#Ship: Void and Ash | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nevadancitizen · 8 months ago

Text

-> TO LIVE ANOTHER DAY (I KNOW I NEVER WILL)

synopsis: you've always known that you're a throwaway -- another friendly kill. but when you're brought to ghost's world, you discover that there's so much more to life than defending democracy.

word count: 5.1k

characters: player! simon "ghost" riley, self-aware helldiver! reader

trigger warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, reader is obsessed with and idolizes ghost, nudity (but not in a sexual/suggestive context)

notes: wanted to try my hand at a reverse version of the self-aware cod au. also if you're not aquantinced with helldivers 2, it's okay! it has easy-to-understand lore but i recommend watching this lore video (it's just under twelve minutes and gives a pretty good run-down on what's going on). also inspired by "to liberty and beyond" by jt music, which is inspired by helldivers 2 in turn (✿˵•́ ૩•̀˵)৴♡*

You always knew something was… off.

Numerous ads and training modules state that every Helldiver is valuable to the continued reign of Managed Democracy and Super Earth. And yes, you’ve seen more than enough shock soldiers die for the cause – mostly freshly eighteen-year-olds that didn’t read the fine print that states that the minimum enlistment for a Helldiver is ten years.

But that’s the thing. They died. You watched their bodies be ripped apart by bullets or torn to shreds by terminids.

You never… died. Not really, anyway.

It was always a split second of hot-white, searing pain, then a moment of darkness, then you were strapped into a hellpod, being sent down for another wave. Mentions of gods or other types of divine beings weren’t really heard of or taught about, so you didn’t know who to thank – or to blame – for this phenomenon.

(You tried to mention this to your assigned Democracy Officer, but she just dismissed it with a threat of being sent to a Reeducation Camp.)

So you kept it to yourself. You have a habit of taking your helmet off and bowing your head (In prayer? You’re not so sure) and just breathing, taking in the cool thrum of your heart. You never thought you’d relate to the fascism-fueled automatons, but you only feel the warmth of… your God? your savior? when in the heat of battle.

You always think like this in between being sent down – wandering thoughts while wandering the halls of the ship. There’s not a lot of this type of time, so you make sure to savor it.

You’re in this position right now, looking down at your helmet and thumbing over the imperfections picked up from battle. The void-black visor shows a reflection of you, warped and stretched-out. Above the visor is a skull etched into the titanium – the lines are all jagged edges and uneven depths. You don’t remember doing this, but it’s there anyway. You don’t remember a lot, actually, but you’re, once again, told by your Democracy Officer not to worry about that.

You pick yourself up from that train of thought before you go too far. Instead, you put your helmet back on and start to walk the halls of the ship.

Once you’re past the armory and terminal, you start down the steps to the sleeping quarters. (Because yes, despite being supersoldiers, Helldivers need their rest, too.)

But then, you snipe something out of the corner of your eye. There’s… a door. A door you don’t remember being there. Light seeps through the small gap where the bottom of the door and the floor don’t meet. The sight causes the ashes in your belly that have gone cold to stir once more.

Your boots clunk on the ground as you walk over to it. It creaks open, as if inviting you. Again, you never remember having wooden doors that creak on the ship – they’re all automatic sliding metal doors, and open with faint hisses.

You push it open the rest of the way and die.

It’s that all-consuming pain that feels worse than any other time you’ve died – like your skin is being torn off the same time you’re being tarred and feathered. The black isn’t just a flash this time, but a few seconds you can actually count – twelve seconds. Twelve whole seconds.

Twelve seconds doesn’t sound like a lot, but for you, it was fucking terrifying.

You thought you actually died. It was almost laughable – you’ve survived automatons and terminids and being in cryo, but you couldn’t survive some mystery door? And all that effort without meeting your… you don’t even know what to call it. Guardian angel? Tormentor?

You wake up and, for the first time, aren’t in a hellpod – instead, you’re in a bed. You can move your arms and legs freely, but they feel… numb. Disconnected.

When you start to look around, you notice everything is white and sterile. There’s a distinct sharp scent of disinfectant in the air, contrasting the musky gun oil and sweat that you know well.

(You haven’t ever been in a real hospital – the closest is a small supply closet on-ship that was converted into a first aid station – but you’re pretty sure this is an actual hospital, like the ones back home on Super Earth.)

Your uniform is set on a chair nearby, your black-and-yellow cape draped over the back of it. Your helmet is on the cushion of the seat, facing you. Every piece is… oddly clean. There’s no dark brown dried bloodstains or sickly green bug oil.

With shaky hands (which have never trembled before – at least, not to this degree) you rip out the IV and brace yourself on the railing of the bed before standing. Your legs wobble a bit, but straighten themselves out after a moment.

You take off the paper hospital gown and dress yourself in proper clothing. All the metal parts of your uniform click into place, and your under-armor fits like it always does – perfectly flush to your skin.

Just as you’re about to push open the door, a man opens it. You’re stunned for a second before taking him in. He’s tall with a beard that looks like walrus tusks, and is wearing military fatigues you’ve seen in history modules.

Looking at him causes a dull thrum in your chest, like your heart is picking up again. But it’s not him – he’s not your savior.

“Civilian,” you greet before pushing past him. You wave over your shoulder politely. “Praise be Democracy.”

The man makes a stunned noise before grabbing your shoulder and spinning you to face him. He opens his mouth to talk, but you interrupt him by holding a hand up.

“Please, no touching the armor, civilian,” you say. “This is the property of the Ministry of Defense, as am I. If you wish to enlist, don’t talk to me, but the nearest Democracy Officer available.”

The man pauses for a moment before barking, “What in the bloody fuck are you on about, muppet?”

You huff out a laugh and lean closer to him. He’s tall, but with your armor, you’re taller.

“Okay, civilian.” You smile underneath your helmet and speak in a lower tone. “I understand that you don’t see a lot of us, so if you want a signature, just ask, okay? I can make it out to your kid who wants to be a Helldiver, or whatever. Tell them to put that M2016 Constitution bolt-action rifle to good use.”

The man stares at you as if you’ve just admitted to secretly being an automaton and are planning to undermine Democracy to institute socialism. He slowly brings his hand away from your shoulder and walks past you.

“Come with me,” he says simply.

You follow him after a moment of contemplation. He causes a faint mimic of the warmth, so that’s good, right? And he can’t be dangerous. Maybe a danger to others, but not to you – not with all the armor you’ve got. You keep your hands clasped behind your back to keep from fidgeting as you walk.

“Firstly.” The man holds up a hand, his index finger raised. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder to look at you. “I am not a civilian. I’m a captain – Captain John Price of the SAS.”

“Nonsense,” you scoff. “A captain should always be wearing their armor. A Helldiver is always ready to fight for Democracy.”

You walk a little faster so that you’re not walking behind him, but next to him instead. “And besides, what is the SAS? I’ve never heard of that division, or that ship – whatever it is. I reside on the Dawn of Destruction.”

Price looks at you out of the corner of his eye, his thick brows furrowing. “It’s the Special Air Service. And I’ve never heard of these… Helldivers you’ve been going on about.”

“Good Liberty, that’s nonsense again!” You look over at Price, your eyes trained on him instead of in front of you. “Helldivers are all over the news, the radio sets, the televisions… surely you’re not that shut off? Every colony has some way to communicate with Super Earth.”

“Super Earth?” Price repeats back to you. He then holds up his hand and stops walking. “Nevermind. I don’t want to hear it.”

He gestures to the door he’s stopped in front of. “Go on.”

You glance at Price before opening the door. It’s an interrogation room, like the ones you’ve seen in old-timey movies.

“Oh, I get it.” You look over your shoulder at Price. “This is like one of those war reenactments, right? You’ve recreated a military base from the original Earth… very impressive!”

Price shoves you into the room (with a surprising amount of strength), leaving you stumbling. You quickly correct yourself and spin around to confront him, but by the time you’re able to do that, he’s closed and locked the door.

“Ah…” you sigh as you look around the room. It’s all concrete grey with a steel table and two steel chairs in the middle. There’s a mirror taking up the majority of one wall, one which you know is double-sided.

You walk up to it and try to talk to the people on the other side – you know there’s got to be someone there. “This is fun! Which training module is this? I thought I completed every one… is it new? Because I’ve never heard of something like this.”

After half a minute, there’s no response. You wander over to one of the chairs at the table and sit in it. You laugh a little as you rest your hands in the handcuffs chained to the steel.

“I am ready for interrogation!” you announce. “I sure hope no filthy fascist comes in and tries to cleanse me of the beauty of freedom! Because I surely won’t give them a cup of Liber-tea, and I of course won’t deliver it with my fist…!”

You tap your fingers on the table for a minute before slumping back in the chair. This is boring. Most training modules are the type where you’re run-and-gun-ing throughout the whole thing, but interrogation is boring.

You’re sat like that for a good half hour before you hear the lock click. Your eyes dart to the door as it opens, revealing a man.

He’s dressed in all black, with a balaclava covering his face. His russet-brown eyes meet yours through your helmet and it’s like you’ve died all over again.

Heat explodes your chest like you’ve just got a shotgun slug blasted through your belly. The ashes have been blown away, and in its place, a raging bonfire! It roars like a dragon, and it reeks of reverence and prayer.

The man closes the door behind him and someone locks it from the outside. He barely makes it two steps before you stand from the chair, the legs shrieking against the floor.

“My God,” you say softly.

“Helldiver,” the man greets.

“No, I…” You make your way around the table and stand as close as you can be without feeling like you’re about to catch fire. “Are you…?”

The man nods. “Ghost.”

“That’s it, that’s what you are!” you exclaim. You take a step forward and feel sweat drip down your back. “You’re the… the Ghost. The…”

The one who kept you from experiencing a permanent death? The one who kept you alive just to torment you? The guardian angel who watches your every move? The devil who prods at your ass with a pitchfork? You’re not sure what to say.

You settle on reaching out to him and saying, “You’re my savior.”

Ghost takes a step back. “Savior? I’m not so sure about that.”

“No, but – you are!” You breathe out a laugh and step forward, mirroring his actions. You bend at the knee and the back to make yourself shorter, as if trying to be smaller than him. “I am… I’m a throwaway. Another friendly kill. But you kept me alive! You brought me back after death, I remember dying so many times – y-you don’t get it, you’re my God!”

You strike, quick as a viper, and take his hand. Even though both your gloves and his act as barriers, it feels like your entire arm is engulfed in flame. Still, you keep holding on.

“You chose me, right? You chose me to fight!” You clutch his hand tighter. “You chose me to spread Democracy, to smite the fascists and… I – I was taught that we are Democracy, not individuals, but you proved me wrong, because you chose me.

“God chose me.”

A silence engulfs the interrogation room. You’re both frozen in time, living, breathing statues. It’s too hot. Every bone in your hand, wrist, and arm are turning to charcoal. It’s burning. It’s euphoric.

Ghost starts to pull his hand away, but you bring your free hand to hold it in place, holding yours. “No, please.”

Ghost forcefully yanks his hand away. He drags you forward with the force, and you fall to your knees. The metal kneepads on your legs clang loudly against the concrete floor.

You can do nothing but look up at Ghost from where you’re kneeling. There’s nothing sexual about it – it’s more like a believer kneeling at the feet of a statue of Christ. Ghost is your God, after all.

There’s another minute of silence before you bow your head and reach up with shaky hands to remove your helmet. It clanks loudly against the floor as you drop it.

You can feel Ghost staring at you. The fire burns hotter – the bonfire caught wind and is reaching up into the trees. The branches above are catching, aching to burn.

Tears rim your eyes as you bring your head up to look at him. His stare hardens.

It’s a sight you’ve seen in the mirror many times before. Your face is a mess of unloaded textures, a checkerboard of black and bright purple, with the exception of your eyes and the surrounding skin. But seeing yourself through Ghost’s eyes…

It’s Rapture. It’s only you and him. A God and his only believer.

“Ghost, please.” A tear slips down your cheek. You don’t think you’ve ever cried before. It’s cool against your too-hot, burning skin. “Let me stay. I want to stay in Heaven, stay with you.”

“This isn’t Heaven,” Ghost says coldly. “And I’m not God.”

“But you are!” you snap. “This is peace and this is comfort and this is you. Don’t send me back to Malevelon Creek, don’t send me back to those godforsaken ion storms and automatons.”

Your voice grows quieter as tears run down your face and drip off your chin. “Don’t send me back to Hell.”

Ghost sighs and casts his gaze to the side. He’s thinking, and it’s plain on the parts of his face you can see.

You bow your head and wipe your tears away to give him some semblance of privacy.

“Fine,” he finally decides. “But stop calling me God. You’re starting to seriously piss me off.”

Your head snaps up and you fight back a fresh wave of tears as you nod. “Yes! I’ll – I’ll call you Ghost. No more God-talk, I promise.”

You huff out a wet laugh as you pick up your helmet and fasten it back on your head. “I mean, I’ll try. I promise I’ll try.”

And so it’s like that for a month. Ghost explains the concept of video games (and how you’re from one – but you figured out that much already), introduces you to his team (and forces you to apologize to Price for calling him a civvy), and gives you his blessing to be his guard (even though he doesn’t need one).

He allows you to tail him around when he’s in a good mood. When he’s not up for it, you sit outside his door like the good soldier you are.

You’re not allowed to have weapons, on account of being… well. Your entire being. The flying spark that could cause a wildfire. The free radical that could split an atom. It’s just better to give you the bare minimum and keep you there.

And you’re more than happy with the bare minimum. You survive on scraps from the mess hall and the moments when Ghost can tolerate you being a little too close.

But the week-long missions are nothing but pain for you. And yet, every time you meet him on the tarmac, he greets you with a pat on the side of your bicep and asks how you were while he was gone. Maybe he’s doing it to be polite, maybe he actually cares – you don’t know, and you’re willing to keep it that way.

(In this instance, you’re blissful with your ignorance. Revel in it, actually.)

There’s a faint part of you that thinks that he views you as an abandoned puppy he found on the side of the road that just followed him home. You’re okay with that if it means you can keep being close to him and keep getting away with everything you’ve done so far.

So you wait, ever so patient, outside his door. You don’t lean against the wall next to it – you’re always standing at attention, even when your back starts to ache from standing so rigid. You don’t know what to do with your hands (on account of having no rifle to hold) so you let them idly hang at your sides, fighting the reflex to fidget.

There’s a knock from the other side of the door. A sign from Ghost, telling you that you’re welcome to come in.

You knock back with a soft, “Ghost?”

After a few seconds, there’s no response, but you can hear the lock click and unlock.

You wait for a minute before you open the door and make sure to duck as you enter. (These doors are shorter than the ones back on your ship – they’re not built to accommodate someone wearing Helldiver armor.)

You shut the door behind you and take in Ghost’s room. It’s bare, like yours. Just a desk with a chair, a bed with military-issued bedding, and a closet with a dresser and clothes rod.

As if on instinct, you take your helmet off, leaving yourself vulnerable yet safe. As your time passed here, your skin has become less black-and-purple and more like a normal skin tone – like the color around your eyes has started to seep into the surrounding area. So far, it’s taken over your face and the column of your throat, just barely brushing past your collarbone.

Ghost moves away from where he’s facing his desk in his swivel chair. He takes you in. Takes your new skin in.

You’ve kept your armor clean, just how you both like it. But the upkeep of yourself, as a person, your new hair and new skin, your new nose and lips and beauty marks and imperfections…

Ghost points at you. “Your hair is greasy as hell.”

You comb a hand through your hair and your glove comes away with a bit of grease, just like he mentioned.

“It is.” You look up from your glove to meet his gaze. “What should I do about it?”

“Fucking hell.” Ghost rolls his eyes. “You’re asking me what you should do about it? Take a shower, knobhead.”

“Ah.” You look down at your boots.

“Have you seriously not been bathing?” Ghost asks.

“It, um…” You glance up at him, then back down at the floor. “It never occurred to me. Usually I don’t have to.”

“You’ve been here for a bloody month and you haven’t showered once?” he scoffs.

You shrink into yourself, an embarrassed blush creeping across your face.

“Christ…” Ghost mumbles. He stands from his chair and points you up-and-down. “Get out of your armor.”

“Excuse me?” A hand flies to the middle of your breastplate, as if cradling it to you like it’s the only thing keeping you decent.

“You heard me.” Ghost moves over to the door to his bathroom and opens it, then glances over his shoulder at you. “I’m drawing a bath. And you’re going in it.”

You look down at your glove, at the thin sheen of grease covering it. “I… okay.”

Ghost goes into the bathroom to give you some semblance of privacy. You take a breath to calm yourself and exhale with a soft “Sweet Liberty…”

You carefully lay out your metal armor on Ghost’s bed, leaving yourself in just your under-armor. It’s durable but thin, causing you to shiver as the air conditioning kicks on.

With light steps, you make your way over to the bathroom. Ghost is hunched over the side of the tub, his hands ungloved and sleeves bunched up to his elbows. One of his hands is under the running water, checking the temperature.

You lean into the doorway and call his name softly. You only lean in a bit, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Ghost glances over his shoulder at you, then nods at the tub. “Come on. Haven’t got all day.”

You slowly make your way in the bathroom and close the door behind you. It’s a small space, and it just makes everything all the more awkward.

“Well?” Ghost prompts. “Will you be good by yourself?”

“I mean…” You look down at the tile. “I guess.”

Ghost shuts off the faucet, then stands and wipes his hand off on a towel hanging by the bathtub. “I’m off, then.”

