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novaursa · 2 months ago

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The Price of Fire (18)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: This series is almost done.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 200+

- Previous part: 17

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska

The sun hung high in the sky, scorching the battlefield as the armies of Dorne and the Crown faced each other. Dust swirled in the dry breeze, carrying with it the heavy scent of anticipation and sweat. Rhaegar sat tall on his horse, his hair catching the sunlight, eyes scanning the field with a quiet intensity. Beside him, Oberyn Martell wore a crooked smile, his hand resting on the hilt of his spear, eager for the battle to begin.

The Dornish forces stood ready, their golden sun-and-spear banners fluttering in the wind, their formations tight and disciplined. They had been bred for this—warriors of the desert, fierce and unyielding. Opposite them, the forces of the Crown gathered under the red and black dragon of House Targaryen, though the men that followed Aerys seemed driven by something far more reckless than mere duty.

Across the battlefield, the wild, untamed presence of King Aerys himself was unmistakable. His banner flew high, but the sight of his forces moving forward—chaotic and disorganized—immediately struck Rhaegar as odd. These were not seasoned soldiers fighting with strategy and purpose. These men were little more than cattle being driven forward by the mad king’s whims, and the recklessness of it sent a chill down Rhaegar’s spine.

"Something is wrong," Rhaegar muttered, his brow furrowing as he watched Aerys’s soldiers march toward the Dornish lines. There was no order, no cohesion in their movements. They stumbled, tripping over one another, some already breaking ranks before the battle had even begun.

Oberyn let out a low, amused laugh. "That’s no army," he said, his voice laced with mockery. "That’s a slaughter waiting to happen."

Rhaegar’s grip tightened on the reins of his horse as the Crown’s forces advanced, their swords raised, but their movements erratic. Aerys had driven them to the brink, their fear of the king and his wrath greater than any sense of self-preservation. These men were not here to fight with honor or discipline—they were here because Aerys had given them no choice.

Without warning, the battle began. The front lines of Aerys’s forces crashed into the Dornish vanguard like a wave breaking against a rock, the clash of steel ringing out over the field. Swords flashed, spears thrust, and the cries of the dying filled the air. The Dornish soldiers held their ground, their spears cutting through the disorganized ranks of the Crown’s army with ruthless precision.

Blood splattered across the sun-bleached earth as the Crown’s forces faltered, unable to match the discipline and ferocity of the Dornish. It was clear within moments that this was not a battle of equals. The men fighting for Aerys were driven by madness, not skill. They threw themselves into the fray with a wild desperation, as though trying to avoid some unseen terror, but they were cut down in droves by the Dornish spears.

Rhaegar urged his horse forward, his eyes narrowing as he watched the chaos unfold. He had expected resistance—he had expected a fight—but this was madness. Aerys’s forces were throwing themselves against the Dornish lines with no regard for strategy or survival. It was as though the men were being herded to their deaths, driven forward by sheer fear rather than the desire to win.

The sound of steel clashing grew louder, the chaos of battle unfolding around him. Rhaegar drew his sword, the familiar weight of the blade in his hand grounding him as he urged his men forward. His own soldiers moved with purpose, cutting through the disorganized lines of the Crown’s forces with ruthless efficiency. But as more and more men fell, something gnawed at Rhaegar’s thoughts—this was no way to fight. This was a massacre.

Oberyn, riding beside him, let out a shout of triumph as his spear pierced the chest of a Crown soldier, the man crumpling to the ground in a heap. "I almost feel sorry for them," Oberyn shouted over the din, though there was no sympathy in his voice. "This is hardly a battle!"

Rhaegar didn’t reply, his focus locked on the blood-soaked field before him. Aerys’s men were falling in droves, their bodies littering the ground like broken dolls, yet more soldiers rushed forward, heedless of the slaughter unfolding around them. They were like cattle, driven into the waiting spears of the Dornish, their deaths swift and brutal.

But something about it chilled Rhaegar to his core. This wasn’t how an army should fight, not even one loyal to a mad king. There was no coordination, no plan. These men were dying for nothing, driven to their deaths by fear or insanity—perhaps both.

Suddenly, a horn sounded from the far side of the battlefield, and more of Aerys’s forces poured forward, though they moved with the same erratic desperation as the rest. Rhaegar’s eyes scanned the field, searching for some sign of Aerys, but the king was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his men continued to charge forward, their eyes wide with terror, as though they were fleeing from something far worse than the Dornish blades that awaited them.

Rhaegar’s horse shifted beneath him, sensing the unease in its rider. He tightened his grip on his sword, his thoughts racing as the battle raged around him. What was driving Aerys’s men to fight like this? Was it fear of the king, or something more?

The clash of steel and the cries of the dying grew louder as the battle intensified. Blood splattered across the field, staining the earth red, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat, death, and fear. The Dornish fought with calculated precision, their spears and swords cutting through the chaos with ease, but Rhaegar couldn’t shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong.

Oberyn wheeled his horse around, his spear slick with blood as he grinned at Rhaegar. "This is almost too easy," he shouted over the din. "Are you sure Aerys isn’t just sending these poor fools to die for his amusement?"

Rhaegar’s lips tightened into a grim line as he watched another wave of Aerys’s soldiers rush forward, only to be cut down like wheat before a scythe. "Something’s not right," he muttered, more to himself than to Oberyn. "This isn’t how an army fights."

The chaos of the battle continued to unfold around them, the clamor of swords and the cries of the dying filling the air. Blood splashed against the dry earth, and the sun beat down on the field of carnage, unrelenting in its heat.

The wind carried a biting chill as dusk approached, its gusts tugging at your gown as you stood near Terrax. His eyes followed your every movement, sensing the urgency in the air. Your heart pounded in your chest, your hand resting on the swell of your abdomen as you watched the horizon, knowing that Rhaegar and Oberyn were out there, fighting for the survival of your family.

But you weren’t alone in your resolve. Behind you, Arthur’s voice broke through the quiet, laced with worry and desperation. “You can’t do this, Y/N. Not now. You’re too far along, and the risks are too great.”

You turned to face him, his expression torn between anger and fear, his hands clenched at his sides. He had always been your anchor, your protector, but this was a decision you couldn’t let him make for you. The burden of your family’s survival had been placed on your shoulders long before, and it wasn’t something you could ignore now.

“I have to,” you replied softly, though your voice was firm, unyielding. “Rhaegar needs me. The Dornish might have strength in numbers, but Aerys won’t stop. I can’t stand by and wait.”

Arthur stepped closer, his eyes pleading as he reached for you. His hand rested gently on your arm, his touch warm against your skin. “There’s still time to reconsider. Oberyn’s forces can handle this. They’re prepared for what’s coming, and Rhaegar—he’s strong. He’ll lead them.” His voice dropped, and his gaze flickered to your abdomen. “But our child… You… I can’t lose you. Not like this.”

You placed your hand over his, offering a small, sad smile. “I know what’s at stake, Arthur. But this is something I have to do. For Rhaegar, for our family, and for the child growing inside me. I won’t sit idle while everything we’ve fought for is torn apart.”

His grip tightened, and his brow furrowed, but he didn’t argue further. He knew you too well, understood the resolve burning within you. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I can’t stop you, can I?” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly.

You closed your eyes for a moment, savoring the feel of him, the love and fear mingling between you. “No,” you whispered back. “You can’t.”

Arthur sighed, his lips brushing against your temple before he pulled back to look at you, his eyes filled with both admiration and sorrow. “Then go. But promise me you’ll be careful. Promise me you’ll come back.”

“I will,” you whispered, though the weight of the promise settled heavily on your heart. You couldn’t guarantee what would happen once you were in the sky, once you were in the fray, but you would do everything in your power to return to him.

Without another word, Arthur kissed you, the kiss filled with urgency and a depth of emotion that made your heart ache. When he pulled away, his hand lingered on your swollen belly for just a moment longer, as if he was committing the feel of it to memory.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice thick.

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you.

You turned then, your gaze settling on Terrax, whose restless energy matched your own. The dragon had sensed the shift in the air, the tension building. His massive wings flexed, and he lowered his head, as if beckoning you forward. You placed a hand on his warm scales, feeling the familiar pulse of the bond between you.

Arthur stepped back as you began to climb onto Terrax, his eyes never leaving you. The strain of your pregnancy made the task more difficult than it had been before, but the determination in your heart pushed you forward. The saddle that Rhaegar and the Dornish had crafted for you made the task easier, but the discomfort of mounting while heavy with child was unavoidable.

As you settled onto Terrax’s back, the dragon shifted beneath you, his wings unfurling in anticipation of the flight to come. But just as you tightened your grip, the voice returned, soft and distant in your mind.

"Blood brings the vicious beast."

The words sent a shiver down your spine, the cryptic message a reminder of the dark bond you shared with Terrax, the unsettling connection that had been forged during his hatching. The meaning behind the words was lost to you, but the urgency in them was clear. Terrax was ready to fight, to tear into whatever enemies lay before him.

You glanced down at Arthur one last time, his figure growing smaller as Terrax rose higher. His eyes followed you, his face tight with worry, but there was something else in his gaze too—pride. He knew what this meant to you, what it meant for your family, and though he feared for you, he understood.

With a powerful beat of his wings, Terrax lifted off the ground, and the world fell away beneath you. The wind rushed past, carrying you higher and higher into the sky, the battlefield stretching out below like a distant painting. You felt the familiar thrill of flight, the rush of adrenaline, but it was tempered by the weight of what lay ahead.

Arthur remained in the courtyard, his eyes never leaving the sky as you flew farther from him. The distance grew, but even as the land blurred beneath you, you could still feel his presence, his love, connecting you to this world.

The battlefield was a chaotic, bloody mess. Dust and smoke hung in the air, thick and choking as the Dornish and Crown forces clashed relentlessly. The sun blazed high above, casting harsh light on the carnage below, turning the earth into a gruesome tableau of bodies and broken weapons. The cries of men and the clash of steel rang out, but beneath it all, there was an eerie, disorganized feel to the fighting that Rhaegar couldn’t shake.

Rhaegar fought on horseback, his sword cutting through the disarray of soldiers with grim efficiency. His Dornish allies fought bravely, holding their lines and striking with precision, but the Crown’s forces... something about them was unsettling. There was no discipline, no order. They fought like madmen, throwing themselves into the Dornish spears without strategy, without care for their own lives. It was as if they were driven by something far more sinister than duty.

Rhaegar swung his sword, parrying an attack before swiftly dispatching a soldier in a tattered Crownland tabard. He paused for a moment, scanning the battlefield, his heart pounding in his chest. The battle should have been more organized, but this was little more than a brawl—a senseless, bloody skirmish. The Dornish were disciplined, their formations tight, but Aerys’s men were like cattle rushing to slaughter, heedless of death. They charged in waves, breaking on the Dornish like water against stone, and yet they kept coming.

As Rhaegar caught his breath, he saw something that made his blood run cold. In the distance, on the far side of the field, a group of Crownland lords—men who should have been commanding from a safe distance—were riding directly into the chaos of the fight. And at the front of that group, clad in black armor that gleamed like oil in the sun, was King Aerys himself.

Rhaegar’s breath caught in his throat as he saw his father—his father, the king—charging into the fray with reckless abandon, flanked by several lords loyal to the Crownlands. Lord Staunton, Lord Darklyn, even the hulking figure of Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, loomed near him. They weren’t leading from the back as lords and kings were meant to—they were in the thick of it, driving forward into the heart of the battle like men possessed.

Aerys’s silver hair, wild and unkempt, streamed behind him like a banner of madness as he rode with a twisted grin on his face, his eyes blazing with something close to ecstasy. He swung a sword—a sword!—with a ferocity that was terrifying to behold. He was no seasoned warrior, no knight trained in the art of combat, but his strikes were savage, each blow fueled by the raw, untethered rage that had come to define him.

"What is he doing?" Rhaegar muttered to himself, his voice filled with disbelief. His father had always been unhinged, but this—this was madness on a scale Rhaegar had never witnessed before. The king was putting himself directly in harm’s way, and the sight of it filled Rhaegar with both horror and a grim understanding that this battle had taken a far darker turn.

Oberyn, fighting not far from Rhaegar, caught sight of Aerys and let out a short, incredulous laugh, his spear slick with blood. "Your father’s mad," he called over the din of battle, though there was no surprise in his voice, only dark amusement. "Does he think this will end in his favor?"

Rhaegar said nothing, his gaze fixed on his father’s wild form as Aerys hacked and slashed at anything that came near him, his lips moving, though the words were lost in the chaos. Whatever Aerys had planned, it was clear he was beyond reason now. He fought like a man possessed, as if his death would somehow win him the throne for eternity.

But Rhaegar’s attention was soon pulled away from Aerys by a low, rumbling sound—a sound that made the earth beneath his feet tremble. It was a sound he recognized all too well. He turned his gaze to the sky, his heart pounding in his chest.

And then he saw it.

Terrax.

The massive black dragon appeared on the horizon, his wings stretched wide as he cut through the air with terrifying grace. The sun glinted off his obsidian scales, and the golden fire of his eyes burned with a fierce, almost predatory light. As Terrax approached, the sound of his wings beating against the wind filled the battlefield, and all at once, the skirmish seemed to shift.

The men on both sides faltered, their heads turning skyward as the enormous beast swooped down, the sheer size of him blotting out the sun for a moment. Soldiers fell back in terror, their weapons dropping from nerveless fingers as the dragon descended, his presence altering the very atmosphere of the fight.

But Aerys—Aerys stood there, his wild grin widening into something manic, something grotesque. His eyes locked on Terrax, and he raised his arms high, as if welcoming the dragon with open arms. He laughed—high, shrill, and unhinged—and the sound cut through the noise of battle like a blade.

"Yes!" Aerys screamed, his voice filled with the kind of madness that sent chills down Rhaegar’s spine. "My dragon! My fire! Burn them all!"

The sight of Terrax, however, did not terrify Aerys. It excited him. The king was ecstatic, his body trembling with the sheer joy of it. To Aerys, the arrival of the dragon was a sign, a promise of fire and blood that he had been waiting for.

Rhaegar’s chest tightened—he knew this moment was coming, but seeing you there, riding the beast into the chaos, it became all too real.

With a sharp command, you urged Terrax forward, the dragon diving toward the battlefield. His wings cut through the air with terrifying grace, and with a powerful exhale, he unleashed a torrent of fire.

The flames poured forth like liquid death, consuming everything in their path. Enemy soldiers screamed as they were engulfed in the blaze, their bodies turning to ash in moments. But Terrax’s fire was indiscriminate—it did not care for friend or foe. Dornish men too, caught in the inferno, perished, their cries joining the cacophony of the dying. The ground beneath you turned to blackened earth, the heat so intense that it left nothing but charred remains in its wake.

Circling above, Terrax bellowed his fury, his wings carrying him higher again as you watched the battlefield beneath you transform into a hellscape of fire and destruction. Your heart pounded in your chest, but the voice that had always whispered in your mind had fallen silent. All that remained now was the heavy sound of Terrax’s wings and the crackle of fire consuming everything below.

