching, garbled whispers like a foul blizzard wind or the gargling of shards of something broken – to Hermes, it sounded simply, cozy and clear in his mind. It sounded as much the comfort and safety he felt in the boatman’s presence, and that was… Striking.

“Indeed, something simple, but a gift for you, nonetheless. Should you desire to take it.”

Hermes’ mind felt fuzzy, something blooming from his chest, warm and light like the comings-on of the wines from Dionysus’ feasts, but this was delightful. A new, exciting thrill shot through the messenger and caused his feathered heels to lift an additional foot or so off the ground where he hovered. He stared, at a loss for words, at the nectar in Charon’s hand.

“How can I hear you so clearly?” He instead asked, words dumping out slowly, at least for the pace of the quick-tongued god.

“You at long last cared to listen. Perhaps you are comfortable… in my presence. Take it, I insist, good Hermes.”

Without further hesitation, Hermes reached for the nectar and held the delicate glass close, admiring the subtle craftsmanship forged likely from fires here in hell itself. “I… thank you. I – oh, I didn’t exactly bring anything special for you, nothing aside from the usual wares and the few soul identifications but – oh, next time, next time I will, alright Charon? We are business partners for sure, there’s no doubt about that now, alright? Considering you’ve put up with me for this long, and you’ve followed everything I’ve said! Why, you’ve understood it all, haven’t you? I am terribly sorry for doubting so, I suppose I should have – I should have listened closer last time…”

“You are forgiven, for neither of us were ready. Now, shall we depart?” Charon gestured to the boat that awaited them.

A jolt of glee shot through Hermes, and for the first time since his work began, an excitement to venture into the Underworld met him. It was startling, surely, for when the fear had dissipated as companionship with Charon grew, for once… Well, this would be rather enjoyable.

“Certainly! Let’s get right to it, friend! And do I have stories to tell you, now there was this incident that I faced up on the surface when acquiring the name of that fellow right there…”

[wu-sisyphus-gang]

Motion Sickness Chapter 87

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"You transformed the needle, then." Oscar paced around towards me and examined my work. "I thought you had some of my magic working for you. It's good to have proof."

He picked up the metallic feather and examined the blade the hairs formed closely. It had a hole on its spine where the head of the needle had been and the spine was sharp at the other end like the point of the needle had been. Even I knew that it was sloppy work. But it was something.

"What is magic?" I asked. "Is it all lightning and wind like the maidens? Or is it transfiguring stuff and moving energies around? I don't understand," I said.

"Yes well, perhaps invariably it varies person to person. Even the maiden's powers. After all, no two seasons are exactly alike. I suspect your ability to fly comes from your magic rather than your semblance."

"My ability to fly?" I breathed. "I guess. I mean it started out being something I could only do when my semblance was active. It also used to be just a glide rather than real flight, too."

I could now really fly. I could gain and lose height at will once I got up to speed. Taking off like a jet in many regards. And the power made me fast, too. Not as fast as Ruby while she was mid petal burst but still quite fast.

"Practice makes perfect, Mr. Strife. It seems separate from your semblance in many other ways, no? It's something you have access to all the time rather than just when your semblance is active." Ozpin informed me of his thoughts on the subject. "Your strength too, and maybe your speed might be manifestations of magic rather than just your aura. You've grown very powerful in a short period of time through this sort of practice," Ozpin lectured. "I would be surprised if your magic continues to be like mine. Look at this feather, you didn't manage to transform the material. Your transfiguration seems weak. Your powers are different. Unique to you."

"So my magic is going to be different from yours, for sure. It's got a different basis. It comes out differently because of that. Limit Breaker just helps my progress along the way because that's how Limit Breaker works. It makes me better. Including my magic. I even sometimes wonder if Limit Breaker makes me smarter too, while it's active."

"Indeed, your magic seems combat oriented. Mine has other subtle applications, like allowing me to move the maiden powers around. Like transfiguration and sometimes like flight as well."

"Anything I can do you can do better?" I asked.

"Perhaps not. Flight only manifests in some of my reincarnations. Each one of my bodies is different much like the maidens. Very rarely do I gain extreme speed or super strength like you possess. Indeed that is the same for the maidens," he went on. "The powers of the maidens usually coordinate with the powers of the elements. As you probably well noted. And sometimes they gain the power of flight as well."

"Cinder can fly," I agreed. "But each one is different. Some of them gain super strength or other powers," I said, understanding.

"At times. Magic is incredibly singular and unique to the user. It is not unlike a semblance in that regard. Perhaps invariably. I suspect some of your magical powers are hiding under your semblance. Limit Breaker seems far too powerful to be merely a semblance at times. If it is, it's an exceptionally powerful one."

"But will I be able to summon fire and lightning without dust? Will I be able to cast destructive spells?"

"I don't know. Will you?" Ozpin asked back. He seemed to be genuinely asking what I thought.

I shook my head minutely after a pause. "Probably not. At least I don't feel that way about it. Maybe destructive spells like my Limit Break attacks, like blade-beam. But probably not casting spells like Cinder was able to without dust. But that hardly matters, I've got dust for that kind of thing when I need it. It's… always been relatively easy for me. Using dust in its raw form, that is, anyways."

"Yes." Ozpin tapped his cane against the ground twice. "While magic is mostly a matter of one's own opinion you have shown little promise in this regard. Much like your transfiguration seems weak. That's no true fault of your own, however," Ozpin clarified for me. "Practice makes perfect but we all have particular talents. It would be wise for you to play into your strengths while bewaring your weaknesses. Follow your semblance, do you really have aura or just magic? If so, what feels truly different from aura and what does not? Does flight? Does your immense strength? Does your speed?"

"They could all blend together, too. I might not even have aura in a traditional sense at all. Maybe my powers mimic it," I realized.

"There is also mind magic. Something you will have no choice but to excel at if you wish to resist Salem's influence over your thoughts. Focus on clearing your mind and maintaining your walls against her. Practice shall make you strong."

"I need to learn more," I murmured from where I sat while Ozpin paced around me. "About dust and about myself."

"A wise conclusion," Ozpin encouraged. "Do go on."

"I need to learn how to eat dust. And my blade-beam. That could be magic. Or it could be aura. It's hard to tell, it could even be both. It always came out differently than Qrow's but is that because we have different aura or because I have magic? It's hard to tell. Maybe even impossible to tell. But that could be the point."

"Now I see you understand."

"And that could be why my sessions with Weiss and Ruby are helping me. Focusing on clearing my thoughts helped me with my transfiguration. They all play into each other."

"Precisely. Now do you have any other questions for me?"

"Yes. It's about my sisters. If they have magic too, aren't we outnumbered?"

"Quality of quantity, Mr Strife," Ozpin murmured. "And we shall have the maidens eventually. Or at least we plan to. Plus there are dear Ms. Rose's eyes. All is not lost. Did they fight you with magic?"

"They fought with things like my semblance so that's a hard maybe."

"Then we shall be wary of them. Is that all?"

I nodded.

"Practice, then. Strengthen your mind, I have confidence in you, Mr. Strife."

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Dust eating hurt.

It was a physical process which changed your soul into being more in tune with a particular element or even elements, plural. It brings something out from inside your deepest reaches from this external event. Dust eating reached everywhere inside you and changed that.

It wasn't comfortable.

That was why Hazel's pain numbing semblance worked well with it. Not that being numb to pain was a particularly good thing all the time. Pain was important to give the human mind context. It let you know how much danger you were in. I didn't underestimate it's value. Pain wasn't a weakness and I wasn't about to start criticizing the nervous system in all of its complexity.  

And eating dust was dangerous. It could kill you. It could stop your heart. There was a lot of energy that flowed into you when you ate dust. A lot. That's another reason that it hurt. All that power coursing through you. It could burn you up as well as it was changing you.

You see, when you eat dust the answer to question 'what am I' became at least in part that element. 'Who am I?' Eat a little fire dust and the answer becomes partly fire.

I charged my semblance to full in the training room and stretched myself out a bit. I needed to be relaxed before I tried this. I'd read a little about how to manage eating dust on my scroll but nothing could really prepare you for the real thing. And the thing was that the real thing could kill you. Some people only ever tried it once for one reason or another.

I pulled a fire crystal from my pocket and let the blue flames of my semblance lick at my body. Then I took the crystal and shoved it into my skin above the collar.

It slid into my body without resistance. It sort of plopped into me. Then I changed and the energy coursed through my body. The blue flames of my body turned violet, then red. The exact hue of that exact crystal. It didn't help that no two dust crystals were exactly alike. That made this process a little different for each and every crystal.

My aura changed color and texture. The answer to the question changed and I became fire. Me. Not my body or my mind but who I was even beyond that. My soul became fire. I felt hot, really really hot.

It hurt enough that my body bent. I fell to my knees with a gasp. Fire coursed through my veins. My blood felt molten. My heart beat and my head threatened to burn up. Of course that was metaphorically true. But it was also literally threatening to burn me up.

I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth. In through the nose and out through the mouth. My vision came back from swimming steadily and though it still hurt I was able to function.