“But – wait,” you say softly. “How am I supposed to bathe? It’s not full yet.”

“It’s not meant to be full up,” Ghost says. “You’re acting like you’ve never taken a bath before.”

You shift on your feet, your almost-bare soles making a soft sound against the tile. Your silence tells Ghost all he needs to know.

“Come on then.” He sighs and leans back against the counter, his hands on the lip of the sink. “Strip.”

You shuffle out of your under-armor, fold it neatly, and put it on the counter. You’re nearly shaking from embarrassment, but at least it isn’t as awkward as it would be if your body wasn’t just unloaded textures. Your body below your collarbone is built well, but it’s more like a jacked doll that a kid scribbled a black and purple checkerboard on than an actual human soldier.

Your eyes meet Ghost’s before you duck your head away in shame.

“Come on,” he repeats. “Let’s get you washed up, yeah?”

You keep your gaze low as you tentatively dip a few fingers in the water. It’s warm, but not too hot. You slowly hook a leg over the edge of the tub and step in. It feels good – not that you have any prior bathing experiences to compare it to.

Your knees practically buckle as you lower yourself into the water. You sit with your knees pressed up against your chest, not wanting to take up too much space even though the tub isn’t all that small.

“Good?” Ghost asks.

“Good,” you parrot back.

Ghost kneels by the side of the tub. “How’s it feel? Too hot?”

“Okay.” You raise your eyes to meet his. “Feels like… when I’m near you.”

He just hums, monotone, in response. He shifts to sit more comfortably, then pats the surface of the water, sending ripples. “Lean forward.”

You do as he asks, bowing your head so that your face is close to the water. “This good?”

“Yes. I’m gonna get some water on you now.”

You nod. Ghost cups his hand and dips it in the water before running it down your back. You gasp softly at the feeling – it’s unlike anything you’ve experienced before. It’s like Ghost’s molten touch is seeping into your skin, but instead of fire, it’s a pleasant version of sunburn.

Maybe it feels duller and better because you’ve been so exposed to Ghost over the past month that you’ve gotten used to it, like exposure therapy? And the feeling when you first touched him was just too much, too fast…

You quickly divert your thoughts away from the theoretical and into the now. Because right now, Ghost is doting on you unlike any other.

Water runs through your hair, and Ghost threads his fingers through the strands to make sure it gets properly wet. Droplets run down your forehead and drip off your nose.

You turn your head just a little and look up at Ghost sideways. “Is this it?”

“No.” He huffs out a laugh. “There’s shampoo, then conditioner. Then you gotta wash your actual body.”

“Oh.”

There’s a moment where the only sound is Ghost gathering a bit of shampoo in his hands and rubbing them together to create a lather. He scrubs it into your hair for about a half minute before washing it out.

You break the silence as he starts to work the conditioner into your hair. “I never got to ask – the engraving on my helmet… what’s that about? I don’t remember doing it.”

“Hm?” Ghost hums. “The skull? Dead daft, ain’t you?”

“I’m… I could only parse parts of that sentence,” you say softly. “But I can tell you’re calling me an idiot.”

“Yes. I am. You’re learning.” Ghost huffs out another laugh. “Go on, guess.”

“If I have to…” You close your eyes and lean into Ghost’s touch. “It’s a representation of your control over me? As a player, I mean. Not in… anything else.”

You let out a nervous laugh and hope Ghost doesn’t pick up on your double meaning. But of course he does – you can tell in the way his hands pause for a fraction of a second before continuing their work. He’s too observant for his own good.

With an awkward ahem, you continue. “But that’s the same reason my callsign is Deathshead, right? Because you’re Ghost. You – you gave me your insignia.”

(You had to stop yourself from saying ‘Blessed me with your insignia’, because you promised you’d stop with the God-talk.)

“Dead on.” Ghost turns and rubs a bar of soap on a sponge, then hands it to you. “Scrub yourself. I’m not doing it for you.”

“Where?” you ask. “Like, all over?”

Ghost washes the conditioner from his hands in the bathwater and nods. “Mhm.”

You carefully scrub yourself from top to bottom. The sponge is a bit abrasive, but nice.

(You’d much rather have Ghost wash you up, to cause the fire you’ve contained in a little wooden stove to flare out of the firebox and through the grill… but you keep that to yourself.)

Once you’re done, you wring the sponge out under the bathwater, then above water. You set it on the side of the tub and look up at Ghost, waiting for instructions.

He meets your gaze and shifts where he’s sitting on the toilet lid. “Just relax, Helldiver.”

“Not used to this.” You pull your knees up to your chest. “Not used to having… downtime. I was always being sent down, or preparing to be sent down. Democracy was always my guide, but…”

You tilt your head towards Ghost, and he understands.

“You are, now,” you voice the unsaid thought.

“That’s concerning.” Ghost rests his hands on his knees and leans back against the tank.

“I know.” You look down at the bathwater and the bubbles floating on the surface. “It’s just… I’ve never felt the peace that we preach. I’ve only known fighting, only violence and blood.”

You look up and meet his eyes. “Have you ever had your legs blown apart by an Eagle Cluster Bomb? Ever been burned alive by friendly napalm? Because I have. I’ve felt my spine split because of an Orbital Railcannon Strike. I’ve been mowed down by friendly Gatling Sentries.

“But the worst thing I’ve experienced here is name-calling and weird looks,” you say. “I’ve been sick to my stomach with worry once or twice, but then I remember you’re a soldier, just like me. You’re trained, and you’re okay, and you’ll return fine.

“I am…” You lean your head back against the tile wall and close your eyes. “I’m at peace here.”

“I get that,” Ghost says. His voice is the softest you’ve ever heard it. “How long were you deployed?”

“As long as I can remember,” you say.

“Bloody long time, then, yeah?” Ghost says.

“Yes.” You bring your hand up and rub your collarbone, where skin meets undefined polygons. “But you’re making me human. Less Helldiver, less of an expendable piece of resurrected meat. You’re making me softer. More civilian.”

You open your eyes and look up at Ghost. The expression on his face is… conflicted. Like he didn’t know he could bring this out in someone.

“They always said that when united under the beautiful Liberty flag of Super Earth, nothing will be able to stop or split its glorious peoples,” you say. “But you showed me that it’s better out here. That it’s… fascism, is what it is. But that’s a secret we keep from ourselves.”

You reach your hand out and lay it over where his lays on his knee. You just barely brush your fingertips over the back of his hand before grabbing it.

(Another log has been added to the fire, and it’s covered in lichen and dried mosses. It crackles and pops, but you make sure to keep it still contained.)

“Would you believe me if I said that I hate Managed Democracy?” You laugh breathlessly. Even saying it causes a sick feeling in your stomach, like you’ll be found out and promptly dismissed. (Read: put up against a wall and executed via firing squad.)

“Yes.” Ghost glances down at where your hand lays on top of his. “A lot of people hate the government, all ‘cross the world. Don’t you know that?”

“And they’re… allowed to?” You bite the inside of your bottom lip to subdue a smile. “Like, openly?”

Ghost laughs. “Yes.”

“This really is Heaven.” You sigh out the words, an unbelieving smile crossing your face.

“Not Heaven,” Ghost says. “Just Earth.”

He moves his hand slightly, and you take it as a cue to move away. You bring your hand back, dipping it back in the bathwater.

“Well,” you say softly. “I think I like just Earth.”

“On just Earth, we bathe regularly.” Ghost dips a hand in the water and splashes your knees. “Now, come on. Let’s get you rinsed off.”

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aratribow · 8 months ago

Note

What would happen if yanqing died.

I need more angst about Yanqing and jing yuan pls

AHHHHH I ACTUALLY HAVE SO MANY YQ MCD WIPS? That my lazy ass never completed..

But I present you ONE polished thingy. (Don't mind me adding in a ship as well ^^)

An au where Kafka was a bit too late with the spirit whisper, where Jing Yuan was a bit too late to save Yanqing from the shard sword aimed for his chest.

Ps: Yanqing is a bio renjing child here, but Ren didn't know about his existence because he left to get milk and never came back. ^^

Warning: Yanqing MCD

The sun sets, the bird ceases its song, and the lion mourns: (title suggested by @itsredpaint )

He distantly watched as the window curtains flew with the breeze, a chill so familiar. Lying motionless in the assigned bed at the alchemy commission, Jing Yuan felt numb; if the scratchy material of the sheets felt mildly prickly – then he couldn't tell. His barely taken breaths, the only sign of his survival.

There's nothing left.

The momentary fragile trust that took everything, for just a fraction, was broken on a whim.

Another loved one lost to the winds, too young and tender for the graves, too young and tender to wonder if even the ashes will remain.

Jing Yuan was supposed to die there, die at the hands of the Lord Ravager, he had everything prepared beforehand, so why. He was not supposed to be stranded on the mortal world with nothing left of his own, he had already lost plenty, what more was there to lose anymore.

For the moment, he couldn't even recognize if the dull throbbing pain from his chest was entirely the work of Cloud Piercer or not. The lingering remains of Destruction still pulsing through his chi didn't help either.

In the quiet solitude of the night, Jing Yuan's harsh breaths kept him up, the ragged pathetic sound so bitterly familiar.

If he was just a little bit faster…just a little bit faster to save the only sun left in his life.

(The other sun had already been lost to the stars, with nothing left of her other than the telltale bravery of her ill fated luck sewed into the few remaining strands of her lilac hair.)

With a bated breath, he realised that he would never see his retainer again. He would never get to see his dust blonde hair, which, despite being deftly tied up in a high ponytail, always ended up covered in dirt from the spars. The way it gleamed with a gentle sheen of gold whenever Jing Yuan combed through the knotted strands of his freshly dried hair after a long day of work, the action soothing his nerves into a pleasant buzz of tranquillity with Yanqing nodding off on his shoulder. He would never get to see the vivid shade of molten gold in his eyes either, which would crinkle at the edges with a beaming smile at the mention of a favoured sword.

People around General Jing Yuan always remarked as to how his retainer's eyes completely resembled his own, he wondered why, for he always thought that if there was someone who could rival the Sun, it would be Yanqing. not anymore, though

Confined in the cage of his short-sighted immortality, the Divine Foresight mourned. Could he have saved his disciple, his lieutenant, his retainer, his son if only he hadn't undermined the play orchestrated by fate itself? If only he hadn't trusted his life with the phantom of a man once loved and cherished.

Seeing nothing but the blurry lines of the ceiling, he dared not to blink as he let the tears cascade down by themselves, framing his face in a warmth he could only ever dream of now.

Despite being consumed by the guilt of failing yet another, he did not fail to discern the presence that breached the privacy of the room. If not for the silent footfalls, then for the tenseness permeating from the body.

He blinked once, twice.

"He was your son, too." Jing Yuan said, voice barely audible, barely held together against the lump in his throat, threatening to choke him. If not for the dead of the night, void of any activity around, the words would have been lost, blown away by the chilled breeze coming in through the windows.

With eyes still focused on the ceiling, he noticed the body wince in his periphery.

Jing Yuan never thought that it would come to this, but now? Now he wanted this person to mourn alongside him, to share the pain that tore his barely beating heart out and reduced it to shreds. But perhaps it was even more foolish of him to think that Ren would care.

If he had, he wouldn't had left, not when Jing Yuan needed him the most, not when Jing Yuan missed him so bad it hurt, a tender wound damaged again and again with no respite, with no chance to heal, to the point where Jing Yuan felt the kindling fire die within him…and he let it.

The only time he dared to show face was to kill their son, to take away the only light left in Jng Yuan's dying world.

Because what would it matter to Ren when it was Jing Yuan who had to raise Yanqing all by himself. It would be Jing Yuan, who would ever know about Yanqing's child-like antics despite the act he proudly put up for his role as a lieutenant.

It would be Jing Yuan who would remember his pleading eyes at barely the end of the month, and despite the visible disapproval he would still fulfil the wishes, just to see a triumphant smile grace his son's face for winning a war that didn't exist in the first place.

It would be Jing Yuan who would cherish his joy at the agreement of eating outside at a favourite restaurant, relishing in the simplicity of it. It would be Jing Yuan who would know of his boundless determination, his passion, his courage to overcome obstacles at such an early age, his dream of becoming the sword champion...that would remain a dream in itself.

Perhaps…if he had kept him away from the ruthless reality, and if he had just provided the comfort of a father and not the sternness of a mentor, a General, then…perhaps-

Despite being surged by the bitter feelings, he could hardly feel it in himself to move, it seemed to further drown him within the sheets instead. Perhaps it was for the best because he couldn't tell what he wanted to do with his limbs or his body anymore. His grip on reality, failing him.

Before he could choke even further on his misery, he felt a rough bandaged hand coming to rest on his forehead – just then, he finally found his body moving as he violently recoiled against the hand. If it was the tender hand of a lover before, now, it was just the hand of a murderer that dripped with the blood of his child.

Something must have been written on his face besides the silent stream of tears, for he saw the body retreat back quicker than it came to be. He wondered if he would retreat back through the door, never to show face again, just like last time.

But Jing Yuan could care less. If Ren wished to stay for some sick godforsaken reason, just to haunt him in his last moments, then he probably should. Jing Yuan didn't have it in himself to stop him, he'd rather have that same blade plunge through his heart and seal the final deal for him.

He knew the mara wouldn't be long after this, he had lived enough already, and his son was the last straw.

"Baba.... it hurts.." Yanqing said as he had coughed out a string of viscous red that shouldn't be there, not at this age, not now.

Jing Yuan remembered the feeling of pure rage dissipating only to be replaced by unadulterated anguish instead as he collapsed to his knees beside his child. There was a gaping wound that shouldn't have been there-

No, it shouldn't have been there, and yet it was.

Yanqing had laid there, in his arms, seeping precious blood into the ruined tiles of the Dragonvista Hall. Jing Yuan recalled feeling helpless as he watched the blood gurgle from Yanqing's mouth, making it hard for him to breathe. The strength in his tender face long gone as he watched the colour receding rapidly, leaving nothing but pure fear in its wake. His son was scared, scared and he could do nothing to soothe the pain.

He used to pull his son close into his arms, secure him there and read him stories or recount tales from the past at nights Yanqing couldn't sleep. He wonders if he should have paid more attention to the beating heart against him, comforting in the constant rhythm of alive, alive, alive-

His grip on Yanqing faltered as slick blood sluggishly gushed out of the wound on his tiny body. How could someone this small lose this much blood?

Before he could’ve tried to bring his son a false sense of security, the least he could've done for his frightened child, he saw his breath even out and his eyelids flutter shut against the remaining tears streaming down his face. The tears that washed away the grime on his young face only to leave tracks of evident pain behind.

Jing Yuan couldn't do anything when yanqing slowly nudged his face into his neck, with his last remaining strength, to breathe out a final…apology.

"Baba, I'm sorry....I...failed you."

Before he could retort back to dispel the thought, (How had he failed to notice this brewing insecurity? What kind of father-) he felt the body completely slump into his arms, warmth dissipating from his body already.

Oh how he wished for the cold to be from Yanqing's frost, and not from his dying body.

He couldn't remember how long he sat there, but it must have been enough for Dan Heng to approach him and rest a (reassuring?) hand on his shoulder. He might've spoken something but Jingyuan could hear nothing over the blood boiling in his veins, over the unresponsive body in his arms, pulled close to his own to at least share a portion of his own body heat in desperate hopes of convincing himself that his son was still alive. He clutched him tightly enough to probably hurt, but hurting would have been good, it would've meant that he was still breathing.

The haze eventually cleared when he felt the dam finally break in its wake.

Jing Yuan swayed forward into his lap with his hands covering his face, hiding himself from the world, from himself, and from him. He heard a loud whimper before registering an inhumane cry of pure agony, not realising that the sound was torn out from himself.

He wanted to slam his fist into the mattress, feel the wooden frame of the bed break underneath his hands. He needed to let out the pain somehow, but he could find no purchase when he felt a pair of hands firmly, yet gently, remove his tightly clenched fingers clutching the bunched up sheets. He felt bitterly vulnerable as he struggled against the firm hold, pushing him back down onto the bed, the rough material of the bandage grating against his wrists. He cried out at the cruelty that denied him the simple notion of curling in on himself, the need in his body to clutch something, someone close against him growing stronger by the second. What more could Ren want from him?

"LEAVE!” He lashed out, sobbing with broken hiccups. He hated how exposed he felt, having nowhere to hide his face.

"Leave like you always did! Leave like you were always meant to, because leaving is the only thing you are good at-"

The words promptly got stuck in his throat though, as he distinctly felt a drop of tear hitting his face. The following whimper made Jingyuan finally turn back to gaze into Ren's contorted face, his lips pulled into a wobbling snarl with his brows tightly knit together. Ren hovered over him as gold met red and more tears struck his skin as they emerged from eyes barely kept open.

Despite a faint voice in his head urging him to wipe away tears if his past lover, Jing Yuan couldn't find it in himself to be merciful for this once. He has shown enough mercy in this lifetime, he wanted to be selfish for once.

"You killed our son, Ren. It was me who had raised him, and now it again has to be me....to see through his funeral." Jing Yuan weeped, still reeling from the onslaught of guilt. “How many more Ren? How many more?”

If Jing Yuan went overboard with his demands, then he did. The patience meticulously crafted over the years shattering in mere seconds.

He saw Ren violently wince, and it…shouldn't have been as satisfactory as it was, but he couldn't deny the cruel satisfaction of watching the murderer collapse under the realisation of his own crimes. Perhaps this is what Ren wanted to feel as well when he chased Dan Heng across the universe.