From your vantage point, you saw him—Aerys.

The mad king stood in the heart of the carnage, his face twisted into an expression of pure ecstasy. His eyes gleamed with an almost supernatural delight as he watched the devastation unfold, utterly unfazed by the death and chaos around him. His lords, wild-eyed and half-mad themselves, stood close by, some shouting orders, others simply watching with equal fervor. But Aerys—he was in his element, drunk on the destruction Terrax had wrought.

Your stomach churned as you saw his gleeful expression, a sickness crawling through you at the sight of your father relishing the very fire that should have terrified him. This was what he wanted. This was what had driven him here, to the front lines of the skirmish.

Terrax, sensing your shift in mood, circled once more before diving down toward the heart of the battlefield. The dragon’s massive body slammed into the earth with a heavy thud, sending dust and debris into the air as his talons scraped against the ground. Soldiers scattered in terror, their courage crumbling in the face of the monstrous beast before them.

Terrax snarled, his head lowering, golden eyes fixed on Aerys, who stood unfazed, his expression twisted with manic joy. The dragon’s breath came in short, sharp bursts, the heat of his rage palpable, but Aerys merely tilted his head, as though Terrax’s presence was nothing more than a delightful spectacle.

You slid from the saddle, your feet hitting the scorched earth as you stepped forward, placing yourself between Terrax and the king. The tension in the air was thick, the smell of fire and death overwhelming. But your voice was steady as you spoke, loud enough to be heard over the crackling flames.

"You came here because of me," you said, your gaze never leaving Aerys’s face. "Well, here I am."

Aerys blinked, his wild grin faltering for just a moment as he focused on you, his daughter, standing before him. The madness in his eyes flickered, but the hunger remained. "My daughter…" he murmured, his voice carrying over the battlefield like the whisper of a storm. "You have finally come to me."

Terrax growled behind you, his massive body shifting restlessly, but Aerys was utterly unfazed, his attention fixed solely on you. The fires burned around him, the screams of the dying echoing across the battlefield, but for Aerys, there was only you—and the dragon.

From a distance, Rhaegar watched, his heart pounding in his chest. He could barely make sense of what he was seeing, the confrontation between father and daughter at the heart of the madness. Beside him, Oberyn narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening on the reins of his horse.

"Well," Oberyn muttered, his voice low and grim. "This is about to get interesting."

Rhaegar said nothing, his gaze locked on you, his sister, standing before the mad king, with a dragon at your back and fire in your eyes.

The battlefield still raged in the distance, but here, in the center of the carnage, it felt as though time had slowed. Terrax stood behind you, his massive frame looming, muscles taut, his golden eyes fixed on the mad king before him. Every breath he took came with a low, guttural rumble, a sound that made the ground tremble beneath your feet.

But your father—Aerys—seemed oblivious to the threat. His eyes, wide and glittering with that manic gleam you had come to recognize all too well, were locked on you. He stood there, his hair disheveled, his armor tarnished and ill-fitted. He looked more like a specter of the man he had once been than the king you remembered from your youth. And yet, despite everything, a flicker of the father you once knew seemed to remain. That glimmer kept you rooted in place, apprehensive to make the first move.

"Father," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but the word hung heavy in the air. The weight of that single word was unbearable, torn between loyalty and horror at the man he had become.

Aerys’s lips curled into a twisted smile, his hands twitching at his sides as if barely containing his excitement. "Yes, my daughter," he cooed, taking a step closer. "You’ve returned to me at last. My blood, my dragon child. You see now, don’t you? You belong with me, Y/N. The fire, the blood—it’s ours. You and I—together, we are unstoppable."

You took an involuntary step back, feeling the heat of Terrax's presence behind you. The dragon’s thoughts stirred in your mind, fragmented and wild, like a distant storm you couldn’t quite grasp.

"Blood burns. Blood sings."

The voice rippled through your consciousness, the words erratic and unsettling, but you kept your focus on Aerys, unsure whether the voice in your mind was warning you of him—or something else.

Aerys continued to move closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "You don’t need to fight, my dear," he purred, his voice soft and dangerously persuasive. "You were born of fire, just like me. The babe, I'll let it live if you wish—it will be our babe—and it will be the greatest of us. You see that now, don’t you? We will rise together, burn away the enemies that surround us, and rule forever. You, me, and the child."

Your stomach twisted, revulsion and sorrow battling within you as you took in his words. The insanity in his voice was undeniable, yet some part of you still hesitated. Memories of the father who had once cared for you, before the madness consumed him, flickered in your mind. He had not always been this way. He had once been a king, a father you had looked up to. But that man was long gone.

"Father," you began again, more firmly this time, though your voice wavered slightly. "I can’t go with you. You need to stop this. You have to see what you’re doing—it’s destroying everything. You—"

"Destroying?" Aerys barked, his expression twisting into one of disbelief. "No, no, my sweet. This is creation! Fire is life. Fire cleanses the world of its weakness, and from the ashes, we will rise stronger. You and I are the flames, my dear. And he—" He gestured wildly toward Terrax, his grin widening. "He knows it. Our dragon knows."

At the sound of Aerys’s words, Terrax growled low, his wings twitching in agitation. You could feel his dread building beneath your hands, his wild thoughts still swirling in the back of your mind.

"Beast, beast, beware the beast."

Your pulse quickened, the words creeping into your thoughts like dark whispers. Terrax was alert, and though you couldn’t fully grasp what was coming, you knew that something inside the dragon was stirring—something dangerous.

Aerys stepped closer, his hand outstretched toward you, as though to pull you into his madness. "Come with me, Y/N," he whispered. "Together, we will burn away the lies, the enemies. The throne is ours, and you are my daughter. My blood runs through your veins."

The moment his fingers brushed your arm, you felt a jolt of dread rush through you.

The grip of Aerys’s hand on your arm was cold, even through the heat of the battlefield. His fingers dug into your flesh with a desperation that sent a shiver of dread down your spine. The wild gleam in his eyes was unmistakable, a wildness that had long since consumed the man who had once been your father. For a brief moment, time seemed to slow, the world around you narrowing to just the two of you—father and daughter, locked in this terrible moment.

"You belong with me," he hissed, his voice low and urgent, a whisper laced with venom and longing. His eyes bore into yours, wide and unblinking. "You see it, don’t you? The fire, the blood. It is ours. Together, we can burn away the lies, destroy the enemies of our house, and build a new world. A world for us, for our bloodline. Can’t you see it, my daughter? Can’t you feel it?"

And for a heartbeat, you did see it. As Aerys’s grip tightened, a vision unfolded before your eyes—an impossible, twisted future. You saw King’s Landing in flames, the red and black banners of House Targaryen flying high above the ruins. Terrax circled overhead, his flames pouring down like rain, turning stone to ash and bone to dust. Aerys stood at the center of it all, his face lit with a sick, triumphant smile as the city burned around him. And beside him stood a woman, heavy with child—you. Your belly swollen with life, but your eyes hollow, empty of the spirit that once lived within them.

In this vision, you saw yourself as little more than a shadow, tethered to Aerys’s madness, bound to his vision of endless fire and blood. You saw the child he spoke of—your child—born into a world consumed by flames, shaped by Aerys’s obsession, doomed to carry the same curse of madness that had devoured your father.

"No," you whispered, the word escaping your lips before you could stop it. The vision twisted, darkened, and the suffocating weight of it pressed down on your chest.

The spell of the vision broke, and the battlefield roared back to life around you. Aerys’s face twisted with frustration, his fingers digging deeper into your arm, but his eyes were still alight with that same manic fervor. "You will come with me!" he demanded, his voice rising with hysteria. "Together, we will reign, Y/N! You will be mine, and we will—"

Before he could finish, a thunderous growl erupted from behind you. Terrax moved faster than you could think, his massive head snapping toward Aerys, teeth bared in a terrifying snarl. The dragon's fury rippled through the air, sending a shockwave of raw power that rattled the very ground beneath you. His golden eyes blazed with an intensity that bordered on pure rage.

"Father melts like a moon now. Mother shan't be pleased."

The fragmented thoughts of the dragon echoed in your mind, chaotic and wild, but they carried a clear warning. Aerys’s grip on you faltered for just a moment, his eyes widening in shock as Terrax advanced, the heat of his breath washing over you both.

With a surge of adrenaline, you yanked your arm free from Aerys’s grasp, stumbling backward toward Terrax. The dragon’s enormous tail whipped between you and your father, a clear and unmovable barrier, separating you from the man who had once claimed you as his own. Terrax’s wings flared, his teeth bared in a menacing display of protection.

Aerys staggered back, disbelief and fury etched into his features as he stared at you. "You dare to defy me?" he spat, his voice trembling with outrage. "I am your king! I am your father! You cannot run from this, Y/N. You cannot run from me!"

You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest, but the words that left your lips were steady, resolute. "I’m not running, Father. I’m standing against you."

His face twisted with anger, veins bulging at his temples as his hands trembled. "You—"

But before he could say another word, Terrax let out a deafening roar, the sound reverberating across the battlefield. It was a roar of defiance, of finality. The dragon’s eyes locked on Aerys, a growl rumbling deep in his throat, daring the king to take another step.

Aerys faltered, his eyes flicking between you and the beast behind you, confusion and betrayal flooding his expression. He had always believed you would return to him, that the blood you shared would bind you to him forever. But now, the truth was laid bare. You were not standing with him—you were standing against him.

Without another word, you scrambled onto Terrax’s back, your hands gripping the saddle tightly as you swung yourself up, the effort strained by the weight of your pregnancy. Terrax shifted beneath you, his wings unfurling with a powerful beat that stirred the dust at your feet. You could feel his tension, his anger, vibrating through your connection, but there was also a deep, unwavering sense of protection.

Aerys took a step forward, his face contorted with rage, but before he could make another move, Terrax launched himself into the air, his wings beating furiously as he lifted you skyward. The wind howled in your ears as the dragon ascended, leaving the battlefield—and your father—far below.

From the heights of the sky, you looked down and saw him, a small figure on the ground, watching helplessly as Terrax carried you farther and farther away. Aerys’s face, even from this distance, was twisted with disbelief and fury, his outstretched hand reaching toward the sky as though he could still pull you back to him.

But that was the answer he had sought since the night Arthur took you away to Starfall. Now, he knew—he had lost you.

As Terrax soared higher, the wind rushing past you, you glanced down toward the battlefield, where Rhaegar and Oberyn stood at a distance, watching the confrontation unfold. Rhaegar’s face was tight with worry, but there was also a flicker of something else in his eyes—relief. He had seen it too. The choice had been made.

You were no longer bound to Aerys’s madness. You were free, and so was your dragon.

And as Terrax carried you higher into the clouds, the fires of the battlefield fading beneath you.

Rhaegar watched from the rise as Terrax ascended into the sky, carrying you far away from the chaos of the battlefield below. His heart, already heavy with the weight of the rebellion, tightened further as he saw your silhouette disappear into the clouds. Relief warred with fear in his chest. You had escaped Aerys’s madness, but at what cost? How much longer could any of this last?

Beside him, Oberyn Martell shifted in his saddle, his dark eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and grim determination. "Well, that was quite the show," he muttered, his gaze trailing after Terrax as the dragon vanished. "Your father’s about to lose what little mind he has left."

Rhaegar remained silent, his thoughts tangled. His violet eyes were focused on Aerys, who stood below in the center of the battlefield, his face contorted in a twisted mask of rage and disbelief. Aerys’s hands shook at his sides, his body trembling with fury as he screamed into the void where you had been only moments before. The sight of the mad king losing control, now that his last desperate hope had flown from him, was both tragic and terrifying.

Aerys’s voice carried across the field, shrill and cracked. "Rhaegar!" he screamed, his voice filled with venom. "You traitor! You thief!" His words were nearly incoherent with rage as he pointed a shaking finger toward his son. "You will pay for this! You will burn! All of you will burn!"

Rhaegar clenched his fists, his knuckles white as he watched his father from the distance. The Dornish forces had already begun to pull back, regrouping in the face of the Crown’s disorganized retreat. Aerys’s men, no longer driven by their king’s madness, were faltering, unsure of what to do without their master’s unhinged orders. The skirmish was breaking apart, and yet Aerys remained, screaming into the void, his fury at losing you blinding him to the state of the battle.

"Look at him," Oberyn said, shaking his head in disbelief. "The king of ashes. He’d sooner burn us all than admit he’s lost."

Rhaegar’s lips tightened, his gaze never leaving Aerys. The sight of his father, reduced to this shell of a man, filled him with a deep, gnawing sadness. But there was no saving Aerys now. His mind had fractured long ago, and what remained was a man lost to madness, clinging to power through fire and fear.

Aerys continued to scream across the battlefield, his voice cracking as he raged at his son. "You will not escape me, Rhaegar! I will find her! I will burn you all! You cannot hide from me!"

But Rhaegar’s mind was no longer on his father’s threats. His thoughts were consumed with only one thing—getting you, his sister, and their mother, Rhaella, away from this nightmare. Away from the flames of Aerys’s obsession. Varys’s promise echoed in his mind like a lifeline, a whisper of hope in the darkness. The Spider had vowed to take them to Essos, where they would be safe, far from Robert’s rebellion, far from Aerys’s madness.

"Essos," Rhaegar murmured to himself, the word barely audible.

Oberyn glanced at him sideways, raising an eyebrow. "What was that?"

Rhaegar didn’t answer immediately. His mind was already moving ahead, planning. Varys had assured him there was a ship ready, hidden in the docks, waiting to take them away. You, the child you carried, and Rhaella. They could escape before the final blow fell, before Robert’s forces reached King’s Landing, and before Aerys burned it all to the ground.

"We need to leave," Rhaegar said finally, his voice low and tense. "This is all falling apart, Oberyn. My father will destroy everything. He will kill everyone—there’s no reasoning with him anymore."

Oberyn studied him for a moment, his usual smirk fading as he recognized the seriousness in Rhaegar’s tone. "You mean to run?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with curiosity.

"I mean to save my family," Rhaegar replied, his gaze hardening as he looked toward the horizon, where Terrax had disappeared with you. "Before it’s too late."

Oberyn nodded slowly, his expression darkening. "Then you’d better move quickly. Your father won’t stop until he’s torn Westeros apart, piece by piece."

Rhaegar turned back to the battlefield, his eyes locking on Aerys, who continued to shout at the retreating Dornish forces, his voice hoarse with rage. The mad king was a shadow of his former self, consumed by his obsession with you and the fire that had devoured his sanity.

Aerys pointed once more toward Rhaegar, his words garbled with fury. "You will burn, Rhaegar! You will all burn! The fire will take you all!"

But Rhaegar no longer cared for his father’s threats. His mind was set. The rebellion, the war—it all paled in comparison to the survival of his family. Aerys could burn himself and the world around him, but Rhaegar would not let you or their mother be caught in those flames.

