#I'LL POST NAMELESS TOO I PROMISE!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

animereaderinsertwriter · 3 years ago

Text

Signed, Sealed, Delivered (Levi Ackerman x Reader)

Chapter 5

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (im watching you, if you see this, begone!), MILD SPOILERS, also this is a sequel, the first work is here. (I promise it’s good, the formatting of the origi post is just a little plain cause I hadn’t figured out what I liked yet). There’s some… stuff in this, idk, its nothing much but check the description or ao3 tags if you’re not sure of how you feel about dads who are Assholes, lots of angst because yours truly is a masochist :)

Description:

Levi returns from the war with a broken body only to have his heart broken as well when he finds (Y/N) has gone away from her father’s farm never to return or so much as remember his name- or so her father says. (Y/N), recently returned from a medical emergency in a neighboring village, is informed of her lover’s death, and the ensuing grief is almost too much to bear.

Months later, (Y/N) finds herself trapped in her father’s house, and Levi finds a very interesting ad in the personals column of the newspaper. Letter-writing shenanigans ensue, and Gabi and Falco get ideas.

Ao3 link here

Chapter 5

While wedding plans were coming along swimmingly, the boards across (Y/N)’s windows became weaker and weaker.

Admittedly, (Y/N) had felt a little betrayed by the betrothal at first— the last thing she wanted to do was marry a man who wasn’t Levi, and she’d thought her nameless acquaintance would understand that— but she had come to realize that it should have been expected. The man had answered her father’s ad for a wife, after all, not a pen pal; he was lonely, desperately so, and he walked into this arrangement with the expectation of marriage. (Y/N) knew that, and she accepted it, but she couldn’t let it happen right under her nose as though she had no agency at all.

So she formed a plan.

It took a bit longer than she’d wanted to prepare everything, but it was the nature of the beast; she needed food and water for her escape, and it took a while for her to save up enough for a journey far enough away from her father’s farm that she wouldn’t be caught. In the place of stealing money (which was virtually impossible, since no one carried coin purses around the house), (Y/N) pried off any gilding from paintings and table-edges and hid it away under her mattress. If her father or the farmhands that brought her food noticed anything, they didn’t comment, and after a few weeks more of sawing at her boarded windows, (Y/N) was fully equipped for her escape.

“Here,” her father said as he handed her a tray of food, not knowing that this would be the last time he would do so. “Eat well— you’re to be married tomorrow. No man wants a starved bride.”

I won't be a bride, starved or not, she thought triumphantly, but accepted the plate silently.

As she ate, (Y/N) wondered if the months she had spent grieving were entirely wasted. Any single day that she had been stuck in the mire of her heartache, she had been free to come and go as she pleased. She could have gone at any moment and escaped her current struggle.

It hardly matters now, she thought with a sigh. I can't change it, and I need to rest. Night will be upon me soon, and I'll need every ounce of my courage.

Yes, night would come soon. It would be cold, and there was no telling what sort of creatures would be waiting for her in the woods… if she made it to the woods.

***

So much for a plan, Levi thought to himself, sitting gingerly down on a tree stump as his leg began to ache. A cloud passed over the full moon, and he scowled as the darkness around him reflected his mood. What a mess.

He was to be married come daylight, apparently. The very idea of it made him queasy.

"Sorry, Levi," Gabi had told him a few days ago, her shoulders slumped in defeat as she related the failure that was her recon mission, and thus the plan that she and Falco had been imagining. "We’ve been watching for weeks, but her window is boarded, and when we asked the farmhands, they said her door is barred shut at all hours. I don't know how she lives like that."

Levi knew all too well that the (Y/N) he knew wouldn't live like that. She would sooner die than be caged— something she had in common with the Jaeger brat, damn his shitty hide. He couldn't imagine her willingly agreeing to be kept like a beast in a cage. The thought of it made him sick.

And yet, what did he know? Levi was buying her like one might a prize pony— perhaps not entirely without regard for her happiness and wishes, but certainly without regard for her say in the matter. What did that make him?

He sighed, glancing up at the full moonlight. The air was cold; he could see his breath against the night sky as he exhaled. It reminded him of the steam from a titan's death, and he looked away, disgusted.

Tired from his walk and his thoughts, Levi was just about to turn back down the trail that would lead him to his cottage when he heard rapid footsteps drawing near. Quickly, he drew up the hood on his cloak and backed into the treeline, and soon a figure darted into the clearing he'd been sitting in. A few seconds later, the figure was cast into sharp relief against the shadowy forest by the pale light of the moon, and by the time Levi recognized who it was, she had fallen face-first on the ground, having tripped over a protruding root.

Levi was there in an instant, offering (Y/N) a hand up.

"Careful," he told her, his voice hoarse even to his own ears. "What are you running from?"

(Y/N) looked up at him then, and scrambled backwards in fright. She was half-wild, her eyes wide and darting around her as though she were terrified of something; she carried with her only a small sack in one hand and a knife in the other, and Levi thought she had never been more beautiful.

"(Y/N), you're alright," he said, leaning a bit more heavily on his cane as he stretched his hand farther out. "I'm not going to hurt you or let anyone else do so."

She stilled, then, her eyes coming to focus on him.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "How do you know my name?"

Oh.

Levi's face was concealed by his cloak.

"I'm just a man from the countryside," he told her truthfully. "I believe we're acquainted."

(Y/N) began to tremble, and Levi felt sick. This wasn’t quite how he’d imagined meeting her. In fact, he hadn’t stopped long enough to truly imagine it at all.

"Let me go," she said, her knuckles white on the hilt of her knife, and he knew she meant violence if she was met with opposition. "I can't stay here another second, I can't—"

"And you don't have to," Levi replied, dropping his hand. "I see I misunderstood."

And oh, how badly he'd misunderstood! (Y/N)— now in front of him and so clearly frightened— would never have wanted her husband to be chosen for her at random. How could Levi ever have thought that she could ever wish that? Looking at her, scared and shaking before him, Levi was ashamed of himself.

"I—" she began, then stopped herself. "I'm sorry. I really am. For what it's worth, sir, I— in another time, I could have—"

(Y/N) stopped again, and she looked as though she might cry.

"Go," Levi told her, though it broke his heart. "Go quickly, and go safely."

"I—" (Y/N) looked pained as she stood, peering at him with a familiar curiosity that made his heart ache. "I know I have no right to ask this, but… will you tell me your name before I go? I just— you've been a dear friend to me, and I want to know who I can thank for such kindness."

Levi froze, shocked. Why would she even care what his name was? Wasn't she trying to escape this place?

"I'll tell you if you tell me something first," he told her, cursing himself for a selfish fool all the while. "Why not marry me? I have riches enough to give you the life of a queen— I have acres and acres of land for you to enjoy. You could have anything you want and you have to know that I wouldn't force you into anything you didn't want— why not me?"

It was a stupid, selfish thing to ask and he knew it. He was asking both as Levi, her former lover, and as a total stranger— how could he expect any sort of answer that would be satisfactory to both ends?— and yet when (Y/N) spoke, he didn't dare breathe for fear of missing a single word.

"I don't want your gold and silver," she told him sadly, her voice quaking with emotion. "I don't want your house or your lands or any other mortal possession you could offer me. I'm in love with a soldier to whom I had promised my hand, only—"

She paused, choking on her words, then said,

"Only, he's dead, and when he died, a part of me died too… the part of me that's capable of loving anyone else." She looked away, crying. "That's why I can't marry you— because I can't love you the way you deserve."

So there had been someone else. Levi had wondered— but it was another, somehow more unbearable pain to have it confirmed.

"Thank you," he said as a sick, stabbing feeling formed in his chest. "You've given me what I asked for— but I think you'll find that you already know my name, and have only forgotten that I belong to it."

With that, he pulled back his hood, and (Y/N) gasped as though she'd been struck.

"Levi?"

***

(Y/N) could scarcely believe her eyes. She must be dreaming, she must be dead— and yet, this was never how she would have imagined Levi to be either in dreams or death.

The man before her had borne painful wounds from battle. A vicious pink line cut through his right eyebrow all the way down to just below the swell of his rosy bottom lip— whatever had injured him had not spared his right eye, which had been blinded from the looks of it. Parallel to that scar was another shorter one, and when (Y/N) glanced down, she noticed that two fingers on his right hand had been severed. In his left hand, he held a cane.

Before (Y/N) could articulate any of her questions— is it really you, how are you alive, where have you been— Levi turned away.

"I suppose I'm not what you were expecting," he said tightly, and she saw his jaw clench as it had at Erwin's funeral.

(Y/N) stumbled forward, unable to speak, unable to think until she touched those scars for herself, until she saw that he was real— and then her hands were on either side of his face, her left thumb tracing the smallest scar on his right cheek, his warm, human, living cheek—

Until he swatted her hands away, his teeth grinding so hard that she could practically hear them.

"Don't touch me," he said, his eyes scrunching closed against the tears (Y/N) knew were pooling there. "If you— if you mean to leave— I can't bear it."

"You're alive," she whispered, voicing the only thought she could think. "Levi, you're— you're alive!'

(Y/N) knew what it meant to be in shock— she knew all the textbook signs and symptoms, knew exactly how to treat it in others— and yet knowing the clinical term for what was happening to her did not decrease its power over her body. Knowing did not diminish the tightness in her chest, the jittery, disconnected feeling she had. Knowing did not make it easier, and she began to tremble once more.

"Is that news to you?" he asked, watching as her own body rebelled against her wishes. "We won the war, if you can call it that. Why wouldn't I be alive?"

"Because…" (Y/N) couldn't think, she couldn't breathe, and Levi reached out to steady her as she swayed on her feet. "My father— he said— you were gone, and I thought— I never—"

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe.

"Oi, are you alright?" Levi asked, soft and concerned, and (Y/N) managed to take a shallow, hiccuping breath. He was alive— he was alive!

"My God, you're in shock," he muttered to himself, realization slowly dawning. "Sit down, bright-eyes, take a few deep breaths for me. That's it, just breathe."

(Y/N) was guided down onto a tree stump to sit, and Levi winced as he lowered himself to kneel before her.

"Your leg," she said, still fighting for breath. "You shouldn't sit on your—"

"Let me worry about that," he told her softly, tenderly, his hands coming to rest over hers. "You're unwell. Catch your breath and then scold me, brat."

At that, (Y/N) looked up and into his eyes, and she couldn't help but laugh. It was all too much, really— she giggled and giggled until her side began to cramp, and she laughed even more as Levi raised a brow without even a hint of amusement.

"Are you done?" Levi asked, as she wiped a tear from her eye.

"I think so," she replied, suddenly nauseous, but she willed herself not to be sick. "I'm sorry, I— I really thought you were dead, Levi, and now here you are, calling me a brat like you never left and I—"

Levi cut her off.

"Sorry," he said, glancing off to the side. "Old habits die hard. If that's not what you want, then—"

(Y/N) placed a hand on his cheek and guided his gaze back to hers.

"I'll always want that," she said softly. "I love you, Levi."

His eyes— one scarred and unseeing, the other gunmetal gray— widened.

"Don't tease me," he told her roughly once he'd come back to himself. "You father told me you had no more interest in seeing me— if that's the truth, this is torture for me. That's why I asked you not to touch me before."