Ren finally left the hold around his wrists as he sank onto the ground to his knees, his face dejectedly pushed into the mattress, going completely still despite a hand still faintly holding onto Jing Yuan's own. If it was an apology, then Jing Yuan couldn't tell.

#aratribow #my...writing?#honkai star rail #jing yuan #hsr jing yuan #hsr blade #jingren #yanqing #jing yuan and yanqing #jing yuan is YQ'S PARENT #me @ ren: *how does it feel to kill your own kid?*#renjing with possibly no happy ending i suppose #i love yq mcd because it puts his father through another bouts of severe depression and what ifs

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matrixbearer2024 · 15 days ago

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Suffering

Are you really even living? Or simply surviving doctor? When had immortality turned from a blessing into a curse? More importantly, did you really even care? Or did you only care because you're now all alone?

AKA; Ford internalizing now that he's alone and invulnerable to the sands of time. The same can't be totally said for his mental state though. After all, he's only human.

Songfic based on "Suffering" by Amelie Farren written for my Time Lord Twins AU!

I'm very delulu for my AU- so have a sneak peek into Doc's future with this song fic I wrote. I have three distinct moments for Stanford as the Doctor in my timelord twins AU:

the Doctor that neglects — when he was young and was only a Doctor thanks to his PhDs

the Doctor that regrets — present, where I normally create content for him and where his blog and RP are currently situated

the Doctor that forgets — the far flung future where he outlives everybody and completely embraces being a time lord

I'll be tagging these posts accordingly, but I'd love to talk about his lore much more if you guys are interested!

The sun had long dipped below the edge of the cosmos, surrendering to the sea of stars that now spilled across the boundless sky. Within the TARDIS, Stanford stood against the vast backdrop of that eternal night, the hum of the ship's machinery a constant, soothing drone beneath the cacophony of his thoughts. The silver pill case in his hand reflected the light of a nearby console, gleaming with a sterile brightness that made his skin crawl. He turned it over between his fingers, contemplating the small white tablets that represented his fragile tether to equilibrium.

I've thrown aside my worries, but the cares they bite me back. I'm taking twenty vitamins a day, for the iron I lack.

Stanford grimaced, the corners of his lips pulling downward as the familiar bitterness welled up in his throat. He tilted his head back and swallowed the pills dry, feeling them scrape down his throat as if rebelling against their purpose. Sustenance without substance, that was his life now. He no longer needed food to keep going, no longer needed the simple pleasures of living— he only indulged when he could remember to, when the aching loneliness hadn’t numbed his senses entirely.

I don't need food I don't need sleep, don't tell me that I'm wrong! I don't know what I'm doing— But can you please just play along?

The first decade had clawed at him with relentless, gnawing grief. Each year afterward seemed to find a new way to hollow him out, chiseling deeper into the marrow of his being until there was nothing left but the echo of old anguish. He would lie awake in the captain’s chair or pace the TARDIS halls, every footfall a metronome counting out regrets. Days would bleed into each other, a palette of shadows smearing over any sense of time. He’d stopped counting birthdays after the 200th, the last one he’d shared with Stanley.

Why count when the numbers stretched toward an infinity he wanted nothing to do with?

My head is made of flowers, and my body made of steel. Cause I can't think— Can't hear— can't feel!

Stanford’s fingers flexed, muscles tightening and releasing as if testing the reality of their presence. The memories surged forward like a wave, unstoppable and suffocating— hands covered in grime and ash, eyes stinging from the smoke that rose like specters around him, the taste of iron sharp on his tongue. He had touched the stars, commanded them, until they burned him to cinders. His mind was an overgrown thicket now, vines of regret and bitterness weaving through every synapse, thorned reminders of a past he could neither escape nor amend.

When he closed his eyes, he could see them— faces etched into the void, voices calling out in anguish as they fell. Each step, each choice, stained his path with crimson guilt. He felt like a monument to grief, immovable and ever-decaying.

They say a picture's worth a thousand words, but I disagree. I can't imagine anything Cause I can't see!

The doctor let out a breath that shuddered its way past his chest, eyes straying to the holographic stars projected across the TARDIS library. What he once chased with fervor and ambition had turned into an unyielding prison. The titles of “healer” and “teacher”, which once filled him with pride, now felt like weights dragging him deeper into the abyss. What good was saving worlds when he couldn’t save his own heart from splintering?

I won't break the ice though what else Is there to do? Cause suffering in silence is better—

He could scream, tear at the walls and curse the very fabric of the universe, but he didn’t. The tears had dried up centuries ago, leaving him a stoic effigy among the whirring consoles and glowing monitors. The charade was familiar— a smile that never reached his eyes, words measured and wrapped in carefully crafted ease. He was an actor in the greatest tragedy ever told, where the curtains never fell.

Than suffering with you.

The doctor’s gaze dropped to the leather-bound journal resting on the armrest of his chair, untouched for days. The pages within held maps of stars, sketches of constellations, and annotations written with a frantic hand, desperate to capture even a fragment of meaning. The room around him felt cavernous, echoing with memories of Dipper’s quick wit and Mabel’s bright laughter. He could almost hear them, almost see their shadows darting between bookshelves.

But it was only him, just him, marooned in this endless stretch of time.

So I jumped out with a parachute, but the ground caught me off guard. Karma for the rules I break, the ones I disregard.

The temptation to go back, to step through rifts that bent reality and visit those moments, was irresistible. He’d done it before, left the TARDIS hidden among the trees and traced the familiar paths of Gravity Falls with trembling steps. His heart would clench as he watched past versions of himself and his twin squabble over nonsense, the cheery voices of his grand niece and nephew not long to join. Their voices carrying over the wind with the kind of ease that only came before everything shattered.

I can feel the tension rising. What fate is worse than this? Stuck between the ones I love—

He’d watch them, hidden in the shadows of his own memories, a ghost to a life he once lived. Cosmic rules be damned. He’d listen to the echoes of their laughter until it felt like it would break him, that painful, beautiful sound that underscored just how far he’d fallen. But even then, he would not dare approach, would not dare alter a single second.

And the ones I miss.

Stanford’s eyes shifted to the flickering flames of the library’s fireplace, its light casting restless, dancing shadows across the room. The orange glow did little to warm the chill embedded in his bones. How many Fords, across how many dimensions, would have craved this? A sanctuary lined with knowledge and power, the respect of entire galaxies balanced on a single whispered name— ‘Doctor.’ And yet, it was all as hollow as the space between the stars.

My head is made of shrubbery, and my body made of stone. Cause I can't for the life of me— reap what I have sown!

He tightened his hold on the armrest, the leather creaking under his grip. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It never should have come to this— sailing across time, trapped in a machine that hummed with its own form of loneliness, while he wore a mask that no one ever questioned. It felt like being both the sculptor and the statue, shaping and trapped by the life he’d carved out.

They say a picture's worth a thousand words, but I disagree. I can't imagine anything, 'cause I can't see!

The weight of immortality, once so alluring, now coiled around him like iron shackles. What did it matter if entire legions paused at the utterance of his name? What did it matter if beings far beyond human comprehension flinched at the sight of him? It meant nothing without the echoes of laughter, without the warmth of shared stories and the unspoken understanding of his family’s presence beside him.

I won't break the ice though what else Is there to do? 'Cause suffering in silence is better—

He filled the silence with companions, short-lived stars that burned bright and fizzled out too quickly. They were there, and then they weren’t. Time was relentless, wearing them down to memories while he stood unchanged. Each one chipped away at him, left him a little more hollow. His only true constant was Stanley, and even he didn’t know the full story. Ford wouldn’t let him, couldn’t let him see that far into the dark.

Than suffering with you.

The TARDIS thrummed, a soft, sympathetic sound that vibrated through his bones as if it, too, mourned the lives they’d shared and lost. Ford exhaled, the heaviness in his chest pressing down like a stone. He could carry this, he would carry this— because if there was one thing he’d learned in all these centuries, it was that some battles are never meant to be shared. Some wars are fought in silence, against an enemy that wore your face in the mirror.

And if the burden grew too heavy, well— he was the Doctor. He would bear it alone.

He had to.

I try to sink and never float.

Some days, the weight was manageable, a familiar companion that settled over him like a well-worn cloak. But tonight, the burden felt insurmountable, pressing against his chest until each breath tasted sharp, like the metallic tang of blood from battles fought too long ago to matter and yet too vivid to forget.

Stanford’s eyes turned to the viewport, where the stars blinked back at him with their indifferent light. Once, those points of light had been symbols of promise, of adventure and uncharted paths. Now they were cold eyes watching as he drifted— an eternal voyager, bound by his own choices and the mistakes that clung to him like barnacles on a shipwreck.

Cause my head is underwater.

The doctor’s fingers found the edge of his sleeve, gripping it tight as though it could anchor him. The silence roared in his ears, the kind that made old wounds ache with the sharpness of fresh cuts. Memories of splintered wood and that familiar bite of ozone filled his senses. The frantic fight, the blinding light, the hole that had torn through his chest— a wound that should have marked the end. He let out a shuddering breath, feeling phantom pain coil around him like a serpent.

I’m here by choice by my own hand.

The most damning part was knowing that every fracture, every scar, was carved by his own hand. He’d walked into the chaos willingly, driven by an insatiable need to prove something— to whom, he couldn’t even remember anymore. A need that had led him to make choices that, at best, haunted him and, at worst, had cost him everything.

I’m a lamb sent into slaughter.

He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling the silver strands that had once been a youthful umber. The weight in his chest grew heavier, spreading through his limbs. He remembered the moment he’d sealed his fate with a handshake and a grin, signing away pieces of himself to a demon who promised everything and gave nothing but ruin. Even now, the jeers of that one-eyed triangle haunted the corners of his vision, mocking him with every beat of his undying heart.

I’m aware of my own body.

Every nerve ending screamed in protest as memories flared to life. The repair box’s nanobots— an endless legion that buzzed beneath his skin— worked tirelessly, a ceaseless reminder that he wasn’t wholly his own anymore. Some days, he could almost feel them moving, an itch he could never scratch. His hands curled into fists, knuckles turning white as he resisted the impulse to claw at the sensation, to rip it out and make it stop.

I can feel beneath my skin.

But he didn’t. He never did. The discipline of centuries held him captive, a slave to his own stoic facade. He swallowed hard, letting the tension dissipate as much as it ever could, settling like sediment at the bottom of his soul. The fire’s light flickered over his features, casting deep shadows that made his face look carved from stone.

I can wash away my insecurities.

He stood abruptly, the sudden motion sending a wave of dizziness through him. The doctor steadied himself against the back of the chair, eyes closing as he drew in a breath. The act was as much a ritual as any he performed— a way to wash the fractures of his spirit, to convince himself that he was still whole. But deep down, he knew.

But can’t wash away my sin!

No amount of time, no act of heroism, could ever cleanse the burgundy that stained his hands. It was a truth that gnawed at him, a constant shadow that whispered during his moments of quiet. He turned toward the shelves, running a finger over the spine of a book he’d read a hundred times but never truly absorbed. Knowledge without purpose— just like him.

They say a picture’s worth a thousand words, but I disagree! I can’t imagine anything—

The holographic stars in the library blinked and swirled, shifting constellations that once spoke of wonder and exploration. Now, they were a cruel reminder of all the places he’d been, all the faces he’d left behind. He raised a fist, hesitated, then let it fall to his side. He couldn’t even find the anger to break the illusion.

Cause I can’t see!

His vision blurred, not with tears— those had dried up long ago— but with the weight of exhaustion that pressed down on him like a vice. Every accolade, every whispered praise, fell flat, their meaning washed away by the tides of time and repetition. The applause of civilizations felt no different than the hollow sound of silence.

I won’t break the ice though what else Is there to do?

The cold chill crept into his veins, a familiar companion that had shared his endless nights. Yet, he dared not crack the veneer he’d cultivated— that smile, that reassuring nod. It was a mask, as impenetrable as the TARDIS walls. To break it would mean shattering the delicate balance that kept him standing.

Cause suffering in silence is better—

Stanford’s fingers brushed against the journal again, the touch almost reverent, as if it held the answers he’d long given up searching for. The one story he couldn’t write was his own— each word caught in the tangle of what-ifs and could-have-beens that ensnared his mind.

Than suffering with you!

He swallowed back the ache, pushing it down to the depths where it simmered and seethed. To bear it alone was better; it was safer. The doctor would stand, resolute and silent, a guardian of time burdened by its cruelest truths.

And as the night deepened, the stars outside continued their silent vigil, unmoved by the man who carried the weight of universes in his lonely fractured heart.

Tell me what you think about these two! I've got more drabbles in store for them aside from the content already on both their blogs @gftimelord & @gftimelordstwin! Also posted here on Ao3!

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wizard-beast · 9 months ago

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the sheer amount of grief the red dwarf characters must be feeling off screen all the time astounds me, like even setting aside the incomprehensible reality of being 3 million years away from all of humanity they've all felt such extreme losses over the course of the show im surprised any of them can keep up the whole space adventures shindig

like in the series 2 to 3 timeskip lister had to give up his sons just after 3 days or risk their lives- had to watch them age at such an expedited rate if he blinked he would miss every major milestone, their first steps their first words all of it. and then to have to leave them to save them??? id be bloody inconsolable and then they just kinda move on from it

and rimmer? hes died multiple times, experienced the void and end of existence and been pulled back - and those years as a soft light hologram not being able to touch anything and needing to ask holly to simulate everything for him? never getting much of an actual choice over clothes, his body, what he can actually interact with (this concept was more prevalent in series 1 and 2 but nonetheless) sure he could ask for it but its not the same as getting the free will or real control over anything. AND THE 557 YEARS ON RIMMERWORLD ALSO like ??? they left you in that room, there alone, for five hundred and fifty seven years, thats 28,964 weeks, or 203,305 days thats INSANE. he doesnt even remember the names of his shipmates properly after all that. THATS ONLY AFTER THE BEGINNING OF THE SHOW, MIND. before that he'd spent years being belittled and abused by his parents (so much so that a court emancipated him at only 14) his classmates, everyone in his life only tolerated and made snide remarks at him at Best.

cat too, his entire civilisation wiped themselves out, hes the only survivor of a 3 million year long race of people (granted it took them a while to get to humanoid but i rest my case)

even kryten and holly arent excluded from this overwhelming loss that pervades every aspect of the show, kryten spent possibly hundreds of years ignorant to the fact that the crew of his ship had died, i wonder if he ever wondered why they stopped speaking to him? stopped giving him laundry to fold, refusing to eat any food he made for him? and as for Holly, 3,000,000 years alone on a ship in the cold black vastness of space surrounded only by the ashes of the crew you once tended for, guiding them to safety, who were reliant on you, needing you for every part of their lives it would seem. really could make a computer go mad, that sort of thing

#long post #sorry i have FEELINGS about this show #this doesnt even cover all of it ive only seen the first 6 seasons #red dwarf #red dwarf lister #rimmer red dwarf #dave lister #arnold rimmer #holly red dwarf #kryten #kryten red dwarf #the cat #the cat red dwarf

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sun-singer · 2 months ago

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Inktober day 10: ashes, featuring the war priest and the Taishibethi fleet

On the second pace, the Tai unleash their battleplates and arsenal ships to fight our moons.

On the third pace, Oryx’s Warpriest meets them in battle, and he is victorious, he paints the void with fire, he salts the earth with ash.

#destiny #destiny art #destiny 2 #inktober #hive #destinytober #inktober 2024 #books of sorrow #oryx the taken king #war priest #taishibethi

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touyasdoll · 1 year ago

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Lilo & Stitch = Me & Touya

#self ship in a nutshell #fire & ash #ash screams into the void

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angeart · 6 months ago

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hhau rescue rambles - part I

>> hhau masterpost here << [cw besides the usual mess and violence: animal death mention]

It’s been months since the latest hermit got saved, and over a year since Hermitcraft imploded. There’s only two people to go: Scar and Grian. And they can’t seem to locate them at all. But they can’t stop looking. They can’t, they won’t.

The rescue party is comprised of X (voidwalker), Doc (creeper), Ren (wolf), Impulse (partially demon), Cub (vex), Gem (deer), and Pearl (moth). Thanks to X knowing how to navigate and survive the void, they are able to get a void vessel (a sort of ship) to base in as they go around scanning different worlds and scouring for information.

Until they come across a world that reads as permadeath, and somewhere in the world files, X flags Grian’s and Scar’s name. Not as players; there’s no list available here. What comes up is the wanted poster. It doesn’t have a date stamp. It could be months old, and they know Scar's track record with dying.

Still, they have to try.

They search for a place that seems to have good resources and Cub, Gem, and Pearl get dropped down. They’re equipped with bracelets that they can activate to send X a signal to teleport them back, and two extra for Grian and Scar, if they do find them, but they have to gather any other kind of equipment, including armour and weapons, on their own.

They quickly realise comms don’t work on this world, and as the player list is also non-existent or corrupted, they are going in blind.

Well… almost.

They use Cub’s vex bond with Scar to pick a direction to head in.

Grian and Scar, in the meanwhile, are not having a Good Time.

Some awful things have happened prior to this, namely the ending of the Summer house arc. To quickly sum it up, Grian and Scar went up north, for as long as they could. Away, away, away from everyone. Until it felt like maybe they’re far away enough, and they tentatively set up a house. Which turned into a nest. Which turned into a semblance of permanence.

