#Regis found him doing that and demanded one

[spellwing777]

My first digital painting in....probably about a decade. I prefer traditional, but to be honest, oils and acrylics are NOT something I want to try irl. Oils in particular are...worryingly flammable.

[fading-event-608]

Recently the syndicate of chemists in Lebanon has issued a statement warning people to not go near the blast sites due to alleged use of depleted uranium by Israel. (link - you need to scroll till the statement in Arabic). The screenshot of their statement on twitter was shared here on Tumblr and I’ve seen multiple people expressing scepticism regarding the source. Some people linked an article (link) from anti-Hezbollah 'democratic' newspaper 'L’Orient Today' to ‘fact-check’ - because of course they can’t read Arabic and are discontent with a twitter link.

This is my short summary of the article: they confirm that Israel has used Depleted Uranium (DU) weapons, not only in Lebanon but also in Gaza in June of this year and between October and December of last year. They establish a history of the use of Depleted Uranium, and include examples of its use in Iran in 2003. Israel doesn't directly talk about their use of DU, but neither are they hiding it - because there is no law that forbids the use of these bombs by Israel, there is no treaty regulating the use of DU weapons. There were several resolutions calling for a moratorium on the use of DU weapons in the UN and EU Parliament, the latest of which was in 2022, but these have failed to stop their use (those who have used them also includes both Russia and Ukraine). The article ends with an ominous addition that the Israeli army has been found guilty multiple times of using white phosphorus, which IS prohibited against civilians or civilian property under international law. (You probably can already tell that their defense is that they do not use it against civilians)

There is another article that was published in early September this year - LINK - I highly encourage you to read this one yourself, as it is quite short, especially when considering the amount of information it contains. As this one is more easily accessible, I won’t summarize it - please take it in yourself. I will say, however, that this article’s author, one Dr. Busby, worked with colleagues to conduct several investigations into the use of uranium-based weapons in both Lebanon and Gaza. In 2006, Dr. Busby asked his colleague to collect multiple samples from a crater left by what was suspected to be Depleted Uranium weapons. Samples from an ambulance air filter were also taken. Dr. Busby and company found not only the  presence of depleted uranium but also of Enriched Uranium. Here’s the paper: link.

Enriched Uranium. In 2006.

By 2024, all of the laboratories that Dr. Busby had used to Conduct the investigation have closed their doors either to him or in general. Busby’s letters to the UN, as well as papers detailing evidence of the use of enriched and depleted uranium are either dismissed or ignored, rendering it unlikely that there will ever be the “official” source for these claims that certain people now see fit to demand. And even if the UN did accept those letters and did push for ban of those weapons - would Israel comply? Genocide is ‘illegal’ under international law, and Israel still faces the case in ICJ, but what will that ICJ do if they rule that Israel is guilty? What would UN do if they accept evidence of Israel using uranium-based weapons? Scold them and write a fine?

The aspect of the deployment of nuclear weapons considered the most horrific is - and has always been - the fallout. The idea that all nuclear weapons would leave evidence - again, fallout - behind was born into the cultural consciousness through various cold war era PSAs, as well as other media inspired by these horrors, potential and otherwise. The weapons Israel is using here do not create fallout, however. But do not mistake them as harmless - they are still highly carcinogenic. They cause birth defects, as well as various other illnesses - mysterious illnesses, or at least mysterious until doctors attempting to treat them register that their patients have been exposed to enriched uranium, after which point the mystery goes away. 

In a sense, the horrors advertised by cold war PSAs and films like Doctor Strangelove, the promise of some explosive end brought about by some fool in the US pushing the wrong button - these serve to draw a veil over the continued use of nuclear weapons that have been ongoing since this technology was first harnessed for violence. This is a severe danger to the people of Gaza, and we can’t ignore it simply because we have developed in our minds too much faith in the loosest understandings of nuclear warfare.

I think many of you are familiar with a boiling frog story. The story goes that if you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, it will try to climb out. But if you put it in warm water and very slowly heat it, it will be so accustomed to the temperature it will eventually be boiled alive. It’s not very authentic, of course - in reality the frog will try to jump out as soon as it deems the water temperature uncomfortable. Just like you would try to get out of the bathtub as soon as it gets too hot for you or try to warm yourself up when you spend too much time outside in winter. 

But some of it still rings true. At what point will the UN, or ICJ, or some other white savior wannabe decide that Israel has done too much? What is that ‘too-much’ point that makes them try to protest, and what would that protest be?

As in case with Tumblr, it seems that the boiling point, in fact, has already passed and people grew accustomed to deaths of Palestinians. There are thousands of posts about the situation in Gaza, and the whole Palestine, Lebanon, Yemen, Syria… They get a lot of attention by both zionists and Palestine supporters. There are also hundreds of Gazans that came to Tumblr in hopes to escape the genocide by asking people to cover evacuation and survival costs. Do they get the same attention? Barely. Arguably zionists are more invested in interacting with those posts - they mass report them and harass Palestinians. And even if the fundraiser post gets a lot of attention, it does not necessarily translate into a lot of donations - people just assume that someone else will donate instead of them.

You can’t stop Israel all by yourself. You can’t convince the UN or try to progress the ICJ case by yourself. You can, however, do small acts that will contribute to Palestinian resistance. Go protest, go boycott, and please, please, please, go donate to Palestinian fundraisers.

Falastin’s family are under constant threat in Gaza. She’s been fundraising to save them since late June, and yet they’ve only recently gotten to just over 5% of their total goal - a little short of $10,000 USD. They’re still in Gaza, and still in need of funds for survival. The longer they are trapped there, the more they need - not just for food and water, but also for medicine, shelter, and clothes. Each time they’re displaced, due to inadequate time to pack, they lose more supplies, and their needs increase. Give what you can so that they can survive this, and please share their fundraiser as much as you’re able regardless of whether you can donate, just in case someone you know might be able to help. Not just here on Tumblr, on other social media, talk to your friends, coworkers, family, in group chats and in discord servers.

Please keep in mind conversion rates before donating:

10$ = 103 SEK

25$ = 260 SEK

50$ = 519 SEK

100$ = 1,038 SEK

[sparklecryptid]

*grins* AtB reveal AU where the Crystal makes a grandiose magical announcement whenever a Lucis Caelum is born. (Mors is seriously considering making Regis retake sex ed as the announcement comes again - and again - and again - in a matter of months. Regis is just wishing that the Crystal mentioned things like names or locations, not ‘Hail the birth of the son/daughter of the Stone! Hail!’)

More stares at Regis.

Regis is would normally meet his fathers gaze head on but-

Well.

Apparently Regis has eight children he that he lost track of.

“If this happens one more time,” Mors says with an expression on his face that would lead to Regis getting sent to his room when he was younger, “I’ll make sure you never step foot out of Insomnia again.”

-

Katrina sees the headlines announcing the birth of one of Regis’ children.

Then she sees those headlines again and again and as she carries Ace around her and Carly’s home as he babbles she wonders if she should head to Insomnia and tell Regis.

Ace makes a low whining noise in the back of his throat when he realizes his mother isn’t paying attention to him and Katrina laughs and showers him in kisses until he bursts into giggles again.

There are too many variables, Katrina decides, she’ll wait before introducing Ace to his family.

-

Ardor is found first, they find a scrawny child scavenging for food in the streets of Lestallum. They only catch him because he runs into another boy - slightly older - who sees Ardor throwing fireballs at the Crownsguard and joins in.

Cor stares at the report. He then stares at the red eyed child in front of him who is accompanied by a woman who looks like she would be more at home in a lab than in Cor’s office. She has a tight grip on her child and hovers close enough to Ardor to grab him and run if anything happens.

Her bright eyes stare at Cor and show no fear. She seems perfectly willing to fight Cor if the situation calls for it.

Cor wonders why he - at 19 years old - was put in charge of this.

-

Jules is found next. She had thrown a grown man into a wall with magic when said man attempted to harm her mother. Cor and Regis watch as Ardor takes one look at her and her mother and promptly decides that he’ll die for her.

Thanatos must be of the same opinion as he begins to bring her books.

-

Bard isn’t found so much as brought to Insomnia by her mother after Bard had decided to test out fire breathing.

“I figured,” her mother says in a voice that has seduced Regis in the past, “That if anyone can help her it’s the one who she inherited the magic from.”

Regis thinks of the part of the Citadel dedicated to his children and their mothers and thinks he must have to expand it.

-

Mercury shows up with an Imperial noblewoman who is currently seeking sanctuary.

“May I ask why the Empire has an arrest warrant out for you?”

“Well,” the blonde noblewoman says with a slight grin, “They can’t put one out for a child can they?”

In that moment Mercury must decide that she’s had enough of not being near her mother because she phases through the door to the interrogation room and demands her mother make her popsicles.

“Oh,” the noblewoman says and her grin widens, “There’s that too.”

-

Persephone and her mother walk into the Citadel as if they own it.

Persephone has her father sit down for tea and Regis has never been intimidated by a ten year old until now.

“If you hurt my mother,” Persephone says in a tone that is too mature for her age, “The Astrals themselves won’t be able to hide you from me.”

“Does your mother know you are threatening me?”

“She tried to discourage it.”

Regis feels a bit faint and wonders if Noctis will grow up to be like the rest of his siblings.

“I see.”

-

Jupiter and Ace arrive together having barely reached adulthood. They don’t exactly want to ask Regis to stop being a fucking tool and to ease restrictions on Galahdians seeking refuge but-

Well, listen, sometimes you have to do something uncomfortable to make change. They even made an appointment, they have proof of the appointment.

If only this fucking gate guard would believe them when they say they have an appointment.

Jupiter, because she has never bothered to pay attention to the lessons their uncle taught them in politics and diplomacy, decides that force is the right choice.

“If you don’t let us through,” Jupiter says, “I’m going to freeze you in place, and then I’m going to let my brother decide whether or not to electrocute you.”

“Please don’t tempt me,” Ace mutters under his breath.

“Threats? As if I can’t have you arrested for threatening a standing member of the military see if the Astrals will take pity on you-“

“Oh,” Jupiter says as she eyes the rapidly darkening skies, “I think they might.”

The formerly sunny day turns dark, thunderheads gathering directly above the Citadel. Jupiter watches as the guard does a double take when he realizes Ace’s eyes are glowing a bright gold-

“Shit,” the guard curses and scrambles away from them. The siblings watch amusedly as he frantically reaches for his com.

Rapid footsteps reach their ears and both Ace and Jupiter turn toward the sound. Princess Persephone looks like she just came from a sparring practice dressed in sweatpants and a tank top with her hands wrapped.

“I would prefer it, dear brother, if you didn’t summon Ramuh to wreak havoc on the city this fine morning.” Persephone speaks as if she knows them and Ace and Jupiter exchange a look.

The gold fades from Ace’s eyes and the weather clears.

“I wasn’t going to summon him,” Ace protests, “I was persuading the guard here to let us in for our appointment.”

Persephone raises a brow.

Ace meets her stare head on.

Jupiter cackles.

“He doesn’t have enough energy to summon Ramuh anyway,” Jupiter says, “Not after, well, you know.”

Persephone takes stock of her siblings appearances. They both look like they’ve been on the move for weeks without rest and the beads in their hair are all too telling about where they are from.

“We heard, I would extend my condolences but I expect they mean nothing.” Persephone turns toward the guard. Her eyes are ice as she looks at him. “I will be taking my siblings in to meet with our father. We will deal with you later.”

[garbria]

Helpless

For Febuwhump day 1

Cor punched the bag in a steady rhythm, wishing he could afford to pull his katana. Unfortunately, Clarus, and then Regis, had convinced him the level of destruction he was capable of would be ultimately unproductive. And taken out of his paycheck, though that threat was more effective during his pre-Marshal days.

Still, despite all their arguments to the contrary, he wished for the freedom to swing Kotetsu. The familiar patterns weren’t holding his attention without the edge of steel. The whirl of emotions churned in his chest unabated.

