#Perhaps that's why when he begins to hear the beckoning of someone who claims he could make the pain of this loss disappear

[gambit-phelbeez]

I wanna hug z!philza so much. would he have nightmares about this whole situation he’s in.

If he's not dreaming of flying through his home on unbroken wings relishing in the splendor of ancient gods and goddesses his sleep is fairly boring. No nightmares to haunt him, only the yearning of wind on his feathers. And that is worse than any nightmare his mind could conjure up.

[lucytara]

Yeah I get wanting some variation in your writing and whatnot. Hmm.

Gold. "I defy you. I defy your god. The laws of the universe said my love was gone from me. I said watch me save her." Bumbleby.

Have fun!

it’s possible. that i went. a little overboard with this prompt. 

"I defy you. I defy your god. The laws of the universe said my love was gone from me. I said watch me save her."

All four candles are lit in the corners of the small room, wicks burning purple and melting black wax. Her offering sits in a dish at the feet of the small statue - an old, worn piece of paper, bent and torn around its edges - and she herself kneels in the center of the floor, her hands clasped.

“I’ve never done this,” she begins, “but my name is Yang Xiao Long, and I humbly request an audience.”

Nothing happens, though she isn’t sure what she would’ve expected even if it had; the flames flicker with her unsteady heartbeat, the blood in her ears crashing as if waves in a storm. For some reason it’s embarrassing, calling on a higher entity who decides to put you through to voicemail.

She tries again, and aims for theatrical exaggeration; maybe the gods like a bit of a show. If she’s making a fool of herself, she might as well do it brilliantly. “O, Great Goddess! I call upon thee - All-Knowing Ruler of the Dead, Empress of the Night, Most Holy Lady of Darkness, Reigning Queen of Entropy--”

“I think that’s probably enough,” a voice comes from in front of her, amusement evident beneath its tone. “What was that one in the middle? ‘Empress of the Night’? I might keep that.”

Her head whips up towards the sound, and a woman in a deep purple cloak is leaning against her own statue, arms crossed and watching her performance with a look that can only be described as shameless delight. Gorgeous black hair framing golden eyes, like the sky wrapping itself around stars; the statue doesn’t do her justice.

“Oh my God,” Yang says, sitting back on her heels. All the preparation and rehearsing she’d done isn’t enough to conquer the shock of a beautiful, unearthly woman appearing in front of her and--

“Yes, I get that a lot.”

--mercilessly mocking her.

“Well, Yang Xiao Long?” the woman continues. “Why have you called upon me?”

“How do you know my name?” Yang says stupidly.

“I’m a god,” the goddess replies, a smile pulling at a corner of her mouth. “I’m the all-knowing ruler of the dead or whatever. Also, you said your name when you summoned me.”

“Fuck,” Yang says, struggling to regain her composure and failing spectacularly. “I - yeah. Right. Okay. Is it rude to swear in front of gods? And what do I call you?”

“I’ll allow it,” the woman says. “And you can call me Blake.”

“Blake,” Yang repeats; her hands open and close like a nervous tick. The name is a heavy weight in her mouth, settling her into steadiness. “I’ve come to request guidance.”

“Guidance?” Blake repeats, and gently lifts the note from the offering dish, turning it carefully around her hands without opening it to read it - she doesn’t need to. Yang registers faint surprise in her expression; yes, she’d assumed the sentimentality would fetch a rather large price. “This is quite the payment.”

“It’s the last note I have from someone who loved me,” Yang says. “I figured it would be sufficient.”

Those bright, inquisitive eyes glance over to her, and now the playing field has been reversed: intrigue and curiosity outweigh Yang’s atrocious initial delivery.

“Stand, please,” Blake commands softly. “I want to get a good look at you.”

Obediently, Yang rises to her feet, and with an odd jolt realizes she’s a few inches taller than the goddess. It’s unexpected, and it seems to unnerve Blake for a moment, too. Or maybe that’s the candlelight, throwing shapes and colors, turning the room cavernous. Maybe Blake is shrinking and she’s growing. Maybe once she was so tall the entire world trembled beneath her feet.

“You already have power,” Blake says, circling her curiously, and now she’s seeing what isn’t visible, looking for handprints on her soul. “You have been claimed. Whom do you answer to?”

“I didn’t receive this power from a god,” Yang says quietly. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

“That’s impossible,” Blake says, and her gaze is piercing into Yang’s heart; she sees its strength, but she sees its scars, too. And its emptiness. There is plenty of that.

“Touch me,” Yang says. “You’ll find no prior claim.”

“I don’t need to.” Blake takes another step closer to her, the way you’d inspect a painting in a museum. Hands at her sides, cautious of glass and rope. “I can see your aura. But it’s impossible.”

“I’m looking for something,” Yang says, and Blake glances up, briefly meeting her eyes. “I don’t know what it is. But I’ve been looking for something for what feels like my entire life.”

Quizzical, now. One by one the candles are burning down. The room is collapsing in on them, or perhaps that’s simply the god in front of her, looking like she’d dive into Yang’s veins and unravel her if it were permitted.

“Why me?” Blake asks finally. “You know what I’m the goddess of, don’t you?”

“You guard death,” Yang says, her voice impossibly gentle; dusk flows river-like from her mouth. There is a world Blake can almost see. “But you can’t guard death without also guarding life, right? I don’t know what I’m looking for, but whatever it is, I imagine you encompass it.”

“Poetic,” Blake responds, and waits further. “I would like the truth, please. Our time is running short.”

There’s no point in playing games with gods. “The truth is stupid,” Yang says bluntly, and the corner of Blake’s mouth tilts again.

“Try me.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Yang says, and Blake’s eyebrows raise in amusement. Bold, reckless, and absolutely pushing her luck to the furthest corners it can inhabit. “Accept me as yours, and when the time is right, I will tell you the truth.”

“Is the truth that powerful?” Blake says, curious despite herself.

The last candle flutters, throwing shadows from Yang’s eyelashes to her cheek. “I think it is.”

--

“Welcome back, Empress of the Night,” Ruby says upon her return to the Kingdom, giving her an exaggerated bow. “I hope you enjoyed your summon, My Lady of Perpetual Darkness.”

“What the hell was that about?” Weiss asks. “I haven’t even heard you crack a joke for, like, a millennia, and suddenly you’re the court jester?”

“She was amusing,” Blake says, shrugging. “Usually people are so timid and terrified. I felt like having some fun.”

“You?” Weiss says dubiously.

“Shut up, Weiss,” Ruby says. “You mustn’t speak that way to Our Patron Saint, Duchess of Death.”

“Now you’re not even trying.”

“Don’t you both have work to do?” Blake says, ending the interrogation before it can really begin. She’s not sure she’d have the answers for them, anyway.

--

Yang journeys east.

Find me again, Blake had said. The closer you get to my temple, the more I can see of you. She’d brushed aside Yang’s bangs, touched a single finger to her forehead. It felt like a teardrop, or a meteor shower. It felt like digging up a grave, or chiseling into stone. It felt like the last explosion. It felt like the first breath.

You are mine, Blake had said, and something about it had felt far too right.

She crosses from Sanus to Anima, spends days traversing forests and mountains, fending off bandits and monsters. Eyes flashing red and fire licking up her skin. Aura glowing golden before breaking. There is something wrong with the trees, she thinks; there is something wrong with the sky. Like I’m looking at them from the wrong side.

Nobody is there to answer her, and not for the first time, she wonders how she came to be so alone.

--

Blake watches Yang’s power unveil itself from above. Yang is hers, now, and though she can’t make house calls to the world below without a summon, she at least has instant access to her claims. There aren’t many of them, and Yang is different.

It reminds her of the God of Vengeance, almost - how he absorbs power before returning it, strike by vicious strike - but Yang’s is personal, sacrificial. She feels the pain before she can utilize it, and her anger is never cruel, her actions never misplaced. And she doesn’t complain.

Sometimes, Blake wishes she would: she can hear when she’s being talked to, even if she can’t respond. Every prayer, every curse, every devastation, every hope.

She waits for the sound of Yang’s voice, but it never comes.

--

There’s a small shrine in a village called Shion, which is still weeks out from the docks where she can potentially get a ferry to Menagerie, but the locals are kind, and honor her far too greatly for being touched by their ruling god. They direct her to their place of worship deep in the woods, and leave her without looking back. It’s a sacred thing, a bond between a god and their chosen, and law forbids them from watching her ceremony.

Yang pulls the candle from her pouch, lighting it at the foot of the shrine. She kneels down on the stone, worn with the imprints of a thousand prayers, and says, “Blake.”

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you again.” The voice comes almost immediately, as if its owner had been waiting to be beckoned.

It’s still a bit of a shock, though she’s much better prepared for it this time. “Hi,” Yang says, and stops there before she can fuck it up.

“Hi,” Blake says, and seems to be amused against her will. More guarded, less open. Yang can read the warning signs, but she’ll cut them off at the source.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she means it, getting to her feet. “If I waited too long to contact you, I mean. I’m...not familiar with this area.”

“Don’t worry,” Blake says, lowering her arms. “It’s only been a few weeks. I won’t smite you until at least a month.”

Yang laughs, and unexpectedly to the both of them, Blake goes deadly still. Her body language says Yang’s done something wrong, but her expression says she’s hearing music.

The candle is burning. The moment can turn itself over gently, if Yang knows how to guide it. She keeps her smile on, but makes it quiet. “You know, I didn’t expect the Goddess of Death to have a sense of humor.”

It seems to work. “I like to surprise people,” Blake says, and moves closer. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You never talk to me,” she says, pretending to be in control of something she clearly isn’t. “Why not?”

Only the forest speaks for a moment, branches creaking, leaves rustling. And then: “Do you want me to?” Yang asks.

“It’s...something people tend to do,” Blake says slowly. “But not you.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Yang says.

“It’s not a bother.” The words come out too quickly, tone too reassuring. Blake’s own want is what laces the conversation, rather than Yang’s uncertainty. That’s a new, dangerous line.

Yang takes a careful step forward, her eyes lowered to the ground as if in apology; they raise slowly, trailing over Blake’s form until meeting her gaze. Looking for lines she’s crossed, and should step back over; searching for lights that say go. Instead, she only finds an intense, hungry confusion - I want it without understanding what it is.

“You know,” she murmurs, “these statues - they never do you justice.”

And she lifts a hand to Blake’s cheek, hesitating over her skin - is that Blake’s catch of breath, or is it the wind? - before gently cupping it in her palm. She could lose an arm for this; touching a god without being explicitly asked is the greatest sin a mortal can commit, but Blake only stands there, unmoving, eyes wide and lips parted, the moon sitting in the hollow of her throat.

“Blake,” she whispers, and it can only be a god’s strength keeping her voice steady, “I’m never not thinking of you.”

The candle goes out.

--

Nobody is waiting for her when she returns. This is how gods give each other gifts - by saying, no, I see everything but I didn’t see you.

--

Yang starts talking to her, and changes her routes so that rather than taking the most direct path to Menagerie, she’s able to stop at some of the smaller shrines on the way. There are only two more, and she hasn’t called Blake since Shion. Yang hopes she’ll still come.

“Isn’t it strange,” Yang says, “how much easier it is to think about someone than to talk about them? I think about you differently than I can talk about you. I don’t even know if that makes sense.”

No response; not that she expects one. At this point, she assumes Blake’ll just kill her if she gets too annoying. Maybe a tree will fall on her, or she’ll do something embarrassing like trip over a rock and break her neck. “I can’t remember much about my life. I know there were people I loved, but I can’t see their faces. I must’ve traveled a lot; I don’t like sitting still. I don’t know how old I am, or even when my birthday is.” She’s never admitted this before; never admitted she came to lying on the ground, with only her name left ringing in her skull and a note in her pocket.

“I think you’re beautiful,” she tells the warm night air. “That’s what I was trying to say. Before. Blake, I think you’re beautiful.”

A star shoots across the sky, light trails leaving imprints against the swirling blue-purple-black of the galaxy, but it must be a coincidence.

--

Another shrine, another candle. This one burrowed into the side of a mountain, a dome of a room with a hand-woven rug for kneeling, several long benches behind. The statue sits against the far wall, centered.

“They’re getting better,” Yang says, getting to her feet. “This one, at least, gets your eyes right.”

“Hm,” Blake says, pressing her lips together. She moves to stand next to Yang rather than in front of her, and they both examine the statue together. “I suppose you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“Were the compliments too much?” Yang asks, impressed with how light her voice sounds. She nudges Blake’s elbow with her own. Oh, she’ll see how much distance she can cross. She’s already walked miles - she’ll swim oceans, too. “You said you wanted me to talk to you.”

“I didn’t say that,” Blake denies unconvincingly, and then pauses. “And in regards to your first question - I didn’t say that, either.”

Yang could tease her - so even gods like being called pretty, huh - or she could be brave, turn to Blake, take her face in both of her hands and lean in--

“Yang,” Blake says, and does step one of that plan by turning to her. “What do you want from me?”

Maybe the idea’s overwhelmed her to the degree that she can no longer see its risks - its potentially horrible, literally life-ending consequences - and that's what drives her to do it. Maybe it’s that Blake is looking at her like a poem; something beautiful, not to be understood by anyone but the artist who made her.

“What would you do if I kissed you?” Yang says, as if it were merely an interesting, hypothetical concept to explore and not the end of the world. “Is that possible, even if you wanted me to?”

This room is warm and close and silent. The clay is cracking where the floor meets the walls. A tunneled-through skylight is the only thing that keeps Blake from swallowing the place in shadows, instead coating them in an amber, dream-like glow. Like if you mixed the two of them together, you’d still be left with light.

“I think,” Blake murmurs, “we’re both going to have to find that out.”

Step two of her plan. Both of her hands cupping Blake’s cheeks. She’s strangely aware of her lifelines - do they mean anything to you, she wants to ask, does my life mean anything to you now and if it doesn’t, will my death - she leans in, their noses brushing, Blake’s breathing as if she needs to, Yang isn’t and she does; teach me about magic, teach me about memory, tell me how I knew you before I knew myself--

Blake kisses her, tired of her caution and hesitancy, lips parting and fists knotting around the fabric of her shirt. Yang expects them to crash together, like comets. She expects them to crumble and collapse under the impact, buried in the ruins of each other and suffocating. She expects them to decay there, reveling in their own destruction.

What she doesn’t expect is sunlight.

Her skin set aflame, Blake’s tongue in her mouth, hands traveling from her face to her lower back and pressing close - somewhere a rule is being written about the gods and desperation - Blake pulls away, gasps, her fingers begging for Yang’s heart.

“This power,” she says, mesmerized, staring at things only she can see, golden gossamer roots running up Yang’s veins. “Where did you get it?”

“I don’t know,” Yang breathes out, and kisses her one last time before the candle burns out. “But I swear I’ve never felt closer to finding out.”

--

Nobody attempts to stop her from barging through God’s door. Weiss and Ruby, Sun and Neptune; they all avert their eyes. I see everything, but I do not see you.

“What is she?” Blake asks, standing before them with her head bowed. “Please, God. I need to know.”

“If you weren’t already sure,” God says, “you wouldn’t be here.”

She hates it when they’re right.

--

Yang hits the docks; situated on the outskirts of a fishing village called Ito, and with constant transport to Menagerie, their shrine to Blake is the largest one yet.

“And this one?” Blake asks, before Yang has even begun to pray.

“How did you do that?” Yang says, staring up at her, startled. “Are we, like, super close now?”

“Shut up,” Blake says, but she’s smiling. She extends a hand, helping Yang to her feet. “Your soul calls me. You barely even have to light the candle, anymore.”

The sound of the ocean knocks on the door; the smell tackles the windows. Above, the seagulls are crying out, angry at all the fish they can’t have. Yang says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Blake says, and kisses her. Soft and chaste. Something so human and so immortal. “I missed you.”

“I’m your favorite, aren’t I?” Yang teases, her fingers catching Blake’s chin in her hands.

“No,” Blake says, and for the first time, smiles with her teeth. Oh, this is happiness. “I do this with everyone who requests my presence. I’m very popular.”

“I can imagine,” Yang says, brushing a thumb across her bottom lip. “So what else are you the god of?”

“You had a few of them right,” Blake says nonchalantly, settling against Yang’s body. She could be taller, if she wanted to be, but there’s so much beauty to see when looking up. “Night, and all things within it. Darkness, shadows. Death.”

“What else?” Yang says, watching her mouth shape every letter.

“Forgiveness, and justice,” Blake murmurs. Oh, there’s a fine print for this, and she’s violating every word. “Promises,” she continues. “Seduction.”

Hook, line - a heavy wave rattles the walls; oh, the sea, the sea! - Yang shudders against her mouth, salt sinking into her blood. Leaves her bouyant and floating, the earth bubbling up beneath her. Rising and rising and rising.

“Shockingly,” Yang says, letting Blake press kisses into the crook of her neck, “I don’t find that hard to believe.”

--

“God,” Blake finds herself standing before them once again, hands clasped and head bowed. She speaks formally in the presence of God, as is customary of respect. “Please, God. I am supposed to be guiding her, but I fear all I’ve done is lead her astray. I need to know where she came from, and where she is going.”

“Blake,” God says, and touches the top of her head with their hand, “she is close to your temple. Look at her, and tell me what you see.”

--

Menagerie is a busy, populated island, and Blake’s temple is the primary reason for that. Pilgrimages are made from around the world to pray at her shrine and leave offerings at her feet. Protect me from loss, help me navigate my grief, let me fulfill my promise.

Yang is none of those things. And when the keepers of the temple ask the reason for her journey, she says, “I am in love with her.”

“You have been touched,” one says, and bows to her upon entry. “You have as long as the goddess is willing to give you.”

The heavy doors close, but the room shimmers, firelight glittering over golden-accented walls. A large moon is carved into the marble floor, crossing over a sun. Before her is the largest, most intricately carved statue of Blake she’s ever seen, and it looks exactly like her.

Yang kneels.

“You know,” Blake says from behind her, “you don’t have to do that anymore.”

“No,” Yang says. “But it - it’s been a long journey. And I’m only here because of you.”

  Blake’s footsteps echo, her boots stopping at the north point of the sun. “How do you feel?”

It’s enough to make Yang smile. “I know you heard me,” she says pointedly, but her amusement is apparent. “You hear everything I say.”

“I thought I’d give you the chance to tell me yourself.”

For the last time, Yang rises to her feet. Blake’s eyes glitter, mischievous and playful. She looks as she always has, but clearer, somehow; defined and resolute. She carries the truth in the way she extends a hand, in the way she searches for Yang’s mouth. When they kiss, Yang swears she can see another world.

“I’ll tell you something better,” Yang says. “The truth.”

She leans down, bumps their foreheads together. Blake’s arms loop around her neck automatically. Oh, Yang thinks, if I were the god of anything, I’d want it to be habits.

“So what’s the truth?” Blake asks.

“The truth,” Yang says unshakably, “is that it was you. I woke up with no memory and a note, and somehow, I knew I had to find you. The only thing I’ve been searching for is you.”

It’s you, she says. It’s you. You. You.

--

“God,” Blake says, and this time God is ready for her.

“Blake Belladonna,” God says, and inclines their head. “Come. Show me what you have.”

In her hands is a small slip of paper, worn and ripped around the edges. “It is a note,” she says, and unfolds it gingerly. “It is a note, God, in my handwriting.”

“And what does it say?” they ask.

“Find me,” Blake recites, “and I promise I’ll bring you home.”

“Well,” God says whimsically, “you are the Goddess of Promises.”

--

Tears build in the corners of her eyes, shipwrecks gaining water. “Yang,” Blake whispers, and now that she is close, she can see everything. Meteors falling from their showers; the day the sun went out. “Yang. I’m sorry. I’m so, so--”

“Shh,” Yang murmurs, pressing her lips into Blake’s hair. “What are you apologizing for? I found you, and you brought me home.”

--

“Oh, this is exciting,” God says. “I so rarely get to come to Remnant on business.”

“God,” Yang says, and bows her head. The temple doors remain locked; Blake’s hand is clutched tightly in her own. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Yang Xiao Long,” says God. “You fell in the last war, over five-hundred years ago. Do you remember this?”

“Yes,” she says. “I was trying to protect my sister.”

“And what happens when a god falls?”

“We forget them,” Blake says. “Their power is forfeit; they are erased from our memories, and our world.”

“It is not a law of justice, but a law of reality,” God says. “Or it was, previously. Only you did not forget immediately, Blake Belladonna. I did not know it was possible for two souls to be so intrinsically bound that they leave traces in the other, but you did not forget, just long enough to leave her a message. It took five hundred years for Yang to fall to earth, and when she awoke, she did not forget, either.

“Gods are made, and this means that what we are gods of can change,” they continue. “Blake, you were not previously the Goddess of Death. You became it because you believed that Yang had died, and no god had as strong a connection to loss as you. Your power became a beacon, just as it now will be a beacon for Remembrance.

“And you, Yang Xiao Long,” God says. “Goddess of the Sun, of Loyalty, of Sacrifice. You were many things. And now you are the Goddess of Rebirth.”

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Hallucination

Prompts: i love your fics insanity and real or not real!! can i request another fic where a side is struggling to tell what's real and what's a hallucination? can be in the same like universe (carrying on with one of the stories) or a completely different universe/person, idm - anon

 *crashes into ur asks*

Hey if you’re still taking requests could you do just Janus comforting someone on the verge of a meltdown? Like lots of soft words and caring Janus? He’s my comfort character and I love him - anon

Thanks for the prompt!

Read on Ao3 Part 1 (ish) 

Warnings: talk of hallucinations, uncertainty

Pairings: focus on creativitwins, intrulogical, dukeceit, background LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic, you decide

Word Count: 3864

Sometimes Thomas watches things and it isn’t Remus’s fault.

Sometimes Thomas decides to watch something late at night, when it’s dark outside, even though Virgil tells him it’s a bad idea, and it isn’t Remus’s fault.

 Sometimes when Virgil has gone to his room and he’s fine, but Thomas’s mind can’t stop playing it over and over and over and over, he starts to expand on it and it isn’t Remus’s fault.

 He can’t remember the name of the video. Something to do with being stuck on a misty island in the middle of nowhere with a monster and villagers that wait to sacrifice tourists to the monster to sate its hunger. Something about a daring rescue or an escape plan doomed to fail.

 Something like…

 “Do not go outside. Do not turn on the lights. Don’t make sounds.” The old man draws the curtains sharply across the window. “And whatever you do, do not look out the window.”

 It’s late now. Patton’s asleep. Virgil’s in his room, probably asleep. The rest of them are still awake in the Imagination. It’s slumber party night for the twins, having created a big sprawling mansion in the Imagination for them to run around in. Logan is here, Janus is here, Roman is here.

 Villagers?

 They’re talking about what Thomas watched.

 Logan straightens his legs out. “It’s not a bad practice, staying quiet.”

 Janus rolls his eyes. “Come on, what is this, some haunted island?”

 “You saw the people in the video.” Logan rests his weight on his elbows. “Something was amiss.”

 “The only thing amiss was how awfully boring you lot are being.” Janus sighs and stands, stretching. “Well, I think a night of entertainment sounds wonderful.”

