#More like he brought ten swords and a war hammer

[thehalfbloodfreak]

Shallan: You know you can’t solve every problem with a sword.

Adolin: That’s why I brought TWO swords!

[kinsbin]

Title: Training Word Count: 3390 Pairing: Ares/Reader, Apollo/Reader, Ares/Reader/Apollo Fandom: Blood of Zeus Rating: Explicit (18+ Only)

Summary: Apollo likes to flirt with you while you train with Ares to become a great soldier. A joke on your part about letting them both compete for you gets a little out of hand.

Set with Blood of Zeus Gods in mind, but I'm sure you could imagine them to look however you want.

A/N: If I must write the content for the x readers in this series so be it I’m going to write. 

AO3 Link

----

It had been a joke, you swore it.

Well, perhaps that was a lie. It was only half of a joke.

To be honest, all you could remember was Apollo’s snide voice overhead of Ares’ training session with you. A musing coo meant to distract the other god so that the relentless work you were put through may go slower and bide him more time to find a way to mess it up. Apollo’s curious musings of bewilderment over how well you could handle his sword versus Are’s hammer were met with a snide retort about how Ares’ hammer was ten times better than Apollo could hope to be. You paused to watch them bicker, appreciating the break from the otherwise exhausting session, and smiled behind your war hammer as the two gods you adored bickered before you.

The words had slipped out of your mouth as more a commitment to the theatrics of the argument more than anything else:

“Why don’t the two of you let me decide?”

It had brought about a lengthy pause before the look shared between the two gods turned into something of matching mischievous smirks. You paled at the realization of what was going through the two god’s heads at the same time and something about it made your throat go dry and the space between your legs throb.

It was how you then found yourself being pushed into the soft, silken sheets of Apollo’s bed by the taller god, your lips claimed by his own with tender curiosity as hands trailed up your side with teasing touches. You weren’t aware just when your clothes had come off, but it didn’t matter as Apollo’s large hands covered your breast with a careful caress, pinching a nipple between tanned fingers while his lips accosted the side of your neck with hungry kisses. The attention made you gasp, hands flying up to tangle themselves into Apollo’s long hair.

Beyond the lover on top of you, you were able to watch as Ares began removing his own clothes with a methodical slowness, his red eyes never leaving your form as it was ravished beneath another. Jealousy seemed to spark inside of him as much as competition did, making you mewl helplessly as Apollo’s mouth trailed from your neck to one of your breasts, his lips hungry for it as he nibbled along the tender flesh.

“You’re so soft, (Y/N),” Apollo purred with praise thick on his voice, “So beautiful…”

The praise that fell from the lips of a being ten times as beautiful as yourself made your face flush bright red, a sight Apollo seemed to enjoy as he gazed down with moderate amusement at you. A fingertip trailed from your breasts to your face, cupping your cheek in one large palm and letting his fingertips rub gently along your kiss-swollen lips, pulling the bottom one down curiously. On instinct, you opened your mouth and took the digit between your parted lips, sucking on it while one heated gaze met the other, making him hum in approval.

A firm hand fell on Apollo’s shoulder, pulling the other god away with a sharp tone of, “Get off.”

Apollo smirked as he rolled off of you, tilting his head with a click of his tongue.

“So demanding, even in bed? I doubt you could rile them up anymore than this, don’t you think? I mean, just look at them.”

You gasped as Apollo pulled your legs apart with ease, revealing your soaking core. He inserted his fingers with little warning, two thick digits filling you up and making you keen with delight as he pumped them in and out a few times. He pulled away to reveal the hefty amount of slick that coated them with a satisfied quirk of his eyebrow. A challenge to the other god. Ares growled in return, gripping at you fiercely before bringing you up so that you sat comfortably in his lap, your hands splayed on his hard chest and your hips straddling his own. Ares’ half hard length rubbed teasingly along your entrance, making you squirm in appreciation of the friction.

Still his gaze was… soft… A gentle and concerned look warmed in red eyes as he asked the quiet question of if this was truly okay. The Gods were large, much larger than you - whomst they had comfortably sandwiched between their massive forms - and as desperate as he was to destroy you in that single moment there was a necessary hesitance. A careful judgement of limits all soldiers had within themselves and towards others. It was simply in his nature.

You smiled nonetheless, nodding your head before leaning forward to kiss Ares. Your mouth was so much smaller than his own, it barely did work to cover his full lips, but it was all the permission he needed as his arms wrapped around your waist and he pulled you closer to him, consuming you against his body as his tongue pushed past your parted mouth to taste you.

Already you felt full. He took up so much of your mouth with one fell swoop. One hand was enough to grip half of your ass, spreading it apart and allowing his other hand to dip into your dripping cunt. Ares’ fingers were thicker than Apollo’s. Just one was enough to fill you to the brim, stuffing you up and making you moan into his mouth. You felt Ares’ lips form into a smirk as he continued to work one finger into you, pumping and curling the digit in all the right ways as he grew harder in tandem to the soft noises that fell into his lips from your own.

Apollo slid himself behind you, pressing his lips into your neck and trailing kisses down your spine. His hands held your waist as he let his own hardness touch needily at your back, his tongue darting out to lick up the sweat against your skin before trailing downwards.

“Move your fingers,” Apollo hummed towards Ares, and you shivered at the feeling of his breath on your lower lips. It made Ares growl into your mouth, pulling away to frown down at his fellow god and growl a dark ‘fuck off’ in the lust of his possessiveness. It seemed to urge his fingers faster inside of you, adding a second and stretching you in a way that made you keen in delight against his chest. Ares smirked, gazing at Apollo, who pouted through the edges of blonde hair and thick lashes.

There’s a moment of tense silence between the two before Ares relents with a roll of his eyes, his fingertips sliding from your entrance and making you keen in desperation to be filled once more. Your whines turned to moans as Apollo’s lips replaced Ares’ fingers. He sucked and lapped at your entrance like a starving man, using his grip on your thighs to hold your squirming form still as he plunged his tongue between your folds, humming in appreciation of the taste.

“Listen to that,” Ares mused with a lopsided smirk, “Your slutty little moans… Better than the finest music on Olympus.”

Your face heated up red with embarrassment while, beneath you, Apollo chuckled. It sent a series of sweet vibrations up your entrance as his tongue gave one more longing lick at your clit.

“That we can both seem to agree on.”

His lips returned, nibbling gently on your clit as he let a finger slide into your entrance alongside it, making you keen into Ares’ chest. Ares busied himself with lowering his lips to your neck, leaving a fearsome series of bites and bruises along the bare flesh. A signal that you were his. Surely Apollo would fight to leave marks of his own as well. It was the one enjoyable thing about a human lover. Their marks lasted. Their test of just how much your body could take was always different.

“A-Ap...Ares...App-pollo-Gods I-Hh~.”

You tried to form words but nothing came out beyond the stuttering of desire, your entire form trying to work its way out of the god’s bruising grips as they ravished you. Instead each form held you closer, devouring you until the overstimulation brought a pulsating pleasure to your cunt and an orgasm that rolled off of your lips as much as it did down Apollo’s face. Ares swallowed your moans and curses in his own kiss, his deep and guttural growl of arousal shaking your very core as Apollo hummed with absolute delight. As though he were tasting the sweetest nectar of ambrosia.

Ares took a moment to pull away from your lips. To drag his tongue up to collect the sweat of your pleasure against his taste buds and revel in it. Below, Apollo took one last languid lick of your insides, placing a kiss on your clit before sitting up to kiss the back of your neck. Turning your head, you whined in a needy tone. Your mouth was desperate for your lovers. Apollo obliged with ease, allowing you to taste yourself upon his mouth while Ares’ cock gilded sweetly along your entrance, now fully rigid and everything of what your pleasure needed at that moment.

“Our needy little mortal seems like they want something,” Apollo teased in a whisper behind you, his kisses burning your skin as he chuckled, “I wonder what they could want?”

“Beats me,” Ares played along with a gruff chuff of his own, “All they seem to want to do is whine like a bitch in heat. Can you spit out your words, little one?”

Ares’ touch was hard as he gripped your chin between thumb and forefinger, pinching your face so that you were forced to meet his stern, red eyes. Your face was red with embarrassment as it was held still, your gaze squirming without success to land itself anywhere but by the lustful eyes of your mentor. Instead you were forced into it, and Ares quirked one eyebrow upwards with moderate curiosity as he waited for your answer. Behind the two of you, Apollo chuckled. His heat radiated off of him in waves as his fingers curled around your body and tugged lightly at the most sensitive areas they could find in an effort to make you squirm with desire.

“Come now,” Apollo whispered, “We know you’re not mute. Tell us what you’d like us to do to this pretty little cunt of yours~.”

A feathered touch to your throbbing, sensitive core made you whine loudly, drunk off the pleasure the two gods dangled right in front of your nose. Opening your mouth best you could against Ares’ tight grip, you simply let your words spill with starving desperation. Drool fell alongside words as you squirmed and gripped Ares' wrist with shaking fingers.

“A-Ah- Please… I w-want you inside me. Aressss please I want to feel you f-fuck me! I want to feel you both, pleaaaaase please- gods- ahhh - please-!”

Your begging was sweet, making both gods blush in awe at the squirming pile of flesh between them. Their dicks throbbed desperately and Ares could only grunt his approval, hearing you keen hungrily. He threw you down into the bed, flipped you so that you were on all fours, and positioned himself at your aching hole. His tip was large and dribbling with precum. The feeling of it pressing hot and heavy on your entrance made you whimper and moan, an effort to buck back on the cock not going unnoticed as Ares chuckled. He steadied your hips with his hands as Apollo reached out to grab at some of your hair, tugging and smiling as your attention was turned to him once more.

“Can I have your mouth, little one?”

It was silly of him to ask when he was in the perfect position to take, but you didn’t care about formalities. Instead you let their mouth open up as wide as it could, lolling your tongue out and showing the way the strands of your drool clung to your lips as you begged desperately for your god’s cock. Apollo chuckled, rubbing your hair in one more affectionate swoop before pressing the tip along your mouth. He slid it in carefully, his dick thinner than Ares’ certainly but longer by the slimmest margins. It curved beautifully down your throat, making you gag for a moment before your throat began to relax. You started to breathe through your nose all while Apollo exhaled breathy moans of delight at the warmth encompassing him.

“Gods your mouth,” Apollo gasped sweet praises as his head threw itself back, “So tight - mmmm - so wet… Sweet thing you are heaven.”

“Not as tight as this cunt, though,” Ares’ growl was dark behind you, reminding you that he would not be forgotten. The massive god of war gave no warning to you before pushing himself forward. He sheathed the tip of his cock within your tight entrance, making you scream in delight as your walls clung to him. The vibrations of your pleasure made their way up Apollo’s cock, causing the god’s hand to tighten in your hair as he cursed gently through gritted teeth. As still as he tried to keep his hips for his you, he could not help the gentle shift of them so that his cock pushed itself just a little deeper to the back of your throat.

Ares continued pushing behind you with little care to your form. He was relentless and determined to fit himself within you. To take the pleasure that had been teased to him the whole day. Fingertips left hefty bruises on your hips as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. You used Apollo’s hips for balance as the tips of your toes curled through Ares’ relentless pushing.

Once the god of war was bottomed out, he let out a hefty snarl that buried itself in the back of your neck, making you shudder as your walls clenched around his girthy cock. It throbbed inside of you as he gave a single moment to allow you comfort. To adjust to him as he revelled in the warm, tight heat that surrounded him. Both he and Apollo were lost in the wetness of you, their human lover. In the way you squirmed as you were filled with two hefty cocks. You felt your stomach bulge with Ares’ girth, your guts churning as your jaw began to ache around Apollo.

Your signal was all they needed. You shifted your hips back and moaned weakly around Apollo’s cock, eyes gazing up in a teary, silent permission to openly destroy you.

And - oh - how willing the gods were to please.

Ares movements were primal as he dragged himself along the walls of your cunt, feeling them clench around his girth with sweet desperation until only the tip was left inside of you. He pushed back in with fearsome greed, making moan after moan spill from your mortal lips in the process. He continued his relentless pace. So fast was his force that you could feel your insides churning with devoured intensity. Your guts shifted with each heavy push of the god’s desperate cock, making goosebumps shine along your body alongside the sweat that formed.

Your nails dug into Apollo’s smooth thighs, not leaving marks but offering the god a pleasant pain through his pleasure as his own hips moved in tandem with the other god’s to fill you up perfectly. His dick thrust so tenderly inside of your mouth - such a different feeling than Ares’ roughness - that you could barely keep up with the argument of sensations. Drool slid past your lips and dribbled down Apollo’s handsome cock, landing on the bed sheets below as his grip remained firm on your hair.

“Gods, you feel so tight,” Apollo moaned as Ares grunted his agreement, his body covering up the entirety of your form as he pounded into you with a hunger only a god could truly have.

“Tight and wet,” Ares growled with a chuckle in his tone, “This what you want, little mortal? To be taken at once by two gods? To be worshiped like this? To be fucked in a way - hh - no other mortal man could satisfy you?”

“We wouldn’t let anyone else satisfy you,” Apollo’s own growl warned in front of you as he let his hand grip your scalp tighter, “No, you are ours and you belong to us. This is our mouth to use and our cunt to fuck, isn’t that right? Only ours. Our perfect little human.”

You could do nothing but moan in agreement around the two, your brain changing into mush as the gods accosted you. Pleasure clouded the edges of your vision as your stomach churned with clenching desire. Your second orgasm built itself up in the center of your body, making your toes curl as your moans grew more and more vocal by the moment. Ares sensed your impending orgasm by the way your walls fluttered around him, making him groan as he picked up his pace, snapping his hips hard into you. The sound of flesh slapping along flesh echoed as he worked himself greedily into you. Chasing his own release alongside yours as your grip on Apollo only intensified through your heady pleasure. Tears had begun to spill from your eyes, wetting your already damp face as Apollo kept his grip steady, dragging yourmouth along his cock to fuck you at his own pace.

It was when Ares’ fingers moved to your clit and Apollo tugged tightly on you that you lost it. You came with a moan around Apollo and a tight squeeze around Ares, making both gods curse as their own hips snapped to speed up their impending orgasms. Ares came with a guttural, heavy growl that echoed war drums in the back of your mind. You could feel the throbbing of the dick inside of you as it filled your insides up with rope after rope of cum. Apollo held your head still as he came inside of your whining mouth, shooting his own sweet tasting ropes down your throat. He brought you to swallow each strand as you squirmed and gasped around the sudden intrusion.

The three of you remained like that for what felt like eternity, connected within one another as you caught your breath. Apollo’s hand continued to stroke at your head, ruffling the already messed up strands of hair in his movement of praise. He eventually slid his softening cock from your mouth, watching with a light chuckle as you coughed up a few strands of his cum that did not make it down your throat. The semen and spit glittered down your neck as you gasped. You collapsed all the way on the sheets beneath you once Ares slid out as well, exhaling as he admired the way his own semen dribbled from your full entrance.

Sliding into the soft bed sheets, you shut your eyes and heaved a breath of fresh air, your limbs sore and cunt aching from the abuse it had suffered. Yet it was the most delicious feeling in a way. Sweet and hot and sticky all at once, you ached much like you did after a good workout session.

Apollo lay down first with you, his lips finding your forehead and pressing a kiss to it with a chuckle.

“Such a good thing for us,” He cooed sweetly, “Taking us so well like that. You’re a natural, (Y/N).”

Ares scoffed above them both, sliding into his own space against you and tracing designs on your trembling thigh. Not one for as many praising words as Apollo, he simply showed his appreciation with touch above all else. You all but purred into his touch as they let your body relax.

---

You had no idea when you fell asleep, nor how long it was.

You simply woke up a moment later with sheets over your body and a pile of fresh fruit presented in a glimmering gold bowl, your lovers gone to work about the day as they got their rest.

A smile broke on your lips as you accepted a pomegranate from the golden platter and began to open it, watching the world of Olympus continue on beyond the comfort of Apollo’s pantheon.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ACOK: Theon I (Chapter 11)

Joy.

The point of land on which the Greyjoys had raised their fortress had once thrust like a sword into the bowels of the ocean, but the waves had hammered at it day and night until the land broke and shattered, thousands of years past.

You include the word bowel in a passage about shattered castles, and I start purring.

+.+

Theon had never seen a more stirring sight. In the sky behind the castle, the fine red tail of the comet was visible through thin, scuttling clouds. All the way from Riverrun to Seagard, the Mallisters had argued about its meaning. It is my comet, Theon told himself, sliding a hand into his fur-lined cloak to touch the oilskin pouch snug in its pocket. 

Sounds about right.

+.+

If every captain was a king aboard his own ship, as was often said, it was small wonder they named the islands the land of ten thousand kings.

Apologies to everyone, I was mistaken. Queen Arya foreshadowing does exist.

+.+

The girl was a shade plump for his taste, with skin as splotchy as oatmeal, but her breasts filled his hands nicely and she had been a maiden the first time he took her. 

x

She looked rather stupid when she smiled, but he had never required a woman to be clever.

Yup, this is definitely my punishment for being happy the Eddard chapters were finished.

+.+

"It would please me to teach you something new. Unlace me and pleasure me with your mouth."                 

"With my mouth?"

"With your mouth," Lord Ramsay said. "And be quick about it. If she's not wet by the time I'm done disrobing, I will cut off that tongue of yours and nail it to the wall." - The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD  

:(

+.+

Once I would have kept her as a salt wife in truth, he thought to himself as he slid his fingers through her tangled hair. Once. When we still kept the Old Way, lived by the axe instead of the pick, taking what we would, be it wealth, women, or glory. In those days, the ironborn did not work mines; that was labor for the captives brought back from the hostings, and so too the sorry business of farming and tending goats and sheep. War was an ironman's proper trade. The Drowned God had made them to reave and rape, to carve out kingdoms and write their names in fire and blood and song.    

Put this in my veins. Let me bathe in it. Feed it to me. Bury me with it.

He even threw in the fire and blood in case the reader didn’t make the connection!

+.+

Tell him he should be pleased. As many times as I've fucked you, you're likely with child. It's not every man who has the honor of raising a king's bastard.

One point for the ‘Jon is a Targaryen bastard’ side of the debate.

+.+

Theon searched for his uncle Euron's Silence. Of that lean and terrible red ship he saw no sign

(...)

His father was old now, and so too his uncle Victarion, who commanded the Iron Fleet. His uncle Euron was a different song, to be sure, but the Silence did not seem to be in port.

Welcome to the story, daddy!

+.+

The Lordsport men gazed on Theon with blank, bovine eyes, and he realized that they did not know who he was. It made him angry. 

(...)

"Pyke." The fool still did not know him. He should have worn his good doublet, with the kraken embroidered on the breast.    

The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name. I was Theon of House Greyjoy. I was a ward of Eddard Stark, a friend and brother to his children. "Please." He fell to his knees. - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

+.+

"Tell me true, nephew. Do you pray to the wolf gods now?"

Theon seldom prayed at all, but that was not something you confessed to a priest, even your father's own brother. "Ned Stark prayed to a tree. No, I care nothing for Stark's gods."

That’s strange, because I noticed you keep using the plural form of god in your internal monologue.

+.+

"Kneel. Or are you too proud now, a lordling of the green lands come among us?"

Theon knelt. He had a purpose here, and might need Aeron's help to achieve it. A crown was worth a little mud and horseshit on his breeches, he supposed.

Theon and Stannis faking it until they make it.

+.+

"Young I was, and vain," Aeron Greyjoy said, "but the sea washed my follies and my vanities away. That man drowned, nephew. His lungs filled with seawater, and the fish ate the scales off his eyes. When I rose again, I saw clearly."    

First Patchface, now Aeron.

It would seem R’hllor isn’t the only god performing resurrections around there. Good! He's not special.

+.+

Lord Eddard had tried to play the father from time to time, but to Theon he had always remained the man who'd brought blood and fire to Pyke and taken him from his home. As a boy, he had lived in fear of Stark's stern face and great dark sword. His wife was, if anything, even more distant and suspicious.

As for their children, the younger ones had been mewling babes for most of his years at Winterfell. Only Robb and his baseborn half brother Jon Snow had been old enough to be worth his notice. The bastard was a sullen boy, quick to sense a slight, jealous of Theon's high birth and Robb's regard for him. For Robb himself, Theon did have a certain affection, as for a younger brother . . . but it would be best not to mention that.

Theon spends a lot of time lying to himself throughout this chapter. Still, this is probably close to sincere, even if he’s downplaying his affection for Robb and Winterfell.

+.+

They had a laugh over that as they raced ahead to an amorous young miller's wife that Patrek knew.

Blah.

+.+

"A sign it is," the priest agreed, "but from our god, not theirs. A burning brand it is, such as our people carried of old. It is the flame the Drowned God brought from the sea, and it proclaims a rising tide. It is time to hoist our sails and go forth into the world with fire and sword, as he did."    

Yeah, nothing screams the Drowned God quite like burning rock and ice in the sky.

+.+

That was where Robert had made his breach, swarming in over the rubble and corpses with his warhammer in hand and Ned Stark at his side. Theon had watched from the safety of the Sea Tower, and sometimes he still saw the torches in his dreams, and heard the dull thunder of the collapse.    

Unreliable narrator Theon Greyjoy.

Thoros of Myr and Jorah Mormont were the first men through the breach during the siege at Pyke.

+.+

But Greyjoys were not murdered in Pyke except once in a great while by their brothers, and his brothers were both dead.

Bad news bucko, your father’s brothers are very much alive.

And daddy’s coming home!

The last was made of rope and wood, and the wet salt wind made it sway underfoot like a living thing. Theon's heart was in his mouth by the time he was halfway across. A long way below, the waves threw up tall plumes of spray as they crashed against the rock. As a boy, he used to run across this bridge, even in the black of night. Boys believe nothing can hurt them, his doubt whispered. Grown men know better.

Oop. 🤭

+.+

"I forget nothing." Ned Stark had killed neither of his brothers, in truth. Rodrik had been slain by Lord Jason Mallister at Seagard, Maron crushed in the collapse of the old south tower . . . but Stark would have done for them just as quick had the tide of battle chanced to sweep them together.

This is funny, because a page ago you didn’t seem to care about that.

"When my brother stormed Seagard," Theon said. Lord Jason had slain Rodrik Greyjoy under the walls of the castle, and thrown the ironmen back into the bay. "If your father supposes I bear him some enmity for that, it's only because he never knew Rodrik."    

He’s reaching! He’s digging deep!

+.+

"It is my plan, not Robb's," Theon said proudly. Mine, as the victory will be mine, and in time the crown. "I will lead the attack myself, if it please you. As my reward I would ask that you grant me Casterly Rock for my own seat, once we have taken it from the Lannisters." With the Rock, he could hold Lannisport and the golden lands of the west. It would mean wealth and power such as House Greyjoy had never known.    

Lol, he’s so stupid and pitiful, I don’t even enjoy making fun of him.

(I will though, don’t worry!)

+.+

Lord Balon laughed. "Well, at the least you are no craven. No more than I'm a fool. Do you think I gather my ships to watch them rock at anchor? I mean to carve out a kingdom with fire and sword . . . but not from the west, and not at the bidding of King Robb the Boy. Casterly Rock is too strong, and Lord Tywin too cunning by half. Aye, we might take Lannisport, but we should never keep it. No. I hunger for a different plum . . . not so juicy sweet, to be sure, yet it hangs there ripe and undefended."

Where? Theon might have asked, but by then he knew.          

Final thoughts:

Many thanks to the author for spoiling me with Stannis and Theon back-to-back. Why stop there, how about Tyrion next?

-> return to menu <-

[pillage-and-lute]

An Ever Fixed Mark (Part 9)

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, (here) Part 10,

Read it on Ao3 HERE, 

WARNING: Character injury as a major plot point. Lots of mentions of blood.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Roach’s hooves hit the dirt like hammers, scooping up great clods of earth with each beat. Her gait barely registered to Geralt as blood welled up underneath his hand. There was so much, too much. His lap was soaked, it ran over the saddle and down his trousers, staining his boots and roach’s sides. It mixed with the dust on the sides of the road to form horrible rust-colored clots barely visible in the dark.

And Jaskier.

Jaskier was dying, his face white, his eyes rolled back, almost closed. Geralt pressed his hand tighter to the wound on his husband’s thigh and pressed Jaskier to his chest with his other hand. He wasn’t riding with reins, he didn’t need them. Roach sensed his desperation, likely smelling his anguish and fear. He had to trust his horse and Jaskier...Jaskier would have to trust in him. In the distance, the lights of Oxenfurt glittered in the darkness.

------

They had been traveling back to Oxenfurt anyway. The summer was still feverishly hot and travel had been rough. Even with his newfound resolve to do right by his husband, Geralt’s temper had been fraying. He knew he’d been talking less, marinating in the heat and his own sweat. He knew it was annoying Jaskier, who kept trying to make conversation, but Geralt wasn’t well built for heat, and his black armor and clothing cooked him. 

Jaskier had been complaining for days, too. There weren’t many settlements around for him to play in and the fields were too hot, the waterways too muggy, and the forests too oppressive. They slept in the open without a tent to avoid simply cooking in their sleep. 

There had been a moment, though, not so bad as the others. A clearing in a forest, lush, but with plenty of shade, and Jaskier had looked so beautiful. 

