#WAIT DID DESTINYS BLADE SAY SOMETHING ABOUT BEING CHOSEN?? ABOUT OTHER CHOSEN ONES???

[namelessprince]

thinking about the rolled for 93. Condi guessed Arlin as the guarding giant, Chip as the nameless prince and Rose's Kid as the unborn kings. only 1 of these is correct.

[k-she-rambles]

She paused. 'Lord,' she said, 'if you must go, then let me ride in your following. For I am weary of skulking in the hills, and wish to face peril and battle.' 'Your duty is with your people,' he answered. 'Too often have I heard of duty,' she cried. 'But am I not of the House of Eorl, a shieldmaiden and not a dry-nurse? I have waited on faltering feet long enough. Since they falter no longer, it seems, may I not now spend my life as I will?' 'Few may do that with honour,' he answered.

*bangs pots and pans* Eowyn has a crush on Aragorn but this isn't about that! It's about resentment and pride and cultural mores too!

She's going to be queen. Théoden and Eomer are probably going to die and she's going to be queen queen. She's the only available rightful leader for the people who aren't going to war.

She helped Théoden in his illness out of love, but she resented it too. All this is beneath her --not just nursing the king while he was sick but all forms of being told what to do. She is so done with duty, because when has duty ever ever helped her? Théoden had to be reminded she was in the line of succession! When will she be allowed to make her own choices?

But Aragorn comes back with doing what you want isn't inherently honorable either.

Few may do that with honour,' he answered. 'But as for you, lady: did you not accept the charge to govern the people until their lord's return? If you had not been chosen, then some marshal or captain would have been set in the same place, and he could not ride away from his charge, were he weary of it or no.'   'Shall I always be chosen?' she said bitterly. 'Shall I always be left behind when the Riders depart, to mind the house while they win renown, and find food and beds when they return?'   'A time may come soon,' said he, 'when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.'

Eowyn: Only the warrior's actions matter! I shouldn't have to resign myself to not mattering!

Aragorn: You were given an important job!You think someone else in your place wouldn't resent it too? Are you asking for special treatment from Destiny? Do you think good deeds only matter when you're praised for them?

And she answered: 'All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.'

"You have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more" is such a raw line.

And again, she's right in some ways but the hang up specifically is pride. Dying without doing something that matters the way a warrior's actions matter is beneath her. And she's not entirely wrong! The desire to "leave a thumbprint on the world" is universally human! Why should she be excluded?

But also! Her idea of things that matter is ONLY renown, victory, great deeds with sword and horse, quote-unquote manly deeds. She's rightly ragging on Aragorn for misogyny, but she's internalized some herself.

What do you fear, lady?' he asked.   'A cage,' she said. 'To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.'   'And yet you counselled me not to adventure on the road that I had chosen, because it is perilous?'   'So may one counsel another,' she said. 'Yet I do not bid you flee from peril, but to ride to battle where your sword may win renown and victory. I would not see a thing that is high and excellent cast away needlessly.'   'Nor would I,' he said. 'Therefore I say to you, lady: Stay! For you have no errand to the South.'   'Neither have those others who go with thee. They go only because they would not be parted from thee – because they love thee.' Then she turned and vanished into the night

I love Eowyn so MUCH

Edit: she thee's him at the end! I almost didn't notice because American English has so thoroughly lost it's familiar pronouns that they've pretty much boomeranged into formality. She's been using formal pronouns, but her last paragraph there is familiar. You can imagine her voice getting soft, pleading

She smiled on him and said: 'Then it was kindly done, lord, to ride so many miles out of your way to bring tidings to Éowyn, and to speak with her in her exile.'

• It amuses me that the more Epic Tolkien is trying to be, the more courtly his phrasing. "Smiled on" vs "smiled at," "as one who likes not what is being said" vs "reluctant" etc.

• AHA! Our first? inkling that Eowyn does NOT like being de facto queen. Beloved queen of Rohan is not an honor, it's exile.