 “The old man said to be quiet,” Roman points out. Wait, is the old man real?

 “Do you know how prone to flights of fancy old people are?” Janus smiles. “Incredibly.”

 “Hmm.”

 “Oh don’t start that.” Janus rolls his eyes and his gaze lands on Remus. A smirk crawls across his face. “Well,” he drawls, sauntering across the room, “someone’s being awfully quiet.”

 Remus just shrugs. Janus crouches down.

 “What do you think about this monster,” he asks, tapping his fingers on his chin, “about the thing that sneaks around this island, peering into windows, through the keyholes of locked doors?”

 “Janus,” Logan warns.

 “What? I just want to hear what our other little scientist thinks about this.” He raises his eyebrows when Remus won’t hold his gaze. “No? Nothing? Need more data? Well, I’m sure you could ask around if you wanted to.”

 “We’re not supposed to leave,” he says softly.

 “I know you’re a goody-two-shoes, Remus, but you’ll never get anything done that way.”

 “Leave him alone, Janus,” Roman says with a wink, “he’s just mad at how pathetic the monster design was.”

 Long limbs. Dark eyes. Moved like shadow.

 “And the Boy Scout, coming to the rescue.” Janus rolls his eyes as he stands. “Aren’t you tired of being so boring?”

 Roman holds his hands up. “Hey, I’m all for exploring!”

 Janus sighs. “Ever the dashing prince, are we?”

 “Ask nicely and I may sweep you off your feet too.”

 The banter continues. Logan just sighs and pulls out a journal, the pen emerging from god-knows-where as he writes. Remus swallows and glances toward the window.

 In. Out. In. Out.

 Roman and Janus are still tossing barbs and jests back and forth. Remus cannot help but notice how loud they are being.

 The old man said to be quiet.

 Logan looks up when he begins to crouch down and shuffle behind the bed.

 “What are you doing?”

 “Changing.” He gives a half-hearted smile. “Texture spoons ran out.”

 He nods and goes back to his writing. Remus glances at the nightstand. Only 8:00. The conversation gets progressively louder. Logan joins in eventually, rolling his eyes at Roman’s increasingly elaborate proposals to bring in jukeboxes, disco lights, and speakers.

 “Let’s think about this logically. If the ghosts or whatever the hell the monster is sensitive to sound, why not pump everything to like, 300 decibels and blast their eardrums out?”

 “Or it could be that they just hear things like we hear things,” Logan remarks.

 “Mm.”

 “Why do I have to be quiet?” Roman spreads his arms. “I should not have to deal with that!”

 “Actually, you know what,” Janus says gleefully, “I agree. We shouldn’t have to be quiet. If this place doesn’t have adequate monster protection, that’s on them.”

 This place…didn’t they make it safe? Roman said they made it safe. Is it not safe anymore? Are the shadows—is the monster here?

 “Always the entitlement,” Logan sighs, seemingly resigning himself to the voice of reason as he settles his journal to the side, “assuming that everyone should cater to your needs.”

 “Oh come on, Logan. You have to admit that having a hotel that isn’t secure makes little to no sense.”

 Hotel? Isn’t this still the mansion?

 The low buzz of an LED sign comes from outside. Remus blinks. Has…has that always been there?

 “Not respecting the rules of wherever you choose to go makes little to no sense.”

 “That’s gotta hold up in court though.” Roman glances at Janus. “You get me?”

 “Yes, Your Honor,” Janus says, drawing himself up like a lawyer, “I would like to sue on the grounds that my intestines were devoured horrifically by a terrifying, savage beast that the hotel owners neglected to inform me of. How am I standing here, you ask, if my intestines have been devoured? Simple. Spite.”

 Roman’s off, cackling to his heart’s content. Logan bites back his own smile.

 “And how, may I ask, is this not the fault of yourself?”

 “May I say, Your Honor, that victim-blaming is not cute—“

 “Here here,” comes Roman’s voice.

 “—and also, the information about aforementioned monster came from someone who was not an employee of the hotel,” Janus finishes grandly, “therefore they can suck my—“

 Logan hits his hand against the nightstand, still fighting down laughter. “Defendant is charged with contempt of court.”

 “Do not pass go,” Roman chortles as Janus swoons dramatically, “do not collect 200 dollars.”

 “Remus,” Janus cries out, “avenge me!”

 Remus does not respond. He is too busy trying to figure out when the mansion became the hotel.

 “Remus,” Janus cries again, crawling dramatically across the floor, “save me from this indignity.”

 “No, thank you,” he mumbles instead.

 Janus huffs, pushing himself off the floor. “Then by all means, please tell us your ingenious solution to this monster problem that we find ourselves in.”

 Remus looks up, his face carefully blank except for a small smile. “I’m going to hide underneath the sheets,” he says in a soft, small voice, “because everybody knows monsters can’t get you when you’re under your sheets.”

 “That is adorable,” Roman chuckles.

 Janus’s eyebrows raise slowly until another fiendish smirk crawls across his face. “Are you scared?”

 “Yes.”

 “Aww,” he coos, “hiding under the sheets to get away from the monsters, how adorable.”

 Remus doesn’t respond.

 “If only the others could see you now,” Janus crows, “they’d know how intimidating you really are.”

 Logan takes his glasses off, polishing them with the handkerchief from his pocket. “As if you’re any better, crying over a torn seam in your cape.”

 “That bastard took two weeks to get right!”

 Remus ignores them once more, glancing at the clock. 9:45. An acceptable time to try and go to sleep. He moves slowly and quietly as he tries to get into the bed. The monster could be here. The banter continues behind him as he pulls the sheets tight around him.

 He does not see Logan glance over. He does not see that Logan frowns and glances at the clock, thinking perhaps Remus is more tired than he appeared, but…still. He does not see Logan look back at the others still talking, they’re probably not going to go to sleep for a long while.

 He does not see Logan look over at him as Janus leaves the room, claiming he’s going to go find somewhere more fun to sleep. He does not see Logan frown, looking to see Remus still on his side, huddled under the sheets. He does not see when Logan starts to count.

 One, two, three, four.

 One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

 One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

 He does not see Logan beckon Roman closer.

 He does not see Roman frown as he comes closer, sighing at the notebook in Logan’s hands.

 “Logan, why the hell can’t you take a break for…” he trails off when he sees Logan’s face. “What?”

 “Perhaps I like to keep myself occupied,” Logan says smoothly, even as he nods insistently to the notebook, “even in times where the circumstances might be less than ideal.”

 Roman raises an eyebrow. Subtle, Logan.

 “You are chronically incapable of taking a break, aren’t you?”

 “Perhaps.”

 “Do you know any words other than ‘perhaps?’”

 “Perhaps.”

 Roman hides a smirk as squints at the text.

 I think Remus is actually afraid. Don’t tease. - L

 Remus does hear Roman exhale sharply. He does not see him glance up at the bed before he looks back at Logan and nods.

 “Well,” he sighs, stretching and yawning exaggeratedly, “on that note, it’s probably a good idea to try and sleep.”

 Logan snorts. “And here I thought you were supposed to be an actor.”

 He swats at him halfheartedly as he starts getting ready to go to sleep. What that means is just a matter of snapping his fingers to change out of the prince costume. He packs his other clothes away and crosses the room, keeping his footsteps loud but not too loud.

 Now that he’s paying attention, he can see how scared poor Remus is. He’s frozen under the sheets, barely moving. As Logan starts talking quietly to himself, he sets his bag down next to Remus’s and sighs, moving around to make a bit more noise.

 Remus still doesn’t move.

 When he’s made all the noise he can reasonably make, he walks a little closer to the bed and reaches to fix the curtains, unable to stop the soft noise when his shadow falls over the bed.

 “Hey, Re,” he whispers, leaning down and brushing the sheet a little further from his face, “it’s just me, it’s just Roman. Can you open your eyes for me?”

 It takes him a moment but his eyes do open. He smiles down at him and cups his face for a moment.

 “Hey, there, Re,” he murmurs, “can I come join you?”

 He barely nods.

 “Thank you.” He frowns when he doesn’t move over. “You gonna let me in?”

 He can tell by the way his eyes glass over that’s not a good idea unless he can convince him otherwise.

 “Come on,” he whispers again, “scoot to the other side for me.” He nudges his shoulder gently. “Logan misses you.”

 Loren doesn’t let his mumuring falter but he does reach across the small space between their beds to lightly pat the side closest to him.

 Remus moves, as skittish as the new dragon pups, clutching the blanket tightly to his chest, his pillow gripped in his other hand. Roman swiftly takes the warm spot he’s vacated, wincing in sympathy as he shivers on the cold sheets.

 “Thank you,” he sighs, making a show of getting comfortable before reaching out for him, smacking his lips together in sleep, “now come here.”

 At his quickly stifled questioning noise, he drops the act and opens his arm wide.

 “It’s okay, Re,” he whispers, far too quiet for Logan to hear, “I’m not gonna hurt you, it’s okay.”

 He stares at him a moment longer before he realizes that shit, he’s not going to be able to move on his own right now.

 “Can I come get you, Re?” Roman smiles when he gives him another one of those jerky nods. “Thank you, I’m gonna pull you over to me, okay?”

 He takes him into his arms slowly and carefully, wrapping him up in the sheets until just the very tops of their heads poke out. He relaxes just enough so that he can maneuver him to where he likes, but he’s far from the sleepy pile he expected.

 “Hey,” he whispers, tucking his hair behind his ear, “you want to stay here with me, Re?”

 He blinks sluggishly. Roman bites back a curse and leans down to rub his nose against his.

 “Hey, hey, Re, you just focus on me, okay? Stay with me here—“ he tightens his grip— “right here…I’ve got you.”

 He frowns when he makes a small little noise that sounds like it could be his name.

 “Yeah, Re? You calling for me?”

 He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He kisses Remus’s forehead.

 “Nonverbal,” he whispers, “or just scared? Or both?”

 A moment passes.

 “Both it is then.” Roman tucks his head under his chin. “Why don’t you go ahead and close your eyes, Re, I’m right here.”

 They stay there, wrapped in the blankets, Remus warm and snug up against Roman’s chest. He plays with his hair, one of his legs slung over his to hold him close, working to lull him out of his frozen state. After a while, Logan stands from the other side of the room and pats Roman’s shoulder.

 “Your turn, Roman.”

 Roman rolls over. “Huh?”

 Logan nods his head toward the bathroom. “Shower.”

 Roman sighs dramatically and presses another kiss to Remus’s forehead, leaving his brother dazed, blinking up at Logan. Logan watches Roman leave before he turns his gaze downwards. Remus tries to pretend the shiver that goes through him at the way Logan softens his gaze is just the cold.

 “Remus,” he calls softly, voice barely louder than a whisper, “Remus, may I join you?”

 A pause.

 “Tap the bed twice if yes, once if no.”

 A pause, then Remus hesitantly reaches out to make two little taps.

 “Thank you.”

 He slides smoothly into the bed, reaching out to carefully slip an arm under his and pull him off of the sweat-soaked sheets—when did that happen?—and into his arms. Remus moves pliantly, tucking his chin into the space left between his chin and the pillow.

 “Hey,” he whispers, gentling his voice as he tucks his head closer to Remus’s, “hey.”

 Logan is warm. Is Logan—Logan said it made sense to be quiet. Logan knows. Logan understands. Logan always understands.

 “What’s the matter,” Logan calls gently, “can I help?”

 Remus swallows. “Monster.”

 “Are you afraid of the monster, Remus?”

 Remus nods. “Black eyes. Shadow. Kill you and Roman and Janus and then go find Patton and Virgil and Thomas. Bad.”

 “The monster isn’t real, Remus,” Logan says softly, running his hand through his hair, “it doesn’t exist.”

 Remus shakes his head. “We’re in the hotel on the island. It’s real. Roman left and the monster will kill him.”

 “Roman is just in the bathroom,” Logan corrects, moving his head to indicate the running water sound, “he’s alright. We’re not in a hotel, we’re in the mansion you two created.”

 “But the LED sign is buzzing outside.”

 “Would you like to look and see?”

 “No!” Remus wraps his arms tightly around Logan’s waist. “We’re not supposed to look out the window, the old man said not to.”

 “The old man isn’t here,” Logan says patiently, “I’m here. I have you. I’ll keep you safe.”

 “He said—he—he’s not real?”

 “No, Remus, he’s not real.” Logan gives him a gentle squeeze. “This is real. This is real, Remus, I’ve got you.”

 “You’re real.”

 “I am.”

 “You said it’s safe to look out the window?”

 “It is.” Logan squeezes again. “Would you like me to show you?”

 Remus nods. Logan leans up and pulls back the curtain, peeking outside. There’s no bright red light from the hotel LED sign. Just soft moonlight.

 “There’s no sign, Remus,” he murmurs, “you’re not in a hotel.”

 Oh.

 “The scar,” he blurts, his hand flying to his chest, “from the stab, what if it’s already got us?”

 “I don’t have a scar,” Logan says, lying back down and taking Remus’s hand, “here…feel.”

 Logan presses his palm to his bare chest, pulling his shirt out of the way so Remus can see. There’s no scar.

 “You don’t have one either���may I?”

 When he presses his palms against Remus’s chest, there’s no scar.

 “We’re…not there?”

 “No, Remus, we’re not there,” Logan says gently, “we’re here, in the mansion, safe, there’s no monster.”

 The water stops. A moment later and Roman emerges, tossing a towel over his shoulder. He sees the two of them in the bed and pouts.

 “You stole my spot!”

 “I had Remus to comfort,” Logan says smoothly, waving him over, “though you are welcome to help.”

 Roman ruffles Remus’s hair. Remus leans into it.

 “Ro, are you real?”

 “Yes, of course, I’m real, Re, what…” Roman trails off and his eyes go wide. “Oh, Re, did we—did I push you into hallucination territory? I’m so sorry, yes, we’re real, we’re here, we’re in our mansion, we’re safe, Re.”

 “Safe?”

 “Yeah, Re,” Roman murmurs, getting in to cuddle his brother properly, “we’re safe.”

 “Real?”

 “This is real.”

 Remus buries his nose in his brother’s real neck and holds him close. Logan stays by his side, stroking his hair and murmuring that Remus is here, they’re real, they’re safe.

 After a moment, Remus takes a deep breath and pulls apart.

 “You know the rules, Ro-Bro.”

 Roman grimaces, his head dropping to rest against Remus’s sternum for a moment before he nods. Logan looks back and forth between the two of them.

 “What are the rules?”

 “When Remus gets pushed into hallucination territory,” Roman says softly, “he sleeps alone.”

 Logan frowns. “But surely it would help to have us reassure you and help ground you?”

 “Wouldn’t help for the intrusive thoughts and hallucinations to include you too.”

 Logan winces. “I suppose not, but—“

 “Lolo we’ve tried,” Remus mumbles, “we—this works. It sucks and I hate it and so does Ro but this is what works.”

 “I trust you,” Logan says, squeezing Remus’s hand, “and I trust you to know what works for you.”

 “We’re just overprotective.”

 “I’ll say.”

 Roman gives him one last hug before standing and pulling Logan to his feet. “You know we’ll come as soon as you call.”

 Remus nods. “I know.”

 The room feels empty when they leave.

 The night passes.

 During the witching hour, he startles awake.

 The sheets are soaked in sweat directly under him. His eyes are wide. His breathing is too controlled.

 The monster is not here but the shadows are.

 Somewhere in this house, he knows, something is here. He can hear the voice in the movement of the curtains, hear the step in the way the floorboard settles. Hands never meet his tender flesh, a mouth never bites his fragile throat, but something is here.

 Step. Step. Step.

 The fear clouds his eyes as it drips into his ears. The light flickers. Something brushes a knuckle up and over his cheek. Something pauses outside his doorway.

 Through the depths of the fear filling his ears, something knocks.

 The chill rips its fingers out of his mouth and smears them over his throat. Something knocks again. There’s something outside. There’s something outside.

 “Sweetie,” he calls as he opens the door, “Sweetie?”

 Janus steps inside.

 “You’re awake,” he says, shutting the door and sitting on the edge of the bed, “it’s quite late.”

 “I know,” Remus says as he sits up, wary, “sorry.”

 Janus hums, reaching out to idly brush his hair off his forehead. The chill curls and lingers around his fingers, the shadows diving to hide in the lea of him, greedily drinking the fear from Remus. Janus goes to pull his hand away only to notice the prickles on Remus’s skin.

 “Are you cold, my dear?” He frowns and lightly dusts his forearm with his fingertips. “You look it.”

 Remus shakes his head. Janus raises an eyebrow, pressing his thumb hard against his arm to reveal a white imprint. It takes long seconds for the chill to let blood color the flesh again.

 “Let’s not lie,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking back up to catch Remus’s, “shall we, sweetie?”

 Janus reaches up to trace the air around the curve of his cheek, one finger lightly tracing his jaw. The electrifying tingle clenches his hands in the sheet. He tilts his head and hums softly.

 “What’s keeping you awake, sweetie?”

 The chill snarls, refusing to let go of his throat.

 “You can speak,” he encourages, lightly knuckling the underside of his chin, “it’s alright.”

 “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head a little.

 “None of that, now, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He closes his hand around his. “To be afraid is nothing to be ashamed of, sweetie, you know that.”

 The shadows move slowly, wary of him, eager to taste his fear. The chill huddles around it, icing it in place, refusing to let him breathe without reaching its fingers into the pit of his throat.

 “Oh, my dear,” Janus murmurs, running his fingers along the side of Remus’s neck, “can I do anything for you?”

 He shakes his head quickly. Too quickly.

 “Sweetie…”

 “You’ll be annoyed.”

 “I’m concerned,” Janus corrects gently, “that’s all.”

 Remus risks a glance at the shadows.

 “And you know, Remus,” he continues, lifting his hand to press a chaste kiss to its back, “taking care of you is never annoying.”

 A different type of fear tingles along his fingers as they brush the curve of his jaw. This one reaches deep, deep along his fingers, up his arm, down to the curve of his shoulder, wriggling in between the cold knots to pulse against him. The shadows bloom in the corners of the room, shying away from the light flickering over his face, his shirt, his hand.

 Through the mouthful of fear, his tongue wets his lips. “You’ll find it stupid.”

 “Never, sweetie.”

 “The dark,” blurts shamefully from his mouth, “I’m afraid of the dark.”

 “The dark, sweetie? Is this about…”

 “I got pushed into hallucination territory earlier.”

 Janus makes a noise of sympathy, murmuring an apology for teasing earlier.

 “I can’t see anything but the shadows,” Remus whispers, squeezing his eyes shut, “and the noises, and how empty it is because I know it’s not empty.”

 “And what helps this go away,” he asks, still cupping his hand, “what makes the shadows leave my sweetie alone?”

 “S-stay? Please, with—with me?” Remus’s breath starts to catch again. “Don’t—don’t let them hurt me.”

 “Oh, sweetie, of course,” Janus murmurs, “of course I’ll stay.”

 The poor thing chokes out a sob. Janus reaches forward to lie him back down when his hand brushes the edge of the sheet. He frowns. Picking the sheet up between two fingers, he winces. He can feel his fingertips rubbing together, it’s barely warm enough.

 Remus’s breath still hasn’t caught when he returns with a thick quilt, spreading it over him to banish the last of the chill.

 “Hush now,” he soothes, smoothing the corners of the quilt, “hush, sweetie, it’s over, you did so well, shh…”

 Janus climbs into bed, pulling the shaking Remus to his chest, his arms wrapping tightly, tightly around the poor thing as he cradles Remus protectively.

 “Come here, my sweet,” he whispers, “come here, now, shh, shh, you’re alright now, sweetie, shh, shh…”

 His cries soften, gentled into mewls against his chest as he warms him against his skin. The poor thing is still clenched tighter than a fist. He croons, taking his wrist in his hand and pulling him flush against him.

 “It’s alright, sweetie, you did so well, it’s gone now, you did it, there you are, here you are, right here, sweetie.”

 The poor thing whines.

 “Oh, sweet one, shh, shh, shh, my dear, you’re alright…” He makes a noise of sympathy when he doesn’t stop. “What’s the matter, sweetie, tell me, say it, come now…”

 He brings his hand up to stroke gently under Remus’s chin.

 “Say it, sweetie, tell me what’s troubling you so, let me help, I’m right here, I’m right here.”

 “The shadows,” he whimpers, “the shadows, I can—I can hear them, they—they’re everywhere—I—they’re looking at me, they’re touching me, I can—I can feel them—I—“

 “I’ve got you, sweetie,” Janus murmurs, pressing a kiss to Remus’s cheek, “I’m right here, nothing can touch you, here—“

 He pulls the blankets up and over their heads, creating a little bubble of intimacy in the dark room.

 “I’m here, sweetie, it’s just me, I won’t hurt you, you know I won’t. Shh, shh, hush now, sweetie, it’s alright.”

 They stay like that for a little longer, Remus sobbing out the rest of the fear as Janus hushes him softly, pulls him close, soothes away the last of the tremors with gentle hands and tender words.

 After a while, Remus pulls away.

 “…thanks, Jan.”

 “I promised,” Janus murmurs, “I promised that I’d do it when you need me to.”

 “I know.” Remus sniffles. “I just…wish you didn’t have to.”

 “Don’t ever feel bad about needing something,” Janus chides softly, chucking him lightly under the chin, “especially not when you really need it.”

 “Already sent Lolo and Ro away for hallucinations, you—“

 “They’re fine, sweetie, a little worried, but they came and told me what was happening.” Janus kisses his forehead again. “They’re not angry, they don’t begrudge you needing things, and they’ll be here for you. They always are.”

 “I know.”

 Exhaustion begins to seep into his eyes. He blinks sluggishly.

 “This is real, right?”

 Janus gives him a squeeze. “It’s real.”

 “Can I sleep now?”

 “Oh, of course, sweetie,” he murmurs, leaning back up to rest his head on the pillow next to Remus, “you go right ahead. I’ll be right here. I’ll keep the shadows away.”

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[regicidal-defenestration]

Victoria Died (and then some other things happened and we all got a bit distracted sorry about that Victoria)

.

A Death by Dying / Lost Cat Podcast crossover fic, because I think the Lost Cat narrator and Obituary Writer deserve to meet each other

.

[Lost Cat Narrator]

They say you have to go far away to realise what you had close by all along. They never did say exactly how far though…

[LCN]

“You need a holiday,” said Bojana.

  “What.” I said, because it’s quite an odd topic to spring on a person like that.

  “You need a holiday,” she said again. “I’ve booked us the plane tickets already.”

  I didn’t say “what” again, because you can overdo these things. “I have work.”

  “Your podcast?” Bojana asked, and she sounded unfairly incredulous.

  “And make music,” I added. “And-”

  Bojana stopped me. “You can do all that in America.”

  America? I thought to myself. “America?” I asked out loud, with more emphasis. “I’m not going to America.”

  “Yes you are,” Bojana said, and like that, it was sorted. We were off to America.

    *

  [LCN]

    The sign cheerfully welcomed us to the small town of Crestfall, Idaho, and informed us that it had been 5 days since the last unexplained death.