I let the power flow down into my arms and cast it forward with a Limit Break blade-beam through my sword. I used my sword as my magic wand for this little spell and sent it out. The beam wasn't blue this time. It was a crimson colored wreath of flames that coursed forward. It dashed forward and then where it met a target, just a practice dummy, it exploded.

The force of it sucked the air from my lungs. And though I was made of fire I could feel the heat of it. It wasn't uncomfortable like it might otherwise have been because I was made of the fire still. My aura, where it might have usually been golden was still crimson with the power of the dust crystal. I hadn't used all of the energy of the crystal yet.

That was the other thing about eating dust. It lasted as long as it lasted. And it didn't come with a timer either, maybe I'd get a feel for that eventually but for now I had no idea how long it would last. You were committed to the change until it was over. Until it released you. I swung my sword and it was wreathed with flames as I swung it.

I mimed fighting and shadow boxed against no target.

I let out two wide horizontal slashes with my sword covered with flames. I cast a hand forward and a fireball followed and splashed against one of the walls. I could feel the flames inside of me. And it wasn't killing me yet so I took that as a good sign. Even though it did hurt. It burned at my insides.

I charged my semblance to full, standing still in the training room until it was activated and flared with crimson light instead of the deep blue. Flames still licked at me but rather than just being light like normal instead it was hot. I was actually on fire. I could just scarcely feel it though. It just felt warm where real flames roared. I was at the center of an inferno. I was a walking, talking, explosion.  

I stepped closer to a dummy and my presence with the flames was enough to start dealing damage to it. I'd be a menace to fight while this was active. I'd be burning up my enemy by just being close. This was how my aura reacted to being partly fire. It was as unique to me as my semblance was.

I wanted to try it with lightning next. And then I'd probably leave it at that. I didn't need to know how my aura reacted to being partly ice or gravity. I didn't need to take the risk. Why bother? When I had fire and lightning and it wasn't like wind would suddenly give me the ability to fly. So why take any more risk than I needed to? I didn't have all the time in the world to train. I needed to pick one or two and get good at those. Or at least good enough to use in a real fight.

I just didn't have the time to practice every single one. Every single combination that was. And with every chance I took came the opportunity for me to kill myself with it. If I mixed fire and lightning, for example, what would happen to me? It could just kill me. And over training. Of all the things in my life to fucking kill me, I refused for it to be over training.

Some things I didn't really need the answer to. Yeah I might try it once at some point in safety but I'd never practice it enough that I'd feel good doing it in a real fight. Not like I would with fire and lightning if I practiced them enough.

I leapt forward and flew. I glid up to a training robot and Cross-Slashed it. My sword melted through the machine as much as I tore into it. My presence began to dissolve it as I hovered before it and sliced.

Plus there was only so much pay off I'd get from adding a little more dust to my body. My return on investment would diminish, and quickly, with more crystals. It was probably logarithmic.

Mixing and matching would be fine if my body could take it but that was a big if. So why bother? Just practicing with a couple and getting good with those would serve me better than having a dozen options I was worse at and that might kill me in a real fight. That was the thing about this. It could kill me. Just as much as it could kill my enemies it could get me too. So it was better to practice one kick a hundred times rather than a hundred kicks once.

At least I thought so. I felt the fire wear off and my aura returned to its normal golden hue. It wasn't perfect and there were still traces of the flames inside of me.

I waited until I was confident most of the fire was gone. All bust a few specks. The last bits of it dissolving into me and burning away. Then I took the next crystal into my body. An electric crystal of deep yellow. My body flared from it and I could taste ozone as I slid the crystal into my body.

My aura turned yellow from it's golden color. I could feel the wattage over my tongue and behind my eyes. I swept a normal blade-beam forward and it was a crackling vertical wave of lightning that came out of the tip of my blade.

Then I charged my semblance to full. A lightning storm surrounded me. I flew forward and the motion felt like a jolt. I flew up to a training machine and lighting just poured from my body and wreathed the machine. Tendrils of electricity followed my blade as I cut into it. Tongues of lightning carved trenches in the metal of the robot.

Then I swept my Limit Break blade-beam through and at a training Atlas robot. It became trapped in a miniature lightning storm that harassed it and destroyed it.

I was starting to feel exhauston now from three different Limit Breaks but I felt strength enough for one more. I charged it to full one last time and tried a lightning coursed Octa slash on one of the training robots. I destroyed it completely and slumped to the side. My aura was still coursing with lightning. I waited for the tingling to die down and for my aura to return to normal and I panted hard.

The Limit Breaks took energy from me. They weren't free. Then there was a bit of exertion from the dust itself. To keep myself together and not fall apart due to the energy coursing through me wasn't easy. I figured with more practice I'd be able to manage it in a real fight, though.

For now I wasn't at that point. And the power could still kill me. Pain was there to alert you that something was wrong . And the pain I felt when I absorbed dust like this wasn't a miscommunication per se. It could get me.

I leaned against a wall and breathed hard. Still, I thought I'd be able to make one of those two work in a real fight.

I slumped down with my sword leaning against the wall over my head in the broadsword form. I was tired. My body couldn't keep training, even if I wanted to. It had been a while since I'd felt like that. Not since I'd gotten the new sword.

I examined the weapon. Particularly where Pyrrha's weapons and armor had been forged into it.

Pyrrha…

Would we be together now if she hadn't died? I did miss her but I wouldn't want to trade away what I had now. I was a different person than I would have been if she hadn't died. The question wasn't fair. For either of us.

I ran a hand through my hair. I was pretty content with my current setup. I didn't need to ruin it by looking for reasons to do so.

I sighed. I felt a little lighter.

pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq

-WG

[dat-town]

cut me open (take my heart)

Characters: Eunwoo and You

Setting: dark fantasy au, sirens

Summary: It was tradition. Out of the sons of the Sea King, only that one will be the rightful heir if the crown that can take an innocent heart because if one can't bear the weight of a human heart, that can't be the ruthless ruler of the sea in times of need. And you, about to start your new life in colonized Joseon, meet an ethereal creature that wants your heart, quite literally.

Words: 1.7k

Author’s note: title taken from 5SOS’ When you walk away. I honestly wanted to write siren!Eunwoo since Blue Flame era (because of his sparkly skin in the MV) but with Knock I was kicked in the butt for not doing it earlier. And yes, I used this chance to write about his beauty because damn, this boy is ethereal.

He has always taken your breath away.

Even when you first met, on the day when you arrived to Joseon on the ship of Lady Gallagher. As an aristocrat and as a foreigner to a country that welcomed neither. Yet, the place had already amazed you and you curled your fingers around the metal handrail, leaning forward, not caring about dirtying your skirt as the vessel approached the bay. Everything was so new, so foreign: the buildings, the way people dressed, the exotic language they spoke but you just clenched onto your suitcase a bit firmer, determined when you were instructed to leave the board once the ship docked.

While doing so, it might have been your enthusiasm that made you so clumsy, because you slipped on the ramp, losing your balance just over the sea. Having no empty hand to grab on anything, hearing your aunt’s scream, you could only prepare for the worst as you closed your eyes, waiting for the cold water to envelope your body, heavy clothes pulling you down. But instead, a strong arm embraced you by the waist, keeping you safe, on the wooden ramp between the ship and the land. The touch felt burning even through the layers of clothing.

A shallow breath or two later, you pried your eyes open slowly and it was his eyes that you first saw. Those dark, endless orbs with a hint of midnight blue in them. Almost like the depth of the ocean, just as enticing so. You stared, same as he did, eyes locked for long minutes while the hand and delicate fingers resting on your corset dress loosened their hold and even though you stood steadily by then, you felt like falling anyway.

You had to narrow your eyes at the bright light of the Sun shining upon your savior, his pale skin glimmering like jewels desired by treasure hunters under the weight of the sea. The curls of his dark, almost pitch black locks, that looked soft like bird feathers, hovered over his forehead, tempting you to reach out and brush them away. But you didn’t do that, of course! What were you even thinking, daydreaming like this?

Coming to your senses quickly, you found your voice again and breathless, you thanked him that he saved you. At that the corners of his thin mouth curled upwards. It was beautiful, truly, the perfect line of his blossom pink lip pulling up in a curve, the littlest and yet, it made your heart skip a silly innocent beat. As an artist yourself your skin itched for the feeling of a brush between your fingertips. You wanted to… had this strange yearning to paint him, to have him as dark oil on white canvas, glittering dots glistening across his flawless skin and as watercolour on paper dripping through the material, the blues and silvers leaving their mark on your trembling fingers. You wished to make such beauty everlasting.

“Careful, my lady,” he spoke up finally, voice just as alluring as his whole aura, sweet and smoothing. Then he let go of you, taking a slight, polite bow before leaving and you could do nothing but stare after him, his royal blue uniform with silver chains over it making him noticeable even among the crowd.

Or it might have been just you, already enchanted.

His name was Cha Eunwoo.

People of the town whispered about him but nobody knew where he came from or what he was doing. He was a mystery to all but most of all, to you. You dreamt of him, about reaching out only for him to slip through your fingers like water. You often woke up with a heavy chest, something excited, yearning yet uneasy weighing you down. Sometimes you hallucinated his voice, the melody of it carried by the wind, inviting and alluring, dripping so sweetly it could have been a lullaby. Your aunt often had to call you out on daydreaming and sometimes you got the feeling that you were being watched but maybe that was mere wishful thinking on your part. 