"Let him rage," Rhaegar muttered, his jaw set with grim determination. "We’re getting out of here."

And as Aerys’s screams continued to echo across the battlefield, Rhaegar spurred his horse forward, his heart already focused on the future—on escaping this nightmare and finding safety across the Narrow Sea. The storm that was brewing would consume Westeros, but Rhaegar had already made his choice.

He would not let Aerys take them all down with him.

#asoiaf x reader #asoif/got #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #got #house of the dragon #hotd #arthur dayne x y/n #arthur dayne x you #arthur dayne x reader #arthur dayne #rhaegar targaryen #aerys ii targaryen #house targaryen

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cybrsan · 7 months ago

Text

Vignette: Duty — P.SH, K.HJ

STORY SUMMARY: For as long as he can remember, Seonghwa has dedicated himself to a single goal: making his father proud. To do so, he needs to win the Nightingale commendation, become the best of the best. But when he falls a step behind Hongjoong, he has to reconsider what it is he truly wants.

PAIRING: N/A, Seonghwa POV ft. Hongjoong (Future OT8 x Reader in main fic)

RATING/GENRE: PG-13 ; dystopian AU, steampunk AU

WORD COUNT: 11.1k

WARNINGS: Alcohol use (in a very unhealthy sort of way), self-deprecating thoughts and behavior, blood/injury, violence, strained father-son relationship, minor character death

A/N: This is the first out of six prologue stories that will be posted prior to the release of mine and Orion's main fic, Through The Darkness. Stay tuned for more <3

LINKS: ATEEZ Masterlist. Cross-posted on AO3. Story masterlist and glossary will be added once posted.

BANNER CREDIT: @kwanisms

General Elowen Nightingale makes for an imposing figure, dressed head to toe in military regalia. Her uniform is a stark white, not a crease to be seen, and decorated with numerous patches and medals that are a testament to her years of service and hundreds of battles won. Her honey-colored hair, streaked with silver, is pulled back into a perfect bun, and her piercing, grey eyes burn with an intensity that can make even the most hardened soldiers avert their gaze.

As she scrutinizes the crowd of cadets from behind her podium, Seonghwa finds himself having to make a conscious effort to maintain his position and not falter. His fingers itch to smooth out the non-existent wrinkles of his own—far less decorated—uniform, his heart pounding in his chest. He has been in the Vanguard Program for a few years now and has known her since he was a child, but he’s still not used to being in her presence.

Hongjoong snickers from his place beside him, whispering, “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Shut up,” Seonghwa hisses through gritted teeth, keeping his eyes trained forward. “The last thing I need is to get in trouble for talking out of turn.”

“You have no reason to be nervous, Hwa, seriously. You’re one of the best in the class.”

“Says the General’s favorite.”

“Well, yes.” Seonghwa doesn’t have to look at Hongjoong to know there’s a smug grin on his face. “But that doesn’t make what I just said any less true. You have as good a chance as any to get the Nightingale Commendation.”

The Nightingale Commendation is a tradition of 30 years standing, named after the General’s family who established the program. It is the highest honor that can be bestowed upon a young, eager cadet, marking them as the one to watch (or the one to beat, in the eyes of their peers). It’s a ticket to swift promotions and the most coveted assignments. Naturally, everyone wants it.

Seonghwa can hardly even imagine being considered for such an award. He wants it, of course he does; after all, his name means “to be a star,” so being the rising star of the Vanguard Program would suit him. Or so his father says. But the idea of actually standing at the general’s side, his first medal pinned to his jacket… it’s almost too overwhelming to bear.

Though he won’t openly admit it due to the risk of relentless teasing, Seonghwa does feel put at ease by Hongjoong’s words. He glances toward him, momentarily forgetting the fear of being reprimanded. Hongjoong’s gaze is still cast forward, though he seems completely unfazed by the general or her commanding presence. He’s always been confident in a way that Seonghwa envies.

Suddenly turning his head, Hongjoong’s eyes meet his. In the harsh light of the auditorium, they seem a shade or two lighter than their usual brown. He smiles, though it isn’t the teasing grin Seonghwa was expecting. Instead, it’s soft, reassuring.

“Let’s promise each other that no matter who wins, we’ll celebrate together. Deal?”

Heat rushes to Seonghwa’s face against his better judgment. He’s so used to their competitive banter that this show of such genuine camaraderie has taken him aback. Still, he agrees without hesitation. “Deal.”

With that, the knot of anxiety in his chest unravels near completely. Having someone else be so confident in his abilities, someone who is so outstanding in their own right, is deeply comforting. Before either of them can say more, General Nightingale’s voice booms over the speakers.

“Attention!” she demands, and Seonghwa would swear she’s looking directly at him. “The time has come to announce this year’s recipient of the Nightingale Commendation. As you all know, this award is not given lightly. The cadet who is bestowed the honor will have earned it through their hard work, unwavering courage, and dedication to the cause.”

Sweat prickles at Seonghwa’s temple, a lone drop dripping down the side of his face and disappearing underneath the neckline of his shirt. This is it.

“Over the past few years, I have seen growth in all 46 of you; the Vanguard class of 1018 has been one of the most promising in our history. And while many of you have exhibited extraordinary promise, there is one cadet who has consistently exceeded all expectations.”

She pauses for a long moment, her eyes sweeping over the crowd. It’s as if she wants to savor the anticipation and make everyone squirm for as long as she can. Seonghwa can feel his heartbeat picking up again, and he even sees Hongjoong begin to fidget out of the corner of his eye.

Her gaze lands on Seonghwa and, for just a moment, he lets himself believe. But she passes over him without hesitation and immediately, he knows. He closes his eyes and prepares himself for what she is about to say.

“Congratulations, Cadet Kim Hongjoong. Please come up to the stage and accept your award.”

Seonghwa’s eyes remain closed as applause erupts around him. Deep down, he’d always known this moment would come, always known it would be Hongjoong and not him. But disappointment is not an easy pill to swallow.

“Seonghwa?”

Hongjoong whispers his name, and Seonghwa comes back to reality, opening his eyes to meet his expectant gaze.

“Congrats, Joong.” And he means it. He can get over his own disappointment in order to celebrate his friend.

He brings his hands together, mustering up a smile as he watches Hongjoong take the stage. General Nightingale hands Hongjoong the framed commendation before shaking his hand firmly. She then pins the matching medal onto his lapel—his first medal—and allows the crowd to cheer for a few moments longer.

“Cadet Kim,” she begins. “You have demonstrated exceptional skills throughout your time in the program. You are an example to all cadets of what an elite member of the Vanguard should be. I am confident you will uphold the Nightingale tradition of excellence in service.”

Hongjoong’s face, lit up with pride, is something Seonghwa will fondly remember for a long time.

“You’re welcome to give a speech,” General Nightingale says, stepping back as she gestures to the podium.

“I want to share this honor with all of you.” Hongjoong’s voice is strong and unwavering as he addresses the entire class. “We are all the future of the Sector. We are in this together and I am honored to fight at your side.”

He pauses for a moment, his gaze landing on Seonghwa once again. “There’s someone in particular I want to acknowledge.”

The auditorium falls silent as everyone follows his line of sight. Seonghwa feels himself flush with embarrassment, but he can’t bring himself to look away.

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong says, his voice much softer now, as if he were speaking only to him. “You have been both my fiercest rival and my closest friend. Always there to push me beyond what I thought was possible, or to pick me up when I fall. This award,” he holds the commendation up in the air for emphasis, “Would not have been achievable without you. Thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Seonghwa feels like he might pass out from all the blood rushing to his head.

“And if you or anyone else brings up the fact I got so emotional, I’ll take you to the mat.”

Just like that, the tension is broken. Laughter and cheers erupt as the crowd surges to life. The noise is enough to break Seonghwa from the trance Hongjoong’s words had him under and he can’t help but laugh as well.

Hongjoong takes a final bow and steps down from the stage, receiving some congratulatory pats on the back as he walks back down the aisle. Seonghwa notices the general watching Hongjoong closely, her gaze alight with something he can’t quite decipher. A mixture of approval and curiosity, perhaps? Yet he barely has time to question it before Hongjoong reaches him and claps him on the shoulder.

“Bet you weren’t expecting that, huh?” he says, his grin widening as he scans Seonghwa’s flustered expression.

“Expecting what?” Seonghwa’s proud he doesn’t stutter. “That you have a sentimental side or that you would actually admit it in public?”

Hongjoong chuckles. “Hey, you’re the one that complains I don’t give you enough affection.”

“Still, I never would have dreamed of you publicly declaring your love for me,” Seonghwa teases. This banter is good—it’s what he’s used to. His heart finally settles in his chest.

Hongjoong rolls his eyes, the act belied by the softness that lingers in his expression. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“I’ll try not to.” Taking a deep breath, Seonghwa allows some of his sincerity to shine through. “All jokes aside… Thank you, Joong. Your words really do mean a lot. And I hope you know that they’re returned tenfold.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Before either of them can say more, General Nightingale reclaims her place at the podium. “Cadets,” she begins, her voice cutting through the clamor of the crowd. The room quiets almost instantly, and everyone returns their gaze to her. “As you all know, this ceremony isn’t just about the Nightingale Commendation. It’s about all of you and how much you have achieved over these past few years. Some of you will move on to other assignments, and some will have to report for further training, but all of you are part of what makes our Sector so great.

Hongjoong, of course, will become a member of the Vanguard Elite squad. Like all the past commendation recipients, he will be awarded Flight status, which gives him access to the most advanced machinery, classified assignments, and even travel outside of the Sector. Considering his outstanding performance throughout his time here, there is no doubt that he'll excel in his duties."

There is a momentary pause as she locks eyes with Hongjoong, and a curt nod of approval is exchanged before she turns back to the crowd.

“Alongside him, the top 5% of the class will also become part of the elite squad. We have evaluated the performance of these three cadets on various fronts: combat skills, strategic planning, adaptability, teamwork, and overall growth. The names I am about to announce are the individuals who have consistently excelled across these parameters. When I call your name, please join me on stage.”

If Seonghwa had thought the auditorium was silent before, it was nothing compared to the hush that fell over the room now. For a moment, he wonders if it’s possible Hongjoong might be able to hear his heart beating from his spot at his side. The general calls the first name. Not him. Second name. Also not him.

Then, finally, “Cadet Park Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa’s knees almost give out from underneath him. He wasn’t expecting this. He had been so focused on receiving the Nightingale commendation that he failed to consider the possibility of being in the top 5%—of still being part of the Vanguard’s most sought-after squad. In his shock, his gaze instinctively drifts to Hongjoong, who smiles and mouths, “I told you so.”

Walking on autopilot, he joins his new squad mates on stage. Surely, this must be enough to please his father. He may not be the best, but he is still among the elite; that has to count for something. Turning to General Nightingale, he bows slightly before shaking her hand.

“Congratulations, Cadet Park.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I present to you,” her voice rings powerfully through the auditorium once again, “the top 5% of the class, our Vanguard Elites!”

The rest of the class cheers and stomps their feet, the stage shaking from the force of it all.

“Moving forward, the remaining cadets will be assigned based on their individual strengths and overall rankings.”

She begins listing the remaining names, but Seonghwa is too lost in thought to hear them. He's on stage, a member of the Vanguard Elites, standing shoulder to shoulder with some of the academy's most talented cadets. He might still be a step behind Hongjoong, but surely that doesn’t matter. They’re still a part of the same squad, the same team.

“Our ceremony has come to an end. Congratulations to each and every graduate; you have all worked hard and should be proud of your achievements. To those who did not graduate—this should serve as motivation for you to work even harder in the future. Is that clear?” The crowd responds with a short cheer of understanding. “As always, we commit our hearts, bodies, and minds to service—”

“For the glory of the Sector!” The entire class finishes the alma mater in unison.

Seonghwa is flush with pride, standing straighter and more confidently than he ever has. This is it. This is what he has been working for. As the crowd erupts into a final round of applause, he takes in the sight before him: the sea of uniforms, the smiling faces, people hugging and congratulating one another. Everyone disperses, wandering off in different directions, presumably to go celebrate.

But Seonghwa only has eyes for one person.

Hongjoong approaches him, still beaming, and salutes him. “I’m excited to work with you, soldier.”

Seonghwa returns the salute. “You’re not sick of me yet?”

“Well…” Hongjoong draws out the word, letting it linger in the air for a moment before laughing. “No, not yet. We’ll see if that changes, though.”

Seonghwa wraps his arm around Hongjoong’s shoulder, pulling the shorter man firmly against his side as they continue to walk. “Oh, shut up. You confessed your love to me, remember?”

Hongjoong curls his lip. “Keep bringing that up, I dare you.”

“Cadet Kim.”

Seonghwa almost jumps out of his skin when the general speaks up from behind them. Hongjoong flinches slightly as well but has a much smoother recovery; Seonghwa never would have even noticed if he didn’t have his arm around him.

Hongjoong separates from Seonghwa and turns around, standing at attention. “Yes, General?”

“At ease. I need you to come with me to my office. There’s much we need to discuss concerning the commendation and the benefits you have been awarded.”

“Oh,” a glimmer of surprise crosses his face. “Of course. Hwa, I’ll see you later, okay?”

Seonghwa just nods, watching as the two walk away. A pit settles in his stomach but he tries to ignore it. He decides to head back to their shared quarters on his own, his footsteps bouncing off of the polished stone floor. He begins the careful ritual of removing his dress uniform, his hands shaking slightly as he undoes each button, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

While shrugging into a more comfortable shirt, Seonghwa glances at his nightstand and is surprised to find his aurvox lit, indicating he has a message waiting for him. He presses play and instantly tenses as his father’s voice comes over the speakers.

“Seonghwa. I watched the ceremony. Call me immediately.”

A wave of apprehension rolls down Seonghwa’s spine. In the message, his father’s voice sounds stern, almost frigid. It’s the voice he always uses when he is about to scold him, but surely that can’t be right. He got on stage and his abilities were acknowledged by General Nightingale herself. He made it into the Vanguard Elites. It’s not the commendation, but it’s still something.

He takes a deep breath, willing his hands to stop shaking as he returns the call. The aurvox rings once, twice, before his father answers.

“Seonghwa.”

“Father. I—”

“You didn’t win the Nightingale commendation.”

Seonghwa’s shoulders fall. Any excitement he may have been feeling, any pride, is instantly extinguished by those six words. “No. I didn’t.”

“You need to try harder. Your win this year was supposed to make up for your brother losing the commendation to that rusted piece of scrap from the Outer Sector.”

“I know. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry—be better.” Seonghwa isn’t even given the time to respond as his father continues, “We are going to host a celebratory dinner for Hongjoong. His mother will be there so I expect you to be on your best behavior. After all, if you can’t beat him, at least make sure to use him. He might be able to aid you in the future, and Sunhee has plenty of connections.”

Seonghwa knows his father wants him to agree, but he can’t bring himself to say those words out loud. Use Hongjoong? He’s his friend. He won’t do it. He can’t.