With a growl, he hit the bag one last time, ignoring the smattering of blood left on the bag. This wasn’t working. He knew better than try and spar in this mood. Clarus was too busy, as was Regis, and the only other person who could reliably handle him in this state was the reason he was in this state to begin with.

He stalked out of the gym, grabbed a light jacket from his locker, and snuck out one of the side entrances. Thankfully, he was a familiar enough presence that no one took note as he hit one of the jogging paths around the Citadel at a faster than usual jog. The fresh air and the impact of his feet on the pavement started to do what his previous workout had not.

He wasn’t that hotheaded kid who’d run off to fight the Blademaster anymore, no matter what Clarus insinuated. He’d grown into command, learned to pick his battles, and made a kind of peace with not being able to be everywhere he was needed. He would never quite be used to being helpless when his people were in the field, but he’d learned to cope.

None of that helped today.

He loved Nyx, he did. More than that, he respected him. He was the best in the glaive for a reason. He was swift, deadly, and more than capable of handling himself on the battlefield, even with his ridiculously noticeable battle dress. His lethal grace was one the first things that drew Cor to him. Then his sly sense of humor and genuine good heart finished capturing Cor’s heart.

Cor knew how skilled Nyx was. He’d seen him in action, sparred with him enough to know what a force he could be. He reminded himself of that every time Nyx went out into the field when Cor’s responsibilities kept him here in Insomnia. Nyx’s sense of duty rivaled his own, yet another reason he’d fallen so completely. So he’d come to terms with the risks inherent in Nyx’s job, more or less. Held tight to the knowledge of Nyx’s competence in the dark of the night, and breathed a sigh of relief every time he returned.

He’d thought he’d come to terms with it, anyway. Nothing had prepared him for the ransom video. Nyx had been gone longer than expected, but not quite long enough for concern. Until the plain brown envelope had been delivered to his desk. The courier service had been paid by anonymous money order, one not even Monica could track down. 

The video, despite the poor lighting, showed what was clearly Nyx, bloodied and dazed. The ransom demands had been a pull back of forces and the return of a few prisoners. The damn Niffs were officially claiming ignorance, but everyone knew that was a polite fiction. It was political now, and Regis had barred him from any discussions. 

His chest burned with anger and helplessness and a hundred other emotions he didn’t feel like naming. He wanted to yell and scream and destroy things. None of it would help.

His relationship with Nyx wasn’t supposed to put him in more danger. 

Intellectually, he knew why Regis and Clarus had locked him out of the planning. It didn’t make him feel any better. He wanted to do something, anything to help the man he’d grown to care so much for.

He found himself back at the Citadel with no memory of the intervening time. He wasn’t even winded, despite taking the whole path at more of run than a jog. He stared at the door and its electronic keypad, debating turning around and running the path again. His mind was still a jumble of anger and despair, but maybe another circuit would work better. 

His pocket buzzed, and he almost dropped his phone in his rush to dig it out of his pocket. He unlocked it to find a text from Clarus calling him to Regis’ office.

Finally. They’d found something he could do, some way he could actually help. 

Just hold on, Nyx. He was coming.

[primamchorus]

Burning Valor

Cor Leonis, youngest person in the history of Insomnia to have become a Crownsguard at the age of thirteen, is now offered a title of nobility for his loyalty to the Crown and her people. His valorous deeds have never gone missed by King Regis. However, the decision to move forward with it weighs heavy...perhaps heavier than any decision Cor has had to make in the past.

Word Count: 2,256

FFXV: Reimagined Table of Contents

<- Previous

“Marshal, a moment of your time?” The voice cut through the quiet corridor, firm yet friendly.

The marshal, a man of a lean build and serious expression hardened from years of service, stopped and turned toward the voice that called to him. Standing behind him was the king flanked only by one of his closest friends and members of the Lucian Royal Council. Of course, this meant the marshal gave them both his full attention, crossing his right arm over his chest before bowing respectfully to them.

“Highness…” the man respectfully greeted, his light blue gaze still turned toward the ground. “What can I do for you?”

“If you would, Marshal, I request your presence in a private meeting with Clarus and myself,” the king requested. This caused the man to slowly look up, the barest hint of intrigue evident in the serious expression wrought across his features.

“... No trouble at all,” the marshal replied, straightening back up into standing position. The king then nodded subtly toward Clarus, and the trio set off down the hall toward a meeting room nestled away within the base of the Citadel. Normally, Cor gave no thought to the hall and its features, but this time, he noted the long, dark shadows that were cast onto the walls with each light they passed. A distraction, perhaps.

The marshal’s mind churned and twisted with silent questions. It had been a while since he needed to be debriefed on anything major. Had Niflheim made significant movements that needed opinions or a plan of action on? Was there word back from House Vox and their branch on happenings within Niflheim controlled territories that needed the Glaive? Was that why Clarus was present?

Despite the tempest of thoughts, his expression remained stoic as ever. He continued his pace behind both individuals until, at last, they reached the door to a room the man was all too familiar with: the war room. He often came here to help plan strategic meetings and plans of action for the Crownsguard and sometimes the Kingsglaive to follow.

So what was it being used for today? And by the king himself no less?

When the door closed behind them, the marshal stood at attention, hands behind his back. He kept his gaze glued to the king, never even taking a moment to glance in Clarus’ direction. It was the king who summoned him, so it was the king he would make sure had his undivided attention.

“Be at ease, Cor,” the king said, his voice carrying the weight of years spent in leadership as he made his way to the blackwood table. He lowered himself into a chair, a slight slump in his posture -- a subtle departure from the regal bearing usually demanded by his station.

Cor finally gave the barest tilt of his head to the circumstance in which he found himself. If this was not some matter of grave import, then why was this meeting arranged? Regardless, he held his posture, only slightly relaxing his shoulders.

“Your Highness…” Cor started. “Is there ne-”

“Dispense with such formalities, Cor,” the king interjected with a bit of a tiredness to his tone, waving a hand like swatting a fly away. “It does us a disservice behind closed doors to act as if we are merely king and his loyal subject. Please, I would have you speak as you would without titles or duty influencing your every word or thought.”

“... Regis…” Cor slowly started, his posture remaining still somewhat rigid. “I’m curious as to the reason I've been summoned. This doesn’t seem like a typical briefing for a mission or military council.”

“It’s not. Which is why I approach you today with Clarus as friends and former traveling companions. Brothers, if you will,” Regis said in response. He then motioned toward one of the chairs. “If you would, it would perhaps be best if you sit. I wish to discuss this matter with you as it is something that may be seen as a heavy burden.”

Hesitating only a moment, Cor strode to a nearby chair and slowly took a seat. His eyes never left Regis, his mind only hanging onto the question: ‘whatever could he want to discuss?’

Silence hung heavy for a time before Regis finally sighed and clasped his hands together over the table’s surface. Perhaps whatever he had to say was not an easy thing. Perhaps it was just as heavy as the air felt within that moment.

"I wish to bestow upon you the honor of ennoblement, Cor."

Cor’s lips parted ever so slightly with surprise. Did he hear Regis correctly just then?

“That’s…” Cor began, eyes going to the table and tracing over the woodgrain and pattern -- as if trying to find words to use in the natural etchings. 

This would have been the first time someone was elevated to nobility in a while. Two or three centuries, if Cor recalled correctly. “That’s a large responsibility to bestow upon one who merely saw himself as lending his efforts toward the Guard and Glaive. But I suppose you wouldn’t simply do this on a whim and have discussed it at length with the rest of the Royal Council.”

Regis gave a slight nod of confirmation, his attention firm on Cor. “The decision is ultimately yours, my friend. I will harbor no ill-will toward you should you decline.”

There were, of course, a number of benefits that would have come with going through the rite of ennoblement. Becoming part of the king’s circle of nobles would mean Cor got a greater wealth of magic bestowed to him from the Crystal. He could do his job even better. Maybe it was best while he was still within his thirties…

“I can't lie…the benefits outweigh the negatives…” Cor began in response, closing his eyes as he leaned forward. “But…I fear that moving forward with this and making a House Leonis would be short-lived… I've never had a desire to father a child, let alone find someone to make that possible. You'd be making your noble house simply for it to vanish in -- if we're fortunate -- another fifty years. Less if I can't live by that damned epithet everyone's given me.”

“I warned Regis this would be your answer,” Clarus said, his first real interaction since they had all come to meet. A look of mild annoyance settled upon Clarus’ face as he folded his arms over his chest. Regis cast a sidelong glance at him; it seemed evident that their lifelong bond perhaps saw them bickering over the decision before they approached Cor at all. Cor, meanwhile, glanced between them, a heavy, silent sigh making his shoulders and chest heave for but a moment.

Returning his attention to Cor, Regis adjusted in his seat, clearing his throat. “It matters not to me if you want the line of nobility to extend past yourself. It has always been your aid, loyalty, and unwavering, valorous spirit that have inspired me to reach out to you to build the foundation for the Valor of the King.”

Valor of the King… There was a slight ring to it. Still, it was a large responsibility to carry. Cor felt like if he was elevated to nobility, there would be some duty to seeing an heir ascend and take over. Much like all the others that came before: Hand, Shield, Arms, Heart, Eyes, and Ears.

The pregnant pause that filled the room went unmissed by all, least of all, Regis.

“But…you should know…the Crystal will recognize not only you as part of a noble family.”

Cor looked up, a flicker of intrigue and confusion making him tilt his head slightly. “What does that mean?”

“It means your younger siblings will also be recognized. Your parents, too, were they still with us,” Regis explained. “The Crystal will touch all who share your bloodline. It holds no prejudice over any one person within a family with the same blood.”

Realization set in before Cor’s expression hardened once more. “Then my sister's child…”

“...Would carry on the House Leonis line should you accept and have no intention of producing an heir to the House,” Regis finished. He sighed again, heart. “It really is a heavy burden. I have no doubt that you would require time to speak with Cera to gain her own thoughts and insights. Though the decision rests with you, her feelings and decisions are equally important to me.”

“Why didn’t you speak with her?” Cor questioned.

“I felt it wasn’t my place. The head of the House would be you should you accept, after all.” Regis made his thoughts sound so simple. Then he relaxed, going back into a somewhat slouched position in his chair. “Besides…I believe it best for her to have that discussion with you instead of hearing it from me. Though I am a king of my people and wish for their utmost wellbeing, meddling in family affairs does not befit me, wouldn’t you agree?”

Cor supposed Regis was right in a way. Still, that meant arranging a meeting with her at some point.

With a curt nod, Cor rose from his seat.

“... I'll speak with her…” Cor said. The weight of the decision still weighed heavily on his shoulders now that it was placed there. But…so long as Cera was okay with it, then he supposed he had no qualms. “I do believe having more access to the Crystal will likely be necessary against the Niflheim threat. I'll need time to get used to it if my sister approves of the arrangement.”

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

When Cor met with his sister, he felt a flicker of warmth to see her cheery disposition, though his face betrayed none of it. He noted with silent relief that she appeared in good health as she approached, her steps light despite the pregnancy. Stepping aside to pull out a chair for her at the table he had been waiting at, he motioned to it; something simple to ease her burden. After all, he knew that she must have had a difficult time during her stage in her pregnancy with little to no help back at home.

Cera was glowing. Clearly, she was keeping to whatever regimen she had at home to keep her appearance well kept. Her brown hair had been neatly pinned back out of her face, the rest of it secured in a loose Altissian braid.

“Keeping well?” Cor asked, his voice low so as to not disturb those around them. He took his seat once she was settled.

“Well enough,” Cera replied, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Her eyes darted from his hands, tightly clasped together, back up to his ever-serious expression. “And you? I can’t imagine you called me here just for a family reunion. You usually don't look so...troubled when it’s merely a casual outing.”

Of course Cera would see through him immediately. She always had a knack for reading between the lines, especially when it came to her brother.

A slow sigh escaped Cor as he looked down at his clasped hands.