But as the weather had gotten colder and windier, the sea seemingly furious, you kept bumping into him everywhere: at the market, at the tailor, even on your way home and from the way he looked at you, you knew he recognized you, yet did not speak to you. Not until one day he found you alone, without your servants, staring out to the open sea spreading wide and golden in front of you.

He approached you quietly, like a predator, but voice sweet as honey.

“Do you like it?” he asked in a tone one part curious and two parts cold, yet it sent pleasant shivers down your spine. It was just his way of talking. 

“What?” you turned to him, taken aback by his closeness. Your arms almost grazed each other and the scent of rain that always followed him hit you. Oh skies, he made you flustered so easily.

“The sea. Do you like it?” he elaborated his question, dark eyes flashing at you as he rested his elbowed on the railing. There was something unexplainable longing in his voice as if he was talking about something dear to him.

“It’s beautiful,” you sighed as you nodded, honest, having been in awe by the magnificence of the sea and oceans ever since you were a little girl.

“Beautiful,” the boy - almost man - echoed as if he was tasting the word, slowly and unfamiliar. His dark eyes boring into yours made you speechless for a moment. “You, humans, have an interesting idea of beauty. Aren’t you afraid?”

You blinked in surprise and confused, not understanding neither the statement nor the question. Why would you have been afraid? You had no reason to. Yet, you didn’t get an answer from this unearthly young man either as he left your side, walking down the shore. His absence suddenly scared you more than anything and your heart cried out in desperation to go after him. You didn’t understand any of these feelings, this strong affection didn’t make sense at all and yet, something tugged on your stomach and you took a few tentative steps ahead.

“Where are you going?” you found yourself asking, voice shaking a bit. Was it because of the fear of rejection? 

“I can show you,” he offered as he looked back at you over his shoulder with a hint of smirk tinting the paleness of his perfectly curved lips. His smile was somewhat wicked but you couldn’t stop, your legs moved on their own accord and when you were by his side, walking further down on the shore, he turned to you with another question: “Would you like to hear a story?”

Soundlessly you nodded because suddenly you couldn’t find your voice, even the air seemed to change around you but you just followed him blindly. Wind blew harder, messing up your hair and riding up your skirt but you blamed it on the approaching tide while listening to the story you had been promised to.

“There is a kingdom far far in the sea that nobody on this land knows of. In that kingdom, there are six princes fighting over the throne but according to the tradition the true heir can only be the one that takes an innocent heart, consuming it fully as an offering to the goddess of the sea.”

"But why?" you gaped at him, finding the tale a bit too dark for your taste and he smiled down at you sickeningly sweet, long and pale fingers gently touching your cheek for the first time as your steps halted. You were surprised just how cold his touch felt.

“Power always comes with sacrifice,” he said observing your reactions closely, dark eyes drinking up as you lost yourself to the music of waves and wind bit by bit.

You found your feet frozen in place, your body shivering and when a sudden breeze swirled your scarf away, you reached for your bare neck as if that could have protected you from the cold. You just watched as the wind took it farther and farther away and by the time you looked back, Eunwoo was nowhere to be found.

Confused, you looked around, calling his name, shivering when the first thunder of the approaching storm shook the rocky land you stood on.

"Down here," you heard his mellifluous voice and turning your head you froze in place when you saw him from the edge of the shore, half his body in the water, pale and shimmering bare chest on display. 

"What–" your eyes widened, lips trembling as you watched something turquoise move under him in the water. You should have run, far and farther and yet, you fell onto your knees, blood staining your skirt, fingers digging into the edgy rock under you. 

"Haven't you heard the stories? That you should be beware of unearthly beauties?" he tilted his head, water droplets making his dark hair look like ink and the air stuck in your lungs when he pushed himself up coming face to face with you.

"Why… Why me?" 

"Because you are too pure for this world, darling," he smiled beautifully and for the first time in your life, you believed him, you thought of beauty as something scary, something horrid. It was indeed a weapon, aimed at you, a gun at your heart but you couldn’t move. You were frozen in place staring into his pitch black eyes with the deepest of oceans in them, seeing as the moonlight painted white streaks over his milk white shoulders.

"It won't hurt, I promise," he murmured quietly into the seam of your mouth before enchanting music filled your ears as his mouth pressed against yours. His lips were cold and tasted like salt. Yet, it was almost sweet, almost like a dream as much that you barely even felt him  pull you into the water with him.

But oh, he has always taken your breath away anyway.

[jadekitty777]

Transmission Error

Fun fact - I have written two stories within four days. Even funner fact - the other one is much cuter than this one but I can’t reveal it quite yet as it’s for the Qrow shipwreck fanzine.

Word Count: 4k

Pairing: Qrow/Clover

Ao3 Link: Transmission Error

Summary: With the end of the world on the horizon, nothing is certain. Loyalties and ideals clash as Qrow and Clover fight between what is right and what is just. With a city threatening to crumble around them, something has to win the day. But will it be their individual interests… or the one thing holding them together? 

Note: This is a What-If scenario for the events in the plane right after V7C11

~

In the wake of the transmission, the air in the transport was tense and heavy. Stiflingly, so.

Robyn acted first, jerking around and pointing her weapon at him. Clover looked between the crossbow and her unshakable gaze and saw the huntress he’d had a chance to watch grow into her own. She was several years his junior, who’d entered the academy strong-willed and defiant, with high opinions and a disobedient attitude that truly didn’t mesh well with the militant attitude of her peers. He’d been granted the chance to be her corrective tutor, once upon a time, but he knew within five minutes of them meeting that there was no hope changing her. Nor was she someone who needed to be. She was a shining example of the incoming generation, those with big ideas on how to better the world and willing to take the risks to make those ideas happen.

Now, staring down the barrel of her weapon and understanding that she was seeing him as a hurdle to cross to that better world, Clover had never felt so betrayed.

The minimal tang of moving metal made him look slightly to the right, where Qrow sat with his hand on Harbinger’s hilt – not extended but threatening to.

Okay now he never felt so betrayed.

He kept his hands right where they were, resting on either thigh. While he had luck on his side, he didn’t bet his chances on winning a fight against two skilled fighters in the middle of a closed area wherein his own weapon was ultimately useless. So he used the only one he had left – his voice. “Let’s just take a second and calm down.”

Robyn scoffed. “I think we’re way past calm, shamrock.”

Back to that old nickname? That was a bad sign.

“We’re not.” Clover insisted. “Look, we don’t know what’s going on and-”

“My niece just told us what’s going on.” Qrow butt in. “Your boss is going off the deep end and my kids are in the crossfire.”

He almost reminded the other huntsman that General Ironwood was, technically, his boss as well. He couldn’t imagine how scandalized he’d be if he dared.

He took a slow, steadying breath and tried again “The general wouldn’t suddenly switch tactics like this without reason. We need to get back to the academy and-”

“And what?!” Robyn was on her feet now, the crossbow nearly touching his nose. “How does this end? Mantle has been the sacrifice this entire time and you’ve done nothing but blindly stand by it! Now Ironwood’s signed its death warrant, so why should I believe you wouldn’t betray your own home now?”

Few things could get him to surge to his feet, but that accusation was too much. “I never-!”

Anything more he wished to say was interrupted by a round of screams from the cockpit, before an explosion rocked the airship, fire and heat blasting from the front. There was no Elm or Weiss to catch them, so the four of them were tossed about the cabin like ragdolls. Clover cried out as his spine impacted the bench with enough force to hurt, only for another undulation to throw him to the floor, his shoulder and head smacking in quick succession.

Somewhere, he heard Tyrian’s maniacal laughter. “I knew she’d come for me!”

He struggled against his fuzzy head to lift himself up, blinking away the haze in his vision to truly take in the unbelievable sight before him. The entire front of the airship was just gone, nothing but a gaping hole where the cockpit once was, opening up the view to the stomach-dropping site of Mantle below. The edges of the metal that had been torn off were still super-heated and glowing orange, smoke filling the cabin at an alarming rate and choking the air.

As the aircraft rapidly started to nosedive, he grabbed onto the leg of the bench to ground himself. Between the dark clouds and his watery eyes, he saw Tyrian go slipping out the front. Heard his psychotic giggling as he disappeared over the edge. Another shout made his gut twist, and he saw Robyn going next, nothing to catch her.

He scrambled for Kingfisher, swung it desperately – but the line caught nothing.

“Clover!”

Under the tumultuous noise of the failing craft and the screech of the winds, it was a true wonder how he managed to hear the yell that had him looking to the back where the last occupant was. Qrow had his sword embedded in the wall, using it to anchor himself in place. He reached out a hand for him, which Clover didn’t hesitate to take, feet scrambling for purchase as the other huntsman yanked him over. His hand curled partially over Qrow’s as he grabbed for a hold on Harbinger.

“The door!” The huntsman cried, indicating with a jerk of his head towards the hatch at the rear of the vehicle.

Clover nodded, planting his heels in so he could slide himself back against the wall, and slammed his fist into the door. Nothing happened. Without the cockpit, there was no tech to control them into opening.