Geralt had been remaking some potions, teaching Jaskier the names of some of his less monstrous ingredients, pointing out what was good for salves, what was safe for humans, and so on. 

Jaskier had held up a buttercup, root and all smiling at the little petals. “I knew they were poisonous, of course,” he said, stroking the root with his thumb. “But I never thought they could be useful.”

“Only this,” Geralt said, taking it from him and cutting the roof. “Sagebrush buttercup, the root is still poison, but combined with Moonmoss it’s okay enough for a witcher.”

“Not for humans, though.”

“No, still poison.”

Jaskier had toed off his boots and leaned against Geralt’s shoulder, picking the flower up again, rootless now, and twiddling it in his fingers. “Seems fitting,” he said at last, and put it behind his ear.

Geralt wasn’t great with words and those had been cryptic, but he felt like he was missing something important.

“Hmmm?” he asked. Jaskier was getting really good at understanding him anyway.

“A Jaskier, only okay enough for a witcher,” Jaskier said, smiling a little sadly at Geralt.

There was such an odd tone there, something more there. Like Jaskier truly thought he was only suited to...but down that road madness lay. It also lay in the way sweat made Jaskier’s cheeks shimmer in the dappled sunlight. 

“Why are you Jaskier?” Geralt asked, going back to grinding the roots with the flat of his blade. It could have been phrased better, but Jaskier understood.

“It seems a little silly now, but when I was about ten or so I was rather melodramatic,” Jaskier said, ducking his head. 

“Hmm,” Geralt said. 

“I felt...so alone. There was just no one who seemed like me. Father thought music and poetry and anything except hunting, fistfights, money and war were silly. I annoy people,” he tilted his head back onto Geralt’s shoulder. “I annoyed you at first. Still do sometimes. --It’s okay,” he said, cutting off Geralt before he could hum his dissent. “I seemed to be a burden and a pain to everyone, something fleeting in their lives. I felt like a buttercup, fine to see in passing on the side of a road, but bad in a pasture, poisonous to eat, of no use to anyone and likely to get crushed by a boot.”

“The boot in question being your father?” Geralt said, setting aside his crushed roots and beginning to shred the Moonmoss, horrible, slimy pale stuff, between his fingers.

Jaskier knocked their heads together gently. “Congratulations, Geralt. You navigated an extended metaphor. Anyway, it was a little melodramatic, but so am I, so it stuck, at least in my mind.”

“I think it’s better than Julian,” Geralt said, scooping his moss and root mixture into the boiling pot.

“Me too,” Jaskier said, quietly.

Around them, a light summer rain had started, sprinkles and mist, mostly, but in the deep shade it was almost chilly, even to Geralt. Jaskier picked up his lute and played a pleasant tune for a while, fingers light on the strings. Geralt let his concoction bubble before pouring it into one of his Brimstone Glass vials. He examined the way the light hit the bottle, making slightly more of a show of it so that Jaskier might notice.

Dinner was cold rations, a hot meal being too hot, even in this pleasant respite. They’d picked up dark rye bread in the last town and were eating it with a paste of late-season wild garlic. Jaskier began eating but he shivered and said “Geralt, could you be my hero and pass me the doublet.”

Geralt pretended his whole body didn’t tingle whenever Jaskier called him a hero. He didn’t need to ask which doublet. Jaskier had plenty, but the doublet, that was the basilisk leather. Geralt held it out and took Jaskier’s bread as he slid the doublet on. Passing the bread back to Jaskier when both sleeves were fully on his arms. 

The rain picked up, still pleasant compared to the heat, but Jaskier and Geralt stood, Jaskier holding his bread in his mouth, and packed up those parts of their camp that would suffer from the rain.

“Do you see--” Jaskier asked, just as Geralt handed him his lute oil.

“Is the--” Geralt said, interupted by Jaskier handing him the hoof knife he’d been searching for.

“Do you think--” Jaskier began.

“The horses will be fine, should we--”

“Yeah, keep the tent packed away, the bedrolls--”

“Will be fine if we lay them on grass instead of mud,” Geralt finished. Then he realized how close he was standing to Jaskier.

“Jaskier,” he said, reaching out for the raindrop quivering on his husbands cheek. “I--”

Jaskier fell to the ground with a cry.

There was a crossbow bolt in his leg and already blood was wetting the forest floor. 

The bandits were dead in seconds. They’d likely only seen a well-dressed noble, all alone. They’d never expected something like Geralt. 

Anger and panic and dreadful fear all fought for dominance as Geralt dispatched the luckless thugs. The fear was icy cold in his veins. Whatever evil, dark coldness had first driven humans to create fire filled his blood. 

There was fire as well. Fury and anguish rose in him like great tides of flame. It was like the Trials all over again, he was being burned from the inside out, being remade until something new lived in him.

He stepped over bodies without a second glance, boots leaving bloody prints on the ground, soon to be washed away.

Jaskier was curled by Roach, hands clutching at the wound in his thigh and surrounded by scarlet. 

Geralt left Thunderbolt, Jaskier’s horse, tied in the clearing, Roach never needed tethering and sprang to his command. In his arms, Jaskier bled. They were so close to Oxenfurt.

They had to make it.

------

That had been then. Now, the lights of the city blazed in Geralt’s sight and he cursed himself and everything else. 

Jaskier was cold in his arms.

Before he had twitched or grunted, sometimes, horribly, he’d cried out at being jostled. He was still now, and too cold. His human heart was beating slowly, slower now than Geralt’s. But he had to live. He just had to. Jaskier had to live because...

Because Geralt loved him. Wholeheartedly and without reservation Geralt loved Jaskier, was so in love with him that it had clouded his judgement.

He’d been about to say as much, about to tell Jaskier the truth, when his husband had been struck down.

Geralt loathed Destiny, but he knew too much to deny her existence. This had been a judgement.

Geralt knew what life he led, he knew his Path, had known that humans couldn’t walk it. And he’d brought Jaskier anyway. This was punishment for falling in love and not leaving Jaskier safely in Oxenfurt like he’d planned from the start. 

The basilisk doublet flapped around Jaskier like a shroud. Had Geralt really thought it was enough? A single, simple doublet? Had he intended to fight cold and hunger and sickness with the swords he strapped to his back? Had he planned on fighting Destiny herself to keep Jaskier safe?

If Geralt could have struck Destiny down he would have.

The doublet hadn’t even kept Jaskier safe from the crossbow bolt. It was still embedded in his thigh, a terrible reminded as Geralt staunched the bloodflow. It hadn’t been enough. Geralt might as well have killed Jaskier himself. 

Jaskier’s father would certainly say that he had. Witchers would be hunted. There’d be a war and people would die all because Geralt had fallen in love. He’d been selfish and kept Jaskier at his side, luxuriating in praise and a pair of beautiful eyes. Dreaming that he could have love instead of leaving Jaskier in Oxenfurt where he was safe.

Geralt was taking Jaskier to Oxenfurt now, he only hoped his husband would still be alive when they got there.

Roach’s hooves rang on cobblestone as the first vestiges of the city flew past. Geralt flew into the city, louder than a rumor and faster than a plague. His eyes sought the telltale signs of magic, glowing gold and fighting to see in the darkness and the rain.

His love was going to die. He was so still against Geralt’s chest he was never still. 

Geralt prayed. He hadn’t prayed since the Trials. Even then, that hadn’t really been a prayer, that had just been a scared little boy screaming for somebody, anybody, to make it stop. 

Geralt prayed to every god he could think of. He wracked his brains as Roach ran through the city, trying to remember who was the god of poetry. Jaskier had been magic, a poet who could talk to the dead, such a person couldn’t just die this way. Geralt made an appeal to Justice, who he didn’t believe in.

Jaskier is good. He begged. He deserves to live. 

Take me instead.

Geralt’s eyes, moving in a far different plane than his mind, saw what he’d been looking for. 

Smoke. There. Green smoke, nearly invisible against the darkness and the rain. It curled up from the chimney of a building, poorly built and leaning out into the street but Geralt knew there was magic inside. 

He jumped from Roach, not taking the time to slow her down. His boots skidded on the cobblestones but he ran to the door, shifting Jaskier to one arm and knocking to wake the gods.

“Healer!” he screamed. “We need a healer!” His hand slammed the rusted knocker down like thunder.

“Please!” he was crying without tears, his voice taking a desperate and thin edge. “Please, we need a healer!”

The door was swung open without ceremony and Geralt barged inside. There was a workbench with scrolls across it but Geralt swept them off, laying Jaskier onto the wood like an offering at an altar.

The mage, placed a delicate hand on his chest and pushed him back.

He followed, feeling numb. The addrenaline was fighting his system, the fear of the ride stopped dead because there was nothing more he could do. 

That was the worst part. There was nothing more he could do. Geralt sank against the wall in the corner of the room, his heart racing and his mind achingly blank.

Some small part of him realized that Jaskier’s feet were bare. He’d left his boots back at camp. 

The mage was flowing magic over Jaskier in waves. It gathered in a purple mist over his wound, mixing unpleasantly with the blood.

“Pick up those scrolls,” snapped the mage, who didn’t look at him.

Geralt did, his body moving without input from his battered soul. His fingers smoothed yellowed parchment and curled it back up into neat tubes. 

“He’ll need paying for,” said the mage, hands poised over Jaskier as her magic slithered.

“Name your price.”

“I don’t want coin.”

Geralt gritted his teeth, watching the magic pull the bolt from Jaskier’s thigh. “Name. Your. Price.”

“What if I ask for your name as payment?” the mage said, not looking at him.

“I’ll give it to you.”

“And if I ask for your life?”

“You can have it.”

She hummed. Geralt knew it was a habit of his own but it set his teeth on edge.

“What if I ask for that?” she said.

She was pointing to Jaskier’s mother’s ring, the opal glittering on his finger.

“It’s not mine to barter, but for his life, I’m sure he’d understand,” Geralt said. 

“Luckily for you I’m not interested in trinkets.”

“What do you ask?” Geralt said, fed up with the games. Whatever perfume the mage was wearing was making his head spin too, it was nice, fruity and clean, but too heady for his heightened senses. 

“I want a baby,” the mage said, levelling stunning purple eyes on him.

Geralt’s mind reeled. “I can’t give you one.”

The mage sighed. “I know,” she growled, yanking her magic as it swirled. She snatched up a jar of something dreadful and began to smear it.

“Even if I promise you my first born,” Geralt said. “It’ll never happen.”

“I know that, witcher.” She spat it like a curse, but Geralt got the feeling that her issue was not with his profession. 

“Witchers come by children by the law of surprise,” he said, watching the salve sizzle on Jaskier’s skin and wincing.

“I want my own.”

Geralt scoffed, eyes fixed on Jaskier’s leg as it started to ooze.

The mage whirled to face him, her hand coming up and slapping him before even his witcher reflexes could stop it. 

“Go,” the mage snapped, eyes flashing. “I don’t want your derision.”

“But Jaskier--”

“Won’t be helped by you,” the mage snarled. “Go do something useful and come back when you’re ready to pay up.”

“With a baby?”

“I’ll think on payment,” she said, magic turning Geralt’s feet for him. “Leave.” 

The door slammed behind him. 

Geralt stood on the cobblestones, water soaking through his boots, meeting Roach’s gentle gaze. He stroked her muzzle, feeling the velvet against his palm. 

Jaskier’s feet were still bare, he thought. Mind too tired and broken to even bother with baby-wanting mages. Jaskier’s boots were at camp. 

Geralt rode there and back, before dawn. He’d been able to pack everything up and find stables and lodgings without ever actually thinking of anything except Jaskier.

Jaskier’s cold, bare feet. Jaskier’s closed eyes. Jaskier’s blood all over their campsite and Geralts clothes. Jaskier’s lute, tucked away safely in it’s case an unfamiliar weight on Geralt’s shoulder. 

Jaskier’s eyes as Geralt had almost said I love you.

That thought, as Geralt stood outside the mage’s door again, still bloody and clutching Jaskier’s boots in one hand, finally broke through the haze.

Geral was in love with Jaskier. 

The mage had asked for his life, his name, and he’d agreed without even having to think. 

Geralt didn’t just love that Jaskier was beautiful, or that he adored Geralt. Geralt loved Jaskier, whole and simple. He loved that he slept like an octopus, he loved that he hated mint. He loved that Jaskier loved poetry. He loved him.

It seemed to be carrying over into everything else, and had been for some time without Geralt even realizing it. Geralt loved music now. He loved poetry. He loved sleeping curled besided someone else. He loved buttercups. 

His buttercup was lying somewhere inside the mage’s house, maybe dying. Maybe dead. Because of Geralt. It was Geralt’s fault.

He knocked on the door. 

It opened at the first tap. 

The mage was there, but Jaskier was nowhere to be found. Geralt’s head whipped around, panic rising in his throat.

“Stop,” the mage said calmly. “He’s in bed upstairs.”

“Is he--”

“He may live. He may not. Anything now is up to him.”

“I want to see him.”

“I want payment.”

Geralt growled. “I didn’t bring a baby with me.”

The mage pouted at him infuriatingly, violet eyes laughing. “Obviously not. I considered what you said.”

“What?”

“About the Law of Surprise.”

“You said you wanted a baby of your own.”

The mage sighed. “I want the choice.”

“You don’t get that choice.”

Her gaze narrowed dangerously. “Do you think I don’t know that? I want to be whole.”

“A womb won’t make you whole. It doesn’t make someone a mother either.”

The mage’s eyes flashed and she stepped forward dangerously but Geralt was simply out of emotion.

“My mother gave me up to be made a mutant. She had a womb but what kind of mother does that. His father,” Geralt gestured upstairs to where he assumed Jaskier was. “Gave him up in the hopes he’d be slaughtered. He may be the reason Jaskier was born, but he’s not a father.”

“I want the choice,” the mage said stubbornly.

“You still have the choice to be a mother,” Geralt said. “Some mothers end up with children and don’t get a say in that so go...adopt some kid.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

Geralt scrubbed his hand over his, frankly, filthy face. “I don’t have the energy for that. Look...what’s your name?”

“Yennefer.”

“Yennefer, decide on payment - not a baby- so I can give it to you and see my, my bard.”

“I’m claiming the law of surprise.”

Geralt blinked at her blearily. She was exceptionally beautiful, but she was also in the way of seeing Jaskier. “That’s only if you save my life.”

“Then I’m claiming it from him.” 

Geralt didn’t have it in him to argue. Destiny had heard the claim. Whatever good luck Jaskier saw next was hers. 

Geralt walked slowly up the rickety stairs, heart sitting low and heavy in his stomach. He paused at a door, hearing a heartbeat beyond. It was Jaskiers. It came as a surprise to Geralt that he could recognize it so readily, but he knew it as well as his own.

It was thready and thin right now, though, and Geralt hesitated. Moments of their time flashed before his eyes, meeting Jaskier, how beautiful he’d looked in his wedding attire, him threatening thugs with a fish knife, him talking to the dead. And he lay on the brink of death in the next room. Could Geralt actually bear to see him like that?

Geralt would probably never forgive himself for a lot of things, including bringing Jaskier with him in the first place, but if he left him now...no.

Geralt walked into the room and knelt beside the bed. Watery dawn light filtered through the window, across Jaskier’s pale face. It was much too pale. The past weeks of sunlight and freckles seemed to have been erased from him, making him much more the man Geralt had met at Chateau Lettenhove, and less the man he’d come to love. 

Geralt washed his hands and face in the washbasin in the room. He still felt grimy, even with his hands scrubed raw, but he knelt at the side of the bed and took one lute-calloused hand in both of his. 

Whatever happened next, whichever way Jaskier was tipped on the scales of life and death, Geralt would be with Jaskier when it happened. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tag List! Some of these don’t work well, let me know!

@llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @aziz-the-fangirl @mordoriscalling @bastardofmothman @negativenuggetz @morte-mistrata @ailorian @hayleynzlive @filledepluie @bygodstillam @sociowithatardisachevyandawand@faery-god @honeysuckletook @theflurtifly @saibowtie @werevampiwolf @frywen-babbles @the-kewlest @innocentbi-stander @1stbonesfan @aqueenrisesintheeast @toothhurtyam @marauders-fan-account @ineffable-lasagna @limevodka @rocknrollphanda @seralyra @permanently-exhausted-witcher  @aj-itated @watchthewolvesfall @00qtea @the-blondey @birds-of-forgiveness @westmoor  @abstractartwithoutpaint @darkonesdagger7437 @onwardsandfourwords @underwaterattribute @whenrainbowsend @goldbvtton @little-piece-of-tamlin @in-love-with-writing002 @flustratedcas @fontegagrilledcheese @so--many-fandoms @kirk-spock-in-the-impala @oniongrass @flowercrown-bard @maya-the-yellow-bee @comfyswitcherblanketfort @wellthisstinks @thenameislion-dandelion @flowercrown-bard @obsessedchildsworld @debellatis @zotinha456 @tumbleweedtech @goblin-loves-shiny-things @birdsflyhome @holymotherwolf @the-shenny-of-azkaban @darkangel91939 @enkelikauneus @saphiramalbec @silvermirror1997 @just-a-himbo-and-his-feral-bard @iamaqt314 @itsthelittlethingsnlife @oneshots-galore @inikokoru @gryffinqueen  @anythinggoesfandoms @artemisthehuntress @pomegranatebitch @nuitarius @ub-sessed @tookarma @spearmint-honk @nicelytousled @wingirl2015 @live-long-and-trek-on @kingcitywitch @flowrhippieprincess @oneshots-galore @laughingatlivedragons @letmereadplease  @annafortoday @dapperanachronism @jaybeefoxy @gods-no-longer-tread-here @flustratedcas @nbspaceboy  @comorbid-corvid @ellwren @red-wasabi89 @ouradarablelove @chanonce

[isabilightwood]

The Problem with Authority - Chapter 1

CQL!Verse, Wangxian and Yanqing, canon divergence with Qin Su sacrifice summoning JYL after Jin Rusong’s death. JYL teams up with NHS to fix things, starting with bringing back WWX. Wen Qing is alive because I said so, and LWJ gets in the way of plotting because he’s a romantic.

See my self reblog for the AO3 link/additional tags and warnings

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The problem with authority is that if you leave it lying around, others will take it. — Yoon Ha Lee, Ninefox Gambit

Qin Su was tired of the constant hovering.

Every time she set foot outside her own rooms, she was beset by disciples and the wives of subordinates, telling her over and over how very sorry they were.

It was all bullshit.

Fake, social climbing schemers, who were more concerned with the fact that Jin Guangshan’s legitimate grandson was once again the sect heir, than sorry for the death of her son. Her A-Song.

They expected her to sob constantly, to wail and tear her hair from her scalp. That they could comfort Qin Su by repeating the same trite, cloying words day-by-day. Earn a little status out of tragedy. If Qin Su had to listen to one more apology, she was going to be sick all other the offending madam’s embroidery hoop.

It was true that she still couldn’t go a day without crumbling into tears. But mostly, she was numb. Exhausted, in more ways than one. She wanted to go to sleep, and wake with her son tucked safely into bed, or not wake up at all.

The private treasury was the only place where she could be certain she would not be disturbed. Even in her own bedroom, it would only be so long before a maid was sent to find her. Only she and her husband could open the hidden entrance to the vault. Only in the treasury, could she be alone, to find something to distract herself, however briefly, from the avalanche of her grief.

There were still many items that had been claimed by her deceased father-in-law after the war that had not been cataloged. Priceless relics and weapons and irreplaceable texts alike sat neglected in trunks. Jin Guangshan had cared only for possession, occasionally touting one item or another out to show off. Ten months after A-Yao’s succession, shelves continued to sit empty. Neither she nor A-Yao had found the time, busy keeping everything running smoothly, as he made bids for projects he called progress with the gleam in his eyes that had first made her chase after him. Back when he seemed flattered by her attention, interested in her as more than a friend or colleague.

Qin Su herself managed the internal minutiae of the Sect and oversaw disciple training. The latter would traditionally fall to the Head Disciple, but they had lost one after another. The woman who had been intended to aid Jin Zixuan had resigned over some disagreement before his death. Her replacement, a second or third cousin to the main Jin Clan, married out to the leader of the Fengyang Hua Sect, a growing sect that bordered Gusu and Lanling. Their replacement died at Nightless City, along with the next dozen or so disciples in line. And so Qin Su was free to manage the training as she wished.

Or had been, until she was asked to take a step back from training, for fear her grief would destabilize her qi. It was true that she had been unable to focus. However, stewing in the unending reminders that she would never hold A-Song in her arms again was no help. Attending to her duties as a hostess only made it worse.

Sorting the looted relics was mindless work, that required none of the focus she had lacked for the forty-one days since A-Song’s death. But it was something to occupy her hands, and some small part of her thoughts.

She began with the books that day, sorting into titles that were common and could be sold, those that needed to be repaired, and those to dangerous to be held anywhere but the treasury. Qin Su moved to start a new pile, for useful, rare texts that should be copied, on a table, and a disorganized pile of notes and notebooks caught her eye.

It was the disorganization that stood out. A-Yao never left anything out like that. He must have been called away, but if he returned and saw it, that would trigger his own flood of tears.  Qin Su had heard him sobbing, late into the night, from the next room over. But each morning, he greeted his work with his habitual dedication, no matter how puffy his eyes, or how little he’d slept. A-Yao would never forgive himself if his work was delayed by his composure crumbling over a small thing out of place.

She picked up the papers, intending only to organize them into an even stack, and place them evenly between the notebooks. But their subject caught her attention.

A circular array was drawn on each paper. Identical, to her unpracticed eyes, with varied notes printed in precise calligraphy in different locations on each page.

Qin Su had always focused on the sword, leaving talismans to those with innovative minds yet weaker cores, like her husband. Yet this array made her look twice.

Sacrifice Summon was written at the top of the first page, the one with the least writing. The soul of the caster is permanently exchanged for that of a chosen spirit or ghost, fully resurrecting the deceased. It was a complex design, meant to drawn in the blood of the caster.

Voices, from the other side of the portal. A-Yao must have wanted to show an item from the vault to a guest. Her heartbeat sped up, her hands shaking as she dropped the papers back onto the table.

The last thing Qin Su wanted was to have to greet her husband’s guests, while he smiled his disappointment in her for shirking her duties.

She raised the tablecloth and ducked beneath, knocking one of the papers off the table as she did so. Catching it, she pulled it to her chest, dropping the cloth back into place just in time. It was dark in the small space, and stuffy. Her heart hammered hard enough Qin Su felt certain it must be audible throughout the room. But her presence was not discovered, and so Qin Su did not have to answer as to why Jin-furen was hiding from her own husband.

“The remainder of the He Clan has been dealt with.” Su Minshan reported. His voice was easily identifiable from the obsequiousness with which he always treated her husband. She’d asked A-Yao what he saw in him once, and he’d flashed his dimples at her and said, unfaltering loyalty is a trait I cannot afford to lose. So Qin Su tolerated Su Minshan, though he made her skin crawl. And made certain never to be caught alone with him. “Xue Yang tracked them down to the last man.”

Why he kept Xue Yang around, on the other hand, was a mystery.

“Good, that’s good,” A-Yao said. Never shy of heaping praise on his subordinates, he would be smiling up at the other man. “Tell me, what did Xue Yang bring back with him?”

“A few urchins, from town. He said they were his payment for leaving the bodies alone.” Su Minshan scoffed, disgusted.

It didn’t sound like Xue Yang had brought the children to become disciples.

There was the slap of a forehead hitting a palm. A-Yao’s voice was slightly muffled as he gave an exasperated sigh. “I told him he could experiment with animals or dead bodies or not at all. Especially not children.” There was the slightest break in his voice at the word children. “Xue Yang has outlived his usefulness. Have him disposed of and left somewhere remote.”

The command was delivered coldly, casually. He sounded nothing like the warm, if more distant than Qin Su had initially expected, husband she knew.

“Yes, Zongzhu.” A pair of disciples said, their footsteps receding as they took their leave.

“Your research is not completed, is it?” Su Minshan asked, once they were gone.

“I have better means now. My dear younger brother is eager to please, and will not dismember the test animals for kicks and giggles.” A-Yao spoke as though this was an ongoing discussion, yet Qin Su, his wife, had never heard a whisper of research on animals before that day. Only of field testing of the Yiling Patriarch’s inventions. “Or decide to run tests on townspeople and dismember them, too.”

Just what had her husband been allowing Xue Yang to do? It seemed impossible that flighty little Mo Xuanyu could achieve it, whatever it was.

“Another headache eliminated, then.” Su Minshan said. “That’s nearly all the most dangerous ones out of the way.”

There was a weighted pause before A-Yao replied, incongruously. “I did love my son, you know.”

“I did not mean to imply otherwise.” Su Minshan rushed to assure him. “I am deeply sorry this step was necessary.”

Step? What was he implying about A-Song?

“If only that woman had told you the truth earlier.” Su Minshan snarled. “Keeping it a secret while her daughter courted her own half-brother? What a selfish bitch.”

What? Qin Su clapped her hands over her mouth, stifling a choked gasp.

“Now, Minshan, please. You remember what my father was like. We were all of us his victims. A-Su, me, and both of our mothers.” For the first time, Qin Su understood what Lianfang-zun’s detractors meant when they said he dripped insincerity. “Ultimately, A-Song’s death can be placed at his feet.”