[youngclaire]

One Last Final Goodbye

I rewrote sending Claire back through the stones at the end of book 2 but from Jamie's POV. I thought it would be a nice way to ease myself into writing these two. This is very book compliant, I actually bad the book open next to me whilst I wrote this in order to translate it from Claire's POV to Jamie's and it was a lot of fun. It's not a copy of the fuller chapter, it's been shortened down in places but the essence is there. I've also removed bits and pieces. Uhh yeah...all dialogue in this belongs to Diana and the book I'm just responsible for remixing the words. Anyway, I hope whoever bothers to read this likes it :)

(This is also my first fic in this fandom with these two so don't expect it to be perfect, it probably isn't)

- - -

He wouldn’t stop for anything; not food, water, or rest. He keeps the horse at a constant gallop at all times, scared that if he paused or hesitated for even a moment he would lose all courage and go neither back or forward.

I shall see my wife safe, is a mantra that keeps him riding. If he is to die tonight or on the battlefield tomorrow, he would not take her down with him; not her or the innocent being she carries inside her.

The stones come into view just above him. A cursed salvation of granite and Jamie tries not to see them, his gaze fixated forward. Behind him, Claire lets her displeasure be known, protesting against the idea. Jamie steels himself against them, clenches his jaw and gallops harder, fighting the urge to give in. This was the only way to see her safe and unharmed, he tells himself.

She protests still, even while he urges her up to the ruined cottage. She doesn’t realise he has no intention of parting with her right now, he just wants time to breathe, to think, to let the panic and worry abate. He sinks to the ground, his body cold and his mind racing.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hear himself say. “We have a bit of time now; no one will find us here.” He shivers, though from the cold, and wraps his plaid around him.

God, he could still see it; Dougal’s lifeless eyes, the blood pooling out of him, the shock on Willie Coulter’s face. How long before everyone knew? How long before everyone found out he had committed familicide?

Jamie’s head falls forward onto his knees, a tiredness washing over him, fatigue clutching at his bones and eyelids. Tired as he was he could not sleep for fear of the images in his mind’s eye.

His breath comes out in ragged pants and he can barely stand the sound of it. He feels Claire’s warmth and presence beside him, uses it as something to anchor himself to.

What happened in that room and who knows wasn’t the priority, while Claire had yet to explicitly say so Jamie’s fate waited for him on Culloden Moor. Tomorrow he will die and all this will cease to matter. Claire will be safe.

His breathing eases back into its natural rhythm, the panic wilting away from the edges. He’ll take hold of Death’s hand, gladly accept his destiny knowing he did one thing right at last.

“I won’t go, Jamie,” she says, as if she’s read his thoughts. “I’m staying with you.”

Jamie shakes his head. She couldn’t persuade him, he couldn’t change his mind. He needed to do this.

“No,” he says. The firmness bites at him, makes him wince. He hopes she can hear the gentleness that lies beneath it. “I must go back, Claire.”

“You can’t,” she cries. “Jamie, they will have found Dougal by now! Willie Coulter will have told someone.”

Aye, that was a fact he had resigned himself to, a fact she must resign herself too as well. He grieved for Dougal, for the second father he had, but Jamie had done what he’d done- he would take whatever consequence waited for him behind that door. She talks of fleeing to France but it’s no use, he’s chosen his fate, set his heart and mind to it, accepted it. A traitor twice over, a rebel, a murderer…The English will hunt Prince Charles. The English and the clans will hunt Jamie. He was dead either way.

“Claire, I am a dead man.”

He watches the tears freeze on her cheeks. “No,” she says but the effect is lost, she knows he speaks the truth.

“I wouldna get very far anyway.” On its own accord, his hand runs through his red hair that makes him a beacon at all times. Not exactly inconspicuous. “I can save you, Claire,” With his other hand he brushes away the tears that continue to fall. “and I will. That is the most important thing.”