Qrow was coughing. They were suffocating on smoke. The buildings of Mantle were rapidly getting closer.

They were going to die if they didn’t get out now.

He shut his eyes. Focused everything he had into the hatch beside him, willed his semblance into opening them, and slammed his fist back again.

It didn’t just open – it entirely detached, breaking off with a screech and getting lost somewhere in the night sky.

Clover spared Qrow a look, just long enough to make sure he would be able to get out on his own, before he grabbed onto the edge of the frame and yanked himself out. Suddenly, he was flying, the rooftops of Mantle rapidly stretching up to meet him. He swung Kingfisher in a wide arc, catching around a chimney stack behind him and using it to propel himself backwards so that he was over an alleyway. Another swing and another hook, this time around a fire escape, had him swinging into his fall, controlling his descent.

The ground still came up quickly and hit hard even as he tucked and rolled into it. He didn’t get up immediately. His back was screaming, despite his aura miraculously still holding, and his head felt like one big ache.  He gingerly pressed his palm against his temple, feeling the knot growing there, as he pulled out his scroll to check his teammates’ statuses.

Robyn was in the yellow, which meant wherever she ended up, she’d landed okay and in one piece. His own was on the verge of snapping, though he could feel that.

But his eyes were quickly drawn to the pulsing red meter over Qrow, panic rising. With all the other noise, he hadn’t heard the alert. The other man must have collided with something too hard during the explosion, and with his aura already taxed from battling waves of Grimm and Tyrian, it was no wonder it gave in.

He should have helped him out of the plane.

Clover quickly got to his feet, hissing as he did so. He ignored it in favor of searching the area. He couldn’t have landed far, right?

It was hard to see anything. The area was pitch black, most of the district’s electricity having been knocked out during the attack. But a light caught his eye and he started to jog down the alley towards it – only to quickly ease up into a quick walk. Once he’d stepped onto the sidewalk, he looked around, but saw no sign of Qrow anywhere.

But just as he was about to head down the street, something out of place caught his eye.

A falling feather.

He watched it flutter to the ground, before craning his head back, spotting a crow clinging to the only lamppost still on. “Qrow?” He called to it hopefully.

It cawed back, before hopping from its perch. Clover saw the problem immediately as he tried to flap with just one working wing, spiraling out of control. He rushed to catch him, raising his cupped hands towards the sky and biting down on his tongue when his shoulder protested loudly against the movement. Still, it felt worth the pain when the nearly weightless bird landed in his palms. He knelt down, setting him on the floor.

A second later, Qrow was next to him, stifling a groan as he held his right arm tightly. The elbow was at an odd angle.

He could have kicked himself for not noticing.

“Is it broken?” Clover asked, reaching out for it.

“Don’t think so – Ah, careful!” He hissed, fingers twitching. “Think I just knocked it outta place.”

Upon further inspection, he found the assessment was correct. A full dislocation. It was a wonder how he’d managed to keep hold of his sword with such an injury. Though, experience told him it was probably just pure adrenaline.

Clover looked up, meeting Qrow’s pained gaze. “I can set it, but it’s going to hurt.”

“I know.” He turned his face away. “Do it.”

“Okay.” He held onto his wrist with one hand, and the bone of his protruding elbow with the other, carefully pulling his arm into a 90-degree angle as he tried to guide the joint back into place as he rotated the wrist.

The worst part was how slow the reduction maneuver was, dragging out the pain. Qrow did his best to hide it, only short, sharp exhales escaping between his teeth. Until there was a click as the bone finally snapped back into place; then he doubled over and let out a wordless cry.

Clover guided the arm down, resting it in Qrow’s lap, before reaching out to run a soothing hand through the other man’s hair. “Any other injuries?” He asked once it seemed he’d had caught his breath.

He shook his head, straightening up. He tested the movement of his arm, flinching as the torn and swollen ligaments undoubtably objected. It didn’t appear to weaken his resolve though, as he used his good arm to help him get back to his feet, turning towards the sky. Towards Atlas.

Clover felt like his soul and body were pulling in different directions, because as he got to his feet, his heart sank. “You’re going?”

“Where else is there to be?” He questioned emptily as he walked forward.

As if Kingfisher’s line was tied between them, Clover found himself surging after him, grabbing onto his shoulder. “Wait!”

In all the time they’d gotten to know each other, Qrow had never looked back at him so spitefully before. “Going to stop me?”

What? Clover tried to work his jaw into the word, but nothing escaped him.

Because… that’s what he was supposed to do, wasn’t he? He was Atlas’ top Ace-Op, meant to protect the people and his Kingdom. Tasked in securing the deeper secrets of Remnant and protecting his General’s interests. Above all else, it was his duty to subdue anyone intent on hindering or delaying those interests.

When had Qrow become such a liability to him that the thought of stopping him didn’t even cross his mind?

“I-” He pulled his hand back, staring at it as if it had betrayed him.

“I get it, you know.”

He looked up. “Huh?”

Some of the heat in Qrow’s eyes had gone away. “Back when Beacon started to fall, I forgot too. I ran to Ozpin’s office, more intent on the relic and the maiden then I was on the people being torn apart in the streets. Oz didn’t even hesitate – actually he seemed pissed I was there at all.” He chuckled, a bitter, hollow sound. “He ordered me to leave, because even though he knew it was a risk, to him the people always came first. There are those in this world far better than me who never forget that. And those are the people I choose to follow.” He looked back, towards the city floating in the clouds. “And that’s what’s different between Oz and James. Oz always protected the people first. James always protected his ideals first.” Before he could formulate a retort, Qrow was looking at him now. “And from how you talked back there, it seems your ideals are what come first too.”

Clover curled one of his hands into a fist. “It’s not about ideals Qrow!”

“Isn’t it?!” He shot back, gesturing towards the buildings around them. “How else can you justify leaving an entire city to die?”

“How can you justify risking the world for one city?” He shouted right back.

Qrow got right in his face, eyes ablaze. “Because a huntsman always puts his life on the line for the people in need! Even if costs him his life.”

“Not when we could fail so many others!” Fury boiled up in him as well. “Do you think it’s satisfactory enough to say ‘Well I might be dead, but at least I did my best?’ Death isn’t an apology!”

“Neither is sacrificing the few for the many!”

“It’s not just the many! The numbers can’t even compare.” He jabbed his finger towards the sky, at the city he used to stare up at with wonder and jealousy. “If Salem gets that staff, that city will fall. Mantle, Atlas. All of it will be destroyed! So instead of saving who we can, we will lose everyone.”

“That makes it okay!?”

“Of course it doesn’t! I’d never say that.” His words trailed off into a rasp from his smoke-irritated throat. “This is the worst possible scenario and if I could go out there and stop Salem myself, I would. I’d give everything if I could do that. But that’s not an option and we have to make a decision.”

“You’re right. We do.” That red-eyed glare hardly lessened, even as Qrow took several steps backwards. Held up his arms like an offering. “So stop me.”

The challenge caught him off guard. “What?”

“You’re so certain about your path, right lucky charm? Then stop me.” He let his hands fall back to his sides, expression immovable. “Because I promise you, I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure James’ plan fails.”

Clover was sure if his jaw tightened any more, his molars would crack. “I’m not going to fight you Qrow.”

“You’re gonna have to. You can’t have it both ways.”

He squared his shoulders and rose his chin up, granting the first punch. They’d played too many rounds of poker for him not to know the signs when Qrow was bluffing. “You first.”

Something shimmered across the other’s face, a brief second of regret, before his expression hardened once more.

But he didn’t move.

As the seconds passed, the tension eased out of him, until Clover’s heart broke open into something softer, warmer. “Qrow…”

The utterance of his own name erased his resolve and he lowered his head to scowl at the sidewalk. “Just, stay out of this one, okay?”

“You know I can’t do that. But we can figure this out together.” He stepped forward.

The gesture only made Qrow back away further. “Now who’s spouting off idealistic bullshit?”

Clover snorted. “According to you, it’s still me.”

That actually cracked a smile, though it was fleeting. “Look, you have to understand, this isn’t just about Mantle or Salem or any of that. It’s about those kids. My kids. I have to go.” He looked up, his imploring gaze begging him to understand. “I have to.”

“Qrow,” He started, reaching for the man – but something moving in the shadows behind him drew his attention.

“I know you don’t get it, but-”

The words faded into background noise, Clover turning his head to get a better look at the figure slinking towards them.

Glowing gold eyes gleamed back at him.

His heart stopped.

Knowing he was spotted, Tyrian sprinted forward to clear the rest of the distance, wrist blades aimed for Qrow’s unprotected back.

Clover didn’t hesitate, reaching for Kingfisher and extending it in one quick movement. “Qrow!”

“What are you-?!” Misunderstanding, Qrow jerked back in sudden alarm, hand reaching for his own weapon, but his injury made him slow.

It was also the thing that saved him, as Clover managed to hook his line around the other’s torso and yank him to the ground by his side just as Tyrian’s blades cut through the air where he once was. The murderer’s malicious grin glinted like fangs in the light as he changed targets and struck towards him. Clover ducked under it, twisting the fishing rod around and jabbing the pointed end towards his face.