“That isn’t very reassuring,” I said.

“It’ll be a local joke,” said Bojana, but she didn’t sound very sure. Unexplained deaths, it seems, are an international uniting factor. Fun!

We stayed staring at the sign for a few more moments, in case any more unexplained deaths happened whilst we were watching. And one did, technically, although we didn’t actually get to see anyone die, which was disappointing. A man pushed past us, felt tip in hand, and carefully crossed out the number 5 and replaced it with a 0.

      He turned to us and frowned. “You’re new.”

This felt accusatory.

      Bojana said: “Did you kill them?”, because Bojana is good at cutting to the point, whereas I am more used to using enough words to make a story seem long enough to be worth it.

The man didn’t answer, which was definitely worrying, because you would think it is easy to say whether or not you’re a murderer. He had a firm, steady gaze, the kind that seems to have an internal monologue behind it, just on the edge of hearing. An internal monologue that might have sounded something like:

*

[Obituary Writer]

Victoria was dead, to begin with.

She was dead afterwards too, but I think misquoting famous literature always helps set the mood.

Victoria was dead, to begin with, and when I went to update Crestfall’s Unexplained Deaths Board, there were two strangers there, staring at it. You can always tell who’s new here, because for some reason they all react to the Unexplained Deaths Board with the same concern.

        I turned to them after changing the number, and introduced myself.

“I am the modest and handsomely dressed Obituary Writer of this little town called Crestfall. You must be new here, I can show you around if you want?”

      I also took a moment to adjust my stance so that they could both hopefully see the enamel pin on my lapel, which is in the shape of a typewriter and coloured with the bisexual flag colours, because they both seemed friendly, and you never know.

      The woman looked at me suspiciously. “Did you kill them?” she asked. Her eyes bore into me like she was trying to read the truth of my very soul, like if she just looked hard enough all the secrets of Victoria’s death would be laid out before her. It was the kind of stare that you can hear the internal monologue behind. An internal monologue, that might sound something like…

(the sound of howling wind. In the distance, a crow caws)

    Only joking. It’s impossible to hear other people’s internal monologues, no matter what Dan the Fake Tarot Man who lives on the edge of town claims.

A crying shame.

      “You’re taking a long time to answer that,” the man pointed out.

      “I am merely investigating Victoria’s death,” I replied, sounding suitably serious about the whole matter. “If you would like, I can show you my current notes?”

    The man frowned. “Why is an obituary writer investigating a death?” he muttered, more like he was speaking to himself than to me. However-

    “Obituary Writer,” I corrected him.

  A slight pause.  “Yes? That’s what I said.”

  “You called me an obituary writer, but I am the Obituary Writer."  Ugh. Tourists.

        The man and I held each other’s gazes. He seemed to be having an internal discussion with himself, perhaps even an argument.

Again - it really is a shame we cannot hear the thoughts and motives of others, don’t you think?

The silence stretched out long and sharp. I shifted. His eyes flicked down to my enamel badge. I looked slightly past his left ear. He looked up to a spot between my eyebrows.

      "I’m Bojana,” said Bojana. “Can we see your notes?”

*

[LCN]

Currently, my life does not have a motto, but if it did, I might decide on “never follow someone back to their house when they have already talked, at length, about murder.”

      “We’re going to die,” I whispered to Bojana.

    “We might not be,“ she whispered back, unhelpfully. "Besides, we’re on holiday. Lighten up a bit.”

      “Whilst searching for my cat, I have found all manner of things,” I whispered, although it was louder this time, and so more like a murmur. “Some of those things have been death, and some have been worse still, although I won’t go into those, since we are on holiday. The point is - I have no wish to be killed again.”

      “You two aren’t very quiet whisperers,” the Obituary Writer called back, stopping in front of a door and rooting around in his pockets for a key.

“Besides, I’m not a murderer, and I find that accusation slightly offensive.”

      Beckoning us to follow, he pushed the door open and disappeared inside.

I must admit: the house fit his whole aesthetic exactly. The curtains were a deep red, the carpets thick and shaggy, and there was, naturally, a typewriter, rather than a computer, left out on the dark oak table. There was another little pride flag in a skull-shaped mug, and on one wall hung a cork board that was covered in notes and red string.

“The house at Land’s End” read one note, which connected to another that said “The end of Land’s House???”, with three question marks, which is far too many for any normal person to use. Clearly, this job had put the Obituary Writer under large amounts of stress.

  I went to read further when -

  (the meow of a man-eating cat)

  - my thoughts were interrupted.

  He has a cat?

“You have a cat?” Bojana asked before I could. Damn.

  *

  [Obituary Writer]

The One Who Hunts wound himself between the man’s legs, purring.

“Three, actually. The One Who Hunts, The One Who Glares, and The One Who Sulks. They don’t eat people.”

      My two guests didn’t take that last sentence quite how I thought they would. The man stopped his idle scratching between The One Who Hunts’ ears. Bojana took half a step towards the door.

  “Okay, usually,” she began, “you don’t need to reassure someone that your cats won’t eat them.”

  “But I like to reassure people.”

    Bojana frowned. “I don’t feel reassured.” She looked over at her friend. “Do you feel reassured?”

      “I got eaten by cats once, whilst searching for my own,” the man said, with a dramatic stare into the middle distance. “They ate my right hand and my left foot, then they ate my nose and my tongue. My ribs were gnawed and my heart-”

      “Dude,” interrupted Bojana. “We’re on holiday, remember?”

      The man held up his hands apologetically but I was keen to hear more. If he had truly been eaten alive by cats, then I, the Obituary Writer, wanted to write him a damn good obituary. And with all due respect to Victoria, who was a much loved member of the community and will be sorely missed by all - this was the most interesting thing to happen all week.

“No please,” I said, “go on. I might even write you an obituary.”

    The man smiled- no- grinned. 

“Well then. How about I tell you, over a glass of wine?”

  *

(the narrator begins his song. It’s bittersweet, about missing cats, lost friends, and returning home at last)

  *

  [LCN]

When I finished telling my story, the Obituary Writer thought for a long time.

A long, long time.

“I think,” he said, at last, “you should meet my friend.”

  *

  [LCN]

Bojana said: “Dude.”

  I said: “I know.”

  Bojana repeated again: “Dude.”, a little more firmly.

  I said: “I know.”

      She pinched her arm. “Am I dreaming? I don’t think my imagination is good enough to make this up.”

      “We’re going, on the insistence of someone who may well be a murderer, to see the Angel of Death, who is not, as it were, a metaphor, and who is, unlike her sibling, the Angel of Life, quite a nice person, apparently.”

      Bojana sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that,” she said sadly.

       “If this all turns out not to be a metaphor,” I took a deep breath, “I’d just like to say-”

      “I’m not going to kill you,” someone interrupted with a voice like light refracted in glass.

      We screamed, Bojana grabbing my shoulder and me grabbing her arm. When we realised what we had done, we stayed like that anyway, because sometimes the comfort of having another person is worth more than pretending to be cool.

The woman was beautiful in the way that wildflowers growing up and out of a sheep’s skull are beautiful. She was pale and almost translucent, with a pair of great wings of bone folded against her back. Her eyes were old and sad, and her dress fluttered in the breeze like moth wings.

The Angel of Death.

      Bojana opened and shut her mouth a few times, trying and failing to find the words. “…dude,” she whispered at last, awe-struck. And then, slightly more worried - “Are you going to kill us?”

      The Angel cocked her head at us curiously. “I just said I wasn’t. Besides, I do not kill people. Only Life kills people.”

      I asked: “Can I use that line in my podcast?” and Bojana trod on my foot to get me to shut up.

      The Angel ignored both of us, which was probably for the best. “Why have you come to see me?” she asked instead.

        “Your friend is concerned about my friend,” Bojana said. “It was the bit about getting eaten by cats, I think.”

      In the trees, a raven cried out. “Woeful are the lost and woeful are the found! Caw!”

You know, I never realised American ravens were so eloquent.

      “They didn’t kill you though,” asked the Angel, in a way that wasn’t a question.

      “I got better.”

      “You bled out all over our nice carpet,” Bojana muttered.

      The Angel of Death didn’t say anything and that was an answer enough.

      “My cat is lost, and I miss it,” I began. “My search for it has lasted many years now, because I know that it isn’t dead. I have found people playing at being monsters and monsters playing at being people and I have found everyone else, who just sort of exist in the middle of those two states. I have been to strange places through strange portals and I have been to strange places like America, and, despite all, of this my cat is still lost.”

        The wind blew through the trees, a dog barked in the distance, the world turned on and on. My cat, wherever it is, meowed.

      The Angel looked at us with her sad eyes. “Why do you search for something forever out of reach, ignoring those around you? Your cat will return - all lost cats must show up somewhere.”

In a flurry of feathers, a raven settled on her shoulder. The light glinted off its eyes and I saw they were not eyes at all, but buttons. It cawed again as the Angel fed it a berry.

“Listen please: in life, death. In death, life. Enjoy it. Live a full, good life. It will make the wine taste better” She frowned for a moment. “Another person said those words before me, but I like them. Sometimes, it’s nice to have someone else tell you about what you already know.”

      And then she was gone, fading away like smoke spreading out into the night sky.

      Bojana let out a long, quiet whistle. “Do you think she’s single?”

[admdmrtn]

25 (Holi)Days of Wayhaven

DAY 11 - MYTH

pairing | adam x f!detective (edith oshiro) word count | 1090 words warnings | none summary | The brown in them stares back at him, patient, as if waiting for him to remember - to remember her. And try hard as he might, even when he’s done all that he could to ignore, dismiss and erase it, he could never forget her, for so it seems that Edith has always been there, entwined in his heart strings, weaving like she does the silk.

a/n | a very very big thank you to @midmodmar for this lovely commission! it was incredibly great to work with her - she’s so accommodating, sweet and ridiculously talented i mean look at it!!!!!! i’ve been so excited to share this since i got it back but i knew i wanted to write something along with it too. i initially got the idea from this video but because i also wanted to participate in @wayhavenmonthly‘s 25hwh, i thought i’d tweak it accordingly as well! n e ways i hope you like it!!

((and also!!! let me know if you want to be tagged in my posts - i’ll include a tag list from now on for anything that involves a story whether a prompt or a one shot))

•••

Her body moves gracefully on the silks, fluid in her motion, precise in her execution - a perfected performance.

Void of any distinct emotion, Edith has her eyes closed and her expression calm as she maneuvers herself easily on the light green hammock in accordance to a memorised choreography, the music playing softly in the background. Twisting and turning, and despite being binded, there is liberation in her movements in which the material complies harmoniously as an extension to her being, her limbs working with the restraints rather than giving in to its limitation, thus leaving in its wake an enchanting aerial display.

Adam leans against the doorframe, arms folded and absolutely charmed with the way the detective is able to contort her body so gracefully. His eyebrows shoot up slightly when he watches her do a five feet knee drop before she extends her legs in opposite directions, achieving a split almost effortlessly in mid-air. Edith has more often than not showcased exemplary prowess in combat, and Adam no longer has as much doubt in her capabilities as before, especially not after she’s proven herself through several of their missions. But watching her indulge in a different form of conditioning brings forth an entirely new array of emotions; a mixed bag of wonderment, and awe, and oddly enough, nostalgia.

The song restarts itself - it having been put on loop so that there is no need for Edith to play it again manually each time it finishes - and it’s in that moment that Adam notices the lyrics, the meanings, and the haunting melody that’s encoated along with them.    

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.

Observing her as she begins the routine all over from the beginning, Adam’s focus trains in on the song. He’s not one to listen to the words in a song usually; in fact, he’d rather music without words entirely. But there’s something about this particular track that just trickles fuel to a slow flame of realization - a pot of emotions that’s been brewing for a short while now.

I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.

Upon reopening her eyes, Edith catches sight of Adam almost instantly. She maintains eye contact despite spinning flawlessly in the air, slowly, before she offers him a knowing smile. He ponders briefly what knowledge lies behind those lips, and spares a second if he’d ever brave himself one day to venture beyond them and find out.

And I know it’s true that visions are seldom what they seem. But if I know you—

Edith nods at him, though he is uncertain if she’s merely acknowledging him or beckoning him towards her. Regardless, his feet move instinctively, reacting without question to her siren call. Like a puppet on a string, there is no denying the pull that Adam feels in the space between himself and her, so much so that he can almost hear the begging amidst their silent conversation for that very space to disappear.

I know what you’ll do.

It’s all vaguely similar to him, the act of taking these steps towards her. As though embedded into muscle memory, Adam’s reminded of a far away recollection - whether it be of stories about seeking answers from a fairy queen, the reminiscence of striding into the manor parlour before greeting esteemed guests, or perhaps the distant wishful thinking of walking down the aisle. Whatever it is, it feels right. And his heart, even as it thumps away like a band of marching soldiers, is at the ready in anticipation. In recognition.

You’ll love me at once—

Standing before Edith who hangs upside down, Adam reaches out to steady the hammock, his eyes never leaving hers. The brown in them stares back at him, patient, as if waiting for him to remember - to remember her. And try hard as he might, even when he’s done all that he could to ignore, dismiss and erase it, he could never forget her, for so it seems that Edith has always been there, entwined in his heart strings, weaving like she does the silk.

The way you did once upon a dream..

During the times of Classical Greece, Aristophanes, in echo of his friend Plato, once said, “When a person meets the half that is his very own, something wonderful happens: the two are struck from their sense by love, by a sense of belonging to one another, and by desire, and they don’t want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment.”

All throughout his life - both mortal and immortal - Adam has struggled to decide whether he was agreeable to such a claim. When he was younger, once upon a bedtime story, his mother had always made sure to remind him that one day, in the near future, he’ll meet someone who would undoubtedly make him understand - make him see that the myth isn’t a mere myth. And in those younger days, he was more susceptible to believing her words, occasionally meeting with a stranger whenever they visited in his dreams.

As a young knight however, he began spending too much time in the company of pleasure to consider the idea of monogamy; of dedicating himself to only one person. At the time, marriage and courtly love were two complete dichotomies anyway - where neither one could indefinitely put a stop on the other. “So why bother?”, his greedy self had asked arrogantly. And it was only after he was turned that things were put into perspective, one in which he remains unsure if he regrets or is relieved by. If there was anything, he was at least certain that the idea of having someone accepting him wholeheartedly as his other half vanished entirely. Or almost entirely.

He wasn’t sure exactly what it was that he felt when he, along with the rest of Unit Bravo, encountered Edith for the first time outside the abandoned warehouse. He didn’t notice it then, but when she pulled the trigger and shot him in the shoulder, it wasn’t anger or hatred that settled deep in his guts, no. Rather, it was as if his entire body heaved a long sigh of relief, exhaling a breath that’s been held in for far too long. Even as he bandaged himself later that night, it was attraction that fluttered in his chest instead of repulsion; and it was the first time in a millennia that he'd heard his mother’s voice again.

“You’ll know when.”

•••

tags | @katbee​ @losingface​

[yokelish]

Worth millions II

✏ Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs ✏ Characters: Chūya Nakahara, Dazai Osamu  ✏ Word count: 1,977 ✏ Warnings: Ansgstober in November. ✏ Part I.

Dazai abandoned him after promising he wouldn’t. “People change, Chūya.” What a devious bastard. This miserable vagabond is incapable of change. Nakahara wasn’t disappointed. Not that he had much strength to hold on to disappointment, only persistent resentment. That crafty bastard was twisted to his very core. Nothing changes, and nothing can touch him. Maybe that quality was fanning the embers of Chūya’s hatred: Dazai’s ability to escape any sort of retribution. Slippery like a snake, crafty, and absolutely unscrupulous. The moment you think the hand of fate is about to touch him, it’s absolutely nullified. Dazai didn’t lose any people to Q’s curse, while Nakahara had to count the body bags. Dazai was never stabbed in the back since he was doing the stabbing, always. He was the one making the deals and collecting dues. He never lost, even in silly arcade games. Always unaffected, always unhurt, always a perfect player. The taller they stand the harder they fall. Deep down Chūya knew it was no longer about what his ex-partner deserved. It wasn’t about rivalry or revenge. He rather sadistically wanted to witness there was something that could touch Dazai, something that could hurt. Something to prove the bandaged bastard was just a tiny bit capable of feeling pain. Pity Chūya couldn’t do it himself. It would bring him immense satisfaction. No money he wouldn’t pay to see an expression of hurt, of pain, on Dazai’s face. To behold such masterpiece. Unfortunately, he can never buy it. He cannnot bring it to life, can’t push for it. Perhaps, it was time to admit he couldn’t hurt Dazai the way he wanted him to hurt. That sort of anguish Nakahara could never inflict to begin with. To twist the sinews of that rotten heart only for it to begin to beat? To bear witness to that moment, to look him in the eye… That would be truly marvellous. Chūya would relish in that moment if only he could. But it wasn’t in his power.

If there was no enemy who could take on Dazai — if karmic retribution was just a fancy tale to soothe a grudging soul, — then there could be only way for Chūya to get what he wanted. He refused to believe Dazai could forever remain untouchable. It had to be just the right sort of…touch. “Plus, I don’t know how I would look them in the eye.” It was never an issue before. Dazai was a perfect machine, an Executive with mafia-black blood. Hesitation wasn’t a part of his nature. The Agency might be riding the high horse, but why would it stop someone like him? Lie, writhe your way out. Dazai detested Q and their ability, Chūya knew firsthand. He felt the same, especially after the massacre. So why did that bandaged wretch resist it? People might change, but people and humanity have nothing to do with Dazai. “A logical decision.” No, it couldn’t simply be that when it came to someone as crafty as Dazai. He held himself back and it had to be for some selfish, miserable reason.

The only person who was good at getting to Dazai was he himself. His own arrogance got him wrecked by that inhuman thing from the Guild. His taunting what got him punched in the face. The only person who could bring down Dazai would be Dazai himself. People might be capable of change. Dazai wasn’t. Something about tonight’s escapade made Chūya sure of that. The bastard said it himself, and his prediction do always come true. “But relationships are built on trust and honesty.” The things Dazai could never offer: trust, honesty, loyalty. And nothing has changed. The vagabond could never run away from his shady nature, he wouldn’t this time either. Shadows only grow longer at the end of the day. Someone would have to wipe that sickening smile off his face. And Chūya would do anything to see that. If he couldn’t do it himself, he would still gladly watch as Dazai becomes his own undoing. For that one single sweetest moment of Dazai’s self-realization and anguish of knowing he did it himself, Chūya would gladly give millions. And the thought of it alone brought a sweet, vanilla ice-cream taste to his mouth.

Dazai was returning to his laughably cheap Agency-issued apartment somewhere before dawn. Still snickering about what had happened with his ex-partner. But aside from humour, he also felt a long-forgotten satisfaction from taunting the small dog. A good book is always good, no matter how many times you read it. Something about taunting Chūya was of similar nature, never getting boring. The anger painting a face sharp and vivid, the resentment amplifying now estranged voice. Lovely and complete picture. Dazai walked up to the door of his apartment, humming a soft melody of amusement. Yet the best moment was hat rack’s horrible realization dawning slowly yet powerfully. Knowing that he was toyed with, read with ease like a children’s book. That expression took away some of the pain from the punch thrown. Dazai turned the doorknob. The metal felt cold against his skin. “You like them, don’t you?” He found the answer as he was phrasing the question. He knew his ex-partner all too well. Nakahara really did not have a good enough mask to hide behind. Nothing had changed there. Was it strange to know they happened to be drawn towards the same person? Hm, ‘drawn towards’ isn’t quite the expression Dazai would use in his case. He sighed as his amusement disappeared, gone without a trace or even an echo to follow it into the distance.

“Oh god, finally.” All too familiar voice inside his apartment. It echoed, filling him with dread. “I was worried.”

He entered without much noise, expecting nothing. Yet they were here, waiting patiently despite sounding exhausted. He didn’t expect to see anyone. He didn’t want to see anyone.

“Are you alright?” they asked, worried. “Let me turn on the—”

“Don’t,” Dazai interjected, making half a step towards them. But that was the end of it. Two silhouettes frozen in the splitting darkness of the room. The first light of the day beyond the horizon creeping inside.

“I have first aid kit with me,” they offered. Dazai could feel the shaking of disturbed silence like a slumbered beast prodded. And he couldn’t make himself move or say anything. He felt blank, optionless, knowing, perhaps, that any choice he’d make would be the wrong one. Of course, they entered his apartment. Amusingly good pick locker that one. What grated him is that he didn’t notice the disturbance or predicted this situation. And that, somehow, that felt like a betrayal.  

“You are both blessed and cursed that you can’t rely on Yosano’s help to fix you up,” they continued talking, moving towards him cautiously. “I hate to do it in this light, but…” The willed objected floated behind them suspended in the air, beckoned by their ability.

“I’m sorry,” they spoke quietly, cautiously. There was a light touch against his forehead, he used it as an excuse to turn away, create more distance. Looking askew, anywhere but at them. As the light of the day was slowly filing the room and creating long shadows. The silence between them was a tame beast, stirring but not waking.

They draw a long shaky breath as a telling sign of unease. “I shouldn’t have gone behind your back like that.”

Every possible choice he had was a wrong one, Dazai knew. What should he say in this situation? Claim that it didn’t bother him would only make them more suspicious of his truthfulness. A too easy forgiveness would seem dismissive. There was no umbrage to admit to either. But he doubted that would be taken at face value. Their sudden presence inside his apartment was a greater grievance, but he would only come across as ungrateful and reticent.

“I just thought,” they tried to continue, voicing failing and fading out. “I just thought I could get—”

“Information,” Dazai finished the sentence passively. It didn’t really bother him. There was no surprise to this, no disappointment, no resentment. He would have done the same. It was just… lacking. Perhaps, something in him knew that this would happen and soon. But he felt nothing, feels nothing regarding the matter as if it was something awfully routine.

“To know you,” they corrected him sternly. So sternly, in fact, it sounded comedic. He barely contained his laugh. But despite the steadiness of their voice, Dazai didn’t buy into that false confidence. He heard their breathing moments before, the hesitation, the care put into their words. It didn’t flatter him the least.

He sighed. What a kind yet empty attempt to appease on both sides. “To know about me. To know me, that’s—”

“I meant what I said. To know you.” Gentle hands dropped from his forehead and on their knees as if in defeat. “You left, Dazai. You left Port Mafia. People don’t just leave those sorts of places on a whim. Especially, someone like you… You were something there, Dazai. Someone.”

“I was just one of the Executives,” he brushed it off. As if that sort of chip on one’s shoulder could be so easily snubbed. “You want to know what I’ve done.”

Their uneasy laugh surprised Dazai. “No, I am not devoid of imagination,” they said with a touch of humour in their voice. It wasn’t funny, both knew. One hand was placed on his shoulder, the other gently wiped the wound on his forehead. There were many minor cuts and bruises, but they only touched those visible and easily accessible. Gentle, non-invasive, almost respectful.

“You can’t hold it against me,” they continued to talk never ceasing to take care of him. Dazai could hear the smile in their voice but couldn’t see it, wouldn’t dare. For such close proximity and physical contact, they had yet to meet eye to eye. “Wanting to know why you came there and why you left later. But I admit that I went about it the wrong way.”