Then he will go back. If he finds he cannot do it for himself then he will find it in him to do so for his men.

“I think I can get them away,” he says thinking the plan through. “Even if it’s known what I’ve done, none will stop me wi’ the English in sight and the battle about to begin.” The plan visualises in his mind and he nods to himself. “I will bring them safely away and set them on the road toward Lallybroch.”

“And then?”

Well…wasn’t that obvious?

“And then I will turn back to Culloden.”

He lets out a breath, strong and final as his decision. He catches Claire’s worried look and gives her a smile.

“I’m no afraid to die, Sassenach,” he says, but then he thinks of that door, black and foreboding, the unknown behind it. “Well…not a lot, anyway.”

He hears a sound a human being should never be able to make as arms fling around him. He finds himself surrounded by Claire, caught in her tight embrace as the scent of her overwhelms him. He clutches her back, trying with all his might not to succumb and cry.

“It’s all right, Sassenach,” he says into her hair as she cries once more. “A musket ball. Maybe a blade. It will be over quickly.” A lie, they both know it, but Jamie will them both to believe it. He’s seen men die in battle, knows how horrifically slow it can be but it was better than waiting for the hangman’s noose, that would be the one thing that does not lie behind that door.

“I’m going with you.”

Lost in thought he barely registers it but when he does he reels at the notion, startling backwards.

“The hell you are!” He has a plan, damnit, and not even Claire will deter him from it.

She displays her argument but he will not listen to it, will not give it thought.

“No!” he says. “No, Claire!”

How could she suggest such a thing, knowing what they both knew? How could she be so selfish?

“If you’re not afraid, I’m not either. It will…be over quickly. You said so.”

You said so. What he said was a lie, did she not see that? A lie to comfort them both.

“Jamie- I won’t…I can’t…I bloody won’t live without you, that’s all!”

He had a thousand things to say and none at all. His mouth opens and closes before he shakes his head. Through the gaps in the ceiling he can see daylight dwindling, night approaching. The sky is painted red. Blood of a battlefield, blood of childbirth.

He reaches toward her, pulling her close. He knows where this fight comes from, if the tables were turned he would say the same thing, knows because he feels it too.

“D’ye think I don’t know?” His voice is soft, a whisper. “It’s me that has the easy part now. For if ye feel for me as I do for you- then I am asking you to tear your heart out and live without it.”

She lets out a whimper, clutching him closer. He fingers stroke her hair, whispering soft coos towards her.

“But you must do it,” he finally says, feeling his stomach twist and turn. “Ye must.”

“Why?” She is angry, considerably so. Confused and hurting. “When you took me from the witch trial at Cranesmuir- you said then you would have died with me, you would have gone to the stake with me had it come to that!”

He had said all that, and to this day, it remains true. He’d have rather died than to be parted with her.

“Aye, I would,” he says. “But I wasna carrying your child.”

The reason he is allowing them to part.

She is surprised, shocked, frozen in place as she looks up at him in bewilderment.

“You can’t tell,” she says at last, shaking her head. “It’s much too early.”

It makes him smile, brings amusement to him.

“You havena been a day late in your courses, in all the time since ye first book me to your bed. Ye havena bled now in forty-six days.”

She hurls insults at him, shocked he even managed to keep track of such a thing during a war but he had for hope they would have a second chance at raising a child and for fear that it would end like this.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” she tells him, rattling off reasons for why she might not have bled. It’s no use, she forgets he’s seen her so before, studied all the tell-tale signs of her body changing, committed them to memory.

“Claire…” His voice is quiet, not sounding like him. “Tomorrow I will die. This child…is all that will be left of me- ever.” He reaches for her hands, needing some part of her to hold. He casts his gaze to their joined hands, running his thumb over her fingers. “Claire, I beg you, see it safe.”

He keeps his eyes downcast while he waits for her answer, scared she’ll say yes, scared she’ll say no. The silence feels long and he shuts his eyes against the twisting of his stomach.