“Seonghwa?” His father’s voice sharpens and Seonghwa flinches despite being nowhere in his vicinity.

“Yes, sir. Of course.” His words sound strained, but his father doesn’t seem to notice.

“Good. I will see you tonight. Dress well.”

His father hangs up without even saying goodbye, signaling that the conversation is over. Seonghwa places his aurvox back on his nightstand and immediately flops face down on his bed, groaning into one of his pillows.

He can hear the distant sounds of the other cadets, their conversations and laughter drifting in through the thin walls of his room. But they seem a world away to him now. He wonders if he's supposed to be feeling elated, liberated from the years of hard work and all-nighters that led to this moment. Instead, he feels numb.

He’s not sure how much time passes before the door swings open and Hongjoong walks in, a grin on his face. “Hwa! Both the general and I got the invite to your father’s dinner party tonight. You won’t believe what she told me—” He stops short when he notices Seonghwa’s current state. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just tired. How was your meeting?” Seonghwa manages to muster up a weak smile, hoping it’s convincing enough. By the look on Hongjoong’s face, it’s not, but he doesn’t press for more information.

“It was good,” Hongjoong answers after a moment, his smile slowly returning as he begins to fill Seonghwa in on the meeting. He babbles on and on about all the different benefits he will be able to take advantage of, unaware of the bitter taste filling Seonghwa’s mouth.

Seonghwa listens, nodding at the right moments, but he finds it hard to fully focus. He should be focused on his friend, celebrating with him. Instead, all he can think of are his father’s words. “Use him.”

“Seonghwa?” Hongjoong’s voice breaks through Seonghwa’s daze. “What’s going on?”

Seonghwa’s gaze snaps back to him, seeing the concern written all over his face. He attempts a smile again but it feels more like a grimace. “I’m okay, really. Just… there’s a lot on my mind.”

Hongjoong moves closer, shrugging off his overcoat and draping it over a desk chair before taking a seat next to Seonghwa on the bed. Their knees brush and Seonghwa jolts, pulling his leg away slowly enough for it not to be noticeable. As much as he wants the comfort he knows Hongjoong can provide, he can’t allow himself to indulge. Not now.

“You know you can talk to me about anything,” Hongjoong says, voice gentle. “Yeah, we compete, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be there for each other. We’re in this together.”

“I know, Joong,” Seonghwa replies, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s complicated, that’s all.”

Hongjoong stays quiet for a moment as if searching for the right words to say. “My mom always used to say that sometimes it’s the most complicated things that help us grow. They force us to confront parts of ourselves we aren’t comfortable with.”

Seonghwa feels a lump forming in his throat, his eyes shining with unshed tears. How can he explain that the uncomfortable thing he’s confronting is not a singular part of himself, but who he is at his core? That it takes into question his very values of duty, family, and loyalty? He can’t.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he murmurs, wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Then, getting up, he heads over to the wardrobe in the corner of their room, pulling a bottle of some top shelf liquor out from behind a loose panel. They aren’t usually allowed to keep alcohol on site, but that hasn’t stopped most cadets. “How about a drink? We should celebrate.”

Uncorking the bottle, he pours two generous servings into crystal glasses and offers one to Hongjoong. Hongjoong hesitates, his gaze switching from the glass to Seonghwa and back again, but then he reaches out and takes the drink.

“To us?” Hongjoong raises his glass.

“To us,” Seonghwa echoes. He downs his drink in one go, the burn of it helping distract from his thoughts. The alcohol slides down easily, too easily, and he pours himself another glass.

“Careful,” Hongjoong warns. “Don’t forget we have that dinner later.”

“I remember,” he retorts, a little sharper than he meant to. It was only for a split second, his tone barely changed, but it’s enough for Hongjoong to pick up on it. He picks up on everything. Hurt flashes across his features and Seonghwa immediately backtracks, adding, “Maybe I just need a little liquid courage.”

“Liquid courage, huh?” Hongjoong sighs before downing his glass as well. “Just don’t get too drunk or you’ll leave me to face your father all alone.”

“Trust me, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

The opulence of the dinner party is overwhelming. Seonghwa expected it, of course, but still. Instead of being held in the Nexus Chambers like most work-related events, his father decided to host it in their manor which has been adorned with gold and crystal as far as the eye can see. Velvet chairs and couches have been set up to form intimate conversation circles while the occasional serving automaton weaves its way through guests to offer champagne and hors d’oeuvres. There’s even an auto-orchestra in the grand hall despite Seonghwa’s continuous complaints that their music is nothing compared to that of the street performers he heard during his mandatory field trip to the Outer Sector a few years ago.

He finds himself following from a distance as his father leads Hongjoong around the room, introducing him as the newest addition in the running for the title of the Symposium’s best and brightest. Everything he says is perfectly polished, enough to praise Hongjoong while simultaneously reminding everyone of his own affluence. Seonghwa can see Hongjoong’s discomfort, the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the polite, robotic nodding as he is passed from conversation to conversation. As a friend, he should intervene. As a jealous son, however…

He refills his glass.

At one point, Hongjoong walks over to him, a drink in each hand. He seems to hesitate for a moment before extending one to Seonghwa. “I just bumped into Wooyoung and his friend, Yeosang," he says, his mouth quirking up at the corners.

"You did?"

"They were with some new girl Woo has taken under his wing. I didn't catch her name, but apparently, she's the sister of the new Watch Master."

"Oh, them," Seonghwa sighs. "Watch Master Luxe, right? My dad won't stop berating my brother because of that whole situation."

Hongjoong takes a sip of his drink before answering. "Yeah, I know he still hasn't gotten over Junghwa losing the commendation to him."

"Let's not talk about it. But is that what you have in store? Watch Master Kim?"

"Shut up, Park."

That’s the only time Seonghwa gets to talk to Hongjoong before his father comes back into the picture, whisking him away. After that, Seonghwa’s descent into total, blackout levels of intoxication is swift, the drinking he did earlier in the night definitely not helping. His mind is fuzzy around the edges, making it hard to process what he’s doing or saying. He becomes a blur of motion, stumbling from one group of attendees to another, slurring his words and laughing at jokes that aren’t even funny.

The dinner bell rings and with unsteady legs, Seonghwa makes his way into the dining room. The table is long enough to fit 50 people on each side and is covered with more food than anybody could possibly eat. Guests begin to settle into their seats and he goes to join them, only to find that Hongjoong has taken his usual spot to the right of his father.

For a moment, Seonghwa stands frozen, the room spinning around him. That spot is typically the seat of honor, the seat reserved for whomever the patriarch of the family deems most worthy. First it belonged to his brother, and then it belonged to him. Now, it seems, it belongs to Hongjoong.

“Oh, Hwa,” Hongjoong begins to stand, sensing his distress. “Is this your seat? I’m sorry, Speaker Park said—”

“Hongjoong, please, I told you to call me Soohyuk,” Seonghwa’s father interrupts. “And you’re the guest of honor tonight, so you should sit at my right hand next to General Nightingale. Seonghwa can sit next to his older brother at my left. That’s alright with you, isn’t it Seonghwa?”

Seonghwa’s vision blurs momentarily as heat floods to his face. He tries to form words, but can’t seem to make a sound. It is as if his breath is trapped in his throat. The longer the silence stretches on, the harsher his father’s glare becomes.

“Seonghwa,” he repeats. It isn’t a request—it’s a command.

“Of course,” Seonghwa finally manages. “It’s fine.”

He slumps into the seat next to Junghwa, who claps him on the shoulder and whispers, “Guess neither of us are the favorite son anymore, huh?”

“Not funny, hyung.”

Junghwa scoffs, letting his hand fall back to his side. “I’m not trying to be funny. This is what happens—displease father enough times and you are easily replaced. Get used to it. I have.”

Seonghwa doesn’t reply, instead reaching for the glass of wine that is being served with dinner. His hand shakes a little as he does so, enough for his brother to notice. Junghwa raises an eyebrow at him but mercifully stays silent.

After piling some food onto his plate, Seonghwa can do little more than pick at it, the appeal completely lost on him. His tongue feels numb in his mouth and all he can taste is the bitterness of the wine. He watches his father converse excitedly with Hongjoong, his eyes shining in a way they never do when looking at him.

“Seonghwa, how have you been, dear?”

Seonghwa startles, so lost in his own thoughts that he almost forgot he would be expected to entertain guests. He looks up to see Hongjoong’s mother, Speaker Kim Sunhee, smiling at him from across the table. Even if the dinner wasn’t being held in honor of her son, she is still apart of the same council as his father and would have been in attendance anyway, yet he failed to consider she might try to engage him in conversation. She’s a pleasant woman, and at any other time, he would have been happy to talk to her, but tonight, he can barely hold himself together.

“I… I’ve been well, thank you.” He hopes he isn’t slurring his words too much. “And you, Speaker Kim?”

“Well, I’m thrilled! After all, my son has received such a prestigious award—I couldn’t be more proud.”

Seonghwa nods, plastering a polite smile on his face. “I’m sure you are. No one deserves it more than him.”

“Thank you for saying that. You’re very kind.” Her voice is soft with the kind of appreciation only a mother can have. Seonghwa can’t help but feel a twinge of envy; would his own mother have been as proud? “But I have to say, you’re a big reason my son is where he is today. You’ve been such a good friend to him, Seonghwa. He speaks very highly of you.”

The praise sneaks past his defenses, warming him from the inside out. For what may be the first time that night, he smiles genuinely. “I’m really happy to hear that. Hongjoong… he means a lot to me.”

His gaze involuntarily drifts to where Hongjoong is seated, his attention still occupied by Soohyuk. The light casts a warm glow on his profile, softening his features. For a moment, Seonghwa is captivated by the sight before the weight of his father’s order pulls him back to reality, and the guilt returns in full force.

“I can tell,” Sunhee says.

Before he can reply, his father stands, tapping his fork on his glass. “Everyone, can I have your attention please?” Once he’s sure that all eyes are on him, he continues, “As you all know, we are here tonight to celebrate the recipient of the Nightingale Commendation, Kim Hongjoong. I decided to host as he is a cherished friend of my son, Seonghwa.”

His father makes eye contact with him and smiles—that sick, twisted, vindictive smile. Seonghwa’s stomach sinks with dread.

“Before we continue, I feel it is only appropriate that he make a toast to celebrate his future squad mate’s accomplishment.”

The room falls silent, the air heavy with expectation. Seonghwa should have expected this, why didn’t he expect this?

“No pressure,” Junghwa says, a twisted sense of amusement in his voice.

Seonghwa glares at him before rising to his feet, swaying in place. He steels himself by gripping the edge of the table. His heart is pounding in his ears, his skin prickles with sweat, and the room seems to be closing in around him. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady both his hands and his voice as he raises his near-empty glass.

“To Hongjoong,” he begins. “To a friendship… a friendship that has meant so much to us both. And to… to a future that…”

His voice trails off, his words failing him. How is he supposed to toast to a friend he might betray, to a future that is so uncertain? He can’t, he can’t do this. His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass and suddenly, it cracks, shards digging into his hand.

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong gasps, shooting up from his seat. It almost seems as if he’s about to rush to his side, but Soohyuk stops him in his tracks. Hongjoong’s eyes narrow, but he obeys.

“Stay where you are, Hongjoong. Everyone, please excuse my son’s poor manners; it appears he has had too much to drink.” His father addresses the crowd rather than him. “Seonghwa, apologize and then go get yourself tended to.”

Seonghwa swallows hard, the taste of bile stinging the back of his throat. He barely notices the blood dripping down his fingers, staining the tablecloth red and pooling around shards of glass.

“I… I’m… I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I’m so very sorry.”

He bows his head before quickly turning and bolting out of the room, his vision blurring with tears. He barely makes it to the grand staircase before tripping over his own feet. His knees hit the ground with an audible thud, and he grabs the banister to keep from going down completely. He’s too far gone, too drunk and too devastated to get back up. His grip slackens and he lets himself slide down onto the bottom step, ignoring the bloody handprint he leaves behind.

Nausea roils his stomach, and that, combined with the hot tears streaming down his face, makes him want to retch. He places his head between his knees and takes some deep breaths. He vaguely registers that he should be worried about keeping up appearances in case a guest walks by, but it’s hard to give a damn about that when he feels like his world has turned upside down.

An automaton servant walks over and comes to a stop in front of him. Its glowing, mechanical eyes don’t show a hint of concern, but it wordlessly offers him a clean, white cloth. With shaking hands, Seonghwa takes it and wraps it around the wound. The fabric quickly darkens with his blood, but it staunches the flow enough for him to gather his composure.

He drags himself upright, leaning heavily against the banister. He hauls himself up the staircase, one agonizing step at a time. He isn’t particularly fond of the idea of staying in his childhood room, but going back to base and having to face Hongjoong might be even worse.

He stumbles into his room, the door creaking as it opens. Seonghwa sobers a bit as he’s hit with a wave of nostalgia, the unchanged interior reminding him of his youth from before he was a soldier. Moonlight peers in through the window, bathing his old desk in a soft, silver light. It reminds him of quieter, simpler times, hours spent studying in his room, playing with building blocks and paper dolls.

He takes a seat in his desk chair, and his eyes drift to the portrait of his mother hung above the fireplace. He barely remembers her face outside of what it looks like in the painting; she smiles down at him with a warmth he can no longer feel. Sighing, he takes a first aid kit out of one of the drawers and begins the familiar routine of treating his wound, years of muscle memory kicking in. He peels away the blood-soaked cloth, grimacing at the sight of the jagged shards of glass still embedded in his flesh. Gritting his teeth, he starts to extract each piece, ignoring the stinging pain that shoots up his entire arm. He sterilizes the wound with a stinging splash of alcohol and then hastily wraps it with a clean bandage.

Once he finishes, Seonghwa collapses onto his bed, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. He doesn’t know how much time passes before he is brought back from the edge of sleep by a gentle knock on his door.

“Go away,” he croaks, his voice barely audible as he speaks into his bedsheets.

The knock sounds again, more insistent this time. Seonghwa immediately tenses. Is it his father, coming to berate him further?

“Seonghwa,” a voice murmurs from the other side, the timbre so soft, so hesitant. It isn’t his father—it’s Hongjoong. A rush of anxiety and embarrassment shoots through Seonghwa at the thought of facing him, so he buries his face in his pillow and pretends he doesn’t hear.

The knocking persists until it becomes too much of a nuisance to ignore. “I’m trying to sleep, Joong.”

There’s a pause before Hongjoong responds. “I know. I just wanted to check on you. Can you open the door?”

“No. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

The knocking stops and, for a moment, Seonghwa thinks that Hongjoong really walked away. But then he begins to speak again.

“Okay. We don’t have to talk. But listen to me, alright? What happened tonight… I’m not upset, and I don’t blame you. What your father did to you, putting you on the spot like that, it wasn’t right. Especially with you being as drunk as you were. I…” His voice hitches and Seonghwa can almost hear the cogs turning in his head as he struggles with what he wants to say. “I should have stopped you from drinking that much. I knew something was bothering you, but I didn’t press you on it. That’s on me. Just know that I’m here for you. Whatever you’re going through, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Seonghwa bites his lower lip to keep his cries from becoming audible; Hongjoong is kind, too kind, and he doesn’t deserve that kindness. Not now.