The iron grip of the other’s metallic tail closing around his wrist cut his attack short.

Tyrian cackled at the trembling end of the spearhead that was just centimeters from his now violet eyeball, looking at him almost gleefully. “Nice try. How about I return the favor?”

The words registered with the swing of the weapon at his face. In desperation, Clover threw himself as far back as he could go – expecting resistance from the hold on his arm.

But it let go.

Unprepared and unsteady, his feet fumbled for balance – and it was just the mistake Tyrian was looking for.

The other’s hand clawed down his front and he felt his aura rip at the seams as if made of paper.

And then all that was left was burning agony as the knife-edged point of the scorpion tail sliced across his stomach up to his chest.

Clover stumbled backwards, hands shakily pressing against his body as bright red blood flowed from the wound. His blood.

All he could think was, That’s not right.

He couldn’t breathe.

His legs started to shake.

A weak whisper of his name made him look to his right.

“Clover?”

The last thing he saw was Qrow’s horrified expression as he collapsed to the ground and everything went dark.

“Clover!!”

~

“So, how d-?”

“I don’t-”

Voices. He heard voices. They were distant and muddled, like he was hearing them from underwater. But as he grasped for them, fighting through the fog in his head and the numbness of his senses, it slammed awareness back into him violently and he became acutely aware of the searing pain roaring across his torso like fire.

A noise escaped him, a choked off cry.

“-ver? Clover?”

Qrow. He tried to focus on his voice, on the hand gripping his own. He squeezed it, maybe too tightly, feeling like it was the only thing grounding him.

“-Needs a medic.” Someone else’s voice faded in again, but he recognized it too. Robyn. How was she here? He felt her more dainty fingers pressing down against his wrist. “His pulse is stable, but he’s losing a lot of blood.”

“That poison’s no joke either.” Qrow sounded panicked. “How are we even going to find anyone right now?”

He wanted to reach out to him, to reassure him he was going to be fine. He’d had worse, surely. But when he tried to speak, the air was punched right out of his lungs as another wave of agony rolled over him.

He only noticed the hand running through his hair once it subsided and the sensation encouraged his eyes open. Everything around him was fuzzy, except the bright red orbs staring back at him.

Had he ever told Qrow how pretty his eyes were?

“Hey, it’s alright. You’re gonna be just fine.” His voice flowed like honey and was just as sweet. He wanted to listen to it forever.

“’Row.” He slurred around his heavy tongue.

It was worth the effort, as it rewarded him a smile.

“I’ve got him.” Robyn. Right she was here. Somewhere to his left. “You need to get going Qrow.”

“What?” Those eyes turned away from him. He wanted them back.

“If Ironwood knows Clover’s down here and that he can’t get back on his own, he might hold off. Might even restart the evacuation efforts.”

The memories resurfaced slowly. Right… Right. Mantle. Atlas. Salem. What happened to Tyrian? Did they-?

Unaware of his worries, the conversation continued around him, unhindered. “But I can’t just-” Qrow tried to argue.

“I won’t let him die. I promise.”

He frowned at that, deadpanning. “You were going to shoot him in the face twenty minutes ago.”

“Only if he pissed me off enough.” Her face finally came into view as she leaned over, peering down at him. “He’s an idiot. But he’s also part of Mantle. He just needs to be reminded of that sometimes.”

He made a weak protest in the back of his throat. He wasn’t ready for Qrow to know any of that.

Luckily, she didn’t elaborate further, turning her gaze back to the other huntsman. “Get out of here. At this point, you’re our only hope.”

Qrow stared between them, before he sighed in defeat and his hand slipped away.

“No-!“ Clover gasped, blindly trying to take it back and latching onto his wristband. His body shrieked in protest from the sharp movement, but he didn’t let go.

“It’s okay,” Qrow soothed. “I’ll be back.”

He shook his head, or at least he imagined he did, using what strength he had left to shakily pull his arm up until his fingers brushed over the clover always stuck to his chest.  He couldn’t find it in him to speak anymore, so he just stared back at him, pleading for him to understand.

It wasn’t enough. “What? I don’t-?”

“I think he wants you to take it five o’ clock.” Robyn translated, voice uncharacteristically gentle. Until she added, “You can use it as proof.”

Had he not been bleeding out on the streets of his old hometown, Clover might have laughed.

No, he knew his commander wouldn’t halt his path. Not even for him.

But, at least this way, if Qrow made it out of here, he’d have something left of him to remind him by.

If the other man’s twisting expression told him anything, it didn’t seem that meaning was escaping him. The badge was carefully unpinned, Qrow looking down at it as his fingers closed over it securely.

Good.

Clover’s eyes slipped shut.

Good…

He felt something warm against his forehead. Qrow’s voice was closer than ever. “This isn’t goodbye lucky charm. I swear it.”

He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or not when he felt the tender press of lips against his own. He felt the loss of their warmth all the same when Qrow backed away. Heard his rapid footsteps that turned into wingbeats as he took off down the street. Almost faded away completely, when Robyn pulled him upwards and the agony wrenched him from blissful unconsciousness.

“Stay with me a bit longer shamrock.” She told him, securing his arm around her neck and letting him rest most of his weight on her. “Can’t die now when you just fell in love.”

“M’not n’love.” He mumbled disjointedly, head lolling against her shoulder.

Her smug smile was only highlighted by the glow where her hand met his wrist. The color caught his attention as seamlessly as Qrow’s eyes.

For they were both red and, in a way, wonderful.

His laugh left him in nothing more than a sharp but joyful exhale.

So, Qrow was that kind of liability huh?

Well now.

Lucky him.

[fraink5-writes]

From Darkness Into the Lantern Light - Chapter 10

We’ve reached chapter 10 and the most iconic scene of the movie!! YAY!!

Thanks to @leio13 for enabling this!

Summary: Once upon a time, there was a cold-hearted queen. Although the Tsaritsa, as she was called, possessed her own divinity, she coveted the powers of the other Archons. Aiming to steal the Geo Archon’s gnosis, she sent her strongest warriors to Liyue Harbor. But just when Rex Lapis was almost defeated, he escaped to another vessel, that of a powerless baby, and was swept away to a hidden tower for his protection.

Many years after the great fight, the young and ambitious Harbinger, Childe, arrives in Liyue to grant the Tsaritsa’s desire, but, on his search for the Geo Archon’s gnosis, he ends up tangled in a mysterious man’s dreams to see Liyue Harbor’s Lantern Rite.

This chapter can also be found on Ao3 here. Without further ado, please enjoy!

"Zhongli!" Ajax sprinted across the docks. Although he tried to run his errands in under 15 minutes, the sun was already halfway gone by the time he returned. "I'm back!" Ajax held out the spear he had bought. “This is for you.” Despite its hasty creation, the spear had an impressive aura with its stone shaft and its lozenge-shaped head embellished with gold. At the base of the spearhead, a golden diamond was encrusted. It was too heavy for Ajax’s tastes, but he was sure Zhongli could wield it with ease.

“Ah.” Ajax realized that Zhongli was still hanging onto the dragon kite, which he had bought him earlier. Even though it was just an impromptu gift, Zhongli’s attachment to it brought a smile to Ajax’s face. “Here, let me hold that for a moment.”

Ajax and Zhongli swapped items, and Zhongli examined the weapon in his hands. He maneuvered the polearm gracefully as though it were made of feathers. Then he fastened it against his back where the other spear used to be. “This shows impressive craftsmanship. Thank you.”

“I hardly did anything. I just thought you deserved a better polearm than that weathered old thing.” Ajax handed back the kite string. “We should get going—don’t want to miss the show.”

Zhongli tilted his head with a puzzled look, but he followed nonetheless.

Ajax lead Zhongli to a tiny rowboat amid the large ships. Atop one of the seats, two golden lanterns were waiting. “For such a momentous occasion, you deserve the best view.” He stepped into the boat and extended his arm with a small bow. Placing his hand in Ajax’s, Zhongli joined Ajax in the boat, and they set sail. 

As Ajax steered the boat far away from the tall sails and bright lights of the harbor, Zhongli stared vacantly at the dark sea. His pursed lips curled downwards. Even as he sat on the same boat as Ajax, his mind had drifted somewhere distant. 

“Zhongli?” Ajax asked. “What’s wrong? Are you seasick?”

“Seasick? No, I am in good physical condition; however, I can’t ignore my apprehension.”

“Apprehension? What for?”

Zhongli gazed at the tiny dragon soaring alone in the night sky. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve yearned to see the Lantern Rite. Now I’m here. What if it doesn’t meet my expectations?”

“It will.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Have you been disappointed by Liyue Harbor so far?”

“No. In fact, it has exceeded my expectations.”

“Then there’s no way this will disappoint either!” Ajax seized Zhongli’s hands. “I promise. And we Snezhnayans don’t take promises lightly.”

The smallest smile floated briefly on Zhongli’s face before disappearing. “Say the Rite is everything I dreamed it would be, what happens when it’s inevitably over?”

“When it’s over?” Ajax let out a laugh. “What’s the point in worrying about that now?” In reality, Ajax had pondered over that very question many times, but he dreaded the future’s imminent arrival.