Finally her answer comes.

“Yes.” A whisper in the darkening cottage. “Yes. I’ll go.”

He nods, swallowing back the lump in his throat, hearing the sound of a flower stem snap.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

After telling her to sleep, she doesn’t sleep himself. Time seemed wasted on that and they didn’t have much of it left anymore. In a few hours he will take her to the fairy hill and part with her forever.

He wanted to rage at the unfairness of it all. To brandish his sword and yell and scream and cry but he knew there was no point to it. He knew that what he had been handed was more than fair, that not many men live the life he’s led and are allowed to be rewarded in such a way.

Lord, ye gave me a rare woman, he had said to her, quoting what he would say to God when he met him. God! I loved her well. He had, he could really say that. He took this woman, in all her unbated strangeness, into his broken hands and within her found company and peace, a place to call home.

She loved me well, too, he adds, watching her sleep for the last time. Content and safe, here in his arms and their fortress of cloth. He had healed him with her touch and love and perseverance. Picked a broken man off the floor and carried him through towards the light at the end of the tunnel no matter the setbacks. She really was a rare woman, his sassenach.

He wraps his arms tighter around her, murmurs a quick thank you in Gaelic to God and to the fairies for dropping her into his life.

Pressed against her, safe in their fortress of clothes, her skin warming his bones, his eyelids grow heavy and he succumbs to sleep as the first inklings of tomorrow break across the sky.

.:.:.:.:.:.

She was gone.

Disappeared in the same manner in which she had appeared. Gone through the stones and back to Frank.

Jamie presses his hand against the stone. The hard granite presses back on his wound, her mark, the letter C, reminding him it was real, she was real.

Her arisaid lies on the grass, forgotten in their haste to love each other one last time. Jamie picks it up, bringing it to his nose, inhaling her scent still lingering on the tartan. Tears fall on their own accord as he prays she made it back, prays that she and the bairn are safe.

A cannon in the distance booms, startling the birds and startling him. It’s beginning.

He is hesitant to move, to leave the place of their last coupling, his last connections to her.

Yet destiny waits for him on Culloden Moor, along with his men. He pictures the thirty men waiting for their laird.

There is nothing he can do for Claire now but there is something he can do for his men.

He kisses the inside of his fingers, presses it to the stone and bids his soulmate one last final goodbye.

[whirlybirdwhat]

Skyjacks fic!!!  Word count: 1.5k

a name, a name, a chance

- A name is something given, and a name is something taken.

Or: a reflection on the characters and names of the crew of the Uhuru - or at least, the Captain's and his council's.

-

A name. Did they have it before the stars fell?

Maybe. 

They aren’t sure. They have it now, two of them, one they aren’t sure when they earned, and the other chosen entirely by them. 

The first. 

Gable. Ga-Ble. God is bright, it whispers in quiet moments. God is bright. God is blinding. 

(God is dead dead dead dead dead burned and scorned and destroyed by their own blade, the blade that gable drove through their heart, the act that made the world collapse and the seas rise and they are dead - fallen - forever)

It weighs like a stone on their shoulders. God is bright. God is blinding. God is dead.

Does it mean they are now the blinding one? The bright one? They don’t feel like it, no matter how much holy fire leaps from their swords and casts glowing light over their face. They are just… Gable.

Fallen. Wandering.

(Gable.)

It’s no wonder that they are more comfortable with the name they chose for themself - the name they picked on a whim, on a moment, all by their lonesome.

Skyjack. 

A sailor. A sailor who steals from ships, who hijacks them and takes them from their own. A sailor from the skies, free and limitless, whose horizon knows no bounds but the sun and clouds.

As a Skyjack, Gable is not fallen. 

As a Skyjack, Gable is not bright.

As a Skyjack - Gable is free, from every duty but to their crew and captain, and that is more fitting than anything they could ever dare to be.