Was this how Regis felt when he first approached Cor? The thought struck him with an uncomfortable familiarity -- sitting here, mirroring Regis's posture, burdened by a choice that seemed to weigh heavier with every breath. Cor might have laughed at the irony if the gravity of the moment was not weighing so heavily on his shoulders.

“King Regis spoke with me…” Cor began, his tongue suddenly feeling like sandpaper as he struggled to broach the subject. Should he just tear the bandage off quickly? There was little point in skirting around what needed to be said.

“And?” Cera prodded, reaching over to take up the menu at the table.

“He…wants to elevate my status to nobility…” Cor finally said. “Technically, our status. As he tells it, the Crystal doesn’t discriminate between those that share the bloodline. Should I become recognized by the Crystal, so will you. So will…your child.”

Cera’s lips parted, a look of disbelief settling on her features. She then moved the menu aside and folded her arms over the table, leaning forward as she did so. “So…what did you tell him?”

“I told him I’d speak with you,” Cor replied, voice steady, though a hint of weariness seeped into his words. He could feel fatigue creeping in, threatening to make him less patient than he intended. But he forced it down -- this was still meant to be a cordial conversation, even if Cera’s voice had taken on a bit of a sharper edge. “He believes your opinion matters just as much as mine since this decision will affect you too.”

“And what do you want?” Cera pressed. Her eyes locked onto his, searching.

“... I want to protect the Crown and its people as best as I can.”

Cera leaned back in her chair, one hand resting on the swell of her belly as she considered his response. The silence stretched between them like a taut string ready to snap. Finally, she asked, ��Will having a title of nobility help with that? We’ve seen the elevated prowess of House Amicitia, House Chorus…all of them, really. Do you want what they have for yourself, Cor?”

“I find no shame in my capabilities if you don’t want it. That said…I see no downside to receiving such a boon,” Cor replied earnestly.

Cera held his gaze for a moment longer, her expression inscrutable, before finally nodding.

“… Then do it,” she said quietly. “Accept his offer of ennoblement.”

[discosonicdude]

FE OC Week - Day 3 - Backstory

Okay, bit later than usual. I've been busy with work and other hectic stuff that have been happening today, but finally, it's time for the next prompt for @fe-oc-week. I realize that I may have backed myself into a corner with what I was talking about yesterday, but I'll do what I can to go along with what I have in mind. Apologies in advance if I end up sounding like a broken record, repeating what I've already talked about in previous days, but here we go.

Nick was born as the eldest son of Regis in 1162, after his elder sisters barely got the chance. With Matthew born just over a year later, the two brothers watched each other's backs both during their father's lessons in magic, with Nick specializing in Black Magic and Matthew in White, and in general. It wasn't long Nick's childhood that he began to notice something emanating from him. Regis realized what this meant; Nick bore a Crest.

When Regis found this out, he started giving Nick excruciatingly tougher lessons so that his Crest could awaken and he could lead House Umbris to a new age, knowing that he is the first male to bear the Crest. There was one issue though; Nick's Crest was fractured. No matter what Nick did, his Crest would not awaken. Beginning to doubt if it would happen, Nick begins to tire of his training.

After the Insurrection of the Seven, Regis has House Umbris cut ties with the Kingdom to fully support the Empire. Worried that the Kingdom would not forgive them because of this, and House Umbris wouldn't help them in their time of need, Nick tries to convince his father to repair relations with the Kingdom. However, Regis outright refuses his eldest son's requests at every turn, and leaves Nick's hopes just at that. Hopes. And little did Nick realise that his fears would come true. The Tragedy of Duscur.

When Nick found out about this, he was furious and confronted his father about how they did not come to the Kingdom's aid, but Regis was adamant and reprimanded Nick for not focusing on his training and aiding the Empire. A massive rift was formed between the two, and Nick started to shut himself away from his father. Eventually, when Nick wanted to forge a new relation with the Kingdom himself, in 1178, he ran away from home and stowed away to Fhirdiad.

Having come up with the alias "Ezekiel", Nick attended the School of Sorcery so that he can start gaining recognition and, when the time was right, reveal his intentions and try and bring House Umbris back into good terms with the Kingdom. He proves to be a quick learner and uses his knowledge in magic to assist his fellow students. The disguised noble gains popularity with everyone, but catches the wary eye of one student; Lorenz.

One day, the heir to House Glocester confronts "Ezekiel" about he is not who he says is and demands to know the truth. Nick is not the greatest when it comes to making up excuses, so he has no choice but to come clean to Lorenz and reveals who he truly is and what his intentions are for being so far from home, attending the School of Sorcery, and wishes to assist the Kingdom in what ever means necessary. Upon learning this, Lorenz comes to respect his fellow noble and vows to keep his identity a secret. Together, the two promise to assist each other with their magic training and work together as nobles to achieve their goals.

However, it wasn't meant to be. Matthew's intelligence gathering scouts, under Count Umbris' orders, eventually find out that their missing heir to the House is somewhere in Fhirdiad. Eventually, they realize that Nick is at the School of Sorcery. Worried that relations between House Umbris and the Kingdom of Faerghus would become even more strained, Nick decided to come forward and return home. Lorenz protests against his friend's decision to return home and abandon his goals, but Nick reaffirms that it isn't over yet and swears that they will meet again, and he will mend the strained relationship his father broke.

Nick returns home and begins his training with his father again, albeit excruciatingly more difficult to make up for lost time. Nick constantly wonders if this is worth anything, since his Crest would not awaken, and decides to just not worry about it and focus on his magic and newly acquired swordplay. Until one day, House Umbris gets quite the prestigious guest. The Imperial Princess, Edelgard von Hresvelg.

She visits the Count to acquire his House's aid for her ideals to come true in the future. Naturally, Regis agrees outright to help, so that they can help the Empire to be restored to it's former glory. Overseeing the conversation between their father and the Imperial Princess, the brothers wonder what's going on about the Edelgard's plans. While Matthew sets out his plan to find out, Nick falls head over heels for the Princess' charm, grace and beauty.

Regis realises that he may not be entirely needed for the future of House Umbris, and he introduces Edelgard to his two sons, feeling that they would be detrimental to her success. Meeting with Nick, she can clearly see that the future Count is put under strain from his father's faith in his fractured Crest. Edelgard promises him that the new world she is planning to build will not rely on Crests, and people will be free to do as they please, so long as they want to. Hearing this, Nick promises that he will do all he can to help Edelgard achieve her goals.

Upon learning that Edelgard will be attending the Officers' Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery the coming year, Nick asks his father if he can attend as well. With his hope to join back with the Kingdom, master his magic and swordplay, and to meet Edelgard again, Nick goes to the Officers' Academy and is placed in the Black Eagles House. Little did Nick know that what history had planned for him couldn't be farther from his goals.

[niaswish]

The Oathbreakers’ Trial

This is based on an au I introduced in 2020 for the NyxNoct week (Chapter 7 of the Heroic Start by Shiary on AO3).

Rating: Teen +

Warnings: Slightly graphic violence near the end. Implied character deaths.

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, implied character deaths, Nyx Ulric/ Noctis Lucis Caleum, eventual fluff, no major character deaths, Dark-ish Nyx, Royalty AU.

Chapter summary: The Lucian intruders are brought before Ramuh and the Storm for Trial. There is no doubt on their culpability, only the question of punishment for this new Oathbreaking.

Nyx strode into Ramuh's Temple with his Hunters at his back. The place was filled with his people, all waiting and watching the group of prisoners held at the center of the hall. He ignored the whispers that followed him as he headed to stand beside his parents and Selena. His Hunters spread on either side of the hall, watchful even as the Storm kept watch above them.

Nyx looked around the hall, tilting his head in acknowledgement of the Elders that stood by their Clan Pillar. The intruders had been stripped of all weapons, their injuries seen to, and all that was missing were the two who had escaped. Nyx held back the growl that wanted to escape. He wanted to go back into the jungle and track the princeling and that blond friend of his. 

There was nothing to do about it. The Storm would not allow Ramuh's royal sacrifice to leave Galahd, and considering how loyal the blond had been during their first meeting, Nyx doubted he would leave the prince.

As lightning struck the pillars behind Ramuh's statue, Queen Mirius Ulric, Voice of Ramuh, rose to her feet. Her eyes blazed with pure lightning and her voice held the rumbling of thunder. Through her, Ramuh spoke. "By the Storm and the Islands, let this trial begin! Those held in front of you have attacked you, and once more broken their Oath. I ask the Oathbreakers, do you have anything to say for yourselves?"

Nyx wasn't surprised as Marshall Leonis stepped forward. While his expression was steady, even almost bored, his eyes sparked with an anger visible to everyone in the hall. "We took no oath when you came to our home and demanded that we give up one of our own. We came only to recover what is ours."

"No Oath? Your King swore one in the name of all Lucis! Or do you claim to have forsworn your King and Lucis while wearing their colours?" King Gaius motioned towards the black crownguard uniform they were still wearing. "Which is it, Cor Leonis? Have you foresworn King Regis and Lucis, or have you broken another Oath before Ramuh?"

The man kept silent, though Nyx noticed his jaw clenching at the accusation. The silence drew on as Galahd and the Storm waited for an answer.

After it continued for minutes on end, Nyx stepped forward. "His silence speaks for itself as does the evidence we collected in the Hunters training caverns of Goary." When Leonis snapped his gaze towards Nyx, he smirked in satisfaction. With a nod towards Pelna, Nyx presented Ramuh's Voice with what they had found.

"Goary Training Cavern has multiple recording devices, visual and auditory, scattered throughout its grounds. We know this but these intruders did not. Hunter Pelna of Clan Khara, Hunter Sonitus of Clan Bellum; present the recordings to the Storm."

Pelna played the audio files first before Sonitus took over and showed the assembly what the cameras had caught. Discussion after discussion between the intruders and Lucis. Of planning how to find and 'rescue' Prince Noctis. Of the failed infiltration to find the prince's whereabouts.

The intruders had been there for days, ever since Pelna and Luche had found the empty boat almost 2 weeks ago, so only the discussions that provide clear evidence that Lucis broke the Oath were heard. And with each discussion, the intruders grew tenser as they realized they'd been overheard so often.

Nyx kept an eye on the Prince's retinue throughout. They were younger, more likely to react to revealing information. So far they were doing admirably well, keeping a blank expression though they kept glancing over at... Selena?

Nyx glanced at his sister. She met his gaze firmly, jerking her head towards their mother with a half-quirked smile. Oh? So whatever was going on had his mom's approval. Had Ramuh decided to test the Princeling?

Part of Nyx hoped so, something in his chest loosening at the possibility that his the princeling had not broken his Oath after all. Selena would have been able to find the intruders and bring the prince there quicker than Nyx and his Hunters. If Ramuh had allowed it then...

It didn't change the current Trial so Nyx nodded towards his sister before returning his attention to where it was needed. Once the last of the recordings were played, it was time for the Elders to make their Clan's opinion known to Ramuh. As Prince, Nyx's duty was to draw a random Clan name and invite them to state their Clan's thoughts on the Trial's outcome.

"Elder Khara, what does Clan Khara say?"

"Lucis has broken a second Oath so soon after breaking their previous one. They have shown complete disregard for our lives and culture. Clan Khara asks Ramuh to give us his blessing to declare war against them."

"Elder Bellum?"

"Clan Bellum agrees with Clan Khara. Lucis must pay for their slight against Galahd and Ramuh."

"Elder Lazarus?"

"Clan Lazarus is of the same mind. Furthermore, we have yet to receive the land promised to Galahd for their Oathbreaking. Clan Lazarus suggest that our first strike is to claim what is owed."

One by one, Nyx called upon the Elders and listened to the Clans thoughts. Once they had all said their piece, Nyx turned to his father and asked, "And what does the Crown have to say?"

King Gaius stepped forward, eyes sweeping through the hall, "The Crown has heard the Clans. There is no objection to the suggested course of action." The crowd started whispering to each other only to fall silent when Ramuh's Voice slammed their staff down on the floor. King Gaius turned to them and asked in a firm tone, "Galahd has found those on Trial to be guilty and Oathbreakers. The Crown offers War against Lucis as punishment for their transgression and that of their Ruler. What is the Storm's Judgment? What is Ramuh's Wisdom?"