They never asked him why he came to Port Mafia or why he left. And, truthfully, he couldn’t blame them for not asking. He wouldn’t be able to meet an expectations of a full and honest answer. Dazai didn’t have such answer himself yet, and what words he could offer would never touch another person’s heart. The answer he could give right now was anything but guileless or cordial. To meet expectations he’d have to look inside himself and he hated doing that. Wasn’t it enough that he did?

“No,” they answered. “You have to say something.”

What could he say? Every option would turn out to be wrong in the end. There was no desired way out of this situation. It could only be buried as an unspoken thing between them. Then it would sprout into something else — something dichotomous — and eventually grow bigger than them. What could he say to kill the seed before it sprouted? “You like them, don’t you? You like them.” As bitter as it was, Dazai had to admit one thing Chūya was better at was being simply human.

“I better go—”

“I accept your apology,” Dazai stated neutrally. He couldn’t take a moment longer to pitifully ponder his answer and try to predict less messy outcome. He knew that if he simply let them leave it would be the end of it. His own undoing delivered in a single precise blow.

“And I don’t blame you for wanting to know,” he placed his hand on top of theirs, taking it away from his forehead. For the first time their eyes meet. And he lost confidence in his plan. A simple lie to meet their expectations melted in his mouth leaving a sweet aftertaste.

[therainbowwillow]

When Hell Freezes Over AU: Part 4! 

The whistle hasn’t blown for over a week now; Eurydice hasn’t worked. The temperatures have only dropped lower. Colder and colder until the rivers of the underworld had frozen over, all except the Phlegethon, where the shades spend all of their days conserving what little heat can be found at its banks.

Eurydice had joined the huddle as quickly as she could, staking down a spot as close to the river as possible. She’d brought with her everything she owned: the bottle given to her by the bartender, her thin bed sheets, and the scrap of paper with her name written on it.

She sits beside the fiery river, clutching her slip of paper. She knows its information is true now. The Lethe has frozen over, they say. It must have. Every day, she remembers a little more. First, her name, without her paper. His name. And losing him.

She wants to throw her shred of memory into the fire. Watch it burn. The paper’s edges are charred from past attempts, but she can’t bring herself to watch it turn to ash.

Of course he’d turned. She wishes she could blame him. Watch his name go up in flames. She wants to hate him. But would she have done anything differently? She had abandoned him, lost faith in his music. She’d broken her promises, he’d broken his. How could she accuse him of betrayal when she had left him first?

Why had she come here? Hadn’t she known the weather would never spare her, no matter where she ran? Her broken promises hadn’t brought her peace. The winds had caught up to her, even in death. For this, she has only herself to blame. He turned, but she gave him reason to distrust her.

A murmur goes up through the crowd: Persephone’s home. Early. Eurydice hears it. She does not remember how long it had been since the Queen of the Underworld had gone to the surface. It holds no meaning to Eurydice. Spring won’t be found down here, no matter how early Persephone arrives.

It’s the next rumor that catches her. “Hades is coming,” they say. She tightens her blankets around her shoulders, trains her eyes on the river. “He’s looking for someone.” She crumples her paper and tucks it into her pockets. “A girl. Eurydice.” Her hair stands on end. Her feet beg her to run. Flee, hide, pray she can stay out of sight. But there’s no dodging Hades’s watchful eye. 

Eurydice hears footsteps, slowly approaching her claim on the riverbank. She keeps her head down. If he spots her... “You.” She recognizes Hades’s gravelly voice. She feels a hand on her shoulder and doesn’t look up, forcing herself instead to hide her fear. 

“Get up.” She rises to her feet. “Let’s go,” he growls.

Eurydice follows Hades as he leads her away from the river bank, finally gathering the courage to speak up as they enter the heart of Hadestown. “Where are you sending me?” she asks, keeping her voice non-confrontational to mask her fright. There are worse places in Hadestown than the factories, if rumors are to be trusted. 

“Home,” he responds, bitterly.

“Lord Hades, I reside in the east district,” she reminds him. “This is the wrong direction.”

He makes a sound of acknowledgement but does not change his course. Anxiously, Eurydice continues to let him guide her. For all of her months in Hadestown, the city may as well be new to her. Its perfect grid of streets is a labyrinth, impossible to navigate. Every building looks the same as the last, every street is a copy of the next. If she loses him, she may as well give up any hope of getting back to anywhere recognizable. 

Finally, the path ahead begins to look familiar. The railroad. A woman beckons to them to hurry. Hades hastens his pace. They arrive at the train station, where Eurydice had arrived so long ago. Persephone stands waiting. “Eurydice.” The Queen of the Underworld pulls her into a tight embrace. “It’s been too long.”

“How long?” Eurydice asks, monotone. It’s colder here on the railroad track. Much colder. 

Persephone frees Eurydice from her hug and looks the young woman up and down. “What’d he tell you, hon?” she asks, noticing Eurydice’s anxiety.

Eurydice shrugs. “”Home. That’s all he said.” She doesn’t trust herself to say more, the lump in her throat only growing.

“Home,” Persephone repeats. “That’s it? Hades, don’t you think you could’ve been a little clearer?” She glares at her husband. “Home on the surface, Eurydice.”

She draws in a little breath. “Orpheus?”

Persephone sighs and chews at her lip. “Mm hm.”

“What is it?” she asks, alarmed. “Is he alright?”

“I’ll explain on the way. Hades, you’ll handle things down here?” He nods. Persephone steps onto the train, offering Eurydice a hand. “I’ll be back before you know it, lover,” she reminds her husband.

Eurydice takes a seat in the nearest booth, her legs trembling. “Persephone?”

“I’m sorry, hon. I would’ve explained more if I’d had the chance. I expected my husband to...” She snorts. “Okay, no, I didn’t.” Eurydice’s expression doesn’t change. Persephone gives something of a half laugh, to fill the silence. She goes on: “He loves you, that Orpheus. More than anything. I want you to know that. No matter what happens up there, he loves you.”

Eurydice swallows, forcing back her terror. “Why are you telling me this?”

“He misses you.”

Unable to contain herself any longer, she raises her voice. “Take me back. I don’t want to see him.” She carries on, unsure what spurs her outburst. “Winter is here. His song’s a failure.”

Persephone looks at her with an unreadable expression. 

“That song... it’s no failure.” It’s Hermes who speaks up from the far corner of the train car. 

“Not a failure?” Eurydice snaps, forgetting herself as a mortal, disposable to these eternal beings. One word to Hades and she’d face a punishment far worse than the factories. Still, she goes on, the slip of paper she’d long held on to quivering in her hand. “It’s colder than ever. Even Hadestown feels this winter. I don’t want to go back only to lose everything! He’s... he’s gone.” She crumples the paper in her hand and throws it to the ground.

Hermes retrieves it. “Do you know where you got this?” he inquires, gently. 

“I don’t care,” she snarls.

“Orpheus folded it up like a flower. Just some old newspaper. You threw the rest to the fire, a last bit of kindling for warmth. But you didn’t dare to burn it all.”

She wipes her eyes, under the guise of brushing away loose hairs. “I should have,” she mutters.

He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t. You won’t.” She knows it’s true, but she can’t bring herself to admit it. “He needs you, Eurydice.”

“What do you want?” she inquires, sharply.

“He laments losing you,” Hermes informs her. “You’ll see him again.”

“Under what terms?” Her voice blunt and devoid of emotion, expecting some new impossible fight. A goal she’ll never reach.

Hermes sighs. “That you end this winter.”

“Then we may as well turn around,” she says, the defeat apparent in her tone.

“No. Eurydice,” he tells her, “Orpheus is the cause of this winter.” 

She almost laughs. “How? He’s a miserable poet, missing his lover. Nothing more. Orpheus is no god.”

“When he sings, the world sings with him. The world feels with him. Listen.”

She falls silent. Over the sound of the wheels on their icy tracks, she hears a melody on the wind, sorrowful and heart-wrenching. It catches her breath in her chest. She turns away, hiding her tears. 

“The world sees no light as long as he sings. Will you try to reach him?” He presses the slip of paper into her hands.

“Teach me the song,” she requests. “The old song.”

...

Orpheus has long since lost track of time. He cannot remember her name, the name of the one he sings this elegy for. She is faceless as she is torn from his arms again and again and again. 

The world, he finds, tires of his mourning. They had found him, women, worshipers of Dionysus. First, they had asked him to stop, drunken pleads. Whether or not he had heard them, no one could say. Finally, they had brought their blades upon him, maddened and miserable by his endless lament. 

He had hardly felt the sting of their knives at his flesh. And who were they to stop him? Orpheus had sung twice as loud. The winds heard him and, driven by the power of his melody, his attackers had been frozen solid.

Others had approached him, their faces blank before his unseeing eyes, blinded by the snow. They too had met cruel fates, fallen like flies, effortless. He had taken no pleasure in their deaths, nor despair in the harm he’d brought.  

Only once had he felt anything at all. Not remorse, not joy. Recognition, perhaps. In some far-off world, he’d known this man, divinity flowing in his blood. Orpheus had seen ichor stain the snow gold when he had thrown the man backwards, preventing his approach. Unlike the mortals he had warded off, this man had woken from his daze and he had fled. Once, Orpheus had wished he hadn’t gone. By now, he’s nearly forgotten the encounter. 

His song simply washes away all concept of memory or hunger or cold. All he knows is his faceless lover, torn away from him. He holds her now, pleading to keep her. With each failed attempt, she seems more featureless. She stays in his arms for shorter and shorter seconds before she fades to dust once more. 

He has no name to call to her before she’s gone. It is a nightmare and just as he wakes, he’s thrown back to relive it all over again. Yet he longs for her. He longs to see her again, just for a second. So he sings. As long as his melody rings in the air, he hopes she will be there. Another second. Another minute. Another day. He sees her. Again and again and again.

(Wow, I actually really like how this turned out! Usually I’m kinda meh about the writing of these fic parts, it’s more about the plot than the shiny words, but I quite like how this reads!)

[likescything]

plotted starter for @wemultitudinous​

Elfriede cannot put a word to a reason she stays at Coccham, in Uhtred’s hall. She has seen Mercia, Ægelesburg, met Lady Æthelflæd. Her lips form a thin line at the memory. She has not fully forgiven Uhtred for not speaking to her of what, precisely, she would be riding into when they approached the Lady’s palace. Wessex, too, has fallen under her gaze. Out of Alfred’s children, Elfriede prefers the Lady of Mercia, but it is only marginally. Edward reminded her too much of Goderic, easily led and struggling under his father’s shadow. By all rights, she ought to have returned to Wihtwara by now, used her information to secure alliances. And yet she has not planned her return - she still creeps to Uhtred’s rooms at night, returning to her own bed by the early hours, well kissed and exhausted by his attentions. When her thoughts return to her home, something or other seems to prolong her stay. Once or twice she has wondered if this isn’t some extension of Uhtred’s habit of falling asleep with his limbs sprawled across her, preventing her from returning to her rooms before dawn.

She keeps her own rooms, more for outward appearance than any true moral concerns. There is nothing immoral about their relationship - and yet she conspires to keep it secret. She picks a loose thread on her sleeve, considering her reasons. The people of Coccham abide their pagan Lord, but she is not sure they would welcome him taking a woman outside of their Christian matrimony. If she were to find a suitor to better benefit Wihtwara, she would be compelled to give Uhtred up - and such a suitor would not take her as sullied goods if he knew another man had been in her bed. Her nose wrinkles at the thought. Somehow the idea repels her, that she must sacrifice this small happiness for a kingdom she has already given so much to. 

Her thoughts have been conflicted, consumed by Uhtred, Coccham, and Wihtwara ever since her brother’s messengers arrived. A royal summons could not be ignored, no matter how much she wishes it. And though the journey from Coccham has been without difficulty, as they grow closer to Wihtwata, Elfriede has been plagued with dark imaginings and fears. The summons had been in Goderic’s own hand, unchanged since childhood, shaky and splotchy. Perhaps her absence has finally drawn his ire - he could not banish her from her own home for such a small misdeed, when she has been dedicated to him his entire life. And yet, she fears that in her time away, some advisor or priest has turned his mind against her. He was never particularly strong willed. 

By the time they board the boat to cross to Wihtwara, Elfriede has completely withdrawn back to her aloof prison. She graces Uhtred with the briefest of glances, the lightest of touches, hidden under her cloak and hood. She aches fro him to hold her, to smooth her hair and reassure her. But he is a stranger to her home, and what she faces is an awful creation of her own making. How can she be comforted when she has caused this pain? She does not blame Uhtred. She chose to tarry at Coccham, to ignore her duty and enjoy his bed and his hall. If she is to be punished for it, perhaps that will soothe her guilt. And yet another part of her cries out: I have done nothing wrong! Why should she be punished - there is none to say her conduct has been unseemly. There has been reasons for each delay to her journey home. The truth is that she knows even without the reasons presented to her, she would have found some cause to remain with Uhtred. Such a thought frightens her, and she holds it tight as a precious secret the closer they draw to Wihtwara.

When the island rears up out of mists, the wall of white cliffs are so familiar her heart aches. As they dock, she wonders why she has stayed so long away from the home she loves. The air here is sharp with salt, cool and whipped up by the waves. She can just about hear gulls screaming high above them, and the noise stirs something in her chest.

“This place will always be wild,” she murmurs, her voice snatched up by the howling wind. It is why she loves her home. The Romans struggled to take this place from the people, and the people persisted under Roman and Jute alike. She might bear her father’s Jutish blood, but she is her mother’s daughter, and her blood sings with joy at the untamed weather. 

But the ride to the palace is fraught, quiet. The guards are suspicious of Elfriede’s companions, crossing themselves at the sight of Uhtred and Sihtric. Elfriede had been clear as soon as they landed on Wihtwara’s soil - these men have aided me beyond measure. They are my guests, and will be treated with the highest respect. Even a princess’s command cannot prevent men from being as wary of each other as wolves, and Elfriede spends the ride distracted with thoughts of her brother. She catches Uhtred’s eye, but any words are stuck in her throat, swallowed down like bile. Here, she is suddenly aware of the freedom afforded her at Coccham, and her mind drifts to the hearth, her embroidery still sitting in a basket waiting for her. 

As the eldest living child of King Beremud, and sister to the King, her return to the palace is all celebration. Anything else would be political warfare, and Elfriede feels grateful someone guided her brother’s hand against the anger so clearly written across his face. Under the banners and music, she can almost pretend her return is joyous. In her father’s day, the palace had been bright and exuberant. Despite the trappings of Christianity, she can almost imagine the palace as it was before Ricimar died, and the Danes killed her father. She would need to feel strong, to present herself as the princess beyond reproach. 

“My brother, my King!” She begins, as she enters the great hall of the palace, her voice carrying. “I have missed you these long months since I have seen you!” Her smile is fragile as glass, taking in the faces at the dais. They are unfamiliar to her, hostile and unwelcoming despite the pageantry around them. She conceals a shiver, pushes down the desire to look to Uhtred for reassurance. He can do nothing for her here. The responsibility is hers, and hers alone.

“I present to you Lord Uhtred of Coccham - this warrior has been an invaluable aid to me since I became separated from the party I left Wihtwara with.” She doesn’t look at him as she speaks. If I look, I will be lost. “And I present his brave men, Finan the Agile, Sihtric Kjartansson, and Brother Osferth.”

In the court, Elfriede becomes a different, distant figure. Her words are honeyed and all politesse, her expression gentle. Only those who truly know her would see the hunted look creeping in at the corners of her eyes. To be at court without allies is dangerous. I do not know this woman at my brother’s left hand, nor the man to his right. I see no faces I could claim as friend, not even a face who would ally with me for expediency. Goddess, have I been gone so long my home is unrecognisable to me?

“Sister, we welcome your return and thank God for it.” Despite Goderic’s words and easy tone, his face still looks thunderous. They both know his God has nothing to do with her return; if he had not summoned her, she might still be in Coccham, pretending their peace would remain undisturbed. 

“Your guests will be given rooms and refreshments. We will feast tonight. Indeed, there is much to celebrate.” The woman at his side smiles coyly, and a dawning dread spreads through Elfriede.  Goddess, no. Not this. She knew Goderic would have to marry soon, but she had hoped to choose a suitable bride. This woman has the look of a rat, her nose overlong in her face and her lips pulled so thin that her smug smile disappears. Elfriede distrusts her immediately. 

Goderic beckons her to his throne, and she falls to her knees before him. The tears in her eyes might be construed as happiness by the strangers around her, but her heart beats out a desperate plea. Goddess, please, let it not be so.

“Sister, I would have you meet my wife. We are to be wedded within the week.”

[doctolka]

The Council of Dembirom

::: This is one of the chapters from my WIP, that I wrote the other day... it'd be nice if people could read through and give feedback... but if you don't feel like it, I do hope you enjoy it :::

A Guide to my world building...

Indistinct voices rebounded off the walls as they approached the council chambers. Vevien had found her knight, and the two walked just ahead of Edlaise, arm-in-arm.

While she did not envy them their attraction—to put it mildly—but she did think it had a time and a place. The fact that her consort was a Menatan was no help. It would be far better, and far more proper, for her to chose a member of their own race.

But, you do have to admit he’s a damn fine warrior, she told herself, watching the large man walk, dwarfing her sister. Yes. He was a good fighter. He didn’t use modern Elatan techniques, so when he fought it seemed foreign, and poor quality. But it certainly got results.

It would do them credit to have two of the fiercest warriors on their side of the argument—and the added benefit or royalty.

“Listen here, Locraou! We don’t need that. It would just see the womenfolk killed and the men demoralized! There’s no need for an army, and most certainly no need for it to incorporate—”

“Ahem,” Vevien cleared her throat. Always proper, she was. Never wanted to get an ill-gotten gain over her political opponents. Even if it would save everyone involved a great deal of time and trouble.

“Ah. Princess Vevien, Sir Halifax. Lady Edlaise. Won’t you come in? We were just thinking of getting started without you,” Tuvaulle said, standing and bowing. The rest of their allies, Montre, Libua, Selette and Jacques followed suit. Their opposition remained dutifully seated, frozen under Bedour’s sharp glare.

“It seems to as though you had already started without us, Mr. Tuvaulle,” Halifax said, helping Vevien into her seat. He knew to allow Edlaise to seat herself, thank you very much.

“Listen here, Menat,” Bedour scowled, “you are a guest, and so have no place here but by our leave. You will hold a civilized tongue or you shall be dismissed!”

“Oh, leave off Bedour,” Edlaise said, cutting of Halifax’s reply, “He was stating a simple fact, based on a simple observation! If you take such offense to fact, then perhaps you would like to explain something that does not offend you, such as the fairyland you live in, in which we do not need a standing army to defend ourselves.”

“I—”

“Enough, the both of you!” Tuvaulle interjected, cutting of the beet-faced Bedour. “This is not our business here today, to call names at each other! That’s what we did all last cycle, and I tire of it. As moderator of this session of the Council of Dembirom, I move that we review the arguments on the topic of the defensive army, and of the power of the crown over said army, and then come to a vote. Mr. Bedour, since you are currently the offended party, would you like to begin?”

“I would indeed, Mr. Moderator,” Bedour said coolly, collecting himself as his face bled down to its usual brown.

“Ahem. As you all know, Dembirom has not had a standing army since our grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather’s time. It has been over a quarter a millennium since last we had need of an armed force besides our own city guard, which is perfectly capable of defending even our most remote of settlements from the predations of the lawless and of wolves. It goes without saying, therefore, that we really have no need of an army, of a military, because we have no one to wage war against, and no one who is waging war against us!

“So why does the most recent generation of the royal family demand, incessantly, that we have grave need of a large force of armed men, who will obey only them? I mean not to sound concerned, gentlemen,” he said, pointedly ignoring the three women in the room, “that the royal family seeks to disband this great council of justice and fair law! I do not mean that in the slightest, since we all know the royals are such firm, just people, with no ulterior motives given into their heads by foreigners! But if someone were to—say—dupe the royal family, through criminal wiles and snake-like charm, why, they could gain control very easily of new army, answerable only to the king or queen, or prince or princess, and turn them against us! Why, such a person could weaken us considerably by disbanding this council by force, and open the way for greedy, foreign dictators to thrust their way into this grand city of light, and desecrate our way of life!

“I mean not to sound hysterical, friends. I beg that you do not take me for some lunatic for my very real fears. But I do fear. I fear what it might mean for us, for our people, if the army is used as a mechanism to displace us! I worry, true, about foreign invasions! But do not let lies of Other-Kin and tales of Twisted Children within the borders of this vale reach your ears! They are mechanisms by which a foreign power might seek to placate us, make us think that we must raise an army for the crown to defend our lands, to deal with this non-existent threat!

“Please, gentlemen. I beg of you. Do not allow this Menatan spy to harry your ears with tales of dangerous monsters from children’s stories. The real danger, the very real danger, is that this man gets an army raised which he can swiftly swoop in to control. He seeks a coup with our own people. He seeks to subjugate us to endless years of slavery under the grip of the cruel Menatan kings. We must not give in. We must not allow our people to suffer.

“That is my plea, good gentlemen,” he said softly, burying his face dramatically in his hands, “I pray to Alimis that what I say does not come to pass….”

“Thank you, Mr. Bedour. Do you cede the floor?”

“I do.”

“Very good. Princess, do you care to submit your claim?”

“I do, Mr. Moderator,” Vevien stated slowly, “but first I would like to call witnesses. Sir Jason Halifax, Knight of the Cloud?”

“That is… acceptable,” Tuvaulle said as the knight took to his feet, Bedour mouthing obscenities. “Sir Knight, do you swear to give not false testimony, upon your honor as a knight and a gentleman?”

“I do, Mr. Moderator.”

“Very good, then. We will hear your story.”

“Thank you, Mr. Moderator, Council of Dembirom,” he started, “I am no eloquent speaker. I am no politician, seeking to do with slight of words that which I cannot do with slight of hand. I would like to state, before I begin my testimony, that I detest the slander which the Honorable Mr. Bedour has lain against me, and were I in a Menatan Kingdom I would ask for justice by the blade, for my honor is cleaner than a fresh slate.

“However, being not in a Menatan Kingdom, and perhaps being unfamiliar with the ways of the Esteemed Elatan people, I will forgive this slight, and pay it no heed. Now, onto my account.

“I arrived here, in this Vale of Dembirom nigh on one year ago, following the beckoning of our Lord, Alimis, king of the Sky and husband of the Earth. I was, you see, following in the footsteps of my ancestors, knights in their own right, who did strive to rid this world of the most vile of Other-Kin. I make no game of it, that I was in ill being at the time which I entered this valley of light. It had been several months of tracking this monster through the wilderness, herding it this way and that, trying to keep it away from Menatan settlements, and the homes of innocent Second Children.

“But imagine my surprise, when I reached the heights of this vale, and saw within the gleaming gemstone that is Dembirom, though I knew it not at the time. What I did know, however, was that before me lay a relic, which must not become sullied by the hands of violent Other-Kin, or extremist Second Children, or at worst a Twisted Child!