Gable Skyjack.

Perhaps, in time, they could come to like their name.

-

A name. He’s had many. Travis Mattagot, Jolly Jack, Kevin, Puck and Neville, Johnny and Connor - names that flow past his ears like water, each more unimportant than the past. 

He likes the names. He like at the constant change, the constant new assumptions, always being what he isn’t but also what he is. 

(A changeling, never the same body, never the same form, born over and over and over again. Suppose a name could be like that too.) 

Puns, lilting off the tongue. 

His Current is one of his favorites - Travis, according to some far away islands, meaning to cross. It stings in all the worst ways, reminding him of his failures, how he could cross but Margret couldn’t, and how now, he always fails to cross into the next life. A failure, is what he is, horrible and ancient and Travis. 

(He likes it. The way it gives itself to snarls of rage only spoken by close friends, personal and horrible and wonderful. Travis. To cross. To traverse. All he couldn’t and could do at once. Wonderfully confusing.)

And, of course, who could forget Mattagot, the name of a beast, a spirit, helpful and hindrance, one that brings fortune and agony and in the same. A warning. A threat. All cursed by his enemies as they shouted Mattagot and prepared to kill but never quite succeeded. 

Obvious, like a bent card in a deck, but only if you were looking for it. 

Perfection, in a name.

(Of course, though, it isn’t real. A pretend, a fake, a mirage, smothering and covering up the name William that only was spoken when there were gambles to be made. He likes who Travis is - the skyjack, with friends and crew and triumphs.

William is… William is supposed to mean warrior. Protector. Strong willed. 

Travis isn’t William. He could never be. William could never be William.

Travis is just a fraud. A fake. Lasting one more day on a gamble and a debt and oh, if it doesn’t sting sometimes.)

He wants to be Travis. He wants to make Travis real.

He just hopes he can. 

-

A name. Jonnit is a name without a meaning, and it’s just the way Jonnit likes it. A black slate, a way to grow, room to grow, destiny forgotten in the face of something new. With nothing telling him who he is, or who he could be, just a chance to be Jonnit.

Whoever Jonnit would be. 

His parents liked to tell the story sometimes, of how they kept scratching out the names of their firstborn, looking for something fitting, something perfect for their child, their son their AnikBasrDrishSim-unnamed child. 

Then, like magic, they had asked - 

Asked…

Well, Jonnit didn’t know who they asked, probably unimportant, he’s forgotten about, but they came up with Jonnit on the spot.

Like magic, they say, and suddenly Jonnit has a name without a fate,

A chance to be who he wants.

And that’s really the trouble isn’t it? He wants to be so many things - feels like he should be so many kings, so many fates, that it’s hard to choose. Stowaway, cabin boy, apprentice, lookout, star watcher, seer, bird racer, Captain’s council, Jonnit, Jonnit, Jonnit - 

It’s so much sometimes. So, so much, when compared to Gable, who’s gentle smile seems to shine when they’re happy for once, and Travis’ seems so confident spouting what he’s not.

They know who they are. 

Jonnit wishes he knows who he was. 

(Except, he does, doesn’t he? He just isn’t him yet. Right now, he’s Jonnit, the cabin boy. He’s Jonnit, the star watcher. But someday - 

Someday he’ll be Jonnit, star in the sky, captain of a fleet of golden sails that shine like angel fire. He’ll be Jonnit the Starcatcher, Jonnit the Captain, Jonnit, the greatest Skyjack since Orimar Vale, stronger even, freer even, so strong as to help the Jonnit of the past rather than just the present.

He’s not him yet. It’s pressure, so much pressure to live up to him when he’s just Jonnit now, small and young and just starting to know what he’s doing but -

He just wishes he was.)

He will, soon.

He knows this, like how he knows the name Jonnit spreads throughout Burza Nyth and the Liquid Swords and Nordia and N’Goni, back home and through the sky. 