But A-Song was murdered after Jin Guangshan died, she thought stupidly. Utterly frozen in place, the short, harsh pants of her breath the only sign she had not just been dropped into hell. The two men spoke for a few more minutes, but Qin Su didn’t hear a word.

It was some time after they left that Qin Su moved, her stiff joints causing her to fall onto her side on the edge of the tablecloth.

How was she ever supposed to face the court, knowing what she did now? Look her half-brother in the face without screaming?

The honorable thing would be to expose him, and to then take her own life to restore her own honor.

She couldn’t. She couldn’t do that to her father, to her older siblings. Half-siblings, now, she supposed, with a crazed giggle. The only real siblings, the only real father Qin Su would ever have. It would be better if they never knew what had happened to their mother. To her.

But she couldn’t carry on as she had, either.

The forgotten paper crinkled in her hands. The Sacrifice Summon. Exchanging her life for another’s.

Was that the solution she was searching for? Could she?

Qin Su remembered her husband’s - her brother’s voice saying especially not children. Only breaths before declaring his own son’s death necessary.

Her A-Song was lost forever.

There was, however, another child under Lianfang-zun’s care. Another mother whose son was not lost, but who had nevertheless lost the chance to see him grow. If Qin Su exchanged her life for that woman’s, perhaps her soul would pass on quickly enough to find A-Song in another life.

Jiang Yanli would see Jin Ling grow up safely, ensure Lianfang-zun did not keep the power he had married his own sister and murdered his own son to secure.

That would be best for everyone.

Qin Su shakily extracted herself from beneath the table, returning to the one room she could be certain Lianfang-zun would never enter.

Now she knew why.

Locking the door to her room, Qin Su emptied what little was in her stomach into the chamber pot. When she was through, she began to draw the array.

 The first thing Jiang Yanli noticed was the silence. She had been on the battlefield at Nightless City, pushed A-Xian aside, and a sword went through her heart —

She had been dead. She was certain.

Oh, A-Xian. What did you do?

Slowly, Jiang Yanli sat up. She was sprawled on the floor of a well-appointed lady’s bedroom. In Koi Tower, by the color scheme, but its occupant had uncommon taste. Rather than gilded everything, there were accents of gold on the drapery and to emphasize ink paintings of the ocean and a palace she did not recognize.

There was also the matter of the array of blood that surrounded her. Demonic cultivation, which only supported her certainty that A-Xian was involved. But where was he? And if she was in Koi Tower, where was her son?

Yunmeng, something inside her whispered. Though she could not explain why, she knew it was true.

Checking herself for cuts, she found a gash across the palm of her hand. But it was already sealing, far faster than Jiang Yanli had healed from so much as a paper cut before her death.

She wasn’t an expert in raising the dead like her brother, but Jiang Yanli was fairly certain fierce corpses did not work that way. At the very least, she should have been bleeding black. Yet her blood was as red as ever.

Getting to her feet, she started to inspect the room for clues. On the way to the desk, she passed a mirror. Her gaze skipped past a mirror. And snapped back.

It was not Jiang Yanli’s face that looked back.

This woman’s face was rounder and softer than her own. Pretty, with a natural pink in her cheeks where Jiang Yanli’s had always had to be painted on, due to the frequency with which she lost her breath and grew dizzy. There, too, was a hint of the agelessness that came with a fully developed golden core. With a feeling of foreboding, Jiang Yanli felt along her meridians until she reached her core. No longer a weak, underdeveloped thing due to her inability to practice the heavily physical Jiang techniques, it shone bright and strong.

That was a point against this being A-Xian’s doing. He wouldn’t have stolen her a body, when he could simply bring back her own.

Why am I alive? Asked a voice in her head.

That would have been a reasonable question. Only it wasn’t Jiang Yanli thinking it.

Maybe resurrection came with the ability to understand spirits. The results were entirely untested, so it was possible. Yet the voice seemed certain it was alive. If her current state was due to demonic cultivation, she might as well do what A-Xian would: experiment.

“I could ask you the same question.” Jiang Yanli told the voice.

Jiang Yanli? It worked! But why am I in your head?

“Are you the one who brought me back?”  She tilted her head back, trying to place the way the voice made her head feel. Almost like the moment at the start of meditation when she began to forget her body to focus on her spirit, but with a disconnect keeping her grounded.

Yes. And then, I can hear your thoughts, the voice said, you don’t need to speak out loud.

That was disconcerting. Is this your body? She thought at the voice.

Yes. The voice said. Stop calling me that. I’m Qin Su.

Strangely, it was a relief to have a name. It made Qin Su feel more real than anything else in this surreal afterlife. So it would be more accurate to say I’m in your head. Am I possessing you?

It was supposed to be an exchange. My soul for yours.

Well clearly, it hadn’t worked that way.

Responding to her unformed question, the woman continued. The array is on the desk.

This… It was obviously A-Xian’s work, copied out by a more careful hand. But it looked incomplete, a half-developed first draft or his scattered notes on an older text that he could always piece back together perfectly, but left out crucial details for anyone else. Utterly unlike the labeled, if nearly illegible, minutiae on his complete work. Jiang Yanli would never have cast an array with so little information. Especially not one of A-Xian’s.

I didn’t know the Yiling Patriarch. And I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.

No, she supposed not. Anyone casting this array would have to be desperate.

Everything fell apart and I just… used what I had on hand. There was the impression of a shrug, like her mind contorting itself into a new shape. My impulse decisions always have terrible consequences. That’s how I ended up pregnant and marrying the last person in the world I should have. Qin Su gave a short, harsh burst of hysterical laughter, startling Jiang Yanli into making the same noise aloud.

Telling whoever this abusive asshole was that her husband had died only a week ago, and she was certainly not performing any marital duties could wait until she figured out what Qin Su had done.

There are other pages with more notes in the treasury.

Jiang Yanli sprang to her feet. I’ll need to see them immediately.

She slid open the doors, and came face to face with a maid carrying cleaning supplies. Jiang Yanli quickly shut the doors behind her, so the maid could not catch a glimpse of the blood still staining the floor.

“Oh! Jin-furen.” The maid bowed deeply. “This one apologizes for assuming you would be out.”

It was something of a shock to be addressed by a title that had, from her perspective, belonged to her mother-in-law only yesterday. Jin-furen?

Ah, yes. I’ve been Jin-furen since Jin Guangshan… passed… ten months ago. The word “passed” came with a flash of embarrassment, telling Jiang Yanli enough for her to extrapolate the cause of death.

Jin Guangyao must be Jin-zongzhu then. Strange, he hadn’t seemed the abusive type.

Not abuse. Worse. Qin Su gagged in her mind, making Jiang Yanli do the same.

“Are you all right, Jin-furen?” The maid asked, hovering closer.

At least the gagging gave her an excuse not to allow anyone inside. “I’ll be fine. But please wait to clean until tomorrow. I’m afraid I’m not feeling well. Would you have some soup sent on a tray for my dinner?”

“Of course, Jin-furen.” The maid backed away, bowed, and hurried off.

Jiang Yanli turned to inspect the door, placing her hands on her hips. With Qin Su’s Golden Core, she could likely cast a locking spell. If she knew how, that was. She had always relied on A-Xian’s talismans, many of which he developed specifically for her. Unfortunately, she had none on hand.

That’s easy. Qin Su said. Draw the characters for lock, then modify it with…

It took Jiang Yanli a few tries to draw properly on her new core, but she was able to lock the door against casual entry. No cultivator with a sword would be kept out for long, but they would have to be willing to trespass in Jin-furen’s bedchamber.

The thin flush of victory faded the second she stepped through the treasury portal. Suibian lay on a shelf, visible from the door. A-Xian had not carried his sword for a long time. But he would never have handed it over to the Jin Clan, unless it was directly into Jiang Yanli’s arms. Something had gone terribly wrong.

Qin Su. Why is my A-Xian’s sword in the treasury? Jiang Yanli demanded. The answering silence was deafening. “Qin Su! Tell me why!”

He… died. At Nightless City. Not long after you did. Qin Su’s voice was hesitant, as though confused why she cared.

“No!” She let out a choked sob, clasping a hand over her mouth. A-Xian wasn’t — he couldn’t be —

Didn’t he kill you? I was told —

“No! Never!” A-Xian would never have hurt her. I tried to save him.

Silence, for a moment, other than Jiang Yanli’s own ragged breaths. Then, I’m sorry. I’ve learned a lot of things I believed were lies today. Perhaps what they said about him was too.

They were. A-Xian was bright, and good, and cared too much. He had never been what they thought. Jiang Yanli had not needed to ask to know A-Xuan’s death was a horrible mistake, likely the result of stepping in between his cruel, vindictive cousin and her brother at the wrong moment. If he had meant to kill Jin Zixun, A-Xian had had good reason.

I think anyone who had the misfortune of meeting Jin Zixun considered killing him. Qin Su said wryly.

Jiang Yanli had had those thoughts. She gave a watery giggle that was answered in her head. It was sweet of Qin Su to try to comfort her when she could feel that she was still reeling for her own reasons. The least Jiang Yanli could do in return was get her some answers.

On the table.

She found the stack of diagrams easily, along with a tattered notebook that appeared to contain A-Xian’s original work. Jiang Yanli flipped through that, knowing that unless had both gotten a hold of one of the few people that could read his note-taking scrawl — her, Lan Wangji, and perhaps Wen Qing, who had taken their turns as A-Xian’s sounding board in succession — and convinced them to help details would likely have been missed.

You can read that? Qin Su was incredulous.

Years of practice, she replied. Before Lan Wangji, Jiang Yanli had been the only person who took A-Xian’s inventions seriously, the only person willing to sit and listen while he bounced from idea to idea, eventually solving the problem himself.

The average person would not think it necessary to puzzle out the text under a sketch of Lan Wangji holding a child, assuming it was a caption. When it was, in fact, an absolutely crucial detail. A detail that had made A-Xian conclude the Sacrifice Summon Array should never be used.

There were perhaps a dozen variations on the array. Most worked in a similar way to what Qin Su had intended, summoning a spirit to take the caster’s place. The earliest could not target a specific soul, but A-Xian had worked that out. Luckily, Qin Su had used one of those arrays, allowing Jiang Yanli to be summoned, rather than causing the closest vengeful spirits to battle for her body. The very last caused the caster’s body to be torn apart, and replaced with a copy of the spirit’s own.

But every version had two things in common: a call for revenge, and the destruction of the caster’s soul.

In her mind, Qin Su went perfectly still.

Jiang Yanli had a theory as to why Qin Su’s soul had not been consumed by the array. It had started the job, pulling Jiang Yanli in, but Qin Su had not asked for revenge, and so the array spat most of her back out. What the consequences were, for either of their spirits, she could not begin to guess.

There was a distinctive air of panic to Qin Su’s continued silence.

Qin Su, Jiang Yanli prodded, if this had worked the way it’s written, your soul would have been consumed by it. What could have been worth this?

I didn’t know about that. I didn’t want that.

It didn’t happen. You’re still here. She attempted to reassure Qin Su, wishing there was a way to mentally pat someone on the head. That had always helped calm both her brothers.

I’m still here. Whatever the fuck that means. Qin Su giggled nervously. That wasn’t very ladylike.

I think it’s forgivable, under the circumstances. Jiang Yanli raised a sleeve to cover her smile.

You don’t know the half of it. Qin Su sighed. I didn’t think things like this happened, outside of stories.

Jiang Yanli waited for her to go on, gritting her teeth in response to a wave of bitterness.

Only a few hours ago, I found out my so-called husband is my half-brother and he murdered our son. And now here we are.

Oh. Jiang Yanli could not so much as think of a reassuring response. What the fuck is correct.

“A-Su,” Jin Guangyao said from behind her, before Qin Su could say anything more. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

[fillingthescrapbook]

Rewriting The CW's Kung Fu, Part 3: The Mythology

One of the biggest problems I had with the show's mythology was that it didn't seem planned out. Like they were adding bits and pieces to it because they thought it would make the show cooler, or more complex...when it only made things more confusing. So before we map the season, we're taking a little detour to talk about the mythology of Kung Fu since it pretty much informs Nicky Shen's journey throughout the first season.

There's two parts to the mythology we were given: the first one is that Nicky Shen is a descendant of a legendary warrior, Liang Dai-Yu, and the second is that there are eight mystical weapons that can call upon a magical power called "Bian-Ge" when brought back together at the Forge. But how does one really connect with each other? And why were the weapons created in the first place? That's something that was never really touched upon on the show, so let's make up a reason.

We begin with the Huainanzi text on the cosmic creation. With a few tweaks, of course. So we start with primordial chaos--before two spirits brought to life by Qi (or "chi," which is what we call the force of life) establishes Heaven and constructs Earth. These two spirits are the embodiment of yin and yang. One is a being of light that carries darkness in it, and the other is a being of darkness that carries light within.

With the two realms being established, Qi gives more life: to the sky, the lakes, the fire, the thunder, the wind, the water, the mountains, and the ground we walk on. Eight forces that balances harmony.

Something threatens this harmony though. A demon who used to live in the primordial chaos is angry that they hadn't been given a chance to create their own realm. Now they wants to take over Earth. Being a powerful creature, they are able to match the spirit that constructed the Earth realm punch for punch--so the spirit that established the Heavens decided to help out. Together, they sourced a power from Qi that could transform the demon's envy into something else. Something better. They created "Bian-Ge."

This power resided in an obsidian stone that was given a place of honor in the place where the demon changed into a human being--like the ones that populated the Earth realm. And the stone became a sacred and honored place where people would come when they have a problem they feel they could no longer carry on their own, for "Bian-Ge" to transform into something better.

As the years went on, the obsidian stone became the subject of people's greed. Why make a pilgrimage to the stone when you can own it for yourself? So it can always make your life better? And so a few human beings started to plot on how to steal the stone.

During those years, eight families also started to live around the sacred area--not because they wanted to monopolize the power of "Bian-Ge" but to keep it accessible to people. One family became food providers, one family focused on building places for rest, one family built a forge to create tools, and so on. These eight families became known as guardians of the Obsidian. And these eight families were there to protect the stone when the greedy humans started to go after "Bian-Ge" for personal gain.

One night, after ten months of continuous fighting against those who wish to take the stone from its sacred place, the eight families were outmatched by the armed forces of a feudal lord. But when the army tried to take the stone, the Obsidian broke into eight pieces. One of the families, those who trained in metalwork, took the pieces of the Obsidian. They ran. And they hid until the feudal lord lost interest in chasing after "Bian-Ge."

Years passed. The people learned to live without the power of "Bian-Ge." But from time to time, someone would get the idea of searching for the eight pieces of Obsidian that would grant them the power to transform anything they wish. But no one did find them.

The other seven families who guarded the Obsidian had moved on in their lives. They sometimes wondered about the eighth family and their well-being, but for the most part they were just happy that they no longer had to fight people. Until someone from the eighth family sent them all a letter to visit a monastery in Yunnan.

A member of the seven families each sent an envoy. At the monastery, they were received by two brothers who told them that the Obsidian stones are ready for their safekeeping again. To the family that provided food, they gave a short sword; the family that built homes received an axe; the family that guided pilgrims were given twin-hook swords; the family that hunted were given a crossbow; the family that created entertainment were given a meteor hammer; the family that braved the bodies of water to find new land were given a longsword; the family that cared for cattle were given deer-horn knives; and the eighth family--the ones who forged tools--kept the last weapon, a dagger.

The two brothers explained that the eight weapons were created from eight pieces of the Obsidian. That they wish to separate the eight now to make sure it never falls into the wrong hands. And that they forged them into weapons so that the guardians will always have a way to protect their piece of "Bian-Ge."

The envoys all seven families accepted this mission. And they became the guardians of the eight mystical weapons. One of the envoys, from the family that braved bodies of water for exploration, was the great-grandfather of Liang Dai-Yu who was still a young man at this time.

When he grew old, he entrusted the longsword to his youngest son. But when this son grew up and had his own family, and his own grandchildren, he was called into war. He had not been able to entrust the longsword to a new guardian before he died in battle. But at the province where his family lived, where no men remained because of the war efforts, a young woman found the longsword and used it to protect her family and neighbors from opportunistic raiders. She was Liang Dai-Yu.

Seeing how defenseless their community had become when no men were present, Liang Dai-Yu decided to teach those who are willing the martial arts she had learned from her grandfather. Eventually, she grew up and had her own family: one son and one daughter. She bequeathed the longsword to her daughter, telling her to follow in her footsteps. To rise above what is expected of her. And to her son, she gave the scabbard that came with the longsword. Saying that he too has a mission: that for every aggressor there must be someone to keep the peace. The sheath the sword. That some challenges can be won by fighting, but an equal amount will be won by talking things out.

Over the years, brother and sister too had their own families. And their roles in each others' lives evolved into something more. The family of the brother became guardians. Trainers. They made sure that the sisters' descendants are always in fighting form. Meanwhile, the family of the sister became warriors. Fighters. They always stood up for what was right and fought for the defenseless. Even when the longsword's scabbard, where the map back to the Forge was engraved in the decorative jade "window," was stolen, they promised to always remember what their fighting for.

But the passage of time makes people forget where their legacies come from. Eventually, the sister's family line had no more reason to fight so they returned the sword to the brother's family line. But the brother's family line always had one guardian who is tasked to remember. May it be an eldest son, a second daughter, or a secret child. There is always one. Until it was finally entrusted to Zhang Pei-Ling on her mother's deathbed.

And that's the mythology we're going with for this rewritten version of Kung Fu.

Want to know where we began? Check out:

Part 1: The Characters

Part 2: The Pilot

[hamelin-born]

Throw Me To The Wolves Inspired

@secret-engima I blame you for this ficbit/worldbuild lore. I kept wondering about stories, and a comment that I tossed out in a world build about how Galahd’s motto might as well be ‘We Remember’ in this ‘verse and I - I wondered about the stories that are told. 

tagging @sparklecryptid @ertrunkenerwassergeist @starsilvereld @theotherguysride and @charlottedabookworm @aniseandspearmint

Harken and attend, children of Galahd, blood of the Storm. Listen, for I tell you a tale that my parent told me, and their parent told them in turn, all the way back to the beginning of the story. I tell you the tale as it was told to me, and as you will tell it in turn. 

I tell you this tale, for it is true. 

Remember. 

Once, many years ago, after shining Solheim had fallen and before the rise of steel-bright Lucis, there were two brothers. There was an elder, gentle as the dusk, and there was a younger, fierce as the dawn. They were the descendants of a mother who had taken the scattered tribes of a nameless land and the remnants of dwindling Solheim and united them under a single banner, and the mother had named the banner Lucis. Lucis, for light, Lucis, for the rise of a new dawn, and Lucis for her name - which was Lucis Caelum, the House of Heavenly Light, and so had their family been called ever since. 

Yet into this land had come a shadow, and the shadow was the Scourge of the Stars, for none could stand before it. Men, women, the young, the old - all fell before its touch, and deamons sprang from its shadows to search out those who had never felt the touch of the disease. Walls could not keep it out, nor could swords defeat it, and the people suffered and wept and died. 

And called to the gods to save them. 

The people called upon the Infernian, lost Ifrit, who had been patron of hearth and home. They cried for the Archaean, steadfast Titan. They begged a boon of the Hydrean, fierce Leviathan. They sang to the Fulgarian, swift Ramuh.  They wept for the Glacian, cold Shiva. 

And the people were desperate, and in their desperation, and they called upon the patron of the House of Heavenly Light. They called to the War-God, the Draconian, whose name I will not utter here. And the Lord of War, the Three-Sided Blade, heard them. 

Children, it is a terrible, terrible thing for the gods to turn their eyes upon you. But the people were desperate. 

And the gods, led by He Whose Name Is Unspoken, came to a woman. Came to a mortal, whose family were drawn from the Land of the Shadows, balanced between the light and dark. And the gods made of this woman their messenger, who would carry their words to the ends of Eos - and this woman was the first Oracle. 

Her name was Aera. Remember. 

Now. Of the two brothers of the House of Heavenly Light, the eldest’s name was Ardyn, and the younger was Somnus. The eldest, as I have said, was gentle as the dusk, which wipes mortal cares away and brings with it the promise of rest. The youngest, as I have also said, was fierce as the dawn, which strikes away the night and forces the eye to attend. 

And to these brothers Aera-the-Oracle brought the words of the gods. 

And the gods had decreed this: that of these two brothers one would be known as the King of Light, and the ending of the Scourge would come from their house. 

Ardyn heard the words of the gods and was glad, for he loved his people as the shadows love the sun, and his heart was heavy for their suffering. And in his blood flowed the magic of the Crystal Kings, the magic that was a gift in the long-since-lost from the War God himself, and from lost Solheim. And Ardyn was a healer, and he took a healer’s staff in hand and donned the white robes of a physical to scour the land and draw forth the Scourge from each and every victim. And with him walked Aera-the-Oracle, who guided his hands and spoke to him of secret confidences which are not for us to know, but are of the tender secrets that pass between lovers. 

Somnus heard the words of the gods and was glad, for he loved his land as the sword loves the light of the sun at noon, as the hammer loves the nail. And in his blood flowed the magic of the Crystal Kings, the magic that was a gift in the long-since-lost from the War God himself, and from lost Solheim. And Somnus was a warrior, and took a sunbright sword in hand and donned the armor of battle to scour the land and them clean of the Scourge. And his hands were guided by the draconian, and by the voices of those who did not rise in dissent as he quarantined the infected and put them to the torch. 

And the two brothers were as the moon in its pattern of light and shadow. For Ardyn waned as his task continued with every strand of Scourge he drew from another’s flesh, caging the disease in a prison of his own skin and bone. And he waned, waned as the sickness of a hundred, of a thousand, of ten thousand sank into him, until the sun hurt his eyes and his blood ran black - but he bore it cheerfully, smiling through the pain, for he loved his people and he loved his gods. And Somnus waxed, waxed as he put men to the torch and led the bright armies of the land of Lucis into battle against the sickness that had threatened to devour him, and he smiled as the infected screamed for mercy and his men cheered his ruthlessness. 

And ten years after the gods had set before them this task, Somnus came to Aera-the-Oracle, and asked of her: Whom shall the gods choose, to be King of Light? And Aera-the-Oracle answered him, that it should be Ardyn the Healer, whom the people loved. 

And Somnus Lucis Caelum was wroth, and in his heart dwelled thoughts of deep, deep shadow. 

And a certain day came, when the brothers were to be presented before the Crystal that was the Heirloom of their House. And on that day, the King of Light was to be announced, and Lucis would bow before him and rejoice in the choice of the Gods. 

And on that day, fierce Somnus cried out to one and all that he was the King of Light, beloved of the Gods, the chosen King - that from him would come the ending of the scourge - through fire and blood and steel. And warlike Somnus cried further that the gathering of the brothers was a trap laid for his footsteps. 

And Somnus took his spear in hand, and impaled his brother so that the blood rushed through him. And Ardyn fell to his knees as the dark blood rushed from him, as the brother of his blood raised his sword for the killing blow. 

Listen, child, and remember. 

Aera-the-Oracle gave way to Aera-the-Woman, and Aera-the-Woman threw herself between Somnus the Untrue and the man she loved. And he did not stay his hand, but the bright blade fell and drank deep of her blood. 

And Ardyn, Ardyn the Gentle, Ardyn the Healer, watched as the woman he was to marry fell before him. And in him the voices of a thousand screaming deamons rose, and he wept tears of dark scourge as wrath rose in him like a hungry tide and he threw himself at his brother, screaming. 

And brother fought brother that day. The younger with bright steel and the blood of his kin upon his blade, the eldest with rage and grief and the Scourge of the Stars that lurked in his blood. And when Ardyn, Ardyn who loved the gods turned to the Crystal for its Judgement, the War-God who lurks in its shadow turned upon him - for his blood was rife with the Scourge, and the War-God would have no truck in one such as he. 

No matter that Ardyn had set forth at his bidding to cleanse the land of the Scourge. No matter that he had, personally, saved thousands through sacrifice upon sacrifice, by drawing the Scourge from their own veins and trapping it in his own. No, the war-god rejected him, and Somnus cried in victory - And Somnus cried out further that his brother, his eldest brother, was his brother no more but a deamon in truth - for did not his blood burn black as night? Did not weakness dodge his steps? 

And Somnus struck down his brother there, before the Crystal that was the heirloom of their house. And Somnus, Somnus Kinslayer, Somnus Kingkiller, felt no regret as he claimed the crown of swordbright Lucis. 

Yet, as the gods told him, and as Somnus learned, to his shock and wrath and disgust, his brother would rise again each time he was struck down. For such was the power of the Scourge within him that it would not allow him passage to the Beyond. Child, it would not let him die. And so the King of the Gods declared Gentle Ardyn, Ardyn the Healer, outcast and accursed, to be imprisoned for all time on barren Angelgard - until the Chosen King should slay him, and in so doing slay the Scourge. 

And Somnus the Betrayer, Somnus the Deceiver, Somnus Kinslayer and Kingkiller, joyfully did as the gods bade him. 

But the story does not end here.

Because before Ardyn the Healer joined his heart to that of his beloved, Aera-the-woman, in promises of love and of a marriage that would never be, he was a man. With a man’s hungers and a man’s follies, and a man’s simple desires. And of those desires came Vitae, the child of his blood - the child of whom Ardyn had no knowledge. 

