#Jenniferyeoweak

[astaroth-demon-go-brrr]

YEEEEESSSSSSS thank youuuuuuuuuuuuu

WEAK

A/N: hi its me, the creator of the ever-cursed SHREBEK. I'm not sorry for traumatising yall, but I hope this Ajax fanfic will reduce the damage ^~^ anyways, it's been years since I last wrote, so my writing skills are a little rusty, apologies for that. Also, do ignore any typos or errors, though I yall point it out I'll edit it. That being said, I hope yall enjoy :D

@astaroth-demon-go-brrr came up with the idea for the fanfic and I decided to write it for her, so Asta, I hope you enjoy it 6w6

It’s… cold.

Very much so that it’s freezing him right up to his very core. He never expected that he’d one day ever feel the merciless chill gnawing away at his bones, his nerves, his senses, seeing how he DID grow up in the blizzards and was technically built for it. But this? This was worse than any snowstorm that had ever engulfed his house; this one swallowed his very being as if he were but mere prey, nothing but sustenance for a larger living and that it was all he was worth.

Right. Of course. Whoever said his life mattered?

He is a Harbinger, a pawn at the mercy of the almighty Tsaritsa, albeit a higher-ranked one. A little card soldier who heeds her every beck and call, who carries out her commands flawlessly and brings her plans to reality at each dismissive flick of her deceptively delicate wrist, who should have no thoughts but to do his job and thus have some value or risk being discarded. After all, that’s what string puppets do— to move, sway, attack, it’s all up to the puppeteer. The dolls, or weapon in his case, should not have other wills, or any at all.

And now, his worth was being questioned, balanced on one end of a scale that was threatening —fated, even— to tip towards the empty side. 

  He was aware of the ruckus he stirred up in the other nation, albeit not of his own will, but that did not matter. And her 11th harbinger was now suffering from the consequences of enlarging the distance between her and her goal. 

  Childe knew, more clearly than others did, that regarding his upfront attitude towards his enemies and those standing in his way, the Tsaritsa had always turned a blind eye, choosing to ignore it so long as it did not harm her benefits. She cared not for the process, so the subjective never mattered to Her Majesty, for her chilly sights were set on nothing but the results. But now, when that very same publicity and attention Tartaglia gained for himself reared its head and turned around to bite not just him, but also Her Majesty, she did not favour nor tolerate it. Not when the gnosis was now harder to attain and plans having to be postponed. Thus, she had to make the perpetrator reap what he sowed.

With his bangs covering his eyes and how he knelt before the Tsaritsa, one would easily mistake this display of submission and devotion for fear and defeat, resignation even. Their minds would change though, the moment they see the thrill and seemingly manic excitement in his eyes that he suppresses, now alive with that spark that he gets whenever he battles. It took all the finely-honed weapon of war had in himself to stop his shoulders from betraying his emotions; to keep his true emotions under wraps. Cleverly drawing the curtains and hiding the window to his soul from the piercing gaze of the Cryo Archon, he opts to fool the bystanders instead. Wasn’t he so generous to let those wishing and praying for his fall witness their dreams materialise? It would be most amusing to see how long those fools can laugh for IF he makes it out alive after all.

Despite how cunning he could be when needed, Ajax would not lie. His ruler had a strong domineering aura that struck fear into the blood pump residing in her subordinates’ chests, including his. However, right this instant, where he was most likely half a foot through Death’s door and into his own coffin, the adrenaline pumping through his veins had erased most of what little fear he felt, leaving behind the sensation of being alive that he’s always craved. To be this close to dying at the hands of one of the strongest people he’d ever met, one he fervently wished to fight one day and had sworn loyalty to much less, lit up his nerves and brought him a thrill he never thought he’d ever experience. No, this was so much more exhilarating than merely defeating strong foes with the weapon he’s weakest with, for their strength could and can never hold a candle to the God’s. 

  And right now, the very same diving being was holding him on trial.

As always, he feared not death. One who is in his shoes and has personally experienced what his eyes had displayed on his retina would not either, this was a given. But, if he were to lose his life right here and now, Celestia knows what his family would suffer under the hands of their “caretakers”. He couldn’t allow that; his precious siblings —especially Teucer, Tonia and Anthon— were not trained to handle them like he. They would not last even a second in this exquisite masquerade ball, and he would rather they not have the blessing or fortune to enjoy a feast at Swan Goose Gate.

  So no, dying is not an option. He would not go down without a fight; he refuses to. As much as he respects the one on the throne, he will not just let his life be taken away like that, not when his siblings are still in the hands on those claiming to care for them on his behalf. Being dense was not his forte; he knew crystal clear wheat that “care-taking” entailed and that it was but a pretty decoration to cover up the dark depths lurking underneath. With that in mind, he had already made preparations to deal with the icicle that would no doubt pierce his heart with razor-sharp precision. But as always, a certain someone stayed true to the role he once playfully gave them, sticking to their title as the one unpredictable factor in his life. 