Nyx watched as his mother's eyes grew brighter, lightning snaking up and down the staff she held with increasing strength, as she listened to Ramuh and the Storm. After a few minutes, a single bolt of lightning struck right in front of Cor Leonis, who didn't flinch at all. Nyx was slightly impressed, the man would make a good Galahdian.

"The Clans of Galahd call for War. And War shall be the path of the future. Let those who forget the weight of their Oath be reminded of it through blood and magic." Ramuh's Voice intoned. Their voice filled the hall with static and energy, filling the Galahdians with a thirst for blood, as they slammed the staff thrice against the volcanic stone floor. With each strike, the lightning snakes dispersed into the ground, leaving behind brilliant white streaks towards each Clan.

Just as the last strike faded into silence, a commotion broke out towards the Temple entrance. "Niflheim is attacking! Let me pass! Niflheim is on its way to attack you!" 

A young blond boy pushed his way past the crowd to stumble into the center of the hall. Nyx took a step forward as he recognized him. Their eyes met and Nyx saw the same fierce determination and loyalty he had seen in Insomnia. The blond set his shoulders back as he declared, "My name is Prompto and Prince Noctis has sent me to warn you of the Niflheim army approaching off your North coast."

Nyx didn't hesitate to give his orders even as he turned to his father. Instead, his mother's bright green eyes met his as she smiled and whispered. "Go to him and see who he truly is."

Nyx turned and ran.

[blossom-adventures]

I got this one (and one other that I’m still working on) requested by Railyard_Ghosts on Ao3, who is a fellow member of the For Hearth and Home Discord server, for my @badthingshappenbingo card, this one is “bloodied knuckles”

I’m going to just give a quick bit of context as it is a snippet that will appear in my long fic Guard and Glaive…

My OC - Violet Amicitia - spends a lot of time with Cor and Titus and when she’s 8 years old, her mother Lillian dies in childbirth. Cor and Titus have Violet living with them for a few months while Clarus deals with his duties as Lord Shield, as well as looking after a newborn and grieving for the loss of his wife (Gladio is spending time with Ignis and his Uncle)

Home From Work

Cor arrived home from a long and exhausting day at the Citadel, Titus was off that day so he’d been at home with Clarus’ daughter - Violet - he found them both watching a film, clearly one that the 8 year old had chosen, and there was a faint aroma of something cooking in the kitchen. Titus looked over at him as he kicked off his shoes and hung up his coat.

“You’re back late” Titus commented, Violet looked over and waved at Cor, “Violet wanted to try some food from my home for dinner, so there is a fish pie in the oven”

“Sounds good,” Cor nodded to their room “do I have time to change before it’s ready?”

“Sure, it’s got about 20 minutes left” Cor smiled and disappeared into their bedroom and began to pull a change of clothes from the draws, as he pulled a blue t-shirt he heard the door open, then close, he looked over his shoulder and saw Titus standing there

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Violet” Titus said quietly as he walked over to Cor and took his right hand, they both looked down at the blood, bruising and minor swelling that covered his knuckles. “Who or what did you punch this time?” Titus asked, Cor remained silent for a while, avoiding his partners gaze, after nearly a minute of complete silence, he answered.

“A wall in my office”

“Why?”

“It was either the wall, or one of the council” Cor admitted as Titus led him to their en-suite to clean the blood away

“What happened then?” Titus started to gently clean Cor’s hand while he waited for him to respond, after a while of silence Titus spoke again, “Cor, you’ve not had an outburst like this for nearly a year, so talk to me, what happened?” It took a moment before Cor answered

“The council were talking about everything that happened when Lillian passed, asked Clarus how Gladio and Violet were, then one of them… showed concern,” Cor hissed that phrase, anger dripping from his voice “about the fact that Violet wasn’t in the care of a noble,”

“What?”

“Turned the council onto his side too, left Regis with no choice…”

“They’re not taking Violet from us!” Cor held up his left hand

“No… but to satisfy the council’s demands, Regis has arranged a social worker to visit tomorrow to talk to Violet and present a report to council, he’s given us both the day off so we can both be here” Titus let out a angry sigh and ran a hand through his hair

“Alright, so… after this meeting you went to your office and punched a wall?”

“More or less,” Titus returned his attention to Cor’s hand as more blood had seeped from the cuts there.

“Hey,” Titus lifted Cor’s chin so he looked into his eyes “it’ll be fine, Clarus and Regis know how Violet is, she’s happy here, and that is what that social workers report will say, alright?” Cor nodded while Titus wrapped a bandage around his hand “if Violet asks, and she will… you got your hand caught in a door”

“Yeah” Titus let go of Cor’s hand and they were quiet for a moment, before Cor gave him a quick kiss on the cheek “thanks, Titus”

[not-quite-a-murkrow]

I'm Aleksei, or Lyosha for short and I use he/him pronouns. Me and Koko -my Murkrow- had an ""accident"" with some DNA Splicer. So I'm not quite human, nor quite Murkrow, now. But hey, no one could really help me, so I may be like this for the rest of my life. So our body is a bit fucked up

Anyway. Before all that, I was trying to be a flying-type specialist ! I just kept my Aerodactyl after the accident. Koko's still there, living in our body, and she hates the idea of owning a 'Mon as a 'Mon herself. But I just can't let Aero go away, he's technically my starter ! :)

You can ask me anything about how the fuck my body can work. But if I feel uncomfortable answering, I will not answer !!! I just turned 18 not that long ago !!

EDIT : I CAUGHT A WURMPLE !!!!! Regis the Wurmple !!!!

ooc under the cut

This character was inspired by Pokemon Infinite Fusion

I am the same person behind @klausfromkalos and @spiritualhoenn, so same rules here.

(I'm still learning to rping here, so please be nice. That may be my third rpblog, but I'm kinda addicted to creating and playing as my OCs :') but I'm trying to stop at 3 )

This blog will be darker than the other two, but not that much I hope

If anyone wants to know, I'm considering that 100 pokedollars = 1 euro. Because I went reading on some french forums where people discuss to know how we can convert pokedollars into euros. I found that's just easier to do 100 pk$ = 1€. Pokeworld economy is a nightmare when converts in our world

Also, it can be relevant to know that I'm using the metric system

I'm french and neurodivergent, so my sentences can be weird when read. If it happens, ask me to be clearer, I will not take it badly. My name's irrelevant, but I go by just K (pronounced "Ké"), ngl I like K :p, I use They/He (Iel/Il in fr) but I'm fine with neopronouns (iel is a neopronoun in french ! ;3)

(No NSFW here. )

If interacting with an adult makes you uncomfortable, it's not a place for you

EDIT FROM 25TH MAY 2023:

So, I'm back here o/ Well, I really needed this break, though I should have talked about it before disappearing. But yeah, I'm back.

Just a few things;

1) I'll be slower to respond to anything and I'll interact less with any kind of high-stakes plot, bc I can't do it that much and no everything is set down in my life, I still need to plan like 5/6 medical appointments and I hadn't had any news about them for about 2 weeks, so I need to go easy on a lot of things (bc like a lot of people here, rp is one of my escapism) 2) I could disappear again, I'll try to say it before doing it -but most of the time when I disappear it's because I'm triggered -and I don't have a lot of clues why some things trigger me or even what triggers me. But I'm actively trying to take care of my mental health 3) My main (klausfromkalos) will NOT restart before everything settles down a lot, I'm not abandoning him bc I really like to play as him, but his character demands a lot for me to do -and right now I'm not in a good enough space mentally to bring him back now. What I'm saying is that he's still there -if anything is sent to his askbox I'll answer but I'll not be playing him like before until I'm better 4) I'm really happy to come back people ^^ <3 <3 <3 JE VOUS AIME LES GENS. BISOUS BISOUS !!!!! <3 <3 <3

EDIT FROM 19TH MARCH 2024:

If you see one of my drawings out that isn't on @ocelaw or on my Ko-Fi, stone the guy

[andordean]

For the WIP ask: the longest night and taking flight (hey I named a chapter that, great minds etc)

Phew, last one, thank you friends for indulging me, this was much much more than I expected!

You know how to pick Blood Ties pre/sequels, what honed instincts you have. 😆

• The Longest Night - some seven years after Ties, established Ciri/Tankred, Regis' return to Cintra. Have the opening that I wrote most recently.

Absence was what shook him out of the slumber. He didn’t recognise it for what it was; not initially. The pull of the Unseen Elder that came right after–and the animalistic fear that always accompanied his summons–tuned out any subtler sensations. It wasn’t until the Elder’s claws were at his throat that Regis understood what had happened. 

The space in his mind that belonged to Ciri ever since their bond formed, the space that had echoed so brilliantly with her presence, that had shimmered with vivid colours at the edge of his consciousness even during his hibernation–that space was now deadly silent. 

He set off immediately, the Elder’s threats and demands irrelevant in the face of his own dread.

Vampires did not recognise gods, nor had a need for them–yet Regis found himself fervently praying that he wasn’t too late.

• "Taking Flight" is Cerys/Ciri get together story which has a skeleton of a plot and a final scene written, because writing in chronological order is for the weak (will be on my headstone.)

“You know my folk; you know I can't make it official.” Cerys touches her scar gently. “Much as I'd want to.”

Ciri leans into the touch, eyes closing for a moment. She can play indifferent all she wants, but the truth of their situation still stings. “I know.”

“Besides, I know ye wouldn't stay,” Cerys says, and Ciri opens her mouth to protest, but Cerys shakes her head with a soft smile. “Ye never do, not for long. And it's alright: birds need sky to breathe. But, Ciri…”

There's a subtle shift in her lover's voice; Ciri’s  head jerks up and she stares at Cerys, her breath held. The damn, bold, beautiful Skellige Queen leans forward to cup Ciri's face in her hands, her amber eyes burning, her lips a breath away.

“There's always a place for you here. Find your way back, bird. Find your way back home.”

[monarchborn]

Regis enjoyed the companionable silence, always finding the paperwork easier with one of his steadfast friends were there with him. He knew he could hardly expect them to pull away from their duties to entertain him, but sometimes he found himself missing his youth. Oh, the adventures they went on together.

Putting papers away in a small pile with issues that he would have to bring up in the next council meeting, he moved on to the paperwork he was really dreading.

His son was coming of age and that meant marriage proposals, some more insistent than others. Politely telling people that his son would choose his own wife (or husband) over and over again was a boring task, but it always made him think that his son might never get to do that. The Gods demanded and the Lucis Caelum's paid in flesh and blood.

Sighing, he put his pen down for a moment, turning his attention to Cor. "Have you found anything, old friend?"

He waited, watching as Regis pulled something out of the armiger, but it wasn't a calculator, it was a paper weight. Cor smirked faintly, amused. Regis always did keep a lot of things in there, didn't he? "Seems like it," he answered, amused.

The king did produce the calculator a moment later and handed it over. Cor took it, taking the time to begin working up the numbers. It was concerning, honestly, with how many times this had been looked over before it would even come to Regis' desk.

It wasn't a lot, but there was definitely money missing.

Cor pulled a pen from the armiger himself and began noting things down.

[sparklecryptid]

moose's extremely self indulgent birthday bash fics (1/3)

featuring: an incredibly creative use of jesus' name in a curse.

in which the author gets thrown into their own au and isn't that happy about it. (uncomplete ficbit)

-

Kit has learned that despite being thrust into a fanfiction he started when he was nineteen he knows absolutely jack shit about anything that’s happening ever. If asked why he knew nothing of this Alternate Universe Kit would claim that anything that happened after the story wasn’t written anywhere and thus he cannot claim to know what happens after the curtains fall.

This has been his motto for the past three years he’s been in Eos. Pretend to know nothing and let others assume you have all the information already so they’ll hand feed you the important bits. It’s worked wonderfully so far, Kit knows that Ace has gotten married and that his coronation is set for June of this year in Insomnia.