A lot of things went on here. Days turned into peaceful weeks and, tentatively, they started thinking that maybe they can start planning some kind of future here. They planted crops. Scar re-learned to glide with his torn wings. Grian unfurled his wings and re-learned the feeling of flying through the sky. And they found a bird friend! (A real, living bird in this world!)

The reality caught up to them eventually.

Nobody’s really seen Scar or Grian for a while, but the avians in this world have dull wing patters, for survival reasons, and so Grian is really special. And the hunters don’t want to give that up. The reward on the wanted poster gets upped, and now the fever pitch to get this avian rises. The hunters go further. In bigger groups. Greedy and determined.

They find the nest house, empty at the time, and they burn it down.

Scar and Grian come back to find it in flames, and to find themselves unsafe and hunted once again. All of a sudden, they have nothing again. The fire licks high, turning everything to ash, to a distant cheering and hollering of a party of hunters. There’s no sign of their bird friend.

(Grian finds him later. Dead, with wings cut off. The only creature that resembled him; the bird he befriended, the proof that a winged creature could exist here and survive. Ripped to pieces. Echoing the only fate that is bound to await Grian as well.) (It was a sun conure parrot, bright and beautiful.)

The hunters are on their tail once they realise that Scar and Grian are here; that it wasn’t just some temporary base that’s now abandoned. With no remorse and still too much cheer, bloodthirsty and unstoppable, they go after them.

Scar’s blood is absolutely boiling and he expects Grian to ground him. To talk him down. But Grian’s mind buzzes, looking at that bird, and— He’s as down to fight as Scar is. Because anger is easier than grief right now.

He’s so tired of grief.

So instead, Grian goes angry and feral. (The other option is to fall apart, and he can’t.)

They tear this particular hunting group apart, and it’s meant to make them feel better, but it doesn’t. It feels like a necessity; like just one more step towards survival. They loot what they can, and they continue moving, realising that stopping anywhere to do more than just survive is a moot point. They’re not going to outrun this. They'll never be allowed to stop. They’ll be hunted forever.

(Grian will be hunted forever—)

The word gets out, and more and more hunters arrive, wanting the trophy of violet wings and the wanted reward for themselves. It’s a sport to them. A way to get rich. Like a gold fever, they continue tracking Grian and Scar, relentlessly hounding them down.

There are times when things go worse in these encounters. Grian gets his wings grabbed and attacked, and it sends him spiraling back to never allowing anyone—including himself—to touch his feathers. (He was doing better and now it’s all gone.)

They internalise many horrible thoughts, during their run. It’s been a year-worth of culmination of awful events, a year worth of pain and fear and loss.

For Scar, as a vex, he’s been expected to be a monster from the start. And all he wanted here was some peace. To be with Grian. He wasn’t allowed it, but now he finally got a glimpse at it—at what could’ve been; at who he wanted to be from the beginning (who he’s always been)—and it’s violently taken from him. So yeah, fuck it. If they want a monster, he’ll be a monster.

(This leads him to thinking that he shouldn’t be trusted with soft things anymore, Grian’s feathers included, especially as Grian gets ground-bound again and starts pulling his wings tightly against his back and flinching at the mere implication of touch.) (It hurts to witness, after what Scar’s seen: Grian, freely gliding through the sky, violet feathers catching sunlight.) (He was allowed to preen them, tentatively, slowly, gradually, a couple of times.) (Not anymore. Not anymore.)

Grian keeps thinking about the bird, and how they’re the same. He’s seen the brutal display, the way the wings were taken. He can’t quite stop thinking about it.

But it’s more than that. He’s also thinking about [redacted]. About anything winged being doomed. About what happened with the vexes. It all spins and spins and spins until he can’t see himself as anything but harbinger of death.

The hunters wouldn’t care to go this far for one vex. They only go because of his goddamn feathers.

Naturally, this topples into him thinking that Scar will be safer and better off without him. They’ve been running on sleepless nights and exhaustion, trying to get away to no avail. They’re tired, and things are looking dire, and— Grian wants it to stop. He needs Scar to be taken out of this equation, separated from this fate. He needs him to be safe. (He can’t bring death to Scar.)

Grian can lead the hunters the other way. They only really care about him. ([redacted] already proved that point, after all.)

So one night, Grian sneaks away.

He presses a soft kiss to Scar before he goes. (It’s a farewell kiss.) Scar is asleep, only kind of waking up to it—just that groggy, sleepy “mm?” Grian kisses his forehead again, oh so gently, and murmurs the quietest “Love you. Stay safe for me.” To Scar, it just feels like a dream, and he dozes off again, none the wiser.

The next morning, Scar wakes up to Grian gone.

For a while, he doesn’t even remember that hazy interaction from the night, but then he does remember, all of a sudden. An absolute vertigo slams into him, panic flooding his veins as he stares down the empty, quiet forest.

And this is when the Hermit Rescue Party finds him.

They only find Scar.

They only find Scar, and they instantly try to take him off world.

-- part II here

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infinite-orangepeel · 1 year ago

Text

Behind every shitty hole in the wall is a story.

It’s a hysterical combination of luck and determination that lands Eddie Munson in the back alley of a dive bar five years after the world was supposed to end.

It's by chance alone that Steve Harrington is snuffing out a cigarette under his boot. Eyes fixated on a useless point in the distance. Off into space or wandering no man’s land. Distracted and distraught.

He’s never been the same.

He’s never known how to come back home.

He’s punishing himself. Has been for half a decade.

It’s the first anyone’s seen of him, since—

There’s a smudge of grease or soot or black makeup outlining his cheek. There’s gel in his hair—sticky and functional. He’s tangible. Real—somehow. Dusting ash off on his dirtied pants and trying to make the most of a blasphemously humid afternoon.

He wipes sweat from his brow bone, breathes deeply, seems to come to terms with the harsh underbelly of reality.

The sky is orange; afflicted by caustic heat. He doesn’t belong in a place like this. It’s time to bring him home once and for all. Of that, at least, Eddie is certain.

Eddie isn’t certain of much these days. None of them are. Not since Steve left and took their bleeding hearts with him like a dissolute trail of breadcrumbs.

Every moment without him has been spent painfully avoiding the mention of his absence. Setting his place at the dinner table was a habit they all had to unlearn, but sometimes Robin will forget—put out a plate and fracture at the realization.

And, then, the evening is ruined. The evening becomes a sinking ship. Blurry conversations swirling around how to convince him to come back. How to see it through. How to show him he has a God-given right to nestle into their world without making desperate apologies. There’s no need.

The desert’s on Steve’s side. Thinks it can outsmart Eddie by parching his lips, cracking the skin around them, drying out his tongue like the package of liquor store jerky he anxiously gnawed on while driving into town. Kicking up arid soil with his tires and blinding himself to fear—to the voices in his head that tell him to let Steve sulk and suffer in silence, because he’s the one who chose to leave in the first place.

It was a choice.

A fucking stupid choice, but a choice nonetheless—

Steve’s going to go back inside. He’s got a dish towel tucked into his apron pocket. A toothpick replacing the fallen cigarette between his teeth. Eddie’s been trying to muster up the courage to actually approach him for the past three days.

It always ends the same.

Steve’s fifteen minute break comes to a close, he disappears through the door on stage left to clock back in, and, as if looking through a broken kaleidoscope, the scene around Eddie fades into colorless obscurity. Everything else is void of meaning. Without Steve in the picture, life makes little sense. There’s no point. No clear way North.

He’d rather die than go through it again. The loss. Decay. Heartache and rage.

“Have you told your boss about the family emergency yet or do you need me to take care of that for you?” Eddie snarks, hiding his emotions behind a practiced smirk.

Steve looks up. Hand on the door. Stuck between two universes. One in which he hides and another in which he allows himself to be found.

“What are you talking about?” He chokes on a peach pitted fantasy in which he gets to briefly wake up and hit snooze–rub the sleep from his tired eyes, “Why are you—Eddie, you’re not supposed to be here. How the fuck did you find me?”

There’s uncertainty afoot. His chest rises and falls in shaky hesitation. One beat slow followed by two in rapid pace—standard procedure for someone who's been forced to confront his past in broad daylight. Out of the blue and into the unknown. Eddie wants to pin him to the wall and kiss him—drown his sorrows so he never has to feel them again.

But, it’s not time for that.

Not yet.

“Is someone hurt? Is it one of the kids? Robin? Nance?”

Eddie feels cruel for planting that seed in his brain so he cuts him some slack. Pushes past his own frustration, devastation, the scars on his torso that ache when he twists this way or that—reminders of who he was before.

“Everyone’s fine. Healthy and safe at home,” he swallows the gasp that wants to come out when Steve releases the handle on the door—when Steve makes the conscious decision to stay, if only for a moment, “You, however, won’t be, if you don’t march right up to your manager and let him know that you’re gonna have to throw in the towel a little early on this shift. We have plans and—unfortunately, for the big boss—they can’t wait.”

“I don’t understand—”

He starts to say and Eddie can’t help, but soften. Can’t help, but fall apart under his pretty eyes and pouty lips. Gaze catching and tugging on his heart strings when he notices the hint of Steve’s own scars lining his neck. Temporarily exposed by the breeze shifting the collar of his work shirt. Hidden unless you know where to look.

Eddie’s always known.

“Do you know how hard it is to say ‘no’ to a guy who looks like you—especially when there’s a sob story attached to that face?” He leans forward, exhales softly as Steve’s lashes flutter out of control, and bites the opposite end of his toothpick—stealing it and sucking it into his own mouth, “You have a family emergency. You have somewhere to be. You’ll be back tomorrow or you won’t—that part’s up to you. Knock ‘em dead, sweetheart. Go on. It’ll all make sense later. Just need you to trust me for now.”

He thinks of the bats. Of the fight. Flashes of the unforgiving war. The smoke and mirrors and nightmares that never fully went away. The cold sweat and salty tears. Memories that no one can verify, because time and space have made them intangible. Like monsters under the bed. Creatures that stalk the house in the wee hours of the morning. By dawn, they disappear, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t real.

There’s no confirming or denying. Steve doesn’t nod or give a final answer with his hand hovering over a big red buzzer. Instead, he moves forward, steps through the door, doesn’t look back over his shoulder to contemplate if Eddie was a figment of his imagination. Leaves without a trace.

Like he was never really there.

Like he’s a ghost haunting the untethered planes of Eddie’s memory.

—

When Steve climbs into the back of Eddie’s van, it’s comical.

He bangs his head on the roof. Mutters a curse or two. Almost tips himself backwards hopping into the passenger’s seat. The van shakes with laughter—amused by the boy who has grown out of his old polos and button downs, but has somehow managed to maintain his childish humor. Slipping back into an old tattered suit and finding it’s still tailored perfectly to his measurements.

“Are you kidnapping me? Is that what this is?”

“Pretty sure kidnapping implies taking a ‘child’ against their will,” he smirks at Steve rubbing the back of his head, “You don’t fit into either of those categories by my estimation. Try not to get any blood on my seats. I just got this baby washed—I mean, sure, it was ten years ago, but—”

Eddie slings his arm around the back of Steve’s headrest. Talking a lot of smack for someone who feels as protective over his aggravated passenger as he does. The van’s hot. There’s no A.C. It’s stuffy and awkward and all Eddie wants to do is kiss him.

All Eddie’s ever wanted to do is kiss him. Just once more. Once would surely be enough to quench a thirst that’s plagued him for five long years.

“People would come looking for me, y’know. I have friends. People in town who would notice…eventually,” Steve snaps, but his heart’s not in it. Sounds like a luckless penny hitting the bottom of a dried up wishing well.

“Well, you’re worth caring about,” Eddie feels the edge of a splinter graze his tongue off the toothpick, “Always have been. Shouldn’t be such a surprise.”

It’s too honest. God, he knows, it’s too honest.

Steve doesn’t say anything. Eddie half expects him to throw a punch.

A few miles pass and the only interruptions to the weight of their shared silence are the bumpy groan of a shallow pothole and the lonely howl of a coyote on the horizon.

Maybe he's been separated from his pack—

The thought is almost too much to bear.

“How’s business?” Eddie tries to change the subject, turn back the clock, pretend it’s just another weekday on the way home from school.

“Does it matter?”

“Guess that all depends on if you’re planning to stick around this dust bowl or not, but I don’t think you’ve quite made up your mind one way or the other.”

They’re almost to Eddie’s hotel. He can see the flashing bulbs of the sign down the road—The Saguaro Inn. It’s not the nicest establishment. The sheets have moth holes, he’s had to kill a spider or two, but the guy at the front desk gave him a six-pack of beer on the house and that, alone, was worth its weight in gold.

“Where else would I go? I live here. I work here. This is my home, now.”

If Eddie looked over and saw Steve running lines off a Hollywood script, he’d believe it. Authenticity evaporates from his voice like everything else that the blistering desert sun destroys in its wake. The only things meant to survive in such an unbearable climate are cacti, insanity, and dread.

Even the coyotes are lost and out of touch.

“Hmm. Funny,” Eddie raps his knuckles against the peeling steering wheel cover—needs to get it replaced, but in the face of an unearthed Steve Harrington it’s the last priority on his list, “We clearly remember things differently. As I recall, you’re a Midwestern boy. Born, bred, and raised on Indiana corn. Not whatever the Hell they serve at that dump you work at.”

“Fuck off. I’m happy,” Steve argues hotly, fists balled at his sides—tension working through his jaw like a flame on an inevitable collision course with the end of a stick of dynamite, “I’m fine. I’m not some damsel in distress who needs you to come rescue her. I chose this. I want this.”

It’s clear he doesn’t.

If only he had the wherewithal to look himself in the damn mirror and tell the truth. Tell it without leaving out the obvious—the lie written all over his face.

Steve undoes his apron, tosses it in the back, and throws a sidelong glance at Eddie as if sizing him up. As if searching for the minute details that have shifted, collapsed, grown in prominence. Like one of those ‘spot the difference’ games on a children’s menu in the back of an old diner. Illuminated by lightning bugs, grease, and splattered syrup.

Eddie doesn’t think he looks much different.

Eddie doesn’t think he’s much of anything to look at.

Old soul. Dark curls. A leather jacket that’s seen better days. He aims for mystery and shoots blanks. Comes up with mediocrity, a sense of macabre discontentment, the bitter taste that hangs around on the back of his tongue.

He practically jumps out of his skin and bolts when Steve, unexpectedly, runs a thumb over the Demobat scar on his cheek. It’s hyperreal. Throttles him through the past and future. Merging together hopes and dreams that he hasn’t allowed to see the light of day since those scars first got bandaged up at Hawkins Memorial Hospital.

“It suits you,” he hums thoughtfully, “I like it. Gives you an edge.”

Dizzy doesn’t even begin to define it.

In some universes, in this one, he might have fared better if Steve had the guts to hit him instead. To draw a knife, send a bullet flying, be a force of conventional violence rather than whatever the fuck this is.

This is worse.

This is a death he’ll keep reliving until the day he actually finds rest.

Or, perhaps, this is the afterlife and Steve is his eternal punishment for being stupid enough to care.

—

The short journey from the van to Eddie’s room is blissfully uneventful. Mundane.

They chat about vending machine snacks. Steve gets a candy bar and Eddie gets a pack of sour gummy worms. They split them. Share in the sugar coating, the sour bite, the milk chocolate that gets stuck in the backs of their teeth. It’s a dinner two little kids playing house would ‘cook’ up.

Only understanding later why their parents always advised them to save dessert for later. To end things on a sweet note.

Eddie’s room is 111 which prompts Steve to ask about El and the kids while he’s working at the keycard. The scanner’s finicky. Won’t budge unless the plastic’s inserted at just the right angle. It’s fucking annoying, but the place was cheap and, frankly, he didn’t know how long he’d be in town when he checked in.

He tells Steve about their accomplishments. Sounding like the proud father he never had—sounding like Wayne who made up for the lack of one. Max’s studying sport’s medicine at the community college. Dustin’s starting his summer engineering internship. Will’s got an art showcase coming up in October. Robin and Nancy’s new apartment is close to the city. Eddie crashes there most weekends and takes them out for coffee on Sunday mornings to show his thanks.

By the time Eddie’s done recounting the events Steve’s missed out on, their shoes are off. Tucked side by side next to the door.

Steve checks three times to ensure the latch is secure. Blushes when Eddie tells him its’ safe. Its’ okay to rest and close his eyes if he needs to.

Life isn’t what it used to be, but old habits die hard.

Eddie gives him the last gummy worm in the pack. Does it wordlessly. Automatically. Steve goes to decline, but Eddie does him a favor—closes his hand around it and nods.

It’s an act of love. It’s an act of faith. It’s the only way he can figure out how to say that bitter thing on the back of his tongue.

The mattress creaks obnoxiously to announce their arrival upon it. There’s a modest amount of space between them. Left vacant so their secrets have a place to run and hide. So they don’t have to speak them aloud.

“Do you ever miss it?” Eddie bumps Steve’s shin with his foot.

Cartoon sound effects curate the fantasy. Glowing orange and yellow from the rabbit eared television set—out of date and grainy, but that’s part of the appeal.

The screen casts desert colors across the headboard and suddenly, this is their life. A shared life. One they’ve built together. Nothing separates them anymore, but the itchy floral sheets and the inconvenience of clothes. Memory loses its ache.

“Which part?”

Steve looks at him through glassy eyes, marbles rolling across the floor.