Vitae was a child of the House of Lucis Caelum, and by all rights such a child should have been presented before the House to receive training in the magic that flowed through the blood, the magic that can kill the unwary wielder. Yet the affection of Vitae’s mother had kept them close and kept them secret, for even in those days Kings were not kindly disposed to bastards. And when Somnus the murderer, Somnus the Kinslayer, struck down Ardyn the Healer, they were glad of their silence. 

Because the Somnus, and through him, the War-God, declared that the gifts of his brother, the gifts of magic other then that of swords and the terrible power of the battlefield, was anathema. He would not allow it to persist, save in the line of the Oracle, and all others who could heal with a touch and ease the bright bloom of pain in another were to be put to the sword. To his own children, his own descendants, did he bind this, calling it a duty to rid the line of accursed children. 

And Vitae, the child of Ardyn’s blood, knew what fate would await them should their Uncle-by-blood learn of their existence. 

Yet Aera-the-woman had some kin remaining in this world, and for the love their had borne her and the love she had borne Ardyn did they seek out the child of Ardyn’s blood and bid them to flee. Flee, to the end of the world and beyond, flee as the hounds and the hunters dodged their steps - run, they bade Vitae, run and fight another day if you must, but run and LIVE, child. And Vitae, Vitae who was no older then you, children - Vitae ran, even as the blood of the Oracle did all in their power to obscure their track. 

Vitae ran, as the House of Heavenly Light proclaimed them abomination. Vitae ran, as the solders of Lucis closed in on the trail. Vitae ran, with the echoing words ringing in their head - run, and remember, and live. Vitae ran, ran through mountains and across plains, ran from the living and from the dead, from the sun and from the shadow. 

And always, Vitae remembered. 

Until at last, one day, Vitae came to the sea-shore. And there was a boat, and there was a storm rising upon the waters. 

And Vitae heard the hunters behind them.

And so Vitae threw themself into the boat, and cast themself upon the waters. And laughed, even in their fear, to see the sea unshackled before them, to feel the Storm close down about them - laughed for the glory of it, for the thrill, for the beauty in sea and storm. 

And the waves unspooled before them, and the storm-winds drove them forward, until they landed on an island. An Island for which Lucis had no name as of yet - but an Island that was one of three, and island named by those who lived there and loved fiercely. 

And the island’s name was Galahd, and the tribes opened their arms and their hearts to Vitae. And Vitae walked the Storm, and wove beads into their hair, and  in time grew to become a mighty chief. 

And the Storm and the Sea named Vitae Ulric, the Wolf-Lord, for many deeds great and small alike. And that is the beginning of Clan Ulric. 

And to their children, Vitae told the story of Ardyn and Somnus Kingkiller, and asked of them this: that they remember.

And over time, as the members of Clan Ulric married and intermingled with other clans, so too has the blood of Ardyn, Ardyn the Gentle, Ardyn the Healer mixed and mingled until it is the blood of Galahd. Until magic is our inheritance - one we keep hidden from the rest of the world. For we still remember Vitae, and the Hunters who dodged their heels, and the great oath of Somnus Kinslayer. 

Somnus Childkiller. 

For once in a handful of generations will a child be born to the house of Heavenly Light, a child whose magic is not of war and the battlefield. An infant who, by the law, must be taken to a certain place in the wilderness and left there alone - for if the parents of the child slew it outright, they would be called minelayers. But if an infant is left tot he mercy of the wild and dies of exposure, of hunger and thirst and animals, why then, their hands are clean of such blood.

But the Clans of Galahd remember, and keep watch upon this place. And when a child is left there to suffer and die, the child is named Ulric, and their family bears them home, home to Galahd, where they are loved and taught and told this: remember.

So Galahd remembers. 

We remember Ardyn the Healer, Ardyn the Gentle, Ardyn the Betrayed. We remember Somnus Kinslayer, Somnus Childkiller, Somnus Betrayer. We remember Vitae Ulric, and we remember the hunters. 

Will you remember?

[canid-slashclaw]

The Outliers - A Guild Wars Love Story

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9,  Chapters 10 and 11 

Chapter 12

Amalthia My Love,

I can't wait to see you again! As I'm writing this letter, I've been reading up on your peoples' mating habits and learned that grooming is a female's way of signaling she is available. Had I known you were available, I would have been ready and willing to perform my duties in a heartbeat. I did the measurements and we are pretty close to the same size so I don't think "that" will be much of an issue.

Sorry if I come off as sounding lustful. It's just that I can't get that image of you out of my mind. Even my sisters are complaining that I'm spending too much time in the bathroom.

Okay. Okay. I should probably close that "sinful" book for awhile and take a cold shower. Anyway, you are always on my dirty mind...

Your not-so furry "friend",

Kaleb

Amalthia rested her chin against the palm of her hand as she let out a wistful sigh.

You poor boy... one of these days something vital is going to explode if you keep thinking about things like that.

The doorbell whistle sounded as she heard the shuffle of a very familiar set of footsteps.

Kaleb!

She quickly threw on a light overcoat then slipped into her most comfortable pair of silken breeches and finally laced up her favorite pair of open-toed boots. Like any good engineer, she brought along a few gadgets as well including a micro spanner and butane torch.

One never knows when such things will come in handy. Especially when an event is run by a bunch of cheaters and riff raff.

As she came down the stairs she saw Kaleb standing by the door holding a bouquet of freshly cut lilacs. He smiled at her then handed her the flowers along with another folded letter.

"This is just a 'thank you' gift for all that you've done for me," he smiled as he handed her the flowers.

She took the bouquet, looked over it for a moment seemingly puzzled then gave him a quick hug. "Dead flowers that will never grow and wilt within the next three days. How thoughtful of you!"

"Well, I had considered snagging some half-rotten fish that had washed up along the shoreline. But then I thought about it and said, 'nah... she would think me a cheapskate if I didn't spend an excessive amount for a bushel of dead, overpriced flowers," Kaleb chuckled.

"Seriously, they're lovely. Flowers are used as tokens of affection in our culture as well. They are pretty universal, I guess." Amalthia took the bundle, dunked them in a decorative metal cylinder then filled it up with water from the faucet behind the meat counter.

"Where's your father? He's always been by the counter to greet me whenever I come here." Kaleb looked around and neither saw nor heard any trace of him.

Amalthia waved for him to come up the stairs. "He's sleeping at the moment. I'll explain more once we have a little more privacy."

Kaleb pursed his lips and nodded as he followed her up. Once they were both in her room, she closed the door then walked over towards the workbench and handed him the two pistols she had modified.

"I cut the handles down considerably. The center of gravity shifted so I added some extra weights to compensate," she said as she watched Kaleb getting a feel for the newly modified weapons.

"Wow! The balance on these is to a tee. I can't wait to fire them. Hey! Are you still up for the carnival?"

"What a silly question. Just let me grab my coin bag and broadsword then we can both be on our way." She smiled as she strapped the heavy sword to her belt buckle.

"Don't worry about the coinage. That's on me. Father and I made quite a bit this past week from one of our clients, so we are all good in that department."

The two of them headed out from the upstairs loft exit then headed down towards the center of the town square. Amalthia's braided golden mane fluttered in the breeze, her brass ankle circlets jingling in rhythmic steps to the tempo of a minstrel band far off in the distance.

"So what's up with your father? It's odd not seeing him there to greet me when I come in," Kaleb said with concern.

Amalthia shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not really sure. Shortly after you left, he seemed really down about something. When I opened the cooler this morning, a whole cask of mead had been consumed. We just bought the thing the day before yesterday and it's already gone."

"Oh no. Maybe it was all the war memories that were dredged up following what happened yesterday."

"I don't believe it's that, quite honestly. There is something else afoot." Amalthia pondered.

"Yanno. I wish we could at least hold hands. I hate not being able to show any open displays of affection towards you."

She gave him a reassuring look. "Kaleb. Don't go there. Remember what we talked about. Let's enjoy the carnival, as friends."

Yeah. "Friends", he thought as he turned away with a disappointed expression.

The carnival atmosphere was thick with a crescendo of noise and the aroma of cheap foods. As the pair perused the various entertainment booths, Kaleb happened to spot a shooting gallery nestled in between two eateries. He tugged her shirtsleeve then pointed towards the booth while giving a thumb's up gesture.

"Wanna try?"

"Kaleb. Those things are rigged!" She protested.

Pointing towards her pocket, he winked at her. "So rig it in our favor."

She placed her clawed index finger next to her upper lip as she thought about it for a moment. Upon seeing the array of prizes that were available, she suddenly had a flash of inspiration.

"Okay! I just give me a few," she loped briefly on all fours then stopped by the booth, stood up and scanned the targets that were arranged in the shooting gallery.

The carnival attendant stood half slouching looking as if he had smoked one too many bundles of prairie weed. Amalthia began counting her footsteps as she started walking from the back of the pavilion to the front.

"Ten and a half yards. Remember that number, mouse."

"Uhh. What?" The dreary-eyed kid said with a half-attentive look on his face.

"I wasn't talking to you, mouse. Kaleb. You got that?"

"I do," he smiled, deducing what she had in mind.

"Pink quaggen plushie, please."

"Umm. You gotta hit the targets first uhhh... sir? Miss?"

"Don't worry... won't."

"Uhhh. What?"

"Miss."

"Amalthia - shame on you for confusing this poor creature. Can't you see he is bereft of his intoxicant?" Kaleb said mockingly.

"Coin first, kitty cat. Then you can play," the irritated tenant grumbled.

"Gun, please. Thank you," Amalthia said as she tossed three pieces of silver into a bucket then snatched the popgun and percussion caps from off the table.

She loaded the first shot, aimed at the nearest target then fired. The shot missed.

"Point zero five degrees deviation at four point eight yards," Amalthia said as she laid the popgun back onto the table.

"Paper, please," she asked the tenant.

"Why do you need paper?"

"To wipe myself with, what else!"

Kaleb was barely able to contain his laughter.

"Are all charr this rude?" Grumbled the tenant as he filched out a scrap of parchment the tossed it to her.

"Do all humans swindle their customers this badly?" She said as she unrolled the crumpled mass then pulled out a stylus and began working out some calculations.

"Hey sir, missy... whatever you are. I'm an honest man. I've never cheated a customer in my..."

But before he could finish his words, Amalthia raised the popgun then fired an aim-corrected shot. The target fell back with a thud. Then in quick successive rounds, she felled five more targets.

"Quaggan plush, please. The pink one," she said with a wide smirk on her face.

Amalthia shoved the oversized plush toy into Kaleb's arms. "It matches your shirt quite well."

He just smiled trying to get a firm grasp while leaning over so he could see where he was walking. "I almost felt bad for that kid."

"I don't. He was trying to rip us off."

"Key word is 'almost'. Hey! Now there's something I might be good at," Kaleb said as he pointed towards a banner that read, Dolyak Shoeing Contest.

The master of ceremonies announced for men and women of all ages to compete against the so-called world's fastest farrier. Standing next to a blacksmithing smelter, stood a massive norn who looked to be at least eight feet tall. The MC boldly stated that there was no one on the face of Tyria who could shoe a dolyak faster than Halig the Great.

"He's almost as big as Ulfgar. But I bet with the right tools, I can beat 'em," Kaleb said as he pointed towards Amalthia's pocket.

"Your torch. It burns much hotter than that smelter and that will allow me to reshape the shoes much faster."

Smiling with glee upon Kaleb's clever inspiration, Amalthia handed him the torch. "I know you can beat him."

"Who amongst you has the courage, the will and the speed to challenge the mighty Halig?" The MC announced as he pointed at the audience.

Several brawny men, a char and two Asura, raised their hands. As they were ushered towards a large smelting pit, the enormous norn shook his head and laughed as his braided locks of hair flailed about.

At the last moment, Kaleb stepped through the crowd as he shoved his way towards the rest of the contestants. The top hatted MC looked at him for a moment before continuing his monologue.

"All of you grab your hammers and tongs and find the nearest available anvil that is located by each respective dolyak. At the count of five, the contest will commence. The first one to successfully forge four shoes from their respective strips of scrap iron, and can successfully place them upon the hooves of their respective beast shall be declared the winner."

"Are there any questions? If not then good luck ladies and gentlemen!" The master of ceremonies queried as he raised his hand to begin the count. Kaleb activated his torch.

When the countdown ended, every one of the contestants' hammers began pealing away as they frantically raced against each other to be the first to shoe their dolyak. For his part, Kaleb deftly began forging the strips into clean horseshoe-shaped forms as he took advantage of the blowtorch's higher output temperature.

Amalthia cheered wildly along with the rest of the crowd hoping that her man would win the contest. She saw how the sweat that covered his body helped to accentuate the definition of his rippling muscles. A lifetime of heavy lifting and athletic prowess had sculpted his body in ways that made her swoon with desire. She imagined resting her head against his firm chest and hearing the rhythmic beating of his strong heart. Her mind raced with fantasies of what it would be like to have him inside of her.

I want that more than you can imagine, she mused quietly as she gazed upon the human she loved.

By this time the norn had already placed three shoes on his dolyak. Kaleb was running a close second, but was still behind by one shoe. Thinking back to one of the techniques his father had taught him, he realized that it was possible to molten glue the shoe onto the dolyak instead. His dad mentioned that this was a common practice when nails were in short supply. The trick was softening the shoe up enough so the weight of the animal could cause the semi-soft metal to flay out. As it did, the ferrier had to work quickly to crimp the soft edges around the edge of the hooves.

This blowtorch is perfect, he thought as he began to soften the shoe with the orange flame. Remembering the dangers of looking directly into a blue flame, Kaleb pulled out a pair of welding goggles that Amalthia had given him. Once fitted, he switched over to the hotter blue flame as he proceeded to make the metal soft and pliable.

Halig was about to hammer in his final shoe. If Kaleb was to overtake the norn, he had to act fast. Grabbing the red-hot shoe with his tongs, Kaleb raced toward the dolyak, raised its foot using his free hand then quickly placed the molten item upon the base of the hoof. Using a combination of tongs and torch, he managed to crimp on the third shoe.

The massive norn was now only two nails away from finishing the contest. Undeterred and focused, Kaleb raced to heat up the last shoe to repeat the process once more.

Everything was down to the wire and Halig was about to drive the last nail home. But as he brought the hammer down for one final blow, the MC shouted to the top of his lungs.

"Time! We have a new winner."

The norn looked dumbfounded upon seeing the young human who had just beaten him.

"What is your name young man?"

"Grimwald, sir. Kaleb Grimwald."

"Well, ladies and gentlemen. It looks like this handsome young man has upended our current champion. The cash prize of fifty gold goes to the new winner."

"That is bullocks! He cheated! I could have easily won if that boy didn’t use that darn torch," Halig roared as he flung his hammer down in disappointment.

Kaleb spoke up. "Mighty Halig. I respect your sportsmanship in not taking a cheap shortcut in order to win the contest. Your technique was good, but mine was faster."

Several charr, except for Amalthia, bellowed in rage claiming the human had cheated as well. The humans disagreed and soon, a massive shouting match began to erupt amongst the crowd as tempers began to flare.

In an attempt to calm the raging carnival goers, Kaleb gave a very brief history lesson to everyone. "The kursikan molten fold technique has been used throughout Tyria since the Krytan civil war. Not many even use it any more, but my family has always passed it down from father to son. The Grimwalds, my family, are one of the few families in Kryta that still knows this ancient technique. Let's all just have a good time."

Within a short span, the anger began to subside. Many of the attendees who were familiar with the ancient technique came to realize that it was, in fact a bona fide farrier art.

Halig the Great conceded the title without further protest then went over to the young man who had beaten him and gave him a hearty handshake. Kaleb returned the favor by offering to buy his vanquished opponent a tall stein of mead. Never being one to turn down a strong drink, the norn gladly accepted the offer.

As their day at the carnival began to draw to a close, Kaleb and Amalthia had amassed a rather large cache of prizes. By the time they departed, Amalthia had garnered three giant stuffed quaggans and several various small stuffed animals. Kaleb, for his part, gained two quaggans plus the title of being the fastest dolyak farrier in Kryta.

"Blue, green and black - all mine!" Amalthia grinned as she stuck her tongue out at Kaleb.

"I'll trade ya the pink one for the black one." He said as he tried carrying the two monstrous plushies on either side of his hips.

"But the pink one compliments the color of your eyes and outfit so well," She said with a laugh.

"My skin tone begs to differ. Besides, I'll never hear the end of it from Rachel if she sees me bringing home a giant pink quaggan."

"Yer just bein' greedy!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Do you still have my torch?"

"I put it in your pocket, remember?"

Amalthia felt her pockets for a moment then confirmed that the device was still present.

"You forgot to close the valve. Didn't you? Now the butane is all gone."

"I thought it contained ahceedaa... how do you pronounce it again?"

"That's only used for my workstation torch, dummy! And it's pronounced A-ce-tyl-ene."

"Fine, fine. I don't care so long as it wins me titles and gold. You want the red quaggan?"

"No. They are evil." She pleasantly scolded him as they both laughed.

Dusk had approached as the pair arrived back at the butcher shop before sunset. Amalthia looked up at the stairs leading to her loft then decided that it would be better to simply go through the main door instead. "We'll definitely have to do this again. Are you sure you don't want to trade?" Kaleb asked as Amalthia led the way through the front door.

Turning quickly around, she said to Kaleb. "On second thought, I'll take the red one."

"But you said that's the evil one."

"I know," she said as she swung her head forward, "and, oh... hi mother."

Kaleb froze in his tracks.

Mother?

Standing in front of the counter with her arms folded, stood a charr with cold green eyes and a vicious looking upturned scowl the likes of which sent chills through the young man's veins.

"Oh... hi... ms.. Blastforge..." Kaleb said in an uncharacteristically nervous tone. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

"Fuze - Blast...fuse," came her deadpan reply as she gave the young man a cold, piercing stare.

"Kaleb. I think now might be a good time for you to leave."

He was about to say something in a barely audible whisper when Amalthia interrupted him.

"Have a good evening!" She said as she made a grimacing face hoping that Kaleb would understand that she would talk to him during a better and safer time. She handed him the green giant stuffed quaggan. He nodded in acknowledgment then gave her a reassuring wink before heading out.

Once the door was shut, Amalthia turned around and took in a very deep breath hoping it would calm her for what she was about to endure.

"So this is what the dear little runt does in her spare time... squandering her combat skills collecting cuddle toys and hanging with humans. Did you finally complete your little menagerie fluffy bunnies and koda bears?" Her mother said in her characteristic, derogatory manner.

"Oh yes mother. I saved the red one just for you. It has a face like a hylek. When I saw it, I just had to trade it out as its face reminded me so much of yours," Amalthia retorted with a mocking smile.

"Then give it here, child. I would certainly love to cuddle with it."

Her daughter flung the stuffed animal towards her mother with all her might. As soon as Siri caught the toy she promptly tore its head off then flung the pillowy remains across the floor.

"Well, perhaps an undead hylek will do that to your lovely face one day!" Amalthia snapped as she tried her best to contain her rage.

"I was merely expressing how I felt about you child. Try not to take it so personally. Anyway, if you are through with that forked tongue of yours I have some news you should be happy to hear."

Moments later, Ludrick ambled past the meat counter doors as he tried to steady his balance.

"Your mother does have something very important to say, Amalthia. Please listen," he said in a very somber tone.

"So you finally decided to get off your drunk, sorry tail and listen to the good news I bring forth? Good! Now maybe this little lush-of-a dingbat will take heed and try to amount to something for once," Siri spat in disgust as her pupils dilated.

"I would knock your teeth out right now, woman, if I were able. Just say your peace and get the hell out of my house!" Ludrick said in a hoarse voice while trying to hold his head up.

"Fine, fine. Both of you will think I am the best parent in the world when I say that I've finally found a warband that is willing to accept this loser-of-a-cub of mine as one of their own."

For the first time in a while, Amalthia was left speechless.

"Don't try so hard, cub, to contain your excitement. You have no idea the strings I had to pull in convincing one of the warbands into accepting your sorry tail into their ranks. With all that I've done, I would at least expect a big, wet slobbery kiss, dear cub."

"How about a hug instead?" Amalthia countered.

"Try it and I'll claw your damn eyes out."

"Oh good. Then at least I won't have to look at that hylek face of yours anymore."

"I'm sorry, Amalthia. But we think its what's best for you," Ludrick stated glumly.

"So now you're on her side too, sire?"

"I'm sorry, cub. But there is an inescapable reality that you have been bereft of being with your own kind. As much as I appreciate all that your friend has done, I think you need to broaden your horizons. I can't give that to you if you stay here."

Amalthia looked at her father visibly hurt as she tried her best to maintain her composure. "So this is what it has been about the entire time? Kaleb. It bothers you that we are hanging out together."

"Stop it! Even the mere idea is making me nauseous. Mice are to be eaten and slaughtered, not fondled over and befriended. Cub, I'm offering you one last chance, from the bottom of my generous heart, for you to redeem yourself from your current pathetic existence. There are more important things in this world than going to carnivals, getting sloshed and cavorting with hairless rats."

"That 'rat' was responsible for saving my life!"

"So the human saved you. That's what soldiers are supposed to do. Good little mouse... here's some cheese," Siri said dismissively.

The rage built inside Amalthia until she could contain it no more.

"I've had it with you, mother!" With those words she drew her shortsword then charged headlong towards her mother. As she swung her blade downward, an enormous sword parried her attack. Standing at the other end, stood her father. With the wave of his massive hand he calmly gestured for her to stand down then gently clasped hold of her weapon as she fell to the floor weeping.

Siri stood and laughed. "I honestly didn't think you could still swing one of those old man. Impressive! Hate me even more, cub, because that's what will eventually turn you into a good soldier."

"Stand down, Amalthia. She is just trying to mess with your head," Ludrick said as he withdrew his massive sword back into its scabbard.

"You have no clue ex mate-of-mine. The fun is only starting. Cub - three days from tomorrow, report to Iron Legion headquarters in the Black Citadel. Be there at zero eight hundred sharp or face a firing squad for desertion of duty. I don't care what happens to you so long as your actions do not reflect badly on the legions, or myself."

Ludrick tried his best to muster a bellowing tone. "You've poisoned this house with your tongue long enough. Just leave and never come back!"

Siri just shrugged her shoulders, walked toward the front door then turned around to hurl a few more barbs before leaving. "Suits me fine. This cub may be a sniveling pathetic wretch who is bawling on daddy's floor now, but given a few months of tough love with some real warriors, she will be more of a charr than you ever were. Until then, try not to let yourself suffocate in your own piss and vomit."

When her mother left, Amalthia just laid on the floor curled up in a ball as crystal drops flowed freely from her eyes. Her father sank down next to her, buried his head between his hands and unleashed a stream of salt water from his own eyes as well.

(Chapter 12 is also up on Google Docs.)

[weareallfallengods]

LOTR Post-apocalyptic one shot

When Middle Earth gets to like- the idk, sixth or seventh age? would it be more of a futuristic setting but like with hobbits in space suits and dwarfs crafting radioactive machines and stuff.

(Shhhhh.... i know that like the elves disappear and man becomes really the only one that stays after awhile but I WANT A FANTASY FALLOUT SETTING!

From @pippinstook

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Endless Winter was the Elves' fault.

Like all the Great Calamities of Middle-Earth, the best and worst times were ushered in by Elves.

And they wonder why we hate them.

We Dwarves remember the Silmarils War. We stayed out of the War of Sauron's Return because the Elves created that mess to begin with, and it was theirs to clean up. We saw the Halflings get roped into it, and there were some who argued we should go to their aid, remembrance of a debt owed by our people to them. But there were only 4 of them, so we remained apart.

And so, when the Burning Wind, a storm of flame like a hundred score dragons scorching the land and sky came, we stayed underground. We saw it sweep in from the East, and we knew that once again, the Elves had doomed us all.

We stayed underground, our trading partners gone, our surface holdings buried under a white ash that burned and blinded as it rained from the sky. We delved deeper, broader, sealed all but a few entrances to the surface behind gold and lead. Entire boulevards bricked up in stacks of now useless gold.

They thought we were ostentatious with our wealth before. If they could only see us now. Admittedly, we flaunted our wealth in the 4th Age- and why wouldnt we? We worked and slaved and toiled for generations of men to build it. Of course we were going to enjoy the fruits of our labors.

Our grandfathers survived once the King discovered that only he, in his gold-covered armors, remained sunburnt by the Elven Ash. The King ordered the gates sealed, the treasury turned over to the armored and craftsmen as gold suddenly became not a luxury, but something necessary to protect our people from the folly of the Elves. 

Our people still got ill, still died long before their time. Some had strange growths, babies were born with extra limbs, or none at all. Mothers wept at not being able to feed their newborns, and fathers felt tears dampen their beards as they carved tomb after tomb for children that should have been the ones to carve theirs instead.

But we survived.

We learned to cover every bit of clothing, every scrap of leather and cloth in gold. Every chamber, every street, every cavern lined in it. No longer was lead cast aside as nothing more than a tinker's tool. Now every drop of it was precious, beaten flat and covered in gold, used to line the halls of our kingdoms.

So my great-grandfather told my father, as he told me. As I will tell my sons and daughters, so they never forget.