He’ll get there.

He just can’t wait.

-

A name. Dref Wormwood is an odd name, but a comforting one. It’s soft and able to be spoken without a stutter, and gains looks of oh, odd name, rather than oh, I know that name.

It is a comfort, because it is not him, or who he was. It is not Alistair Youngblood, heir to a red-ridden name. It is not Alister Youngblood, born to cruelty.

It is not who he was. 

(Alistair, his family calls, and it is mocking, it is horrible, Alistair Youngblood – Dref could go a hundred years without hearing it and be happy.

But yet, like all things out in the open air, it isn’t to be.)

It is not who he was, but it is who he will be. Dref Wormwood, doctor of the Uhuru. Dref Wormwood, necromancer of Orimar Vale. 

Dref Wormwood friend.

It makes him smile to hear it said, ever since Orimar sounded it out that first time. A blessing. A chance. A name.

His name.

Who he is.

It’s an odd name, but a comfort, because Dref means nothing at all, unlike the regal defender or repeller of Alistair, and Wormwood is a star and a plant and a remedy and a poison, while Youngblood is just a legacy. It’s his name. His choice. His comfort.

(When he dies, his crew does not say Alistair Youngblood. They say Dref Wormwood, friend and crewmate.

Even in the afterlife, the beyond, it makes Dref smile.) 

A comfort, yes. 

-

A name. The name Orimar is a good name. A strong name. A name that means a thousand things across a thousand islands, but a good name nonetheless. 

(It’s a remnant of a culture forgotten, a culture lost, but Orimar clings tight and does not let it go, because he more than a man, more than a Skyjack. 

He is a corsair, and corsairs are as greedy as they are free. He keeps his name and he keeps his home, because he will take the skies and home alike if it means keeping what he holds dear. He will be King. He will be Orimar, boy of something long ago.

Of this, he is certain.)

But Orimar Vale is a feared name, a terrifying name, one that strikes horror into his enemies’ hearts and makes knees and arms and everything shake. 

Orimar Vale, captain of the Uhuru - freedom, sailing in the air. Orimar Vale, the man who will be king. Orimar Vale, lover of the Bandit Queen.

Orimar Vale, immortal in legacy and now in body.

Orimar Vale is a name that will not be stopped. 

(Even if there are moments where he shakes, where he reaches out, where he takes a pause on his steps to power to shelter orphans young and old, people lost and alone, gathering them on his piece of freedom and helping them Take Flight.

He will pause, because he wants o be King, because he wants Power, but also because he wants to protect what is his. 

And he cannot do that without being human to.)

It is name, a legend, that will echo across the skies, even when people say there are no kings, because Orimar Vale is more than a king.

He is a captain. 

And that, perhaps, place in front of Orimar Vale, is the best name of all. 

[mcheang]

Can we have a fan-fiction where Bunnyx goes to the past to tell Alix that Lila is lying and that she should investigate the stories Lila tells plz? Also after Alix finds out Lila is a lies Alix switches to team Marinette and Alix and Marinette become really good friends

Time travel doesn’t make sense

Technically I have a similar fic in response to your request. See Justice In Red.

Normally it would be suitable to use the Ladybug episode situation to write your story, but I want something new. So I’m heading for post-Chameleon and post-timetagger. For the record, I claim this as a rough draft because I am not fully sure about this one. It’s new territory. I’m more of a expose-Lila-now kind of girl.

Alix had been so excited. Earlier today at lunch, Lila mentioned she had met Roberto Riva in Italy and he had been kind enough to teach her roller blading. Alix had been green with envy at Lila’s luck.

Luckily, Lila promised that if she should ever meet Roberto again in Italy, she would ask him if he would be willing to give Alix some tips.

Alix was thrilled. She had been having a block thinking up new tricks to perform. Honestly, she never really thought about roller skating as a career but Lila convinced her she should give it a shot. It would mean less time for art club though.