“Whichever part you miss, I s’pose, if there is one,” Eddie shrugs and prays to a divine entity he doesn’t know the name of, “I’ve always wondered. ‘s hard not to.”

“Sometimes,” Steve reaches over the nightstand to grab a handful of ice—sets it on his chest over his shirt to cool off, “When I get off work. When I’m on the bus ride home and I’ve forgotten my headphones. Those times, I miss it—the sound of everyone talking over each other in Mike’s basement. It used to be like wrangling a bunch of wild animals. They drove me up the fuckin’ wall, but that sound? That sound was home. That sound was family, to me. No matter where I go, I don’t think I’ll ever find that again, but I was lucky to have it for a little while.”

“It’s not, like, that door over there,” Eddie points to the overly complicated latch that was designed to keep out intruders and cockroaches alike, “You’re not locked out unless you have a special key. The door—back home—it’s wide open. It always has been,” he studies Steve’s grimace; the evident pain he feels at that ‘too good to be true’ promise.

In the cartoon, it’s sunny. Steve’s bathed in a fictional variety of yellow optimism.

The character’s smile, laugh, and dance around in the middle of a playground. The swing’s never swing higher than they’re supposed to and conflict is resolved by the end of each thirty minute segment.

It’s a cruel juxtaposition to pay witness to as Steve’s cheeks become stained with tears. It hurts to see him curl up onto his side. To sit idly by as he goes about the wretched business of breaking his own heart.

“They’ve moved on, Eds. They’re onto bigger and better things. I’d just be holding everyone back. It’s okay.”

“It’s not—”

“Eddie,” Steve inches closer to him; knees knocking together—mirroring each other, “let it go. I’ve made my peace. Why can’t you do the same? Why can’t you let me–”

“Because, watching you leave was the single worst moment of my life. Worse than the bats. Worse than Vecna. Not a day goes by that I don’t replay it in my mind. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about what might have happened if I’d been brave enough to stop you.”

Kissing him is wrong.

Kissing him resolves none of it.

Kissing him tastes like sour gummy worms and chocolate and the satisfaction of finding a final resting place.

Kissing him is anger, spite, love.

Kissing him is the only thing that’s ever mattered and, maybe, that’s okay—

Steve startles. Keeps his lips perfectly still and Eddie thinks he’s really fucked this whole thing up, until he feels him break.

Until he feels him crack wide open like one of those novelty geodes Wayne used to bring back from his trips to mining country.

As the next episode begins and the cheesy theme song plays out in the background, Steve yanks Eddie towards him and sobs. They ground each other through twisted limbs, the rough meeting of lips, and the active avoidance of any moment outside of this.

They kiss and it’s both Heaven and Hell. It’s the promise of what could be and the mounting fear that the second they pull apart, the bonafide shelter they’ve created will crumble.

Steve whines openly. Sighs into Eddie’s mouth and slots a desperate knee between his thighs—a generous offering from a dead man walking.

Eddie grinds against it. Finally loses control. He rides Steve’s thigh in earnest—hips bumping, moans dripping from his lips like saccharine honey, cock throbbing and making a sticky mess in his boxers. Everything tastes like salt and sound and fury.

“Taste so good,” Steve licks over his mouth quickly, “Taste sweet. That part’s stuck with me—Eddie Munson’s real sweet.”

“You bit my tongue when we—”

“You probably deserved it,” Steve jokes and slaps his cheek playfully, “C’mon. Don’t stop. Kiss me, again. Want you to taste me like I taste you.”

He fucks his tongue into Steve’s mouth and the remembrance of a night he’s only been able to dream of, for the past five years, plays on.

He’s kissed Steve once before. Left a violet hickey on his neck. It was the end of June—concrete sizzled, mosquitoes swarmed, an ending should have been obvious, but it wasn’t.

They’d been scared. Afraid for the future. Afraid of how the past would follow them around in the shadow of tragedy. Afraid to press onwards, to lick over each other’s teeth, to make a mistake.

It’s different now.

Eddie doesn’t hold Steve like he’s fragile. He holds him like he believes he’s strong, because he is and he does. He’d have to be to start all over. To press restart in the middle of nowhere.

Steve’s hands roam his body ceaselessly. Wrinkle his clothes. Tug at his belt. He’s possessed by hope and the taboo Mirage and who can blame him? It’s gorgeous and awful.

“I haven’t touched anyone—” he cries, “I haven’t let anyone touch me since you kissed me on the night I left Hawkins. Remember? In my driveway–”

The confession sends a pang of agony racing through Eddie’s chest.

Nobody’s held him. Nobody’s kissed his neck and left behind a brutal memory. Nobody’s taken the time to wash the suds from his soft brown hair or dab the soap from his hazel eyes.

“Shh,” Eddie hushes him, laps at his tears and makes a split second decision, “I’ve never forgotten. How could I? I hardly ever think about anything else,” Steve whimpers from where he’s found a spot to rest his head in the crook of Eddie’s neck, “Shh, baby. Will you let me wash your hair? Will you let me help you clean off? Is that okay?”

Clinging to him and refusing to let go, Steve shudders and nods. Eddie knows this is significant for him—to relinquish the tired role of martyrdom and permit someone else to take care of him. To shoulder the responsibility with gentle hands.

Slack in his arms, Eddie carries him to the dim bathroom. The cartoon characters scramble around on screen—chasing each other around with hammers and wacky laughter.

When the water warms to the point of comfort, Eddie undresses the two of them in tandem.

First, Eddie’s shirt. Then, Steve’s. A breathy kiss in the interlude—they savor this practice. This delicate waltz. Their hands tremble. Steve’s shockingly sensitive. He breaks skin on Eddie’s shoulder when he circles his nipple and bites down just to tease.

“Nobody’s ever done that—”

“I don’t care about anyone else. No one. This is about me and you. Let me be the first. Don’t let there be anyone else. Me and you. Yeah?”

“Yes. Only you, Eds. No one else.”

“There’s my boy. My sweet, sweet boy.”

He cradles Steve’s sleepy face in his hands, pecks at the corners of his mouth as he helps him out of his classic Americana blue jeans. Levi’s or Lee. Brass buttons, deep pockets.

In the humid steam of the shower, they melt into each other. Eddie guides Steve to stand in front of him under the spray of the water and folds his arms around him. He strokes a hand over the flat plane of his stomach, toys with the pretty hair there, and sways with him to the tinny sound of the end credits. Conclusion. Finality. It is decidedly so.

He scrubs away the dirt, tears, grime, and misfortune with the prepackaged bar soap. Supplied by the manager at the front. Handed to him alongside the six pack and finicky roomkey. Steve lets Eddie rub out the knots in his shoulders. Thanks him unnecessarily as if this isn’t the greatest gift Eddie’s ever been given.

“Let’s do your hair, next,” Eddie presses lingering kisses to the column of his throat.

“I’d like that.”

The shampoo isn’t great. It’s in a miniature hotel bottle and opens with a snap. Smells like a pink petaled flower that would never survive this heat. Mildly delusional peonies with a whimsical flair.

“Tilt your head back. Rest on me,” Eddie whispers, flattening his palm over Steve’s heart—swearing an oath, “I’ve got you. I’m not gonna let you fall.”

He listens. Obeys readily. As if having waited his whole life to be instructed to do so.

“That feels nice,” he whines high in his throat while Eddie lathers the floral shampoo and works it through his hair, “Want more. Please, Eds. Please—more.”

“I’ll give you more, sweet boy,” he’s deliberate about the way he subtly scrapes against Steve’s scalp and tugs at the tendrils swooping around the nape of his pretty neck, “You’re so perfect,” he kisses his ear, nibbles on the lobe and revels in the resulting moan, “so kind, so smart, so lovable.”

Love—

Eddie wasn’t supposed to say love.

Shit.

He really wasn’t supposed to mention that.

“Fuck,” Steve sucks onto Eddie’s jaw—groaning and nipping along the full line of it, “Do you?”

“I’ve gotta rinse it,” he pretends to miss the question, “You can switch spots with me or–”

“Eddie,” Steve grinds his ass against Eddie’s dick and it’s no fucking accident, “I wanna come home. I wanna be yours. I don’t wanna be here anymore,” he turns so they’re face to face and Eddie sees Steve’s hard and leaking onto his hand where he’s lazily stroking himself as he crowds into Eddie’s space, “But, I need you to tell me. Do you love me? Do you love me the way I love you, because if you don’t—I can dry off, I can get my stuff, I can go back to the bar—”

“I love you—Jesus fucking Christ, Steve! Of course, I fucking love you! I’m not capable of loving anyone else! Don’t leave—”

“I won’t,” Steve caresses his cheek and wipes away his tears—the years of pent up heartache, “I love you.”

Breathless, Eddie’s back hits the cold tile wall and Steve’s fucking against him. Using the place where his hip meets his stomach to rub, press, and plead. Eddie grabs his hips, pulls him closer, gasps when he feels Steve spurt pre onto his pale skin.

“Say it again. Tell me why, so I believe it. So I know who to call when the voices in my head get too loud. So I can learn how to come home. Please, Eddie, please.”

Taking them both into his fist, Eddie pumps Steve’s dick alongside his own. Slow and steady. He thumbs the slit as Steve’s knees buckle. Grits his teeth and grins dumbly when his boy hisses at the heat and building friction.

“Honey, I dreamed of you. I ran after you a million times. I begged and prayed to whoever would listen. I’m nowhere near religious, but, fuck, I devoted everything in me to finding you,” he slots their lips together and feels Steve’s smile before he sees it, “You’re my home, Stevie. It’s empty without you. I’d rather die, than drive back alone.”

To have him like this is a million times better—a Goddamn miracle, compared to what Eddie’s envisioned night after night alone in his bed.

Moaning brokenly into his pillow as he chased after the punishing gossamer threads knotted in the hair of his phantom lover.

To untie him meant freedom and, at last, Eddie has the filthy pleasure of being the one to make Steve Harrington come undone.

“Gonna make me cum, Eds? Gonna let me be good for you?”

Steve’s thrashing wildly. Thrusting into Eddie’s fist and digging his nails into his back. Babbling sweetly about how badly he wants to shoot off over Eddie’s hands.

“Not yet, angel. I need something from you first,” he catches his breath, forces Steve’s hips to go still, and does his best to keep it together, “Promise me you’ll get in my van when we wake up tomorrow morning. Promise me you’ll forgive yourself.”

Steve’s quiet.

The water’s running cold—you get what you pay for.

The coyotes and cartoons fight for dominance. Lone rangers, lone wolves, trembling in the dust.

The dim bulb flickers—one, two, three; it’s fading fast—

In the pitch dark, Steve traces Eddie’s mouth with his fingertips, peels off his scars, draws whimsical shapes and crisscrossed stars with the very top of his tongue. An odd ritual and not a word to explain it.

As Steve finds the path to Eddie’s goriest scars—those that line his ribs—his curiosity gets the best of him.

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Steve kisses the tops of his knees and that makes Eddie horny and madly in love. Even madder than he was with Steve’s cock in his fist.

“Not to me, no.”

His laughter is infectious. Eddie giggles—genuinely giggles like a blushing schoolgirl.

“I’m making a map,” Steve licks the head of Eddie’s cock and he shivers, “memorizing you, so I’ll always know the way back home if I get lost. It’s a promise.”

—

They stay up later than they should for a drive as long as the one they have ahead of them. But, it’s worth it.

Eddie cums down Steve’s throat in the shower. Steve thanks him. Licks up every last drop and kisses his knees like a forbidden secret.

Getting dressed isn’t an option. It never had a chance to be part of the agenda.

Steve falls apart in Eddie’s lap on the bed—fucking himself at his own pace. Deep and perfect. His moans belong on an album. Eddie tells him he’ll make him one some day. Burn a CD and terrorize the neighbors by blasting it in his car with all the windows rolled down.

Afterwards, they brush each other’s teeth and make a mess of the counter. Cackling like crazed animals because the light’s still fucked and Steve can’t find the toothpaste cap. They decide to leave it there—a piece of themselves for whoever rents the room next.

—

An hour into the drive, Eddie reaches for the map over Steve’s lap and looks at it for a moment before shrugging and throwing it out the window.

That gets Steve’s attention.

“What the fuck? Did you mean to do that? Was that on purpose? Tell me that wasn’t on purpose—”

“We don’t need it. I know where I’m going. I have everything I need right here with me,” he winks at Steve and steals a handful of gas station sunflower seeds.

“You’re such a sap,” Steve snorts, “I can’t believe you made me promise to come home with you and now, we don’t even know which direction leads to home.”

“I’m a romantic,” Eddie pats his thigh affectionately, “and, I may or may not have convinced Robin and Nance to fly out for a family road trip. We’re meeting them at the next rest stop. Nancy has another map. Hope that’s okay?”

“As long as you’re there. I’m there,” Steve takes his hand, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

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zeciex · 3 months ago

Text

A Vow of Blood - 92

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 92: A Mother’s Search

AO3 - Masterlist

It was well known that fire, once set loose, left a path of devastation in its wake, mercilessly burning everything before it. Its insatiable flames consumed all, leaving only ashes in their wake–as they had done with her daughter. House Targaryen knew this well, for they had long embraced the dual nature of fire–the chaotic force of life, the nurturing warmth of creation, and the essence of its utter destruction. Fire was such a strange power. Everything House Targayren possessed was owed to it.

She had once believed that the Velaryons held the wiser allegiance, that the sea was a gentler, more steadfast ally. Yet now, standing at the precipice, gazing over the ocean, she felt the mercilessness of the waves crashing against the shore, each crowned with frothy foam. The sea, she found, was as insatiable as the fire. It too seemed to hunger, to consume relentlessly, unwilling to relinquish that which she sought.

The sea was without mercy, swallowing all it could into its unfathomable depths, rendering them lost forever among the waves. As she stood on the cliff's edge, the salt spray mingling with her tears, she silently willed the tumultuous sea to return her son to her.

‘For every tear that falls from your eyes, we will repay them tenfold,” Daemon had vowed to her. But Rhaenyra found it impossible to believe. How could they exact such retribution when her tears could drown the ocean?

Each movement had been a blur of numbness, her focus consumed entirely by the weight of her sorrow. She barely registered the ache between her legs as she had mounted Syrax, lost in the heaviness of her grief. The letter had claimed that her son had met his fate in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay, that the coast was being scoured in a desperate search for him. But how could she trust the words of a traitor, delivered by the dark wings of a raven? How could she believe the ink-stained parchment declaring her son's death?

With determination edged by despair, Rhaenyra had climbed onto Syrax, urging the dragon into the sky. The night had enveloped her in its stillness as she had flown through the skies.

Above, a vast expanse of stars stretched across the heavens, their cold, distant brilliance gleaming indefinitely. The sea churned and roiled, its dark, inky surface shimmering under the pale moonlight like the stars above–the sea had thrashed and surged turbulently, while the sky above had remained still and clear. She had flown over the blockade of the Gullet, the ships lined up between Driftmark and Sharp Point, their decks illuminated by lanterns. The blue sails appeared almost black in the night, save for the seahorse emblazoned on the canvas, which stood out pale against the moonlight.

The wind had howled fiercely around her, its icy fingers tugging at her coat and whipping through her hair as they swept through the skies. Syrax’s wings beat against the wind, each flap resonating deep within her chest, her heart pounding loudly and erratically against her ribs. The night's chill gnawed at her skin, penetrating deep into her muscles and bones. Without the warmth emanating from her dragon, she feared her bones might have frozen solid.

Below, the land was an endless void of darkness, a stark absence of light that seemed to stretch on forever. Here and there, small pockets of illumination broke through the inky blackness: coastal villages and inland towns lit up with the soft, flickering glow of hearth fires and lanterns. These scattered lights resembled clusters of fireflies. In the absence of the reflection of moonlight upon the waves, the land seemed like a vast, uncharted abyss, with only breaks in its darkness provided by the tiny, resolute flames of the villages clinging to its surface.

She had soared through the night, arriving at Storm’s End by dawn when the sky turned a deep, bleeding red, as if the gods themselves were grieving with her–the sky bore the crimson gash of the raw, weeping wound of her heart and the agony that resided in the depths of her womb. The fiery hues engulfed the horizon as she swept past Storm’s End, her passage marked by shouts that pierced the morning air. Syrax let out a sharp shriek of warming, causing the men to scramble to the walls, pointing and gazing in awe and fear as she flew by.

Had her heart felt anything other than the profound ache that consumed her, Rhaenyra might have unleashed Syrax’s dragonfire in retribution for the injustice their lord had permitted to happen. Yet, there was nothing within her but that deep, persistent pain, and so instead, she continued her flight over the churning waters of Shipbreaker Bay.

The sea below roiled with wild, unforgiving fury, its depths an abyss of inky darkness that seemed to stretch endlessly. The stinging salt wind bit at her face, but Rhaenyra scarcely felt it as her gaze swept over the tumultuous waters. The water churned in hues of dark gray, each crest tipped with foamy white, reflecting the blood-red sky above–it seemed as though blood had seeped from the wound in the sky, leaching into the sea’s dark waters.

Syrax carried her onward, soaring above the turbulent waters while the distant cries of fishermen and soldiers scouring the beaches dwindled into a faint murmur, swallowed by the relentless roar of the sea. She had searched every cresting wave, scanning the rugged cliffs where the water battered the rocks with unyielding force. Her search continued as she peered over every crashing wave and over every beach where the fishermen struggled against the surging tide, hauling in their nets.