It's truly amazing what we Dwarves will create when left to our own devices. Every hundred years or so, the King will send a group of volunteers to the surface, to see if the Endless Winter showed any signs of abating, if the burning ash burns less.

As the centuries passed, little changed on the surface. But there were many who grew tired of our isolation, and longed for the fresh wind and the companionship of our brothers in other kingdoms.

Rather than repress them, our king, in his wisdom, appointed those who still longed for the outside world to create ways to survive in the hellish land the Elves had rained down upon us.

And so our skills increased, our machines becoming ever more complex as our Creatives strive to find ways to lessen the impact of the Winter, and make our lives more comfortable and productive.

We discovered the expansive properties of steam, we harnessed the fires of the earth itself to warm our homes, and light our streets. We created artificial sun and starlight, not with the magic of the Elves, or the primitive tallow fires of men, but with ingenuity and clever machines. Balls of glass that glowed like the sun, and drops of sapphire that shone like stars.

We created lightning, and stored it in jars. We built the power of the ancient gods ourselves. Columns that shone bright to light the day, and tiny blue stars of light in the carven ceilings to make the night less black. We took those jars, and fashioned gears and wheels and wire to drive our mining carts and lifts. We created hammers driven by the heat of the earth and the explosive power of water. We made glass, coated in gold so fine you could see through it, and for the first time in a generation, had windows to bring sun and moonlight down to the kingdom. What little there was. 

We made great mirrors, and reflected that light to our farms, and homes. The Creatives made giant mirrors and lenses, and used them to see great distances from the Sightglass they built on the top of our mountain. The first time they were able to look through it, and see for hundreds of leagues was looked forward too with such anticipation! And met with such bitter disappointment. For as far as the eye could see, even with the Sightglass, there was nothing but more of the burning ash blanketing the world.

So we stayed below, as we have always done. And another generation passed.

And the Creatives made another leap forward. They created glass that could be layered with transparent gold, and made helmets and armor and boots and gloves that were finally able to withstand the burning of the Winter on the surface. They created carts, driven by the heat of rocks they found on the surface, that when enclosed properly, and cooled with water, powered those carts, and enabled us to finally start exploring the surface again.

And so we finally emerged after all this time. Dwarves, covered in gold, driving carts that glowed and shone like the sun that could no longer be seen. Dwarves, with golden gears clicking about them, steam rising from their shoulders as the armor made by the Creatives did it's work of making the air breathable, and keeping out the ash and dust. Dwarves with golden-hued glass helms, leaving virgin footprints in the ashen plains around the mountain. 

Dwarves, had finally managed to reclaim the earth.

And we explored. We searched for any sign that other life had returned to the surface. We traveled long and far, always finding nothing more than half-buried ruins of ancient civilizations; giant statues and crumbling walls, trees turned to stone, rivers nothing more than vast trenches filled with powdery ash that we sank in as if it was actually water, long petrified bones serving as the only memorial to those who once filled the cities of men.

More and more of us migrated to the surface, our new Technics affording us the same protections of our ancient caverns. We started to realize as a people that our love of caves stemmed primarily from a desire to be left alone as a people, a way to avoid being interfered with. And now that the surface was empty, there was nothing dissuading us from enjoying it.

And then the world as we had come to know it changed.

Reports from the Foragers came back that they had found a place untouched by the Endless Winter. A place where green still existed.

No one believed them at first, but then the silverplate images started coming back. Plates that showed trees. Rivers that held water. A deer. Things no one alive had ever seen with their own eyes. And most still didn't believe.

Until one day, the Foragers brought back an oak tree. A sapling, green and lithe, rooted in black earth, set in a pit of solid gold, a dome of golden glass shielding it from the ash.

Not long after that monumental revelation, our entire town mobilized. Great carts with wheels of chain to move entire houses were built. Flexible bridges covered in golden glass wove between them, domes of gold creating a sea of glittering bubbles that floated across the plains as an entire Dwarven city slowly crept across the fields and hills of ash.

Ten years it took for our city to make it to the eastern mountains. Ten years of waiting impatiently to see what the Foragers had been promising us.

And then we finally saw it with our own eyes. We saw the ash fade into brown grass and weeds, and those give way gradually to actual grasses, and bushes, and finally, a single tree at the top of the ridge.

But what we saw from that ridge left even our most effusive poets speechless.

Green. Nothing but green as far as we could see. An emerald jewel of a vale set apart from the ashen wasteland behind us. And birds. A young one claimed they spotted a deer. The sound of a small stream twinkled through the air like a long forgotten melody of hope. A single, thin spire hung in the air, and only the Eldest was able to remember what it was called or what it meant.

Smoke! Specifically, chimney smoke. It rose from the forest like a beacon, a sign that we may not be the only ones to have survived.

As we were debating the best way to approach whomever may be there, we were all shocked to the bone to hear a small voice right behind our Elder.

"'Ere! Wotcha 'bout then? Not from 'round 'here, are yous?"

Of all those who could have survived, of course it had to be the Hobbits.

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

Story tag list

@random-with-garlic @a-dinosaurs-left-phgkneecap @flower-in-the-ashes @nixabee @luvnaught @pens-swords-stuff @alice-and-cheshire-cat @humans-are-seriously-weird @flying-f1shsticks @Neil-gaiman @glumshoe @lykanyouko @kaylewiswrites @just-a-bit-paranoid @thatsmybluefondue @Alice-and-Cheshire-cat @violet-galaxies @biggest-gaidiest-patronuses @midnight-spectrum-again @slytherinlovespuff @friendofcybermen @hemi528i @mirbisduschoen @khelladon @walkin-in-the-cosmos

As always, if you want to be added to or removed from the tag list, just shoot me a message and your wish is my command. 

[maaaddiexo]

Chapter Thirteen | Peter Pevensie

[Red Series Book Two: Ribbons]

Rosemary returned to England to find things just how she left them - her father and brother missing and her mother drinking in her bedroom. But Rosemary wasn't going to give up this time. She took charge of her family as the Pevensies took charge of a country. 

But it's been a year since all five of them returned to England, and when they are called back by Susan's magic horn, they return to a completely different Narnia. Magic has been dormant for centuries and men now rule Narnia but with brute force and terror. 

The Pevensies know why they've been called back to Narnia but Rosemary is once again left in the dark. And with Aslan making himself sparse, the five kids are left to their own devices to answer their own questions.

Do they trust the exiled prince? Can they save Narnia again, and this time without Aslan swooping in to save them? And in Rosemary's case, why was she called back?

[Chapter Fourteen] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

Rosemary watched as Miraz dropped and heard Lord Sopespian scream treachery. She knew the Telmarines wouldn't keep their word but never thought it would mean murdering their own murder king.

Peter and Edmund, who had been walking back to the How in victory, spun to see what was happening, shocked to see the arrow sticking out of Miraz's torso. "What the..."

"They shot him!"

"Be ready!"

Bodies tensed as sides prepared for battle and a few Narnians scurried into the How to get into position for Plan B. Rosemary gripped her bow tightly but didn't nock an arrow yet. She had to wait for Susan's command. A stray Telmarine rushed Peter but was messy in his attack and Peter was quick to separate his head from the rest of his body. Peter looked back at the Narnians and then found Rosemary at the top of the How. It might be the last time he saw her. "Go!"

["Is this what I missed? Fifteen years of Peter telling people what to do? He already does that?" Rosemary laughed under her breath, earning chuckles from Trumpkin and Susan.]

Yelling erupted from the field as Telmarine soldiers screamed for justice, raising their weapons to the sky. The first row of soldiers charged as catapults were loaded and discharged. Narnians scurried to dodge the boulders but remained standing.

From up above, Rosemary watched the cavalry surge forward as one. There must have been a thousand men on horses running at them and thousands more on foot, waiting for their command. She had faith in Peter's plan and the people of Narnia, but she was still feeling overwhelmingly outnumbered.

"Archer's to the ready!" There it was. Rosemary reached back in unison with the rest of the archers and pulled an arrow from her quiver, nocking it with practiced ease. She watched as Caspian and Glenstorm turned away from Peter and Edmund and galloped down into the How. They would lead the underground team, who would slow down the incoming Telmarines.

"Come on," Rosemary muttered under her breath. The Telmarines were approaching fast and the ground still hadn't broken. She began to count. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five Six."

"Take your aim!"

"Eight. Nine. Ten." And just like that, the ground crumbled underneath the cavalry's feet and the horses stumbled. Some men were thrown off while others were trapped beneath their fallen horses.

Cries of pain mixed with commands being shouted and the Narnians watched on with hard faces as the Telmarines struggled to get themselves out of the crater. As Rosemary's father would have said, 'you mess with the bull, you get the horns'.

"Now!" Rosemary's fingers loosened around the bowstring and the arrow flew through the air with a hundred others. Men who were on the verge of climbing out of the crater were thrown back by the impact of arrows and Rosemary nocked another arrow.

"Charge!" On Peter's command, the Narnians on the ground rushed forward and the ones underground reappeared by way of trap doors. They came from behind, surrounding the Telmarine cavalry.

Flacons flew overhead carrying dwarves who shot and aimed at the incoming Telmarines on foot. But they were shot down by crossbows the same size as the catapults. As the Telmarines continued to approach, Peter changed tactics and instructed the Narnians to retreat to the How. The catapults continued to launch boulders at the How, shaking the ground beneath the archers' feet. The How crumbled and quickly blocked the way, trapping Narnians inside.

Rosemary desperately looked around, hoping to see Lucy the Valiant riding on Aslan's back and save them but they were nowhere to be seen. Something cracked behind her and she watched a tree fall, knocking Susan off of the ledge.

"Susan!" Rosemary and Trumpkin lunged to grab her free hand. She dangled for a moment before slipping through their sweaty hands and onto a lower platform. Knowing she was safe, Rosemary looked out to see Telmarine troops surrounding the Narnians. Slowly they moved in and cut them down.

That's it, Rosemary thought. She jumped down to where Susan was and they scrambled down the collapsing How and joined Peter, Edmund, and Caspian at the stone square. Off to the right, Rosemary could spot Miraz's body, the arrow still sticking out of his body. She looked over at Glenstorm for permission and he nodded, kneeling down so she could mount him.

When she was situated on Glenstorm's back, Peter raised his sword and rushed forward with a war cry. As Glenstorm cut down men closeby, Rosemary aimed for those further away. Together as a team, they were untouchable. She heard Glenstorm grunt with every slice, stab, and block he made and in return he heard her 'ha' every time she watched a soldier drop by her arrows.

Around her, both Narnians and Telmarines were dropping. The only difference was that more Telmarines kept coming, creeping in closer. She watched Susan use her bow as both a bow and a hammer, striking Telmarines over the head with it before nocking an arrow and letting it fly.

Rosemary looked around again for her friends. Peter and Edmund were still fighting, and she spotted Caspian and Trumpkin fighting together. They only had a hundred feet left of fighting space.

"Come on, Lucy," Rosemary whispered, firing off another arrow. Glenstorm had her dismount and she did so without voicing her question but watched as Glenstorm charged at a troop of Telmarines and jumped over the barrier of shields. "Glenstorm!"

Without an aerial advantage, it was difficult for Rosemary to find the Pevensies in the crowd. A Telmarine rushed at Rosemary and she fired an arrow without thought, not waiting to see where it landed. She spun and ran, looking for the signature red jersey and a head of blonde hair. Peter was fighting off two Telmarines while slowly being backed into the crater. Rosemary ran forward and shoved her foot into the nearest soldier's side before shooting an arrow into his neck. With the other temporarily distracted, Peter quickly disarmed him and then brought his sword down in a grand arc. The soldier went down and didn't come back up.

"My god, I thought I might not see you again," Peter breathed, pulling Rosemary in for a tight hug.

"Can't get rid of me that easily."

"Still not letting you out of my sight. Come on, Caspian's in the crater." They ran together and searched for Caspian in the crater. "There!" They rushed to the east and Peter reached down to help the prince.

"What's that?" Rosemary lookedat Peter, feeling the ground beneath her feet rumble and shake. She looked behind her and gasped at the sight. The trees had come to life and were advancing on the soliders but only targeted the Telmarines. "Nevermind."

"She did it," Peter smiled. "Lucy did it."

"This is what Narnia was like when you were here last?" Caspian looked at Rosemary. "This is terrifying."

Rosemary laughed and watched as the trees passed by them and chased after the retreating Telmarines. They hadn't won yet, but things were looking up for the Narnians. A tree nearby was knocked down by catapults and she pulled Caspian and Peter out of the way as another drove its roots into the ground, disrupting the dirt as the roots ran all the way to the Telmarines and shot up around a catapult, pulling it down to the ground. "Don't mess with Narnia and you'll be fine."

The Narnians cheered and Peter raised his sword. "For Aslan!"

With the trees, the Narnians chased after the retreating Telmarines all the way to the river. The cavalry ran across the bridge while the rest dove for the water. Neither would cross.

Lord Sopespian led the group across the bridge but pulled on his horse's reins upon seeing Lucy Pevensie waiting on the other side.

From the shore, Rosemary watched beside Peter. Hundreds of soldiers prevented them from moving forward but they didn't try. They just watched on as a familiar lion emerged from the trees and came to stand beside Lucy.

"Charge!" Lord Sopespian cried. They only got halfway across the bridge before Aslan's roar had them stopping in their place and turn to the river. The water beneath the bridge retreated to the bend in the river and a tidal wave swelled in size before crashing down the river. Before it reached the river, the water changed and a figure emerged. He hovered over the bridge and watched as Telmarines jumped into the shallow water. He surged forward and destroyed the bridge, throwing men off in the process. When he reemerged, he was holding a piece of the bridge, a single soldier on the wood.

Lord Sopespian stared up in fear at the River God. The bridge tilted and even though the horse tried to back up, it fell forward. Lord Sopespian waved his sword in front of the River God but it didn't do anything. The River God opened his mouth and swallowed the man and horse whole. From the beach, Rosemary watched with awe as the god then disappeared into the river and washed away the bridge.

The war was over. The Narnians had won.

[Chapter Fourteen] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

[cottontail20]

A Legend All Their Own, Chapter 50: To Avoid Bloodshed

Summary:  The Battle for Sokovia begins.

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16736589/chapters/46383871

Ultron grinned wickedly as he watched Princess Wanda and her forces appear on the other side of the clearing. His eyes briefly flickered to the boy, Vision, glued to the Princess's side.

He had been a concern for awhile, but apart from his status as the keeper of the Mind Stone, and his ability to wield Thor's magic hammer, which would probably remain with Thor anyway, Ultron's spies had not managed to uncover anything overly special or important about him. Except, of course, the fact that he was important to Wanda. That, as always, could be a weakness for him to exploit if need be.

If the Princess and her boy toy even survived for that long.

They had no idea what they were dealing with. No idea how brutal his army could be. And of course, no idea of his secret weapon. Of the new, highly explosive substance created by his alchemists before his army had departed- The substance inside the crates his men had deposited about the clearing. The coming electrical storm would provide perfect conditions for them to go off.

Ultron's wicked grin widened. --

Vision's strange eyes scanned the opposing army, his heart pounding. Their numbers seemed just about equal to the Sokovia/Asgard forces. That was good, wasn't it?

He thought it was. The thing that troubled him most was the crates Ultron's forces had brought with them. While most were behind the army, a few had been laid about the clearing wear this battle was to take place.

Why? What was in them?

Wanda looked at him, and Vision knew she was wondering the same thing.

The sky grew darker overhead, accompanied by the sound of distant thunder.

For a few moments that felt like an eternity, no-one on either side moved. No one spoke.

Then, finally, King Ultron moved forward- alone.

Wanda took a shaky breath. A part of her wanted to take this opportunity to end things right now, to take Ultron within the grip of her powers and rip him limb from limb. Another part of her wanted to run. Forget the throne, forget the whole stupid war, and run away with Vision. Find some place far, far, away, where no one knew who they were. Somewhere quiet, safe, where they could settle down and raise their baby in peace.

The first option was especially tempting, but she could see Ultron's archers notching arrows. Even with her armor, one well-aimed shot could end her vengeance before it had even really begun. As equally tempting as option two might have been, Wanda definitely couldn't run. Too many people were relying on her. The people of Sokovia. The Asgardians who were risking their lives for her cause. And Vision, of course. Vision was so happy with the idea of their child growing up royal, sparing them from the struggles he had grown up with. Wanda resisted the urge to touch her armor-clad stomach. Ultron could see, and she did not want to give the false King any hint of the precious secret growing within her.

She took another deep breath.

"I suppose the proper Queenly thing to do is try to talk to him, right?" She looked up at Vision for his opinion on the matter. "You know, the whole 'one last chance to give up the throne without bloodshed' spiel?"

"I suppose it is" Vision frowned, "But I don't like the chances."

"Neither do I" Wanda sighed. "But I think I have to do it anyway."

"No" said Vision, taking Wanda's hand. "We do." No way was he letting her face this alone.

Wanda smiled gratefully at him, and they both moved forward, slowly. Vision gave a small signal to Clint, who wordlessly notched an arrow of his own, ready to fire if Ultron pulled anything tricky.

The sky continued to darken. After what again felt like an eternity, they met Ultron in the middle of the field.

"Well, look at you" Ultron's lips curled in an unpleasant smirk. "Little Princess Wanda all grown up and playing at War. How many people are going to die because one little girl didn't know her place?"

Vision wanted to punch the smirk right off Ultron's face, but he didn't because Wanda was squeezing his hand to keep herself from shaking as she looked up to meet Ultron's gaze. Not out of fear, but because she was angry.

"I'm not a little girl" she glared at him. "I stopped being a little girl when I was ten years old. If I had any innocence left after that, you stole it when you took my brother from me. I'm not sure if I belong on the throne, but I sure as hell know that you don't."

Ultron just chuckled, and again, Vision wanted to punch him.. But then the King was speaking to him.

"You must be Vision.. You've certainly brought yourself up in the world, haven't you? I respect a man with ambition."

"I've never been ambitious" said Vision cooly. "I just fell in love."

"Pity. For a moment I thought we might have found common ground."

"That was never going to happen."

"Yes, I see that now.." Ultron turned his attention back to Wanda, a wicked grin on his face. "I'm going to kill that boy, and I'm going to make sure you see it happen. That you know it is all your fault."

Wanda's eyes flared red, the Scarlet Witch awakened.

"I came over here to give you one last chance to relinquish the throne without the need for a battle. Because giving you that chance is the right thing to do. What a Queen should do."

"And you really thought I would agree to that?"

"No" Wanda smirked. "But when you don't, when you say no? Every death becomes your fault. I'll be the one who tried to avoid bloodshed. My people will remember that, and so might yours. So.. what is your answer, Ultron?"

Ultron cursed to himself, a scowl curling his lips. She had definitely put one over on him. There was no way he would give up the throne willingly.

"No."

"Then we have nothing more to say to each other" Wanda turned and took to the sky to fly back to her army, Vision at her side.

One of Ultron's men loosed an arrow, but Vision spotted it, seizing Wanda's arm and using the Mind Stone to make them intangible, the arrow sailing harmlessly through them. Clint fired his own arrow, letting it whoosh by Ultron's head. A warning shot.

"That was for Prince Pietro!" He yelled, and Wanda, still airborne with Vision, felt a rush of affection for the archer. "Next one won't miss, King Ass-tron!"

Ultron was furious. He turned to his army.

"Charge!" He shrieked. "Kill them! Destroy them all!"

Thor looked up to Wanda for permission, before giving the order for their own army to charge.

"For Asgarrd, and for Sokovia!" The Asgardian Prince yelled. "In the name of the rightful Queen, we will defeat this tyrant!

Both sides surged forward, coming together in a terrible clash of weapons and battle cries.

"Stay away from the crates!" Wanda ordered, as she and Vision surveyed the battle from the sky. "We have no idea what's in them!"

Ultron had disappeared into his army.

"Wanda.." Vision began.

"We have to find him" Wanda agreed, knowing what he meant without him having to say anymore. "If we can kill him.."

"We can end this" Vision nodded.

They swooped low, landing in the thick of the battle. Wanda cast out with her powers, searching for Ultron's mind in the midst of the fighting, and unleashing a few mental attacks on his soldiers in the process. Vision watched over her, lashing out with his sword, a few increased-density punches, and even a few well placed blasts from the stone. He and Wanda worked together perfectly, like a well-oiled machine.

They were a forced to be reckoned with. But as they fought on, it became clear that things were not going so well elsewhere on the battlefield. Steve was shielding Natasha from a rain of arrows from Ultron's forces. Tony looked like he would soon be overwhelmed. Vision and Wanda shared a look. Both having the same thought, though neither of them liked it.

Wanda's training had increased her powers greatly over the course of their adventure. She didn't need Vision's protection as much as she used to. It was beginning to look as though they may be of better help to their forces at large if they split up, divided their efforts.

Before either of them could voice this unpleasant realization, an explosion rocked the battlefield.

[lokiofnone]

When Hel Freezes Over

Balder the Brave was not unfamiliar with death. His demise was foretold by the Norns even before he was born as the first sign of Ragnarok, and despite everything in the ten realms swearing an oath to do him no harm, he had fulfilled that role several times throughout the centuries. Much to his dismay.

Now that the Ragnarok cycle had been handily ended by his brother Thor, he was finding his most recent death to be more permanent than the others. Hela’s dark domain was not a place that he had ever delighted in being, and the thought of staying forever brought him a level of melancholy that could only be increased exponentially when his long lost sister, Angela, had overthrown the selfsame queen of Hel and appointed him command in her stead.

He took no pride in the crown, but bore it with austerity all the same.

‘Twas a grim task to lead the unworthy dead, but as an Odinson, he knew there were none better equipped for it. Still, walking the silent halls of the palace every morning to the throne chamber, he couldn’t help feeling a chill set into his bones that went far beyond mere physical sensation.

That grim feeling was amplified today by the sound of voices emanating from his destination. Two voices, one belonging to Brün of the Disir, if he wasn’t mistaken. The second he would recognize at any distance, for it belonged to the very same god who had put him here. His jaw tightened as he entered the hall to find Loki draped across the throne of Hel, idly swinging her leg back and forth as she chatted with the valkyrie.

“So I told Sigurd, if you really wanted to -” The trickster was cut off as Balder entered, his crown cutting a dramatic figure across the room. “Ah! Brother of mine.”

Loki wasn’t an uncommon visitor in Niflheim, given how many acquaintances and family members dwelled within the realm of the dead. Still, every time she visited, she would see Balder grow even more stiff than usual, and she couldn’t help but smile.

“What is it, Loki?” Balder asked stiffly as he crossed the room toward the other god, “I don’t have time for your games today.”

“No, I imagine you wouldn’t. What with the impending war, hundreds of thousands of corpses to tend, and all that time you must spend practicing keeping those horns on your head,” Loki put a hand to her chin thoughtfully, “What’s the secret? Good posture must help.”

“You’d know little about that, sister. You’re in my seat.”

Loki traced her fingers idly down the ebony throne. “Oh? But it seems as though it’s my seat, due to the fact that my butt is in it. I’ve more claim to it than you, that’s for certain.”

Balder’s eyes shot to Brün, who responded with her usual milky white gaze. “You mean to take it?” Whenever Loki went talking about thrones and crowns, trouble was sure to ensue. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, prepared to draw it forth if necessary. To his surprise, and slight dismay (though he would never say it), Loki responded by throwing her head back in laughter.

“Of course not!” She responded after a moment, wiping a tear from her eye. “This place is far too dower and droll for the likes of me, and we’re both well aware that I’m hardly leadership material.”

What an understatement.

Before Balder could decide whether or not to believe her, Loki swung her legs the right way round, standing from the throne with her arms outstretched. “No, dear brother, I have not come to steal your crown...this time,” She shot him a conspiratorial wink, “Rather, I’m here to make you an offer.”

Having grown up with Loki, Balder knew the sure signs of something that he would later regret. “I’d sooner bargain with a pit of vipers. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Don’t be so hasty! Is it really so bad just to listen?”

“Yes.”

“Granted, I set myself up for that.”

Balder was very ready for this conversation to end. “If that’s all, then please leave. I have more important business to attend.”

Loki spread her hands in defeat, heaving a sigh. “Yes, you certainly are a busy man, and it would be remiss of me to hold your attention longer than necessary. So, if you really don’t want to know when Malekith is planning on invading…”

“And how would you know that?” This was obvious bait. Obviously. “Have you joined forces with the dark elves again?”

“With my reputation?” Loki snorted, “You jest! Malekith trusts me even less than you do, which is a feat that deserves merit. I shan’t reveal my sources, but I assure you, the information is genuine. Or did you think that the League of Realms had been staving off the destruction of Alfheim all this time all on their own? Not to discredit their merits, but running in with swords and hammers after the fighting has already started doesn’t make for a winning war stratagem.”

Balder hesitated only a second to think. When dealing with his youngest sibling, a second was all he could spare. “What is it that you know?”

An unsettling grin parted Loki’s lips as they took a small skip to the side, gesturing widely. “Oh, I’m so glad you asked! What I know, dear Balder, is that you currently find yourself in possession of the lands which once were ruled by my own dearly beloved daughter. I’m hardly one to speak of stealing from family, but really, it is rather cold.”