The frown on Zhongli’s face grew deeper.

“Why, the answer is obvious!” Ajax frantically changed approaches. “You find a new dream!”

Zhongli held his chin and furrowed his eyebrows. Given the chance, he would try to discover his next dream on their isolated boat.

“But you don’t have to decide that right away! Or even after the lanterns!” Ajax interrupted. “In fact, life’s greatest pleasures can only be found without a plan. The thrills, the battles—it’s in these unexpected adventures that you find yourself—and then, before you know it, you’ve discovered your new dream! That’s what makes life worth living—isn’t it wonderful?” Ajax beamed, excitement bubbling with him.

“Is that the philosophy that brought you to my tower?”

“Exactly! That’s why you shouldn’t worry about the future just yet.”

“Thank you. But I think I’ve already found one.”

“Found what?”

Zhongli’s eyes smiled gently. “A new dream.”

“Huh? What is it?”

“Isn’t it too early to be concerned with such matters?” Zhongli smirked victoriously.

Ajax pouted for all but a moment. He had succeeded in cheering up Zhongli, and, for that, he could smile.

When darkness had definitively settled over Liyue Harbor, the Rite began. Starting at Yujing Terrace, the flood of light poured across Feiyun Slope and into Chihu Rock before lifting into the night sky. Thousands of golden lanterns twinkled above the city and drifted slowly towards the sea like a parade of stars, their reflections dancing across the waves. 

Ajax and Zhongli wordlessly released their lanterns into the air, but, at that moment, Zhongli’s kite escaped his grasp and flew away. To Ajax’s relief, Zhongli smiled watching the freed dragon join the vagrant lights. 

As the wind currents slowed, Ajax and Zhongli were enveloped by a rain of glowing warmth. Ajax doubted he would get the chance to witness such a spectacle again. The image, which even the gentlest breeze or raindrop threatened to extinguish, printed itself in the depths of Ajax’s brain.

But the most exquisite beauty was Zhongli. The lanterns showered his dark hair in golden light, but each lantern was only a dull reflection of the dazzling amber in his eyes. The delighted curve of his lips enchanted Ajax’s perception. Even if the light of the lanterns disappeared within minutes, Ajax would willingly forget it all if it meant seeing that face for longer.

Slowly the lamps accumulated around the small boat like a blossoming field of glowing flowers. They waltzed together in sync with the waves. When the number of lanterns in the water outnumbered the ones lingering in the sky, Zhongli’s stoic face returned. “Ajax. Thank you for showing me the Lantern Rite.”

“No problem—it was my pleasure,” Ajax forced out. “Why the sudden formality?”

“It’s time for your remuneration.”

“Re...mune...ration?” Ajax refused to follow Zhongli’s line of thought.

“I will tell you everything I know about whatever you are seeking.”

Indeed, that was the payment they had agreed on a few days ago. And after Zhongli had shared all that he knew, there was one final condition: their parting. Ajax didn’t care about the repayment; he had already found the answer, and both that answer and the future tormented him. Ajax loathed the man he was a few days ago when he made that contract. 

Then Ajax laughed, both hopeful and hopeless. The solution he came to was one he doubted Zhongli would accept, but even so, he would try. “That doesn’t matter anymore. Forget about the contract.”

Zhongli immediately frowned as Ajax expected he would. “That won’t do. Under that contract, we are bound—”

Ajax put a finger to Zhongli’s lips. “That contract was between you and Childe, remember?” His hand glided to cup Zhongli’s cheek.

“I stand corrected, Ajax.” Finally, Zhongli’s grin returned to his face. His fingers wrapped gently around Ajax’s hand. “Then, shall we create a new contract?”

“A new one?” Ajax airily laughed while brushing some of the hair from Zhongli’s face with his other hand. He tucked his hand behind his ear with a massage of his thumb. “What should it say?”

“Hmm…” In that brief pause, Zhongli’s steady amber eyes transfixed Ajax’s heart. “Will you stay by my side from now on?”

“I can agree to that.” Ajax tenderly lifted Zhongli’s face closer to his own. His lips glistened softly in the warm light. “How should we seal it?”

“Mmm.” Zhongli’s closed eyes and inviting face were his answer. His calm breaths tickled Ajax’s lips as he leaned in.

But then Ajax’s attention was yanked by a suspicious light from the coast accompanied by a masked person. Much as he wished to ignore it, he couldn’t deny its familiarity; he had worn a similar mask almost everyday until yesterday. Why now…?

“Ajax?” Zhongli’s eyes cracked open.

“I’m sorry. I…” Ajax let go of Zhongli. “Something came up that I have to take care of.”

“What happened?”

Ajax averted his eyes as he recommenced rowing. “It’ll be over soon, so please. Can you wait on the boat?”

“I understand.” Ajax had lost Zhongli’s smile; it had disappeared behind another distant frown.

After docking the boat in a hidden spot, Ajax hastily stood up. “I’ll be back soon, and then I won’t leave again.” I promise. He couldn’t bring those words to his lips as he turned and left.

When Ajax arrived at the source, he was confronted by the site of two easily recognizable agents in white and purple: Andrei and Ekaterina. “What are you two doing here?”

“It’s quite simple,” Andrei answered. “We used our diplomatic immunity to get out of prison, just as you told us.”

“About that day…” Ajax forced his cowardly eyes to regard their faces. “I’m sorry.”

“Enough of the pretexts, Master Childe,” Ekaterina interrupted. “We’re only interested in your partner.”

Ajax’s body tensed. “My partner?”

“We know all about it: the magic hair.”

Ajax seized Andrei’s collar, lifting him from the ground. “How did you find out about him?”

Andrei choked. “...The.. lady—”

“I was the one who informed them,” Yet another familiar, condescending voice chimed in, “Tartaglia.”

Ajax dropped Andrei and whipped around. “What are you doing here, bitch?!”

“How terribly rude… After I came all this way to salvage your mission. Surely, even a simpleton like you must have realized you were supposed to take him to Zapolyarny Palace—not Liyue Harbor.”

“How do you know about him?!”

“Hah! Who could know Zhongli better than his dear mother?”

[sweetsmalldog]

A Broken Hallelujah

Warnings: Blood, Religious themes and imagery, semi-graphic descriptions of injury

Description: Angels fall

I'd heard there was a secret chord

The deep snow surrounding him was scorched. It was all stained, stained with the golden blood of an angel.

That David played and it pleased the Lord

He knelt next to him. His wings burnt and tears in his eyes. Ted knew how painful the fall was. But he also knew it was nothing compared to the feelings of betrayal and abandonment. She had made them to protect humans after all, so why should one fall for protecting them.

But you don't really care for music, do you?

He took Paul’s hands, they were bleeding, burned, and raw, leaving both of their hands sparkling like metal. Paul’s clothing shredded and singed in the fall. His wings were horribly burned. White feathers had been coated in gold while others had snapped or been coated in ash. The heavenly gold mixing with the ashes of the fall on his once well groomed wings.

Well, it goes like this

Paul’s eyes meet his, “All I did-“

“I know,” Ted cut him off he knew saying it would hurt more, to vocalize your innocence.

The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift

Ted moved his soaked hands to help Paul sit. Burns and cuts littered his skin. The ash continued to fall around them like snow.

The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Paul was deathly pale as his skin slowly lost its angelic glow. The moon shining threw his broken halo. Though nothing was more broken then the look in his eyes.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Ted cupped Paul’s crying face in his hands. The salty tears mixing with the glimmering gold. He cleaned his hand before wiping Paul’s tears away.

“They don’t deserve those,” Ted whispered.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Paul held Ted’s clean hand in his broken one. Paul was bruised, bleeding, and broken yet more holy then any left in Heaven.

Well, your faith was strong but you needed proof

“Why?” Paul asked, “Why are you here?”

Part of Ted wanted to tell him all of it. How he never stopped loving him. That Paul had always been his everything. Paul was his judge, not Hell, not Heaven, and not certainly not God.

You saw her bathing on the roof

Ted somehow managed to not look away from Paul in that moment. Eyes asking, hoping that’s asking a question wouldn’t hurt him for once.

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya

“I couldn’t leave you,” Now wasn’t the time. Paul was in so much pain. Telling him how deep Ted’s devotion ran wouldn’t help anything.

She tied you to the kitchen chair

Paul was silently begging him to give him a true answer. Give him the truth. Be the first person in Paul’s immortality to give him that.

She broke your throne and she cut your hair

Paul’s long hair had been scorched in the fall. Leaving it smoldering. It no longer framed his face. It made him look more vulnerable.

“Ted...” Paul murmured, it wasn’t even a request, it was a plead.

And from your lips, she drew the Hallelujah

“I just couldn’t leave you like this, ok?” Ted wasn’t going to cry, he couldn’t cry when Paul needed him.

He couldn’t tell him now. Not while Paul bled in the snow. Not so soon after his fall. Paul needed to heal.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Splinters of Paul’s halo lay in the snow, slowly melting it with the heat of its fractured grace. Making the snow glow pale blue as Paul’s faith leaked from its broken crown.

Well baby, I've been here before

Ted carefully took a large splinter from the snow and pressed in into Paul’s hands. Slowly the ruins of his devotion would heal him.