The sea’s restless surface seemed to echo her own inner turmoil, each surge and retreat of the water a reminder of her son’s absence. The waves, dark and turbulent, appeared almost as if it were stained by the same blood-red stain that marred the sky–the reflection of the anguished search that consumed her heart.

She searched the waves for any sign of her son—the boy she had carried within her, watched grow, and cherished with every fiber of her being. The boy whose smile was contagious, bringing light to her darkest days. The boy whose laughter was easy and unabashed, filling their home with joy. The boy who always cared for others, selflessly putting their needs before his own. The boy who had strived to make her proud in everything he did.

The boy she had sent to his death.

Rhaenyra spurred Syrax upward, piercing through the gathering clouds above Shipbreaker Bay, before guiding the dragon back down in a swift descent. They plunged toward the sea, the roaring wind silencing all other sounds. She clung tightly to Syrax, her gaze fixed intently on the waves below. The sea stretched out endlessly before her, a vast and merciless expanse that seemed to mock her desperation.

As they plummeted toward the sea, Rhaenyra's mind was a torrent of memories. She vividly recalled her son’s laughter, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes, and the warmth of his embrace—a final hug she had failed to give before sending him off. She couldn't, wouldn't accept that he had been claimed by the merciless sea–she couldn’t bear it.

Just before they crashed into the waves, Syrax's wings spread wide, catching the wind and pulling them up in a desperate, strained ascent. Rhaenyra’s scream cut through the roaring wind, raw with both grief and fury.

“Give him back to me!” she cried, her voice cracking. “Give him back!”

But the sea offered no reply, no sign of mercy. Her desperate pleas were engulfed by the vast emptiness, her words disappearing into the depths, lost amid the relentless roar of the waves.

Throughout the day, Rhaenyra had tirelessly scoured Shipbreaker Bay, her eyes constantly searching the tumultuous waters for any sign of her son. As the sun began its descent towards the horizon, painting the sky with hues of deep red that seemed to mourn with her, she directed Syrax towards the cliffs. They had landed on a tall precipice overlooking the bay, where she clung to the tenuous hope that the sea might yet return what it had claimed–that somewhere, against all odds, her son might still be alive.

With each passing moment, the weight of her grief grew heavier, threatening to drag her into the depths of despair. She watched the sun disappear below the horizon, and her gaze turned to a gathering storm far out at sea–dark and menacing, slowly rolling in. Was this the same tempest that her son had met?

Her eyes returned to the restless sea, scanning its endless expanse as night began to fall, each wave whispering and then swallowing the whispers in its continuous churn.

A deep, relentless ache weighed heavily upon her, pervading her entire body–it felt as though her bones had been hollowed out and filled with ice. And a persistent throb pulsed between her legs, a constant reminder of the wound from childbirth that remained raw and unhealed. She had scarcely recovered from the agony of losing her daughter, whose body she had seen laid on the funeral pyre, when another profound loss struck her. Her womb felt ached with a hollowness that resonated painfully within her chest.

Was this truly what the gods intended for her? Was this her punishment for wanting? Was this the punishment for reaching for the crown? The thought gnawed at her, a cruel jest by fate or divine will.

Darkness began to envelop her as she remained where she was, the lanterns of Storm’s End flickering to life in the distance. Fishermen dragged their boats onto the sand before heading home, their figures growing smaller as they left the beach. In the distance, thunder rumbled, and lightning split the sky, merging the dark storm clouds with the uneasy sea below.

Syrax stirred beside her, emitting a glow growl of warning, powerful jaws snapping at the air. The dragon moved closer to Rhaenyra, instinctively protecting her rider from any threat.

Rhaenyra turned her gaze from the horizon, seeking the source of Syrax’s agitation. Her eyes fell upon a lone figure standing a few paces away. The woman, holding a lantern that flickered in the growing gloom, was dwarfed by the presence of the dragon. Her hair whipped around her pale face, and her eyes were wide with apprehension as she stared up upon the beast that huffed at her. Despite her apprehension, she stood her ground, shifting her gaze to meet Rhaenyra’s.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other before Rhaenyra diverted her attention back to the churning sea and the impending storm. Syrax emitted a low hum and huffed a warning, yet refrained from attacking as the woman cautiously approached her rider.

“There’s gonna be a storm,” the woman stated, her voice nearly lost amidst the howling wind and the roaring sea below the cliffs. “Ye best get inside before it makes landfall.”

Rhaenyra remained steadfast, unmoved by the warning. She felt indifferent to whether the storm engulfed her completely; her determination to continue her search unyielding. She jumped slightly when something warm and slightly musty was draped around her shoulders. Turning sharply, her gaze met that of the woman–a figure only a decade or so older than herself, with sharp cheekbones and a weathered face that spoke of a life exposed to the elements. Her eyes mirrored the story gray of the horizon. Wrapped around Rhaenyra’s shoulders was a thick brown woolen shawl, its warmth felt immediately, bringing a small comfort amidst the cold whip of the wind.

“I've got food to fill your belly and a warm place for ye to sleep,” the woman offered, taking a step back as Rhaenyra stared at her in bewilderment. There was an undeniable seriousness in the woman’s demeanor, her brow set in a firm line, her face intermittently illuminated by the flickering light from the lantern she held.

Rhaenyra swallowed hard, her throat tight with emotion, and she turned her face away from the woman, closing her eyes against the bracing wind that carried the scent of salt and the impending storm.

“Ye'll need your strength if ye want to find your son,” the woman called out over the nose of the tempest, her voice firm yet not unkind. She then walked away, leaving Rhaenyra to contemplate her offer, the decision hers to make.

She watched as the woman descended the hillside, her dark curls lashing about in the wind as she walked with purpose, her figure enveloped in a thick shawl identical to the one she had draped over Rhaenyra’s shoulders. Clutching the wool tightly, Rhaenyra felt a pang in her heart as she cast a final glance over the tumultuous sea, then followed the woman down. Syrax hummed softly in acknowledgement, crawling over the ground before taking to the sky, circling overhead as Rhaenyra made her way through the tangled wreaths and tall grass.

In the distance, near the edge of the treeline, stood a small cottage, its stones dark and covered with moss, surrounded by a stone fence that enclosed the modest garden. The woman pushed open the gate, and immediately a dog burst through to greet her, leaping around in excitement. The dog watched Rhaenyra approach with curiosity, then let out a cautious sniff, its fur bristling slightly as it sensed Syrax landing beside the cottage.

“Don't be lettin' your dragon eat me dog,” the woman quipped lightly as she entered the house, leaving the dog outside. The courageous little creature sniffed the air, gradually edging closer to the massive dragon. It barked loudly, a mix of caution and warning, as if it believed itself fierce enough to challenge the dragon. Syrax then gently nudged the dog with her snout, a gesture of peace that seemed to reassure the nervous animal. Seeming to understand that the dragon meant no harm, the dog, once seeing Rhaenyra move through the open gate, gave a loud bark of approval and darted back to the cottage, briefly leaving around her before entering its home.

Rhaenyra lingered on the threshold of the cottage, casting a last glance at Syrax, who responded with a low, reassuring hum. The dragon’s rumbling growl reverberated from deep within her chest before she emitted a loud huff, settling into a coil as the first raindrops began to fall.

Stepping into the cottage, Rhaenyra was enveloped by its warmth. She closed the door behind her, cutting off the gusting wind and chill that threatened against the door. Inside, the dog lay curled on a blanket near the crackling fire, while the woman stood over a cauldron suspended on an iron hook over the flames, stirring its contents with practiced ease. Without turning to face her, the woman commanded, “Sit.”

Rhaenyra entered the cottage, her movements stiff and pained as she made her way to the table. She drew in a sharp breath as she eased herself to sit at the bench, the ache between her legs intensifying with each shift. The heat from the hearth enveloped her, seeping into her chilled and weary muscles, offering a small comfort against the cold that clung to her.

Her gaze swept over the modest interior of the cottage. It was a single, open room, with a compact kitchen to the right and a large hearth dominating the space, its warmth radiating throughout. The long wooden table she rested against stood in front of the hearth, its surface scarred from years of use. To the left, a steep wooden ladder ascended to a small loft where a bed was visible between the rafters.

Despite its size, the cottage was bustling with life. Two sturdy chairs were positioned by the fire, each seeming to serve a distinct purpose. One chair had a small stool set in front of it, with a basket of wool nestled beside a spinning wheel. The other chair, standing a bit apart, was surrounded by small wooden spools that had somehow escaped being swept away. Next to this chair stood a wooden block, upon which rested a half-finished carving of a boat, its details still emerging from the block’s surface.

The mantle of the hearth was adorned with an assortment of trinkets, while shelves and cabinets lined the walls, storing various necessities. The space felt lived-in and homey, and yet, it was distinctly empty.

Outside, the rain began to pour relentlessly, hammering against the roof of the cottage with a steady, drumming rhythm. The sound was punctuated by the occasional crack of thunder and the flash of lightning that illuminated the room through the small windows and the gap beneath the door.

Rhaenyra observed silently as the woman stirred the ladle through the contents of the cauldron. The rich aroma of stew filled the air, blending with the warmth of the hearth. With practiced ease, the woman ladled the stew into a bowl and carried it over to the table. She set the steaming bowl in front of Rhaenyra, the surface bubbling with heat.

The warmth of the stew seeped through the wooden bowl and into Rhaenyra’s numbed fingers as she cradled it in her hands. Her heart pounded heavily against her ribs, a sob rising stubbornly in her throat but staying buried among the myriad of unspoken grief lodged in her chest. The words she longed to speak–an expression of gratitude or thanks–remained trapped in her throat, struggling to emerge and ultimately stifled and left to die in silence.

The woman returned to the cauldron, scooping a bowlful of stew for herself before coming back to the table. She settled across from Rhaenyra, sliding a spoon across the table’s weathered surface towards her. "I reckon it might not be as fancy as what ye are accustomed to, but it’ll warm yer and fill your belly good and proper."

Reaching for a chunk of brown bread, the woman broke off a piece and extended it to Rhaenyra. “Eat.”

Rhaenyra took the bread with an hesitant, appreciative nod, her fingers feeling the rough texture of the crust. She tore a piece of the brown bread and dipped it into the stew, allowing the rich broth to soften the dry crust before she brought it to her lips, pausing for a moment as her stomach clenched with an uneasy heaviness that made the thought of eating almost unbearable.

With grim resolve, she forced her lips apart and bit into the bread, her mouth dry and her throat tight. She chewed the morsel slowly, each swallow a struggle against the queasiness that gripped her. Despite the roiling nausea with every bite, she forced herself to keep eating.

The woman poured a cup of water and handed it to Rhaenyra, who accepted it gratefully. She took a sip, savoring the cool relief as it washed away the dry, lingering taste of stew. Thunder cracked violently overhead, the rain battering the roof and windowsills, a relentless drumbeat that filled the room with its oppressive sound.

“I trust yer dragon isn’t troubled by the rain,” the woman remarked between bites of her own meal, her voice carrying a hint of dry humor. “The Stormlands live up to their reputation, I’m afraid. They’re as stormy as they claim to be.”

A bright flash of lighting poured through the windows, briefly illuminating the cottage before darkness settled again, quickly followed by a crack of thunder that seemed to shake the very walls.

Rhaenyra remained silent, unable to muster a reply. Her thoughts turned to Syrax, confident that the dragon would seek shelter beneath the trees. Dragons were not easily bothered by the cold; their blood ran hot, with fire coursing through their veins as naturally as they breathed it. The dragon would seek out food when she truly needed it, though Rhaenyra knew that her dragon preferred being served–a luxury she was not accustomed to abandoning. Nevertheless, the dragon would have to seek out food if she wished to fill her belly.

The dog seemed less perturbed by the thunderous sounds outside than by Rhaenyra's movement. Noticing her glance toward the window, it rose and padded quietly over to her, eventually resting its head gently against her thigh in a comforting gesture.

"He's taken a shine to ye," the woman observed. "Bear doesn't warm to just anybody, that one. I'd have thought he'd be under cover, what with yer great beast outside."

The woman seemed to understand Rhaenyra’s reticence and did not press for conversation. They continued their meal in silence, each lost in their own thoughts as the storm raged outside. She managed to eat only half of the stew before her stomach rebelled against her, the food settling heavily within her–like lead bearing down on her.

Collecting the bowl from the table, the woman rose to her feet and carried it back to the simmering pot over the fire. She poured the uneaten stew back into the cauldron, then lifted it onto a higher hook, away from the direct heat of the flames.

“Come,” the woman said, removing her apron and draping it over the chair by the hearth. Her tone was gentle but insistent. “I'll take ye to where you'll be sleepin’."

With a stifled groan, Rhaenyra struggled to rise from her seat on the bench, her body protesting against the movement. Each step was slow and labored as she followed the woman through the cramped cottage. The dog, Bear, stood with her and followed her movements with a wagging tail, padding softly behind her to lick against the tips of her fingers, urging her to scratch its head.

The woman guided her to a corner of the room where a modest cot was propped up against the wall, wide enough for two. Above it, a small window allowed a sliver of light to filter in, the rain rapping windowpane. A simple stable stood beside the cot, its surface cluttered with a small candle box and a pair of scissors that was seemingly randomly discarded there.

“This should do,” the woman said, gesturing to the cot with a nod.

Rhaenyra sank onto the cot, which was far from the luxury she was accustomed to; the blankets were made of rough, musty wool–a far cry from the plush comfort she was accustomed to–and the mattress was stuffed with straw while the pillow seemed stuffed with cloth, both of which was lumpy and unyielding. As she settled, a sharp object poked into her thigh and she winced. With a front, she reached beneath the blankets to find the source of discomfort–a wooden horse, lovingly carved from dark wood.

The woman reached for the wooden horse and took it from Rhaenyra’s hands, her stormy gray eyes clouding with sadness as she held the toy tightly, her thumb caressing it's carved neck. Swallowing thickly, she seemed to find her voice, “My granddaughter’s… and my daughter’s before her…”

The cottage retained the faint traces of a family's presence, yet it appeared that only the woman remained. No other voices echoed within the small confines of the space, and Rhaenyra had not encountered anyone else–there was only the solitary figure of the woman.

The woman placed the wooden horse gently on the table, her gaze lingering on it for a moment, a frown on her face. “We’ve all lost, it seems,” she murmured. “But we can pray that the gods allow them to visit us in our dreams.”

Then, with a tender gesture, she reached out and brushed a stray strand of Rhaenyra’s hair from her face, caressing the side of her head with the gentle touch of a mother soothing a child. “Sleep now. I will offer a prayer to the gods, askin’ ‘em to return yer child to ye.”

Rhaenyra swallowed hard against the lump that had formed in her throat, threatening to suffocate her. Her eyes followed the women as she walked to the small altar by the hearth, carefully lighting five candles, placing them before the wooden carvings of the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone, each flame accompanied by a quiet, reverent murmur.

The weight of her grief seemed to settle even more heavily upon her, dragging her down until she finally lay on the lumpy mattress. She wrapped herself in the coarse blanket, trying to find some semblance of comfort. Her bones felt as though they were made of ice and lead, weighed down by her sorrow. Each breath was a struggle, an arduous effort to keep herself from being consumed by her own despair–as though it hadn’t already swallowed her whole.

The dog, Bear, lifted his head from the floor where he had been resting. With a gentle nudge, he padded over to Rhaenyra, laying his head on the edge of the bed and pressing his damp nose against her hand. He watched her with soulful eyes, a soft whine escaping his throat. Standing up, he placed his paws on the bed before leaping up to settle beside her, as though he could sense the depth of her loneliness and grief.

Rhaenyra welcomed Bear’s comforting presence, his warmth seeping through the blanket and offering a small measure of solace. Her thoughts drifted to memories of her son–how, when he was just four, he would sneak into her bed, or how he later crept into Daenera’s bed as he grew older. She remembered how her daughters' bed often became too crowded with siblings–Jace, Joffrey, Baela, and Rhaena all seeking its comfort. They’d stay up long into the night, talking and teasing, until they one by one would fall asleep.

The recollection shattered her heart anew, and her tears flowed freely, mingling with the grief that consumed her.

The ache in her womb grew at the memory, a constant, throbbing reminder of her loss and the child she was desperately seeking. A sob wracked her body, and she curled in on herself, the raw pain too much to bear. Tears streamed down her face as she cried herself to sleep, the sound of her grief mingling with the storm raging outside.

Each morning, before the sun had risen, Rhaenyra would leave the cottage, her body heavy with fatigue and aching from the restless nights filled with her own sobbing. She would return only after the sun had set, having spent countless hours on dragonback, scouring the cliffs and the tumultuous sea for any trace of her son. The woman never turned her away; instead, she welcomed her back with a warm meal and a bed, a kindness for which Rhaenyra was profoundly grateful.

During that first night, a numbness settled over her, a hollow ache that mirrored the emptiness within her womb. This emptiness resonated with a constant, piercing despair as she searched for her son. Even as she soared through clear skies, the sun’s warmth seemed incapable of reaching her, the chill in her bones remained, clinging to her as if it had made a permanent home within her.

On the fourth day of her relentless search, the weather took a turn for the worse. The sky was a solid gray, overcast with thick, oppressive clouds. The sea was a roiling mass of waves, crashing furiously against the jagged cliffs and rocks, foam frothing violently. Fishermen, wisely, stayed ashore, their boats left abandoned on the wet sand as the rain poured down relentlessly. The entire world seemed submerged in a uniform shade of gray, the rain blurring the boundaries between sea and sky, making the day feel as though it never truly began.