“And so I harried no more, but sought to end the foul beast which I was tracking. I am sure that many of you have heard this portion of the story before, and so I shall be brief in its accounting. The beast was, in fact, an ogre, with large, protruding teeth and a stubbed nose, spade ears and a balding scalp. It was several men high, and thrice the weight of a horse, and its hue was a wash-out violet.

“I came upon it as Alimis neared his apex, and as it drew close to your grand city, the many mirrors flashed out in divine light, blinding the creature. This is the moment which I took to strike. There is little honor to be had in striking a fellow man when he is blinded, or when he has fallen, but none—save for the foolhardy or cruel—would pass up such an opportunity when there may be a single innocent life yet to be spared.

“Our battle was furious, despite my advantages—my blade was sharp, my plate and will rock-solid, and not to mention my clear vision. The brute was terribly strong, and its great, sweeping blows rent my armor in places. My ribs, I will freely admit, still ache from that day.

“But my conviction was sound, and though I took many a wound, I finally dismembered the beast, and fell to my knees in the bloodied snow, exhausted. And I felt that surely, this must be the end, for I was in no condition to make the long trek back to my fellow Menatans!

“But lo! Alimis was in a kindly mood, and looking down upon me, he sent out an angel, a woman who I took at first to be one of Aorynan, and she helped me to my feet, ignorant of the chill of the wind and the blood which fell from my rent armor, and she supported me as I entered this haven in the mountains.

“And here, I have remained since. I would not eschew such a grand debt to betray your people. I fear that such a notion would only occur to one who would. I cannot stress to you, most Honorable councilmen and women, the need for a large, well-trained military force, even if it is as small as a simple militia. For you were in luck that day that I arrived, and have been in luck since that these beasts have not returned. Or perhaps I should say, have not returned often.

“I urge you to consider this threat seriously, and my word seriously, though I be not one of you venerable subjects. I finish my accounting, and my plea, Mr. Moderator,” Halifax said, bowing sharply to Tuvaulle, “and I thank the Council for hearing it.”

“Very good, Sir Halifax. Thank you for your testimony,” Tuvaulle said, returning the bow in a short manner, “Princess Vevien, do you now wish to make you claim?”

“If it pleases you Mr. Moderator, I would like the council to hear another accounting, today.”

“This is most irregular, Princess. It would have been prudent of you to notify the council before your opposition made its claim known.”

“Prudent, perhaps, Mr. Moderator. But it also would have been prudent for the council to have waited until my arrival—and the arrival of my entourage—to begin their debating.”

“I… suppose that is amenable. Very well,” Tuvaulle said, with a twitch of his lip toward Vevien—he had to know their plan, now, “your second witness may make their testimony, should they take their vows to honesty”

“Thank you for you curtesy, Mr. Moderator. Lady Edlaise?”

“Of course, Princess. Good Lady, do you swear to hold to the truth on your honor as a Lady and representative of the Royal House?”

“I do, Mr. Moderator.”

“Very good. The council will now hear your testimony.”

“Thank you, Mr. Moderator, councilmembers. As you all know, I am the second-born of our king, Jon Lo’Bourelle, and so am free to pursue whichever career I deem fit, so long as the eldest of us lives.

“I have chosen, in no small part because I enjoy working actively to help our people directly, to pursue a warding career, to keep our borders free of all sorts of dangerous creatures, whether they be ordinary wolves or bears, or Other-Kin or even, dare I say, Twisted Children.

“These past cycles have seen to it that I have been increasingly busy, in this regard. Within the past cycle alone, I have killed six Other-Kin that have strayed into our borders. The first five of these were but Greatwolves—which are not beasts to laugh at—and I slew each of them, though it was no simple task.

“Today, I encounter the sixth of these intruding Other-Kin,” she continued. How many times had she rehearsed this speech in her head an in the mirror and to Vevien and Sir Halifax as they prepared for this meeting? It must have been at least a few hundred. “It was nota Greatwolf, much as I might wish that it was. No, this was not something so simple. Today, I slew an ogre.

“Now I see that some of you gawk, and mutter that a woman could never manage such a thing. In this you are wrong. I would gladly bring you to the corpse later, or send for it to be brought here immediately, if you wish. No? Are you certain? Very well.

“Here I must describe the beast for you. It was much as Sir Halifax has described his own ogre—it was quite large, of course, many times the bulk and weight of a bull, with large, flappy ears and tusk-like teeth which jutted from its jaw—but I must say that I would call its coloring more of a purple-gray.

“Regardless of the description of the beast, I fell upon it in the woods south of the village Giros with a swift array of arrows, which did enrage and confuse it. As it thrashed about in the copse, I jabbed at its face from the brush with my spear. I retreated when it finally saw me, smashing the bushes behind which I had hid with one great paw.

“I danced backward, unafraid of tripping—for I know that terrain well, it seems that is the general area that most of these monsters come from—and continued jabbing at its eyes, slipping about it as it charged my.

“I do believe that I managed to blind it—at least partially—before it managed to bat away my thrusting spear and disarm me. But I did still have my trusty sidearm, this arming sword you see here, and I closed on the beast as it clutched at its face.

“Quickly, I scampered up its frame, leaping from bent knee to the thing’s shoulder, where I took a mighty swing at its long neck, clutching my blade in both hands, and severed its spine with a sharp blow. I must admit that I may have been… hasty in my next actions.

“The beast had collapsed—surely dead—but I was afraid enough that I needed to be sure. So I—and I beg your pardon, councilmembers, for the vulgarity and goriness of this—hacked at its neck until the head departed the body, leaving but a long, ragged stump where once the head had sat.

“Now, unlike the Honorable Sir Halifax, I cannot verify where this monstrosity came from initially, nor can I claim that its intent was indeed to do damage to our people and property. But what I feel I must do is to implore you to take this threat seriously. I was not given this scratch be a child’s fairytale, after all!” she said, rolling up her sleeve and unwinding the bandage upon her arm, “and nor was my spear shattered, nor my armor damaged by one!

“The threat is dire, my friends. Currently, you only have two people who have survived a clash with a greater Other-Kin. Many are our friends and neighbors who have fallen prey to even the least of these abominations on a dark night! With an army—or as Sir Halifax suggested—a simple militia, we could secure our borders, and prevent anyone else from being caught unaware, alone and afraid in the night!

“I feel that it is but a small thing to ask. After all, were you not each elected to see to the best interests of you constituents? To see that they are safe? Unafraid? I urge you all to vote to confirm this movement. I, for one, would rather fight with a friend at my side.”

“…Have you completed your testament, Lady Edlaise?” Tuvaulle asked tentatively. She was known for dramatic pauses. I did that once!

“I have, Mr. Moderator. Thank you. Thank you, councilmembers,” she said, bowing slightly to both sides of the council as she took her seat.

“That was great, Edlaise!” Vevien whispered to her, “You should be the one in politics!”

“Princess Vevien? Do you wish to offer your own remarks?”

“All I wish to say, Mr. Moderator, is that any who do not see the truth in the stories of Sir Halifax and Lady Edlaise are blind fools, and that, despite whatever action they might take, these two exemplary individuals will continue to strive to keep them safe from any and all threats to their wellbeing.”

“Very well then, Princess Vevien,” he said, turning back to the court, “Now that these testaments and arguments of both registered sides have been heard, I must ask each of you to dismiss any attendants or witnesses to wait in the hall outside for the duration of the vote.”

:::

The hallway was perfectly silent as Edlaise waited with Halifax and the rest of the various scribes and advisors. No one so much as coughed, or wiped there nose. There was no sound emanating from the council chambers—the time of verbal debate was over. Now it was time for each member to come to their own decision. According to law, speaking during this time could potentially see the speaker’s vote nullified. Edlaise hoped that Bedour attempted to say something.

But he wouldn’t. As much as she disliked the man, and enjoyed insulting his intelligence, he was no idiot. He was the most important person in the coalition against the raising of an army, and he knew it.

Edlaise stared straight ahead as the rainbows filtering through the prism windows changed, stretching, thinning, rising up the wall as the sun began to sink toward the mountains. She stifled a yawn. When were they going to finish up? Surely it didn’t take hours to come to a decision!

A brief murmur from within the council chambers quieted her anxiety, or least, part of it. Would now the verdict be released? Would it be favorable? Had their statements swayed the unswayable?

“Ladies, gentlemen? If you would like to resume your seats?” Tuvaulle said, popping open one the the large double-doors. “I do believe that we have come to our conclusion. If you would bear witness…” he trailed off as the somber—yet contradictorily excited—crowd of courtiers filed into the chamber.

“Now then,” he resumed, “As you all know, today we met with the goal of deciding whether or not to raise a standing army, and if that was done, whether or not the king would have supreme control over the forces. Well, we have done so.

“Miss Cavette? If you would hand me the first ballot box? Thank you, dear. Now. I will proceed to open this box, and, as moderator, shall read out each declaration. I will be clear and concise in my wording so that there may be now confusion. I ask that each of you keep your own tallies regarding the number in favor of each clause, those being as follows: those against the raising of an armed force, and those for the raising of an armed force. I shall begin presently.

“In disfavor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In favor of a military…” Edlaise crept to the edge of her seat, keeping tally. So far, they were tied, “In disfavor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In favor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In disfavor of a military…. In favor of a military… and…. In favor of a military…” Edlaise almost leaped from her chair. The first part’s done with! Now to just get it away from the bureaucrats!

“By my own count, ladies and gentlemen, that comes to eleven in favor of raising an army, and ten against. Are there any objections?” he asked. There almost never were, especially when Tuvaulle was moderating—the man very rarely made a mistake. “No? Very good then. The second ballot box, if you please? Thank you, Miss Cavette.

“Now for the matter of who is to be in control of this newly levied military of ours, and who is responsible for determining its actions. I will ask that the members of the council place their slips into the ballot box as it comes about—you have all had much more than the requisite amount of time to decide, after all—and we will take the count presently.”

“You can’t do that, Tuvaulle!” Bedour shouted, standing abruptly with another of his flushed faces, “This goes against all protocol! I make a motion that Tuvaulle be replaced by an impartial moderator!”

“Motion noted, and rejected, Mr. Bedour,” Tuvaulle said coolly, turning toward him. “I did remind every member of this court of the time restraints upon the vote for each clause—which we exceeded by no less than two hours and twelve minutes, which in turn is forty-two minutes longer than was agreed upon. Therefore, we have already used the voting time for the second portion of the vote.”

“Well why didn’t you give warning!”

“Mr. Bedour. This is not a schoolhouse. You should not be in need of warnings to be able to tell the time. But if it would please you, perhaps the next vote could be upon whether or not to bring alarm clocks to our meetings in the future,” Tuvaulle said scathingly, “Now, hurry along with the ballot box.”

“I move that this vote be re-enacted!”

“Silence, Mr. Bedour! Once more and you shall not have a vote at all! Or need I remind you of the rules of voting, as well as the amount of time allotted for said voting?”

Bedour scowled, but sat down again, his round face a lovely shade of burgundy.

“Thank you, Mr. Bedour. It seems the box has reached you. Has every councilmember had his or her say? Yes? Very good.

“I shall count off in the same manner as before. The outcomes are clear, once again—pro-royal control or anti-royal control. If everyone would keep tally, so as not to waste time… thank you. Let us begin.

“Pro! Pro! Anti! Pro! Anti! Anti! Anti! Pro! Anti! Pro! Pro! Pro! Pro! Anti! Anti! Anti! Anti! Anti! Pro! Pro! And… Pro! I stand at eleven pro-royal command and ten against. Do I hear any objections to this count?”

“I—” Bedour started, raising his hand, but then stopped. Dissenting simply to attempt a forced recount could see the dissenter barred from voting on the next bill. And even if it was as simple as whether time keepers should be implemented, Bedour wasn’t the type to risk it. “No objection, Mr. Moderator,” he seethed.

“Very good then. Princess Vevien?” he said, turning to their coalition, “Would you like the honor of informing your father of his newest responsibility?”

“I would be honored, Mr. Tuvaulle,” she replied. Now that the voting was over, there was no need to be overly formal. “and I thank you for this honor.”

“Very well, I trust you to it. If you would also extend an invitation for him to come to our next engagement, the council will discuss the manner in which we shall levee the troops, and the limits to the power that the king shall have.”

“Of course I shall do so, Mr. Tuvaulle. And thank you, again,” Vevien said, rising to leave. Edlaise heard the strain in her voice, the readiness to be off and be done with this political wish-wash.

“Well?” Edlaise demanded as they left the chambers, “When do I get appointed Grand-General?”

“You don’t. That’s Father’s job. You can be a… private!”

“What? But that’s the literal lowest rank, right?” she gasped, feigning injury, “How could you do such a thing?”

“Come now, Lady Edlaise,” Sir Halifax said from his post behind them—what he called the ‘honor guard.’ From any of the lechers from the Council, she might have felt uncomfortable. Halifax was too honorable for such vulgarity. “Surely, since you are easily one of the best—if not the best—combatant Dembirom has to offer, you will see yourself attain at least sergeant! Of course, you will also likely spend your time training recruits…”

“What? No, I won’t! And I’ll stuff anyone who tries to make me!”

“Ha!” Vevien barked in a most un-princess-like fashion, “I’d like to see a pig like Bedour try to keep you out of the army!”

“I might just stuff that one, anyhow.”

“I might pay to see that. But come, Father is waiting.”

[weaverlings]

more than the dust that we can return

listen...... siblings. i have strong emotions about them all.

*

Summary: The kingdom, free of infection, is open to the knights and their sister in all its ill-fated vastness. That leaves them with a difficult choice: where to make their home?

The little Ghost has an idea.

Content warning for death/corpses and description of THK's injuries

AO3

*

When the Hollow Knight was well enough to travel a little ways, Hornet led her siblings out of the Mantis Village at last. They only went as far as the hot spring in the crossroads. From there, the rest of Hallownest would be open to them.    

Hornet sat on the side, dipping her legs in while the little Ghost and the Hollow Knight soaked. The little Ghost splashed at her, but she drew away. She was in no mood for playing, and was grateful that they seemed to catch onto this. She needed to think. She kicked in the spring absently, and then caught herself with a hand on her knee.

Their hosts had been gracious, allowing them to stay so long. Perhaps they could return, and stay a little longer. Perhaps she could find some way to contribute, to earn their keep. But no. Better not to impose further.

She pushed herself out of the water, and walked to the edge of the cliff. From this vantage, she looked down into the crossroads.

The rest of Hallownest was open to them, in all its ill-fated vastness.  

But where would be safe? What did safety look like for the knights? Most threats they could handle, but she knew nothing about what they required for food, if anything, and Hallownest could hardly meet the needs of ordinary bugs as it was.

The kingdom was also less dangerous now, and that presented its own concerns. Not even the infection had kept scavengers away. These sorts would think nothing of the wild creatures and crumbling structures that remained to challenge them. Someone would find them soon enough, and the Hollow Knight had caused a stir even among the proud mantises. The knights needed safety, and she suspected that would mean privacy.

She turned at the sound of sloshing, and then footsteps behind her. The little Ghost stopped when she faced them, and tilted their head to one side. They were still dripping, but evidently didn't mind. The Hollow Knight waited at their back.

Hornet asked them, "You are well enough to travel?"

The little Ghost nodded.

Hornet said, at last, what had so absorbed her attention. "You will need a place to stay."

The Ghost joined her at the edge of the cliff. They stared down, too, their gaze seeming vacant. They must have drawn some conclusion, however, because they soon spun around, their little cloak flaring. They beckoned both of their siblings close, and pulled out a map.

The Hollow Knight crouched down on one side of the Ghost, and Hornet leaned over their other shoulder. The Ghost pointed to a spot high in the cliffs above Dirtmouth. They had marked a stagway station there.

Hornet frowned at the map. She had little experience with the stagways. They had not lasted long after her childhood, and she preferred other means of transport. She'd only realized a stag remained recently, after she'd observed the little Ghost with him. It wasn't any surprise that there was a faraway station she didn't know, but she couldn't imagine how this would solve their problem.

Better to ask. "You wish to go there? To stay there?"

They nodded.

She had no better ideas. There were plenty of nooks and crannies where the knights could settle in the short term, and they could always move again, if all else failed.

"To the stagway, then." She looked to the Hollow Knight. "If that is agreeable to you, as well?"

The Hollow Knight did respond, in a sense. They had been still before, but now they seemed to stifle the air around them, as if they could bid it to mask their own awareness.

She pressed gently, "If we are to travel together, I'd rather we are in agreement."

The Ghost reached up and patted the Hollow Knight's arm. They finally nodded, once and slightly.

Hornet accepted this. "Then come. We will find out together what the little Ghost wants to show us."

The trip to the station was easy enough. The Ghost rang the bell with their nail, and the sound echoed down the tunnel until it was lost under the pounding of the stag's approach. He stopped before the platform with only a grunted greeting for his favorite, only traveler.

Then he saw Hornet.

"And who have you brought, little one? Oh, it will be good to-"

And then his gaze slid up and up and up, sometimes startling when he still did not see a face where he expected one. He found the Hollow Knight's serrated mask, and spent the rest of his breath in one rush.

He said finally, "Who have you brought?"

Hornet folded her arms under her cloak. Her fingers tapped her upper arm pensively, hidden there. Safety, which means privacy.            

The Ghost simply pointed first at themself, then at the Hollow Knight, and last at Hornet. Three to travel.

Hornet stepped up to their side, and said, "We are their siblings. We wish to travel with you - the little one knows where."

The stag huffed again, and inclined their head. "I'm sorry. I had no idea the little one had family. A remarkable lot, you must be. I've never met their like in all my days."

Hornet laughed. It was not precisely happy. It existed a step to the left from real mirth.

The stag eyed her, but must not have judged her too harshly, because he said, "The stagways are open to all. Come aboard."

So maybe he did judge her, and the Hollow Knight, too. But not in defiance of duty. That was enough for her.

The Hollow Knight climbed carefully into the back seat, tucking their sharp limbs close to their body. Hornet settled in the front.

The stag asked, "Where to, then, little one?"

The Ghost pointed out the station they had shown their siblings.

Another grunt. "You trust your family, don't you?"

They nodded. That was all it took. He said, "Hop on, now. It's not a long journey from here - even on these old legs."

The Ghost climbed on. Hornet shifted so that they could share the seat, and turned back to the Hollow Knight. Before she could ask them if they were ready, the stag was galloping into the tunnels.

*

Hornet and the Hollow Knight followed the Ghost deeper into the stag nest. They picked their way over the corpses of ancient stags, empty shells that had once thundered all throughout Hallownest.

As it stood, it was a grim place. Dark. Their footsteps echoed. Seeing it, however, Hornet understood. There was plenty of space. The central platform, leading into the tunnels, could be adapted to suit a variety of purposes. The abandoned freight elevator was a room in and of itself, even for a being of the Hollow Knight's stature. There was even a second story, if they needed it. Perhaps the Ghost could claim it for their own. Her room in the Beast's den had been close to that size.  

As they returned to the platform, Ghost waited so that they could fall in step with their sister. She observed, "A wise choice, perhaps. However, it is not ours, is it?"

Ghost shook their head.

"I will speak to the stag, if that suits you."

They nodded.

Hornet darted ahead, and rejoined their host. "Stag?"

"Yes, young one?"

Hornet allowed this comment to pass. His assessment of her age hardly mattered, and she was still less inclined to offer her name.

"My siblings and I, with your permission, will tend to this place. We will see that your kin receive a proper burial. We will do this no matter what," she promised. "However, we have a boon to ask. And it is no small thing, I think."

"For the little one? Go ahead and ask."

"My siblings need a place to stay. Somewhere which will be safe for them. You have observed that our… elder sibling…" Once again, age meant little here. Though she couldn't help but wonder if the little Ghost had been older, once, denied maturation for impurity. "...Our elder sibling has a presence most striking."            

"Yes," the Stag said immediately. "Yes, that would be fine. I think… I would like that."

"You would?"

Now, he considered, only to reaffirm his choice. "I don't want this place to be a grave forever. It's meant to be a home. If it can be that for the little one and their kin, then I'm happy to allow it."

"Then you have our gratitude. Thank you." Hornet bowed, neat and low.

He didn't quite know how to handle that show of chivalry. "Well, thank you. It's been some time since… Thank you. I can see why they brought you."

She, in turn, didn't know how to respond to the compliment. She offered, "We will begin at once. You need not stay. I cannot say how long it will take."

"It's no trouble for me to stay. It's not as if I've got anywhere else to be."

"If you wish…" That wasn't what she had hoped to hear. She didn't want to be rude, not after what he had just granted them, but she warned, "While I cannot say how long it will take, I doubt it is a single day's work."

The stag chuckled, a sound like falling rocks. "I see, I see. Alright, then. If that's your druther, I'll leave you and your kin to it."

"We will call for you when it's done."

The stag agreed, "You'd better, young one! You fix up that bell there, and ring it when you're ready. And give the little one my regards." He stopped, but then added, "The big one, too."

He inclined his head once more, and sped back into the tunnels, leaving behind only a cloud of dust.

Hornet found the Ghost and the Hollow Knight staring up into the abandoned elevator shaft. She joined them, peering up in case they'd found anything amiss. But there was only the same stone as before.

"Knights," Hornet said softly, but the word echoed up the stone.  

Ghost jolted, and turned their gaze on her. So did the Hollow Knight, but with one smooth turn of their head. Hornet looked up and down between them for a moment, and then came to her senses, although she couldn't have said where she'd left them.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to alarm you." She moved on, breaking whatever had gripped them. "I spoke to the Stag, and you will be allowed to stay here. It will be safe. But first, we must prepare graves for the stags who remain."

The little Ghost nodded.  

The work was tiring and monotonous. They settled into a rhythm together, and pushed on in focused silence. The Hollow Knight dug graves in the cliffside, clawing out huge chunks of earth with their hand. Hornet and the Ghost carried the stags down one by one. Then, on one trip, the little Ghost stopped abruptly.

"What's the matter?" Hornet asked, adjusting the corpse in her grip as it bumped up against her. She peered around the side, just in time to see the Hollow Knight straighten. They held their arm close to their chest, which heaved with exertion.

The hot spring was, literally, magical. That did not make its power infinite. A wrathful god had eaten into the Hollow Knight's flesh for years. They were probably fortunate that the spring had worked deep enough for them to make the journey in the first place. They certainly shouldn't have been laboring. Shame flashed like a knife's edge inside Hornet's shell.

Of course they were skilled at disguising their pain. She should have known better.

"Little Ghost," Hornet said. "Let us put this one to rest. We should not let them touch the ground before they're buried."

The Ghost started walking again, and she followed. Once the corpse was in its grave, the Hollow Knight stepped forward to fill it.

Hornet held up a hand, and said, "Wait."

She hated the stillness that settled over the Hollow Knight, but they certainly were waiting. The little Ghost stepped in front of them. They beckoned to their sibling, and the Hollow Knight settled onto one knee. The Ghost reached up, and touched the Hollow Knight's stomach. Lightly. Barely at all, it seemed. The Hollow Knight flinched, and then drew stillness in around themself again.

"You are not well," Hornet said to them.