Alix was troubled by that. She wasn’t like Marinette, able to juggle so many responsibilities and hobbies.

When Alix was troubled, she headed to the museum. All those fossils and art sometimes gave her inspiration or new solutions. It was also where she learned of her destiny as Bunnyx. Too cool!

As Alix skated through the halls, she found another skater. A young woman with pink hair and brightly-coloured clothing.

“Hey, mini-me,” future Alix greeted with a chill smile.

“Woah,” Alix stopped. “Hey yourself, myself. Um, what are you doing here? Is there another time-travelling akuma?”

Future Alix smiled and shook her head. “Nope. Not that this isn’t an emergency. You see, I’ve had memories of when I would get visited by my future self. This is one of those days.”

Alix tilted her head. “Why?”

Future Alix towered over mini Alix and clasped her hands together. “Last time I was sent here to stop an akuma. This time, I’m here to save our class’ future.”

“Woah, woah, what?”

Alix stared into her other self’s eyes. They were deeply serious. “Here’s the deal. Lila is a liar.”

Alix almost wanted to ask if Marinette had finally gotten to her (her dislike of Lila was well known but she kept her distance), but then stopped herself.

“Excuse me? But how do you know that?”

“Well, it took time for all puzzle pieces to fit. But Lila’s connections; they are all false. And it’s messing up our future. It kept changing and that alerted me to check the past. Rose got conned to give Lila money meant for charity. It’s only now she realizes that there was no such charity. Same for Ivan and Mylene. Alya’s reputation as a blogger was ruined when Ladybug finally snapped at Lila to stop lying about their so-called friendship. Her chance to be a journalist’s intern was ruined. Lila sabotaged Juleka’s chance to model when they were at the same shoot so she could take her place.”

“Ok, stop. I get it.” Alix was shellshocked. How could Lila do this to them. After all they had done for her. Wait...

“Did Lila also lie about her injuries?” Alix asked hollowly.

Future Alix nodded again, her face darkening. “All so we could carry her lunch and bags for her, so she could skip gym, and pretty much frame Marinette.”

Alix staggered back against the wall. “Oh my gosh. Marinette had been right along. I’m such an idiot. I should have listened to her.”

Future Alix kept quiet. Alix didn’t look up to see her reaction.

“What happened to Marinette?”

Future Alix winked. “I’ve given you enough what if spoilers. But rest assured, Marinette can take care of herself. She’s not alone.”

Alix felt relieved at that. “But what should I do now.”

Future Alix put her arms behind her head and started skating backwards. “I don’t know mini me, what do you think we should do?”

Alix wanted to confront Lila right away, but she knew that didn’t work out for Marinette. No, Alix needed a different tactic. “I need to expose Lila with hard evidence. So she can never get away with deceiving anyone else ever again!”

Future Alix winked, “it’s a good idea. But I say it’s better to keep your enemies close. Even if Lila is exposed, she’ll still find a way to recover and we won’t be so close to her as to find out her plans.”

Alix groaned. “So I have to be a double agent?”

“Nope. You can keep a “friendly” distance from Lila. You just need to remove her influence on our real friends.”

“That’s not as much fun.”

Future Alix shrugged. “I was chosen because I could keep secrets.”

From that day forth, Alix did her best to guide her friends away from Lila’s suggestions. Sure, she gritted her teeth and kept silent throughout Lila’s tall tales.

Her one comfort was Marinette. She understood exactly how Alix was feeling, even if their reasons were different.

Alix nearly punched Adrien for his stupid high road because hello, Lila’s pawns could be akumatized too once she was eventually exposed, with worse consequences.

Adrien had guiltily apologized once Alix downright accused him of being a lousy Friend and a traitor.

He had been willing enough to join their small team to subtly discredit Lila, especially once Alix threatened to disband their friendship.

Alix couldn’t give away her knowledge of knowing Lila was a liar. So she continued to join Lila’s entourage, but kept asking polite questions and requests that deterred Lila.