Already he regretted allowing this to go on. Already he could scarcely keep the expression of agitation from his face. “Angela appointed me after fairly challenging-”

“Yes, Angela! Our dear sister. Far be it from me to speak ill of her, but this whole thing was really a pretty bad call, wasn’t it?” Loki skirted around the throne, trailing her fingers along the dark stone. “I mean, I love her more than you, but she is new around here. Spent her whole life sequestered in Heven, away from the other realms. The angels know nothing of our ways, our politics, our beliefs - and let’s face it, they don’t entirely match us stylistically. Invading Hel to save her girlfriend is one thing, but who is she to make decisions for people that she knows nothing about? Not that she has any care for politics. She only picked you as her successor because you were nearby.”

“What is your point?” Balder wouldn’t admit that Loki was right, much less that it stung ever so slightly. “I hear your silver tongue wagging, but saying little.”

“You’re a man of action, Balder. You always have been. I’ll cut to the chase,” She crossed her arms over the back of the throne, resting her chin in one upturned palm. “You don’t belong here at all. Not really. Not even in passing, and certainly not as king. I don’t mean to be insulting, but really - the god of light, in the realm of darkness? The very nature of your being is diametrically opposed to the fabric of this realm. Has it not occurred to you that there is a reason why your unrighteous death heralds the end, beyond that an old bat in a cave said so?”

Loki left the throne, making a slow and winding trail between them. “And while we’re on the subject, I personally can’t believe how many times I’ve gotten away with murdering you. Oh, I know it’s a sore subject, but really. The Ragnarok prophecies were written well before either of us were born. Everyone knew it would happen the first time, and they certainly knew it would happen all the following times. Why then have I never been stopped?” She stepped around her stalwart brother, gesticulating widely. “Noble Balder. Gentle Balder. Beloved by all things in the realm of the living, but doomed to waste away with the dead. But I don’t need to tell you how tragic that is, now do I?”

She could go on like this all day, but she knew that wouldn’t help. Some focus was necessary. “Can’t you feel it? A sense of wrongness? A chill in your gut? You know that Hel is no place for you, and the war of the realms is coming. Malekith’s malice threatens even these halls. Can you say with utmost certainty that your subjects will follow you into war? The murderers and the murdered? You have such a distaste for death, and the dead know better than any what exactly you are made of.” Loki swung around his other side, pointing to Brün, who was studying her sword very carefully. “And what of your valkyrior? The lovely Brün and her sisters? They who were tortured by our grandfather, abandoned by the Ever-Glorious Sigurd, beat down and harmed and hated by men for millenia untold. They found freedom in serving Hela, a strong and proud queen. How can you expect these shieldmaidens to follow a man? You can’t rely on this place, or these people, to respect one who never truly belonged among them. Malekith is coming, and Niflheim will fall.”

Balder looked down at his own feet for a few long moments. His hand gripped his sword just a bit tighter...how easy it would be to just stop listening. “Are you going to tell me when?”

“Oh!” Loki exclaimed, “I did imply that, didn’t I? No, sorry to inform, I won’t be telling you that. I did, however, mention an offer. One that it would be in your best interests to take.”

“What could you possibly offer me, snake?” Balder scoffed, finally crossing to his vacant throne with a few long strides.

“Well...your life, of course.” Loki’s face spread into a maniacal grin.

He had no doubt that she could accomplish this, so the question then was, “In exchange for what?”

“The throne, of course. Not for me. For my sweet daughter. I’m not generally a fan of nepotism, but it was hers in the first place, so…” She spread her hands as if in defeat.

Balder fixed her with a level stare. “Hela hasn’t been seen in the realms since she was deposed, and regardless, she is an evildoer on par with her parents. She would sooner see us all join her legions than assist Asgard against Malekith.”

“Ouch! That’s cold, brother. Perhaps true, but cold nonetheless. Still, it is rather presumptuous. Asgard won’t enter the war until they absolutely have to. You know how dear old dad is - won’t lift a finger to help his subjects until the trouble is at his own doorstep. The souls of Hel can rely on no one but themselves for salvation, and none love the dead more than Hela. She commanded the whole realm all on her own, and you can barely manage it with a fleet of valkyries and a crusty old war god.” Loki gave a small chuckle, “Also, did I mention that I’d be returning you to life? I thought that would be rather enticing.”

Balder put a hand to his mouth in silent contemplation while Loki danced about in place. After what seemed an eternity to the trickster, he replied, “No. I can’t in good conscience accept this. I will simply have to work harder to unite the factions of Niflheim myself.”

Loki’s shoulders slumped in a small pout. “That’s not what I wanted to hear at all! I was really hoping you’d see reason, so I wouldn’t have to get nasty. But look at what you’ve done now! You’ve left me no choice.”

With a flourish, she materialized a glowing blue crystal. “The light elves have only been escaping Malekith by the skin of their pointy little ears. He is quite annoyed with this fact,” She began twirling the ball around her fingers. “Alfheim was first on his hit list, but it seems fate is pulling their fat out of his teeth time and time again. If only he knew why!”

Balder sighed heavily.

“Fate isn’t on his side, and thus,” Loki tossed the ball to Balder, who caught it deftly. “Fate must be removed from the equation.”

The weary king gazed at his sibling, brow furrowed. The orb in his hand showed the very bottom of a great tree - the great tree. Vanaheim, then. At the base of the world tree, where the Norns wove the fabric of the world. Beyond Yggdrasil, lights. Fire. Smoke. Something approached. At the foot of the tree, standing alone, was Karnilla.

“I believe you’ll recognize my former companion, the Norn queen.” Loki continued, “Though she spurned our alliance long ago in favor of your love.”

Had his heart been beating, it would have stuttered. “What is this?”

The horned god smiled. “It’s a story, brother. The story of her death.”

Balder rose, extending the blue orb to Loki. “Stop it. Whatever you’re doing, just stop.”

“Why, I’m doing nothing at all. What you see in yon crystal is merely the machinations of the dark elf king and his council. You see, he promised the CEO of Roxxon that he could have Vanaheim, for his industry, and coincidentally in doing so, he can rid himself of Nornish intervention. All I have done is told you the complete and utter truth.”

Attempting to swallow the bile in his throat, Balder looked between Loki and the crystal. “We must do something.”

“We?” Loki raised her eyebrows in amusement, “There is no we. You can’t leave - not without forfeiting your throne, and I have no stake in this whatsoever. I’m not exactly the biggest fan of those hags, you know. Agger can set them ablaze for all I care. Of course, I could potentially do something about it, if I had reason to.”

Balder took a step back. “There it is. Your tricks truly never end, do they sister?” He cast his eyes about the throne room. The dark and the cold seemed to permeate each of his senses. Saving Karnilla was invaluable, of course, but this was about more than just the two of them. If the Norns fell, then Malekith could do anything. “Do you even know where Hela is?”

Loki responded only by pressing a single finger to her lips.

“If anything happens to this realm, I will come for you personally.” He raised the crystal to her and tried to ignore the chill at the back of his neck, “Take me there.”

“See? I told you you’d want to hear me out.”

[dragoncat223]

Chapter Three: Blossom

Previous First Next

Blossom stood in the war room, at the head of the table, looking at those that had gathered for the meeting. There were her siblings, Snow and Dahlia, sitting to her right and left. They Dahlia was head of strategy, and Snow was her right hand. Jack Powers sat next Snow- head of weaponry. The man was eighteen, and had a soft spot for animals. The two were currently cooing over photos Snow had stored on his personal communicator. Then there was Cameran McClain next to Dahlia. They were the head of organizing training. The sixteen year had been a good friend to Dahlia. The two of them were giggling over something. And finally the twins, Ben and Bella Allen. They were both nineteen and head of animal housing.

“Alright, lets begin. The plans for the base were recovered last night, thanks to Dahlia,” Blossom began, nodding to her sister, who straightened up a little bit, “We also received information about Princess Diane.”

The atmosphere in the room dropped from friendly to tense. Which is when the last of their group arrived. Rae Juniper, head of their tech lab. He was seventeen, and new. He’d only been in that position to for about two cycles now. “S-sorry I’m late!” He said, taking a seat next to Ben.

“That’s fine, just don’t let it happen again,” Blossom responded. “Now we know that the princess has a device that suppresses the ley lines that give us our power for a one hundred mile radius. And she’s coming to the base to test it. At this time, we don’t know if it works. She will be arriving in two week’s time, which means there will be upped security for her. Though I’ve heard that they recently sent a few troops back to the capitol, which means that they be doubting we are here at all.”

“General Blossom, if I may,” Snow began.

“You have the floor.”

“We’ll want to keep the princess from finishing the device, yes? And once she arrives, we can have the scouts figure out what room she’s staying in, where the device is, and take over the base from the inside.”

Dahlia nodded. “We’ll have to send in shadow mages first, it’ll have to be stealthy, to disable alarms and stuff, then let everyone in,” she put in.

“We’ll have to hammer out the details. If we go with this plan, I won’t be able to be there,” Blossom thoughtfully. “I’d have to leave it to Snow.”

The nineteen year old’s stomach began to tie itself in knots at the thought. She knew her brother could take care of himself, but she still didn’t like it. Snow nodded. “I can start training with my team immediately.”

“Good. Cameran, he has priority for the time being. If he requests time, give it to him.” They nodded and wrote something down in their notebook. “Dahlia I want you and Snow to work out the details of the plan, then report back to me. Rae, anything to report?”

“Not much. We are still working on something, but we haven’t made much progress,” the boy responded.

“Keep working then. If you make any significant progress I want to be the first to know. Ben, Bella, how are things going with the dragon training?”

“It’s slow, but we’ve managed to pair about seven more,” Bella responded. “In all we have twenty five dragons, fifteen pairs, and fourteen flyers.”

The girl glanced at Snow, who was studying the table. Her brother cleared his throat and continued. “The snakes are in peak condition, their riders will be able to hold their own if they are needed.”

“Good. And the Jackalopes?”

Blossom swore she heard Bella mutter ‘little shits’. “Thriving, and have been tunneling everywhere.”

The General smiled at that. There wasn’t a really good reason to keep them around, but they made good pets and no one was complaining too much.

“Jack- how are we on weapons?”

“We have plenty, but we are running low on ports.”

“Get your people on that. There’s no telling what might happen when we try to take the base.”

Jack nodded and made a note in how own notebook. “I think that about covers it. Thank you for coming, I’ll see you all in two days.”

And with that the group stood and left, the only two that lingered were Snow and Dahlia. “Snow I think it’s time you started training with Holly,” Dahlia stated.

“Why?” He asked, narrowing his eyes.

“It’s been six cycles. If Pandora was coming back, he would have by now.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She has a point, Snow,” Blossom interjected.

“Holly was his, not mine, I’m just taking care of her,” Snow insisted. “He’ll come back.”

“How do you know?” Dahlia’s voice hard now. “It’s been six cycles and we haven’t heard anything. Not from The Refuge, not from Aunt Lealia, and certainly not from Pandora, so please enlighten me, how you know he’s not dead.”

“I just do!” There were tears in Snow’s eyes now.

“Look I miss him too, but it’s time you accept the possibility that he could be dead. You miss him, I get it, but you’re not the only one that lost someone that day. He wasn’t just your boyfriend, he was my friend too!” Dahlia’s voice cracked. “I want him to come back just as much as you do, but he’s gone and there’s nothing anyone can do about it!”

Tears were streaming down her face now. Snow’s face was dry, but Blossom suspected it wouldn’t stay that way for long. “And how do you know he’s not dead?” he growled. And with that he stormed out of the room.

Dahlia took in a shakey breath, put both hands down on the table and sobbed. Blossom went and hugged her. The girl didn’t even acknowledge it, just kept crying. Blossom stroked her sister’s hair. She knew it was best to let this run its course, as this was not the first time it’s happened- to either of her siblings.

Pandora had been one of their best dragon flyers. He had been such a ball of sunshine, you couldn’t help but love him. Snow in particular. They had started dating about two years ago, after Dahlia had locked them in Snow’s room. Dahlia and Pandora had been great friends, despite him being two years older than her.

Blossom blamed herself for his capture, and possible death. They were doing a raid on one of the smaller bases, and she had said not to bring the dragons. Snow had ran up to her in the middle of battle, begging her for help. But the building was crumbling and she had to get them out of there. If Pandora has his dragon there, he might still be around.

It took ten minutes for Dahlia to calm down enough to talk. “I don’t want him to be dead,” she half whispered.

“I know,” Blossom reassured. “Snow knows too, he just misses him. Just give him some time.”

Dahlia sniffed and leaned into her sister. “You don’t actually think he’s dead, do you?”

“No.”

They stood like that for a few minutes more. “I should go apologize,” Dahlia stated.

“Alright. Don’t forget, it’s your night to cook,” Blossom reminded. Dahlia half smiled and nodded, then disappeared out the door.

The woman left in the room let out a breath and collapsed into a chair. She rubbed her face and let out a sigh. There was something exhausting about siblings fighting.

After a moment she stood and went to her own room. It was located on the bottom floor, next to her parent’s old room. She had a few small plants on the window sills, and a bookshelf, though not as full as her siblings’. The main decoration was the white and gold blanket that was hung on the far wall. While Dahlia’s blanket was always cold and Snow’s was always warm, Blossom’s own held no such sway with temperature. She suspected her own was enchanted with life extending charms.

She had received it from her mother when she discovered her core ability: healing. Her mother may have been afraid for her; healers were not known for their long life spans.

On the bed, there lay a leather jacket, but it wasn’t Blossom’s. Not really anyway. The general collapsed face first onto the bed. After two seconds of nothing, she maneuvered herself onto her back, and draped the over her torso. I’m trying mom, she thought.

Who she was trying to think at, she wasn’t sure. Blossom’s parents were with the goddess Dela now. But doing this at the end of a long day was, somehow, a little therapeutic.

The woman rubbed the soft leather between thumb and forefinger. She had spent the week after her parents died curled up on her bed, this jacket around her shoulders, completely numb to the world. Snow had brought her food and taken care of Dahlia. Blossom didn’t think she would ever stop feeling guilty about that. She should have tried to stay strong for her siblings. Instead she had hidden away and let them down.

Finally she had come to her senses and taken her mother’s old position; she had become leader of their branch of The Shadow Club. No one was quite sure why the rebellion was called that, it had just happened. Perhaps a joke that simply stuck.

A door opened and closed upstairs. So, they had made up. Good. Snow and Dahlia's fights could get bloody if it got out of hand. Blossom’s siblings were stubborn, something of a fatal flaw when you had to compromise so often. The house would be quiet for a few hours now.

She reached up, towards the ceiling, examining the back of her hand. With a flash, a glowing spear, made of pure light, appeared in her hand. Snow had his swords and ice; Dahia had her knives and fire, but this was Blossom’s weapon of choice. Like her brother with ice, she could shape light into whatever she wanted.

Blossom let herself lay there a moment longer, then sat up, the spear disappearing into dark nothingness. She wanted to go over the plans for the base again, make sure she knew every nook and cranny in that building. Not that it would do her much good; she’d be in the infirmary, making sure no one died.

Sometimes it frustrated her to no end that she didn’t have abilities that were more helpful. And yes, the healers were important, but that didn’t mean they went out and fought much.

Blossom stepped out of her room, plans in hand and back to the war room.

[rex101111]

Swipes Of Sword And Fan 11

And another one! :D This one was supposed to be a birthday present for Anji but I only remembered it was his birthday by the time it nearly over. So now it’s a belated Birthday present for Anji! :D

Chapter 11: Exhaustion and Gifts

"You alright back there?"

"Shut up and keep walking." Baiken huffed as she felt her weight shift by a few movements of Anji's shoulders, her chin once more finding its place in the crook of his neck as she settled. "And if you want to be my white damned steed you keep it shut."

Anji chuckled lightly, the vibration moving from his back to her chest as she leaned on it. "I said I wanted to be your knight on a white steed, though I suppose this is a good conciliation prize!"

Baiken groaned as she pressed her forehead on his neck, despairing more and more at her situation. They were currently on the way back to their inn room for the night from a particularly rough job. A group of anarchy-obsessed lunatics thought the best way to spend the last week of the year was to cause as much destruction as possible in a small merchant town, and she and Anji came to fix the problem before too many people got hurt.

Apparently, their employer thought it wise to misinform them about the strength of said lunatics, thinking he could get away with a lower price for asking them to deal with a lesser threat. One of the things he failed to mention was that, somehow, the raving idiots managed to get their hands on Crusade Era war machine that still had most of its bullets.

Bullets that all missed mind you, but the junk heap was still a bitch and a half to take down, Baiken taking it upon herself to do so while Anji took care of the humans trying to stop her. The result of the whole disaster was that Baiken was so exhausted and bruised she could barely move, and with nothing but an underwhelming payday to look forward to.

However, maybe not as underwhelming once Baiken had a long conversation with their employer about the importance of truthfully describing a damn job, of course.

Not that she would be able to do so now, so bone tired she had to swallow her pride and ask Anji to carry her on his back to their inn. Right now Baiken doubted she could threaten a half-blind rat.

So much for the New Year's Eve party Anji wanted to drag her too. Not that she mourned the so-called company, or occasion, it's just that towns like this always brought out the good shit with parties like these. Merchants always had a few spare bottles of Sake handy these days. She was hoping to snag a bottle or two for the road ahead.

Not to mention that she had some…plans of her own for the morning of the New Year. She hazarded a guess that she would be in no mood to make anyone happy tomorrow, utterly focused on ripping that skeevy mayor a new one for nearly getting them killed.

It was almost enough to make her feel guilty. Almost.

Guess Anji will have to-

"You keep scowling like that you'll leave a mark on the back of my neck!" Anji called out with a laugh, knocking her out of her thoughts, "and not the fun kind either!"

"Shove it." She muttered against his neck before lifting her forehead and replacing it with her chin. "Bad enough that you're carrying me like an invalid, no need for you to jabber my damn ear off."

"No shame in needing assistance Baiken." He replied easily, patting her gently where he held her thigh. "I'm just trying to make sure you don't scowl all night, its New Year's Eve!" He gestured with his head towards some of the colorful decorations strung along the streetlights on their path. "Try to enjoy the atmosphere a little!"

"Enjoy it huh?" She tutted dryly. "Like you're enjoying the feeling of my tits on your back and my thigh in your palm?"

"Exactly!"

She clicked her tongue at him and flicked him on the cheek from where she draped her arm over his shoulder. "Prick."

"I am to please." He answered smartly, eliciting a brief snort from Baiken as she settled on his back again, pressing her ear to him to hear the dull thuds of his steps through his shoulders. Shoulders that shifted as Anji slowed and looked to the side, Baiken following his gaze to see a cascade of flashing colors in the direction of the town square. "Looks like at least someone is having fun tonight eh?"

"Yeah, a bunch of clueless assholes." She spat with a scowl. "Drinking and dancing and acting like a bunch of feckless fucking teenagers." She scoffed. "Probably had no damn idea those manic idiots were planning to plow that war machine right into them at full speed."

Anji made an agreeing hum, "good thing we skipped out on the party to put a stop to that than!"

Again, a brief stab of guilt shot through her, helped along by her exhaustion causing the memory of how Anji raved about how much fun the party would be and how excited he seemed about the prospect of going to such a large gathering for the first time in months.

Instead he spent the eve of his birthday fighting a bunch of raving madmen and carrying her on his back while she bitched in his ear.

The thought made her screw up her face slightly, letting out a sigh. "Sorry we had to miss it Anji, I know you were looking forward to it."

Anji slowed for a moment, looking back at her in surprise before smiling gently and going back to his previous pace. "Don't worry about it Baiken, I was honestly just planning on gathering some blackmail on the mayor for our payment discussion tomorrow."

She huffed in amusement at the thought; always count on Anji to gather info while everyone else was busy getting hammered.

"Though I suppose I won't have to bother." He chuckled, patting her thigh again. "Looking at you now, I think you'll just need to glare at him for two minutes and he'll pay us ten times the money he should have been paying us for this job to begin with."

This time she just laughed outright, shaking with mirth as Anji no doubt grinning like a fool beneath her. "Glad to know you're taking this in stride, most people would complain about carrying someone a few miles on New Year's Eve."

"Not if that person is you, Baiken." He stated cheerfully, absurdly pleased with himself. "Most people would kill to be in my position." He moved his fingers along her thighs where he held in her in a way she might have appreciated more if she wasn't so damned tired, another pleased chuckle bouncing in the air. "Happy Birthday to me."

She flicked him on the ear with a huff, a fleeting rush of heat going through her cheeks. "Watch your grip." He laughed again, Baiken outright refusing to be pleased with how the vibrations of his chest going through his back felt on her aching muscles. "It's not your birthday yet, asshole." She paused for a moment, remembering a suggestion he made when he saw how tired she was. "…Though, if this is your idea of a birthday present, I could just let you carry me like a blushing damned bride, bet you'll get a kick out of that won't you?"

"Don’t be ridiculous Baiken." He said easily, surprising her with his flippancy, voice calm and reasonable. "You know I'd never put you that kind of indignity don't you?"

Baiken felt the heat rush back to her face, stronger this time as she buried her face in his shoulder with a groan. "Dammit, why are you always so…so…"

"Magnanimous?"

She shook her head with a scoff, "a pain in my ass."  She laughed breathlessly for a bit before noticing she was having an unusually hard time keeping her eyes open, her lids weighing more and more as time wore on. "Shit…"

"Baiken? You alright?"

"Yeah yeah…" She mumbled weakly, sagging against him. "Just…falling asleep I think." She punctuated the point with jaw stretching yawn. "Man fuck anarchists…don't give a shit about anybody but themselves…"  

Anji laughed again, and in her fading consciousness, it nearly made her smile. "Well if you're that tired feel free to take a nap up there, I'll wake you when we-"

"Anji."

"Hmm?"

"When you get there…" She scrunched up her face to stay awake a bit longer. "When you get to our room and put me down…open the drawer on the end table…" She yawned again, leaning her head more heavily on Anji's shoulder. "Got…a surprise for you…"

The last thing she heard before she succumbed fully to sleep was Anji gaping like a fish in dismay, apparently utterly flat footed by the implication of the possibility that Baiken actually did something nice.

She would be insulted if he didn't have a point.

----

"Baiken…Baiken come on."

Baiken only shoved her face deeper into the barely there fluff of her pillow as Anji's hissing whispers bounced off her head. Grumbling as she felt her aching bruises faintly pulsing under her clothes and her partner started nudging her shoulder.

"For fuck's sake Anji…" She growled as her patience ran out and she threw her head up to glare at him. "What do you want?"

He completely ignored her displeasure by lifting a steel folding fan into view, "did you really buy this for me?" Baiken looked up to see Anji with a tender look in his eyes that made all the anger in her gut disappear before she could do anything with it. "This is…Baiken isn't this a bit much?"

Baiken looked at the fan for a moment before sitting up and leaning back against the wall. "Did you spread it open?"

He barked out a laugh and made a rather elaborate hand gesture to open the fan, the lights of the city catching the steel as it unfurled and revealed a design of a cloud of blue butterflies swirling on the leaves from one stick to the other. "Is this a custom design by chance? Because I don't think I've seen this modal anywhere."

"Got it a few weeks back." Baiken shrugged quietly. "Took a big chunk of my share as you'd imagine." She raised a hand to stop him when she saw him open his mouth, probably to offer to do something stupid like pay her back. "Less than half of that fucking sake bottle you bought me though."

He rubbed the back of his head with a nervous laugh, moving the fan between his fingers with a faraway look as a smile grew on his face. "Still a bit surprised you did this, I don't think I mentioned needing another fan, considering I have Zessen."

"Zessen is still just the one weapon." Baiken noted, pointing at his gift. "Consider this a backup, sure it can't channel Ki or blow anyone's head off…but it's steel." She gave a casual shrug. "Good steel too, sharp, you'll probably cut a neck open easily enough."

"Fashionable and practical!" He called out in delight, making Baiken roll her eyes. "Who knew you were so skilled at gift giving!" He grinned with all his teeth at her, "I'll have to up my game when your birthday comes up won't I?"

She huffed and flopped back on her futon. "Don't expect me to answer in turn Anji, you'll still only get half of what you give to me."

"You act as if that's supposed to discourage me!"

Baiken resolutely ignored the heat rushing to her cheeks, again, and buried her face in her pillow. "Go to sleep Anji." She heard him hum in delight, as he got ready for bed, changing into his nightclothes, closing the window, and laying down next to her.

She waited for his breathing to even out before she whispered, "happy birthday Anji", before she allowed herself to sleep.

(She spent the next morning convincing herself she gave him his present early because she would be in no mood to give it to him later and she did not intend to owe Anji a damn thing.    

She couldn't quite manage to convince herself that she wasn't pleased at the sight of his new steel folding fan tucked into the waistband of his hakama.)

[vinodiriso]

Mejika Nikki: Inheritance from a Phantom.

She didn’t know it yet, but that was going to be one of the recurrent dreams belonging to most of her nights. Not a dream though… more of a nightmare, indeed. Yoshino knew what she was experiencing was not real but at the same time she could not deny the sensations attached to it. Those were absolutely real and concrete.

She queued outside with many other people under a tangerine sky, they were all waiting for something hidden behind closed doors. There were friendly faces in blue uniforms at the heads of those lines, everyone of them was smiling and nodding politely as they welcomed the queued ones in, one by one.