Once again, the little Ghost looked at her. They shook their head. For a vessel to have their flaws assessed never boded well.

She added quickly, "You must rest. The little Ghost and I will finish, yes?"

And now the small vessel nodded, quite vigorously this time. The Hollow Knight knelt, unmoving. At least they did not try to resume their task.

Hornet was reluctant to command them further, but she did. Her mercy would have been misguided. "If you wish to remain here, then sit."

They obeyed, and she couldn't shake the feeling that was all it was. But she had no idea what comfort she could offer them, and she did have work to do.

It took her and the little Ghost more time to finish this way, but neither of them had any objections. When they finished, the Ghost carried up some smaller stones which had been discarded, and embedded them in a circle on the cliffside. They then enlisted Hornet's help in placing a large rock in the center.

They drew their nail, and scratched into the rock, "Here lie the stags. Strong and unbroken. Faithful companions. Remember them."                    

"Well said." Hornet inclined her head. "They were great creatures…"

They were. Although she only distantly remembered their prime, without them, Hallownest never could have achieved the sparse good it did.

She turned to the Hollow Knight. "Now, we should all go inside. Do you need help walking?"

It was as if they didn't hear her, until they suddenly shook their head. They unsheathed their nail from their back, and swung it forward into the ground. They leaned on it, more hauling themself on the cliff than walking. She and the Ghost stayed on either side of them, minding their pace.

Now, the nest was truly empty. It needed some cleaning, some dusting and polish. The air was still thick with grime. It was still unsettling. If anything, the place now felt like a tomb waiting to be filled. Hornet was almost hesitant to leave them here, but it truly seemed like the best option. Safe and private.

She led the knights into the large elevator shaft. The Ghost hovered around the Hollow Knight, hopping up and down around them.

"Sit and rest, both of you," she told them. The Hollow Knight did as they were told. As always. She found herself glad for the Ghost's defiance; they nudged aside the Hollow Knight's tattered cloak, instead.

"Move aside, then," she said. "Do you think I'm asking for my health, little Ghost? I will examine their wounds."

Now, they complied. They watched her briefly as she examined the Hollow Knight's shell, before darting back off toward the cliffside entrance. So it would seem she was trusted with their more fragile sibling. At least there was that.

The Hollow Knight hardly reacted to her prodding. If she touched somewhere especially tender, they would hold their breath for the meanest instant. Or she could only suppose that's what was happening. Most of their body had to be tender. Perhaps they held their breath when they finally crossed whatever their threshold was for pain, before they could gather themself.

There was little she could do for the warped shell itself. Stiff and scarred though it was, it was whole. Bandages or bindings would be meaningless. It seemed as healed as it could be, as well, so even soul wasn't likely to improve anything.

"I have something that may help the pain. An ointment." She glanced up at them, too quick for them to avoid her. She held their gaze. "May I use it?"

There was something flat about the look they gave her. Not empty, flat. They nodded, as short as always. But no one coaxed them into it, and the little Ghost was still elsewhere. Did they trust her, too? Or was the pain just worse than she'd already thought? It didn't change what she had to do.

"Thank you," she said, sincerely. The bottle in her cloak was small, and she poured all the ointment out onto their shell. As potent as it was, spread thin over their side, it was barely enough. She stepped back when she was done.

"There. Does that help?"

She waited for their response. She had to trust that it would come, and yet they surprised her even so. They couldn't bow sitting down, but they inclined their head steeply.

"There's no need for that," she said. "I'm glad to do it."

They looked up at her, just long enough to meet her gaze, and then resumed their deferential posture.

Perhaps they'll find some stubbornness yet. She said only, "Very well, then. You are welcome."

The Hollow Knight straightened at last. Satisfied, she turned away and left to find the little Ghost.

They were just coming back down the smaller, operational elevator. They hopped the rest of the way onto the stone, and she told them, "I think the Knight is resting now, truly. Perhaps that can be their room?"

They peered past her. They pressed one hand thoughtfully to their chin.

She added, "It will need…quite a lot of work. But so does the rest of this place. You should have a room for yourself, too. There's enough space here. You chose well."

They nodded. She laughed softly.

"Is there anything else you need?"

The Ghost shook their head.

"Then I will be off." She bowed to them. "I will return when I have the chance. Be well."

She spun, and bent her knees. She was an instant away from dashing away and vaulting back down the cliffs. Something caught in her cloak, and pulled. Her heart thrummed in her shell. Her hand found her needle.            

Again, she turned. The Ghost's hand remained clenched in her cloak. They stared up at her. She let her hand fall.            

"Yes?"            

They tugged again.

"You may tell me if you need something," she said. "I will do my best to provide it. Then I must go."

They pointed back inside.

"Alright. Show me."

They led her onto the small elevator, and hopped to the platform on the other side - a complicated maneuver, as bright wings unfurled from their body, and then they seemed to dissolve into shadow to carry themself the rest of the way. Hornet threw her needle, and followed on a strand of silk.

They had buried the eggs, of course. What life they might have held was also long dead, devoid of even soul. Now, there was only the empty alcove, and the room to squeeze into beyond it. The little Ghost stopped by the hole. Hornet looked around.

"What is it?"

They pointed at her. Then they waved down the hole.

"I do not-"

They repeated the gesture. Hornet. The hole. No. The room.

This time, she stared at them. Of course, they were still staring at her. Their eyes met. She shook her head quickly. "I cannot stay, little Ghost. Much has changed in the kingdom already. I must observe, and I must prepare."

She didn't know what for, but that was exactly the point. Whatever was to come, there was no one else who could stand sentinel. She would not ask it of her siblings. Even if they had the strength, and as it was, they needed so badly to rest. They deserved that much, at least. This was her duty, and hers alone.

They didn't answer her. Instead, they beckoned over her shoulder. There was a massive thud as the Hollow Knight landed behind her, and settled hunched on their knees. They watched her, leaning in, tense. Unmistakably expectant.

"What about you?" She asked. "Do you wish for me to stay, also?"

They nodded. She looked back to the Ghost. They were nodding, too. Vigorously, again.

She sighed, and sat down against the wall, crossing her legs. "Very well. I did say I would provide, if you asked. I will stay, for now."

They walked up to her. They sat down next to her. Their head settled against her shoulder. She stiffened at the sudden contact, unaccustomed to such familiarity. But it was a soft touch, benign. She ordered herself to relax. Still, their head jerked up, even as the rest of them seemed to sink into themself.

They are a child, really, she remembered. They had fought untold enemies, bested her and foes that would have destroyed her utterly. They had brought an end to the infection. They had spent all day digging graves, just for a place to rest. She thought again: they deserve that rest.

"I am sorry," she said quietly. "You may stay there, if you wish."

They settled down again, but she could feel a difference in the pressure - she bore less of their weight, this time. She exhaled, and reached up with her free hand, undoing her cloak. She shrugged it off of one shoulder, and tugged it down to wrap it around their body.

They looked up at her.

"Yes. It is alright."

Then she patted the ground on her other side. "I know you are still hurt. Come and rest."

She certainly wasn't going to make them jump down. As it was, she'd rather not think about how crossing the shaft might have hurt them.

They slunk forward on their knees. They didn't seem to know exactly what to do with their body, how to arrange it for this. In the end, however, they had half-curled in on themself, with their knees by their stomach and their arm cushioning their mask. She reached out, as they watched. When they did not move away, she gently rested a hand on one horn. She kept her hand their, unmoving.

It was not long before both of them were not only still, but limp.

She could have left then, but she waited. She would wait, and watch over. This was her duty, and she had promised to give them what they needed. She hadn't thought this would be herself. But that it defied her expectations was no reason to renege on her word, and she had no wish to disturb the little Ghost. They had slumped against her and slid almost into her lap, still wrapped in her cloak.

They looked so delicate that way. The Hollow Knight on her other side looked as close to peaceful as she had ever seen.

She wouldn't leave them, not like this. She could decide on her next move when they awoke.

[cutesuki--bakugou]

Ancient Soul

Time Travel, Quirkless, Feudal Japan AU

“Your soul does not belong here.” Those were words you never thought that you would hear. Now, thrown into the past in feudal Japan, you must find a way to survive, all while struggling to avoid the growing feelings for one hot-headed war general. War, romance, death and love drive you forward, to find the place where your soul truly belongs.

Bakugou Katsuki x Fem!Reader

Want to start from be beginning? Check the Ancient Soul tag. New chapters released every Wednesday as long as schedule permits.

Genre: Romance / Angst Story Rating: Explicit | Adult Themes, Sex, Death, Depictions of Violence, Alcohol

Chapter 12: I Beg You

Chapter Rating: Teen | Cursing, Mention of Suicide Words:  2536

Sitting beside the pond in the palace courtyard, you were silent as you watched the fish swim about, not at all bothered by the fluttering snow that landed in the water. You knew that you were also covered in the soft flakes, but that was of little consequence to you. The cold did little to bother you at this point, as a depression had settled into your core. Although it had been a week, you couldn’t quite get over the way that Bakugou had treated you. He hadn’t even come to see you or beckoned for your assistance since then, so either he felt guilty about what he had done, or he was truly mad at you. 

Had it really been your fault? Had you completely misread all the signs to take everything he had said and done that day as something more special than it was? You still didn’t know how that could have been possible. All of it was so obvious that, even while drunk, you could easily see it. There was an interest that went far beyond what he claimed his feelings for you were, but he was just too stubborn, or even scared, to admit it. 

How could you allow yourself to care about him so much in the first place? What if you suddenly woke up back in your own world or found a way to go home? You would be forced to forget him, and that would do nothing but bring on more pain. 

But… would you really be able to go home at that point? If you had the choice between staying here and going home, what would you take? It could go either way, you guessed, depending on the state of things here. If the palace was burning, if people were dying, then of course you would go home. But, if he did come to love you like you hoped, if he cared for you as deeply as you wished, then would you be able to leave him? 

Probably not. Probably so. In truth, you didn’t know why you bothered contemplating over things like that. He may never come to love you, and you may never find a way to get home. For all you knew, you’d be stuck here for the rest of your life, talking to fish. How pathetic such a life would be. 

“Miss? Are you okay?” 

The comforting and familiar voice for Tsuyu pulled your attention from the pond, forcing a smile onto your lips as she came to sit in the snow beside you. “Ah, Tsuyu… I didn’t realize you were back already.” 

“Yes, I just got back earlier today. I’m grateful to be home.” Smiling, Tsuyu leaned over a bit to look down into the pond, watching as the white fish Sushi swam about and peered up at her. “Spending some time with Sushi? Have you told him any stories?” 

“Not today,” You reached down and let a finger sink into the ice-cold water, softly stroking the top of Sushi’s head and allowing him to nibble at your skin. “He’s already heard all I have to say…” 

“Then perhaps you would like to tell someone who can actually talk back?” 

Tsuyu’s offer to hear you out tugged at your heart, nearly immediately bringing tears to your eyes. You wanted so badly to talk to someone, to anyone about what you were going through, but it was nearly impossible to do so without spilling the truth. But, at this point, you didn’t really care if you did. You just wanted someone to listen to you, and so, Tsuyu it would be. 

“If you don’t mind listening, I have some stuff I’d… like to get off my chest. If you don’t tell Bakugou. Please.” 

After a moment of silence, Tsuyu nodded, placing a comforting hand on your arm. “Don’t worry… At this point of you being here with us, I know there are things that need to be kept quiet. Personal things aren’t something I should share anymore…”

Nodding, you took in a deep breath, trying to fight the tears to keep them at bay. “I just… I am so grateful for the people I’ve met. The kindness that you have all shown me. But I still feel just like I’m a prisoner, even after all this time. I… I want to go home.” It was then that you couldn’t hold back the tears, letting them stream down your cheeks freely. “But I don’t think that’s ever going to be possible…” 

“Escape would be difficult for you… As would finding your way back from here, since you don’t know where we are on the maps, technically.”

“It’s not even that. If I could escape from here, if I could get out on my own, it still wouldn’t be possible. My home is so far away from here… It would be impossible, even if I got back to the shrine where you found me.” 

“That shrine. It is an odd place, isn’t it?” Tsuyu pulled a cloth from her kimono, handing it to you so you could wipe your eyes. “There are a lot of stories, some from many years back talking about the strange things that happened there. People would vanish and others would appear, some speaking in odd languages and others just completely out of their minds. Exactly like you.” 

Sniffling, you looked down at Tsuyu in shock, surprised to hear that she knew these things and wasn’t at all put off by talking about them. “W-what? You knew about these things?” 

“I have. I… am quite interested in the odd things of this world. Stories and myths… Horrors and superstitions. It’s all fascinating to me. I don’t tell many people this because they find it strange for a woman to be interested in such things… But I feel like you should know that I’m aware of it. And… I think that is what happened to you.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“There’s no way that you are from this world, Miss. Your clothing, your speech, your mannerisms, and most importantly, how you know all the things that you do. I feel it isn’t possible… Unless you are a witch or a demon.” Tsuyu moved some of her dark hair back behind her ear, and you couldn’t help but for the moment find some humor in what she was saying. She believed that you could easily be from a different era, and yet you were still suspected of something so… primal. It was odd, but you didn’t question it, allowing her to go on. 

“You don’t have to tell me the truth. But I will say, you are very lucky that I am the one that found you first. If it would have been anyone else, you would have been killed immediately with no questions asked.” Tsuyu turned her gaze up towards you, small smile on her lips. “It was like perfect timing… Like it was meant to be.” 

With a sigh, you wiped the chilled tears from your cheeks using the cloth she had given you, before letting your hands fall into your lap in defeat. “Even if it was… It doesn’t matter. I don’t feel like I belong here. I just want to go home… If you know about these things, can’t you help me?” 

Smile fading, Tsuyu gave a shake of her head. “No, Miss. I can’t and will not do that. I may consider you a friend at this point, and I trust you, but I won’t go against the word of my Lord. If you truly want to return home, or have a chance to… Then you’ll need to speak with Bakugou.” 

“That’s like talking to a brick wall…” You handed Tsuyu back her cloth, finding that the tears had stopped for the time being. “He’s impossible.” 

“He is. But I heard that he took you into town recently. How was that?” 

At the thought of how much fun you had that day, you couldn’t stop the small smile that crept across your lips, feeling your cheeks flush hot against the cold winter air. “It was… wonderful. Up until the very end. I misread some… signals, I guess, and I upset him.” 

With a small sigh, Tsuyu stood, cleaning her clothing of snow with sweeping and patting hands. “Miss, I doubt you misread him. What you probably did was just embarrass him. He’s not very good with emotion, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. When he doesn’t know how to act or what to say, he just does what he knows, and that’s to be angry. I have seen a change in him, though… You bring out his soft side.” 

Swallowing the lump that had grown in your throat, you stood as well, though you ignored the snow that stuck to your clothes. “Well, I’m tired of sitting around here moping. I’m going to go try and talk to him.” 

“About that night?” 

“No… About going home. If I do bring out his soft side… then maybe he will let me try.” 

… 

“You want to leave? Do you really think barging in here without even making your presence known and then demanding your release is the right way to go about things, Demon?” Bakugou glowered up at you as he sat on the floor around his map table, with Kirishima across from him and Kaminari to his left. The two other men stared at you in shock, probably put off by your rudeness and harsh tone. Did you really care? No, not at all. You knew that coming to Bakugou all timid and sad wasn’t going to work. So, you figured that coming in aggressive might just give you a better chance, considering that’s how he tended to handle everything. 

“Yes, I do think it’s the right way. Can we talk in private--” 

“No.” Bakugou interrupted you with a sharp snap, his glare changing from annoyed to truly irritated. “You’re interrupting. You need to wait. I will come get you when I have time.” 

Kirishima sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Sir, it’s alright if she needs to talk to you, we can come back.” 

“I said no.” 

“Katsuki, this can’t wait! I need to talk to you--” A gasp interrupted you as Bakugou stood, snatching you by the arm and pulling you out of the room. “--H-hey, wait!” You were quick to catch your footing, but you didn’t bother fighting back, as this was exactly what you had wanted. He had fallen for your pestering, so now all you had to do was get him to listen. “Katsuki--” 

“I told you not to call me that around the others!” Bakugou finally came to a stop, hissing at you in a harsh attempt at a whisper. “Can’t you follow even the simplest damn directions?! You’re such a stupid woman, trying to undermine me in front of my men! I could have your stupid ass killed for that!” 

“Then why don’t you do it? Huh? Why don’t you just get rid of me already! If you won’t let me go home, at least do something with me so I’m not sitting around here rotting!” 

“You’re a fool! You have free reign of the palace, you have everything you want, you can do anything you want here, it isn’t my fault that you decide to just sit on your ass all day talking to damn fish! You might as well accept that and be content with what you have, because as long as my Lord wants you here, you aren’t leaving!” 

“Does he really want me here, or is it you?” 

Your question caught Bakugou off guard, his grip on your arm loosening. “I already told you. I told you, when we were in town, that I didn’t want you to leave. I want you to stay, but not just because of what you can do for us. I--” Whatever he had wanted to say caught in his throat, and just like that night, anger instantly took over the truth. “It doesn’t matter why. You can’t leave. My Lord requires your skills, as do I.” 

“And what if I just won’t offer my help anymore, hm? What then?” 

“Then you’ll know what being treated like a prisoner is truly like.” 

His threat was cold and harsh, instantly making your entire chest feel like it was frozen in ice. Pulling your arm away from him, you took a few steps back. “You always say that you don’t know what to think of me… But I know what to think of you. You’re nothing but a cruel man… and all this…” You reached up and pulled the brilliant crimson jeweled hairpin from your hair, before shoving it into his hands. “All this you did for me… it means nothing.” Before allowing him to say a word, you began your way back down the hall, arms wrapped tightly around your chest. 

You ignored Kirishima and Kaminari as you walked past them, not caring in that moment that they had been eavesdropping just inside Bakugou’s room. Kirishima seemed particularly worried about you, however, and so he began to follow. “Wait, [L/N], where are you going?” 

“I want to go out for a horse ride… I need to be away from here and away from him.” You spoke barely loud enough for Kirishima to hear you, though he did stop and glance back at Bakugou. You assumed at Bakugou must have given a silent command for him to follow you, as the redhead jogged a bit to catch up, keeping just a few paces behind you. 

“I’ll accompany you.” 

“Why? So, you can keep an eye on me?” 

“Not fully… I just don’t think that you should be alone right now. People can make bad choices when they are left to fend off their own demons.” 

Keeping your head down, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt for worrying him. From what you had said, you were positive it must as come off as suicidal in some ways, especially with how you demanded Bakugou to just kill you. It was true, that wasn’t a thought that had necessarily been vacant in your mind. It had come to you a few times in the night, when you felt so alone and lost in this world. 

With a sigh, you looked up Kirishima before chancing a quick glance behind you, feeling your stomach clench as you saw Bakugou still silently standing there, glaring down at the hairpin in his hands. 

“I just… I wish that he would just tell me the truth…” 

“[L/N]... What you felt that day when he took you out to town, what you experienced with him, that was the truth. If you’re expecting words out of him, you’ll find yourself feeling like this over and over. Actions are what matter. And giving him back that pin… He won’t forgive that easily.” 

“He talks to you about me, doesn’t he?” 

“Occasionally. But none of it is my place to say… I know what when the time is right, though, he’ll offer that pin back to you. And I hope that you’ll take it.”

[targaryenimagines]

Because, I Love You

Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,325

Summary: Everything you do was for her. Even if it meant that you could no longer be with her.

Warnings: Angst

The heat was sweltering in its intensity.

You could feel sweat starting to bead your brow. However, you did nothing to remove it. You were standing as still as you possibly could. Your only movement was that of your chest. You didn't dare make any other motion than that.

The area around you was filled with an oppressive silence. The type of silence that seemed to pound against your skull. It was like the moment right before glass hits the ground. You knew what was about to happen but you had no idea how bad the outcome would be.

You watch as Cersei stands above you. Her poison green eyes staring with nothing short of maliciousness. You had never met the woman in person, Daenerys hadn't allowed you to come to the Dragon Pit meeting. Despite your concern and overall outrage at her decision you hadn't argued with her. Not when she was so clearly worried about your safety.

"You are the purest thing in my life, my love. You are like the first ray of sunlight after a raging storm. You are everything that is good in this world, but that woman. That woman who claims herself as queen is toxic. She taints everything she touches, and I refuse to have that happen to you because I love you."

Now, standing in front of her, you understood what Daenerys meant. You could see the complete lack of empathy within her gaze. Normally you would associate it with a ruler looking at an invading army, but something wasn't right with the way she smirked. With the way she seemed to revel in the pain of others just to appease her own desires. Even before this moment, you know, that Cersei Lannister was cruel. She wasn't a ruler looking at an invading army. No, she was like wild fire waiting to erupt. To destroy everything, and everyone, in her path. For if she couldn't have the throne, no one could.

Out of your peripheral vision you can see Daenerys and Tyrion standing near one another. You know that Daenerys was letting Tyrion lead this interaction, but you weren't sure in the stability of the decision. You care for Tyrion, greatly, but you had seen how he reacted when around his family. No matter how much he may say he hates them, you know, he will never want to cause them harm. Which, in the grand scheme of things, when in the middle of war wasn't the best vendetta. Especially when said family was the prime enemy in said war.

You know that no matter what Tyrion will try to reason with Cersei. Something that would not end well when taking in account the things Cersei has done in the past.

You shift your attention back towards Cersei when she moves. You could never understand what drove this woman to do what she has done. Was it all purely for her self preservation? Or was it something more? No matter the reason you were mainly concerned about the end result of this meeting.

You were mainly concerned for Missandei.

For without Missandei you were afraid that Daenerys would break. Your dragon had already lost so much. Viserion, Jorah, Rhaegal and the majority of her army. You didn't want her to lose Missandei too. Nor did you want Grey Worm to lose his love.

The sound of the gate being opened drew your attention towards the man that steps out. Cersei's hand if you remember what Tyrion told you correctly. A weasel of a man really, as slimy as he was greasy.

You watch as Tyrion moves from Daenerys's side. His movements cautious as he approaches the man.

"My lord," Qyburn says with an oily smile. That Tyrion doesn't even bother to return. Instead he stands straighter his eyes flashing.

"Queen Daenerys demands Cersei's unconditional surrender and the immediate release of Missandei of Naath."

"Queen Cersei demands Daenerys's unconditional surrender. If she refuses, Missandei of Naath will die here and now."

At his words your heart drops.

No.

Not Missandei, not the sweetest woman that has ever lived. Who has never done anything malicious in her entire life. She didn't deserve this. You couldn't allow this to happen.

"Qyburn, you're a rational man," Tyrion says softly, trying desperately to appease to the man.

"Or so I flatter myself, my lord," he responds and you can't help the small shudder that works it's way down your spine. However, you understand what Tyrion is trying to do. Play to your opponents arrogance and they may very well hang themselves for you.

Tyrion steps, slightly, towards Qyburn his eyes showing the seriousness of the situation. "We have a chance here, perhaps our last chance, to avoid carnage."