The small breeze from their speed volunteered to serve as a brief warning about the warm droplets hitting his rosy cheeks just a second later.

The light falling upon that person’s form softly illuminated their silhouette, their back facing him, and in that one moment he thought that he had died and gone to the wrong place. It did not make sense; the lack of pain from having his heart pierced aside, he should not be seeing an ethereal angel considering the sheer amount of blood staining his hands. But then why was this angel bleeding from their back? Do angels bleed? Surely their blood was not red in colour….?

He did not know if it was the blinding contrast between the dark red liquid and the pristine white floors of the icy palace tiles that finally brought him back to Earth, but his brain finally registered that the one shielding him from the blinding glare of the lights was not a supernatural servant of God. Instead, it was someone more mortal and more realistic. It was….you.

You, who had been assigned as his little assistant and who he eventually became close friends with. You, who had cleaned up each and every one of his messes, albeit with a few complaints here and there that he never took to heart and that you never meant. You, who he watched play with his siblings in the snow and graced him with such a heartwarming sight. You, who he had secretly cherished and thanked the gods for, despite never once believing in their existence nor divination. You, who had been watching from the sidelines, brimming with worry. 

…And you, who now took the verdict for him. 

He finally believed those who once shared that time will seemingly slow down as a life-changing event occurred before their eyes. They were not kidding; because if they were, then why was gravity working so slowly on your weakened form? Why were his arms so slow in reaching to cushion your fall? Time had not come to a standstill nor even slowed, yet those blue orbs resting in their sockets chose to deceive him so. He could only thank his reflexes for still being able to soften your landing, as discreetly as he had to do it.  

He should be happy; elated even, that you are finally in his arms. So why did it all feel so wrong? His dreams of holding you and trapping you in his warm embrace should not be realised this way, not when you replaced him at Death’s door. There should have been a fireplace in front of the two of you and a blanket around your shoulders as he shared his warmth with you and fought off the cold threatening to make you shiver. There should not be more blood coating his hands —yours, no less— nor should you be smiling up at him in such a comforting manner. 

  The ringing in his ears was annoying, even more so when accompanied by an underlying buzzing. He couldn’t care less though, it wasn’t important. Because for the first time in his life, he did not know how to react, unable to register nor comprehend the scene before him. But his body, conditioned to react quickly, froze his expression into that of a neutral one so as to hide his shock. The manic spark of life in those blue orbs had died the moment you fell from the grace he swore you personify, replaced by those dull, dead ones that had never once fell upon your form. But how could they shine or brim with life again, when the source of light was now falling through his fingertips like sand?

  If only he had been more careful, more diligent. If only he had been more discreet. If only he had learnt he ways of puppeteering as his fellow Harbingers had. If only he had mastered being behind the scenes instead of being the odd one out. If only if only if only—

No, that was wrong. There were no ifs. He should have been stronger, faster, smarter, more flawless in the execution of his mission, you would not have suffered such a fate. He could not even weep for the bright future you so willingly gave up for him, for the one he had held dear and subsequently lost, for your tragic demise. He could not even try to save you, to try and reduce the amount of blood flowing from your wound, to at the very least share his body heat with you so that you would not leave in the cold. 

And yet he could not, not when the Tsaritsa was watching along with the other Harbingers, eyes searching for any more cracks in that cold, indifferent mask of his. This way, they could dig their blood-stained fingers into every nook and cranny in an attempt to witness and dissect every vulnerability he had to offer. 

He knew, and so he would not allow them to. For within these glorious palace walls, a thinly-veiled masquerade ball is held. Weaknesses have no place in such dangerous settings, much less those who are full of them. With how experienced you are, he knew you were well aware of that. Otherwise, your digits, now curled up into your palms in a hidden display of self-control, would have long reached for his face and wiped away the tears that he had stopped from falling. In a soft voice, you would have coaxed him out of the bad habit of repressing and hiding his true emotions and teased him. Yet the last thing you left behind for him was six words that you mouthed, that he had and will never hear(d) flowing from your lips again.

 “I love you, please live on.”

The bare minimum was what he was unable to provide for you, and so he paid the price. It was not a cheap one either, since he had to kneel there watching you suck in and let out your last breath, mustering the barest hint of a smile with your remaining strength and slightly curling your fingers around his before going limp, all the while having to hide his sorrow and feelings. 

All because he was too weak.

…It truly was unfortunate that the heavens had a taste for much crueler endings.