Rhaenyra staggered into the cottage, her clothes dripping with rain, soaked through to the skin, and her hair plastered uncomfortably to her face. Her body trembled uncontrollably, though a numbness had long since taken hold of her, dulling the sting of the rain. As she shut the door against the storm’s fury, Bear lifted his head, watching with curious eyes as she dripped onto the floor.

The woman, seated on a stool by the hearth, kept her gaze on Rhaenyra as she stirred a small round tub of soapy water, the kettle bubbling away over the flames. Her brows furrowed deeply as she took in the sight of Rhaenyra.

“That ‘s one way to wash ye clothes,” she remarked, her voice laced with concern as she rose from her seat, wiping her hands in the folds of her skirts. “Ye'll catch your death like that. Come now, let’s get ye warm.”

The woman guided Rhaenyra deeper into the cottage, leaving a trail of water and mud behind them, her touch firm yet gentle as she helped her shed the wet clothes that clung to her quivering form–the same clothes she had worn for days. With careful hands, she removed Rhaenyra’s red leather coat, then the tunic beneath it, followed by her trousers.

The frown on the woman’s face deepened as she took in Rhaenyra’s disheveled form. Her eyes settled on the bloody stains soaked into the fabric of her undergarments, remnants of both the recent birth and the chafing from the days in the saddle.

Rhaenyra tried to offer an explanation, her voice barely a whisper amidst the clattering of her teeth. Yet, only a muffled hum emerged from her trembling lips, lost amidst the shivering cold that overtook her.

“Let’s get this off of ye,” the woman said gently, moving behind Rhaenyra to untie her undershirt. “I’ll see it washed and dry come morn’.” Carefully, she lifted the thin fabric over Rhaenyra’s head.

As the shirt came off, Rhaenyra’s hands instinctively covered her body–her breasts swollen with milk for a baby long gone, the swell of her stomach sagging with emptiness, the skin once stretched taut now wrinkling, a notable difference from the firm, full shape it had held mere days ago. The woman then proceeded to untie Rhaenyra’s undergarments, sliding them down her hips to reveal the blood-stained patches and the chafed skin on her inner thighs.

With each layer removed, Rhaenyra felt increasingly vulnerable, her body curling in on itself, arms wrapping tightly around her. Although she was accustomed to the routine of servants attending to her, the intimacy of undressing and being cared for in such a state–wet, bloodied, and bruised–left her feeling raw and exposed, like an open wound. Yet, the woman showed no sign of judgment, she only held sympathy as she gently led Rhaenyra towards the small tub filled with soapy, warm water.

Rhaenyra slowly eased herself into the warm water, hissing as it met her healing wounds. The sting was sharp and immediate, stealing the breath from her lungs. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her bruised knees–marks of the grueling labor she had endured, where she had knelt on the hard, unforgiving stone floor, pushing her daughter into the world she would never come to know. Her eyes settled on the flames of the heart, the heat reaching out to embrace her.

The woman settled on a stool behind her, the soft creak of the seat barely audible over the persistent sound of the rain. She carefully filled a cup with water and began to gently pour it over Rhaenyra’s shoulders, the warmth seeping into her chilled skin.

Gradually, Rhaenyra felt a semblance of warmth return to her, seeping into her exhausted muscles and easing the relentless ache that had settled deep in her joints. Each movement was accompanied by the creak of weary bones–felt like the creak of ice before it gave way–and a persistent heaviness that clouded her head, rendering the world around her a distant blur.

When she closed her eyes, all she could see was the churning sea, waves crashing relentlessly against the cliffs–a vast, unyielding emptiness that seemed to mock her grief. She wondered if her boy was truly lost among those waves, or had perhaps washed ashore and found by someone.

Hope flickered weakly within her, a fragile ember struggling against the downpour of her grief. Each passing day seemed intent on extinguishing it, threatening to overwhelm and drown the fragile light of her hope.

The woman’s soft touch brushed against Rhaenyra’s head, guiding her to lean back. Gently, she began to pour the soapy water over her hair, the warm water flowing through her damp locks and cascading down her back. The woman shielded Rhaenyra’s face from the water, ensuring it didn’t sting her eyes. When she deemed Rhaenyra’s hair sufficiently rinsed, she allowed her head to tilt forward again, leaving her resting her chin on her bruised knees.

Abandoning the cup on the floor at her feet, the woman dipped a piece of cloth into the water and began to scrub Rhaenyra’s skin with a tenderness that felt almost maternal.

“I used to do this for me children,” the woman murmured, her voice soft and reflective. “Me daughter loved it, always eager for me to fuss over her. Me son, though, he’d scheme up any excuse to skip a wash.” She paused, a tremor making it into her voice. “I even helped bathe mine grandchild, the wee little one…” Her voice trailed off momentarily, her hand halting its motion as she seemed to lose herself in memories. After a long pause, she adjusted the stool to a better angle and continued her gentle ministrations.

Carefully, she took Rhaenyra’s arm, guiding the cloth over it with tender strokes, meticulously cleaning between her fingers and gently soothing the blisters that had formed from long hours gripping the saddle.

“Ye were bearing a child not long before, must be a wee thing still,” she continued, her tone soft.

She was, Rhaenyra thought. Her daughter had indeed been just a little one, born a moon’s turn too early to stand a fair chance at life–had there ever been a chance at all. Her daughter had been a tiny, fragile thing, curled inward, her form marred by cruel distortions. The child had been born malformed, her tiny body disfigured with a tail and horns protruding from her head. Her face had been twisted, her eyes a milky white–blind from birth. Her chest sunken, and her skin bore scaly patches like that of a dragon. And yet, she had been her daughter and she had loved her.

The familiar sting of tears prickled behind her eyes, her throat tightening as she struggled against the overwhelming tide of grief that threatened to pull her under, to consume and drown her in sorrow.

The gods, it seemed, showed her no mercy. How cruel they have been–to first take her father, then to allow her crown to be stolen from her, and finally, to curse her with a child so twisted and malformed that she was lost before she could even draw her first breath.

What sin had she committed to deserve such punishment?

The loss and grief might have been bearable if it had ended there, but the gods, never ceasing their cruelty, had seen fit to take her son as well. The gods seemed to revel in their merciless mockery.

The woman gently wrung out the cloth she had used to cleanse Rhaenyra, draping it over the edge of the wooden tub before rising. She left Rhaenyra seated by the hearth, struggling to hold back her tears, and returned moments later with a bundle of clean clothes and a dry cloth.

She set the items on the table and then moved to assist Rhaenyra, helping her to her feet. Rhaenyra’s muscles protested with each movement, her steps shaky and labored. The woman carefully dried Rhaenyra’s damp skin, helping her into fresh undergarments and then draping a soft blanket around her shoulders. She guided Rhaenyra to a chair positioned before the roaring fire, where the warmth began to seep into her chilled bones.

Once Rhaenyra was settled, the woman returned to the stool by the hearth, now with Rhaenyra’s soiled smallclothes in hand. She immersed them in the soapy water, scrubbing them with practiced care as she continued to work quietly.

By the fifth day of her relentless search, the men Borros Baratheon had dispatched to scour the beaches and cliff sides had abandoned their efforts. Instead, they paid a visit to the woman who had offered Rhaenyra refuge in her desperate search for her son.

As Rhaenyra flew over the towering cliffs, her gaze swept across the turbulent waves crashing against the rocks below–at times, she thought she saw someone amongst the rocks and the swirl of seafoam, but there was never anyone to be found. Each time her heart became a little heavier. As Syrax swept over the rolling hillsides, a flutter of movement captured her attention–cloaks fluttering in the wind. She turned her gaze toward the cottage and noticed the woman standing at the property's gate, deep in conversation with a group of men.

It wasn’t until Rhaenyra set foot on ground again, under the oppressive cover of evening clouds that blotted out any lingering light, that she learned why the men had visited.

Seated before the hearth, she ate bites of dried bread and stew–each morsel a great effort to force down. It was then the woman broke the silence, her voice carrying a weight, “They’ve ceased their searchin’ for yer boy. The Lord has deemed his efforts sufficient and has called his men back to Storm’s End.”

Their eyes met across the flickering light of the fire. Rhaenyra felt a fresh surge of tears threaten as her throat constricted around the dry crumbs of the brown bread. Her chest tightened painfully with the news, as if her ribs were constricting around her lungs and heart, squeezing unbearably tight. Her heart pounded painfully, each throb like a knife slipping between her ribs, and she swallowed hard, a choked sound escaped her lips as she grappled with the implications of the abandonment of the search.

The woman stood and took her empty bowl to the kitchen table, where a small tub waited for washing up. As she began to clean the bowl, she continued in a somber tone, “Lord Borros sent his men to inform yer, and to urge yer to cease yer own search and return home…”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes, abandoning the futile attempt to eat. She covered her face with her hands, overwhelmed by the suggestion–she felt it bear down upon her like an unbearable weight. How could she possibly go home? How could she simply abandon the effort to find her son? And how could she ever face her other children, having given up on their brother?

A sharp pang of frustration pierced her heart. Was her son deemed worth only five days of searching? Had the men searching for her son ever thought to find him, or had they long since resigned themselves to the belief that he had been claimed by the sea?

“I’ve had words with the local fishermen,” the woman said, her voice heavy with sadness. "They've agreed to keep an eye out for yer boy. They know these waters better than any. These waters... they can swallow ye whole if ye’re not careful. Many here have borne such grief. If there’s a trace of yer son left, they'll find it."

Despair gripped her tightly at the thought of never finding her son, never knowing with certainty that he was truly gone. Hope, that cruel seed, thrived in defiance of reason, persisting despite the evidence of her deeper fears.

Blood pounded in her ears, a relentless drumbeat of despair that matched the echo of the words in her mind. The men who had stood by, passively watching as her son was hunted down and slaughtered, had abandoned their search after just five days. She shouldn’t have to depend on the goodwill of village fishermen or the wisdom of a solitary woman. Her son was a prince, the blood of the dragon–he was her blood, her heart. They should be out there in droves searching for him.

She stood abruptly from the table with a suddenness that nearly toppled the pitcher of water and startled the sleeping dog, and strode purposefully towards the door, her breath caught in her throat. Just as she reached for the handle, the woman’s voice cut through the silence once more.

“Mind yerself that you don’t get lost out there either, ye still have folk who love ye—folk who are waitin' on yer return. Don’t abandon them in your search. It is not an easy thing to be left behind…”

Rhaenyra flung the door open, and a sharp gust of wind burst in, chilling her warmed skin. Her heart hammered within her chest as she stepped into the enveloping darkness. The sky was heavy with clouds, though the pale light of the moon managed to pierce through in places, casting a ghostly glow that faintly illuminated her path.

As Rhaenyra passed through the gate, Syrax’s worried chirps followed her, resonating with unease. The wind whispered through the trees, its rustling leaves competing with the distant roar of the sea. She stumbled over the uneven ground, making her way toward the cliffs. The grass and underbrush swayed violently with each gust, the wind howling so fiercely it seemed to match the pounding of her blood in her ears. The chill of the night seeped into her bones as she made her way towards the cliffs.

Rhaenyra reached the precipice, where the land abruptly dropped away to reveal the vast expanse of the dark, roiling sea below. The night air was thick with the scent of salt and seaweed, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp foliage that the wind had torn from the cliffside vegetation. The moon, partially obscured by swiftly moving clouds, cast an eerie, intermittent glow over the water, making the whitecaps of the waves below gleam like ghostly fingers reaching up towards her.

The grass at her feet, wet with evening dew, clung to her boots, adding weight to each step as she moved closer to the edge. The wind intensified, its mournful wail echoing the turmoil within her, as it tugged at her clothing and whipped her hair across her face. She stood there, a solitary figure framed against the vastness of the ocean, her silhouette stark against the lighter sky.

Above the constant roar of the sea and the wind, the calls of distant seabirds pierced the night, their cries plaintive and haunting. She peered down at the sea below, where waves hammered ceaselessly against the jagged rocks at the base of the cliffs. The water churned violently, white foam swirling and frothing amidst the dark, tumultuous depths. She stood precariously close to the edge, her heart pounding in rhythm with the relentless crashing of the waves.

Give him back. Tears burned fiercely in the back of her throat as she begged the unforgiving sea. Give him back. He is not yours to take. Let me bury my son. Let me know. Give him back.

The sea, indifferent to her anguish, offered no solace. The waves continued their ceaseless assault on the jagged rocks, crashing with a thunderous roar. The water churned violently, sending frothy white sprays into the air. The wind howled as it swept over the crests of the waves, carrying droplets that sparkled in the pale moonlight.

Her pleas seemed to dissolve into the cold, harsh wind. The chill of the night seeped into her bones, a stark contrast to the raw, gnawing emptiness within her. A profound stillness settled over her, a numbness that encased her heart. Nothing else mattered; only the haunting, unfulfilled search for her son remained.

The sea, much like the fire that symbolized her house, was an overwhelming force beyond her control–an ancient, unyielding entity that claimed what it desired and returned nothing in exchange. Her tears had long since dried, leaving her face cold and hard. Determination set in her heart, a fierce vow that she would not rest until she had searched every inch of the coast, turned over every stone, and confronted every crashing wave. She would find her son; she had to.

Over Shipbreaker Bay, a shroud of heavy clouds hun, their deep gray hue blotting out the sun’s warmth and casting a gloomy pall over the landscape. A sharp, cold breeze carried with it the brine of the sea as it whipped around Rhaenyra. She made the arduous ascent amongst the jagged cliffs on the hillside, each step a battle against both the rugged terrain and her own mounting exhaustion, her limbs trembling from days spent in a fruitless search for her son.

Syrax unleashed a resonant roar, her powerful cry cutting through the whistle of the wind–a cry of despair that Rhaenyra herself had long suppressed, now encased in a growing numbness aching within her chest. Rhaenyra felt detached, numb; her body ached with a heaviness that resisted her every move. The blisters from days in the saddle had burst and scabbed over repeatedly, yet she no longer felt the sting. The pain seemed distant, somewhere far off and out of reach as though she was lost in a sea inside of herself, the world felt painfully close and yet, vastly far away.

The relentless search had hollowed her out, leaving her an empty vessel. From Storm’s End to Griffin’s Roost, she had scoured the coast and the jagged cliffs, flying over the treacherous waters of Shipbreaker Bay. She had pleaded with the winds, the waves, and the gods, desperately hoping for a sign, a miracle, anything to bring her son back to her.

Below, the sea churned violently, waves crashing with relentless fury against the rocky shores. Each day, the sea seemed to taunt Rhaenyra more cruelly than the last. Its waves lapped mockingly at the shore, refusing to relinquish her son from its depths.

Around her, the cliffs were strewn with patches of hardy sea grass that clung to the earth, their green blades a sharp difference to the muted tones of the rocks. Gulls, undeterred by the stormy weather, swooped and called, their white forms fleeting against the bleak sky. Rhaenyra's gaze swept over this wild, relentless landscape, her eyes searching, ever searching, for any sign of her son amidst the relentless surge of nature’s fury.

Her gaze drifted across the expansive sea, sweeping along the rugged coastline to rest upon a secluded alcove. There, boats bobbed gently on the water and lay beached on the sands. Silhouetted against the white sand, the figures of fishermen moved about, tending to their vessels and their nets.

Rhaenyra’s eyes locked onto the activity below as three figures dashed into the waves, welcoming a boat as it neared the shore, while others gathered on the sand. For a moment, she watched, her throat tightening with hope and dread, her heart pounding against her ribs.

Swiftly, she turned and hurried down the narrow path to where Syrax lay among the hills. The dragon lifted its head in greeting as she approached. The surrounding wreaths and grass rustled in the wind as Rhaenyra reached her dragon, caressing its snout with a tender touch.Syrax leaned into Rhaenyra’s touch, its scales warm and reassuring beneath her fingers. She pressed her forehead against the dragon’s neck, her eyes fluttering shut as she silently invoked her dragon’s strength and courage to confront whatever awaited on the beach below.

Drawing in a deep breath, Rhaenyra leaned back and gently ran a gloved hand along Syrax’s neck, feeling the warmth of the dragon's scales under her touch. Syrax responded by crouching down, positioning itself to facilitate her ascent into the saddle. Rhaenyra gripped the leather tightly, preparing to mount. With all the resolve she could muster, she hoisted herself up, wincing as her bones seemed to grind against each other, her joints aching with the effort.

Settling into the saddle, she grasped the reins tightly and commanded, “Sōvegon, Syraks.”

Fly, Syrax.

Syrax unleashed a powerful roar and unfurled her wings, allowing the wind to billow through them as she lifted off the ground. With each powerful beat, she ascended higher into the sky. Rhaenyra felt the wind lash against her face, her heart pounding fiercely, the rush of blood loud in her ears. She urged Syrax forward, directing her out over the sea, then swooping around towards the beach where fishermen had congregated around a net.

The waves below churned violently, cresting and breaking under the force of the relentless wind, which caught the spray and scattered the droplets of saltwater into the air. As Rhaenyra soared over the sea, she felt the mist on her face, tasted the salt of it on her tongue–a prelude, she dreaded, to what she was about to find. Below, the beach was thrown into chaos at the sight of her and Syrax; people screamed and scattered, seeking cover from the imposing shadow of the dragon overhead. Syrax emitted a low, warning hum as they swept over the waves, which crashed greedily against the shore, devouring the land bit by bit.