I've seen this room and I've walked this floor

Paul’s tears hadn’t dried. But they would. It would still hurt, being ripped from the bliss of ignorance and so brutally used as an example. Your purpose being ripped from you as everyone watches. But Paul would heal, slowly but surely.

I used to live alone before I knew ya

“Your not going to leave me?” Paul asks softly, scared of the answer, terrified of another violent reaction to an innocent question.

And I've seen your flag on the marble arch

“Never,” Ted assures, “As long as you want me beside you I’m here.”

And love is not a victory march

Suddenly Paul’s tears weren’t only born of pain. Relief washed over his face. His eyes shone brighter then the stars above them.

It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Gently the snow began to fall again. Intent on covering the world once again in a blanket of white. A blanket to cover the horrors of Paul’s ordeal from prying eyes. To shield Heaven from the destruction and pain they cause once again.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Ted wished he could force Heaven to face what they’ve done. Make them look at the destruction they shield their eyes from. Make them experience the horror of your existence being stripped from you. Make them bleed in the snow.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Ted glanced down at Paul. He’s only wearing tattered rags. The once blinding white of his tunic stained grey with soot. He took off his jacket before lifting Paul into his arms.

Well, maybe there's a God above

Paul squeaked as he was lifted “Ted!”

Snow flakes were caught in his hair. Tear tracks stained his face. He was still bleeding and bruised. His wrists still mangled. He looked every bit the martyr he was. In Ted’s arms, wrapped in a wool coat to shield the rags underneath. He was more holy than anyone else above or below.

But all I've ever learned from love

Paul leaned his head against Ted’s chest. A silent declaration of trust. His eyes full of an emotion Ted couldn’t quite place.

Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya

Ted held Paul close to his chest. He raises his wings to protect him from the elements. The winds were only getting stronger as Paul’s holy aura flickered.

“I’ve got you,” Ted says it like a prayer.

And it's not a cry that you hear at night

Paul tears returned as it all hit him. He would never see heaven again. They had cast him aside. For one innocent act he’d lost it all.

Ted didn’t say anything. He knew what it was like. That feeling of loss. When it hit you it was worse then the pain of falling.

It's not somebody who's seen the light

The snow crunches under his feet. The sparkling white feels like a mockery of what they’ve both lost.

It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Paul’s blood dripped down his arms. The gold droplets landing in the snow. Breaking up the pristine white with the blood of the once holy.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Paul’s hand touched his cheek. The warm blood making him realize how cold his face is. He looked at Paul.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

He’s still crying. But that look Ted can’t place is still there. He didn’t know what it is but it warms his heart.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

“Thank you,” Paul’s smile was sad and tender. Still with that feeling Ted couldn’t place.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Then it hit him. His heart skipped a beat. A blush spread over his cheeks. How?

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Their lips met. The wind howled. And for a moment the world melted away.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Taglist: @robertstanion @gone-to-oregone @haniawritesthings @eboy-butch @agent-megagirl @purplegori @showstoppingnumbrr @imtooaromanticforthis @gayrudeboys @thatweriddoodlingllama @bi-gstupid @supreme-overlord-bubbles @meredithandlaurenaremyqueens @semoka @renegadepear @are-those-real-gators @ready-to-mcfucking-die

[north-peach]

I am not part of the fandom you wrote in for my fake title ask can you do something else. It was lost little fairy and of the wild and winds.

Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!

Summary: Tsuna’s an odd child, always running around barefoot, with leaves, twigs and feathers in his hair. His behavior paired with the eerie orange eyes, plus the fact that his mother was widely known to be a local Namimori residence, yet no one has ever seen her husband- if she ever had one.

So the rumors around the existence of Sawada Tsunayoshi were thus:

He was a fairy. A youkai, an Earth spirit, but obviously he was only partially human.

Regardless of the scoffers that denied such fantasy, a great deal of people believed it, especially the children. Even the adults were not unaffected. After all, one couldn’t deny the way the very air around Tsunayoshi seem to radiate warmth and comfort as if the child existed in perfect harmony with the world.

Many Namimori residences took to protecting the child, keeping him away from out-of-towners, and to their relief, the Hibari quickly took to doing the same.

Their son, Hibari Kyoya had obviously manifested the demon blood very strongly and spent many hours in Tsunayoshi’s presence as the comforting aura he put out soothed even the most violent and bloodthirsty personality quirks of the young Hibari.

The people were even more pleased when Tsunayoshi gathered some of the brightest and unique friends to him, forming something of a quite large group. They had no trouble playing in the forest, running through the streets playing pretend games.

Truly, they were the pride and joy of Namimori.

And one day, when a man marched into their home, loud, rude and entirely convinced he was dear Tsunayoshi’s father….

….well, they would quickly dissuade him of such fooling nonsense before Tsunayoshi found out.

It would do to upset him, they quite liked the prosperity he brought. No one wished to see his wrath.

Description: Either flames stuff, or actually supernatural, who can tell? But Tsunayoshi is special, especially in a world where Iemitsu couldn’t be bothered to visit his wife once every ten years.

Tsuna’s not sealed, he gathers his elements and in general he’s a happy child who may or may not believe he is indeed the son of some sort of powerful fairy/youkai/spirit and thus tried very hard to honor his father.

Iemitsu may have married his mother, but truthfully, his real dad probably magicked him so he just thought Tsuna was his son. Because obviously his real dad loved his mother very much and he was obviously a prince- no, a king who was doing his best to keep them all safe from a wicked queen! Or an evil spirit!

Misunderstandings (or are they) abound and by the time Reborn shows up….well. Mafia? Tsuna’s never heard of that, but what he does hear is throne. Obviously, this is a gift from his father to keep him safe in his human life so when he goes with his father, he’ll be strong enough to take that throne! 

Or something.

The magic fire doesn’t help things.

Neither does the curse. Or the Vindice. Or the box animals, or the time travel or literally all of this.

Naturally, everyone believes Tsuna over this random interloper who is obviously affected by his curse, so sad. Talbot’s on Tsuna’s side too, this is the most fun he’s had in centuries and if the myths and legends of fairies and spirits were based off Kawahira, Sephira and their people, well, the children are right in some ways, aren’t they?

Relationships: Ten Gen Vongola- friendships abound, maybe Tsuna/Kyoko, some father/son Reborn & Tsuna or at least mentor/student. 

Tags: Supernatural Elements, Fairies, Spirits, Mother Earth, Magic Fire, is it real or are they misinformed, who really knows, Not!Sealed Tsuna, Iemitsu non-existent parenting, BAMF!Nana, Fairy Queen Kyoko, but is she summer or is she winter, is it reality or pretend, who can say, certainly not me

[markoftheasphodel]

trick of the light (nagamas gift for last-rocket-to-mars)

Here is my belated nagamas gift for @last-rocket-to-mars. I tried the Elice prompt at first, but in the end went with Character of your choice: 'Consequences' as it sparked something I’d wanted to explore for a long, long time. I hope you enjoy it despite the delay in its arrival!

trick of the light

“perhaps she found love, for her beauty blossomed”

From the moment Linde unsealed her father’s tome, she felt a presence accompanying her, like a feather-light touch upon her head, a gentle whisper just past her shoulder. She imagined it to be Father, for who else could it be? That gave her enough resolve to keep running, keep hiding, to stay alive another day and keep Aura bundled up and out of the hands of Father’s killer.

Somewhere on the terrible road between the ruins of Millennium Court and the hell of Knorda Market, Linde decided the other presence might, in fact, not be her father’s spirit. It seemed… younger, somehow. More like the echo of some imaginary friend, like the companions she’d dreamed up in childhood when she was too young to accompany Princess Nyna anywhere and had no one to play with or even to study alongside other than Father himself. And as much as she loved Father, sometimes in those days Linde did indeed wish for a friend her own age…

Linde muttered conversations to this echo of a friend as she slunk around in filthy boy’s clothes instead of the sacred robe from Father, her hair covered in rags to keep the leering interest of the slave traders at bay, Aura bound tight against her as though it might protect her by its heft alone. It helped her rest, even a little, to feel its presence as she slept. Aura felt like a friend.

When Prince Marth liberated her from Knorda Market’s horrors, Linde cast away the rags and unbound her hair— and unsealed Aura again with renewed purpose. Now she spun its rings of light freely, zealously, and a thrill rose in her chest as the dazzling spirals ensnared one villain after another. It was killing, for certain, but a holy deed even as it was a terrible one, and she had to remember to reserve the spell’s power only for the most dire moments when mere Fire or Thunder wouldn’t serve. She carried Aura now as the sacred relic it was, its cover rich violet and gleaming gold beneath the sun, and she wore the delicate mage’s robes given her by Father again, even when she studied the tome alone in her tent long past curfew. This was her calling, her duty, her inheritance— both the beauty of Aura and its terrible power. She wasn’t a Pontifex like Father, and perhaps would never be, but Linde tried to carry herself with the dignity and grace of a Pontifex whenever she could. Aura, and Father’s memory, deserved it.