Time stopped for (Y/N).

"My father told you what?"

Levi relayed his version of the events, and (Y/N) felt so many things at once that she could no longer keep track of them all.

"I never stopped loving you for an instant," Levi told her, "But it broke me, and when I saw that ad in the paper…"

His fists clenched. (Y/N) wanted those hands to hold her, to choke her, to curl around her shoulders and shake her— anything would be better than watching them ball in bitter anger.

"I was so angry, but I knew I had to have you."

"Oh Levi," she replied softly. "My father lied to you— to both of us. I went away to help treat victims of an epidemic, and when I came back, he told me you were dead. I mourned you, Levi Ackerman. You're the soldier I promised my hand to— how could I ever love anyone else ever again? And to think that you were my confidante all along with those letters! If only I’d told you more, if only I’d known your name— oh, I feel so foolish."

Levi huffed a breath, looking infinitely more exhausted than she had ever seen him. “You and me both. ”

Their eyes locked, and Levi reached up with his right hand to caress her cheek. (Y/N) leaned into the touch, and Levi kissed her softly, sweetly on the lips.

"I never thought I would do that again," he confessed, mingling their breaths. "I missed you, bright-eyes."

"Not half so much as I missed you," she replied, the nails of her hand scraping over the cropped hairs at the nape of her lover's neck. "Trapped in that house, I thought I would go mad. I only just managed to escape."

Levi's expression darkened.

"Were you held captive?" he asked, and (Y/N) swallowed.

"Yes."

Levi growled, but (Y/N) shushed him.

"It's over, and I don't want to talk about it right now," she said. "There will be time for anger later, but… right now, I just want to be with you. Is that too much to ask?"

At that, Levi scowled, about to protest, but then winced hard in pain. Frowning, (Y/N) stood and helped Levi to his feet.

"I told you not to sit on it," she scolded, and Levi tch-ed.

"I had bigger problems," he huffed. "You weren't breathing."

"Even in shock I'm kinder to your body than you are," she teased, slipping beneath his arm so that he could lean some of his weight on her. "What does that tell you?"

"That I need a little reminding of just how kind you can be to a body," he said with a good-natured leer.

His cheek earned him a light smack, but he looked no more sorry for it than a cat would be for stealing a fish from the market.

"So, Mr. Countryman," (Y/N) teased, her breath hot against his neck. "I hear you have a nice little cottage by a stream. Care to give me a tour?"

He huffed a laugh.

"Not going to keep running away?"

(Y/N) raised a brow.

"From you? Never. Besides, you have a lot of explaining to do about these companions of yours and what you've been doing since you came back besides writing naughty letters."

Levi rolled his eyes.

"They were hardly naughty—"

"They were deceptive, and deception is still lying—"

"(Y/N), honestly."

(Y/N) laughed at the desperate and yet somehow amused look he gave her, and as they slowly made their way down the trail through the woods, (Y/N) thought that she had never been happier in her life.

"Let's get you home," she said, a quiet sort of joy swelling in her breast to match the warmth of Levi's body against hers, "Then we'll worry about everything else."

***

“This living hand, now warm and capable

Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

And in the icy silence of the tomb,

So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood

So in my veins red life might stream again,

And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–

I hold it towards you.”

~John Keats (This living hand, now warm and capable)

#aot x y/n #aot x reader #aot #aot fanfiction #levi x y/n #levi imagine #spoliers #ao3 #levi ackerman

22 notes · View notes

wondereads · 3 years ago

Text

Personal Review (08/29/21)

Priory of the Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon

Why am I reviewing this book?

I've heard so many good things about this book that I had to set aside time to read it despite it being the size of a grown cat. I'd say it lived up to my expectations.

Want something short and sweet? Check out my tiktok

Plot 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Told from four perspectives, humanity lives in constant fear of the Nameless One, a huge, vicious dragon, and his servants, the wyrms. Everyone dreads the day he might return, but it might be closer than they think. In Inys, Ead uses her forbidden magic to protect Queen Sabran whose bloodline is believed to hold the Nameless One at bay. Sabran's friend Loth is sent to investigate the now wyrm-controlled Ysaclin. In Seiiki, Tane is close to achieving her dream of becoming a rider of one of the benevolent eastern dragons, but she and disgraced alchemist Niclays Roos are caught up with an illegal outsider.

There's so much going on in this story that it's no wonder it takes over 800 pages to tell. You'd think a book that long would drag on, but there's always something going on. Even at the beginning when high fantasy books are usually a bit slow due to worldbuilding, this book jumps right in with assassination attempts, illegal, possibly plague-ridden outsiders, and infiltration of a country controlled by pure evil.

I can only imagine how long it took to plan this book because everything fits together so well. I feel like if I reread it I'd be catching hints everywhere, which is how it should be! There's so much more I'd love to talk about, but I'll stop here for the sake of spoilers.

Characters 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

When I said everything fits together so well, that applied to the characters too. I felt like there were almost no unimportant characters. While the main characters and important supporting characters were all very well developed, even characters like Tane's classmates and Inys servants are brought back at some point. It's a touch of realism; just because there are bigger things going on doesn't mean those relationships have ceased to exist.

My personal favorite narrator was Ead, and Tane was a close second. To be completely honest, I was simping for Ead that entire book. A magical, protective, attractive, understanding bodyguard? Sign me up. On the other hand, I related to Tane more since she had a clear goal and was closer to me in age.

I just think the characters were very well written, and practically everyone got some sort of development or personality or something.

Writing Style 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

For such a long book, the pacing is impeccable. There's always something happening, there's always a new revelation, there's always problems arising or solutions being found. I think the uncertainty about the Nameless One's return really helped there.

I really liked how Shannon wrote emotions. For example, when it comes to Niclays' grief, it was almost palpable how much pain he was in.

Unfortunately, this category contains my only gripe. I know Shannon had her reasons for making this all one book rather than a duology or trilogy, I know. Still, there were some times when I had to force myself to continue because the book was taking so long to finish. I'm glad I read it over vacation so I couldn't just put it aside and promise to finish it later (when we all know I wouldn't). Other than that, though, I am absolutely complaint-free.

Meaning 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

There's a lot of commentary on religion and how organized religion can grow out of control and gradually be corrupted, which is best shown through Crest. Most of the divides between West and East and West and South are because of conflicting religious ideals. Something I liked was that none of those religions was portrayed as the "wrong" one when it came to their followers beliefs. Even if certain religions weren't based on credible information, the followers are never villainized for that. This book makes it very clear that religion is only "bad" when it is used to hurt and divide, and I think that's a rather unique take on the issue when so much fiction these days equates religion and evil.

Overall 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

I'm so glad I took the time to read this book, even though it took me like a week. I was really engaged the whole time even if it gave me so much anxiety. It's very diverse with multiple POC and LGBT characters. Also, I'm just a sucker for dragons; I'd die to ride Nayimathun. I would recommend this book for people who enjoy epic high fantasy, deep relationships, and satisfying standalones.

The Author

Samantha Shannon: 29, British, also wrote The Bone Season

The Reviewer

My name is Wonderose; I try to post a review every two weeks, and I take recommendations. Check out my about me post for more!

#books #recommendations #reviews #the priory of the orange tree #samantha shannon #fantasy #adult fiction #lgbt

29 notes · View notes

antihero-writings · 4 years ago

Text

If These Walls Could Talk (Ch7)

(^^ Art commissioned from Junki Sakuraba on instagram and deviantart!!)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too. The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Notes: Hey all! I am SO sorry this chapter took so long to come out. My perfectionism really got the best of me with this chapter. But I saw that S4 was on its way and that really lit a fire under my butt because I really do want to post my season 3 chapter before s4 comes out. I’m highly doubt I’ll accomplish it as it almost always takes me longer than I have to get a chapter out, let alone two, but I'll try, at least.

I really really hope you enjoy it!! If you enjoy this chapter, please please consider commenting. I assure you it’ll be more likely I’ll post the next chapter faster the more people comment on this showing you still enjoy this fic. Each comment is a little shot of energy and motivation for me.

Important! This chapter is meant to have aesthetic indentation in some places. So if you want to read it as-intended, please look it at on Archiveofourown at I_prefer_the_term_antihero on your computer or tablet!!

If you get here and are thinking “Wait, what was this fic about? What were the main themes?” then this would be a good time to reread/skim back through the earlier chapters. This is the climax of the fic and will (hopefully) be more impactful the more you remember about the rest of the fic and its many themes.

Chapter Summary:

"Go back whence you came! Trouble the soul of my Mother no more!" "How? How—How is it that I've been so defeated?" "You have been doomed ever since you lost the ability to love." "Ha—Ah... Sarcasm. 'For what profit is it to a man if he gains the world, and loses his own soul?' Matthew 16:26, I believe. "Tell me. What—What were Lisa's last words?" "She said 'Do not hate humans. If you cannot live with them, then at least do them no harm. For theirs is already a hard lot'. She also said to tell you that she would love you for all of eternity." "Lisa, forgive me. Farewell my son."

Chapter 7: “Heart”

Hey there, Sunshine, the Room adds with a smile.

The Room forgot the sweet tang of breath. How gentle, how vicious. Like honey, like relief, like a cozy blanket and a fireplace. It came in great, gulping gasps, and living was painful after such long breathlessness, but hurt far less than being half dead.

The Room rushes to Castlevania, shaking it, saying, Open your eyes! Open your eyes! It’s Adrian. It’s our boy. My master. My sunlight. And Castlevania limply flickers open its eyes, for it cannot help but obey.

Obey to see the golden man standing in its doorway.

And it feels a jolt of warmth in its broken chest.

Alucard has returned home. He arrives at the doorstep with resolve in his closed fists and a sword on his tongue. The threat to the war they all knew he would be, and the Room promised it would rear him to be.

But he isn’t alone this time.

There are two humans by his side. One with fire in her fists—quite literally—the other with a barbed tongue at his hip.

Castlevania recognizes a crest on the clothing of one of them, gold and proud: The Belmonts. The ones who came with whips and scourges to defeat its master long ago. The ones whom Dracula and his Castle were bound together against in their undead war. The ones whom Dracula trusted his Castle to protect him from. The owner of the hold now beneath Castlevania. He has come to defeat its master like the rest…but this time the boy is by his side, and for that reason, the Castlevania is unsure how this will end.

“I terrify them,” the Belmont explains the plan, “Sypha disorients them, Alucard goes over the top and we support him.”

“Yes.” The Speaker confirms.

Alucard holds his sword out horizontally in front of him, unsheathes it, and speaks:

“Begin.”

Alucard is with the Belmont.

And Castlevania knows when it sees them, the fire in their eyes, that they are the intent that brought it here. That they have indeed come to kill its master once and for all. It had wished when the boy returned, it would be with the promise of hope. But there is no promise of life and the sparing of it this time.

They bring death inside with them; the war room is filled with war, blood and burns on its floors, but it is different this time, because this is not an ambiance, a continuation, a fact of life, it is a swift and fatal kiss—the end they said he would bring, once. The blood is rotten on the floors, but it doesn’t itch or burn. And the boy uses those techniques his father taught him on brighter nights about turning into things with teeth, and the ones his mother once taught him on sunnier days about how to make metal listen.