A moment of agonizing silence passes before Hongjoong says, “I’ll just leave you to rest then. Goodnight, Hwa. I… goodnight.”

Months pass with Seonghwa avoiding Hongjoong whenever he has the opportunity. Between spending most nights sleeping at home instead of their shared room and investing himself in his new duties, It’s surprisingly easy. Even though they’re part of the same squad, Hongjoong is always on elite missions, carrying out confidential orders, or out to dinner with other high-ranking officials. Rarely do they go out on missions together, and when they do, there’s little time for personal talk as General Nightingale usually accompanies them.

It’s not that Seonghwa doesn’t want to make things better with Hongjoong—he does, truly. But every time he thinks about facing him, about bringing up that night, his stomach lurches with fear. He’s not ready to confront the guilt that still gnaws at him endlessly, not ready to face the gentleness he knows he will find in Hongjoong’s eyes.

It doesn’t help that his father, after inevitably finding out about their falling out, has been pressuring him every chance he gets to fix things. Not out of love or care, but because of the prestige Hongjoong now holds as a commendation winner and the connections he and his family have. If they do become close again, Seonghwa worries that, through him, Hongjoong will just become a pawn.

It’s a cold, winter evening when Seonghwa accidentally bumps into Hongjoong outside their quarters. He had just stopped in for a moment to grab a heavier coat, not expecting anyone to be there. Hongjoong is dressed from head to toe in his winter event uniform, the same striking red and black as usual but with synthetic fur lining the collar. He looks like one of the princes from the old-world storybooks Seonghwa’s nanny would secretly read to him when he was little.

“Hwa,” Hongjoong says, surprise evident in his voice.

“I was just leaving,” Seonghwa mutters, trying to move past him, but Hongjoong blocks his way.

“Please, don’t. We need to talk.”

Seonghwa worries his bottom lip, trapped between the desire to flee and the knowledge that Hongjoong is right and a conversation is long overdue; he’s been running for far too long. “Okay,” he agrees. “You’re right.”

Hongjoong walks into the room and Seonghwa follows. The space feels oddly unfamiliar to him now, even though it’s the place where they used to share countless meals and stay up late into the night talking. They sit down on their respective beds, the distance between them feeling far larger than it actually is.

“Hongjoong—”

“Seonghwa—”

They start to speak at the same time and immediately stop, cutting themselves off with awkward laughter. The tension eases, but only slightly. Hongjoong gestures for Seonghwa to begin first.

“I… I’ve been avoiding you,” he admits, his gaze fixed pointedly on the floor. “And I know that’s not fair. Especially not after the mess I caused at your celebration dinner. I—”

“Hwa, wait. You don’t have to apologize for what happened at the dinner. You were obviously hurting, and you needed someone. I should have been that someone for you. I’m sorry.” Seonghwa opens his mouth to speak but Hongjoong continues, “Wait. While I will apologize for that, and I don’t blame you for what happened that night, I am upset that you have been avoiding me. In fact, I’m livid. Since when do we not talk about our problems? I thought we were closer than this.”

The silence stretches on as Seonghwa struggles to form a reply. “You’re right,” he finally admits, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We… we are closer than this. I’ve just been so… God, I’ve missed you, Joong. I’m so sorry. For all of it.”

Hongjoong’s stern expression softens at that. “I’ve missed you too. More than I can say. Do you know how many nights I stayed out late, expecting to come home to one of your homemade dinners? Or to you nagging me about working myself too hard, or not cleaning up my side of the room? I didn’t realize how much I depended on you until you just disappeared. Maybe I should have appreciated you more, or—”

“No, no, you did more than enough for me. You are one of the only reasons I have made it this far, not just in the program, but in life. I mean, I was such a scared little boy before I met you, I—” Seonghwa takes a shuddering breath. “I still am. I was scared to death of what you would think of me after that night, scared of what my father might do, scared I would lose my position, lose you—”

Hongjoong jumps up from his bed, coming to sit next to Seonghwa so he can wrap him in a hug. “You won’t lose me. No matter what happens, no matter what anyone says or does, you will never lose me. Promise.” His grip tightens as he says this, as if to emphasize the sincerity of his words.

Seonghwa feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he buries his face into Hongjoong’s shoulder, refusing to let them fall. He just allows himself to be held, to soak in the comfort. This feels familiar—safe, like home.

“I don’t want to run away anymore,” Seonghwa says.

“Good, because I can’t bear you running away again,” Hongjoong replies, his voice barely audible. “Move back in. Please.” Something about the way Hongjoong says this sounds like a confession.

“Okay, Joong. I will.”

They spend the rest of the night talking, laughing, making up for lost time. They agree that they won’t discuss their achievements, that they’ll put aside their differences, and just try to go back to the way things were. Time moves on, and slowly but surely, it seems to work. The following weeks are a whirlwind of vigorous training, missions, events, and more training, yet there is an underlying sense of peace and contentment that had been missing for so long.

Occasionally, Seonghwa still feels a tug of guilt, especially whenever his father decides to make some offhand comment. But when that does happen, all he has to do is look at Hongjoong and remember his promise. He won’t let anything get in the way of their friendship again.

One night, months after their reconciliation, Seonghwa walks into their quarters to find Hongjoong asleep at his desk, the dark circles under his eyes relaying his exhaustion. The sight is a familiar one; he remembers the countless times in the past when he found Hongjoong in a similar state. He quietly approaches him, taking in the numerous reports and other documents strewn about.

As gently as possibly, he picks Hongjoong up and carries him over to his bed, laying him down on top of his blankets. He softly brushes a stray lock of hair from Hongjoong’s forehead, smiling down at him as he sleeps. He stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, his body relaxing further into the comfort of the bed. Seonghwa contemplates waking him to eat, certain that he hasn’t, but decides against it. He seems like he needs sleep more than anything. Heading to his own bed, he crawls under the covers, ready to get some rest of his own.

Another year passes in a blur, with both Hongjoong and Seonghwa falling comfortably into their new roles. Hongjoong rises in rank, becoming a sergeant, while Seonghwa focuses on his own responsibilities, earning a solid reputation amongst their squad mates thanks to his meticulous eye for detail. Throughout it all, they try to carve out time to spend together when they can, refusing to let things get as bad as they were before.

One night, they’re out to dinner with Soohyuk, Sunhee, and General Nightingale to celebrate a recent win in which they managed to dismantle part of a criminal ring based in the Scrapyard. One of the leaders was captured and detained, thanks to the general’s brilliant plan and the Vanguard Elite’s flawless execution.

“Seonghwa?” His father holds up a bottle of wine, gesturing to Seonghwa’s empty glass.

Seonghwa clenches and unclenches his fist. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Are you sure? It’s a fine vintage.” The smirk on his lips suggests it’s more than a simple question.

Hongjoong clears his throat and turns to General Nightingale, smoothly redirecting the conversation. “So, General, can you tell me more about the new opportunity you mentioned earlier?”

Elowen stirs in her chair, eyes shifting around from person to person before settling on Seonghwa. He gets the subtle feeling that this is something he isn’t supposed to know about.

“We’re starting a new program at the beginning of next year,” she says. “The Affiliates Assembly has worked out so well that we want to open up more opportunities for those who already have a place in the Symposium and Inner Sector.”

“And what do you want with my son?” Sunhee asks, eyebrows furrowing. “I think he has plenty of opportunities open to him already.”

“Certainly he does. But, he’s one of our strongest soldiers and he could be an asset—”

Soohyuk clears his throat, putting a stop to the conversation. “I think it is best if you finish this conversation later.” He glances at Seonghwa. “Not everyone here is privy to this type of information, after all.”

Seonghwa feels a pang of irritation at his father’s needless remark. Hongjoong shoots him a sympathetic glance from across the table and opens his mouth as if to say something before deciding against it. The topic switches to that of the new flu that seems to be sweeping through the Outer Sector. Soohyuk reassures everyone that he has spoken with the Outer Sector representative and it is being contained—it shouldn’t spread to anyone inside the Ring.

Seonghwa forgets about the conversation entirely, having not wanted to focus on it for fear of his jealousy rearing its head. At least until a few weeks later, when Hongjoong bursts into their bed room, the door slamming shut behind him. Seonghwa nearly jumps out of his skin, dropping the book he was reading onto his bedsheets.

“Joong—” Seonghwa stops short, the words dying on his lips as he takes in the sight of the man before him.

Hongjoong’s chest is heaving with panicked breaths, his eyes wide with a fear unlike anything Seonghwa has ever seen before. His hands are clenched into fists, shaking at his sides. He doesn’t seem to even process the fact that he isn’t alone in the room, beginning to pace as he mutters frantically under his breath.

“Fuck, what the fuck… I can’t… the fucking lab… cogbrains, all of them…”

Seonghwa can’t make out everything he says, but it’s enough to send a chill down his spine. He gets up, approaching Hongjoong calmly, carefully.

“Easy, Joong,” he says. “It’s alright. Tell me what happened.” Hongjoong doesn’t seem to hear him, still muttering. “Hongjoong, hey!”

Seonghwa reaches out and grabs his arm with a firm grip, forcing him to still. His touch seems to jolt Hongjoong back into reality and he whirls around to face him,

“Hwa?” he whispers. His voice sounds so broken, so terrified, so unlike the friend Seonghwa has come to know and love. It’s heartbreaking.

“Hey, you’re okay. It’s okay,” Seonghwa murmurs, pulling the shorter man into his arms.

Hongjoong stiffens at first, but then his knees seem to buckle from underneath him as he collapses into the embrace. A strangled sob escapes him, muffled against the fabric of Seonghwa’s shirt, the same shirt that he’s grasping onto so desperately.

“I’m not okay… It’s not… I can’t…”

“Shh, shh… I’ve got you.”

Seonghwa wraps his arms more tightly around Hongjoong’s trembling body, rocking him gently, his hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. Even after he finally calms down, something about him is still so on-edge. He refuses to tell Seonghwa what he was upset about, no matter how much Seonghwa pries.

“Hongjoong, come on! Is it confidential? Does it have anything to do with what the general mentioned a few weeks ago? Why can’t you tell me?”

Hongjoong takes a shuddering breath. “I just can’t, Seonghwa. The situation is too complicated. I need to figure it out on my own.”

“What happened to our agreement to handle things together?”

“This isn’t… it’s not the same. I don’t want to bring you into this mess, it’s dangerous.”

“I can handle myself just fine—you don’t have to protect me!”

Hongjoong just shakes his head, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He looks like he wants to say more but instead gets up and storms toward the door.

“Hongjoong!” Seonghwa calls after him, but it’s too late. The door slams shut behind him, leaving Seonghwa alone in the room.

In the following days, Hongjoong becomes a shell of his former self. He is silent and distant, avoiding everyone, especially Seonghwa. He disappears for hours on end, returning each time looking more drained than the last. Usually, around this time of year, he’d be talking about his upcoming birthday, pretending he doesn’t want anything while simultaneously dropping hints about the latest tech or some book he’s been eyeing.

Even without Hongjoong showing any indication of wanting to celebrate, Seonghwa is determined to do something to lift his spirits. He won’t let whatever secret Hongjoong is holding onto change their yearly tradition of celebrating together. So, he goes all out with the planning, and spends days scouring the Nexus shops for the perfect gift. He even debates heading to the pier to take a look at a different variety of items, but with the flu that has been plaguing the Outer Sector, that’s probably not the best idea.

He finds a leather-bound journal in an old-world antique shop, it’s pages yellowed by time but in perfect condition otherwise. Hongjoong loves to write, and he’s never owned anything quite like this. Seonghwa purchases it without a second thought, barely even glancing at the price. It’s perfect.

The morning of, Seonghwa comes back to their shared quarters at a time when he knows Hongjoong should be at training. His arms are full of decorations, and the journal is tucked safely away in a gift bag. He struggles with the door, having to balance everything on his hip in order to turn the handle, but when he finally manages to get it open, he freezes.

The room is empty.

Not empty as in Hongjoong just isn’t in there—empty as in every single trace of him is gone.

Seonghwa lets go of the decorations, dropping them to the floor with a resounding crash. Candles escape their packaging, rolling on the hardwood, disappearing under furniture. The journal lays abandoned next to a string of silver stars. He stares at the room in disbelief, taking in everything that’s missing. The usual clutter of papers on the desk—the clutter Seonghwa would always complain about—is gone. Hongjoong’s shoes aren’t haphazardly stashed in front of his wardrobe. His aurvox, his tablet, all of his devices are nowhere to be found.

He’s gone. Hongjoong is gone.

No, Seonghwa thinks. Maybe he went to another Sector on an urgent mission. Surely there’s a logical explanation as to why he would leave without saying anything. Seonghwa rushes out of the room, praying that General Nightingale will actually be in her office for once. The halls are eerily quiet as he sprints down them, and he can hear his own blood rushing in his ears.

Reaching the general’s office, he barely knocks, forgoing the usual protocol of waiting for her permission to enter. Elowen is seated at her desk, pouring over some files which she quickly closes upon his intrusion.

“Ah, there you are. I was hoping we would have a chance to talk.”

“Wait, before you say anything—do you know where Hongjoong is?”

She raises an eyebrow. “That is exactly what I was going to ask you.”

Seonghwa’s heart drops into his stomach, and his mouth goes dry. He has to wet his lips before asking, “But… but he was with you, wasn’t he? At training this morning?”

“No, he wasn’t,” she sighs and puts down her pen, rubbing her temples. “He never showed up for training today. In fact, he’s been MIA since yesterday.”

Seonghwa’s knees nearly buckle and he stumbles toward the nearest chair. He’s vaguely aware of Elowen saying something more, about how if Hongjoong isn’t found he’ll be marked AWOL, he’ll lose everything he has been working towards, so on and so forth. But he can’t focus on her words, not when he feels like his world is crumbling to pieces. Nothing he has ever felt, not losing the commendation, not what happened at the dinner, even comes close to comparing to the devastation he feels now.

One day turns into two, two into three, but Hongjoong never shows up. His family confirms that he has had no contact with them, and he is officially marked AWOL. Now, even if he does come back, he will never be able to return to the same life he had before.

Seonghwa’s initial shock turns into anger. How could he throw away everything he’s worked for? How could he abandon his responsibilities, his squad, his family… Seonghwa? How could he leave without so much as a goodbye? How could he break his promise? Each day, the betrayal and hypocrisy of it all festers, like a scab that refuses to heal.

To make things worse, the flu from the Outer Sector makes its way through the Ring, into the Inner Sector, the Symposium, and even the Nexus. It’s as if Hongjoong leaving started a chain reaction of unfortunate events. Soldiers are falling ill left and right, spending days or even weeks in the infirmary. The base seems to become quieter and quieter. At night, when Seonghwa lays in bed, alone in his room, it’s so silent that he feels suffocated.