You close your eyes briefly at Tyrion's words. You know that if it comes down to it Cersei will do anything to keep the throne. Bloodshed wouldn't matter to her. Why didn't Tyrion understand that?

"Yes," is the simple reply. A reply that causes your stomach to turn. How could someone be so cavalier about the prospect of unnecessary blood shed?

"Help me. I don't want to see this city burn. I don't want to hear the screams of children burning alive."

The thought causes a chill to run down your spine.

"No, it is not a pleasant sound," the weasel says, and you couldn't help the small frown that appears at his words. How the hell would he know? All the answers that filter through your mind at the question causes your heart to lurch.

Tyrion clearly perplexed by the answer begins to speak once again. "I-- I don't want to hear it. Help me save this city."

"My lord, I am only a mouthpiece for our queen," Qyburn says, his eyes twinkling vindictively.

"Your queen."

Qyburn's eyes narrow at that, but he speaks without anger within his tone. "Cersei is Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You are her subject."

You would rather die than be a subject underneath Cersei Lannister's rule. Something, you were sure, the majority of her subjects had lived up to.

Tyrion, however, doesn't back down. His voice coming out as sharp as valyrian steel. "Her reign is over. You understand this. Help her understand it."

Instead of backing down like you were assuming Tyrion had hoped for, Qyburn simply smirks. It seems his bravado completely stemmed from the fact that Cersei had allowed hundreds of innocent people to die for her while she stayed in King's Landing. A thought that causes your eyes to flash with anger.

"We understand nothing of the sort. Your queen's last dragon is vulnerable. Your armies are battle-weary and depleted, while ours have been reinforced with the Golden Compan--"

Tyrion seemingly tired of listening to Qyburn's obnoxious voice moves passed him. Something that causes not only you, but everyone to stiffen. Your eyes watched with anxiousness as Tyrion drew nearer to the wall. The Queen's Guard already prepared to strike him down if Cersei commanded it.

"Ready! Nock! Draw!"

As Tyrion draws closer to the wall your eyes land on Missandei. You can see the resignation already starting to form in her brown eyes. Eyes that are always so hopeful are now filled with nothing but sadness. You couldn't let Missandei's light be taken from this world.

You couldn't let Daenerys lose anyone else.

Your gaze lands on Qyburn and with a subtle motion you beckon him towards you. His eyes, filled with curiosity, stare into your own as he approaches. You see out of the corner of your eye that Daenerys was watching Tyrion with rapt attention. As was Grey Worm, so you could do what you're planning without any interruption.

Once Qyburn stops in front of you, you begin to speak lowly. "If you let Missandei go I will take her place. Have your queen kill me. Killing me would have a much more profound effect on Daenerys than Missandei."

The man simply stares at you with a quizzical gaze. "And why is that?"

"Because I'm her lover."

You watch as his eyes widen slightly before a twisted smirk makes its way onto his face. He turns his head slightly towards Cersei and seems to catch the woman's gaze with ease. You watch as green eyes meet yours and you simply stare into them. You know that you're staring at your own executioner, but you were never one to back down.

Before you can react Qyburn grabs your arm and starts to pull you towards the city gates. Something that draws everyone's attention towards you. You could hear Daenerys make a noise of outrage and sounds of the Unsullied shifting. You could, also, hear Drogon make a disgruntled noise. However, you do nothing to stop Qyburn from leading you to your certain death.

You watch as Tyrion turns towards you with horror written across his face. You can only muster a small smile but you know it doesn't reach your eyes. You try to convey to him without words what you were doing and why you were doing it.

You hadn't even realized you had slowed down until Qyburn pulls you forward sharply. Causing you to stumble and almost crash into the ground. You glare at the man but he simply smirks coldly at you.

Qyburn then turns to Cersei, who had been watching the scene with amusement, and speaks. "Your grace, it has come to my attention that there is another's death that can hurt the dragon queen. More so than the girl you have now."

Cersei raises an eyebrow. "I'm assuming it's the girl you have now. Tell me, why would I trade the two?"

"Because this girl is the foreign queen's lover," Qyburn says with malicious glee in his voice. It causes your stomach to churn at the sound of it.

"And how do you know this?"

"Because the girl told me."

You feel your breath catch at Qyburn's words. You know that your reaction was caught by Cersei. Her eyes taking on a sinister edge. You want nothing more than to go to Daenerys. To be in your dragons arms once again, but you wouldn't back down. Not when Missandei's life was on the line.

You watch, with bated breath, as Cersei deliberated her response. Soon her green eyes met yours once again, and you knew her answer.

"Very well. Let the other one go and bring the lover to me."

Relief rushes through your body as Missandei disappears from view. Only to reappear a few moments later with a few of the Queen's Guard. You catch Missandei's eyes as she passes you. You can tell that she wants to approach you, but a sharp tug of her chains keeps her from doing so. However, all you needed to see was in her eyes. You could see the gratefulness within her brown orbs, but you could also see her grief. Her pain at what was to come.

You just hoped that your own message was clear in your eyes. All you needed was her to take care of Daenerys once you were gone. As long as Daenerys survived you could die knowing the world was in good hands, and with Missandei alive you know that Daenerys won't be consumed by her grief.

You say nothing as your led towards the platform. The winding staircase that will lead you to your demise. The echoes of your footfalls and clinking of armor is all you hear. Each sound reverberating back towards you. A hollow echo. Seemingly showing you how alone you, truly, were.

You have to squint when you finally reach your destination. The sun seemed to be even brighter up here and you couldn't help but notice that you sweat seemed to still be lingering on your brow. Soon you're in the spot that Missandei had stood in only moments before. Staring down at all the people you have come to adore.

You see Missandei wrapped in Grey Worm's arms.

Tyrion is still relatively close to the wall but his stance has completely shifted. You can see the defeat written across his face.

Then, finally, you turn your gaze towards Daenerys. Her beautiful eyes were staring into your own. You could see the pain clearly shown in their violet depths. You could see her confusion at why you were doing this. You could see the tears that were already starting to form. Causing her eyes to shimmer like amethysts. You wanted nothing more than to be in her arms. To tuck your head underneath her chin with her singing a valyrian lullaby softly in your ear. You, however, know that you could never do that again. That you had sealed your fate the moment you saved Missandei.

You stiffen slightly when Cersei grips your forearm, and she simply smirks before saying. "If you have any last words, now is the time."

You turn your gaze backs towards Dany's and with a pounding heart you speak. Your voice echoing across the silent landscape. "Nyke'll sagon waiting ondoso īlva lemon guēse, ñuha zaldrīzes."

Your words were for Daenerys only and you refuse to let Cersei understand them. You square you shoulders when you hear the hiss of a blade being unsheathed. You stare out across the horizon and watch as the sunlight seems to cast a halo in the sky. Even though you were about to die you couldn't help but appreciate the beauty in the world around you.

Even as the sword moves down towards your neck in a deadly arch. You couldn't help but think back to all the things that led you to this moment. Every pit fall and triumph that led you right here.

You know that you wouldn't change a thing.

Even when you feel pain as the sword cuts your neck. You wouldn't change anything, you would always make the same choice over and over again.

For only one reason.

"Because, I love you."

[hiddendreamer67]

Thrash All You Want

Summary: Logan decides to investigate the giant addition to their lab, but according to this giant it’s not the one who should be worried.

Check out more of my writing @hiddendreamerwriting! 

“What is it?” Virgil asked, peering through the observation glass. It muffled their voices, but even through the thick glass the sounds of the monster crashing into the cage walls rumbled through the room.

“A giant.” Logan said simply, still typing away at his tablet.

“I got that far, Sherlock.” Virgil rolled his eyes. “But what’s with the cat tail? And why the hell is it here? Isn’t this dangerous?”

“Only if it escapes.” Logan shrugged nonchalantly. “But it can thrash all it wants and never escape that cage. Those bars are made of solid tungsten.”

“Then…” Virgil swallowed. “Why are they bending?”

Logan’s head snapped up, examining the containment chamber. Though the giant was still panting from throwing itself against the wall, it seemed to be calming down. The actual bars were not bent, despite Virgil’s claims. Logan turned to his assistant with a frown, now noting the small smirk on Virgil’s face.

“This is serious, Virgil.” Logan shoved his tablet into Virgil’s arms. “I will have no banter from this point onwards.”

“I get it, I’ll be on my toes.” Virgil assured him, his face mellowing out.

“What? Why would you need to practice your balance?” Logan looked confused. “I meant to stay alert.”

“That’s what that means- ah, never mind.” Virgil decided not to explain, watching his professor heading down the stairs. “Hey, Logan, where are you going?”

“To question it, now that its behaviors have subsided.” Logan answered.

“What?” Frantic footsteps began to follow him down the winding staircase, clanking against the metal two at a time. Virgil rushed to stop the scientist, sliding in front of him. “Are you insane?”

“My last psychological evaluation came back indicating no anomalies.” Logan assured him.

“That’s a giant.” Virgil pressed, Logan pushing past him and moving down the hall. Virgil followed, hot on his heels. “You know, fe fi fo fum? I like to eat humans for breakfast?”

“I certainly hope you’ll educate yourself on giants with more literature than mere children’s fantasies.” Logan scoffed. He stopped in front of the door, sporting at least a dozen warning labels. Logan put his badge to the touch pad, watching the light turn green in recognition. “I will be cautious. You stay here, and continue researching just what this creature could be.” Without hearing another of Virgil’s protests, Logan walked onto the containment floor.

Logan, despite his brave attitude around his assistant, was feeling a strange urge of hesitation. The room was poorly lit, the ceilings too high for hanging bulbs to do any good. Instead a few strands ran along the walls, and a few dull lights lined a pathway leading up to the cage itself.

Logan walked forwards, his footsteps echoing metallically throughout the large chamber. It caught the beast’s attention, who turned to watch Logan intently. At least it wasn’t yelling or throwing a fit like the scientist would expect; Logan doubted his ears could handle such a decibel.

“You seem rather calm for your position.” When the giant spoke, his words surprised Logan. He stopped, still a distance away from the cage.

“Why would I not be?” Logan asked. “I am not the one behind bars.”

“For now.” The giant looked almost bored now, inspecting its claws.

“Those are solid tungsten.” Logan informed him. “They cannot be bent through sheer force.”

“Oh, I don’t expect to bend them.” The giant smirked, looking down at Logan with an expression of someone who knew they were about to win chess several moves before their inevitable victory. “You’ll be releasing me.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Then beg.” The giant shifted, laying down on his stomach and staring at Logan with a teasing grin. Behind him, his large feline-esque tail swaying back and forth in an almost apathetic manner.

“Why would I release you?” Logan said, now curious what could possibly be this giant’s line of thought.

“I don’t know.” The giant gave a fake yawn, showing off his fangs. “Perhaps you should release me and find out.”

Surely, he was just toying with Logan, trying to show off in an attempt to intimidate him. The idea of setting this monster loose on the facility was an absolutely terrifying proposition, and yet despite himself Logan did hold a seed of curiosity about why he would ever perform such a maneuver.

“We’re getting off track.” Logan shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

“There’s many tracks of the mind.” The giant purred. “How can you be sure your own is properly aligned?”

“I didn’t come here for a psychology examination.” Logan murmured, but he found his mind growing muddled. Why did he come here again?

“I’m having trouble hearing you, pet.” The giant beckoned with a claw. “Come closer.”

Logan obliged, stepping a few strides closer. “What exactly are you?” Logan asked, taking in the details. Though almost humanoid, there was a catlike appearance to the creature as well. The claws, the tail, the fangs. Even a pair of furry ears sat hidden in the giant’s hair, twitching every so often. Logan wondered how powerful such a pair of audio receptors had to be- could they pick up noise throughout the building?

“I am what I am, pick a better question.” The giant raised an eyebrow. “After all, you only have so much time.”

“I’m not limited on time.” Logan corrected. “My schedule has been cleared for the day.”

“Oh, good.” This time the grin was more sinister, and Logan had the faintest sensation he should feel concerned. Why was he not concerned? “But your voice is still so quiet…come a bit closer.”

“Here is a better question, then.” Logan suggested, stepping closer. “What are your dietary restrictions?”

“No, no.” The giant shook his head sadly, clicking his tongue. “Still so boring. I truly expected better from you, Logan.”

Logan paused, his hands beginning to feel clammy. “…how do you know my name?”

“Ah, now that’s a fun question, isn’t it?” The giant perked up, leaning forwards on his elbows.

Logan glanced down at himself, wondering if perhaps his patch had given him away. But no- Logan had left the embroidered lab coat back in the observatory.

“I bet you’re just dying to know.” The feline crooned. “How did he do it, exactly? Did you introduce yourself but forget? Is it written somewhere along the walls? Am I in your mind, perhaps?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Logan said softly, still examining their surroundings.

“Oooh, but it does.” The giant moved closer, grabbing the bars. “I can see it in your little features. It’s eating you alive. The curiosity is going to drive you mad.”

“Fine then, tell me.” Logan snapped, turning back to the prisoner. The giant raised a claw, pointing it through the bars at the little control panel.

“Let go of me first.” The giant whispered.

Logan paused. That was something he wasn’t supposed to do, he remembered that much. But then again, this giant was so well behaved, perhaps he could make an exception.

“NO!” A yell at the door shocked them both, the entrance slamming open as Virgil came sprinting in, industrial headphones on. “GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

Logan wasn’t sure to which individual Virgil was implying, but either way the giant gave a guttural growl, all pretense of kindness gone. One clawed hand swooped through the bars, making a grab at Logan and only failing because Virgil tackled him to the ground. Quickly Virgil grabbed him by the arm, dragging Logan to his feet and yanking him out of the giant’s reach.

Well, the giant certainly didn’t like that. It roared, and Logan clutched his hands desperately to his ears, fearing he would go deaf from the chaotic threats bouncing off the metal walls. Now he understood why Virgil had worn headphones as the assistant pulled him out of the chamber, frantically shoving the door closed to muffle some of the sound.

The two stood, panting, trying to regain composure after what had just happened. Virgil lowered his headphones, guiding Logan back through the winding paths to one of the many offices. Logan gradually felt the ringing in his ears subside, though his heart continued to race from that scare.

“You can let go of me, Virgil.” Logan finally said, feeling steady on his feet.

“Oh, I’ll let you go in a minute, I just have too many questions.” Virgil’s gaze was hard set straight ahead, but his grip tightened painfully around Logan’s forearm. “Namely, what the hell?”

“What the hell?” Logan repeated, confused.

“Yeah, what. The. Hell.” Virgil emphasized each word, shoving Logan into one of the armchairs waiting behind Logan’s desk. “Since when are you all about running in guns blazing?”

“It was supposed to be an initial investigation.” Logan defended himself.

“Without proper research?” Virgil shoved the tablet from the desk in Logan’s direction, showing what he had discovered. “What kind of scientist are you?”

Logan glanced over the screen, paling as he read the article. It was a depiction of a creature not unlike the one in the cage, described as a mythical half-giant, half-feline famous for manipulation of the subconscious.

“…mind control.” Logan realized. “I-but-how-?”

“Do you realize you nearly set that thing loose?” Virgil reprimanded him. “Don’t play dumb with me, I saw the way you were considering it. That thing had you wrapped around it’s little finger.”

“I was just curious.” Logan protested weakly, feeling like a scolded child. He supposed the image was fitting.

“Yeah, well, curiosity killed the cat.” Virgil scoffed. “Or in this case, the cat nearly killed the curious scientist and also his much wiser assistant. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one, Logan.”

[cloudyyoonji]

Stars Aligned.

Lee Felix X Reader

BASED ON ANON REQUEST

Summary: You’re somewhat nervous when you figure out you have feelings for your best friend, but little do you know, the boy has a secret he’s been hiding too.

Genre: FLUFF! So MUCH FLUFF!!

__________________

You can’t help but laugh at the childish screams of all 8 boys.

Even some 6 hours later, they’re still on a high - ecstatic over the recent win and performance at a huge award show.

And you, you’re ecstatic for them. These boys were your family, and you couldn’t be prouder of them.

Settled on the couches in the dorms, you feel so at home with these 9 boys, a subconscious smile tugging at your lips as you simply take in there excitement.

“What are you smiling about hm?”

Chan asks you, an elbow in your ribs pulling you away from your thoughts. Your cheeks turn red immediately, stutters not quite linking into sentences as you think of something to say.

“Naw, she loves us.”

This time it’s Felix, who sits to your left, his arms thrown over you in an embrace.

As he ruffles your hair, you really just can’t help the way your cheeks go even redder in colour.

Ever since you’d come to Korea, this boy had grown to become your best friend, someone you could look to for help no matter the situation.

Upon arriving, you knew only a handful of Korean, however with Felix’s help, Chan’s guidance, and the patience of the rest of the 6 boys, you learnt quickly.

They’d become a family, a family you could look to for absolutely anything.

However, some two years later, you didn’t know why, but your heart seemed to flutter whenever he was near.

But you pushed this away each time it arose - not just because you were his best friend, but because he couldn’t like you like that, that there was no way that could even be possible.

Off in your thoughts, you don’t notice the knowing look Changbin shoots Chan until you’re nudged in the ribs again.

“Y/N,”

Your name is said a little too loudly, knocking you completely from your thoughts once again.

“Did you want to come to the studio with Chan and I? We’ve been working on some things and need a fresh pair of ears to listen to it.”

The boy speaks a little too fast for you, your gaze going from Changbin to the Aussie for a translation.

He simply laughs at your confusion, pulling you up as he does.

“Just come with us.”

And so you do, excited at the fact you’re entering the composers studio.

You watch as both boys take their seats, gesturing for you to also sit.

The boys unsettle you, gaze on you for what feels like minutes, unblinking.

Was there something on your face?

You awkwardly look down at your shoes, shuffling in your seat.

“Y/N, we need to ask you something important.”

Your gaze snaps up, questioning now. Your veins pumped with a certain adrenaline that made you a little nervous.

“We all know your secret.” Changbin tells you.

The heartbeat in your veins just stops at his words, fingers twitching as you play with your ring. No. There was no way they could possibly know.

“What secret?” You ask, voice slightly shaking as your eyes shift to the two boys in front of you, both of them slightly amused by your clear awkwardness.

“That you like Felix.”

And there it is; the words you surely didn’t want to hear, the words you’ve kept denying for the past few weeks, the words that couldn’t be true.

Shaking your head, cheeks lightly dusted pink, you sit up straighter in the seat.

“No, no you’ve got it wrong.”

“Then may I ask why you’re blushing? Y/N it’s okay, we’re not going to tell him.” Chan reassures, hand going to yours for a touch of comfort.

You shake your head, mustering the courage to look them both straight in the eyes.

“You don’t understand. I can’t like Felix.”

“What do you mean?” Bin asks, head tilted at your clear resistance.

Your head shakes again, nerves fidgeting with your fingers.

“I’m not...” You trail off, coughing to clear your throat a little. “I’m not his type.”

“Type?” Chan questions, eyebrows raised.

You sigh again, nerves fluttering in your stomach. “I’m not exactly...”

They both seem to lean forwards in anticipation, trying to at least catch a glimpse of the word you’re so reluctant to say.

You feel like you could die from your nerves now, eyes squeezing shut as you finally let the words slip out.

“I’m not Asian okay. I can’t like him because I’m his stupid Australian best friend, and that’s all we’ll ever be, because he honestly doesn’t see me like that.”

You’re quite comforted by the black behind your eyes, even though they’re half shut, half of your gaze on the wooden flooring below you. It feels like somehow you finally told yourself the answer you’d been waiting so desperately to admit.

“Y/N,”

And then came the cascading wave, the storm after the calm. You’d almost forgot you were speaking with two members, some of your closest friends.

“You have no idea how wrong you are.”

The phrase makes your gaze flick up to Chan, who seems to be quite amused at your situation.

Brows furrowing in confusion, you can’t even begin to say anything, half dazed and half fuzzled at his words to you.

“Y/N he likes you back, you idiot.” Changbin tells you, a laugh falling from his lips when he sees your wide eyes.

What?! How?!

“We’re so going to get you together. All of us will. Oh my, I can see it now! The best love story in the making!” Chan exclaims, earning a slap from you.

Now that they knew your terrible secret, you knew that so much teasing would follow. Ah, and the rest of them, they knew too?! Ah, this is going to be a nightmare!

And that’s exactly what it was for the following weeks. As if the awkwardness wasn’t already enough, but the space was filled with countless; “oh couple goals” or “that’s cute” whenever you two would do regular things such as stealing each other’s accessories, or even when you would hug.

It was a complete nightmare of blushy messes.

Was this their brilliant idea in getting you two together? Embarrassment?

So when you’re standing in the dance studio, on completely opposite sides of the room, you really don’t see what’s coming for you.

“Yah, Y/N. Come here!” Minho yells, beckoning you over to where Jeongin and Hyunjin are huddled over a phone screen. You walk over, slightly amused by their very amusing facial expressions.

However, when you reach the three, you’re immediately shoved into Felix, the 7 boys making a run for it to the door as they all laugh.

“You two have something to discuss, so please discuss it.”

You’re not quite sure who yells it, but you’re left glaring daggers at the now shut door.

Turning towards the boy, you know your cheeks are as red as a fire truck.

Glancing up, you see his gaze pierced on you, mouth slightly open as if he’s trying to decide what to say.

“You know, don’t you?”

You’re taken aback by the words, most definitely not expecting those particular words to come from him.

Biting down your nerves, you finally look up at Felix, nodding slightly at his question.

He nods too, a hand running through his hair, making your heart swoon.

“What do you think? About that?”

“Well,” You swallow, nervous. “I like you too.”

This certainly was not the answer the boy was expecting, his eyes widening as he just watches you.

There it was, out in the open for the world to claim as its own. There was no more denying, you like Felix, much more then a friend. And that in itself is something that absolutely terrifies you.

“You... you like me?”

Shyly, You nod, cheeks flushing once more as your gaze goes to the floor.

“Thank god,” the boys sighs, a smile forming on his lips, “because that would’ve made this a little more awkward then.”

And with that, you’re captured in a kiss with none other then Lee Felix, your best friend for the last several years, your best friend for the rest of time.

Pulling back, you feel so shy, face hidden by his shirt as you’re embraced in a hug.

“Are you sure you like me?” You squeak, a little dazed from the kiss. It’s out of your mouth before you even realize, wishing in an instance you could take back those words.

Pulling you back, Felix’s wide smile is replaced by concern, confusion.

“Of course I am. I really wouldn’t play around like that Y/N, you’re my best friend after all.”

You nod, feeling a little scared at the situation. Everything was so perfect. Too perfect. He was too perfect.

“I just. I don’t know... I thought that maybe you had a type...”

“A type? What?!”

He’s laughing now, shaking his head.

“Yes, the type is you Y/N. I like you.”

You squeak in embarrassment, shaking your head.

“But Im not Asian, Felix.”

The boy laughs, loud this time, head throwing back at your ludicrous thoughts.

“Yah, you’re so crazy. I’ve been dropping so many dammed hints Y/N! I thought I was being obvious!”

“O-oh.”

You honestly hadn’t realized. Perhaps you were really blind like Chan had pointed out to you.

“Well, I guess I have to ask... Y/N, do you want to be my girlfriend?”