They did not bring life inside this time, not life of the same kind at least. The war, the death, has followed and swallowed them too, but not in the same way it has its master. They are not bloodthirsty. The cold the dark and the death are merely clothes they wear, they have not reached the deepest parts of them; there are still light-starved Rooms in their hearts waiting to breathe.

There is a song at their heels as they dance in rings of fire, with the wind and the moon, upon the blood and water Castlevania isn’t sure will come out of the carpet. It is a song that is all too familiar. It has been played here before, when other, more, less, holy Belmonts barged in long ago. A song of blood and tears.

Bloody tears its master cried once, for his wife when he realized they had taken something that could not be borrowed, bartered, or souled.

They’re bringing an end to the strife, and all the undead lives that facilitated it, and vice versa. They are cutting the puppet strings, and not all puppets can live without them.

Isaac fights the nameless soldiers on the staircase for its master…until he sees someone who is far from nameless.

Isaac’s reddened eyes meet Alucard’s golden ones. Alucard’s sword aims at him, but it hits the deadened flesh of the nameless instead.

Isaac runs to tell its master—Dracula, busy ripping out the heart of a nameless—who’s here; that his sun has returned, and at his side is magic and might.

Dracula knows the prophecy.

He’s willing to die—Issac. He stands before Dracula, his form barely able to shield three-quarters of Dracula’s, willing to give his feeble human life for Dracula’s indefinite undead one. He believes knowledge and will are more important than the blood of a good man. He believes in love, and loyalty is love of a sort. And it is Castlevania’s understanding that when someone is willing to live for something, they are also willing to die for it. This is the noblest of causes.

“You are the greatest of your people, Isaac. You have a soul, I think.” As Dracula says the words, he raises his hand, and the mirror shards behind them begin to rise. “Perhaps that is more valuable to the world to come than a dusty collection of books and apparatus.”

Lisa looks on from the portrait, and Castlevania thinks it is a look of pride. She always did stand for saving human lives rather than destroying them. Isn’t it funny that in what will perhaps be the deciding battle of this war, the one where his goals should possess him stronger than ever, it is the human who he values more than himself?

“Or perhaps you simply deserve a better fate than to die instead of me.”

“I choose my death, as I chose my life.” The words are stronger than iron.

“Then I regret only that I have taken a choice for you.” A hand at his shoulder.

Dracula throws him halfway across the world, to the kind of place Isaac was born in, and the kind of place Isaac least wants to die in.

Isaac believes in love. And it is for this reason, this belief, that Vlad saves his life, Castlevania knows. Saves his life, by denying the choice he so desperately wanted to make—perhaps his whole life—and had no regrets or apprehensions about making, rather a lot more in being kept alive.

And when the mirror shatters and falls, his son is standing there, like he did a year ago, though this time he is not backed by sunlight. The only light in the room is the fire glinting in his eyes.

A pause. To remember the dead.

“Father.”

A word. To remember the living.

“Son.”

This should be a reunion, perhaps. Better people would think they should happily hug each other, and say they missed each other, and that they love each other all the same. Better people would say that the sunlight should plead with the dark to come back into its embrace. All the sinners know there was no chance of that the moment Dracula scrawled fate on his son’s skin with his own claws.

Instead, there is nothing but bitter, fighting words:

“Your war is over.”

Dracula tilts his head to the side. “Because you say so?”

“It ends.” Alucard looks at his sword, the one she taught him how to use. “In the name of my mother.”

Dracula looks at his son, the one she gave him. “It endures in the name of your mother.”

“I told you before I won’t let you do it.” Alucard’s voice is so soft, yet solid and unwavering. There is no anger, but he will not step aside. Not this time. Even when the claws come. “I grieve with you…but I won’t let you commit genocide.”

“You couldn’t stop me before.” Dark assurance in soft words.

Footsteps. A cue to the magic and the hunt behind the curtain, who step out on either side of him.

“I was alone before.”

And Castlevania understands. Understands that they are not here to talk things out. Understands that they are not here to save Dracula, to appeal to the good in him, as Lisa once had, and the Room once thought. Castlevania itself even hoped, when the boy returned, the song would be a bit more inspirational. But, beaten and broken and bloody, Castlevania understands now, if Alucard stands with the intent, if Alucard brought a Belmont—

Then they do not believe there is a chance. They are not here then, to talk him out of it. They are here to halt this war in its tracks, make it rear up, lose its balance, and fall.

—(And Castlevania knows, deep down, that to do this… they must end something else)—

Alucard is bringing back the sunlight. But there is only one way he can do that, and goodnight is not quiet.

And make no mistake he does intend to bring the full, the warm, the life, and the light back, just like Castlevania and the Room wanted. But there is too much cold, dark, death, and emptiness here to do this quietly. They are here to kill Dracula—the master now puppeteered by Death’s strings rather than his own soul.

The Speaker raises her fingers to her lips as if to say a prayer, or perhaps take a heavenly name in vain for the sake of a little silence. The Belmont’s whip clinks in his hand. Alucard’s sword sings as he raises it.

Alucard drives it towards his father: a bolt of golden lightning through the room, pinning him against the fireplace as books fall to the floor. Castlevania, wincing at the pain, knows that will bruise in the morning.

The picture of his mother cracks and falls, as if she has to close her eyes for this.

Alucard, growling with fierce resolve, pushing the sword into him with all his might. But Dracula has the sword in his hand, rather than his heart. He steps calmly forward, barely having to use any of his strength to combat so much of his son’s, as if he’s about to tell him to put the toy away.

A glint of golden eyes. Alucard pulls back the sword. A slash. Two. Three.

Dracula raises his arm as if to knock the sword from his shoulder.

Instead he bashes his son’s head into the fireplace—and Castlevania cries out at the feeling, feeling its stomach burn.

The Speaker and the Belmont ready for a fight. The floor splinters—(Castlevania grimaces, tasting blood)—as Dracula flashes through the room, and pins the Belmont into the hall, against the wall, sending his sword out of his hand. He keels over onto his hands to cough up blood, the puddle crawling on Castlevania’s skin.

Castlevania never had any qualms with the blood of Belmonts on its floors before, so this hurts less, but this is different, and Castlevania still wonders if Dracula could be a little gentler with his Castle.

A flash of light at his side. He raises his cloak as the Speaker sends tongues and teeth of fire at him.

“Speaker magician!” Its master realizes.

He rushes at her, knocking her hand out of position. She creates an ice shard before her with the other.

He scratches up with a claw, sending her flying with the broken pieces towards the ceiling, and angry gashes appear on her arm as she rolls along the floor.

“Sypha!” The Belmont calls.

He must love her in some way, because in a fit of some sort of emotion—instead of picking up his sword—the Belmont uses his fists. They probably haven’t failed him before. But this is Dracula, and his punches don’t cause the king to so much as flinch.

“You must be the Belmont.”

Castlevania laughs a little at the words; it too thought the method was rather common of his line.

It’s Dracula’s turn, and his punch doesn’t just cause the Belmont to flinch, the sound is as if he hit rock, sending him into the air with the force. He doesn’t give him a second to breathe, rather reaches his claw is around the human’s neck, holding him there.

He raises his other claw level—a blade, more trustworthy than any.

“The end of your line.”

Before he can make these words true, another blade stops him: his son’s, driving itself through both his arms.

While he is pinned the Speaker, knowing this is an opportunity she will not get again, rushes forward—still bleeding, mind—a bead of fire between her fingers. Dracula cannot move to protect himself, and the magician, knowing this, lets the fire loose to lick his face raw.

Dracula drops the Belmont, attempting to get away, deciding his own life takes precedence, but it is hard to get away when your hands are tied together with metal.

The Speaker, seeing that her fire is about to hit Alucard, falters. And in that moment Dracula wrenches his arm off of the blade and uses it to knock her down, before sending his other fist into his son, who goes flying along with his sword hitting the wall. This one may not be so hard as to bruise, but, with everything aching and breaking, the smallest tap hurts Castlevania.

The Belmont pulls a blade of bone from his back-belt, and as Dracula turns he drives it into his chest.

It’s not close enough to his heart, but red distaste fills Dracula’s eyes. He thought this was a game, but they have some amount of ability, and he may have underestimated them. As Alucard and the magician get up he attempts to grab at the Belmont in quick motions, but he has some skill in dodging.

The Speaker rips off her shirt and cauterizes her wound as the Belmont and Dracula dance in the hallway, neither weapon hitting flesh.

Dracula sees the Speaker’s intent over his shoulder, and as the Belmont lunges at him grabs his arm and throws him into her, stopping both their attacks. An effective move, if Castlevania does say so itself.

Alucard sees his opening and rushes forward, pinning his father to the wall, which shatters behind them with a painful lurch.

Dracula puts his hands together and brings them down over his son’s head with such force the floor cracks.

And Castlevania coughs blood.

Alucard pushes his arms away and slaps both sides of his face, getting a grunt this time. Dracula sends him back with such force it almost seems like a shockwave, creating wind and smoke curling around them all.

The Speaker roots him in place by sending ice spears into his leg. The Belmont clears the smoke by spinning his whip, before creating more by sending that whip—the one he fed the vampires that didn’t agree with their compositions—sizzling into Dracula’s chest. There’s an explosion to be sure—a rather big one—but after the smoke dissipates, and a wait with bated breath, Dracula is still standing just as he was before—as Castlevania knew he would—like all he threw at him were words.

…At least at first, to show he isn’t taken down so easily. He does fall to his hands thereafter.

“The Morningstar whip.” The words are scratches in the carpet. “Well played, Belmont. But I am no ordinary vampire to be killed by your human magics.” The words sizzle on his tongue. “I am Vlad Dracula Tepes,” he crosses his arms with purpose. “and I have had ENOUGH!”

His voice is a shockwave of its own across the sea of stone and bone. He sweeps his hands to the sides, his cloak rising like wings as he floats into the air, and creates a ball of magma: the cheat that will end the game. He was going easy on them until now.

It rumbles towards them, eating the carpet as it goes—and Castlevania can feel the burning in its chest. The Belmont’s eyes widen with fear at last. The Speaker rises to the occasion without hesitation, and holds out her hands to stop it with the force of her magic. It’s a force to be reckoned with, for sure: at first she succeeds, but, though it may be slowing, it isn’t stopping, and her feet are slipping. The Belmont puts his back to hers, as any good friend and comrade would. Alucard phases in front of them, the burning wind rushing against his face. He calls his sword, which sings as it reaches his hand, poises it, and drives the point into the magma ball.

They each fight with all their might, the Belmont and the speaker begins to grunt with the weight of it. The ball gives a falter their way, and Castlevania is sure even three cannot match Dracula’s strength, but the Speaker gives a final push, which gives Alucard just the right amount of momentum to drive it back toward his father, who is as caught off guard by the display as Castlevania is. He needs no sword or magic to stop it, however, and puts his hands out to hold it. Gold and red push against each other, until Alucard gives a deciding motion, then another, another, each chipping away at the ball until the sword goes flying and it’s just Alucard’s arm against Dracula’s throat, and their momentum creates a sizzling tunnel in the wall.

Castlevania may not know what guns are, but it knows what it feels like to be shot.

The two burst into the library, shattering the already shattered mirror.

It was so quiet in here. Must they sully the silence with the sound of strife? They read here, once. Sometimes alone, sometimes to each other. Whispered to each other of history and mystery.