One morning, one of his squad mates approaches him, a forlorn look on their face. “Hey, did you hear? Apparently Larkin is sick with whatever flu has been going around.”

Larkin is another member of the Elites, someone Seonghwa has grown quite close to over the past almost two years. The news is worrying—they still don’t know what’s causing the sickness, or what can cure it. Luckily, most people seem to recover with no lasting issues, but that isn’t much of a balm to his nerves. Maybe it’s because Hongjoong’s disappearance still feels so fresh, but the idea of anything happening to someone else he cares about makes him feel like he can’t breathe.

After he finishes up with his daily training routine, Seonghwa heads to the infirmary to pay Larkin a visit. It’s a cold, sterile place, the stark white of the walls and harsh lighting making everything seem so impersonal. The pungent smell of antiseptic fills the air, turning Seonghwa’s stomach. Trying to ignore it, he heads toward the reception desk, smiling at the woman working.

“Hi. I’m here to see a Mr. Ashwell?”

The nurse fiddles with the knob of her eyeglass, pupils moving rapidly as her eyes follow text only she can see. After a moment, she says, “Larkin Ashwell? I’m sorry, he’s in the restricted wing. No visitors allowed.”

“The restricted wing? Is this flu that contagious?”

She gives a non-committal shrug. “I’m just telling you what his file says, sir.”

“Oh… Well, thank you.”

He turns around as if to leave, but, when she looks away, he quickly slips down a side corridor. He can’t shake the nagging feeling that something weird is going on. If he leaves without seeing Larkin, he fears he’ll never get any answers.

He holds himself confidently, knowing that the key to deception is acting like you belong. He walks past all of the nurses and doctors with what he hopes is a determined look on his face. He nods at them, as if he is familiar with them, as if they should be familiar with him. Luckily, no one spares him a second glance, and he makes it all the way to the restricted wing with no issues. However, once he tries to open the door, an alarm blares.

“Shit,” he curses, glancing at the wall. He didn’t notice the ID reader.

Panicking, he backs away from the door, but it’s too late. Two guards turn the corner and spot him, looks of surprise crossing their faces; they’re both from his graduating class. He tries to explain what he’s doing there and, as sympathetic as they are, they can’t let him off the hook. He’s given a stern talking to from General Nightingale, as well as a warning that one more infraction on his record will terminate his status as a Vanguard Elite.

But the worst confrontation is, of course, the one with his father.

“Attempting to break into a restricted area? Must you continue to bring shame to this family? To me?”

“Dad—”

“Stop. If I hear about you doing one more thing—one more stupid, idiotic thing—the General will be the least of your worries. Do you understand?” His father’s voice is laced with pure venom and Seonghwa can’t help but flinch. “I said do you understand?”

Seonghwa bows his head, making himself seem as small as possible. “Yes, sir. I do.”

He should stop there. He should listen to the general’s warning, to his father’s. But whenever he tries to sleep, his thoughts go haywire. He remembers Hongjoong’s fear, the secret he was holding onto. He thinks about Larkin scared, alone, sick with some unknown disease. He can’t just do nothing.

And so he returns to the infirmary no more than a day later.

The same nurse is stationed at the desk and Seonghwa ducks around a corner, waiting for an opening. He’s learned his lesson—running into this blindly won’t get him anywhere. He doesn’t know how long it takes, but eventually she leaves to go check on a patient. He hurries up to the desk, grabs a spare ID card, and throws it around his neck, heading back to the restricted wing.

This time, he's ready. He scans the ID and the door opens with a satisfying click. He slips inside before anyone can see him. The restricted wing is dimly lit and eerily silent, save for the rhythmic beeping of machines. He searches everywhere for Larkin, looking at every bed, ducking his head into every private room, but he’s nowhere to be found.

Eventually, a doctor walks up to him, a questioning look on their face. “Excuse me, can I help you?”

Seonghwa’s heart jolts but he tries to temper down his panic. Confidence is key. “I’m looking for Mr. Ashwell.”

They activate their eyeglass, and, after a moment, confusion crosses their features. “Hm, it doesn’t look like we have a patient here by that name.”

“What do you mean? I was just told that he was in the restricted wing.”

“I’m sorry, but there must be some sort of mistake. I can go talk to my supervisor and see if we can get this all cleared up for you.”

Seonghwa shakes his head. He shouldn’t press his luck any further. “No, no, don’t bother. It’s fine. Thank you for your help.”

Feeling defeated, he leaves the infirmary, dropping the ID card on the floor near the reception desk to make it look as if someone had just misplaced it. He feels a prickling sensation of unease as he walks out into the crisp night air. The base is nearly deserted at this hour, save for the on-duty guards standing watch and a few people prepping for early morning drills. He pulls his collar up against the bite of cold and heads back to his quarters.

It all seems too suspicious: Hongjoong is AWOL, Larkin is sick with some mystery flu yet missing from the infirmary… Something is going on. It can’t be a coincidence.

The next day offers no respite from Seonghwa’s worries. General Nightingale sends out an announcement to everyone’s aurvox—Larkin is dead. The news hits him hard, knocking the breath out of him. He can hardly make sense of it. The illness, as far as he’s aware, hadn’t killed anyone. Why now?

He can’t stand not having any answers, so he goes to the one person he knows who should. His father. Soohyuk’s position as a Speaker means he has access to information few others possess, or at least that’s what he always boasts. Normally, Seonghwa would avoid his father at all costs, and the idea of depending on him for any kind of help doesn’t sit well with him. But he can look past his father’s misgivings for something this important.

He finds his father nursing a glass of whiskey in his study, the amber liquid catching the light in a way that makes it seem to glow. Soohyuk raises an eyebrow at his entrance.

“Seonghwa. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Dad. I need answers. About this flu. About Hongjoong. You have to know something.”

Soohyuk looks at him thoughtfully as he takes another sip of his drink. He doesn’t say anything for a long minute, and Seonghwa fights the urge to squirm under his gaze.

“I know a lot of things,” he finally says. “But that doesn’t mean I can share all of them.”

“Someone is dead! If you know something, you should feel obligated to do something about it!”

“The world is full of death. There’s nothing I, or anyone else, can do about that.”

His father’s cold response sends a chill down his spine—Seonghwa can’t believe how callous he is. But he can also tell that he is trying to avoid something.

“There’s something more going on, isn’t there?” he asks.

Soohyuk puts down his glass, standing up and brushing invisible specks of dust off of his pants. “I think we’re done here.”

Something inside Seonghwa snaps. He walks up to his father, getting in his face. “Stop! Stop treating me like a useless child! I am a soldier, a member of the Vanguard Elite squad—tell me what you know!”

Soohyuk finally loses it, pure rage slipping past his mask of indifference. He grabs Seonghwa by the collar, slamming him against the wall and knocking the wind out of him. “Fine. You want answers? You’re right. There is something big happening. Something that I cannot tell you about. Maybe if you got the commendation instead of your friend, you’d be able to be a part of this.”

“I’m your son! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“You are not my son. A child of mine would never be so weak.”

With that, he lets Seonghwa go, leaving the room without sparing him so much as a second glance. Seonghwa falls to his knees, gasping for breath. His back throbs from where he hit the wall, and he’s certain that there will be a nasty bruise there come morning.

For a moment, just one moment, he considers letting it all go and falling back into the role of an obedient soldier and son. But after everything that has happened, he can’t. Determined, he returns to his room and starts to pack.

He waits for an opportunity, and it comes in the form of a mission in the Outer Sector. The job is a simple one, something about discontented citizens and potential rebellion. It’s the Vanguard’s job to make sure nothing goes awry. But that’s not what he’s there for. Not this time.

With the rest of his squad distracted with their orders, he slips away from the group, putting his stealth training to good use. He sticks to alleyways and small, unlit streets, moving farther toward the outside of the Sector. The buildings become more and more dilapidated, some even missing parts of their walls or roofs. He feels like he never truly realized just how stark of a difference there is between the comfortability he grew up in and the harsh reality of those not as lucky. But his eyes are open to it now.

There’s something wrong in the Symposium. Something wrong with everything he has ever known. And if he doesn’t try to get to the bottom of it, who will?

He takes some materials out of his pack and, after some careful manipulation, creates what he hopes is a realistic looking fight scene. Signs of a struggle, torn clothing, even his Nexus ID thrown haphazardly on the ground. All that’s missing…

Seonghwa cuts open his palm, letting out a hiss. He clenches and unclenches his fist, encouraging more blood flow. He smears it on the clothes, on the ground, until enough of him has been left behind to paint a convincing picture. He knows this is it. There’s no going back from this, not after what he’s just done. Not that he wants to. He feels oddly free, despite the pain throbbing in his hand and the uncertainty of his future.

Bandaging the cut, he starts moving again. He knows there’s one place he can go where no one would ever think to look for him. The Scrapyard. A place for all of the Symposium and Inner Sector’s trash, broken technology and rusted metal. He thinks most of the upper class has forgotten that it even exists. He knows he has to be careful there, since it is a place home to scavengers and outlaws—people hardened by years of living in the underbelly of society. But he also knows it is a place where it is easy to disappear, to start anew.

Pulling his hood up over his face, he steps past the threshold, a small entrance hidden by piles of discarded machinery and rubble. As he moves deeper inside, scrap turns into ramshackle buildings. Surprisingly, it’s not nearly as dismal as he imagined. There's a strange charm to the place, with twinkling string lights hung between stacks of old cargo containers, casting everything in a warm glow. He stumbles upon an open area where a market bustles with activity, despite the late. Even some children run by, chasing a dilapidated automaton that zips through the dust.

As he ventures further, he finds himself at a makeshift bar, crafted from old metal panels and street signs. The bartender is a burly man with a wild mane of hair and a scar over his left eye.

"You’re new here,” he observes, wiping down a cracked glass. "Name's Brio. What can I get ya?”

“How about a place to stay?”

He gives a hearty laugh and looks Seonghwa up and down. "Ain't much for lodgin' here, pal. The 'yard ain't exactly a popular vacation spot. But there's always someplace to squeeze in if you ain't picky.”

“I’m not picky.”

“I find that pretty hard to believe, lookin’ at ya. You seem like the Inner Sector type.” Brio squints at him. "On the run from something or someone, are we?"

“I just need a place to lay low for awhile, that’s all.” Seonghwa raises an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

Brio grins at him, showcasing his missing front teeth. “Not at all, kid. Welcome to the Scrapyard.”

Somewhere, a stolen letter sits in a locked drawer.

To: Hwa

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fuckyeaharthuriana · 2 months ago

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What will you find in: The Last Knight of Camelot: The Chronicles of Sir Kay (Cherith Baldry)

Going back to the old series of "arthurian short stories" I used to do, where I write a brief summary about the short stories you can find in an arthurian collection.

"The Last Knight of Camelot" (goodreads) is a collection of 15 stories, the majority previously published in different magazines and collections and 5 completely new stories. All stories are very Malory-like and all revolving around Sir Kay (and they are high in whump). Gawain, Gareth, Arthur and Lancelot are the main other recurring characters.

The king who is to come (from "Legends of the Pendragon")

The story is set before Arthur finds out he is the son of Uther. It is kind of bittersweet, less adventurous than the others and it follows a hunt where Arthur and Kay have time for some reflection.

The Pendragon Banner (new story)

A fascinating magical story of the dragon in Arthur's banner at the battle of Badon.

Seeds of Destruction (new story)

Kay narrates to Gareth and Gawain of the night Morgause visited Arthur to seduce him. Probably my favorite among the whole book, as it also explores Kay's feelings towards an Arthur who is adapting to his role as king.

The Knight of the Kitchen (new story)

More on the adventure side, Kay and Gareth face some mercenaries and need to save Arthur and the castle.

Sir Kay's Ring (from "Sierra Heaven" magazine)

A fight between Kay and Arthur lead to disastrous game of chess.

Hunt of the Hart Royal (from "The Chronicles of the Holy Grail")

Kay wins the royal prize of a magical hunt and his reward is giving a kiss to the most beautiful lady, which usually ends in discord and anger among the knights.

The Avowing of Sir Kay (from "Paradox" magazine)

Driven by a wounded pride, Kay promises to Lancelot and the rest of the knights that he won't come back until he accomplishes a deed bigger than all their knightly deeds.

Sir Kay's Quest (from "Round Table Publications")

A mysterious woman brings to camelot a cloak that is able to reveal the true nature of whoever wears it, her intent is clearly to let Guinevere and Lancelot accept the challenge.

A Gift for King Arthur (from "Bardic Runes")

Kay is challenge to bring to Arthur a gift that could win the king's favor.

King Arthur's Ransom (from "Scheherazade")

Arthur is in trouble and the only way to free him is through trickery and dishonor. Of course, Kay takes this quest for himself.

The Flower of Souvenance (new story)

A maiden requests for a knight to save her lady, offering a flower that would make them knight invincible.

The Trial of Sir Kay (from "The Chronicles of the Round Table")

Kay is tricked into accepting a trap masked as a quest.

Sir Kay's grail (new story)

A bittersweet story that foreshadow the fall of Camelot. Arthur, Kay and Gawain are searching for a magic quest, in a world that increasingly seems to have forgotten magic.

A very short story about the changing court of Camelot.

In the Forest Perilous (from "The Doom of Camelot")

The Last Knight of Camelot (from "The Sharkti Vanguard")

A heartbreaking tale of Kay as one of the last survivors of Camlann. Probably my second favourite in the whole collection.

#sir kay #kay #gawain #lancelot #arthurian legend #books #recs #arthurian short stories

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 9 months ago

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OK, people were very nice to me yesterday about my latest absurdly niche blorbo: Guthláf of Rohan. I wrote a little story about him (it's below and it's only 500ish words). But I feel like I can't post it in isolation without explaining myself a little better first.

The fact that he's Théoden’s banner bearer is the only detail about Guthláf’s life in the canon. But just that by itself was enough to grab my interest because I took a class on ancient warfare in college, and one of my major takeaways was that the flag bearers were often the bravest and most selfless guys in a battle. They were highly visible, highly vulnerable, and highly prized as a target for the enemy. That's not an encouraging combo, and they had an appallingly high casualty rate. And yet, the ones who pursued it did so willingly and considered it an honor!

Although Guthláf's name literally means "battle survivor", he did not avoid the flag bearer’s usual fate. He’s listed among the fatalities at the Pelennor Fields (along with Halbarad, the only (?) other named flag bearer in the books). So I wrote the drabble-ish story below about Guthláf’s experience of his own terrifying job. (I also, of course, have a full head canon about his personal life—how he spoke Rohirric with a rural accent that stood out in Edoras, how the early loss of his family drove him toward recklessness, how he was maybe in love with fellow obscure blorbo Wídfara, etc.—if anyone is interested! And I decided that he's the tall, blonde drink of water on the left below, who I believe is otherwise unnamed and is too young to be Elfhelm or Erkenbrand.)