So Kit is going to avoid Insomnia. He does not give a single fuck about the weird fatherly urge that makes him want to hunt down the character he created and sigh dreamily at him. Not just because Axis or Libertus would likely shank Kit but also because it would be fucking weird.

Not only that, Ace also has this entirely unneeded ability to control lightning now. This causes the air around him to feel static and buzzing and Kit knows that with his meager control of his ability the royal family would undoubtedly figure out something was Wrong With Him.

(Kit resolutely does not think of the lichtenberg scars running down his back. He does not think of them.)

So all Kit has to do is continue to avoid the royal family and anyone associated with them at all costs. Easy enough. It’s not like Kit is the type of person people would go looking for.

-

Kit hates his job. He hates his job. He hates that because he needs a paycheck he has to go to Insomnia to watch Ace get crowned.

Kit also hates that he knows Ace is going to be grumpy and that a grumpy Ace is a keen-eyed Ace who will do almost anything to get the attention off of him.

So Kit dresses fancy - as a member of the press he must - and takes notes on a piece of paper as his photojournalist buddy is busy taking shots. He does not intend to do anything more than the bare minimum. Kit has a recording device going so he doesn’t misquote any of Regis’ adoring speech to his eldest but Kit refuses to look at Ace at all.

He would not be able to stop himself from doing something embarrassing if he did.

Not looking at Ace has some benefits; for one it allows him to make eye contact with the man carrying a gun in the crowd. They lock eyes. The man fires. Lightning rips itself from the scars that have etched themselves into Kit’s back.

Someone screams. A lightning bolt takes out the assassin's leg. Kit spares a moment to wonder if he’s going to throw up. His photojournalist has not stopped screaming. Kit tosses another lightning bolt at a man with a knife charging toward the stage where the important people are. He figures turning to ash is loads better than what Ace or Regis would do to the poor sod.

Kit scans the area, finds others had already dealt with any other would-be assassins and that Kit is the only supposed threat left.

He spares a moment to wonder if being tackled to the ground would dislocate his shoulder - all signs point to yes - before he dims the light show.

His photojournalist is still screaming.

“Will you stop that?” Kit demands and takes a step forward only for the other man to scramble backwards, “Fucking hell, I’m not going to fry you. Did you at least get any decent photos?”

The screaming stops. The photojournalist is now laid face first on the floor.

“Jesus fuck,” Kit says, “This day sucks.”

“I haven’t heard anyone swear like that since I met my nephew.” It’s a darling voice, rich and deep in its timber and Kit suddenly hates that he has always found it attractive. “Who are you?”

“Just a guy,” Kit says, lying like a liar to the man who has multiple PhDs in lying.

Ardyn’s smile is frosty and amused. Kit tries to leave.

He is grabbed by the back of his shirt like a misbehaving kitten being scruffed.

“Can you put me down?” he asks.

“No,” Ardyn says because he’s an asshole like that.

Kit tilts his head to try and get a better view of the man.

“I hope you get fucked through the wounds Jesus had,” Kit says with all he sincerity of a priest.

Ace lets out a disbelieving laugh and if things weren’t as fucked as they were Kit would have more time to appreciate it.

Ardyn makes a face.

“Aether,” he says to his nephew, “Explain.”

“No,” Ace says and his voice is so full of assholery Kit is proud, “I’m going to let you wonder about that one.”

[caparrucia]

36 CorNyx kiss?

…to give up control.

The thing about Cor, Nyx reasons sometimes, at three in the morning, when he's too jittery to sleep and too stubborn to get out of bed and make something out of the hours of not-sleep he's getting; the thing about Cor, it's that he's none of the things anyone ever says he is.

He's not a murderous, ruthless beast, willing to kill indiscriminately, just for the sake of testing the edge of his sword. Nyx is older, now, than he was when they first met. He's found himself working in the depths of the Lucian bureaucracy and the floundering machine that keeps the country going. Nyx knows now, with the certainty of an adept politician, that Cor is a convenient placeholder for the populace to place their anxieties about the war. More than that, he is willing to shoulder anything and everything, to do his part to make sure the King is safe, because he loves the King in a way that would be uncomfortable, if not for the fact Nyx has realized Cor loves Regis the same way Nyx loves Ramuh: with devotion and faith and that edge of irreverence that nonetheless carefully maps out the depths of his worship. Nyx is not jealous of Regis, the same way he assumes Cor is not jealous of Ramuh: it makes no sense to argue with the providence that guides their lover's life.

Cor is taciturn because he doesn't have much to say, but not shy to say what he thinks, when he feels it necessary. He's not particularly violent, either. Just... skilled. It just so happens that skill is very useful when you need someone dead. And while he's committed to carry out his tasks, he's far from ruthless. Ruthless is the King's commands or the Shield's demands, shouldering the blame to be able to give orders, but Cor? Cor answers to no one but his conscience most days. It's why Monica follows him, she told Nyx, long ago, when he really was trying to poach her services and bring her over to the Kingsglaive: The Crownsguard is a bloated, complex, overbearing nightmare of an organization, one that has by necessity and many King's whims, absorbed most of the Government in ways that are probably not healthy. But militarizing everything is necessary, when you've spent two hundred years losing the same war. But the Crownsguard is worth belonging to, Monica told Nyx, because Cor is at the head. Anyone else would lose control of such a hydra. Cor keeps it in a leash, fighting a perpetual, endless fight with human nature, for no other reason than because Regis entrusted him with it.

So no, Cor is not, in fact, any of the terrible things he's always assumed to be, but Nyx is not in a hurry to clear his name because he respects Cor's choice to accept the burden. But also because there's a very petty, very snide corner in the back of his head that is delighted by the fact he gets to enjoy everything Cor actually is, and no one else gets to even know it exists.

No one else will ever know they can walk into Cor's office at home - their home - at quarter past ten, and find him still buried under a pile of memos and a small mountain of things he needs to sign. Cor sets a timer, til eleven, and if no one comes stop him, he'll go on til eleven, and then shuffle upstairs to their bedroom and do his honest best to pass out until six. But Nyx likes to go in, when he's able - he's got his own mountain range of things to sign and read - at quarter past ten, because Cor will look up at him, blinking behind his ridiculous reading glasses, and frown at the interruption. If Nyx were anyone else, he's sure, the frown would be enough to send him scurrying away. But he knows better. He grins at that frown, every time, and then he lets himself into the room fully, walking up to the desk and letting himself fall into Cor's lap. And if Cor didn't want him there, he'd let him know, remorselessly, that he's not wanted. But Nyx knows he is, because Cor leans back on his chair - a very battered, old chair, with worn leather and a very conspicuously missing royal sigil on the back, because Cor never really talks about Mors, but the talismans he keeps of his first King are ever present, if one knows what to look for - making sure there's enough space for Nyx between him and the desk.

"It's barely ten," Cor will say, even as he tilts his head so Nyx can slide the glasses off his face, and leave them on the desk, in the rough quadrant Cor likes to put them, so he'll know where to find them, in the morning.

"It's almost eleven," Nyx will retort, even though it's a lie, and he knows it's a lie and Cor knows it's a lie, and it's alright, because when Nyx drags his fingers through Cor's hair, Cor arches his neck into the gesture, letting his head fall heavy into Nyx's grip.

"You're godawful for my productivity," Cor will mutter, as if that matters, to anyone, and then he'll tilt forward and kiss Nyx.

It is very important, for Nyx, to point that out. It is not him, who kisses Cor. It is Cor who grumbles about interruptions and puts up a token fuss, and then kisses him anyway. Because that kiss is surrender, slow and lazy and not hurried at all. It's not the sort of frantic thing they used to do, back when they were fumbling their way into figuring out where they fit. It's the sort of bratty, reluctant thing that makes a statement, because what Cor is, deep down, beneath the rank and the titles and the horror stories: is a fucking brat. And it says something about Nyx, he reckons, that he finds it so endearing, the way he'll outline all the reasons why what he's doing might be considered a bad idea, and then commits to it anyway.

Nyx is very happy to be Cor's worst idea to date.

They will sit there, sharing the old chair Cor might or might not have stolen from the old King's office, some thirty years ago. They kiss and they bite and they chat about nothing truly dire, just basking in the moment, until it is eleven, and Cor's alarm rings in the office. And then Nyx will take Cor's hand and tug him upstairs, to their room, and Cor will go along with anything that happens there, docile, because the surrender is not the noise he makes when Nyx presses a hand on his chest, holding him in place. The surrender is the kiss in his office, giving up time he'd scheduled for something else.

The surrender is the fact Cor kisses Nyx, nearly every single time it actually matters, and Nyx notices and says nothing about it, because that's his and no one else's.

[hanzajesthanza]

#witcherweekly: aug. 20

penance, expiation, atonement, and a baptism of fire

august 20th, afternoon — baptism of fire ch. 5 — after speaking with cahir and watching him leave, geralt feels guilty for dragging the group through the intense battle of yesterday, and sits alone on the island surrounded by bushes. in a foul mood, he demands that milva and dandelion return home, they refuse in a clear manner and practical-mindedly begin to see what to do about food for the day.

regis appears to geralt and gives him unsolicited advice, and analyzes the situation quite nicely:

what he says about paying off debts is astute. they are all paying penance from their individual debts — geralt is anguished having lost ciri for the second time, dandelion feels guilty for being unable help geralt on thanedd, milva feels guilt over planning to abort her pregnancy, regis bled human settlements for amusement for centuries, cahir seeks redemption for abducting ciri from cintra.

the company of fish soup

directly after speaking with geralt, milva, dandelion and regis begin to look for food. they do not have much, but use what they have found around them.

from the nets they cast, they only found small fish, too small to be cooked individually. rather, they decide to cook them in a soup, so that they may equal to more than the sum of their parts… similar to a strange group of misfits who join forces around a common goal, becoming a company…

they become brothers in arms, they are united and act as one, although they do not yet understand their goal… not yet.

* translation note: see translation notes

this shared moment was even regarded by the company themselves as an event of importance, something akin to a sacred pact, the beginning of a company… even in september when geralt (falsely) accuses cahir of treachery, he cites the fish soup as the origin of their company, it obviously affected him as such.

[ahkaraii]

[ff15] for the price of an arm (3666 words)

(spiritual sequel to my fancomic here, cw: gore)

"My, my," said the dismissive voice that still haunted Gladio's dreams, over a decade since. "Another one come for a rematch?"

"No." Gladio could not see Gilgamesh, but he knew the old bastard was watching him. "Not unless you don't give the Marshal back."

"The Marshal...?" A low, echoing laugh bounced around the bridge, and was then lost to the fog beyond. "Oh, the little lion? I'm afraid I bested him, long ago... He has belonged to me, since. And now, I have reclaimed him."

"Give him back," Gladio rumbled, voice like gravel. "Or I'll take all of your little arms, and then your fucking head."

The laugh echoed, fainter still, until there was a still sort of silence, broken only by a hair-raising whisper. "You may try, Shield of the Chosen King. But you shall not succeed."

"Show yourself," Gladio said, coldly. "And I shall prove you wrong, Corpse-Stealer."

It was only years spent fighting in the dark that allowed Gladio the reflexes to parry the blade that sought his head, and the years prior to that the ability to recognize the youth attached to the familiar body.

"Cor--?!"

It was undoubtedly the Marshal, but his once-lined face was now clear of scruff and weariness. His eyes were sharp, bright, and filled with a vicious determination Gladio had only ever seen aimed toward their enemies.

"Cor! Wait--"

The man did not appear to hear him, already in transition to perform a flawless gyaku-inazuma giri, and after Gladio hastily parried that opening onslaught, a tsuki thrust that nearly tore through Gladio's throat, managing only to avoid being skewered by leaping as far back as his legs would allow him, though of course Cor followed through flawlessly, relentlessly, and Gladio swiftly found himself on the defensive, gasping through disbelief and then raw, unhindered fury.

"You DARE!" Gladio howled. "You DARE steal his face!"