Dracula lands on the floor and Alucard floats above him in the room in which he once stood on his level and told his father calmly he wouldn’t stand for genocide.

There’s anger in his eyes now.

Dracula hisses, then gives a war cry, and the two allow their hungry fists to attempt to devour each other as best they can in the air, red and gold flashing.

The Belmont picks up a sword in the other room and, deciding it’d be best not to follow them through the tunnel—(Castlevania is glad for that decision. The wound is still raw and would more than likely sting tremendously if they walked on it)—he and the Speaker run up the stairs to follow them.

They’re on the floor now and their punches fly like starlings—their duel reflected in the shards of mirror fluttering, jittering about, ever awaiting their command, as if attempting to tap their shoulders and ask what they should do, and why they are hurting each other—until they are hitting the bookshelves they once were gentle with—lest the pages rip and the silence tear—the ones they once smiled and discussed philosophy beside.

Castlevania’s head aches, nausea in the back of its throat.

A smiling boy and his father handing him another book, saying if he liked the first he’d like the second too, are all but gone now.

Dracula throws Alucard into the ceiling, and enters the room above with an unearthly sound, in an unearthly way: only his cloak is visible, moving like slime. As his hungry footsteps lick the floor behind him, Alucard is heaving on his side that same floor, his hair falling across his face. He turns around, fear coating the sound he makes as he, without his sword, grabs the nearest block of wood that happens to have a point on the end.

Dracula laughs, like they’re playing a game—(they did once, do they remember? Humans and monsters. Sometimes there were princes, and knights, or pirates. Even a princess or two. And the wolves and the bats were free in the night wind)—and stops.

“You mean to stake me?”

“You want me to.” Alucard murmurs, turning around with some difficulty.

“What?” Dracula chuckles, still with that put-the-toys-away intonation.

“You didn’t kill me before.” Alucard breathes. “You’re not going to kill me now. You want this to end as much as I do.” The look in his eyes is almost crazed.

“DO I?!” The tone is almost crazed in response, the nonchalant edge gone, the words resounding with power and grief.

Alucard scrambles away like an animal, causing Dracula to punch the floor instead of his head—Castlevania’s body lurches. It feels a gentle touch at its chin, someone trying to wipe the blood off perhaps.

“You died when my mother died. You know you did.” He reasons as Dracula’s breathing gains weight. “This entire catastrophe has been nothing but history’s longest suicide note.”

Castlevania jerks its head up, eyes wide at these words.

And Castlevania understands.

The cold, the dark, the empty, the death. They all make sense now.

Alucard rushes at him, Dracula knocks the stake out of Alucard’s hand with ease, but, in a moment of extreme dexterity, Alucard manages to grab it from the air and drive it into his chest still. The look in his eyes is almost pleading, like he’s going to ask “Daddy did I do a good job? Did I do it right? I’ve gotten better at fighting haven’t I?”

“Not quite close enough.” There is a gurgling quality to Dracula’s enunciation.

No more playing.

He shoves Alucard so hard its into the next room.

Castlevania keels over onto the floor, it’s stomach aching and prickling.

Dracula pulls the stake out and heaves before rushing after.

Floors below the magician and the Belmont can hear them, and are trying their best to catch up, to have a say in this fight.

But Castlevania isn’t sure they have much chance of that, as they are flashing through the halls now, Alucard, a foot off the ground, zig-zagging between the walls in the narrow hall as Dracula keeps punching bloodless stone—

—(The stone may be bloodless, but god this hurts)—

Until Alucard punches him back, sending them into a room, a bedroom—(but not that one)—and the room is a pile of rubble with just that. And Castlevania can feel the splinters. That furniture was nice.

Dracula grabs Alucard’s face and shoves him into the dining room, pinning him to the table like he’ll eat him too if they’re not careful, and those chairs were perfectly nice too—

And Castlevania sees a little boy waiting at the table for his birthday surprise, and his father pulling out a burned cake, and his mother laughing. There was no fear then. Though its master was a creature of blood it never thirsted for theirs, and they knew this full well. Can they see it too? Why would they destroy this room if they did? Why would they destroy each other if they did? Are they even the same creatures as those in the memory?

At this point Castlevania is pretty sure they broke a few of its ribs.

Alucard kicks his face and gets on the table on all fours, rushing him into the next room still.

Castlevania’s bleeding, broken heart skips a beat. Surely they must have broken a few ribs, for how else could they get into Castlevania’s heart? The control room, where its gears still lie dripping, glowing as orange as a brand, once beating organs now blazing stalactites.

They punch each other along the platform, Dracula’s cloak whipping about, like a cat’s fur trying to make him look bigger and scarier.

They are framed in the paneless window—those bones have been all but broken too now. The frame where the picture—that is to say, the die—no longer sits. For Castlevania’s heart didn’t just break, it was destroyed when they brought it to this place, the place where its enemies once lived, and still stand today.

—(So why can Castlevania still feel it beat?)—

In the frame now is moon drunk on blood, a night soaked in tears—and the wind whispers to their cloaks, bidding them to whip around them.

Dracula draws in a hissing breath.

Alucard stands tall, his eyes aglow, gold melting into something new in this forge, his hair whipping about him as he raises his fist yet again.

They are getting tired. Their snarls have a weakened quality to them now.

—Can they see the father and son in this room, the father teaching his son that his Castle is special?—

But instead of just punching him, Alucard teleports beside his father, hitting his shoulder, sending a gust of wind to his face, then teleports around the room to send his fist into him over and over, from every possible angle, and some of his kick-offs create cracks in the already breaking bindings of the room.

It feels like pins and needles, but it’s okay. It’s okay.

Why?

Dracula’s grits his teeth, sharp as ever, his eyes alight with bloody determination, his hair playing about this gaze. To end it, on the next hit he grabs his face, shoving him by it onto the stone platform. He shoves him once, twice, a third, the metal cracking, the metal creaking—

Castlevania’s gut lurches, and it can taste bile and iron at the back of its throat, and it’s hard to breathe.

Then its master raises Alucard back up, holds him by the face in the air a moment, and punches him with such force he is blown across the length of the platform and through the thick stone wall into the next room—

And Castlevania vomits blood.

Dracula bolts after him, the dust creating patterns in his wake—and Castlevania could gaze in the clouds if it weren’t for whoever’s trying to slap it awake.

Alucard coughs, and it sounded deep.

Its master is nothing human now. There’s a growl in his throat as he marches towards him, and another cough in Alucard’s as he struggles to stand.

Another punch, but this one is not fast like the rest, nor is it blocked. Alucard tries to stand up, to rush towards him, but he is getting tired, and Dracula hits him again. Another growl. Alucard takes a single step back, soft against the floors. An exhale. Another of both, and as Dracula raises his fist the murmur—plea?—on his son’s lips sounds a lot like “Father,” as if he’s reached his limit, and has to stop the game.

It’s too late to hit quit now.

The vampire king doesn’t grant the plea—or perhaps even hear it; with a belabored punch he sends him into the next Room, rolling this time, instead of flying, the contents of the Room staying in tact…all except the bed, which catches the boy.

The next Room. But this one is not like the rest. It is not just a room.

This one breathes.

A gasp, another growl, a scratch against the wall, and—

Castlevania burned today in this bloody fight, on this bloody night. Its skin, its legs. Even its heart broke.

Castlevania. The thing that Vlad Tepes brought to life with a little bit of lightning, several gears, and a few words. No magic words, just words: the ones he spoke on lonely nights to the walls about how he’d like to be something more than ruthless.

Castlevania did everything it could. It lies burned and broken and unable to fight now because of it.

But none of that burned half as much as those scratches on its walls.

There have been many stories told about Dracula, and there will one day be more stories told about Dracula, books written, enough that one could fill libraries with just the retellings of his story. And Castlevania has no doubt that one day these scratches will be on their covers. This growl, these scratches are the signet of a vampire, of a monster: the disfigurement of his Castle, bloody intent directed at his son. The dark, the death, and the emptiness have overtaken completely. That is all a monster is, really. That is all he is now.

He marches into the Room, his cloak flowing, dipping and twirling in the broken wind. The sound of Alucard’s breathing fills the Room as he heaves against the bed.

Or maybe the breath is the Room’s own.

The Room has seen all that happened, it has been watching Castlevania beaten bloody till it could barely breathe, or see through the blood dripping down its face, let alone move. Castlevania could barely feel the comforting hands on it, the attempts to bandage the wounds, or at least stop the bleeding that it knew could only belong to the Room. Castlevania could barely hear the Room’s frantic, desperate calls to action, to get up, or just ask if it was okay. And now the Room stands, fists clenched at its sides. The Room wants to fight back. It will fight back.

The Room is not violent. From the very beginning it stood against all the violence, the dark, the empty, and the death. That was what it was made for, after all. As much as it would like to, it does not wrap its hand around Dracula’s throat, claws digging until it draws blood, and demand “How does it feel?! How does it feel to be on the receiving end?!”

The Room’s footsteps are soft as it comes up beside Dracula. It puts its hands over the king’s eyes and whispers in his ear, gently as it can:

“Remember me?”

Then, quietly as it came, it removes them, as if playing peekaboo, revealing that it was there the whole time, his eyes were just covered for a while.

It may as well have been removing scales, because Dracula freezes, his eyes wide, as if he’s seeing, not just the Room, but the whole world for the first in a long time—And he is. The first time with living eyes. And one sees things very differently with living eyes. And Castlevania was his world and it hopes he sees the world differently, for Castlevania is not a thing for him to beat and break. Just when Castlevania thought there was nothing left…there is something more than anger in his eyes now.

Dracula’s angry cloak quiets, falling docile at his feet: a sign of reverence towards the Room, and all it stands for.

Alucard, after allowing his breath to regain itself, looks up, his eyes widening too at his father. His father. No anger, no fear, not even determination now. Not in this Room. This Room is different. He remembers now: in the hush that has fallen across the world like freshly fallen snow, this is his father.

The Room kneels at it’s boy’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder feeling nothing but life and love, so much so it extends to the creature that created the scars on its throat, and on its boy’s chest.

“It’s okay. You can go to him now.” The Room says.

And it knows what that means.

It knows that sometimes peace comes at the price of war.

Dracula curls his hand, the one with the claw that just made marks on the walls that are written in stone, and will never be undone. Within the glow of the window, his reddened eyes too are no longer angry. For so long those eyes sat dormant, empty, and glazed in his skull and at last they contain something. The Room’s words have gotten through the glaze, shattered the glass.

“It’s your Room.”

It’s more than just a statement. He made a promise when he made this Room. This Room was to be his son’s Room. There would be no violence, not in this Room. Not ever. Not today in as much as not ten years ago. He will not hurt this Room. He will not dare touch it, for fear those claws will mark more than just the walls; that all the memories will come crashing down.

The words are not angry. They are not dark. They are not empty. They are not dead. They may seem dry, and stated, but they are dripping with such longing and loss it might fill the whole Castle.