Anyway. Story (ish) here:

Alone among his éored, Guthláf carries no weapon. In his left hand, he holds his shield, his one and only means of protecting himself; in his right, he carries his banner, a charging white horse on a field of deep green that whips furiously in the cold wind above his head.

Alone among his éored, Guthláf does not strike blows. His war is fought not with strength of arms but with strength of spirit. He has only to keep himself going long enough to let his banner do its work. To signal the direction of the charge and mark the vanguard of the attack. To be the rallying point around which scattered troops coalesce. To lead the way, like a torch in the dark, so that those behind know where to follow. He has only to keep that banner flying, set high and stark against the cool blankness of the winter sky, so that every Rohirrim heart can see that they are yet unconquered, that victory still lies ahead.

Alone among his éored, Guthláf can never hide or blend in. His banner draws the eyes of foes just as easily as friends. His every move is visible. Noted. Tracked. Hunted. The hope he kindles in his fellow riders is equaled by the hatred he inspires in their enemies, and there is no greater blow such an enemy can strike than to bring him down, to achieve with the death of one man the turning of a tide that can change the fate of thousands.

Alone among his éored, Guthláf has no hope that he will survive unscathed to see old age. Banner bearers don’t last long in times of war, and Guthláf is his éored’s fourth bearer in five years. He has only to walk the streets of Edoras to be confronted with the reality of how the lucky banner bearers end their days–empty sleeves tied up where an arm used to be, angry red scars across unprotected faces and necks, canes and crutches that will never fully compensate for crushed legs, twisted spines, shattered hips. The unlucky ones end instead in hastily raised barrows, resting eternally in the sometimes distant and friendless lands where they finally slid from the saddle, bloodied and broken and desperately looking for a loyal hand into which they could pass the banner before everything went dark at last.

And yet, Guthláf wanted this job. He fought for this job. It means everything to him. Because even as he rides to his death, charging into battle on his gray warhorse with his banner streaming brilliantly in his wake, he has never felt more alive. He has never felt so much bigger than himself. When he carries his banner, he is no longer just Guthláf, son of Hulac. He is instead the spirit of Helm, and Eorl, and Frumgar and all the great warriors of old. He is the sound of thousands of hoofs thundering together across an open plain. He is the sight of the jagged white peaks towering over the lush green and gold grasses of the Mark. He is Rohan itself, not just a man but an idea. And an idea can never be slain. When he carries his banner, Guthláf becomes immortal.

#lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien #rohan #guthlaf #guthláf #barely canon favorites #obscure lil’ blorbos #forth eorlingas

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one-divides-into-two · 10 months ago

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Though other classes and social sections will be important partners in the historical movement to destroy capitalism (its highest stage of imperialism) they cannot provide leadership. In each instance the issue of liberation is specific – land in the case of landless peasants, caste oppression for Dalits, male chauvinism for women, ethnic oppression for Adivasis, national oppression for oppressed people, religious persecution for minorities and so on. Being specific they are also partial, in the context of the whole revolutionary project. But this is not the situation of the proletariat. Capitalist bondage is different from earlier exploiting systems like caste-feudalism. It imposes no other compulsion on the workers other than the pangs of hunger. And since, in principle, they are free, there can be no specific liberation suiting them. Every form of exploitation and oppression must be ended. Thus the emancipation of the whole of humanity becomes a precondition for the liberation of this class. The leading role of the proletariat derives from this objective social position. It obliges the proletariat to continue the revolution all the way up till realising a world rid of exploitation.

If this Marxist understanding of proletarian leadership is absolutised it would certainly lead to reification. Both the history and present of the international communist movement illustrate how this emerges with mechanical equations, where proletariat = revolution and communist party = vanguard. On the other hand, economist impulses often seen in the upper strata of the proletariat, social passivity engendered by revisionist, reformist politics that strengthen this economism, and changes seen in the nature of labour and work places, have given rise to views that abandon the proletarian leadership concept. Carried away in the tide of identity politics, they believe that, in future, these movements will give leadership to social change.

Thus we have the two. At one end, reification of the proletariat and the communist party, selfishness that hoists this banner to justify fleeting necessities as common interests. At the other, the lethargic plea to reduce our sights to the partial, to abandon the noble task of an exploitation free world since it is a mere myth. Maoism cuts through this vicious circle. The leading role of the proletariat and the vanguard position of its communist party are potentialities contained in historical circumstances. They can only be realised through creative intervention in the historical moment of a specific society. Similar to other phenomena, this too is a unity of opposites

Ajith, On the Maoist Party

#ajith #maoism

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synnthamonsugar · 27 days ago

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DESTINYTOBER: Day 28 - Found Family

Read it on AO3

. . .

Under a flawless blue sky, Zavala, Ikora Rey and Cayde-6 stride three abreast into the Midtown crucible arena. Fans crowd into safely-distanced stands, their cheers blurred together into a low roar.

"I still can't believe the two of you talked me into this." Zavala's deadpan is belied by the faint upturn at the corner of his lips.

Basking in the attention, Cayde twirls Ace of Spades as he swaggers forward. "We fought a god. And won! You can withstand a little mano y mano."

"Besides, it's for charity," Ikora reminds, Invective held proudly in her hands. An occasion this special called for the best in her personal armory. "Shaxx is thrilled to have us. Near-record for ticket sales, he says."

"I can't recall ever seeing the seats so packed."

"I can," Ikora boasts. "Game twenty-five of my win streak. Standing room only."

"I missed your Crucible stories," Cayde says sotto-voice, holstering his cannon to pat the Warlock on the shoulder. "You'll have to get me caught up."

Expression softening into something more wistful, she slings her shotgun over her back and returns his gesture. "There isn't much to catch you up on … not with everything happening."

"That just means we'll make new stories together today," says Zavala, patting Ikora on the opposite arm.

Approaching the center of the arena, they link hands — lifting them overhead to a wave of rambunctious applause from the audience and the swell of triumphant drum music from a small marching band as they approach Lord Shaxx, master of today's ceremonies.

Holding the microphone to about where his mouth would be beneath his helmet, Shaxx speaks. The stands quiet to anticipatory murmurs.

"Hailing from Tower North, Last City, our first team requires no introduction. Please give a warm welcome to your Vanguard: Commander Zavala, Ikora Rey, and the newly returning Cayde-6!"

Ear-splittingly loud despite the distance, cheers erupt from the stands — as do banners, flags and hand-written signs bearing words of encouragement.

From the other side of the arena, the opposing team begins to file in.

"Our first challenger should be known by all. Originally from Old Russia but joining us today from Empress Caiatl's War Council, make some noise for Lord-Valus Saladin Forge!"

The crowd responds in kind, nearly drowning out Shaxx's booming voice over the P.A. as he enters.

"Vanguard," Saladin smiles, walking down the line to give each a warm greeting.

He pauses at Zavala, clapping him on the pauldron. "It's been too long since we've spared."

"It has indeed," Zavala replies with a return of his gesture. "I look forward to it."

As he circles back and takes his place opposite, hands clasped at the hilt of the battleax drawn before him in a picture of knightly valor, Shaxx announces the next contender.

"Originally from —" a pause as he checks his notes, " — and hailing now from a utility closet in the Tower Annex; don't tell the Vanguard! Drifter is here!"

Appropriate to his notorious reputation, hisses and jeers join the raucous cheering. Drifter struts with a wide grin and hands held aloft, working the crowd effortlessly.

"Finally get to settle up with you over that twenty-thousand glimmer bar tab you stuck me with when you croaked," Drifter chuckles as he sizes up Cayde, drawing him into a surprisingly familiar handshake. "Hah — just messin' around. I cut my losses on that years ago. It's good to have you back, buddy."

"Word on the street's you've been the resident smartass in my absence," Cayde responds, pulling him into a half-hug. "I'm glad I had you to carry the torch. But I'll be taking it back now."

Drifter saunters next to Saladin, flipping a coin across his knuckles to increasing frenzy from the audience.

"Last but certainly not least — making her crucible debut, and representing the Lucent Brood all the way from the Throne World, welcome the Guardian of the Pale Heart: Luzaku!"

The Lucent wizard approaches with a flourish of her arms, the swarm of incandescent moths that orbit adding to her ethereal appeal. The enthusiasm from the crowd is barely contained, clumps of attendees jumping up and down in the stands, others gesturing with heart-shaped hand-signs. Handshakes aren't a part of hive culture — wouldn't work even if it was, given the disparity in height — but she greets each of her competitors personally.

"Ikora Rey! I've read so much of your work on circles — we all have. It's an honor to meet you, and a thrill to face you in the Crucible."

"The honor is mine," Ikora responds. "I admire your defense of the Traveler and the Light. Your bravery at the final battle won't be forgotten."

She flits over to her team, towering above them.

"Now if you'll excuse us, me and the band are going to seek cover! When I give the signal, the competitors may retreat to their positions, and the match shall begin!"

"Regardless of how I feel about participating in spectator sports, there's no place I'd rather be than at the sides of the finest Vanguards to ever serve — " Zavala says, " — and more importantly, my best friends."

"Cheers to that," Cayde agrees.

Ikora's smile shines as bright as the late summer sun, and infectious as the crowd's enthusiasm as it spreads to her teammates. Crowd silent with anticipation, they ready their weapons and prepare to move out as they await the opening shot from the Crucible Handler.

#DESTINYTOBER24 #destiny 2 #commander zavala #ikora rey #cayde-6 #lord shaxx #saladin forge #the drifter #luzaku

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thefirstknife · 1 year ago

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rip gambit you will be missed 😔

Don't even know what to say tbh.

For those that don't know, the big State of the Game article came out detailing incoming changes and adjustments and all the big stuff. Gambit was mentioned! But at what cost. Basically, they are ceasing any kind of support for Gambit. What we have now is what it is. We will get the Dreaming City map back in TFS and they will add Shadow Legion and Lucent Hive as enemy factions in TFS. That's all.

Full text:

As many of you have noticed, we’ve been quiet on Gambit since last year’s overhaul that launched alongside The Witch Queen. In that revamp, the team made significant changes across five categories in Gambit: core activity fundamentals, Primeval tuning, invasions, ammo economy, and rewards. Unfortunately, these updates didn’t move the needle for player engagement. Although we know our Gambit fans mostly care about new or returning maps, this is an area of the game with lower engagement that would take resources away from more popular parts of the game to shore up. While we don’t have plans to dedicate more resources to significantly transform Gambit, we do have a few updates planned for the year of The Final Shape. These include porting the Cathedral of Scars map and its beautiful Dreaming City setting into the latest version of Destiny 2, as well as adding the Shadow Legion and Lucent Hive enemy types.

I don't know how to tell you this Bungie, but the reason "engagement is low" in Gambit is because Gambit sucks. Ever since half of it was removed with DCV, it just sucked. It has no variety, the gameplay is largely busted, it's not sufficiently updated, ammo changes suck, invasion cycle sucks (why is the enemy even getting a portal when their Primeval is at 5% health and the other team is still in mote collecting phase is beyond me), there are no cool armour sets to chase (just look at Iron Banner and Trials stuff, imagine dedicated cosmetics) and finally there are simply no weapons that are worth anything. Both Vanguard and Crucible have more weapons and also adept versions. There is zero reason to go into Gambit without major changes to Gambit. And now with the further changes to how playlists and challenges will work, there will be even less reason to go into Gambit. Observe:

Before then, we’re making Gambit entirely optional to maximize your rewards unless you’re looking for a piece of gear that’s specific to the mode. Gambit will continue to serve as a source of Exotic engrams via weekly challenges, though as we mentioned above, you’ll be able to complete all your weekly challenges in any ritual you’d like starting in Season 22. If you want to stick to Vanguard or Crucible challenges without touching Gambit, now you can. We’re also reducing the number of Gambit-specific Seasonal Challenges starting in Season 22, so players won’t need to bank motes to be able to earn that big purse of Bright Dust for completing nearly every challenge in the Season. Finally, we’re adding Fireteam Matchmaking to Gambit next Season, which will replace the Freelance node and should result in faster, better matchmaking by combining both Gambit playlists. We’ll keep an eye on reception and player engagement after these additions take place, and we hope you’ll visit ‘ol Drifter next Season to get your hands on his new Void Machine Gun.

Ngl, but I don't think anyone besides like a total of 6 people will play Gambit next season. The incentive to go in there is completely removed. You won't even have to go in there for pinnacles or for challenges. The Void Machine Gun will not be enough of an incentive because the chance of that gun being better than two recently available craftable Void Machine Guns (Commemoration and Retrofit Escapade) is very low. And besides, once you get it at the end of your first match, you can leave Gambit forever.

This is the feedback loop that just reinforces the idea that people don't like Gambit. And I mean. Who would at this point. I'm pretty sure that if Crucible had stayed the same as it was at the start of Beyond Light, engagement would be low there too. But you know. Crucible has received major updates pretty much every season since with multiple new modes, several Trials overhauls, Iron Banner overhaul, competitive overhaul, new armours and weapons added and YES, even new maps. God forbid even 5% of these resources went into Gambit.

Anyway, this is the whole section about Gambit in 6500 words. It's basically a "you guys aren't playing this so we're doing the bare minimum of keeping it in the game as is, no new work will be done on it ever." Thanks I guess.

And for the record, something I also added while having a rant in my discord, I want to make it clear that I don't want anyone to spiral into a Bungie hate train. Even for this. I understand perfectly well what's the community attitude towards Gambit and what it's been for years now. People just don't like it and they're not incentivised to like it and they're actively encouraged to hate it. Spending resources into a game mode on the hope that maybe you can change people's minds would be insanity. Like, the amount of change Gambit would need to MAYBE start appealing to gamers would be beyond any reasonable time and resources Bungie can put in. And if you could guarantee that people would love and play Gambit then, fine. But you can't. Most likely, even if major changes happened, people would still just do their weekly stuff and bail. It's simply not worth it. In order for people to like it, it needs to be completely and thoroughly overhauled in a way that would need more time and effort than the entire Light subclass overhaul and it's just not a reasonable expectation, nor is it guaranteed to work. So I get it.

I'm still disappointed and annoyed about it because I believe it wasn't given a fair chance at all. I also know how good it can be and how Gambit Prime could've been improved upon over the years if they tried. Instead, it got removed and that was honestly the death sentence for Gambit. It's unfortunate. It's my favourite game mode that could've been so much better was it given even a fraction of attention of Crucible.

I'll still be playing it. You will find me in the Gambit queue waiting for 2 hours to find 7 other lunatics to play with, don't worry about it. But I'm absolutely incredibly sad about them being basically forced to axe the potential of the whole game mode that is incredibly creative and fits with the type of game Destiny is perfectly.

There's other interesting stuff in the article and some upcoming really cool improvements and changes to the game. But if you're a fan of Gambit in any capacity, this is a death certificate for the mode. I suggest coming to terms with it quickly because Bungie changing their minds about this is highly unlikely.