Yoshino shifted her gaze around, she wanted to understand what was going on, where she was, what she was doing there. She tried to grab somebody by their shoulder but regardless of the words she spoke, none seemed to figure her out. At that point she was desperate to learn even the slightest about that situation.

“Excuse me!” she cried out in agony as she addressed one blue-dressed guard (guard? when did she realize those were guards?), a woman with luxurious blond hair cut in a short bob.

“Yes, ma’am?” her voice was kind and soothing.

“Where are we?” Yoshino asked, clinging at her clothes.

“Please, ma’am, just follow the queue” the woman replied with a cold smile. Her politeness spread no warmth, it was as glacial as ice itself. It burnt on the Nara widow’s skin.

“I want to know! Where are we going?! Tell me!” by that time she was wriggling like a hopeless fish which had swallowed the hook. Many ran to her, guards and not, attempting to contain her rage, but she managed to shake their hands off.

“Where are we?! What is waiting for us?!”

“No more question, ma’am. Please, get back in line.”

Yoshino shouted and thrashed her arms. She wanted to escape. She needed to escape.

The gentle expression of the woman turned into a furious frown. Her features changed accordingly: she became an aged man with salt-and-pepper, shoulder-lenght hair tied up into a bristly, erect ponytail. Wrinkles around his eyes and mouth made him even more intimidating in his appearance. Yoshino knew whose that face was and had she been able to think rationally in that moment, she would have realized that was her father-in-law’s face, whom she had nothing to be scared about at the very least. Right then though… that was the most fearsome face in the entire world.

“JUST GET BACK IN LINE!”

As she bolted upright with short breath, she had to get used to the lack of illumination in the room. It was plunged into the deepest darkness, the tealight candles she employed as night lights had to have been blown out. She was wheezing and trembling, her forehead was sticky with sweat as much as the back of her neck; she tied her hair up to find some rest, but that would not work against the nervousness she was feeling.

It was too late to get a bath, moon was still up in the sky, so Yoshino sorted out to get herself a cup of tea and just wait for the sunrise. It was not the first time she would spent the entire night awake anyways, so she felt less irritated that usual. Honestly, there was nothing capable to pull an emotion out of her in that state. The only thing she wished for was to float around that sense of dullness forever until the end of her days would have approached: she didn’t want to feel anything. She didn’t want to fucking deal with any shit for as long as she was alive. 

Oh, of course, how could have she forgotten the migraine? It always made sure to turn up uninvited.  It felt pretty much like her skull was smashed with a fifteen-tons-weighting hammer, beaten up repeatedly and with gusto. Most of the times it came with such heavy pulsations she could barely lift her body up, the only thing she was enabled to do was crawling under the blankets and clenching her palms against her temples in hope to ease the pain.

“Fuck,” she moaned, teeth gritted, “go away. Go away. Go away.”

It didn’t work, but Yoshino was not going to get overpowered by a bad headache, not that time. She wobbled through the large corridors of Nara compound, one side of her body pressed against the wall in order to support her up and onward. At every throb she found herself shoving her eyes shut and tightening her jaws in a hollow bite, but she manged to reach the kitchen and fill the boiler. Now the water was heating up, the woman sat at the rectangular-shaped table with her head in her hands.

The next morning, the Three-Heads-Council would appoint her precious, little son head of his clan and Yoshino was so afraid. Shikamaru was still too young to take that responsibility upon himself, he didn’t know what being a clan head meant… Shikaku had no time to teach him.

Oh, what a rash thought had just crossed her mind! How bold from her to think of that name, the name she had avoided for days. It affected her on a physical level: a precise stab into her chest, a tough one who would have hurt for weeks to come, it made her gasp for air.

She raised her eyes and, as expected, he was there in front of her, his charcoal irises fixed on paperwork he brought home from the Hokage’s tower, his lips bent in a serious grimace. She had stared at him working for so much time… she remembered just how red she became when he looked up and found her studying his face like a love-stricken teenage girl.

“Come here, darling,” he used to say that, and as soon as she reached him, he pressed a kiss against her soft mouth. “I’m sorry. I promise I will not work at home anymore.”

It was a lie, but Yoshino didn’t mind when he spoke at her like that, with that tenderness in his husky voice.

No, no, she shook her head: he was not there. He would never be there again. He was dead. Dead for his village, dead for his homeland, dead for his comrades, dead for his honor. He was dead for everyone but her. Oh, yes, he preserved her safety… but what about her sanity? What about those unfilled silence none could take up? What about the coldness in her bed none else would ever be entitled to melt away? Without him, she was lost. Even worse, she was dead just as much as he was, she had no reason to be alive.

Yoshino buried her head into her arms, too weak and tired to think properly, too sick to function. The kettle started an obnoxious whistle which only reinforced her headache, so the woman removed it from the stove. Was she to be considered a woman anymore though? That new label was already glued on her back and followed her wherever she went: widow, the widow of the Great Chief and Jounin Commander Nara Shikaku. According to the Konohanians, a widow had to renounce to her status of woman to fence herself in at home and grieve her husband until her eyes would have dried out or her children would have given her a grandchild to sacrifice her life for.

So, if she wanted to list up what Shikaku’s demise had granted her by far, she would have written: 1) loneliness; 2) lunacy; 3) unwanted epithet.

“Where are you getting all this bitterness out of, Shishi?” she mumbled to herself, stirring up the herbal mix she had selected for her tea, “aren’t you satisfied enough with his death? Do you really want to unravel your heart through over and again until the little shred of humanity you still hold will be ripped to pieces?”

Of course not. Dullness and daze were much more preferable, a complete abstention from life and a consequent lack thereof. If only all the people around left her for dead just as her dead husband…

Sound of tranquil sips consumed into the disturbing silence of the shadowed room accompanied the rest of Yoshino’s night, freed from draining lucubration that only brought unwanted pain forth. Morning was about to come and the mother (yes, she liked that label more) knew she had to wake Shikamaru up, as much as that made her cringe. She felt ashamed to disturb his well-deserved rest after having fought a war for such an embarrassing minor inconvenience as a formal appointment; they all knew his father’s place was his to inherit, just like Shikaku’s mansions he had already been charged with by Rokudaime. Her beautiful son, too young to be burdened with that title… her innocent, sweet, poor little fawn ready to be sacrificed to Atlas’ altar.

“Shikamaru,” she murmured so very quietly, gently shaking him away from his dreamless sleep, “wake up. It’s time.”

His hazel eyes (or rather, her hazel eyes pasted onto a Nara-like face) fluttered open in bewilderment as his mouth twitched a couple of times. It took him a few seconds to realize he was home, safe and tucked into his bed, his mother was kneeling right beside him. Yoshino knew that look: his father and her had the same look for several months after the war. Son of two scarred souls, and yet those couldn’t prevent him from gaining one as well. Yoshino felt so sorry and regretful.

“Yeah, ma,’” Shikamaru muttered with a drowsy voice, rubbing his eyes open, “give me ten minutes.”

“Okay. Just be sure to come down in time for breakfast.”

He nodded with the same energy he had shown prior. That drew a sigh out of his mother’s lips but she knew better than fight with him about it: he was just made like that, but it was not his nature to contravene orders, especially considering just how much all the family was emotionally bound to breakfast. It had been the last meal the reunited members had eaten all together before the two males would leave for the battlefield.

“Don’t ya eat anything?” the boy munched the words coming out of his mouth together with the warm rice as he observed his mother looking out of the window absentmindedly. He was perceptive and his gaze was as sharp as a sword: after all, it was his best weapon.

“No, I’m not hungry” Yoshino shook her head with a soft temperament Shikamaru had hardly seen from her. Her stomach was corked and her mouth too exhausted to work on food… moreover, her morbid trail of thoughts did not help her appetite.

Shikamaru decided not to reply. Wise choice. “You know, there are quite some possibilities I won’t be chosen as the next leader.”

Yoshino hissed in denial, she maintained a skeptical attitude. “Tsk! Your grandfather is the one charged to elect a new clan head. Do you think he will risk removing the title from his own bloodline? Don’t be dumb, Shikamaru.”

“Yeah, I know that myself,” the younger acknowledged with a compliant tone, “but I am too young to be appointed. Breaking the rule will not do us any good… it would end up doing more harm than anything.”

The woman bit down her lower lip as she realized Shikamaru was not wrong. Tradition was fundamental to Naras, a load-bearing pillar none would ever dare to break. Their clan was conservative and devoted to its culture to an enormous extent. Now that their head had passed away, would they have stuck with the tradition of appointing the first child of the previous leader or were they more close to the idea of never letting a young man like Shikamaru rule their lands?

“Guess we will find out in a flash,” the chuunin shrugged it off like it wasn’t a big deal. 

Yoshino could sense he was just forcing a tough approach, his actual self was much more worried. That was the closest and most precious inheritance his father had left to him and he was ready to take it upon himself. Not receiving that position would delude him beyond words and make him lose confidence in his ability, but at the same time he was aware he could not fight the law, he was taught to respect traditions above else. A teaching Yoshino had learnt to appreciate during the years she had spent by Shikaku’s side, yet now she was boiling with rage and anger… sure, there still was a chance Shikamaru would have been appointed as Nara clan head, but it was thinner than before.

“Yoshino-sama, Shikamaru-dono…” a dark-haired head peeped out from behind the entrance door. The woman recognized Daichi’s figure, one member of her personal escort. Daichi was the youngest component of Nara Guards Corps, being him only nineteen at the moment of his designation; now he was twenty-four and still one of the best Kagemane-specialized shinobi in their clan.

“It’s time to go. We are moving in five minutes.”

Yoshino nodded in agreement weakly as she dismissed the ninja. She hoped her nerves would resist at least until the ceremony was over. In all fairness she didn’t even know where she had found the energy to wear an appropriate mofuku, that black garment only endorsed her funereal mood and worsened her dizziness and general ache.

Shikamaru was at the head of their cortege wearing the most likely only one formal kimono he owed (he despised that kind of clothing because of the occasions it was linked with), Daichi and Daen both covered wings position while Yoshino walked in the middle, behind her son. On those official situations, she used to lead the procession alongside her husband with Shikamaru being secured strictly by two Guards. The symbolism was clear: clan head and his significant other conducted the clan towards a brighter future, while the fruit of their union was shielded by the highest-ranked ninjas in their family. Now, though, she was considered a frail, dried, crunchy leaf ready to be stepped on and crumbled. That dark humor elicited a bitter smile out of her lips.

“All hail the proud fawn and his beautiful, honored mother doe,” Yoshino was addressed by a sarcastic, adult male voice. It took her no effort to identify the source of such a comment: a tall man with a black eye patch was catching up with the group at his pace.

He was similar to her deceased life companion the way a pine and an oak resemble one another: both shared the typical Nara traits (slanting eyes, thin, black hair and an oval face shape) but more than that there was nothing that could recall Shikaku to mind in him, although those two were blood-related cousins. The man was taller and bulkier than her husband, other than spreading a cockier vibe. Shikaku, on the other hand, was the proud bearer of a regal elegance in speech and step that that guy couldn’t even dream of.

“Morimaru,” Yoshino greeted him with the same sympathy she would save for a cockroach, “care to explain your presence here? The meeting we are going to attend is reserved to the titleholder family.”

“In a hurry, Yoshino dear,” he bowed respectfully, although Yoshino could sense no regard in his gestures. “I’m here in quality of eldest male blood-related to royal family.”

“What?!” Shikamaru didn’t manage to bite his tongue in time. The look he gave Morimaru was as blistering as molten lava. Truly her son, without any doubt.

The boy’s reply only made him gloat. “Oh, poor fawn, I thought your father taught you the law better. Don’t you know the rules of our clan? Now that our dear Leader is deceased, may Gods bless his soul, our legislation orders us to choose a new head. Legislation imposes to old Shikaichi-sama to choose a proper successor to my cousin, who would be you, without any doubt, but unfortunately you are way too young to guide our family, Shikamaru-kun.”

“In case of premature passing away of the head, whether the first born child is younger than twenty, the eldest male related to the child will be appointed in their place,” Shikamaru recited the code by heart, glowering at Morimaru like a rabid dog.

Yoshino was shocked to a major extent. After all what Shikaku had done for the Naras, that was how he would have been repaid? With his beloved son being excluded from the leading race? That was an insult to his memory.

“Do not dare to speak about Shikaku like that, you jerk—!”

“Yoshino-sama,” Daichi was fast to stop her before she would lapse into further badmouthing. “We have to go. If you wish to follow us, Morimaru-dono, we would be glad to escort you.”

“Not a bad idea at all, Daichi-kun,” Yoshino could see just how tight his face muscles became as soon as Morimaru called him that, “please, Shikamaru-kun, lead the way.”

The double doors were pushed open by the youngest Nara. They creaked as they revolved on hinges, stone screeching in contact with the floor. Anxiety clutched Yoshino’s chest, she couldn’t help but glancing at the man standing behind her and the threatening air about his relaxed expression. She couldn’t let her husband’s legacy go wasted on that human refuse, but she felt so powerless. She could not influence her father-in-law in any way and the rules could not be changed in accord to Shikamaru’s situation, could they? Morimaru would never return the title to Shikamaru once he had turned of age, he would have bore it until death and after that his children would inherit what was once property of her son.

Yoshino walked as slowly as she could, her steps echoed against the damp walls as she furiously turned her brain inside out in the desperate search for an idea. What could she do? What could she do?

“Mom,” Shikamaru put a hand on her shoulder, asking her for a brief pause. Yoshino looked at him, a bit worried for the sudden serious tone in his voice.

“What’s wrong?”

“Whatever happens from now on, I don’t want you to blame yourself.”

Yoshino bit down her lip. Her son knew her all too well. “I’ll try. But don’t you dare to blame yourself either. Your f-father…” she choked on those words. She could not enunciate it without a solid knot springing in her throat.

Shikamaru nodded solemnly. “I know. Shall we enter?”

The doe took his hands and grasped it. “Let’s go.”

Upon seeing them all gathered together into that large room, Yoshino had no trouble remembering exactly why she hated those meetings. The dark chamber had only two narrow openings on the top and was built on two separate levels. On the tallest part there were three hanging arrases with the clans symbols. Before those, three towering stalls where three old men seated. The Nara spouse immediately recognized Shikamaru’s grandfather, Nara Shikahiko, who was looking down at them with those black eyes of his in the middle of the line. 

On his right side there was Inoichi’s grandfather, Yamanaka Inoto, whose skin was so thin it looked translucent. He had been a very attractive man in his younger days, no doubt, but now there was almost no trace of it, aside for a pair of green orbs that still seemed bearing quite some brightness. 

On the left there was Chouza’s father, Akimichi Choutaro, a man even broader than his son (which was an impressive thing alone) with a wilder, white mane that fell loose on his back. He brought forward no hint of gentleness, his hands were as warty and knobbly as a farmer’s.

At the floor lever there were a couple on the right and a trio on the left. Ino was accompanied by her grandfather, Inodai, and the two of them held a regal composure in their suffering: the elder man was encircling her shoulder in a tight embrace, while the girl kept her hands one into the other, her facial expression was neutral in the attempt of pushing away every emotion. 

Chouji and Yasuhime turned to glimpse at what was left of the Nara family as soon as they entered, but Chouza murmured some sort of warning that made them look away. Yoshino was grateful for it.

The royal Nara stood in the center of the room, side by side, after they had politely bowed to the Council. Their escort kept themselves aside, as well as Morimaru: as much as he liked to make them feel his breath on their necks, he knew he had to follow etiquette. Yoshino was shaking a little bit, but with Shikamaru grabbing her hand she had nothing to be afraid of.

“We are all here,” Choutaro said austerely, scolding down at his audience with those hawk-like eyes of his, “to acknowledge a painful loss in our clans. Two heroes have been ripped away from the warm solace of their families. Before further discussion, I invite you and us all to pay our homages to the deceased and the bereaved through a minute of silence.”

Spying from beneath her lashes, Yoshino saw Ino lowering her head down, some tears rolled fast down her porcelain cheeks. Shikamaru’s grip became more intense.

“My grandson Inoichi has greatly honored his lineage and his whole clan,” Inoto continued, his voice was shallow and breathy as expected for a man of his age, but still ruling. “For this, his memory will be conserved in the years to come by his descendants as well as his subordinate clansmen.”

“Same applies to my son, Shikaku,” Shikahiko sounded worn out by grief to a trained ear like Yoshino’s, but she suspected none else could notice it. “He has been a great leader for our people and the Nara shall never forget him, as Yamanaka will never forget Inoichi. Yet this objective is only obtainable through the sacrifice of whom bears their name. Nara Shikamaru, Yamanaka Ino,” the mentioned two knelt down in respect (Shikamaru also let go of her hand), “this task is upon you.”

“We are honored to oblige!” they recited in unison.

“Your intentions are commendable, but as you may well know this is not the only thing that counts for our families,” Choutaro resumed the speech after a pause. “The desire in both your fathers’ hearts was for their clans to be passed down to you when the moment had come, but they have left us too early with two children that are not eligible for the position. Because of that, we have been called to choose substitutes while waiting for you to turn older.”

Yoshino’s heart froze in her chest. And so, after all, Morimaru was right: Shikamaru was not going to be appointed next head of Nara clan. She could already sense his depraved sense of victory, his malicious self-gratification. It was appalling and revolting. She saw out of the corner of her eye Shikamaru’s complexion growing paler. He could not gaze up to meet Shikahiko’s face, he felt too betrayed by his own blood.

Inoto spoke first. He stood up, although with some difficulties, keeping himself on his feet with a long, ivory cane. “A man should never outlive his child,” there was compassion in his teal eyes as he settled down on his son Inodai, Ino’s grandfather, “for the tragedy that has stricken you, Inodai, I express my condolences. I demand you to take back your role as leader of Yamanaka. This is not a task that should be passed on a man who has already suffered enough torments as you have, but please, keep it in mind that you are doing this for the future of us,” he gestured at Ino, who was still leaned on one knee, “your granddaughter. Will you accept?”

“I will,” Inodai replied with force. “For the memory of my son and the future of his daughter.”

“Shall your name be praised among our people, Yamanaka Inodai,” Inoto said, Yoshino perceived his emotion as he spook, “for you have taken willingly the greatest responsibility for a man not only once, but twice.”

He nodded and knelt down by Ino’s side. Yoshino started to tremble as she took into realization that it was Shikahiko’s time to speak. Morimaru grew more excited, she could hear his breath accelerating.

When Inoto seated back, Shikahiko came to his feet, his limp hindering him even with a cane to support him. The woman’s hands were shuddering as she clung on the edge of her mourning vest, eyes open wide in the moment she fixated it on her father-in-law’s mouth. She hung off his words, like everyone else in the room. She could feel on her own skin their morbid curiosity about the destiny of Nara. She didn’t care about it one bit, she only wanted to know the fate of her son.

“Traditions are determining to us all, be one a Yamanaka,” he pointed at Inodai, that smiled a little at him in return, “a Nara,” he indicated Morimaru, standing in the darkest shade of the room, “or an Akimichi,” he proceeded to sign Chouza, who dropped his head in reverence.

“Traditions, and the respect of those, are the very base of our clans and our greatest strength,” he went on, “our most prized possession is the Ino-Shika-Cho formation, the covenant between our families.”

“The past has always been a beacon for the future, a specimen for the path we should follow. That we should, not that we are called to.”

Shikamaru raised his head in confusion. “Grandfather, please, speak clearly.”

“What I mean is that tradition always proved to be a great model to imitate for us,” the eldest Nara’s voice became more passionate, he clenched his free fist closed, “but there are cases where tradition does not provide any archetype and a man has to take a stand and assume charge of innovation. That is, my friends and relatives, the case I found myself in.”

Yoshino didn’t understand. Did that mean he choose to appoint Shikamaru, no matter his age? The clan might not have accepted it at first, but the woman was confident her son would provide a great leader just as much as his father had been in the past. She would be by his side to give him advice as long as he wanted to, as long as he didn’t find himself a woman to accompany his life course.

“This is not the first time a Nara leader dies before his descendants have turned rightful to claim his heredity,” this time, it was Morimaru’s turn to contest his uncle. He kept his voice steady, but Yoshino could feel it vibrate with fury and anxiety. The freshest occasion to steal her husband’s position and now he saw it being taken away right in front of his eyes. “The procedure has been established many and many years ago, Shikahiko-sama.”

“This is the first time, though, that a Nara head dies without any rightful close relatives,” Shikahiko remarked, “the law of our clan is oral and based on previous cases. When my father died in war, I was ready to welcome his clan as his last gift. When my great-grandfather Shikato became a victim of Uchiha’s fury, by the time Konoha was still a dream of Senju Hashirama, his brother treasured the clan waiting for the little Shikaichi to be ready to embrace his inheritance. The family bond connecting them was thick and close. Neither you, Morimaru, nor my niece Kadoko are close enough to custody Shikaku’s greatest possession.”

“And who are you going to call for this job, uncle?” Morimaru was gritting his teeth, his voice was the shriek of a wounded lion, “who is more qualified than me to become head of Nara?”

Shikahiko’s gaze spaced among his audience. Everyone was eager to know his answer to a question that, truth be honest, belonged to them all. Shikamaru was the most obvious reply the previous leader could give: his grandson had in him the power to look after the Nara. Please, say his name.

“It can’t be me,” Shikahiko started, “I already am a member of the Three-Heads-Council and I cannot resign from this enormous duty, it would be dishonorable from my part. My grandson, on the other hand, is too young and naive to fully cover the head role, he is not ready.”

“Still, there is a person who has the bravery and the power needed to receive this task in memory of my son, a person who knows well the sacrifice requested to a leader for the sake of their clan… the wife of the prior mentioned leader.”

Every single pair of eyes in the room turned to Yoshino. She felt like fainting. This can not be real. He could not do that to her, not after all she had endured… she would have broken right under that umpteenth burden thrown on her shoulders.

“You cannot be serious!” Morimaru exploded, Daichi took him by his arm but the older man shook the guy off, “she is not born a Nara, she is not a member of our clan! Damn it, she is not even a member of our village! She is an outsider! We will never acknowledge her as the clan head!”

Shikahiko ignored him and talked directly with Yoshino. Those burning black orbs were branding Yoshino’s frightened, hazel gaze, but he didn’t care. She knew why: the only thing that counted to him was to protect and guarantee Shikamaru’s future as a leader. Which was, after all, the same thing Yoshino wanted as well.

“You, Yoshino, are chosen as the guardian of this title into our noble family. My son, Shikaku, is no longer here to watch over the forest and his people, the Nara. A placeholder you are, yes, though the time ahead of you is difficult and yeasty and the decisions you are called to make will mark our family’s destiny. Shikaku, my son, blood of my own blood, trusted you when he chose to put into your womb the seed and the hopes of our family, making you the mother of the heir. Now, I entrust you with the great appellation of honorable clan head of Nara. Will you accept?”

What hurt Yoshino was the word he used, ‘placeholder’. According to him, she was an object useful to fulfill his aims, a piece of his shogi board. No, not a shogi board, for she was the Queen of chess. It suited her to a T, a powerful and strong piece, capable of slaying whatever enemy put in front of her for the sake of her King, but still weak enough to be eaten by a simple, well-positioned Pawn. The irony was evident.

“I…” “Yoshino-sama…!”

Shikaku made her the mother of the heir. The mother of the heir… like she had no will or voice in it. It was nothing short of an atrocity to say that out aloud, unforgivable, shameful, insulting. Shikaku had loved her! He did not reckon her a breeding cow, she was a woman, she was his beloved wife! She was a person! He had loved her! …had he not?

The tangle forming in her throat was as hot as the blood she tasted in her mouth, a revolting sip of pure, liquid iron, the cry originating from her chest scratched her flesh open, she was falling apart. Why her? Why was it  always her?

Shikahiko (and all the people in the room) were waiting for an answer with different heart dispositions. She could smell fear, power lust, indignation, sense of betrayal, consternation, daze… every emotion pierced her through like fine needles. She knew tears were watering her arid orbs, yet she could not fight them back. She was left truly defenseless.

“I will” the faintest whisper left her pale lips, but in the thick, heavy silence filling the room it was as loud as a fired gun.

“Ma’!” Shikamaru’s call fell on deaf ears.

“I greet you, Nara Yoshino, head of the almighty Nara Clan, protector of the eastern forest and its people, paladin of the fawns and descendant of the ancient hunters,” Shikahiko proclaimed with royal dignity. 

Each epithet weighted on her back that threatened to break under all that pressure, but eventually she managed to keep herself intact. Not the same could be assured about her spirit. She was irremediably split.

“May your reign be prosper and rich… Kage no Mibojin.”

“Yoshino-sama!” Daen was intended to stop her from asking further explanation. “We should head back to the compound. The news of succession should be announced by our new leader-”

“Daen, please, spare me this pretense. It nauseates me,” she was done with them all. His skewed, usually stern eyes were flooded with worry. Yoshino knew he was extremely faithful and loyal to the previous Nara head and, as a consequence, to his family he had sworn to protect. He would give his life to save Shikamaru’s or hers, she was not dubious about it. Nonetheless, she could not tolerate the sight of his face, of those Nara-ish features he brought forward.

“Let Morimaru have this honor. I am sure he looks forward to sully my name in front of the whole clan reunited. He aches for destroying Shika-ke’s reputation, doesn’t he? I don’t care about it. Just fuckin’ let him do it!”