The desk where Vlad taught Adrian of letters, and of numbers, and of the borders of the world. The wardrobe where Lisa dressed him up in fine clothes, and casual ones depending on the occasion—Dracula had so few special occasions to celebrate alone, they were a lovely thing. The bookshelf full of all the knowledge of immortals, and the stories of mortals. The carpet where the boy sat and played with his toys. The nightstand, still with a potion bottle upon it, and the cards of a game they’ve no doubt forgotten how to play, right where they left it long ago. The shelf above it with another bottle, and a tiny satchel of even tinier precious things, and a little toy lamb. The bed upon which Vlad and Lisa once sat and told stories, and sang lullabies, or else lay curled up next to him when the nightmares got too vicious to bear alone.

—(How many did he have to face alone?)—

And Castlevania can see them all. The father teaching his son to count, and to write. The mother running after her naked toddler, trying to convince him clothes really aren’t so bad. The careful pouring of the potions so they change color, or explode just right, the father smiling proudly when he gets the questions correct. The pride of the mother when her son won the game, and the way her husband said “again” like if they just played another round he would win this time. The boy playing with the lamb and the wolf; they they got along in his stories.

The control room never was Castlevania’s heart…was it?

Alucard stands—the motion fluid now—blue light caressing his face as he raises his eyes. Vlad too looks up. But they’re not looking at each other, or the Room, rather into the stars. Not the ones outside, the ones they painted—brushing paint upon each other’s noses, so long ago, and Castlevania can see that too—as if those stars hold all the bottled wishes of childhood. It always was crowning jewel of this Room.

Adrian’s eyes oscillate like perturbed waters, because he knows, he knows he’s about to lose it all. And yes, there’s a sort of childlike yearning in Adrian’s eyes, as if he’s wishing upon those stars that he didn’t have to do this, because he’d really rather find another way to spend this night.

The stars wipe the bloodstains off of Dracula’s eyes. The blood drains off the moon too, as if he is so powerful he can bid the sky to bleed.

His lips shake with long-forgotten words—(or maybe they were just buried, and not everything buried in a grave stays there)—and he holds his hands to his chest, if nothing else to stop them from hurting innocent boys and castles, and shuts his eyes.

“My boy.” The words are said like everything in him is breaking

And it is.

—(The control room never was Castlevania’s heart. Does that mean it never broke?)—

“I’m—I…” The word falls to the floor, so soft, like it’s the only apology he has to shed. “I’m… I’m killing my boy.” And the truth is so gentle and broken its almost more painful than all those punches to the walls.

He steps across the Room, and this time his footsteps are not foreboding, not marching nor stalking. They are soft. He is only walking. This boy is not his prey. Not in this Room.

He walks to the picture on the wall, the one called “Happy.”

Castlevania remembers the day they took it home. The painter really did do a good job, Lisa had said, and Castlevania agreed. Castlevania soon learned that even when they were not here, even when the boy was not small, even when they were not happy, that moment would still be captured upon the wall to return to any time they missed it. Long ago Dracula had no need of pictures and paintings. But those pictures have been everything to him, and everything left him, now that Lisa is gone. They are all the traces left of what they once were in this Castle. That picture—the one Dracula buried and tried to forget existed—that picture bottled happiness, and it gives Vlad back his happiness now. And it makes him so very sad.

“Lisa. I’m killing our boy.” Vlad says to the memory. “We painted this Room. We…made these toys.”

His eyes as they dart around the Room—to the books, to the basket with the wolf and the blocks—are glazed, but not in the same way as before, this time it is with memory, and that makes them more alive than ever, as are his words. And in that moment she is alive too, and he is Vlad, Lisa’s husband, and Adrian’s father.

“It’s our boy, Lisa.”

And then as he looks down his eyes are not glazed at all, rather they hold understanding. He understands what must be done.

Alucard’s foot pushes off the ground, bends the knee, stands, and, no, he is not Adrian, for there is a cracking, a cracking like lightning, a cracking like the world breaking.

And it is the most horrible sound either the Room or Castlevania have ever heard. More horrible than the squelching any heart Dracula ever ripped out. More horrible than the desperate pleas of his victims. More horrible than the cackles of his friends. More horrible than the crying of the child that Castlevania can still hear echoing through the Room.

—(The sound Castlevania hated so so long ago, and now longs for far more than anything else in the world, longs for that painting to swallow the universe and bring it to life again)—

Castlevania and the Room can both feel that sound like a thousand splinters and spider bites, like both of them shattering as if they were made of glass after all. Even the furniture here bleeds.

Vlad backs up, putting his hands over his face—Don’t hurt them, they don’t know what they’re doing—

—(Yet…he hurt them all. So much so he didn’t just disgrace her words, he tried to kill her gift, their son, her blood)—

“Your greatest gift to me. And I’m killing him.”

He lifts his hands from his face and looks into his son’s eyes, his own so alive, despite their glass, tilting his head to the side. Everything slow and gentle now. He is Vlad. He is Adrian’s father. Not the vampire king who put innocents on stakes. But they all know something happened to Vlad on the night Lisa died.

“I must already be dead.”

And Castlevania, burned and bleeding, understands. The final piece of the puzzle has been put into place. It has been dead too. It’s life, bound in red to its master, will break to the call of a stake. Because a reflection cannot exist without the thing it reflects.

Because…they are mortal.

That was the trade, all those years ago: immortality for mortality. Lisa would gain an immortal mind, and Dracula a mortal soul. He would teach Lisa the knowledge of immortals, the methods of healing that must be kept secret to live with a vampire like time held no grip on them. And she would teach him how to live as a man, how to travel as a man, how to care for his son, as a man, as a father. And in that moment his soul was bound to hers.

She brought the undeath in him to life, and Castlevania understands; only things that are alive can die.

It learned through Lisa, through Adrian, what it was to be alive. And it knew that undeath, while not death, is not life. Dracula was undead and his body could not die. But now that she brought him to life, he could die. His soul already died with her. He’s been rotting in an empty shell—no wonder Death could tie those puppet strings to him. That’s why the emptiness in him was so active; cold and dark and empty were only adjectives before, now they are nouns; he was emptiness, death, walking around. And that, too, is what Castlevania has become. It too is mortal. It didn’t die with her, but something in it ceased to tick when Dracula came back without a soul in his chest, and it knows, bruised and burned, broken, and bleeding that that stake in his son’s hand is calling them both.

You knew all along, didn’t you? Castlevania asks the Room, and there is no malice, no blame, there.

The Room jerks its head up to look at Castlevania, then its eyes soften and it grimaces. I hoped I was wrong. The Room replies softly. I…I hoped there was another way.

Alucard’s eyes hold some sympathy, some semblance of the boy they once knew, in fact rather too much, for both threaten to pour out of those eyes and stop all this. He doesn’t want to. But it’s too late for anything else.

Vlad eyes hold some semblance of the man they once knew, so much so they threaten to make him something more than ruthless, something that doesn’t deserve to die. He closes them tilting his head. He knows what must be done.

There is no anger in either of their eyes, no determination, not even resolve. Not anymore. Adrian wants to free his father in the only way he can.

A step forward, and this step has purpose, that stake is silently growling, drooling at his side as he stalks his prey. Another. Another. Like the beating of all their hearts, and the atmosphere is so silent that everything can only break.

And Dracula will not stop him, will not fight back. Not this time. Like all those times he let his son win, because even though he was more skilled at at the game, it was more satisfying to see Adrian smile.

He is not here to talk things out.

Alucard barely raises that stake—

A second horrible cracking, this one in flesh.

This time he aimed higher.

Dracula’s mouth fills with blood, it seeps through the cracks in his teeth. The blood from his chest drains down the stake—the broken piece of childhood—down his son’s arm, collecting on his elbow, and when it hits the carpet a burn begins to appear on the Room’s chest.

A grunt as Vlad leans forward, the blood dripping from his mouth to the floor—another angry gash upon the Room’s skin, and the Room is trying to pretend it’s okay, but it can’t hide the hurt in its eyes.

It knew what had to be done…but the violence goes against its nature.

His eyes fill with blood, but not from undead purpose. The moon is still clean. These are those bloody tears, the ones from the song earlier today. He is free, relieved…and he will never see his son again.

“Son.”

To remember the living, and those who will live on without him.

And the word is spoken very differently than it was earlier today. Then it was solid and hollow. Now it is ghostly, and so full it could hold all the world. Their world, at least.

This Room, this Castle, that word. They are their whole world.

And it is an honor to have been a world to such terrible, wonderful creatures.

“Father.”

To honor the dying, and what they once were while alive.

The word on Adrian’s tongue is the same, though more solid, more alive, and thus able to hold more pain. A faltering breath, a cracking forgiveness.

The word means something now, at the end, where before they were nothing more than titles. They are pleading with each other. They are bleeding with each other.

They don’t want to do this. They shouldn’t have to. It is far too cruel.

Mothers shouldn’t have to bury their daughters, and sons shouldn’t have to kill their fathers. It’s an unspoken rule of life.

But Alucard can’t stop there. He must finish this. The fire, the resolve regurgitates in his eyes, and he pushes harder, like with the magma ball, and, no, this cracking is worse, because Castlevania can feel it in its own chest now.

Castlevania can hear its master’s heartbeat, can feel it with the drops of blood dripping and sizzling on the floor, and it thinks it might just be its own heartbeat.

Alucard does not hate his father: there is pain on his face. But he cannot stop there.

He must end this war. And unlike those given with kisses to his forehead once, this goodnight is not gentle. Not this time.

He inhales,

closes his eyes,

and breaks his father’s chest.

That stake goes right through Castlevania, and something in it involuntary breaks.

The control room never was Castlevania’s heart. The destruction of the die was merely the amputation of both its legs, still bleeding out. This is a breaking, not of skin or bone, but of something deeper. It thinks this might just be what it feels like to cry.

And something happens in the breaking. A change of some sort. Castlevania isn’t quite sure what—pain and disorientation are the best of friends—all it knows is that the world is smaller now, and hurts less.

And as Castlevania’s heart breaks, the reflection in the painting shatters, the reflection of the bond between father and son severing with a stake.

The world is so much smaller now.

Dracula’s head jerks back and, eyes now seeing something other than this world.

Dracula is no ordinary vampire, so he does not die like an ordinary vampire. Rather than catching on fire, there’s just smoke and ash; his face drains, turning from ghostly pale to a charcoal, black without flame, before it really is ash, sliding off his face, his cloak like sludge.

There’s no orange, just the red stain, and the grey his life was marred of. Ash and smoke. The true undeath.

Alucard turns his face away, still holding the stake in place.

Dracula lifts up a hand, a skeleton hand, and Alucard turns to see the skin sloughing off around his ring. Though his spirit may have left, it seems his body won’t quite let go of this world; with mere bones Dracula reaches out, takes a step forward, as if to touch his face, to hold his son one last time, to catch the last embrace he was not afforded.

Adrian has shed that resolve, now he can do nothing but take slow and careful steps back away from the monster he has no sword or shield to fight. He the child again, the one who belonged in this Room, shying away. He is Adrian, the one who didn’t like the stories that were bloody. And in all the years the boy spent in this Room, the sheer fear in Adrian’s eyes as he looks up to see his father’s rotted face, with mouth agape, leaning bloodlessly towards him—an image that Castlevania fears will haunt him the rest of his days—is matchless.

Hurried footsteps at the door. The Speaker and the Belmont, at last, have made it to the show, though it seems they paid for only the final song. They step upon the threshold to see the rotting corpse of the king stepping towards his fearful, tearful price.