"His face belongs to me," tittered that ancient, odious voice, bouncing off the walls to the beat of Cor's Kotetsu against Gladio's Genji blade. "All of him does. And you shall not take him from me, unless, of course...you best me."

Gladiolus had bested the Blademaster once, and he could do it again. But it was quite a different story to be fighting against the puppet-corpse of his teacher, his friend. "Cor, don't do this," Gladio spared the breath to say. "Cor, don't make me do this!"

Cor did not appear to hear him, and through sinking dismay and true grief, Gladio knew Cor would never hear him, for Cor was likely already dead. Cor Leonis had said his goodbye, and everyone had respected it-- even Gladio had respected it, in the end. But he'd come down here to reclaim Cor's body and bring it back to Lucis. Bring it back home. He'd meant to bury the Marshal next to King Regis, as Gladio would want someone to bury him next to Noct, when his time came.

He'd envisioned having to fight the Blademaster for it, but he had never imagined he'd have to ruin Cor's corpse to win it back.

"You are dishonourable--" Gladio screamed. "You are despicable--"

"I am, at that," the voice may have whispered, but Gladio was fully concentrated on Cor's blade, the whistle of it before it nearly took out his legs; the metallic vibration of it when it parried his own massive katana; the reach of it, always further than one might expect.

Cor did not fight silently, for all that he did not speak a word. He grunted and gasped and growled, and it felt awfully like he lived again, for it was his selfsame voice, the voice Gladio had grown up listening to and learning from, fighting with and fighting for. It was both a gift and a gutwound, to hear it again, in the flesh.

It could have been a shorter fight-- intense, furious, but inevitably lethal-- had Gladio not kept missing opportunities to cleave the man in two. He could not bear it. A part of him longed to prolong this, if only to keep the fiction going. That Cor still lived, that Cor could still come back alive.

Unfortunately, the longer Gladio drew it out, the more tired he became. And Cor, in the undeathly grasp of Gilgamesh, did not.

He became faster, and faster, and impossibly faster, until Gladio knew that if he did not end this soon, if he did not end this now, then it was Gladio that would be cleaved into pieces, and Cor-- who had not once batted an eye at carnage, who had not once looked upon a fallen enemy with regret-- Cor would simply end him without giving a shit, and then Gladio would be dead, and all this would be for naught at all.

Cor Leonis was dead, Gladio told himself through glassy eyes and a swiftly clogging nose, and this? This was just a cruel echo. It would be kinder to silence it, and let it rest a memory.

So, without further hesitation, Gladio closed himself off, and with one sure thrust, impaled Cor's body with his very own Genji blade, twisting it to ensure he'd severed that great man's spine and abdominal aorta, then up to cleave through three ribs and into his lungs and hopefully his heart, so his end would be swift.

So his end would be sure.

But of-fucking-course the Immortal refused to die easy. Cor made a truly awful noise, choking on his own blood, body twitching with the aftershocks of an immense blow, still struggling, still attempting to swing his sword, which Gladio barely stopped with his other hand.

"Damn it," Gladio choked, through messy tears. "It's okay, Cor. Let go."

The man screamed wetly, gagging, jerking futilely against Gladio's hold. He was half-collapsed on Gladio already, legs limp and lifeless. But even still he refused to die, let alone let go of his sword, which came to rest on Gladio's shoulder, sharp side trying in vain to dig toward his neck, even now, when it was past the realm of unlikely into the sad reality of the impossible.

"It's all right," Gladio whispered. "Shh. Shhh. You can rest now."

Cor shuddered, twitched, and let out a rasping exhale, that seemed to last an age. Blood kept bubbling up his mouth, out his nose, and this close Gladio could see the burst blood vessels in his eyes, making the blue of them all the brighter, even as that inimitable gaze clouded, unfocused, and seemed to still half-lidded, far away.

His sword finally slipped out of his grasp, and clattered unceremoniously to the ground.

For a long while Gladio couldn't speak through his tears. The hand holding the Genji blade was soaked with Cor's blood, with his spilled flesh, and Gladio couldn't find the will to remove it, to further damage Cor's body with it. He pulled Cor close instead, tucking his old friend's face into his chest, shuddering through his grief and processing his rage.

"I'll kill you for this," Gladio promised wetly. "I will fucking desecrate you for this."

"You may try," the Blademaster said, finally showing himself at the other end of the bridge, both armless and unarmed. "I may even welcome it."

Gladio ran a gentle hand through Cor's bloodied hair, and impulsively kissed the top of it, like he remembered Cor doing, once, when he'd been six or seven and he'd asked Uncle Cor for a bedtime story, and he'd eagerly listened to the Marshal stumble through what was more a mission report than a proper fairytale, talking about some young punk going down to Hell to fight some big tough guy with a weird accent, to prove himself worthy of his King. And Gladio, who even at that age feared being unworthy above all else, had anxiously asked And he did, didn't he, Uncle Cor? And Cor had quirked that small, sad, private smile that he showed only to Gladio and Gladio's dad and their King, and then kissed the top of his head and said Sure, champ, 'course he did.

'Course he did.

Gladio gently laid Cor's body on the ground, dislodging the Genji blade from his sternum as carefully as he could. It was impossible to pull out the two-meter long blade elegantly, or even respectfully, not without the King's magic to simply dispel it as he would have preferred, but Gladio did his utmost to do it without messing Cor up more than he had to. He ached to throw the damn sword away and simply grab Cor's corpse and run with it, abscond with it, away from this traitor's cesspit of a bridge and finally lay it to rest where it deserved to be-- but another louder, righteous, and infinitely angrier part of him needed to take the Genji blade-- originally Cor's blade, and now forever the blade that had finally ended him-- and skewer that dishonourable, hateful, and pathetic wraith of a creature at the end of that bridge. If not for Cor's sake, then Gladio's own; for the Blademaster was, if legend served, ancestor to his own blood, traitor to his own line, and therefore Gladio was the last of that longwinded legacy, the last Shield, and if it was anyone's duty to end this farce of a trial, then was is his own.

Gladiolus Amiticia stood tall, and readied his bloodied blade with the grim resolve of a man ready to face his death and walk out alive.

Gilgamesh didn't say a word. He'd said all he needed to, over two thousand years of projected self-loathing, through cruel whispers and claimed corpses shambling in the dark, patiently waiting for his own end, waiting for just this moment.

The tension between the two warriors rose like a fetid odor, permeating a grave. Only one of them would leave here alive, and increasingly it seemed it would be Gladio, for Gilgamesh had made no move to summon either arms or weapons.

"Take out your sword already, you lowly piece of shit," Gladio demanded, coldly. "Or die without one."

Gilgamesh tilted his head slowly, gesturing towards Cor's corpse, cooling before him. "You've already taken it," he said, simply.

Rage enveloped Gladio. He'd killed defenseless men before, but only in the heat of battle; to kill a traitorous kin-killer like this would bring him no satisfaction. Hell, it might even bring him shame, and that pissed him right the fuck off. That even now, filled with so much grief and fury and resolve, he could still lose against this wretched ghost, because winning against a thing determined to die without a fight was no victory at all.

"Arm yourself, Blademaster!" Gladio roared, swinging the massive Genji blade, splattering drops of Cor's lifeblood upon the bridge.

"I have none left," the ghost said, mildly, shrugging his great shoulders bereft of limbs. "Claim my head, Gladiolus Amiticia. It is yours."

"You vile, repulsive--" Gladio snarled, incandescent with rage. "You dishonour my name, your name, the name of the man who you just made me kill-- the lives of my father, my father's father, and all the kings the Amiticia have served--"

"Yes," the Blademaster interrupted calmly, "That's right."

"Pathetic," Gladio spat. "You're pathetic. You are less than a man. I renounce you as Shield of the Founder King. I renounce your trial as anything more than worthless, wretched--"

"That is your right," the Blademaster agreed, placidly.

Gladio screamed, and in his mind, he rushed him. Genji blade met Genji armour and parted it like butter, revealed the putrid insides of a man long since dead; another swing beheaded the man and spilled his brain across the bridge; his red-soled boots stomped that skull to shards, mercilessly, pounding it into the ground, into less than dirt, into less than a memory; in his mind, his heart thoroughly disowned that heartless cur to oblivion.

In reality, Gladio only screamed. And then, heaving like a beast, he gathered up his spite and spat on the ground. "If you will not fight," the Last of the Amiticia swore, "then you will rot here, forevermore."

Gilgamesh's glowing eyes tracked him, quietly, then he bent his head forward, bent his whole body forward, into a bow. "Yes, Amiticia," that dry, ancient, patiently undying voice said, "I know."

Gladio could bear this no longer. He turned, blade in hand, seeking Cor's corpse--

Only to find Cor struggling to his knees.

"Cor?!" Gladio choked, and for a moment his grief and rage split him, for he could not kill Cor a second time, a second time would surely end him--

"Clarus...?" Cor's eyes were still bloodshot but the blue shone through, electric, and violently alive; his face was young, bereft of age lines and beard; he looked like he was half Gladio's age instead of double. "What...?"

"Cor!" Gladio fell to his knees. "You're alive!"

"You're not Clarus," Boy-Cor said, voice oddly-pitched. "Who're you?"

"I'm his son," Gladio said, through tears. "Fuck. God damn it. You're alive, Cor." He impulsively gathered Cor up in his arms, and the kid-- God! Cor was at most a fucking teenager!-- squirmed, uncomfortable, looking confused as all hell.

"As if I'd die in a place like this," Cor said, gruffly, and then he jerked up, "Wait, son?! Y'mean, you're his da?" He pushed Gladio away, squinting up at him suspiciously. "No fuckin' way... you ain't Marshal Amiticia. He's bald, and you got more hair than a goddamn Ronin!"

Gladio couldn't help but laugh, wetly-- even through his confused joy and skewered grief, hearing Cor speak like a feral brat was something else.

"...unless that's a wig? Uh, sir? Shit."

But Gods above, what if this was an illusion? Gladio's whole self shuttered at the thought. He wouldn't put it past that old ghost. He was vile enough for it, Gladio now knew.

"If this is a lie," Gladio murmured, tracing Cor's wary face with his eyes, thinking this might be the last time, "then I swear on my life, I will cut off your legs and piss on your mask, Blademaster."

Cor's eyes widened, narrowed, and shuttered in quick succession. "Well, that's gross," he said, tense-like, eyes skittering over to the Genji blade, thrown aside in Gladio's disbelief-- then he stared at something beyond Gladio's shoulder. "Wait, did'you actually kill him?!"

Gladio automatically followed Cor's line of sight, thinking he'd see the Blademaster as he had been seconds before-- but the fucker was no longer standing there, head bowed or otherwise. He'd vanished.

"Shit," Gladio swore, lunged for his sword-- immediately realized Cor had taken the Genji blade with him, and turned to snatch the Kotetsu instead-- and was on his feet an instant later, ready for a fight. "God damn it--"

"Ramuh's balls--" Cor piped up. "You fuckin' did!"

Cor had fearlessly loped on over to where the Blademaster had once stood, all two meters of the Genji blade casually resting on his shoulders like it belonged there, instead of the Kotetsu he'd carried by his side for forty years-- and then he was bending down, was the sword too heavy?-- no, Gladio realized abruptly, Cor was bending down to grab a familiar silver thing.

"This is his mask, ain't it? Goddamn..." Cor looked very small at the end of that immense bridge. "You beat me to it, huh."

"...I don't think he can die," Gladio said, uneasily. "He's probably hiding somewhere." He resisted the urge to spit and say 'like cowardly fucker', and instead adjusted his hold on Kotetsu, its smaller size unfamiliar to his hands.

"Maybe," Cor said, but he didn't sound convinced. "Shit...if only I'd been a little faster, I could've gotten him first." He looked down at the mask like it had impaled him, like it had skewed him straight through and had watched him drown in his own blood.

Gladio knew that look, because that's the same look Cor had had, as he'd died in Gladio's arms.