“Yoshino-sama!” she lent no ears to the rebukes Daen kept on exclaiming, she moved towards the stairs. She had seen her father-in-law going to the rooftop deck straight after the meeting end. Inodai had striven to talk to him, but Shikahiko seemed not to appreciate his concerns, since Choutaro told his Yamanaka friend something about the hardness of his task, or at least she understood that from reading their lips. The hardness of his task… what task? Giving to a reluctant, dirty no-Nara the most important title for his family? 

The salt-and-pepper-haired man walked fast to his destination, Yoshino was familiar with that dignified stride: it was the same his son had used during all of his life.

She would not surrender like Inodai. She had to speak with Shikahiko, no matter what he would have said. She didn’t believe his words: there was a different reason for why she had been appointed instead of Morimaru that Shikahiko had chosen not to reveal. She, though, was about to get the truth out of his deceitful tongue, that was her thought as she went up to the building rooftop.

“Much time has passed from when your feet were heavy and secure as shinobi’s ones,” Shikahiko stated. He was leaned against the short, gray rail, as he watched the forest down them. Birds sang no-stop, it was love season for them: sparrows, ravens, robins and many more she hadn’t learnt the voices of. “Now you’ve acquired the lithesomeness of a true lady and the gentle heart of a mother. I struggle to see again the cold-blooded kunoichi you once were, Yoshino.”

“Not that you’ve ever wanted to see me anyways, old man,” she replied as she went to flank him. The trees profound green was always a splendor to look at, she found it peaceful to breathe in the sweet, fresh air of the forest, especially in the moments of unrest. Those soft leaves were the witnesses of her shakuhachi melody, an ancient song full of sadness and regret that spoke of a love badly enshrined.

“Our relationship has never moved mutually to the best direction,” he admitted, “but I’ve never loathed you, Yoshino. You are the mother of my grandson, after all, and you were the pride of my pride.”

“You didn’t want him to marry me,” she accused him with her breath short. She would not allow him to go back to himself after her husband’s death: he had never been a good man, and he was not going to be one because of his loss. “I was a stain on your family’s reputation. The next-to-be clan head that marries a foreigner? Who had ever heard of that?! You’ve opposed our union since the moment he proposed to me!”

“I was sure you would not prove a good mother, both for the lack of sensibility you had shown that far and for the ailment you harbor in your body,” Shikahiko corrected her, “but reality of facts had belied me.”

“Do not pull that sacrosanct attitude with me, old man,” Yoshino spat out and turned right to glare at his composure. She gripped the rail with both her hands, trying to contain her anger. “You have never accepted me into your family, and it’s not only for my sickness or my bad temper… you have hoped I would die the very same day I gave birth to Shikamaru so that he would have been left with you and Naoko-san.”

He kept quiet for a long minute, he examined the shapes of the clouds above their heads. Eventually, he sighed. “Yes, I did. I wanted you to be dead, Yoshino, because I believed you were worthy neither of my son, nor of my clan. When you’ve fallen unconscious after Shikamaru’s birth, I prayed you would never wake up again… the baby was healthy and Shikaku was attractive enough to find another spouse in no time, someone better who could raise his offspring.”

Yoshino had to hold on to the balustrade in order not to fall off the rooftop. She didn’t expect Shikahiko to simply drop off his dead son’s name like it was nothing, nor that he would assert such a cruelty right across her face. He had wished her dead at least once in her life… but nonetheless he had made her the head of his clan.

“Why not Morimaru?”

“He would have stolen the title from Shika-ke and consigned it to Mori-ke,” he retorted, “but I am sure you already know that. What do you really want to know?”

“Had he been…” she swallowed her dreads down, “had he been a more trusted man, would have you given the clan to him?”

“Without a second thought,” Shikahiko said, “Morimaru is the best head for this clan, way more than his cousin. Shikaku was loved among the Nara, but he had major faults as their leader.”

“How could you possibly be so vicious and disrespectful of your own son?” she cried out in disbelieve and hurt. She could not stand to hear anyone belittle her husband’s memory with unfounded criticisms… how could his father not bear any shame or pain covering his legacy’s name with mud? “He… he was the best clan head Naras have ever remembered! They loved him so much! He was their hero!”

“Shikaku was a charmer, a captivator, who knew how to make himself appreciated,” Shikahiko rectified her sentence with nonchalance, “unlike me, he had many ways to rabble-rouse people, he was a good leader because he had care to feed their illusions.”

“Morimaru— Morimaru cannot do this, you know it.”

“Yes.”

“So why, in your opinion, should he be such a good head?”

“Because he is just like me,” Yoshino was taken aback by his response. She stumbled back, her whole body on alert just as much as her eyes, which were pierced by suspicion. “He and I are so much alike that more often than not I have wished he was born mine, instead of my brother’s.”

“He does not sweet-talk people into anything he pleases, as my son used to do, he acts for the best. Often his actions are misinterpreted and make him appear as heartless and indifferent to other people’s lives, but there is nothing he loves more than his clan.”

“In my entire life I’ve noticeably neglected my family: my wife has forgiven me this fault, but my son… my son never had. I supposed that’s why he cared so much for you and Shikamaru, why he had always made sure that you were lacking nothing. All I’ve ever seen in Shikaku’s eyes was his contempt and his disregard for my persona, we shared nothing else but a passion for shogi. And now… now he is…”

Yoshino had never observed her father-in-law being prey of a sorrow as intense as the one he was experiencing in that moment. She saw him holding on to the metal as his head sunk down to mask a  pained expression, to mask a heartache he had all the rights to suffer. He pulled his face muscles taut to keep control of his reactions and Yoshino was suddenly stricken by the realization he was about to weep real tears. Nara Shikahiko, Tetsu no Dansei… was crumbling down under her eyes.

“A man should never outlive his children,” she recited, averting her gaze from the inglorious sight of  him. He did not deserve to be witnessed in such a state. She heard his breaths becoming more and more unsteady, some agonizing moans slipped out of his thin mouth, he was wheezing in anguish, yet he ultimately survived his crisis. He inhaled with force, then cleared his throat. In the end, Yoshino decided it was safe to look back.

His face had turned redder and more fatigued, but aside for that nothing suggested he had just cried the death of his only child. Yoshino had buried a husband, of course, but that man had buried a son. She could never imagine the despair and the grief that would torment her, had she been in his place.

She was surprised she found herself proving compassion for that man: after all, he was human just as much as she was. Do not harden your heart for anyone, my sweet child, that was what her mother whispered into her ear when she was a baby girl. World has been unfair to many people. If we all tried to understand each other, maybe it could become more just.

“Old man…” Yoshino dared to look at his black eyes, so similar to the ones his son owed and had captured her so many years ago. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“I am sorry for yours too, Yoshino,” he murmured back, “but I am sure Shikaku has found his peace, wherever he is right now. He had a golden heart beating in his chest, just like his mother.”

“He respected you very dearly, Shikahiko-san” Yoshino unfolded, this time her hazel pools were glued on the cerulean. She had faith Shikaku would not lament her disloyalty since it was done for the best interest of his father. “He took you as an example to improve himself. He was impressed by the strength you bear and although you two are very different people, he looked up to you. He considered you a great leader for the Naras.”

Peeping from the corner of her eye, she noticed a tiny smile tugging at the edge of the older man’s lips. It was so hurtful to look at him during those times, just as much as it was to look at her own son: they all resembled him so much. Her dear, beloved husband… forever gone.

“You still have to ask me the real question,” he reminded her. “I think it’s time for you to do what you’ve come here for in the first place.”

The Nara widow took a deep breath. “Tell me… why me?”

Shikahiko didn’t answer to it offhandedly, but instead he reflected upon the matter and the words to employ with great care.

“Because you were the best choice,” he confessed at last, dumbfounding Yoshino. That was not what she expected to hear him saying. “You have the passionate heart of a woman and the detachment of a shinobi, aside from being the mother of my grandson. You are smart and quick-witted, difficult to control and moreover, you have a taste for rebelling to anything you feel you are constricted to do. The other clan heads will have a hard time trying to frame you, unlike many other candidates I took into consideration. Although you may have been hurt by my utterance earlier, I meant what I said: Shikaku had chosen you to carry his child not only for the love that had tied the two of you. He had loved you to an extreme extent, but he was also sure you would provide a good second-in-chief for his leadership, which again proved to be a brilliant intuition from him.”

“And despite you wanting to remove it from your memory, in your vessels flows the blood of a ruler. You have been trained to this since you were a child. You were once the princess of the Yukinohana and now the queen of Nara. You were meant to become a leader, a great one too. Let me ask you this again, away from any indiscreet ears: will you accept to guide our clan, Nara Yoshino?”

Yoshino’s eyes were veiled by melancholy and sadness. She had no escape for that: her life had driven her to that point and there was no turning back. For Shikaku, for Shikamaru, but also for Haru, for Sakumo-sensei, for Nuwa-obasan, for Arata, for Ayumu… she would not delude them.

That was her last, colossal call: being the head of the clan who had welcomed her. She could already tell that would have not been easy by any means, that there were lots and lots of obstacles to surpass, that many snakes were already hidden in the grass, but she would not let anyone down. One last jump and finally she would have rested. It was time for her to adopt a new label: not a woman, not a mother, not a widow, but a clan head. The Nara head. She would have given her best.

“I will, for my son and the memory of my husband. This is my inheritance.”

An inheritance from a phantom.

[xoleahbeanxo]

Mercka Squad: Chapter One

This is a story I wrote over a year ago and just left sitting for a time when I felt good about going back over it. I loved writing it and I love rereading it. I hope you’ll feel the same.

If you don’t like reading it here, you can also read it on Ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/15083603/chapters/34972910

Comments and criticism are welcome. Thank you for taking the time to read it. ^.^

Synopsis:

After the battle of three nations, seventy percent of the world was covered in a toxic magical radiation that’s killed everything that touched it. From the radiation spawned Creepers, violent and horrendous monstrosities, constantly hungering but never sated.

Those who survived the blast are forced to scavenge and carve out a living in the wasteland. Food and water are scarce, and garbage is treasure. That’s where the Mercka Squad comes in, an elite tactical group of mercenary…kobolds? That can’t be right?

“You know, they say war, war never changes. They must be right because this place, here, is a shithole.”

“The Centernal year is 36 AD…that’s After Destruction, thanks to the ever lovin’ fey High Elves and their inability to control their unending superiority over every living creature in the realm.”

“RUBY!”

“Sorry, sometimes I get carried away.”

“We know, dear, trust us we know. Maybe instead of telling them, perhaps we can show them in a beautiful and cinematic opus.”

“I think not Amethyst.”

“Both of you hush, now.”

***

…Latherimy stood atop the mass of corpses that lay at his feet. His frail elven legs barely held his disheveled figure aloft. The air was chocked with green gas that threatened to suffocate him but he clung to the last shred of life he had left. What would his people think of him, if he were the first of the Three Kingdom’s rulers to die? No, if he were deemed to die, he would be the last.

Gristleback leaned onto her hammer; the crisp skin that ran up her side had long since bubbled and scabbed over. It stung and burned like the very fires of the Underfall but she refused to falter. No, she would carry the weight of her oppressed people to the very halls of her two rivals, if she must. They will take note that Orcs, no, that her people had every right to grow and flourish as theirs does.

Auturo fell to one knee, the arrow imbedded there threatened to end his adventuring days forever but not his days to rule in the sun. Latherimy would kneel to the fire that all humans possess in their souls. He would teach the pointed-ear bastard that being an “infantile” race didn’t mean they couldn’t learn, couldn’t develop, and couldn’t unite the land under the banner of peace for the greater good. And Aurturo swore to kill anyone who didn’t agree to join the alliance. Yes, that would show them.

***

“Does anyone want anything; I’m going into the kitchen.”

“Citrine! Can’t you see I’m telling a story here?”

“Sorry Sapphire; I was trying to be helpful.”

“Don’t mind her; she’s got her knickers in a twist.”

“Thank you, Amethyst, that’s really-”

“I could use more pork rinds.”

“Sure thing, sweetie, I’ll be right back.”

“Would you mind if I continued the story?”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Citrine?”

“Nah, she’s heard it before. Go on, before out reader gets bored.”

***

…Right. The three lords stood on a battlefield that had long since been carpeted with the remains of their clan’s members, their friends, and their people. It didn’t matter now, the three lords were balls-deep into this war and it would be determined now.

Aurturo hefted his sword and swung but the elf was nimble enough to move but not nimble enough to keep from collapsing under the weight of the green miasma. Gristleback stumbled forth, lifting her hammer with the last of her strength; her last swing would finish the point-eared bastard for sure.

But Latherimy would not be undone; he cast his hands to sky and muttered words of the ancient and all the sound left the world. The birds flew away, the fire stalled its crackle, and even the wind itself shut the fuck up.

“I may die here,” He uttered, his voice muted to the soft whistle that came from worlds away. “But I will take you and all of this to hell with me when I go.”

“You fool, what are you doing?” Gristleback dropped her hammer and reached for him.

“Meeeh, you fool, what are you doing, shut up, I’m winning, duh!” Latherimy’s voice spiked a sour tone but it faltered next to the whistle that grew louder.

“You may be a prick.” Arturo stepped forward and rammed his sword through the elf’s middle. “But you know what; I’ve got a bigger one for you.”

“Ugh, men and their inbred need for a pissing contest, even at the end of things. Let this be done.” Her hammer crunched down on the elf’s head, splatting his brains all over the place.

The human looked at the Orc and smiled. “You know, I never disliked you.”

“Liar,” She said, splatting him for good measure.

Now the orc female was all alone and there was no one to splat her. So, she looked up at the sky to the glowing green fireball that was falling faster than a shooting star and with it came death, the four horseman, and maybe even their mothers, who knows, but they were all there.

“Bring it on, you pussies.” Gristleback sneered in triumph seconds before it hit.

***

“The toadstool cloud could be seen from miles around. A radiated shockwave rolled through the countryside, obliterating everything in its path and man, did it suck.” The sleek blue kobold said from her perch on the rickety looking couch. “Farms destroyed, kingdoms fell, and almost everyone died.”

“You know, this story gets more bitchin’ each time you tell it.” A ruby-red kobold snickered as she knocked back a glowing green bottle of Mountain Dew.

“It’s not a story, Ruby,” A shimmering purple kobold snapped at her, dumping her popcorn on the mesh metal floor. “This is real history, right Sap?”

“Sapphire, thank you very much. And yes, these are annuals of our histories from over tens of thousands of years.” The blue kobold scrolled down on the glowing tablet in her hand.

“More like bullshit with a side of crap, if you ask me.” Ruby snarked and grabbed a handful of popcorn from the floor.

“How else do you explain the radiation swamps that cover seventy percent of the world?” Sapphire adjusted the pinched lenses on her snout.

“Bad luck!”

The purple kobold snickered at Ruby’s response.

“Glad you find the death of millions funny, Amethyst.”

“Meh, life is sacred, nah nah, didn’t you just shoot a douche bag in the face the other day, Sap?” The red kobold chuckled.

“The bastard had it coming.” She said pointedly as she plucked her glasses from her muzzle, folding them neatly before slipping them into their leather pouch.

“Amethyst, I brought your another soda!” A shimmering yellow kobold walked into the room, passing a bottle of glowing green liquid to the heavy-set kobold stretched out on the couch.

“Thanks, Citrine but…I don’t drink this stuff.”

The yellow kobold touched her chin, her eyes glazing over.

“It was me, genius. I asked for pork rinds.” Ruby snapped.

“Oh right, be right back.” The yellow kobold started down the stairs again.

“I swear to god…goddess…or Steven Spielberg that she’s a dumb as a box of rocks.” Ruby glared at Sapphire.

“Ruby, you stop that right now. She can’t help it!”

“I personally think she’s getting better.” Amethyst passed the soda to Ruby. “Drink up and smile, for a change.”

“Fat chance and judging by your waistline, you know a lot about those types of chances.”

“Sapphire, I brought this back for you.” Citrine climbed back up the stairs with nothing in her hands.

“Dear,” Sapphire pinched the bridge of her muzzle. “I didn’t ask for any-”

Behind her came a tall scrawny looking elf dressed in a tattered navy-blue parka. Her camo pants were tore so badly that her long johns could be seen underneath. She had a modified AK-47 strapped to her back. Her belt lined with various tools, traps, and a broad bladed sword. It was more a homemade machete that bore and intricate hilt of her people. She pulled her goggles up to rest on her tattered, flannel cabby hat.

“Mercka Squad?” The elf’s thick cockney accent fell out of her mouth like someone dumping out a sack of potatoes.

“Yes!” Sapphire stood up from seat and straightened her freshly pressed BDU’s.

“Thank the goddess I found you.” She rushed forward.

Ruby was off the couch in a second pressing the tip of her combat knife to the elf’s side. It was so large in her hand that it could double as a sword but she wielded it better than most humans, orcs, or elves.

“That’s far enough, forest fart.”

“I mean you no harm.” The elf raised her hands; in one she carried a yellow index card.

“Don’t mind her, she’s more than a little demented.” Amethyst got up and snatched the index card away, handing it to Sapphire.

“I come on behalf of Druger-Ox; he has a mission for you.” The elf was quick to explain her presence.

“An elf working for an Orc, that’s a laugh.” The red kobold snickered as she sheathed her knife again.

“It’s an important matter…involving stolen secrets, hmm.” Sapphire read the card to herself but commented aloud.

“That’s right, a thief took it and ran into subway system, we can’t follow.” The elf stated.

“What kind of idiot-”

“A kobold like yourself, ma’am.” The elf snapped.

“Fuck off! You must by high.” Ruby cackled. “Everyone knows most kobolds hid underground only to be buried amidst the remnants of your ancestor’s past fuck ups.”

“Amethyst, if you’d please.” Sapphire snapped.

The pudgy purple kobold slid across the metal floor on her belly, coming up beside Ruby fast enough to catch her off guard. She closed her hands around the kobold’s mouth and wrest her to the couch where she wrapped her legs around the feistier female’s waist.

“I apologize for my companion; she’s a bit of bitch.” Sapphire tucked the card away. “A kobold, huh? That’s interesting. And how much is Mr. Ox-Orc willing to pay?”

“Druger-Ox, ma’am,” The elf slapped the yellow kobold’s hand away as she was caressing the elf’s hip. “One hundred, ma’am,”

“One hundred?  Is this some kind of a joke to you?” Sapphire’s crystal blue eyes narrowed.

“I could go as high as one hundred fifty.” The elf reached into her pocket and pulled out a credit card.

“One hundred and fifty,” Amethyst grunted, still wrestling the other female on the couch. “That’s like a spit in the face!”

“I-I…I can give you half right now, seventy-five thousand.”

“Well, I suppose...wait…what was that again?” Sapphire stopped in mid thought.

“I can give you eighty thousand, right now, just please take this case. Mercka Squad is the only ones who can go into the places we can’t and we really need you to do this.” The elf was almost pleading now.

“I suppose so.” The blue kobold feigned her surrender. “Stolen documents sounds very important and all. I suppose it’s almost like our civil duty…our paid handsomely, civil duty. Tell Mr. Orc-Ox we’ll accept his standard offer and will report to you in two weeks to a month on our progress. Please give me your contact info and the payment.”

“Oh, thank you so much for this. All the information you need is on the card. Druger-Ox wants to be perfectly clear, you can contact me anytime, day or night, just please find those documents and…bring the kobold back alive.” The elf sighed, her body growing limp with her relief.

The elf punched a few buttons built onto the face of the card and passed it to Sapphire. “I’ve cleared you for eighty thousand credits; the rest will be released to you upon completion of the task.”

“Yes, yes, you have our word that we will return the documents and the prisoner ASAP.” Sapphire shook the elf’s hand nonchalantly. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we need to prepare for our manhunt.”

Citrine blinked and looked at Amethyst. “I thought we were hunting a kobold?”

“Not now.”

The elf looked from the yellow kobold to the Sapphire with a look of worry. Sapphire fought to reassure her with a smile before patting the elf’s bicep.

“She’s just confused.”

“Certainly,” The elf nodded and pointed back down the stairs. “This way, right?”

“Yes, it’s the door that says ‘exit’, you can’t miss it.” Sapphire was struggling to compose herself under the weight of the loaded credit card.

The elf disappeared down the stairway as Citrine walked up to Sapphire. “Can you believe she’s stupid enough to pay us that much money?”

“What was that?” The elf popped her head back up.

Sapphire’s eyes shot open as she glared at the yellow kobold, her mouth hanging open. “Oh, I…It was…”

“I said, ‘can you believe she’s s-”

Sapphire wrapped her tail tightly around the yellow kobold’s throat and pulled her clean off her feet and to the floor, choking the words out of her.

“Don’t mind her!” Sapphire’s voice spiked in a very unbecoming way, her blue face growing purple amidst the frustrated blush. “She stupid…head wound as a child, we keep her around because she’s like family. We can’t find a home to take her in.”

Both Ruby and Amethyst looked up at her with their mouths hanging open in shock at the sudden rant.

“Oh,” The elf said, a little more put off now that she witnessed the emotion slaughter delivered to the yellow kobold. “Carry…uhm, carry on then.”

Again she disappeared through the hole. This time, they waited until they could hear the slam and lock of their metal front door before they did anything.

When they were sure she was gone, Sapphire released Citrine from her chokehold, relieved to hear her gasp for air.

“Why did you say all those awful things?” Citrine cried, wiping the tears running down her cheeks.

“Oh for the love of James Camron, I didn’t mean it, I was trying to get the stinky elf to leave. Come on, stop crying. I’ll buy you a stuffed puppy.” Sapphire fell to her knees, coddling the kobold. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

Citrine sniffled and nodded. “Ye-yes.”

“And you know I would only act that way to save your life, right?”

Citrine paused, her eyes rolling to the side as she thought. “I suppose so, though I don’t really know how that works.”

“She’s saying that if you’d fucked this deal up for us, she was going to skin you and make a pair of boots and a matching belt out of your hide.” Ruby snickered.

“Right.” Sapphire nodded.

“Oh, well then I’m glad you did it.” Citrine smiled widely, her tail bounced off the metal floor happily.

“Thank god.” Sapphire sighed and slid the card through the reader built into the side of her tablet, depositing the first half into their account.

“Sappy, you know how you said you’ll get me a stuffed puppy?”

“Uh, yeah, of course,” Sapphire looked down at the yellow kobold who was chewing one claw.

“Can it be a kitty instead? I like cats more than dogs.” Citrine wiped her wet finger on Sapphire’s pant leg before getting to her feet.

“After this is over, Citrine, I’ll buy you a roomful of stuffed kitties.” Sapphire smiled at her, before giving her cheek a soft pat.

“Really?”

“That’s right.” Sapphire slipped her tablet into the pocket of her canvas bag. “Now ladies, gather your gear, we have a thieving degenerate to find. We roll out in ten.”

“Aye, captain,” Amethyst saluted and hurried off into one of the rooms off of the main chamber.

Ruby reached behind the couch grabbing her hastily stuffed backpack. “Ready,” She forced everything back into their respective pockets before zipping, clasping, and latching them away safely.

“Ruby?” Citrine whispered.

“Whut?” Ruby pulled a cigarette from the pack sitting on the three-legged end table next to the couch.

“If she used my butt to make your hide boots out of…would they be called booties?”

Ruby laughed so hard she choked on the first drag from the cigarette. “What the fuck, that was so funny, even for you.”

Citrine wrapped her arms around the taller Kobold and kissed her cheek. “See, there’s a reason you keep me around.”

“I suppose so.” Ruby smiled and ruffled her golden head feathers. “Come on, let’s get you all packed.”

Sapphire watched as the pair left the room through the same door Amethyst had hurried through.

“Heh…booties, that is pretty funny.”

Sapphire shook her head, and picked up the well-polished Peacemaker from the bookshelf, still holstered on its bandolier. She was quick to wrap the belted bandolier around her waist, buckling it and tying it off around her thigh. The weapon was heavy in her hand but she managed to spin it a few times before slipping it back into the holster, just as her husband, David, had shone her once upon a time.

The blue kobold kissed her fingertips and touched the faded printer picture of a human with red hair and a dark handlebar mustache. The picture was taken a long time ago but the memory was always fresh. She was too short to be seen in the picture when she first put it in the frame. She always joked with her husband that she managed to get the best part centered anyway. They’d laughed about it but David always promised to bring her a new one as soon as he found it. He never did, thus she never felt it needed changing.

“Here I go again, David. Doing good, just like you taught me.” Her words were a whisper just in case the others were within ear shot.

She lingered her gaze a moment longer before turning to face the door. “Come on, ladies, daylight’s burning.”

“Of course it is; we live in a nuclear winter.” Amethyst spoke around the fingerless glove clenched in her teeth.

“I think it’s more of a nuclear summer.” Citrine mused.

“I prefer nuclear autumn myself. The way the leaves glow as they drift through the breeze to inevitably burst into flames and fall to the ground as ash has always reminded me of how fucked up life is now.” Ruby cackled as she snuffed her cigarette out on the wall before dropping the butt on the floor.

“Come on you misfits, let’s tuck tail and run.” Sapphire gave each of them a brief look over as they walked past.

They were misfits from horn to tail, she thought, a smile coming to her lips, but they were her misfits and she loved each of them very much.