The Belmont draws his sword, and Dracula’s deflated head—the one that seemed so alive moments earlier—lies in a bloody pool on the floor. And as the neck bleeds and the Belmont watches the body fall to the floor, he isn’t sure if that was enough.

And Castlevania can’t feel its heartbeat anymore.

“Alucard. Step back.” Sypha’s voice is tempered. “Let me finish this.”

He does, the steps cautious and small, sorrow in his gaze. He holds the unbroken bedpost till his hand shakes.

Castlevania never liked children, the crying, the leaving, the guests, or being controlled.

But it did like Lisa. It did like Adrian. And—be it a sting—it did like the sunlight. And always and forever, it loved its master. A reflection cannot help but adore the thing it reflects. A creation cannot help but be a worshipper of its creator. A dream cannot help but revere its dreamer.

“You want me to.”

Smiling a little at how true the words were, in the end, Castlevania found it quite liked the relief.

Castlevania puts a hand on the Room’s cheek, smiling, and its mouth tastes less like blood now. It looks at the moon—bleeding no longer—and blue calm fills every part of it.

“What a wonderful night to have a curse.”

The Room stares at the castle, a little horrified by the sentiment.

“What…What should I do?” The Room stutters, fear and realization coating its words, for it knows what’s happening.

Castlevania smiles wider than ever, and its voice sounds softer; “The children.”

“What?”

“You should let them in. Any child who needs refuge. Along with as many guests as your master wants to welcome. And you should cry. Cry when you need to—and let your master cry too. Stay, but let him leave, if he must, knowing he will always come back. Let yourself be controlled at times, because sometimes that which feels the least right is the most right.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“Be warm. Let the light in every window. Be full, and most of all, live. Can you do that for me?”

The Room holds onto the Castle to keep it from falling, tears already descending its cheeks.

“I—I will try.”

The Speaker lets the flame loose to eat the pieces, to engulf its master’s body in the fire he stared at all along, as if yearning for its embrace, creating a spiral of flame upon the circle in the carpet.

They were right to assume it wasn’t over, at least, because there are shapes in the flames; from the smoke and ashes rises a tower of skulls, a legion of spirits, more than a one king’s soul should hold. They’re all crying havoc, war, blood and pain from a yesterday long forgotten. Their smoke snuffs out the flame, blight covering the Room, blocking out the stars that so enraptured them earlier. Sypha and the Belmont cover their faces, but Alucard is unsurprised and undaunted by the darkness lurking in his father’s chest, and faces it without looking away. This darkness bursts out the window like a flower bloom, flows like a river out into the hall—the one cracked and bruising—flying over the war Room where the war resides no longer, and escapes into the night, fluttering, spiraling around Castlevania’s parapets like butterflies.

On the charred floor, the only thing left of the king is his wedding ring.

Castlevania sees the vampire king as he once was; young and restless. The skeletons eating stakes. Castlevania remembers what it once was: lightning, books, gears, and a few lonely words. It sees the woman with the knife at the door. It watches them build the Room. It watches the boy grow up into this beautiful thing.

Castlevania always wondered if it could breathe. It was never quite sure. The Room always seemed to possess a kind of life it never had; a life that hid in the breath.

“Take good care of him for me,” Castlevania murmurs to the Room.

“Have I ever failed you before?” The Room tries to smile, wiping its eyes.

As the sun rises over the hills, a single ray filters in through Castlevania’s window, touching it, filling every part of it, and for once it doesn’t sting.

And with the last sigh of the last ghost circling the parapets, Castlevania exhales its last breath.

67 notes · View notes

tarousprettybaby · 3 years ago

Text

The Teacher's Assistant is a Witch {Prologue}

Pairing: Werewolf!Suna Rintarou x Witch!OC (Scarlett Chase)

Summary: Rintarou and Scarlett hear two scarily similar things despite their fundamental differences.

Genre: A little bit of everything I suppose, let's go with dramedy tho lol.

Warning(s): Self confidence issues?, pressure (like a drip, drip, drip.... sorry I'll stop). That's all for rn.

Word Count: 1210

Author's Notes: First time writing in a second, but this idea popped up and I couldn't quite let it go, so this is a tentative series. My first one too sooooo yay! If any of yall remember a while back I posted a snippet I had written of an unnamed story, well this is the start of that! SO I hope you enjoy. Feedback is always appreciated! :)

‘Education is everything in this world. It is fundamental to establishing yourself, your family, your career, your magic, your everything. People pay close attention to everything you do while in school; no matter how big or small you see your school, there’s always a professional looking for a young witch, wizard, or warlock to snatch and mold into a new someone. With that being said, I encourage every one of you to realize that you are the new magical standard. I expect to see each of your names written in the stars in due time. The past faces of Aberghee are intelligent and powerful, show them and us that this hasn’t changed.’

“These words are spoken to each and every class of the Aberghee Academy of the Divine Magic Arts each year by the ever-faithful headmaster. And each year after the opening ceremony, we sum up the events and give an exclusive on some of the most prominent and promising students at the divine Academy.” Rants the nameless and borderline faceless social media entertainer. Her and her coworker grin as they gossip and gasp at the pictures of different students and highlight moments of the festivities. Until they get to one student, in particular, a lull in the conversation appears.

+++

“But do you really think he is ready?” asks a voice. The tone is steady but holds a tinge of uncertainty to it. The table is silent as everyone looks towards its head in question.

It only makes sense to question what was just said. After all, they all knew from the past what some teenagers could be like. What a teenager in power could be like. The suggestion was a dangerous one, to say the least. He would either crumble or rise. And with Suna Rintarou, it was hard to predict just which one would take place.

“I believe he is.” This voice is steady as well, but unlike the other one, it’s also strong. It’s the kind of voice that sends shivers down your spine. The kind that makes you believe it. The voice of an alpha. “Maybe he won’t take over immediately, but I’ve been training him to take over within the year.”

The murmurs around the table begin like they had been before the pressing question had been asked. Some agreed, and others did not, all unsure of how accurate the words were.

+++

“Ahhh, the illustrious Scarlett Chase, she’s an interesting one, isn’t she?”

“Woah, just take a gander at this spell she cast during the top student duel! Absolutely breathtaking!”

“Just a show-stopping move, isn’t it?” inquires the female announcer once more.

“Yes, it is, but after all, what do you expect from the daughter of Grandwitch Mary Jane Chase?” counters the male announcer. At the bottom of the screen, a bio for the girl pops up. It reads:

“Scarlett Hyacinth Chase is the 18-year-old daughter of Grandwitch Mary Jane Chase. Currently, she is listed as the 3rd highest-ranking student at Aberghee Academy and the 6th in the whole territory. However, she is expected to overtake Raven Biles as the 2nd ranking at the Academy and to rise to 3rd or 4th ranking in her territory by the end of her final year of studying. Her strength rests in her superior mental magic ability, a skill hard for younger scholars to achieve, yet Chase has mastered flawlessly. In addition, creation magic is also a preference of hers. Perhaps most interesting, she’s expected to take over her mother’s position of Grandmaster within the year, a feat unheard of by the witch republic for over a hundred years. The last time such an undertaking was made in the 18thcentury but was quickly outlawed.”

The announcer’s drone on. About her pedigree, about how she’s set to have a fantastic career as a Grandwitch. They bring up her temperament issues, her rumored superiority complex, the way that no one in the general public truly knows her.

The last words on the subject?

+++

“I think the chief is correct.” Somebody voices vehemently. “If you look at Rintarou from the scholarly perspective, I think there’s obvious intelligence. The leadership quality is shown on the court. He’s not the captain, but he still has formidable control over the team. And he shows he cares for this community in everything he does. I believe he is ready.”

However, before anyone can really digest the information, another voice speaks up.

“But I have to question, for all that he has accomplished, he has yet to really interact with other groups in the way that a young alpha looking to take over a pack should.” They turn to the head of the table once more. “He hasn’t even left this town, has he Suna-san? What will he do when faced with conflicts from outside, from the Mifel fairies to the east or the Chase witches to the south or-”

“That’s why such an important transfer of power won’t happen until next year. I merely wanted to bring up the topic now, so you all are aware of the changes to come.” Says the woman. The head of the pack. Female alphas were rare and often quite repressed. But for Suna Tomoko, there’s no doubt in her power, at the weight of her words. “My son will take my place next year, and I believe he will be ready by then. I just have a few other things to teach him. He is a talented boy; he will catch on quite easily.”

The others are inclined to agree with her words, the fact their alpha was saying it having little to do with their agreeance. Anyone would agree if they knew Rintarou. He was unique.

“He really is a prodigy, isn’t he?”

+++

“She really is a prodigy, isn’t she?”

+++

The tv is turned off after the words are spoken. A shaky breath escapes the lips of the girl as she proceeds to curl in on herself just a little more. So many expectations. Her eyes drift back down to the coffee table, but they focus on the piece of paper. It’s a letter from the dean and addressed to her mother. She knows what it says, and the inside of her chest is similar to that of a volcano. Bubbling and boiling just below the surface in a bid to explode. How will she react to the news? The news that her perfect student wasn’t as excellent as usual?

A prodigy? Me? What kind of bullshit is that? His mind is racing a mile a minute, trying to search for proof of what everyone at that damned table had just claimed. What his own mother had claimed. How could he be ready to take over for her? The boy walks, no he paces, the hallway just around the corner from the council room. Suddenly it all hits just a bit harder, the words that had been said, and he stops. His breath speeds up. It speeds up entirely too quickly; he’s hyperventilating, trying to find his thoughts. It doesn’t work. He’s still racing without even moving. I’m not ready, I’m not prepared, I’m not ready. I can’t do it, not yet.

============================================

#suna rinatro #Suna x oc #haikyuu!!#haikyuu suna #suna angst #hq x oc #hq suna #suna rintarou series #werewolf!suna #witch!reader #hq x reader #suna x reader #suna x you

8 notes · View notes

and-damntheconsequences · 4 years ago

Text

Merlin Astrology — Part 2: The Zodiac of the Celtic Druids

No one asked for it. You're getting it anyway.

So, in the other post, I've made up birthdays for both Merlin and Arthur in the other post, and gave them sun, moon, and rising signs according to how I viewed them and what fit that best. The zodiac I used there is (I think) western tropical astrology, the greek/roman based zodiac that most people are familiar with in the modern western world.

However, that wasn't the only type of astrology I looked at. And given that the calendar they were using in Merlin is heavily influenced by the celtic traditions, and druids are actually in the show, using the Druidic Zodiac seemed to make a lot of sense. I decided that Merlin's birthday would be December 23rd almost solely on the meaning that holds in this zodiac, and I used it a lot for Arthurs sun sign too.

If you know how the Druidic Zodiac works, or just really don't care at all, scroll down for a bit — until you see the bigger text and names — and I've written what I think their signs would be and the explanation. If not, I'll give some brief context and a little education first.

***

The main difference between the Celtic calender and the modern calendar is the number of months — and therefore the number of signs within the zodiac. In modern western astrology, there are 12 zodiacs, and the sun (main sign) lasts for a month in each one.

((Side note: sun signs aren't actually exactly decided by the placements of the actual constellations they're named after, it's generally more to do with the beginnings, middles, and ends, of the four seasons, but that's besides the point.))