Gladio felt the unreality of the situation finally descending upon him. "Hey, kid," he said, low and slow. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I was running away from this," Cor said quietly, down at the mask in his hands. Then he squinted up at Gladio. "Sure don't remember you, though. Sir. Did you come down for me 'cause Clarus said somethin'?" His lower lip stiffened, and there was an unmistakable wet sheen to his eyes. "I had it handled, sir."

Gladio's heart was hurting something awful. This wasn't the Marshal he remembered. That inimitable man-- the Cor Leonis that had indulged Gladio's love of fairytales, who had kissed his brow goodnight, who had taught him how to fight, whose last words to him had been 'Y'know, Gladio, I think I've finally earned myself a goddamn vacation'-- that immense, amazing, larger than life man was dead.

So, what was this mockery before him? The soul Gilgamesh had defeated and claimed, forty some years ago, now returned to its old body?

"I know it was disrespectful, sir--" Cor said, stiffly, misinterpreting Gladio's expression. "I know this Trial is only for Shields of the Amiticia line, but-- I can do it, sir, I was doing just fine--"

"All of this is a farce," Gladio said, hollowly.

"No, I can prove myself worthy!" Cor said loudly, desperately, and Gladio was reminded of himself, thinking that being a worthwhile Shield to his King was all he'd ever wanted or would ever want, that fighting some big tough guy could grant him that and more. "I can do it--! I'll try again, I'll beat him, I'll prove it--"

Gladio felt something heavy press against his chest. If this was Gilgamesh's last fuck you to his descendants, or, worse, if it was his idea of a fucking consolation prize--

"Let me try again," Cor said, firmly, holding the mask out like Gladio could summon the Blademaster with it. "I'll show you, sir. I'll show you I can do it."

Gladio's frustration was hardly this kid's fault. Well, it was only Cor's fault insomuch as he'd jaunted on down here as a brat, gotten his ass kicked and his soul snatched, then come back down for seconds when he was too old to care if he lived or died. But it wasn't this kid's fault, anymore than it was Noct's fault he'd gotten saddled with a prophecy that wanted him dead and he'd chosen to fight it for as long as he could, before finally succumbing to it, back straight and head held high.

Gladio had hopefully outgrown his knee jerk reaction of yelling at dumb kids for making dumbass decisions, and he liked to think he'd soon ease into the calm melancholy of a man used to outliving those he loved. Like Cor himself had. The Cor of his memories, now forever laid to rest.

And yet Cor-the-kid was still staring up at him, refusing to cry, looking as stiff and proud and fierce as ever, waiting for him--for Gladio, of all people-- to denounce him.

So he chose not to.

"You did do it," Gladio said, gently. "Cor, you completed the trial, and then some. You are more than worthy to be a King's Shield, or Sword, or soldier--whatever you wanna be."

"What I want is a rematch," Cor insisted, looking more and more like he was gonna fight Gladio for it.

"Maybe later," Gladio said. Maybe never, he thought. Gods. He didn't know if Cor could even leave Taelpar Craig, or if his body would collapse like the walking corpse it should be, without Gilgamesh's magic holding it together.

"Sir," Cor said, edging on the line of begging. "I can't go back empty handed like this. I'd rather die than live with the shame of it."

"Take the mask, then," Gladio said, with an exhausted finality in his voice. "It's there because you defeated him, in your own way."

"...you ain't gonna piss on it? Sir?" Cor said, suspiciously, holding it close like he was protecting it.

If you die as we leave this place, I sure fucking will, Gladio thought, but said aloud, "I'd gotta drink some water, first. You thirsty?"

"What the fuck, sir," Cor said as respectfully as he could, which, at this time, was not much.

"I'm joking," Gladio said, though he really wasn't. "I'm not about making some instant ramen, though. After a meal--" Cor's last, perhaps, "--then I'm leaving here, for good. You comin', or you stayin'? Your choice, Leonis."

He'd come down here for Cor's body, but if Cor truly wanted to stay here, forever fighting a disgraced demigod whose hobby was making undying warriors out of decent men-- if that was truly his idea of a good afterlife, then, hell, Gladio wasn't going to force him. He respected Cor that much, even if this wannabe Valhalla was, in his personal opinion, as disrespectful as it could get.

Cor's rumbling stomach interrupted his thoughts. The kid turned a little red, and it broke the spell of Gladio's melancholy some, to see that. "Hungry, huh?"

"I could eat," Cor admitted, with a stiff little shrug. "What kinda flavour y'got, sir?"

Even though it was far more difficult to travel light enough to fight on the go without the magic of the Armiger, Gladio still made sure to carry at least one of his favourite meals with him in a backpack. For this journey, he'd packed exactly two Cup Noodles: one for him, and one for Cor's memory. He'd left it at the fireplace just outside this final room, alongside the waterproof tarp he'd brought to put Cor's body in-- though now, Gods willing and Gilgamesh be damned, Cor might just walk out on his own.

"Beef," Gladio said, and was gratified by Cor perking up, as he hoped he would. "You okay with that?"

"Yes, sir," Cor said, and quietly admitted, "It's, um. That's my favourite."

"Well, ain't that something," Gladio said, instead of saying, I know. "You comin', then?"

"Yes, sir," Cor said, and even if this was Gilgamesh's last laugh, or his last apology, then Gladio would take it, because Cor was worth it, Cor had earned it.

[carminite-wyrm]

A Kingsglaive Time Loop AU, Part 1

Nyx Ulric wakes up, the memories of a burning city, of betrayal and loss, fresh in his mind. It is not the first time that he wakes this way, and it won't be the last.

Or: Nyx has a very, very bad time.

Now with a Part 2!

Nyx gasped awake, the scent of ash and burning flesh, and the sound of war and ruin still fresh in his mind, a burning ember of phantom pain deep in his chest. He lay there, eyes quickly taking stock of the room he was in, a room that was so familiar to his senses, a room that he could have sworn should have been reduced to so much broken rubble, like the rest of Insomnia. He could see the fading curtains, the walls that were slightly cracked, the photos of his family and friends. By all appearances, this was the same damn apartment he’d lived in for nearly the past decade, down to even that one corner where it would always leak when it rained. Off to the side, he could see his phone, the date and day clearly marked upon it. The day that the ceasefire, and the peace treaty, had been declared.

He slowly ran his fingers over the worn fabric beneath him, the soft texture slowly easing the rapid pace of his heartbeat. He finally managed to drag himself into a sitting position, and lifted his left arm into the thin strip of sunlight that managed to peek through the curtains. There was no sign of the magical scarring that had crawled up his arm like wildfire, when he had put on that damn ring. His arm moved freely, none of the pain he still remembered slowing him down.

With a groan, he stumbled to his feet, shaking his head as he tried to dispel the…dream, it had to have been a dream, one born from that crippling loss that had nearly seen him lose Libertus, alongside the other fellow brothers and sisters in the Kingsglaive. There was no way everything had been real, even if there were elements of reality to it, such as that damnable giant daemon that had nearly been the cause of Libertus’ death. Now that he thought about it, really thought about it, away from the panic and adrenaline of oh shit everything is going to hell and the King is dead and so was-

Yeah, there was no fucking way any of that was real. It had felt real, sure, but Nyx was pretty damn sure that rationally, there was no way the King would have deigned to give him of all people the all-powerful ancestral ring that held together the shield over the city, and much more to boot. After all, didn’t the King still have people like Marshal Leonis, who definitely had the proper skills and strengths to guard something as important as that? Not some random Glaive who was in the process of serving out yet another punishment for insubordination.

Feeling almost like he was a ghost in his own body, Nyx decided the logical thing to do was to find Libertus and Crowe, his two best friends. Not just because he wanted to make sure they were fine, of course, but also-

Oh, who was he kidding, the dream – and yes, it was absolutely a dream, Nyx affirmed to himself – had in fact rattled him enough that he wanted to hug those two for at least an hour.

As he stumbled out of his apartment, blinking at the sunlight above him, he tried to remember where he was meant to be going, where he would be able to find Libertus and Crowe at…around midday, now that he checked his phone. His phone buzzed then, from where he had haphazardly crammed it into his uniform pocket. Taking it out, he smiled slightly at the message, which turned out to be from Libertus, and handily reminded him that they were meeting up in one of the training grounds.

Nyx tucked the phone away, and decidedly pushed aside the little part of himself that quietly reminded him that this was exactly how things had played out, in the dream. He still had to hold himself back from desperately clinging to Crowe and Libertus like his life depended on it, when he finally met up with them, though he did still give them both a slightly calmer hug, to their surprise.

That dream was just a combination of recent trauma, his own over-active imagination, and also probably more trauma.

Right?

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

Thirty minutes later, he was watching the news report about the coming Peace Treaty with Niflheim, the other Kingsglaive around him murmuring in discontent. As Commander Drautos -and how could he be a traitor, how could any of them be traitors- debriefed them, Nyx found himself having to hide his hands in the pockets of his uniform, the phantom urge to reach out and just end the man keeping him on edge the whole time, to the point that he almost missed Crowe being called away for a separate assignment.

Two days after he had woken up from that terrible dream, he watched as Libertus stormed away, the death-glazed eyes of Crowe staring up at him from inside the bodybag.

And on the 16th of May, four days after that dream, everything fell apart.

Nyx screamed wordlessly as he watched King Regis die at Glauca’s hands, the scene identical to the one he had dreamt, as Lunafreya spoke words that almost fell on horror-deaf ears, that only registered because he could almost speak them word for word himself.

He stumbled as the King’s magic disappeared, only kept upright by the fact that he already knew, somehow, what it felt like to lose that connection, the steel-spark buzz of power fleeing from where it had lain within him.

He received Drautos’ call almost in a fugue, his words echoing those from his dream. And it was only the memory of that dream that meant that the bullet from that traitorous bastard Lazarus only went through his arm, instead of through his shoulder, though the shock of it still had him on the ground. He mouthed the words Lazarus spoke, as he gloated, as he was goaded by Lunafreya into putting on that ring.

Libertus ramming into Drautos- no, Glauca, with the car, nearly made Nyx laugh out loud, it was so ridiculously accurate it felt like it was scripted. And when he faced the old Kings of Lucis, in that otherworldly time, it was only the faintest sense that he needed to save Libertus and Lunafreya, no matter what, that stopped him from cackling hysterically in the face of those reticent ghosts.

Nyx died with burning scars tracing up his left arm, with the rising sun in his eyes and the ruins of a dead city behind him.

And then he gasped awake, the scent of ash and burning flesh, and the sound of war and ruin still fresh in his mind, a burning ember of phantom pain deep in his chest.

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

All in all, Nyx thought it was perfectly justified that he missed the treaty announcement, and the subsequent debriefing, curled up in bed for the past hour as he realised, truly, that this wasn’t all just a horrible dream. That he was indeed reliving the same five days, the five days that would culminate in the fall of Insomnia, the deaths of almost everyone he’d cared for, and his own death at the very end of it all.

The ringing of his phone had eventually stopped, if only because he’d thrown it haphazardly off to another end of the room, and probably broken it in the process. With that in mind, he absently gave himself another twenty or so minutes before Libertus or Crowe, or both of them, broke into his room demanding if he was alright.

Oh shit, Crowe.

He dragged himself off his bed, and stumbled over to his sink, as the image of Crowe’s corpse rose unbidden at the thought. He stood there, hunched over the sink, as he desperately tried to bring some semblance of rational thought back.

He just. Needed to make sure Crowe wouldn’t go on that damned set-up of a mission, the one that would have Luche -that fucking traitorous bastard- killing her for- For what, exactly? Luche had only talked about what Niflheim had promised him and the other traitors, after he had revealed what he had done.

Alright, then. Nyx nodded to himself, taking a moment to wash away the acrid taste of bile. Crowe first, everything else can wait.

He had four days, or three, if he discounted this one, before Niflheim would attack during that farce of a treaty ceremony. Four days to figure out how to avert disaster.