His smile is small now, but just as enthused. His eyes seem to glitter as they search your own, their brown coated with what looks like the whole damn galaxy. A wave of confidence strikes you, your gaze straightening onto him, nerves barely noticeable as it swirls in your stomach.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

[achangeinpriorities]

I don't know if you take the prompts,I had this idea.Len has returned from a mission with the Legends a few months ago.In Central there’s a new mayor,who hates vigilantes (perhaps bc during a crisis,they failed to save a person dear to him).So he will insert the task force again to capture the vigilantes,but his goal is flash.The mayor will be able to arrest Barry,the problem is if Cecile and his boyfriend (Len),will help to Barry out of prison? or will he stay in prison forever?

Hello friend! I do take prompts, and I’ll try to be quick to respond but I make no promises. I’ve cross-posted this one to AO3 if it’s easier to access there (link here), but here you go:

“So let me get this straight.” Leonard glowers at the tiny, fearless DA in front of him. Cecile Horton meets his eyes, sets her jaw, and doesn’t back down. “I’m gone for about a year, cruising the timeline with a madman in a timeship, and when he plops me back—late, I should add, he got us all back late—I find Central City with a mayor named Hanson who has a personal vendetta against the Flash and has arrested him.”

“That’s a pretty good summary, yes.” Cecile nods once, curtly. “He’s pushing to delay the trial, and I know why. They have Barry locked in the metahuman wing at Iron Heights. If the trial is delayed long enough…”

“One of his former villains is likely to get out and kill him.” Leonard runs his palm over the handle of the cold gun. He was no fan of Bellows—Lord knows the man deserved to be arrested—but if he ever gets his hands on this Mayor Hanson, vengeance will be swift and subzero. “Which, you understand, leaves only one option.”

“Push for a speedy trial?” Joe rumbles. He’s been standing guard in the background as though he doesn’t trust Leonard around Cecile. As though Leonard would hurt her when, for now, their goals align: free Barry, legally or otherwise.

“Break him out,” Len drawls. “Unless you want to risk your sweet little foster son coming back to you in pieces.”

“Yeah.” Cecile purses her lips. “I have to pretend I didn’t hear you say that, but if you’re set on that course of action, Cisco might be able to help you.” Before he can say another word, she holds up a delicate hand. “I can’t stay. I shouldn’t even have seen you. I need to go pressure Barry’s lawyer into rounding up character witnesses—honestly, they gave him some kid just out of law school, I doubt he could tell an exhibit from a motion…”

After she leaves, still muttering, Leonard turns to Joe with his iciest smile. “Well, Detective, are you going to walk me to the Cortex?”

In the Cortex, they find Cisco, Caitlin, Wally, and the Firestorm trio. Jax and Wally have their heads together, whispering. From the looks Stein and Ronnie keep throwing them, they’re discussing something unwise. Leonard clears his throat. “So who here will help me spring the Flash?”

“Captain Cold.” Cisco points a Twizzler at him. “The last person in the world I wanted to see, and yet the only one I’d actually trust to spring my friend from a maximum-security ward. Gather ‘round, gather ‘round. I have blueprints.”

Indeed he does. Leonard has seen the inside of a metahuman cell—only once and extremely unfairly—but he’d had no time to examine the broader layout. Now he sees the austere beauty of the metahuman wards. Cells are arranged in subunits of six around small open spaces; no doubt that central space constitutes a metahuman’s yard time. Each subunit is outfitted with power dampeners, and as a redundant measure, the food contains a temporary suppressor drug. Even if Leonard gets Barry out of range of the dampeners, there’s no guarantee he’ll be able to run.

“Oh, and, uh, as a little extra incentive…” Ronnie adds while they peruse the blueprints. “If Barry is convicted, all of us will be, too. The cops are looking for us. They almost got Frost the other day.” He reaches a protective hand out to Caitlin. She flashes him a brief smile.

“In that event, why not postpone the jailbreak?” Stein stares at them. “Right now, public opinion might sway the trial, but if there is a jailbreak…”

“You want to bet Barry’s life on public sentiment?” Leonard scoffs. “Professor, you and I both know people can love a hero one day and loathe him the next. Cisco, who else is in Barry’s subunit?”

“Uh…oh, you’re gonna love this. Sam Scudder, Rosa Dillon, Shawna Baez, and Mark Mardon.” Cisco grins. “There’s one empty cell, so guess where you’ll be going if this doesn’t pan out?”

“Hilarious.” Leonard contemplates the six-sided subunit. “I may have a plan.”

 *** 

Two days later, Cecile reports she’s successfully set a date for the trial. Unfortunately, it’s in two months’ time. Everyone is of the sentiment that they can’t afford to wait.

Jax, Wally, Iris, and Jesse Quick rally some of their friends for a protest outside the Mayor’s office on behalf of metahumans. Leonard doesn’t attend—he’s too busy planning—but he hears the turnout was massive, such that even the formidable Captain Singh stopped by. (This Wally reports with particular delight. Leonard entertains the unpleasant notion that the youngsters may be conspiring without him.)

Leonard calls Lisa and Mick for backup. Mick is less than thrilled when he hears the target (“I’m helping you break your booty call out of prison, Snart?”) but both he and Lisa are excited about a daring escape from under the noses of the police.

On the evening of the great escape, Cisco opens a breach into a small supply cabinet near the metahuman wing. “Now remember,” he says, “you go in there, you’re on your own. Barry can’t help you, and we sure as hell can’t help you.”

Leonard grins. It’s been months since he felt the ice-water clarity that comes with the start of a heist. He’s missed this. “Just the way I like it. I’ll be in touch.”

He steps through the breach, and the countdown begins.

Five seconds later, he swipes a security badge. Five seconds after that, he accesses the metahuman wing. Within a minute, he locates Barry’s subunit, enters, and locks the door behind him. They won’t be leaving through the hallway.

“Barry!”

There’s a clatter of activity from all five occupied cells. Shawna Baez rubs sleep from her eyes and pushes curls out of her face. Mark Mardon launches himself at the bars. Barry bolts out of bed with a heartfelt little “Len?” that breaks Leonard’s heart neatly in two.

“Hey Scarlet.” As much as he wants to go to the bars, catch Barry’s hand, and allow thirty seconds for a sweet reunion, he can’t show that kind of vulnerability around the other Rogues. “If I say ‘jailbreak,’ are you going to chide me for breaking the law?”

Barry’s pout speaks volumes. “I want to get out of here legally, Len. Not—”

Leonard shakes his head. He’s been the disadvantaged kid in the system; he knows how this works. “They’re burying your case, Scarlet. No way are you getting a fair trial. And trust me, Central City needs the Flash too much to let him rot behind bars.”

Five swipes of the keycard releases four irate metahumans and a reluctant little Flash. Mardon goes immediately to the exit. “You locked us in?” he demands.

“No.” Leonard strides to the center of the open area, kneels down, and pops a grate out of the floor. The opening is a little small, but with some work, they’ll fit. “After you.”

Shawna and Rosa have a brief, nonverbal standoff over who’s to be first down the grate. Shawna is first, followed by Rosa, Sam, and Mark. Barry lingers. “Len, I mean it. I don’t want to jeopardize…”

“You won’t.” Leonard shakes his head. “I released everyone else so, in a pinch, you can claim I broke out the Rogues and they took you captive. Now come on, Scarlet. We’re on a tight schedule.”

Reluctantly, Barry lowers himself into the hole. Leonard follows behind him. For a single, terrifying moment, he thinks he’ll get stuck; then someone gives a hearty tug on his ankle and pulls him down. He lands funny, twists his ankle, and bites through his lip to stifle a yell of pain.

“All right,” he says, his voice deliberately even. “Let’s go.”

The hallway into which they’ve dropped leads them through an unused lower level into which the metahuman wing will expand as it fills. For now, it’s abandoned; not even maintenance workers cross their path. At the end of the hall, a door opens into the yard.

“We’re going to have to make a break for it,” Leonard warns. “Don’t worry. In three seconds…” he consults his watch “…there will be a diversion.”

As he speaks, there’s the breathless whoosh of a fire igniting. Barry’s eyes widen. “You brought Mick?”

“Of course I did.” Leonard pushes open the door and beckons for the others to run. Then he grabs Barry by the arm and drags him along, pretending to have him captive. “Now go!”

As they’d planned, a fire blazes on the far side of the prison. By the time alarms sound about the escape, it’s too late. All of them have loaded into an SUV (“What took you so long, jerk?” Lisa greets him when he gets in) and have driven away.

They stop to switch cars. Lisa takes Shawna, Rosa, and Sam in a silver Odyssey that will by no means attract police attention. Mark takes the SUV on his own, despite Leonard’s warnings. Leonard drags Barry into a beat-up Mini, shoves him down in the back seat, and tells him to keep his head down until they reach STAR Labs.

Of course, they never do. They’re rounding the corner onto a quiet stretch of road when Leonard’s phone rings. He stabs the ‘answer’ button, puts it on speaker, and chides, “I’m driving.”

“Which of your Rogues did you tell to make an earthquake happen beneath the Mayor’s office?”

Earthquake under the Mayor’s office? “I…didn’t,” he says, nonplussed. “Although I would like to commend whoever did.”

“Well tell the Flash to get back here, get his suit, and get to work!” Cisco snaps. “If he rescues the Mayor, there’s no way they can arrest him!”

Leonard hangs up on him. “You don’t have to listen.” He glances into the back seat, where Barry has pushed himself up from the floorboards. “If your powers are still suppressed…”

His only answer is a crackle of ozone. When next he glances back, Barry is gone.

By the time Leonard reaches STAR Labs, the results of Barry’s heroics are on every television. There’s a particularly touching still of him holding the Mayor as he cries (Leonard neither wants nor needs the man’s tragic backstory; he can only applaud Barry’s patience). He’s prepared to turn the television off when a few-second clip airs of Barry holding the Mayor, clearly having just rescued him. The look of startled awe on the Mayor’s strangely familiar face makes a dark curl of possessiveness settle in Leonard’s gut.

“And you know what, I’m just gonna…turn that off, now.” Cisco dives for the remote. No sooner has the screen gone black than Barry, Wally, and Jax burst into the room at the same time. Leonard thinks they’re all celebrating until he sees Barry’s hand caught in the material of Wally’s suit.

“—Set up a resonation pattern?” he’s ranting. “The Mayor could have been killed, or someone on his staff could have died, and you and Jax and Hartley would have to live with that!”

Oh. The youngsters reached out to Pied Piper. It’s precisely the sort of chaos Leonard would wish upon the Mayor, but out of deference to Barry’s frustration, he doesn’t smile.

“If it works, will you still be mad at me?” Wally asks.

“If what works?” Barry asks. He doesn’t need to wonder long, because Cecile bursts into the room, her cell phone still in her hand.

“I just got permission from the Mayor to drop your case!” she pronounces. She spares a single, bewildered glance at Wally before pulling Barry into an embrace. “It only took five minutes of wheedling, and Iris may or may not have threatened to release a transcript of what he said to you while he was weeping on your shoulder, but you’re a free man! And better yet…” She pulls a sheaf of paper out of her bag. “I have the paperwork here to amend the operating constraints of the Metahuman Task Force. From now on, any associates of the Flash will be guaranteed immunity.” When there are general exclamations of joy, she beams. “Thank you, I only wrote it myself at two in the morning.”

“Babe, you’re a miracle worker.” Joe wraps his arms around her from behind. She leans back against him and closes her eyes in contentment. Joe spares her a fond look before leveling a wary stare on Leonard. “Don’t think Barry didn’t tell me about your…whatever the hell is going on. So if you have business with my son, take it elsewhere.”

“‘Business,’” Leonard drawls. If he thought for one second that Joe’s distaste for their relationship didn’t stem from his reservations about Barry dating a criminal, he would have icy remarks to make. “Such a discreet way of putting it. Well, Barry, I believe I owe you an explanation for the day’s goings-on. Shall we take our ‘business’ elsewhere?”

Barry snuggles readily into his side. Once they’re out of earshot of anyone in the Cortex, he mumbles, “I still don’t forgive you for the jailbreak. What if it hadn’t worked out like this?”

Leonard smirks. “You think I’m above bringing the Flash on the run with me? I’ve had several incredibly detailed fantasies about that very thing…”

“You’re the worst.” There’s a reluctant smile playing around the corners of Barry’s mouth. He wants to concede, so Leonard decides to give a little in return.

“I’m sorry, Scarlet, I understand how you feel. I just want you to understand that I was worried for you.” He presses a kiss to Barry’s temple. “I’ve had the system set against me. I couldn’t watch them damn you to rot in prison because of your powers.”

Barry’s expression softens. “I know,” he agrees. For a second, Leonard thinks he’ll try for a kiss. Then he tilts his head. “So, what do we do about the Rogues you let loose?”

Leonard laughs. “We’ll worry about them another day. Now come on, Scarlet—aren’t you going to welcome me home?”

[tomeandflickcorner]

Episode Review- The Real Ghostbusters: When Halloween Was Forever

The episode in which we are introduced to what is quite possibly the most iconic villain of the show’s run.  And just as well, as it’s certainly the best episode I’ve reviewed so far.

The episode begins on October 29th, a few hours before midnight.  Meaning it’s almost the day before Halloween.  The Ghostbusters are in the middle of their typical ghost extraction task, catching a small group of small ghosts that are occupying some building somewhere.  Once they’ve managed to capture all of the ghosts, they head outside where they are met by Cynthia Crawford, a reporter for the fictional newsgroup UBN News.  We get a brief moment of levity when Cynthia confronts Peter, who apparently claimed this job would be super easy. Peter now denies he ever said such a thing.  

It then turns out that this news story had aired a while ago, as Ray is rewatching the clip on the TV back at the Firehouse, as he’d apparently had taped it.  And I am thoroughly impressed with the whole TV unit they have set up.  It’s complete with speakers, various VCR players and the like.  I readily admit I don’t remember the 80s that well, as I was a toddler through the latter half of the decade.  But did they normally have displays this sizable back then?  Or are we just supposed to chalk this up to the fact that Egon and Ray are particularly intelligent people who probably personally manufactured the unit themselves?  Either way, the Ghostbusters are discussing how their latest cases seem to be more difficult than they should be.  Even busts that should be a walk in the park are putting them through their paces.  Ray ends up speculating if it has something to do with Halloween coming up.  However, they then notice that Egon is being particularly quiet about the matter, and is barely looking up from his books and maps of the city.

Here, we get a wonderfully done scene where Peter sneaks up on Egon, scaring him out of his trance-like concentration.  And then, when Egon still hesitates to confer with the others about what he’s so focused on, Peter forces him to open up by threatening to tell Slimer that there’s a cupcake in Egon’s sock.  While this was probably just done to give the audience a good laugh, it really did a great job at demonstrating the overall dynamic between Peter and Egon, reminding us that they’re not just co-workers, but that they’re also friends that go back a bit and can therefore joke around and maintain a friendly banter.

Anyway, Egon proceeds to discuss how the sudden increase of PKE readings around the city seem to coincide with the arrival of some ancient ruins from Ireland, which had been brought to a local museum two weeks ago. He and Ray then begin to discuss the very origins of Halloween, stating the holiday started off in 7th century Ireland as a festival to mark the point in time when nights began to get longer.  And that Irish and Scottish immigrants brought those traditions over to America, leading to what we now call Halloween.  (All I can say is, bless this episode for delving into educational territory.)  Egon goes on to speculate that perhaps these ancient ruins might have some ties to the origins of Halloween, and the Ghostbusters figure it might be advantageous if they head over to inspect these ruins, and perhaps convince the museum curator to keep them locked up until after Halloween.  But first, Egon decides to get back at Peter for his earlier attempt at blackmail by slyly telling Slimer that there’s a lollypop in Peter’s sock. Because again, these two are good friends who will sometimes playfully bicker and play jokes on one another.

Unfortunately, the Ghostbusters don’t get the opportunity to investigate the ancient ruins.  That very night, two small goblins sneak into the museum where the ruins are being kept and they proceed to draw an infinity symbol on the ruins.  The moment the symbol is drawn, the ruins burst open, releasing a formidable looking entity.  This, as the goblin chants indicate, is Samhain.  While Samhain is actually the name of the Gaelic festival that marked the beginning of winter (which is the festival Egon and Ray were referring to), this entity is basically the physical manifestation of everything it, and its modern-day ‘equivalent,’ represents.  Though I probably should mention that, regardless of what this episode suggests, it’s supposed to be pronounced ‘sow-win.’

Upon being freed, Samhain proceeds to fly about the city, gathering up minions.  Which triggers a sequence where various inanimate objects become animate.  The face of a clock becomes a literal face, and a stone gargoyle comes to life.  As well as a bunch of apples that children at some Halloween party are using in a Bobbing for Apples game.  I won’t hesitate to say I loved this sequence, as it seemed rather reminiscent of the montages from the movies.  Particularly Ghostbusters II, which I’ll review on a later date.  But because Samhain’s influence either severed the phonelines or caused the phones themselves to become possessed, The Ghostbusters aren’t alerted to this wave of disturbances until those same two goblins from earlier appear at the Firehouse, where Janine briefly mistakes them for Trick-or-Treaters. Until they blow her back into the wall, revealing that they aren’t children in costumes seeking candy.  The Ghostbusters promptly hurry out into the streets to take on the fresh wave of paranormal disturbances all across the city.

Meanwhile, Samhain has taken up perch atop a skyscraper, where he calls out to all the ghosts within the city, beckoning them to come to him.  This apparently incudes Slimer, who is forcibly dragged out of the Firehouse, despite his efforts at grabbing onto various objects.  Including a lamp that is bolted down to the floor for some reason. Once all the ghosts in the city are gathered around him, Samhain announces his plan to ensure that Halloween never ends, with the world knowing nothing but eternal night.  But that’s when Samhain notices Slimer, whom he denounces as a traitor on the grounds that Slimer backed up a little bit.  Which seems like a rather strange way to identify someone as a traitor.  Likewise, when Samhain states that Slimer has the stench of mortals on him, he immediately concludes that Slimer lives with and helps humans.  While he’s not wrong, since Slimer IS the Ghostbuster’s pet ghost and all, wouldn’t the ghosts that haunt buildings that humans occupy also have the stench of mortals on them?  Confusing reasoning aside, Samhain orders Slimer to join his army, because if he doesn’t he will pay dearly.  The other ghosts proceed to torture Slimer.  But in spite of the torment, Slimer still refuses to denounce his allegiance to humans.  Which is an impressive display of loyalty from the little green ghost.

Elsewhere, the Ghostbusters are at work at rounding up the ghosts roaming around the streets.  And it’s made clear that they’ve got their work cut out for them, as we get a scene where two people duck inside a diner to escape from a pack of ghosts, only to find that the diner’s patrons and staff have already been replaced by ghosts as well.  The Ghostbusters soon realize that their watches have all stopped working, signifying that time is no longer moving.  As this revelation is sinking in, Samhain himself appears before them, demanding to know why they’re harming his ‘little ones.’  He then proceeds to attack them with black lightning, introducing himself as Samhain.  Ray immediately is able to recall that Halloween began as the feast of Samhain, a creature of the night that nobody could stop.  The fact that Ray knows about him seemingly impresses Samhain, though he still proceeds to explain his plan to make it an eternal Halloween night, so the ghosts of the world will be free to roam free forever. However, Egon is able to drive him off by shining a flashlight he just happens to be carrying at the entity.  Upon being hit with the light from the flashlight, Samhain recoils and retreats.

Seeing Samhain’s reaction to the light gives Egon an idea.  Realizing that Samhain, as a creature of the night, hates the light, Egon announces that they can weaken him by simply turning on all the lights in the city.  Unfortunately, Samhain apparently anticipated this, as all the lights start to turn off in a citywide blackout.  Still, Egon is not deterred and simply decides to come up with an alternative solution.  And he starts to head off on his own.  Before leaving, he tasks the others to keep Samhain distracted with a frontal assault. So Peter, Ray and Winston slowly make their way up to the roof of the skyscraper where Samhain is waiting, catching various ghosts that block their path as they make their way upwards. Upon reaching the roof, they find themselves face to face with Samhain and his personal army of ghost underlings. But before the Ghostbusters could even try to attack, Samhain reveals that he’s got a weakened Slimer as hostage. He orders the Ghostbusters to lower their weapons, or he’ll proceed to harm Slimer even more.  Peter is particularly irritated by the underhanded tactic, stating that he’s the only one who is allowed to pick on Slimer.  (Always nice to be reminded that Peter doesn’t really hate Slimer.)  Thankfully, Ray gets an idea and shouts out the word ‘pizza.’  Hearing the mention of food gives Slimer the incentive he needs to break free from Samhain’s grasp.  

However, even though Slimer is now out of harm’s way, there’s still the issue of Samhain, whose power has grown to the point where night is also falling over Europe, Asia and South Africa, as was indicated by an earlier scene when the Ghostbusters caught a bit of a news broadcast.  (Pretty awesome how this is happening on a global scale and it’s not just the city itself that’s in danger.)  But that’s when Egon’s plan comes in.  He’s managed to gather up a set of spotlights (how he managed to get them isn’t clear) and tricked a pair of ghosts joyriding in a car to move them into position. Once the spotlights are all set up, Egon activates them by wiring them up to the generator in his Proton Pack. The spotlights all shine on Samhain, thereby keeping him weak enough for the Ghostbusters to effectively trap him, despite the best efforts of the ghost minions trying to stop them.

Upon returning to the Firehouse, the Ghostbusters are able to load Samhain into the Containment Unit. Once the entity of Halloween is contained, they are able to observe him inside the Containment Unit with this viewing device they happen to have. As such, they see Samhain is seemingly sitting patiently, as if waiting for something.  They speculate that he’d been waiting for years to achieve his goal of securing an eternal Halloween night, so he might be planning to wait a bit longer. Which does set up a bit of foreshadowing that he might be able to figure out how to escape again at some point. But at that moment, the lights in the basement switch off, and the Ghostbusters are alarmed by the sight of a floating Jack-o-Lantern, which resembles Samhain’s head.  Although, this turns out to be just a harmless Halloween prank Janine orchestrated with Slimer’s assistance.  In response to this, the Ghostbusters seemingly direct a tickle attack against Janine, though we can only speculate this, as we can only hear Janine’s voice over an exterior shot of the Firehouse.

As I said, I really enjoyed this episode, as it was certainly among the better ones of the first season. Though it was not without flaws. Of course, those flaws were animation errors that had nothing to do with the actual story.  For instance, there’s a scene when the Ghostbusters are running down the street but are drawn rather silly.  Particularly Egon, who looks incredibly goofy.  Later on, when Egon is heading off to set up his spotlight plan, the animation staff accidently drew a second Egon where Peter was supposed to standing.  Something similar happens a bit later, where they accidently drew Peter in an aerial shot instead of Egon.  But apart from errors like that, it’s a solid episode. Even though I’m still wondering about one thing.  It’s established that Samhain has been sealed away in those ancient runes since the 7th Century.  So who exactly sealed him in there in the first place?  Can we get that story, please?

(Click here for more Ghostbusters reviews)