Anyways, in the Druidic Zodiac, there are 13 months of 28 days, for the 13 moon cycles that happen in a year (plus one extra day — I'll come back to that). This means that while meanings overlap heavily between the Druidic Zodiac and the astrology we're most familiar with today, the signs do cross, and and the meanings are changed.

The Druidic Zodiac signs are named after trees, and have their own symbols (usually animals, but one of them is a chalice... so not always). The festivals near to a child's birth are also linked heavily to these signs, as the festivals would have spiritual significance.

It's also probably worth noting that the actual legends of King Arthur ARE mentioned within some of these traditions and the original characters of King Arthur and Merlin are supposedly linked to certain signs — but I've completely disregarded that here because these are characters in a show only based on those legends, and that's not at all the same thing.

***

Okay let's go

Arthur Pendragon

Birthday: July 28th

Druidic Zodiac: Holly

The eighth sign of this zodiac, the Holly Tree might seem an odd tree to represent some of the hottest months in the year, but this is because it falls just after the summer solstice. It is the first month of the waning year as summer comes towards its end. Within this month falls the first festival of harvest — Lughnasadh (or Lammas), where the fruits of the earth would begin to be collected, and feasts would be held.

Represented by the unicorn, the Holly zodiac is one of royalty and nobility, and their horn was likened to a spiralling spear of fire, a symbol of the sun's power in the days of summer. Those born under this sign will move through life in a confident and powerful manner, which can sometimes appear arrogant or snobbish if left unchecked. However, past that appearance, they are truly kind hearted and generous people, who act as both inspirations and leaders when they are called upon in times of crisis.

They are also often energetic and athletic, with great physical stamina and sporty capabilities. As well as this, they can be incredibly competitive and ambitious, though not to the ruthlessness that others may show. They likely won't take kindly to personal criticism or being told what to do, and can be impulsive and rash in defending themselves and their pride. However, their sincerity and loyalty is unparalleled in the zodiac, and their dedication to those they are about never goes underappreciated.

Holly also has an important meaning in the wheel of the year, which is the basis on which the celtic calendar was set as it went between seasons. In some pagan stories and traditions, an ongoing battle was always being fought between the Oak King and the Holly King. On the winter solstice (longest night of the year), the Oak King would win, and bring the earth away from winter and into summer. On the summer solstice, the Holly King would win again, and start to return the earth to winter. This is only my personal interpretation, but I would take that to mean that those born under the sign of the Holly are blessed with power and success. They are the new rulers, the strong, the winners, who in time will continue to grow and improve themselves. They are the true Kings and Queens of the zodiac, with the potential to do many great things.

*******

Merlin (Emrys)

Birthday: December 23rd

Druidic Zodiac: Mistletoe

Yes, mistletoe isn't one of the 13 zodiacs, but hear me out it works I promise. December 23rd was the last day of the Celtic calendar, and as such has special significance — it doesn't exactly fall under the Elder Tree sign. A year of 365 days can divide 13 times into months of 28 days, but there will be one day left over — the Nameless Day. People born on this day don't quite fall within the zodiac, and as such are given the symbol of Mistletoe, represented by the spiralling tail of the dragon constellation Draco, that was never fully visible.

Mistletoe people share most of their characteristics and nature with that of Elder Tree people, but this day also represents great potential that continues to evolve. There is a sense of destiny or fate that surrounds them, and they may find themselves as outcasts in life, or with questions surrounding their ancestors and origins.

For the most part however, they are considered to be partially within the Elder Tree zodiac, and share those traits — so I'll talk about that too.

Elder Tree people are represented by the black colt, and greatly value their freedom to learn about and explore life. They are born at the end of the year, as darkness is spreading across the land and nights are at their shortest, and therefore come into the world with their eyes fixed on the faded light in the sky. They may spend their lives, metaphorically, constantly searching to find that light, and will often be seeking to make the world a brighter place. They know the darkness well, but remain optimistic in spite of it.

They are naturally intuitive and sharp, and likely to have a deep connection to the outdoors and natural world in some way. Though they have a kind and considerate heart, they may also be a little too quick-witted, and prone to upsetting or offending people with their strong views or blunt honesty — especially if the humour of their comments isn't picked up on.

As their symbol would suggest, they can be something of a "black horse", which can make them outsiders, and destined to seek out their own path as a conventional lifestyle may not suit them best. But despite the doubts of others, they will see many great personal victories. They have a keen sense of justice and morality, and will strive to do what is right, even if its unpopular.

There's not much more to say on these, at least that I know of, but I might do another post talking about other characters, if anyone has a character they'd like me to do.

Here are the dates for the zodiacs if anyone's interested:

#bbc merlin #merlin #merthur #merlin astrology #druidic astrology #celtic astrology

55 notes · View notes

legacyfragmented · 5 years ago

Text

The people hath spoken. Time for me to just wordspew, I suppose. Forgive the gob if I do go on.

I. ZACK FAIR

This is where we start, because this man will always be one of the greatest friends and mentors to Cloud, that he has ever had. Keep in mind that these are my thoughts and interpretation. They may differ from your own, and that IS ok.

Cloud had a dream when he entered ShinRa and sought the coveted position as a member of SOLDIER. It was more than any ‘ Sephiroth is so cool, I want to be like him ! ’ type deal. More than his promise to Tifa that he would become a hero and save her, if she ever needed it. It was based off the fact that he wanted to prove his worth, to himself and everyone else. That he could mean something, BE something. Be something more than the angry kid with no dad, who got into tussles and kept to himself. His lack of progress in entering SOLDIER after he set out to Midgar was. . . a blow. It was. && though he was determined to rise up, make a name, it was a difficult task to manage.

&& then he met Zack.

Due to Cloud being ostracised by his peers, he had never truly had a friend before. Even though he cared deeply for Tifa ( whichever way you spin it, he cared about her and her opinion. ) they had never gotten the chance to be close as kids or teens. But Zack and Cloud instantly connected over their “ backwater ” backgrounds and from there, a friendship took root. Zack who took up Angeal's role of the mentor, the heart and soul of SOLDIER's pride. Zack who took Cloud under his wing as Angeal had done him. He believed in him. && that was something he had never really had before, either. Sure, yes, his mother knew he was brilliant, but that's his mother. A woman who had only her son left once her husband died, who worried about Cloud going off to chase his dreams on a whole other continent. Cloud admired Zack's attitude and spirit. As Zack saw the potential in him, HE saw the hero in HIM. && unlike Sephiroth, an unknowable and untouchable force, Zack was there, telling him to ' hang in there ' on his dreams of SOLDIER. Giving him a hope that he scarcely felt before, and being an encouraging presence overall. I mean, he picked Cloud out of a lineup of Infantrymen and everythin'. Zack was a bruhv.

That's all without mentioning how fraggin' hard he fought to protect a Mako-Poisoned Cloud on their journey from the Nibelheim ShinRa Mansion to just outside Midgar. That could be a post of it's own, but I shall save the space.

Instead, let's jump right on those last hour or two. In the back of that lorry, Zack laid out a grand plan for the two of them. Mercenaries, they would be. Boring stuff, dangerous stuff. . . as long as the pay was right ! Poor Cloud though. Addled, dazed. He soaked it all up, though. Every word, including the need for money, how the price need be right. He took all that, as the Buster Sword was passed into his hands and Zack began to drift into the lifestream, and his fragmented mind twisted it as it did his memories. It was unavoidable, as in that state he was susceptible, and Zack was the person he trusted most after all that happened. Of course he latched onto that Zack's death, I feel, was the final straw for what stability he had. Such that when he regained his bearings, he would not recall him or their friendship. When he did though, he wasn't given much time to grieve proper, as he should have had ( and as Aerith should have been able to as well !!! ) as there was still the Planet to save and Sephiroth to defeat. Afterward, when they were left with the pieces to pick up and a world ravaged by the tyrants that once held their lives in but a palm. . . Cloud attempted to finally make good on Zack's dying words. To be his living legacy and live for them both. To live with honour. But that was difficult. He had almost half a decade of his life taken from him and lost himself for months after he finally regained his freedom. In a way. . . he didn't know how to live in a world where he wasn't fighting for his life. && that too is a whole other post I WILL BE MAKING.

Left with a mountain of guilt on his shoulders and people who loved him, but who he could not relate to as they moved on and he didn't, it was easy for Geostigma to alienate him all the more. He was dying, how could he carry on his best friend's name?

Now we get to the scene which inspired this particular post.

Listen when I say seeing Zack made me cry like mad. . . && still does.

But to Cloud, it was most definitely so much more. Zack, who he had never been able to properly tell goodbye, to thank for all that he had done. For his friendship and unwavering faith. . . standing right behind him, as Aerith had hours before. Even in the afterlife, Zack had his back. I'll address this in my post about her too ( look at me, planning ahead like a loon as if I won't take ages to do that. ) but Cloud didn't turn around for several reasons, but of course the two most important were that he was afraid––certain, even--that he would disappear like the spector of the past he was. &&. . . because he felt he failed to hold to their agreement. Sure, he became a mercenary and even, to some, a hero. . . but he didn't live or protect Aerith as was asked of him. But it's undeniable that having Zack there to encourage him, as he always had, gave him the necessary boost to defeat Sephiroth's remnant once more. Not just that he could do it though, but that he knew that he could do it. Zack helped as much as the rest of AVALANCHE did when they boosted Cloud for the fight earlier against Bahamut SIN. Then later, seeing Zack standing there ( looking all cool, the goof ) with Aerith. . . it helped too. To see him. And when they walked away, he felt like he finally had some sense of peace. They were alright. . . && they didn't blame him for things that he was now accepting were out of his hands. It was what he needed, really. A push only they could give, for him to forgive himself and truly start to live up to his promise.

That. . . that is what my Cloud is doing. He's living for Zack, for Aerith. . . and even for himself. Maybe not as much as he should yet but, every step counts. Oh, he has his times. There's no way you come back from all that without having as many bad days as good, especially as you heal. && that. . . that too is something he's attempting. To heal. His mind is healed, Tifa say to that, but his heart and soul have yet to seal the cracks up and put up some plasters on the wounds he's been licking for years. But he knows he isn't alone now. He knows he needs to settle into something real, to put the sword down ( but always keep it within reach ) and find whatever happiness he can. For Aerith and Zack, his mother, for everyone that died in Nibelheim, for the people that have died, the voiceless and nameless. . . he lives. && more than anything. . . Cloud hopes he makes him proud. That he can be the person, the good one, Zack saw when he asked him ‘ We're friends. . . right Cloud ? ’

#long post.#◈ at ease soldier | ooc #◈ | meta or gushing.#◈ • | ‘ I'm the master of my own illusionary world. ’ ( headcanon )#listen this took ages and it looks like hell ran it over with a feckin' train but. . . my thoughts.#●• your boots were too big. still. . . i trudge on. | zack fair

7 notes · View notes

shercockadoodledoo · 8 years ago

Note

Idk man but I'll give $20 and the naming rights of my first born if you wrote a one shot incorporating that one post about dating an actor and getting asked what have they been in so you can reply with ME. Imagine that but with nezushi

fic’s under the cut, anon, pay up. i accept US dollars only, no bill smaller than a five. please shove the cash at your screen and chant my url three times (or is it five? i can never remember the semantics of direct interweb cash transfers). your first born child will be named Pootato (that was not a spelling error i want it to be that exact combination of “poo” and “potato,” no negotiation). enjoy the fic you bastard

oh, and this is the post that the anon is referring to, if you’re curious

Afteronly three months at Shion’s new position as co-director of scientific researchat Tokyo’s Wildlife Conservation Facility, the organization held its annualcharity banquet, and Shion downed six flutes of champagne before Safu was grabbingthe sleeve of his suit.