Nyx briefly entertained the thought of just, grabbing Crowe and Libertus, and heading for literally anywhere other than Insomnia, before roughly brushing it aside. No, he had a second, well, third chance, somehow. A chance to make things better, to make it so that no one (except those who really, really deserved it) had to die, so that the Empire wouldn’t be able to run rampant with their magitek armies and tamed daemons. And what sort of hero would he be, if he just ran away from that chance?

A sharp knock on his door, and the sound of it being flung open, had him spinning around in surprise, stumbling back into the counter in barely-concealed panic, before he registered that 1) it wasn’t a magitek trooper or some other sort of attacker 2) it was Libertus and 3) Crowe wasn’t with him.

Somehow, he had forgotten that Libertus had his apartment’s spare key.

“Oh shit, Nyx!” Libertus crossed the room with surprising speed for someone on crutches, eyeing how Nyx was practically trying to meld with the countertop. “When you didn’t pick up the phone-“

Libertus broke off with a yelp as Nyx grabbed him, half in a hug, half so that he could drag him in closer.

“Lib. Where is Crowe?”

“She’s off at some confidential briefing with the Commander, Nyx, are you alright?” Libertus managed to extract himself from Nyx’s grasp, giving him a once-over with a critical gaze. “You look- you look like shit, Nyx. And you weren’t at training. Do I need to get you to a doctor?”

“N-no. I’m…fine.” Nyx slowly inhaled, then exhaled, before trying to make himself look a little less like he’d just had a breakdown for the past hour and then some. “I am definitely fine. But I need to see Crowe.”

“Nyx, I’m sure it can wait.” Libertus sighed, filling a glass with water and passing it to Nyx, gesturing for him to drink it. “Me and Crowe covered for you during the briefing you missed saying you came down with something, though Commander does want a confirm on that. Though, man, you actually look terrible.”

“Just…had a bad dream, that’s all.” Nyx admitted.

Libertus raised an eyebrow, before shaking his head.

“You know that you can tell us anything, right? Anything that’s troubling you.”

“I…”

Nyx considered telling Libertus everything. Telling him about Crowe’s death, about the Glaives turning traitor, of Commander Drautos being that hated General Glauca, of the city burning under an Imperial onslaught, of the Old Wall and the old Kings. Of how Nyx had died.

But would Libertus even believe him? Nyx barely could believe it himself, and he’d lived it. Twice.

Libertus was one of his best friends, his brother in all but blood. But even so, he was fairly certain that Lib was probably going to check him into a hospital, at least initially, and he couldn’t afford to spend time trying to assure him of his sanity when he only had four and a half days.

“I’m fine, Lib. Really. Just had a bad dream, about Galahd.” Nyx paused, before he added. “And that giant daemon.”

“Oh.”

“Now, please, I need to meet up with Crowe.”

“She should be out of that meeting by now, I told her to meet up with us here, after I checked on you.”

Almost as if on cue, Crowe burst into the unlocked room.

“Oh good, you’re alive.” Crowe said, looking at Nyx and Libertus. “Wow, you really do look out of it.”

“Crowe!” Nyx swept her up in a hug, trying not to tear up.

“Hey, hey, Nyx. You good?” Crowe asked.

“You’re alive.” Nyx breathed, clutching her harder. “You’re alive.”

“I…am?” Crowe looked over at Libertus in confusion. Libertus shrugged, mouthing ‘Bad dream’ at her. Nyx instinctively lifted his middle finger at him, having caught the action even as he swallowed back his tears. “Look, Nyx, I’m fine, alright? Now, sit down, and let us catch you up to speed. Some shit’s gone down.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.” Nyx nodded, slowly moving to sit down. Libertus and Crowe both perched themselves nearby, Libertus taking the other seat, whilst Crowe leaned against the counter, wrinkling her nose at the mess in his sink.

“So…what’s happened?” Nyx asked, though he knew what it was they were going to tell him. But…well, he couldn’t just tell them how he knew that anyways, might as well give himself plausible deniability for some of his foreknowledge.

“Niflheim wants a peace treaty, at the cost of all other regions of Lucis besides Insomnia. And the King accepted it.” Libertus spat.

“There’s…not many in the Kingsglaive are happy about things at all. The general sentiment is that the King’s throwing away our homes.” Crowe continued. “On that note, the Commander’s given me a mission to recover the Princess Lunafreya from Tenebrae, I’m leaving first thing tomorrow.”

“No.”

Libertus and Crowe both turned to stare at Nyx, who was clutching the glass of water in his hands like a lifeline as he spoke.

“What-“

“You can’t. Crowe, please,” Nyx looked up at her, trying to convey the importance of his words, the desperation behind them. “Don’t go on that mission.”

“Nyx, I have to-“

“I don’t want to lose you, Crowe.” I don’t want to lose you again.

“Look, Nyx, you know I can handle myself.” Crowe patted his shoulder comfortingly. “Don’t let some bad dream get you all worked up, what did you dream of, me dying?”

Nyx dropped the glass, sending shards scattering across his floor. Distantly, he heard Libertus cursing, and Crowe…saying something, something that he probably imagined was supposed to be soothing, but couldn’t hear over the rising static as he remembered Crowe’s death, Libertus’ fury, Luche’s smug shitty face, Drautos half covered in that cursed armour-

Eventually, things slowly came back into focus, and he blinked as he looked up at Crowe and Libertus’ slightly relieved expressions. His neck ached, and it was only then that he realised that somehow, he’d gone from sitting in one of the terrible bargain chairs he had in his flat, to being on the floor, back pressed to one of the walls.

“You back with us, hero?” Libertus asked softly.

“Y-yeah.” Nyx croaked out, tilting his neck back and forth for a bit in an attempt to ease the soreness. “Sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be. Guess I must’ve accidentally hit the nail right on its head, then.” Crowe said, crouching down and slowly extending her hand. “Now, let me help you up.”

Nyx nodded, getting his breathing under some semblance of control, and he briefly closed his eyes, waiting until he felt calm enough to actually move.

He let Crowe hoist him to his feet, and went in for another hug, this time getting both her and Libertus in it. They gradually relocated to sit on his bed, Nyx practically wrapped around his two siblings-in-all-but-blood.

“You died, Crowe. You died and there was nothing I could do to stop it.” Nyx sobbed; the words slightly garbled considering his face was mashed into Libertus’ shoulder. “A-and Libertus left, and then everything just, went to hell and then some, the city was attacked-“

He broke off, unable to put the rest of what he’d seen and lived into words.

“Look, hero, you know what I’m capable of, right?” Crowe said reassuringly, after a silent minute, slowly carding her fingers through his hair. “Whatever it was that your subconsciousness cooked up, it won’t happen, alright?”

“It-“ Nyx choked up, the words he desperately wanted to say lodged in his throat.

“I’ve called you in as sick, so the Commander won’t be all up our collective asses when you don’t show up for duty for the rest of the day.” Libertus said, patting Nyx on the shoulder. Nyx felt like he should be flinching from that, even though he knew that there wasn’t any kingly power burning its way through his body. Yet. “Come on, you should get some rest. Proper rest, after I get you something to eat. I’ll be here, though Crowe needs to go prepare for that mission of hers. We can see her off in the morning.”

The meal that Libertus cooked up an hour later tasted like ash in his mouth, and as Nyx was herded to bed, he couldn’t help but think that he had failed, once again. But he couldn’t go after Crowe, not now, not when Libertus was already keeping a cautious eye on him, not when all they knew was that he just had a panic attack, and a dream terrible enough to spark it.

And on top of all that, he had no idea what to do now, not when he knew that Libertus and Crowe probably wouldn’t believe him at this point, not when he’d made everything out to be just a bad dream. He’d had some sort of grand plan, to convince Crowe to not go on that mission, in the hope that it’d derail at least part of the Empire’s plan, derail it enough to give him time to figure out how the hell else he’d be putting a spanner into the rest of their planned invasion.

That plan, at least for now, was in utter shambles.

Now that he thought about it, actually thought about it, there were so many things that would eventually lead to the fall of Insomnia.

Crowe’s death, which would fracture the Kingsglaive even further than what the initial ceasefire announcement had done.

Lunafreya’s arrival, and subsequent kidnapping, which would be the bait that would draw the loyal Kingsglaive to their doom at the hands of the traitors, and signal the initial attack on Insomnia.

The theft of the Crystal and the fall of the Wall, which, he still didn’t know exactly how that had even happened.

The whole mess with the – rebels? Faction? – that Libertus had joined the other two times, the ones who had bombed the signing ceremony.

The death of King Regis, which would inevitably ruin much of their chances to stop the invasion, because it would mean that no one would have their borrowed magic anymore to help them against the forces of Niflheim.

How to deal with those giant daemon weapons withoutbringing forth the Old Wall, an act that would cause a decent amount of destruction in itself.

And General Glauca, that traitorous Commander of the Kingsglaive who was, Nyx admitted, quite possibly the greatest threat to everything he held dear at this point.

He could deal with rescuing the Princess, having done it twice already. Could probably even deal with the traitorous Glaives, hell, he knew at least Luche and Tredd were in on it, and if he took those two out then the others would lose a good part of their leadership.

But how in hell was he going deal with everything else? Nyx wondered, not a little desperate, as exhaustion finally set in, and he fell unwillingly into a fitful sleep.

He woke again, sometime in the evening, eyes tracing the cracks along his ceiling as he tried to parse his racing thoughts. There was just so much to do, so much he had to stop or fix before the Empire burned the city to the ground.

Well, he eventually thought, a little sardonically, I could always just knock Luche out now, and maybe he won’t kill Crowe tomorrow.

He sat bolt upright at that thought, and tried not to fall out of the damn bed in his haste. He fumbled blindly for his boots, and looked around for something heavy enough to give someone a bad concussion. The frying pan hanging on the rack above the shitty little stove, still a bit damp after Libertus had washed it, looked like it would do nicely.

He couldn’t kill Luche yet, even if every bit of him really wanted to do so. It’d probably de-rail things to the point that his foreknowledge would be rendered completely useless, and he hadn’t yet come up with ideas on how to deal with the next few days to make that murder as feasible as he wanted.

But he could just. Make sure that Luche wouldn’t be able to kill Crowe, or at least he’d be able to give Crowe a better chance at surviving the ambush, if he couldn’t convince her not to go in the morning.

Nodding to himself, he opened his door, preparing to march down the hallway and bait Luche into sticking his head out so he could bash it in with roughly three kilograms of steel. Fortunately, no one appeared to be outside of their own flats, though considering it was late in the evening by now, that was unsurprising.

He knew Luche had a habit of sleeping early if he had the opportunity to do so, so Nyx was fairly certain that if he knocked on the man’s door now, Luche shouldn’t be aware enough to register it was Nyx holding the frying pan before it hit him.

Sure enough, Luche opened his door with bleary eyes, and Nyx had a moment of vicious satisfaction watching the man crumple to the ground with a single hit of the pan. Now that Luche was unconscious, and not dead (there was a pulse, Nyx had checked), all that was left to do was shove him somewhere in his own apartment and hopefully have him out of commission for the next day at least.

“Uh, Nyx?”

Nyx looked up from where he was dragging the surprisingly heavy Luche the rest of the way into the apartment. Libertus was standing there, one crutch held limply in his hand.

“This…isn’t what it looks like, Lib.” Nyx winced, as Libertus looked incredulously at where Nyx was holding onto Luche’s limp arm.

“Is it?!” Libertus’ voice somehow reached another octave, as he cautiously approached Nyx.

“Look, this is going to sound incredibly crazy, but would you believe me if I told you that Luche is a traitor and he’s going to try to kill us all, except for the fact that I just knocked him unconscious.”

Libertus’ expression told him that no, Libertus didn’t believe him, and also that Nyx was…probably in some deep shit now.

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

Nyx awoke, for the fourth time, in his bed, in his flat, a burning ember of phantom pain deep in his chest, clutching at where the piece of the collapsing hospital ceiling had stabbed right through him.

Well, he thought, somewhat hysterically, that could’ve gone better. Much better.