It was some weeks after Prince Marth rescued her when Linde thought she noticed something odd when casting Aura, like another voice intertwined with hers during the incantation. She paid careful attention during the next skirmish and noticed that when she used basic Thunder spells against less-menacing foes, there was no such echo. Only when she used Aura, in this case to save Prince Marth from imminent peril, did that second voice whisper alongside hers in strange harmony.

It wasn’t Father’s voice.

Linde, of course, hadn’t the chance to actually complete any formal magical studies, but now she had some colleagues in Prince Marth’s army from the Academy at Khadein. She wasn’t quite ready yet to ask any prying questions of Pontifex Wendell, but the wind mage Merric from Altea had been kind and friendly to Linde since her arrival, and as he too bore a hallowed tome, he might have noticed something odd going on with his Excalibur. Not that Linde asked him directly— divine magic was such a prickly subject among mages— but she stepped lightly around the topic more than once when they practiced together. Merric didn’t seem to get what Linde was fishing around for, though, and meanwhile each time she used Aura the echo seemed to get stronger, more resonant, more a part of… of her.

During one of her solitary study sessions in her tent after curfew, things truly became weird.

“You like that boy, don’t you?”

The voice wasn’t something Linde heard with her ears. It was inside of her head. Her hands twitched and she very nearly slammed Aura shut with undue and ungraceful force.

“Who are you?” She mouthed the words without sound escaping her lips, the way she’d lit fires during her flight from the palace. Linde grasped for a name for this… this entity… and seized on the first thing that came to mind. “Echo?”

And then she heard what sounded like a laugh.

“I could be Echo. I’ve had many names. You might call me Phoebe.”

“Might?” But “Phoebe” sounded right somehow, and Linde mouthed anew, “Who are you then, Phoebe? What are you?”

“I am that which lends Aura its power.”

“Oh.”

This clarified nothing to Linde, for nowhere in her studies with Father had he talked about the source of Aura’s power, any more than he’d talked about how precisely it’d been bound to her as a protection.

“Protection,” said Phoebe, as though reading Linde’s mind… as perhaps she, or it, was. But Phoebe sounded happy. Was that… possible?

“Don’t ask again about Merric,” Linde mouthed as forcefully as was possible without making a sound.

And Phoebe only laughed then, in the dim light of the tent, but while she accompanied Linde in all the battles to come, she never did bring up Merric again… at least, not until the day when Prince Marth made the grave choice to bestow Starlight on one of them.

“Let the boy have it. You’re bound to me,” said Phoebe, as Prince Marth hesitated over the regalia tome.

“That is the only spell under heaven that can avenge Father.” Linde was so shocked, even angered, by Phoebe’s protest that she nearly said the words out loud. “Besides, is Excalibur not bound to Merric… the way you are bound to me?”

“It’s not the same,” said Phoebe, and she almost sounded… petulant.

“Are you praying for guidance, Linde?” Now it was Prince Marth speaking, and Linde flinched at the strange break between Phoebe’s voice inside her head and Prince Marth’s pleasant voice against her ears.

“Yes, Prince Marth,” she lied. “I believe you should bestow this tome upon Merric.”

The prince’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

“But… I would have thought… your father…”

“I am certain,” said Linde. She could see Merric’s face, surprised yet delighted, beyond Marth’s shoulder, and something in that delight made her heart sing the way it did when she unleashed Aura itself.

-x-

After Gharnef perished in an explosion of Starlight and Prince Marth slew the king of Earth Dragons like his legendary ancestor before him, Linde accompanied Princess Nyna back to Archanea to rebuild. Merric, meanwhile, followed his teacher Wendell back to the Academy, and it seemed their paths would be separate again. Linde might have liked to spend some time at the Academy herself, but her place really was at Millennium Court with Nyna, and so she restored Aura to its full potency and sealed it away, then set about joining Nyna in preparations for Nyna’s wedding.

“Why the sad clothes today, Linde?” Nyna asked one day as they worked on embroidery together.

“Oh, they’re not… sad, are they? I just… didn’t want people looking at me today.”

The light robes she’d inherited from Father always got her more attention than she liked, so that morning Linde had put on a full-skirted gown like the ones Nyna wore, in a blue-violet color quite like the shade of Nyna’s own eyes.

“I think they’ll be watching whether you wear your mage’s robes or a court gown,” said Nyna, and Linde felt she understood imperfectly but didn’t press the princess to clarify. The ways of women, as the ways of mages, were… thorny, at times.

-x-

Linde had no idea how thorny a woman’s path could be while she was embroidering to celebrate a marriage that went straight to hell so quickly none could fathom it. It was all she could do to escape the palace— again!— this time with both Aura and the Fire Emblem that Nyna urged her to give to Prince Marth.

Escape, again— but this time fully the mistress of Aura, resplendent in the robes that she’d earned the right to wear. Prince Marth again, and the path of war again… and Khadein, again.

This time, she helped save Merric (Phoebe rustled like a ghost in the back of Linde’s mind). This time, they scaled the mountains encased in ice to confront the Archsage in his temple and get some answers (some, not all, and Phoebe laughed). This time, she accepted Starlight from Prince Marth as they faced the resurrected Dark Pontifex (Linde heard a protest from Phoebe and refused to listen). This time, Linde stood by as Merric awoke Prince Marth’s sister Elice from an infernal trance and saw with her eyes what her heart hadn’t wanted to know all this time. So Linde tasted the power of the very stars, and Merric tasted… the lips of a princess.

And then, this time, they all went back to Millennium Court together, King Marth and his Queen, Merric and his princess, Linde and her collection of divine tomes (and Phoebe yet in her mind). The princess founded a new Academy of Magic, and Linde took her place at last among a community of sages and sorcerers (and Phoebe forgave her when Starlight was sealed away). Months passed, and years, and then half a decade…

The eyes still followed Linde. They still stared, from the back rows of her classrooms, from dormitory windows. Not Merric’s eyes, of course, which belonged to Princess Elice the way his magic belonged foremost to Excalibur.

“I can change that,” said Phoebe, her voice as childish now as it ever had been.

“What?” Linde, grand and disciplined Sage of Light, still knew better than to speak aloud to her invisible companion. But Phoebe subsided into strange twitters like a swallow under the eaves.

Linde, of course, knew now the source of divine magic, that the Archsage who founded Khadein and bestowed Aura upon Father was of the dragonkin, that Aura was a creation of the dragons as surely as King Marth’s Falchion blade had been fashioned from Divine Naga’s own tooth. Phoebe, it seemed, was indeed an echo— in this case the echo of a long-dead dragon, and quite possibly a dragon who’d gone a bit mad before dying. But most days she was quiet, as Linde rarely needed to open Aura for anything other than tame classroom instructions, and Linde worried about her less and less as half a decade turned to a full decade at the Academy.

She hadn’t married, and now the Sage of Light spent each spring both dodging poems sent her way by lovelorn students and and proposals from her fellow scholars. Her office overflowed with flowers. The eyes followed her, always.

And then one day, as they took a working lunch in a council chamber that hadn’t seen a war council in long years, Merric’s eyes turned to her with something more than collegial interest. He caught himself, coughed and flushed a bit, and Linde asked him in an overly solicitous way if he’d come down with a fever and perhaps ought to take the afternoon off. So they parted ways, and before long Linde stood again in her own office, behind a door that locked in the fragrance of so many unwanted offerings, and for the first time since the wars she demanded that Phoebe present herself.

“Of course now he wants you,” said the disagreeable dragon ghost. “Don’t you ever look at yourself? He can’t help but want you, because I’ve made you beautiful.”

And Linde looked, really looked, in the small scrying mirror she kept in her desk. She tried to see the woman in the mirror as a new student, a visiting scholar, an absent-minded old friend might see her.

“What have you done to me?” Her resolve and discipline cracked and the words escaped her lips as a terrible sound.

“I’ve made you beautiful as Light itself.”

Terrifyingly so— like the explosions of Starlight in the darkness of Dolhr, like the Morning Star blazing in the dawn, like the glittering treasures of the dragons’ temple hidden in the icy mountains.

“Why? How does anyone even imagine that I’m human?” Linde put her face down in her hands and was surprised she still had ordinary warm skin under her fingers. “You were bound to me for my protection.”

“You were bound to me for my protection,” said Phoebe. “And you haven’t even bothered to pick a successor for me. But he loves you now, so that should be easy. And if his princess objects to it… well, I can have you live just about forever if I need you to.”

Linde took in a deep breath that tasted of dusty roses and cloying lilies. There wasn’t anything to say, to whisper, to mouth without sound.

“From the day you unsealed me, you’ve been mine.” And the voice was like a dragon’s tail, curling, twining, binding. “I’ve served you well. Now, serve me.”

(A/N: “Phoebe,” meaning “bright,” was both a Titan associated with the moon and an epithet of the Greek goddess Artemis. It’s also a moon of Saturn. The detail about Linde not having a fellow mage as a friend until Merric comes from her support line with Marth in FE Warriors and the idea of the Aura as a “dragonstone” tome like the holy weapons of Jugdral comes from the SNES-era developers’ notes. Excalibur was not cited in those notes as being a dragonstone-powered weapon. I’ve always felt Aura did come across as sinister in Archanea and Jugdral, even before Three Houses provided yet another example of a divine gremlin hanging out in someone’s head.)