“Tell me those empty glasses aren’tyours,” she hissed, jerking Shion’s arm away from the seventh flute he was reachingfor.

“Hm?” Shion asked, distracted,unsure why he was being pulled away from the champagne.

“I go to the bathroom for fiveminutes, and you’re already swaying on your feet. You can’t get intoxicated atyour first corporate party! What has gotten into you?” Safu demanded, whileShion tried to focus because he was pretty sure Safu was accusing him of beingdrunk, which was incorrect.

“That is incorrect,” Shion said,finding it more difficult to speak than usual, which was odd.

“You can hardly drink a glass of wine withoutbreaking out in song, why would you do this?” Safu groaned, pulling Shionsuddenly. “Quickly, step this way, your co-director is nearby.”

Shion stumbled but righted himself,feeling Safu’s arm wind around his waist and prop him up.

“Safu,” he whispered, while Safucontinued to pull him somewhere – he had no idea where, and didn’t much mindone way or the other, as he was having fun, and that was the point of parties,he largely suspected.

“What?” Safu snapped.

Shion frowned and blinked so that hecould focus on his friend. She appeared to be unhappy. Not unhappy, exactly.Concerned? No, that wasn’t it. Or was it? The room seemed to be spinning, whichwas a strange phenomenon and rather distracting from his attempts to untanglehis friend’s expression.

“This is a terrible impression togive your coworkers who after only three months are still forming impressionson you, Shion. Especially seeing as this is your first social corporate function,you should really be making wiser choices,” Safu lectured.

Shion sighed and let Safu pull himto wherever she was pulling him, which happened to be a round table with awhite tablecloth.

Safu sat Shion down, then occupied thechair beside his and scooched it closer, her fingers lifting his chin.

Shion watched his friend’s eyesskating over his features.

“What’s going on?” he asked mildly.

“I’m trying to gage your intoxicationlevels to see if it is more or less prudent to allow you to attempt to conversewith your colleagues.”

Shion sighed again – he felt verytired, suddenly – and rested his elbow on the table, his cheek in his palm. “Imiss Nezumi,” he mumbled.

Safu stopped peering at him soclosely, straightening up and looking at Shion with some surprise. “Oh. Is thatwhy you got drunk?”

Shion felt surprised as well. “I’mdrunk?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Whoops,” Shion laughed. What aterrible idea, to get drunk at his first work party.

“He’s only been filming for a month.And you’re flying out to see him next week, it’ll be fine.”

“Well, yeah, I know it’ll be fiiiine,” Shion replied, stretching outthe word and almost falling off his palm onto the table, but he caught himselfin time and propped his chin back up onto his hand. His head felt heavier thanusual. “I don’t want fiiiine. I wantNezumi. Who is also fine,” Shion added, with the realization of the word’sdouble meaning, which made him laugh.

He could be so funny. He wishedNezumi had been around to hear his joke.

“I have to call him.”

“What?” Safu asked, as Shion lookedaround the table for his phone.

“Where’s my phone?”

“Probably in your pocket. Shion, youshouldn’t call Nezumi. With the time zone difference, it has to be around threein the afternoon in LA, he’ll be in the middle of a shoot.”

Shion fished around in his pocket,and there, indeed, was his phone. He wondered if Safu had x-ray vision to seeit there.

He unlocked his phone, glad for thetouch ID unlocking function, as the numbers on his screen were swaying a little,and it might have been difficult to catch them under his fingertips to type inhis code.

Clumsily, he managed to find Nezumi’sname, while Safu talked at him and said things he couldn’t be bothered to payattention to.

Shion hummed along with the rings ashe placed his cell to his ear, and then there was Nezumi’s voice.

“If it’s not an emergency, pretendit is so my director doesn’t kill me, he’s been pretty pissed today and myringing cell at the shoot doesn’t seem to be cheering him up, oddly enough.”

Shion smiled on hearing Nezumi’svoice, pressed his phone harder to his face. “Hi,” he said happily.

“Oh, you’re dying are you? Why, that’sterrible, hold on one second – Yeah, I’m gonna have to take this, I need fiveminutes – Hey, he’s dying, just giveme five – Fine! Yeah, go ahead, replace me with Bradley Pooper or whatever hisname is, I don’t give a shit! Asshole.” Nezumi muttered the last bit, and thenthere was a clattering sound, and then there was silence.

“Uh, Nezumi?” Shion asked,uncertain.

“Hey, the director wanted to take awater break anyway, I can talk. What’s up? Why does your voice sound weird? Holdon – Aren’t you at your fancy cocktail party for your new job? Should youreally be calling me right now?”

“Is there really an actor namedBradley Poopy?” Shion asked, then started laughing at the idea. He didn’t knowmuch English, but he’d started picking up a bit of it after Nezumi startedshooting American movies, and he was fairly certain he remembered what the wordpoop meant.

“Something like that, they’ve gotweird names here. I think it’s a fame tactic, you know, stage names and shit.You sound a little slurry, you’re not drunk, are you? Because that’d be areally terrible idea.”

“I’m not drunk,” Shion agreed, thenstarted laughing again because if he remembered correctly, he was drunk.

“Unbelievable. Is Safu there? Shouldn’tyou have someone chaperoning you? Why on earth would you go and get drunk?”

Shion was so happy to hear Nezumi’svoice, but it hurt at the same time. All he’d gotten from Nezumi the past monthwas his voice. Sometimes an image over a screen if they Facetimed, but Nezumiwas exhausted most nights from filming, and Shion was taking on more work thanhe’d ever had before at his new job, and they were usually too tired with theirconflicting time zones to talk long.

“If you were here, I’d kiss you,” hetold Nezumi, a promise, a temptation, maybe Nezumi would jump on a plane and comehere, travel back in time because LA was seventeen hours ahead, find Shionyesterday morning and kiss him before Shion had to start missing him so hard ithurt.

Nezumi was quiet, and then, verysoftly, ��I miss you too.”

There was a shouting behind him, andShion looked over his shoulder before realizing the shouting was coming from thephone.

“Ah, shit. I gotta go, okay? I’llcall at the usual time, go find Safu and drink water and stay away from anyoneimportant. And Shion, listen to me, this is very important – Do not threaten tobite anyone. Do you hear me? Promise you won’t.”

“I promise,” Shion said, his eyesburning until he blinked the burning feeling away, and then there was Nezumi’svoice again.

“Talk to you in the morning, YourMajesty,” Nezumi was saying, and then there was the click of him hanging up,and Shion took his phone from his ear, looked at it helplessly, wondering whyvoices could travel instantly but bodies could not, who invented that anyway,Shion would have given up the ability to hear Nezumi’s voice in order to touchthe man’s cheek in a heartbeat.

“Who invented phones anyway?” hedemanded angrily to Safu, who was watching him in a wary way.

“Maybe we should get you home. Youcan make some excuse to your colleagues later, say you got a stomach bug. Yes, Ithink that’s best. Come on, time to get up now,” Safu was saying in a rush,standing and reaching out, so Shion took her hand, remembering Nezumi tellinghim to go to Safu – so he would stick with Safu because he trusted Nezumi, morethan anything, he trusted Nezumi.

Halfway across the hall, Shion heardhis name called, and then Safu was cursing under her breath, and then they werenot walking anymore. Shion leaned on Safu because he felt a little drunk – oh yes,he was drunk, he’d forgotten but remembered and felt accomplished forremembering.

“Shion – Are you all right?”

Shion blinked at his coworker. Itwas not a woman he’d seen very often, but he knew they’d been introduced. Hetried to remember her name, thought most likely it was also the name of arodent, but no, that was Nezumi, he was thinking about Nezumi again, he triedto concentrate back on the nameless woman even though he would have ratherthought about Nezumi a little more, just a little.

“What?” he asked, because he knewshe’d asked a question and was trying to appear coherent.

“He’s fine,” Safu cut in quickly, “hejust – ”

“Oh, but you’re not Nezumi. We’veall heard about him of course, company gossip,” the woman said, laughing. “Iwas so hoping we’d get to meet him today.”

She had black hair curled at theends. She wore a red dress. Shion decided he would memorize these details abouther, catalogue them, use some formula to calculate her name in this way, thoughhe didn’t know what the formula was.

Maybe Safu knew. She was smart. Shetended to know things.

“Hey, Safu,” Shion whispered,elbowing her, and Safu elbowed him back, hard.

“No, I’m not, Nezumi couldn’t makeit,” Safu said loudly, giving Shion a sharp look.

“Oh, is it work, because rumor hasit, he’s – ”

“Are you talking about Nezumi?”Shion blurted out, catching thread of the conversation. “He’s an actor,” Shiongushed, leaning forward and feeling Safu tug him back.

The woman brightened. “So it istrue! Is he famous?”

Shion nodded happily. “Very veryfamous. And beautiful. And talented. And beautiful.”

“You said that already,” Safumuttered.

“Oh? What’s he been in?” the womanasked, and Shion thought about it, couldn’t remember a name of any of hismovies or even the plays Nezumi did before he got into movies, but then heremembered that Nezumi was not only in films,he was in much more important things, or rather, one thing in particular thathe hadn’t been in for a month what with their new long distance stint, whichfrankly was getting on Shion’s nerves.

“Me!” Shion shouted, and then he waslaughing at his own joke and nearly doubled over, felt Safu haul him back up, caughtsight of the woman who did not seem to understand, so he attempted to help herbecause humor, he knew, was not everyone’s strong suit. “You know. Sex,” Shion elaboratedslowly, miming with his fingers the act of it. “This is Nezumi,” Shioncontinued, holding up his forefinger, “and this is me,” he finished, indicatingthe hand where his forefinger and thumb made an “o.”

“He’s very drunk, I’m so sorry,goodbye,” Safu was saying in a sudden and rushed way, pulling Shion so abruptlyaway that he stumbled over his feet and nearly fell into Safu.

“Ow, oof, wait, did you hear myjoke? I just made a joke. Did you hear it?” Shion asked.

“Yes,” Safu said, rather curtly,when she should have been laughing, which made Shion think she was lying abouthearing the joke, maybe to save him the time of having to say it again, butShion didn’t really mind saying it again.

“So what happened is that lady askedwhat Nezumi did, and I said he was an actor, and she said, ‘Oh, what movies ishe – ’ No wait, that’s not how it went, I messed up the joke, she said – ”

“Shion, please be quiet now,” Safuinsisted.

“Nezumi would have liked the joke,”Shion said, sulking.

Safu didn’t say anything, and thenshe laughed in a breathy, light way, pulling Shion out the banquet hall doorsand into the cool night air. “Yes, I suspect he would have.”

THEEND

#nezushi #is it wrong to tag this?#i don't care spread the word i'm taking commissions throw money at me you sad suckers

15 notes · View notes