#destiny 2 #gambit #ask #long post #says 'don't know what to say' at the start. writes an essay. FHKSJHFKJS #i won't go too much into it outside of this. we all know what this means no need to beat the dead horse #i'll still play it and the mode is still there but i expect a drop in quality and population significantly #the issues we have will never be addressed nothing will ever be fixed. we'll get a 5th map (returning) in 6 months and that's it #yay. I guess.#don't think there will be anyone in the playlist anymore by that point so I'm not sure why even bother with that alone #but still. if that does happen at least new people will be able to see that map now. it was very pretty #unfortunately not good gameplay wise. but at least it will help to not get deep six 17 times in a row #anyway. sad situation for gambit enjoyers. please don't turn into crucible bros to harass devs though

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imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese · 7 months ago

Note

Hello! Me again, back to pester you about lore.

So what's going on with The Drifter? For once I know a little about the character, I read 'A Man With No Name', but I still have questions. From how the book read, Drifter convinced Felwinter to get revenge for the destruction of the village. Did that go anywhere? And what did Drifter get up to for the (unspecified very long) timeskip between the book and the game?

And with the modern day, does the Vanguard know he's running a fighting ring out of the basement? Or does every single guardian look away when Zavala tries figuring out where people keep getting these weapons? I guess first rule of fight club and all that. What's he even trying to do? He seems to be pretty against most of the Vanguard's leadership.

Anyway, another invitation to infodump about your other blorbo. I hope you don't mind XD

If you thought I was long-winded about Eris... She's maybe 400 years old whereas the Drifter may be 900... get comfy... this will not be quick.

"Dark Age was wild times."

I adore the Drifter and a good chunk of how and why I adore him is his voice - both the voice acting and the syntax/diction/phrasing used in the writing, but voice alone does not cover why I find his character so utterly enthralling and fantastic.

I wrote a short piece consisting of Eris telling Ikora what she sees in him in my story Finders Keepers. It's basically a personality analysis and some people have (I think probably accurately) accused it of being a love letter to that character. (Reminder: that link is fanfiction - I wrote it - it is not lore, but it is based on lore. However, everything else I list after this is actual lore.)

But, personality aside, ultimately the Drifter's story is what I find most compelling about him and makes him so empathetic. You mentioned you've read A Man with No Name, but there's more. A lot more.

To start, the Drifter is D2's most violent pacifist.

He doesn't want to fight and when he does, it's vicious. The Emissary of the Nine, formerly Orin (his ex-best friend and/or ex-lover, depending upon how you read it) aptly says "He hates violence. He hates it so much he'll murder anyone who tries to inflict it on him."

In A Man with No Name, we see him go from hiding in a town and having it obliterated by warlords, to running a bar at the bottom of Felwinter peak, to getting Lord Felwinter himself to avenge the town. Drifter doesn't fight anywhere in there and gets other people to do his fighting for him, which is a pretty standard tactic for him. And yes, it is strongly implied that Felwinter does indeed murder the fuck out of Lord Dryden when he says "Call Lord Dryden. Prepare my Iron Banner arsenal."

But then we get Dark Age Drifter entries where he's gunning down Fallen attackers with quotes like "He had never brought himself to shoot a human. Or anything even resembling a human. Risen included." (Bonus mention: notice "Alright" repeated here and compare to his standard Gambit opening of Alright, alright, alright...") Where he's slipping away from non-violence, specifying, in particular, that he won't shoot a human but will defend himself from aliens.

And then he becomes something else entirely in these amazing entries with what I've been calling his Breakneck crew:

Now Otto's a Sword man. He's all about "craft." Technique. Precision. It's disgusting, but I don't care how he does it, as long as it gets done, so I just let him do it. And Otto does it so beautifully that, when he's done, you're standing there holding your guts in your hands and thanking him for the show.

Never touches a gun, that girl. She likes to get close. Likes to look right in their eyes and be the last thing they see.

The chumps that run out to stop us are babies. That's the kicker with Warlords—other than ours, there's not a Ghost in sight here. Just civilians who can barely hold their guns without wetting their pants, who can't aim worth a damn, who stick their necks out for the bad guys with eternal life. Real geniuses.

Cenric stood up. That vein of his looked about ready to pop. Drifter let his feet down as he reached for his rifle, asp-quick. "And you know what we do with rats, don't you, brother."

And the thing I love about this is the character development this speaks to where he goes from pacifist who won't fight at all... to someone who will use a machine gun competently, repeating "Alright" and getting himself used to killing, but not humans, never humans... to stone cold vicious murder-Drifter talking about the lightless who die to his crew in ways that make them (and himself) seem no longer human, to gunning down his own crew, people he felt were a perfect team, when they make deals with warlords behind his back and lie to him about it.

The Drifter started out adhering to an ideal of nonviolence and it destroyed him and everyone he cared for. His sense of self, his principles, everything he believed in is eroded until he completely loses all hope and in order to survive the cruelty of the world he lives in he becomes a ruthless monster.

Either before or after his Breakneck-era crew (it's not clear), the Drifter (under the name Eli) joins the Pilgrim Guard, a group of Titans protecting lightless people as they travel to the Last City. He does this out of a desire/need to be near Orin, a Titan with a complicated past and strong ties to both Queen Mara and the Nine. But then after spending time with Eli/Drifter and the Pilgrim Guard, Orin, the one person Drifter's ever had a deep human connection with, the person he considers his best friend, leaves without a word.

It's very telling that the green snakes, the jade coin, and the red string on those same coins that form such profound parts of the Drifter's symbolism and identity all come from Orin. When the Drifter truly cares for someone, he incorporates part of them into himself, into his identity, making them part of who he becomes, so they live on inside of him.

After his time with Orin, we get into the extremely confusing, contradictory mess that is the Drifter's intersection with Shin Malfur-related Rose/Thorn/Lumina lore. And by this I mean that the Drifter, after fighting alongside people doing genuinely noble good work, in the wake of losing Orin, leaves the Pilgrim Guard and eventually ends up joining the evil cult of evil: following in the footsteps of one of the most reviled risen to ever exist - the guardian-killer: Dredgen Yor.

If you're gonna hang with me, you need to know about the Shadows of Yor. They follow the edicts of a very bad man named Dredgen Yor. And what're his Shadows after? Everything the Light can't provide. I thought they could help me find an answer to the battles of Light versus Light that raged during the Dark Age. But the longer I flew with them, the more I saw they're blind as all those who follow the Traveler. One albatross for another. I was done with 'em.

And while in the cult, in some sort of ritual, he communes with the Darkness directly and gets some sort of Darkness powers (possibly Stasis, possibly something else - it's super unclear) and the Darkness whispers to him his Dredgen name: Dredgen Hope, which is particularly brutal in context with this quote from Dredgen Yor himself:

I care only to give hope to the frightened, huddled masses so that when I come upon them they will have more to lose. Their pain will be greater. Their screams more pure… Nothing dies like hope. I cherish it.

But it is also particularly pointed because hope is the thing the Drifter doesn't have. Trust is the thing he doesn't have the ability to do any more because of his experiences (and is also the name of the hand cannon he wears shoved into his pants). He is the most jaded (literally - constantly fidgeting with a jade coin) character in the D2 universe. He loses everything and leans in on it and follows that path to full evil.

And then he walks away. Because evil doesn't work for him either.

But also (either before or after he's completely left the cult - it's ambiguous, but possibly when he's still entangled but it's already fracturing and falling apart) he finds Orin again (he's using the name Wu Ming at this point - either having returned to it, or because he hasn't changed it yet from Felwinter Peak, or perhaps this happens before Felwinter Peak - the order and timeline is somewhat fuzzy).

Orin does not remember who he is when he finds her the second time (she's pretty nuts at this point - her story is filled with madness and tragedy), and is going insane with grief over losing Namqi (the person she left with when she disappeared the first time) as well as her obsession with the Nine. And the Drifter is once more drawn to her and once more connects deeply with her:

Wu Ming leaves his questions by the wayside as he is drawn inexorably into the gravity well of her desperate honesty. Her confessions lower his defenses. He talks of himself. Of his fear. Of his loneliness. How he feels he is one fingernail away from plummeting into an abyss. How he feels vicious resentment every time he is brought back from the dead: He never asked for the gift of the Light... They make excuse after excuse to meet again. Every conversation is colored by excavated truths; every day they feel they will reach some bedrock that will break them to pieces. It is as frightening as it is intoxicating.

But then Orin finds out about him being a Dredgen, terminates their relationship, goes off to become the Emissary of the Nine and, as someone I was talking with once referred to it: 'it was a breakup so bad he had to leave the solar system.'

Things go very poorly the first time the Drifter loses Orin but the second time is far worse. He has a full-on Lovecraftian 'At the Mountains of Madness' style horror-movie-plot experience with a crew he calls his 'best friends' (which may or may not be all ex-Dredgens but there's at least evidence they might be) out on a frozen planet being stalked and driven to insane levels of paranoia by Darkness creatures able to snuff out their light:

I think I mentioned we're all raving psychos at this point. Well, we did what all measured raving psychos would do. We thought we each had been betrayed by the others. We drew on each other.

The Drifter kills them all to keep them from killing him (at least, that's what he says - no one else is alive to argue). Then his ghost, who up until now has been kind of a moralistic asshole, suggests he hunt down the ghosts of his former crew and Frankenstein them together in order to survive:

And the craziest thing happened. My Ghost snapped... But we would need parts. Ghost parts. And we knew where we could get some... The Ghosts of my former crew all fled as soon as their charges hit the dirt. So me'n mine, we hunted them... "Hey. There's always hope. For what it's worth, I'm proud of you." It was the last thing my Ghost ever said, and the last lie it ever told.

The Drifter's ghost is rendered mute from the experience (either mechanically or due to the trauma of hunting down and murdering other ghosts - it's not clear) but the plan works, they survive, and the Drifter builds the Derelict out of scrap, returning to the Tower where he sets up Gambit.

It's super unclear (again, the Shin-related lore is just a mess and deliberately confusing) but it turns out that Drifter going on about how the Man with the Golden Gun is out to get him is actually a deal he made with Shin to set up Gambit (because, spoiler: the leader of the entire Dredgen cult, Dredgen Vale, turns out to be none other than Shin Malphur, the Man with the Golden Gun, who hunts Dredgens and who the Drifter has been saying is out to get him this entire time) to draw out the truly Darkness-corrupted guardians so Shin can kill them. (And this is ultimately why the Vanguard lets him run a fighting ring in the basement - because Shin convinces them it will help find the truly bad guardians so they can be eliminated).

If you find that confusing, that's because it is. Anything to do with Shin Malphur/Dredgen Yor/Rose/Thorn/Lumnia is pretty much an acid-trip, continuity-wise. It hurts my brain.

As for where the Drifter gets the weapons he gives us for Gambit? To the surprise of no one, he's stealing them. Because of course he is. It's him.

While running Gambit, he ends up visited by the Emissary of the Nine (formerly Orin - same body, different person) and has the Haul attached to the Derelict as a 'gift' in this amazing cutscene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFtmr___dSw

And he pretty much stays in "shifty morally ambiguous guy in the basement" mode until Arrivals when the pyramids show up on Io and we get one of my favourite lore tabs in all of D2: Whispering slab.

The two sit. They speak. They listen. Linkages forged in Light and Dark of traded secrets as the Derelict hangs in orbit around the Earth. Pacts are made. Soon, there is only the silence of knowing left between them.

"Next time you fly over the Moon, dust your boots. Tracking that crap all over my floors."

Both of the Drifter's deep emotional entanglements with Orin happen when he really genuinely talks to her, and now in Whispering Slab, he's genuinely talking to someone else, plus we get the origin of why he calls that someone else Moondust.

Then, during Arrivals, we get the amazing banter between him and Eris, and in Beyond Light they learn to control Stasis together with the result being (in my highly subjective opinion) the best cutscene in all of D2 : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IQAB-sSi6P0

At the end of Haunted we get Eris' message to him about healing and finding joy , he has this line in Plunder "What we do now matters more than who we were", we end up with the Kept Confidence lore tab during Season of the Witch where the person who previously insisted he trusted no one now is saying: "He didn't trust them. He trusted her" and then in the Gloaming Journeyer tab, he pulls her into a hug and reminds her of what she told him once (in the Prophesy dungeon dialogue): "That we'll live in the night if we have to. We do it for what comes after." (What comes after is dawn, hope, the continuance of existence after the darkest point.)

Someone in a chat I was in once summed up the core dynamic of the Drifter and Eris' relationship perfectly as "He gives her trust. She gives him hope."

There are people online who are very frustrated with the Drifter's character development, feeling that the Drifter has 'had his teeth filed off' and that he 'got his depression cured by getting a goth girlfriend' but I feel that's just people who don't like change. The Drifter has, throughout his entire storyline been constantly changing who he is. Change is part of his many self-constructed identities which he re-creates over and over as his old sense of self is destroyed and remade. Gritty vicious Drifter is still in there and he will be just as brutal as ever if he needs to be.

He doesn't want to be, though. He never has. And as someone who deals with medical-grade depression and who found themselves in a situation where they needed to reconstruct a sense of self to replace the one that was lost, the Drifter finding a way to hope and trust again after all he's been through is an extremely powerful and poignant narrative which speaks to me on many levels.

It's not trite, thoughtless happy fluffy rainbows, friendship-fixes-everything-whee! It's painful and slow and beautiful as the Drifter learns to have healthy relationships with other people. We need stories like this to speak to us at an unconscious level and tell us that even if you're not Eris Morn and you failed, and you gave up, and you didn't make it out of the Hellmouth, and you in fact gave in to despair and completely lost all hope, your experience erasing who it was you were and having that old you replaced with someone else, you can still find hope again. Even if you've been burned so severely by so many, many, negative human interactions that you cannot trust anyone, if you find the right people, you can slowly learn how to trust again.

The Drifter's story has been called a redemption arc, and I guess in a way it is that too but, for me, the essential quality of the Drifter's narrative isn't redemption: it's healing.

Stories have power. We incorporate them into who we are. Dredgen Hope ultimately does live up to his name. Within D2 he is finally starting to heal. I find that idea, of healing in spite of being so altered by one's experiences as to have had to become an entirely different person in order to survive, of being unable to trust and still finding a way to learn how to trust again, to be important and beautiful to have in my subconscious as something to draw from. It is a story that is very much needed by a lot of people. We need to be reminded that we can be irrevocably changed and have everything taken from us and still find a way to trust and hope and love again. That might seem a bit much for a shooty game, but I maintain this is why D2 has some of the best storytelling of any game I've ever played and that the character of the Drifter is a huge part of what makes that storytelling so compelling.

Sorry this took so long to answer. This seriously was as short as I could make it and still say everything that I felt needed to be said. There's more, and more detail, of course, but this is my treatise on why the Drifter is as awesome as I think he is.

That is all.

#the drifter #destiny 2 #ask me more things!#lore dump of doom #damn this was long #but so is drifter's life - dude is one of if not the oldest one!#drifteris #eris morn #drifter/eris #the drifter/eris morn #lore ask #lore #destiny lore

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