As they approached the beach, Syrax reared up in preparation for landing. Her massive wings beat against the wind, stirring up gusts of sand into the air, slowing her descent. Screams continued to echo around them as the dragon’s feet touched the ground, still carrying enough momentum that she skitted across the saint, clawing at it in an effort to halt before crashing into the small fishing huts and smoking stands at the edge of the beach.

The dragon came to an abrupt stop, her wings flapping wildly, sending showers of sand into the air as she lowered herself to allow her rider to quickly dismount. Despite the protests from her weary muscles and aching joints, Rhaenyra swiftly climbed off the dragon, using Syrax’s wing to ease her descent. Her boots hit the ground hard, the impact reverberation up through her legs. She stumbled slightly, almost losing her balance as the sand shifted under her, but she pressed forward, driven by urgency–needing confirmation, needing to see what had been found.

Rhaenyra ran across the sand, her footsteps accompanied by the lingering echoes of terrified screams. Behind her, Syrax let out a roar, tinged with both annoyance and warning.

With each step she took, her chest tightened further, a massive weight pressing down on her, constricting her lungs and making each breath she took labored and strained. Dread coiled tightly in Rhaenyra's stomach, twisting and churning with an intensity that seemed to claw at her very being. Her eyes remained locked on the catch lying on the beach–a tangled mess ensnared in a net, lying amongst fish and seaweed.

The urgency of her approach faltered as her mind tried to reconcile with what she was seeing, her footsteps faltering before bringing her closer, her heart thrumming wildly against her ribs. Her eyes flickered across the wing–its blue scales glinting in the scarce sunlight, sand clinging to it as it remained wrapped in the net.

The scene before Rhaenyra was both heartbreaking and surreal. As she stood with the wing at her feet, she stared down in disbelief, a frown etching itself deeply across her face. The sight seemed almost too strange and distant to be real, as if it were part of a dream from which she could not wake.

She sank to her knees, her throat tightening as she stared at the wing before her, witnessing the brutal damage–the flesh shredded, torn apart by ruthless, pointed teeth. Her hand trembled as she reached out to touch it, feeling its cold, lifeless surface beneath her fingers–so devastatingly real. Her heart twisted with agony, grief surging up from the depths where she had buried it, breaking through the numbness that had encased her.

Yet, amidst the crushing despair, a stubborn seed of hope persisted within her. It festered and clung to the belief that perhaps the dragon had indeed managed to protect its rider, and that the reason there was no sign of her son was because he might still be alive, somewhere, whole and safe.

But the gods were known for their cruel jests, weren't they?

Her brows furrowed deeply as she examined the wing–this wing that had once belonged to her son’s dragon, the dragon that had been with him since the cradle, growing up alongside him.

Tears stung in her eyes as her trembling hand traced the jagged edges where the dragon’s wing had been viciously ripped away–severed from its body and left to sink into the abyss of the sea. Rhaenyra was sure that Arrax would have fought to protect his rider. Yet, in the end, even Arrax could not save him.

The sheer cruelty of discovering this torn remnant, with no trace of her son to accompany it, intensified the ache in Rhaenyra's heart. If this was the fate of the dragon, what had become of her child? Had he too been torn apart and scattered across the seabed? Was there anything left of him, or had he been entirely consumed by the relentless sea? The weight of her grief felt like a crushing force, swallowing her hope whole.

The sea, it seemed, had answered her pleas, delivering her the answers she had so desperately sought. Yet, her heart struggled to accept the truth of what lay before her. Her eyes caught onto the dark bundle of fabric tangled with the wing in the net.

Trembling, she grasped the net and began to tear at it, desperate to free the fabric, her heart pounding erratically against her ribs. Her breath hung suspended–caught between an inhale and an exhale, her lungs constricting tightly around her heart as a profound sense of dread seized her chest.

After a struggle, she at last managed to untangle the net from the fabric, exposing it fully. Her fingers brushed over it gently, a sob escaping her lips, breaking through the fragile wall of composure she had managed to cling onto. She pulled the cloak free and cradled it in her lap as her tears streamed down her face, her fingers clutching desperately at the fabric–her son’s cloak, now all that remained of him in this world. Rhaenyra's gaze shifted to what was now half-exposed beneath the partially removed net–a torn and shredded piece of the saddle Daemon had gifted her son when Arrax was old enough to ride. The dark leather, though battered, retained some of its original shape, particularly around the curve that formed the front of the saddle. A choked sob escaped her as she tentatively reached out, her fingers brushing against an indent in the leather. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her view of the surrounding world as grief washed over her anew.

The thud of Syrax’s steps grew louder as she moved closer to her rider, a mournful rumble resonating from deep within her chest. The dragon’s sorrowful sound mingled with Rhaenyra’s own anguished cries as she clung to the cloak, bringing it to her chest and cradling it tightly, unable to let go as she cried for her son.

Syrax gently nudged Rhaenyra’s shoulder with her snout, offering what comfort she could. Shen then lowered her gaze to the wing of Arrax–her own progeny, brought forth from a clutch of eggs she had laid years ago from which Vermax and Tyraxes both came from. The dragon let out a deep huff before arching her neck and lifting her head towards the sky. A thunderous, mournful roar erupted from her, a cry that seemed to echo through the heavens and reverberate within Rhaenyra’s chest.

Rhaenyra clutched the cloak so fiercely that her fingers seemed to creak under the strain. She held it against her chest, where a desperate, tormented scream began to rise from the depths of her being. It erupted from her throat as fiercely as flames from a dragon, a harrowing and twisted sound laden with agony and despair–the kind of cry only a mother could make in the face of such unbearable loss.

What else could she do but scream?

Her cries continued unabated until her throat was raw, feeling as though it bled, until her lungs ached from the effort, until her voice was nothing more than a whisper, a raspy croak that died out into nothing, carried off by the wind and drowned by the rush of the sea. She screamed until all that was left was the salt of her tears and a deep, echoing void of sorrow within her.

Adrift in a sea of grief, the world around her dissolving into nothingness as she remained there. She clutched the cloak to her chest, unable to release it despite its cold, dampness seeping into her skin. Time seemed to stand still until a firm hand settled on her shoulder tethered her to the world once more. The rush of the sea roared in her ears, the wind whipped against her face, and her hair fluttered at the nape of her neck, tickling against her skin. The briny, fishy scent of the sea filled her nostrils once more as she blinked against the tears.

With a furrowed brow, she looked up into the gentle face of the woman beside her, meeting her gaze. The woman’s eyes were glistening with tears too as she knelt down beside her, brows inching upward in sympathy.

“We’ve made a pyre for ye,” she said, her voice low and calming, as if to soothe a skittish beast. “Let us take it.”

Rhaenyra stared at the woman, her throat tight as she struggled to swallow the lump of grief lodged there. Her heart felt leaden, weighed down by the enormity of her loss. She glanced past the woman at a small cluster of fishermen, who stood at a wary distance, their eyes wide with fear as they watched Syrax, the dragon looming beside her.

With a labored breath, Rhaenyra nodded in resignation, permitting the woman to help her to her feet. As she rose, her knees buckled under the sudden rush of blood, a painful reminder of her exhaustion.

The woman gently guided Rhaenyra away, signaling for the men to step forward and handle the wing. The fishermen shifted uneasily, casting wary glances at Syrax as she turned her head to watch them with a dismissive snort before following Rhaenyra.

Cautiously, the men approached the wing, carefully maneuvering around Syrax's intimidating presence. They took hold of the torn flesh where they could, grunting with the effort as they heaved it from the sand. One of the men nearly stumbled, struggling under the weight, the tip of the wing dragging a deep, clawing mark in the sand behind him.

They made their way up the small hills, where a wooden pyre had been prepared among the wreaths and tall grass, in a small sandy cradle amongst the greenery. Gently, they placed the wing atop the pyre, then stepped back, their expressions grim as they watched from a respectful distance.

The woman and Rhaenyra followed the men up the footpath, rising through the grassy terrain toward the prepared pyre. She expressed her thanks and gratitude in soft, reverent tones, while Rhaenyra remained silent, her eyes fixed on the pyre.

They reached the site, where the pyre was barely large enough to accommodate the wing, uneven pieces of wood propping it up. Syrax trailed behind them, her powerful claws leaving marks in the soft earth as she navigated the grassy dunes with a low, mournful rumble resonating from deep within her.

Kneeling beside the pyre, the woman retrieved a small flint and steel from her pocket, setting about lighting the dry wreaths tugged among the logs. She glanced up at Rhaenyra, seemingly seeking her acknowledgement to light the fire.

Finding no objection, the woman turned her attention back to her task. She struck the flint against the steel repeatedly, each strike sending sparks dancing into the air. The brisk wind whisked the sparks away before they could ignite the dry wreaths, frustrating her efforts to get the fire started. Each attempt created a brief flash of potential that faded as quickly as it appeared, unable to sustain a flame.

Rhaenyra drew a deep breath, her resolve hardening. Placing a steadying hand on the woman’s shoulder, she nodded away from the pyre, silently urging her to step back. The woman rose, her brows knitted in concern, and took a few steps away from the pyre as Rhaenyra did the same.

Her gaze lifted to meet Syrax’s, and the dragon’s rumble filled the stillness with a sound that resonated deep within her own chest. It was a mournful, almost primal expression of grief. Yet amidst the sorrow, there was a glimmer of strength in Syrax’s presence–a strength she needed.

This was not the first time Rhaenyra had overseen the lighting of a funeral pyre, and with a heavy heart, she sensed it would not be the last. They moved further back, giving Syrax the space she needed. The dragon, understanding her role in this somber ritual, stepped forward, waiting for the signal to proceed.

The words were a painful stab in Rhaenyra’s heart, twisting cruelly before rising to claw at her throat. With great effort, she pushed them out into the world, her voice a strained whisper, “Drakarys.”

Syrax inhaled deeply, her massive chest expanding as she prepared herself. With a powerful exhalation, she unleashed a torrent of fire upon the pyre. Flames instantly enveloped the structure, consuming the dragon’s wing in a fiery embrace. The heat surged forward, intense and almost searing, washing over Rhaenyra’s face as she stood watching. The flames danced and crackled with life, greedily devouring what remained of her son’s dragon.

As the funeral pyre blazed before her, Rhaenyra held her son’s cloak tightly against her chest. There was nothing left of her son to retrieve–no remains to bring back for a proper burial. His body had been claimed by the sea–or it had been swallowed by the gullet of another dragon.

The flames crackled and surged, devouring the damp wood and the remnants of the young dragon with equal ferocity. A column of smoke billed upward, carrying the the harsh scent of smoke and burning flesh–a smell that had become hauntingly familiar to her. How many days had passed since she had witnessed her daughter’s funeral pyre? How many more of her children would she have to watch consumed by the fire? Was this what the gods had in store for her?

Beside her, the woman murmured a solemn prayer, her voice a soft echo against the crackling of the flames. “Father above, may you judge this boy justly and kindly,” she intoned, her words heavy yet spoken with the ease of close familiarity. “May he be welcome into the heavens, to find peace. Mother above, who nurtures and protects, please offer comfort to his grieving kin, may your gentle love heal their hearts. And may his soul be cradled in her tender embrace, where no pain or fear can touch him anymore.”

Rhaenyra thought she had no tears left to shed, but despite this, she tasted the salt of them on her tongue, felt their warm trail down her cheeks–the tears dried quickly, evaporating in the heat of the flames.

A fragile seed of hope had once nestled itself within her heart–a hope that her son might still be alive against all odds, that the absence of his body was not a cruel jape of the gods but perhaps meant that he remained in this world. Yet, as she watched the pyre blaze, she felt that hope disintegrate, consumed by the flames along with remnants of what had been. In its place, a deep, festering sorrow took root, expanding within her, filling the void left by her extinguished hope with a relentless, gnawing ache.

As the wind stirred around them, catching the tall grass and wreaths in its embrace, the woman’s voice carried on, unwavering despite the deepening twilight. “May the Maiden see the innocence of his soul, and take his hand and lead him to peace. May the Warrior stand vigil over his resting place, and protect him from all that would do him harm.”

As the woman’s prayers filled the air, Rhaenyra’s thoughts churned with bitter despair. It was all too late’’her son’s innocence had already been stripped away, his life taken by those driven by vengeance. Where had the gods been when her son was pursued across the skies of Shipbreaker Bay, terror gripping his heart as he fled his relentless pursuer? She wondered how he must have felt in those final moments, isolated and terrified, calling for divine aid that never came. The notion that the gods had not shielded him from harm left her feeling hollow, questioning the very faith being invoked around her. Where indeed were the gods when he needed them most?

“May the Smith’s hands craft him a place in the heavens above, where all souls are made anew.” The woman paused, her gaze lifting to the darkening sky as if seeking the very gods she invoked. Rhaenyra’s gaze did not lift as the woman continued, “May the Crone’s wisdom light our way, helping us see beyond our mortal sorrows. And may the Stranger’s embrace be gentle and kind as he guides him to the realms beyond. We commit this child’s soul to their care. May he find peace in their eternal presence, and may we find comfort in the knowledge that he is with the gods.”

Her voice grew firmer, filled with a solemn resolve. “The wheel turns, and though he is gone from our sight, he remains forever within the light of the Seven–and within the hearts of those who loved him. Seven blessings upon him, now and always.”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes, not in prayer or reverence–she felt no divine presence, only the crushing weight of her sorrow and the hollow ache inside her that seemed to devour her very being. It was not an act of faith but one of sheer denial, a desperate attempt to shield herself from the truth that burned before her.

“A wee child without its parent is called an orphan,” the woman beside her reflected softly, her voice treading through the cool air. “A wife without her husband, a widow she’s named. But what's the word for a mother left without her child?”

As Rhaenyra repopend her eyes, the brutal scene unfolded once more–the flames relentlessly consuming what remained of the dragon's wing, the smell of charred flesh heavy in the air. The cloak weighed heavily in her arms, yet Rhaenyra continued to cradle it tenderly. Each fold of the fabric seemed to carry the immense burden of her grief, but she held onto it as if it could save her from her despair–a last tangible connection to her lost son.

The woman’s gaze remained on the fire as she continued, “A child grows, finds their own path–they might even start a family of their own. And a widower may take a new husband…” Her voice faltered briefly, then resumed with a deeper resonance, threaded with a profound sense of understanding–an understanding that came with experience. “But a mother remains a mother, always… even if she loses her child…”

The wind whipped through the tall wreaths and seemed to wrap around the funeral pyre, the smoke billowing around them, embers carried on the wind, dancing like fireflies.

“A mother who’s lost her child bears that sorrow till her dying day,” the woman murmured, voice thick with emotion. “It is a terrible burden. Some… some may never get past it.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze drew to the woman, the flickering flames casting deep shadows over her features, accentuating the lines etched by time and sorrow, giving her an even more aged and weary appearance. “I've outlasted all me children. And me husband too. I find solace in the thought that they're with the gods, waiting for me when my own time comes.”

Turning back to Rhaenyra, the woman reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she wiped a tear from Rhaenyra’s cheek with a tenderness that belied her weariness. “Ye remind me of my daughter,” she said softly, “though, ye’re stronger than she was, I think. Ye’ve found ye answers, now ye must endure, for the sake of the children that remains to ye. ‘Tis time for ye to return home.”

The woman withdrew her hand, her eyes refocusing on the pyre before them. “I’ll see to it that the ashes are scattered in a peaceful clearing.”

Weariness made a home in her. Rhaenyra felt the weight of it pressing heavily upon her, an almost tangible burden that sank deep into her bones. Her emotions were buried beneath a heavy layer of ash, an almost tangible suffocation that clung to her. It felt as if the grief was pressing down on her, its shroud wrapping around her like a dense, choking fog. Yet, she found the strength to reach out to the woman who had been kind enough to welcome her into her home. Their hands met, and Rhaenyra’s grip tightened–a silent thank you communicated through the warmth of her touch, her eyes meeting the woman's with a profound, wordless gratitude.

Her hand withdrew, returning to clutch the damp fabric of her son’s cloak as she fixed her gaze upon the pyre one final time. The flames, devouring what remained of her son’s dragon, kindled a fire within her–an ember of anger amidst the tempest of her grief. This ember was more than a mere spark; it was slowly growing, fanned by the winds of her sorrow.

This was not the work of gods but a man–a man consumed by vengeance and a thirst for blood. Her son had been relentlessly pursued, his assailant commanding his dragon to viciously attack, allowing its teeth to tear and rend without mercy. What remained of her boy now either lay abandoned at the cold, dark sea floor or was slowly decaying within the belly of the beast that had slain him.

Daemon had once vowed, ‘For every tear that falls from your eyes, we will repay them tenfold.’ Yet, how could they ever fulfill such a promise when her tears could fill an ocean? Rhaenyra didn’t desire a tenfold retribution; she sought only a single life in exchange for the one taken from her. Blood for blood–a life for a life.

This was a rough chapter to write. The chapter spans over multiple days--in which we know what happens both on DS and in KL. And no, we'll never get the name of the woman or what exactly happened to her family (but I know what happened to them). I'm still working on the wedding chapter and it might take a while so if it doesn't come out Friday the 23rd, you can expect it to come out on Friday the 30th. It's a chapter that jumps between Daenera and Aemond's pov throughout the whole chapter, and some scenes will overlap but it's not distinctly written as the same scene from two pov's.

#aemond targaryen #a vow of blood #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #aemond one eye #prince aemond #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction

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