When Lila tried to accuse Marinette or exclude her, Alix protested, which prompted Alya to join in when she was torn about whether to split events with her 2 friends.

When Lila tried to ingratiate herself with Adrien, Alix finally taught him how to identify sexual harassment and to quit indulging her already!

Adrien even managed to convince Alya to remove her interview since it was endangering Lila’s family.

Even though Marinette and Alya were still BFFs, Alya wasn’t include in the Anti-Lila league. Marinette and Alix had a shared secret and this made them grow closer as friends. Whenever Alya was with Lila, Alix would immediately join Marinette. Whenever Lila appeared, Adrien stuck to Marinette.

Mylene, Ivan and Rose were encouraged to support known charities that were already making headway. They suggested Lila give them her charity email so they can set up communication with the persons in charge. Lila quietly backed out when she realized how well prepared they were against any cons. She made up a lie that it was a previous school fundraising and was temporary.

Adrien promoted Juleka to a new modelling brand. Lila tried to join in but Adrien shut her down.

Together, Marinette, Alix and Adrien were paving the way for a future where the class could pursue their dream jobs without Lila’s hindrance.

[belladxne]

you've got a look in your eyes (i knew you in a past life)

[see notes for AO3 & ff links]

prequel fic | part of the put your faith in the light that you cannot see series AU: Breath of the Wild pairing: KiriBaku word count: 5,504 Description:

(one glance and the avalanche drops, one look and my heartbeat stops)

One hundred years ago, there was a prince who would come to wield the sacred power inherited from his distant ancestor, the god Bakusatsuo, and a courageous knight chosen by the Sword that Seals the Darkness who fought at his side.

If only it were that fucking simple. Katsuki has spent his whole life being told he alone holds the sealing power that will repel the impending return of the Calamity. He's royalty, he's descended from the mortal incarnation of a god, he's been assured all his life that he's special for having this ability, and yet he still can't even harness a spark of the power. How could he possibly be blamed for resenting whoever comes to draw the sword, and masters their destiny as simple as that?

Katsuki stalks around his study with an indescribable energy welling up in him, clawing feverishly up his chest and throat. He won’t call it panic because it’s not—it’d be lousy and lazy to describe it that way when it ignores that he’s always dreaded this and has been near-resigned to it for maybe years now. He won’t call it what it’s not, but—but it evokes something similar, some same instinct of fight or fight in his gut.

Deku should be back soon. Should’ve been back at least a day or two ago, realistically, and the extra time spent waiting has been as much an agony as it’s been a relief. Katsuki doesn’t know if no news is good news, or simply a delaying of the inevitable.

He slams his fist on the desk with a force that rockets through his knuckles, up his wrist, a roar of frustration forcing its way from his chest, and then runs his hands through his hair, mindlessly tugging. He isn’t even supposed to be in here right now. If his mother knew he was shirking his training—“training,” she calls the endless prayers and rituals and meditations and recitations and time wasted on his knees doing the same things that never fucking worked—she’d no doubt bite his head off. No matter.

Deku should’ve been back by now. They’d sent him, finally, after years of talking and talking and driving Katsuki insane about it, to see if he was the hero of legend. If he would be the one to draw the Sword that Seals the Darkness. And Katsuki wants, more than anything, to vomit.

It’s all he’s been fucking hearing, for years now. Apparently it doesn’t matter that Deku’s not like him. That he’s not special. He’s not royal. He’s not descended from a god, or a hero, or any legend of note. He’s not even Sheikah by blood, but he’d been raised among them and trained among them and apparently had worked so hard, despite being such a nobody, that out of all the actual Sheikah they’d chosen to send him to the castle under the impression he’d be a suitable companion and protector for Katsuki.

If the assumption that he needed companionship or protection weren’t degrading enough, they had to add insult to injury by encouraging someone as weak and timid as Deku to think he could believe he was on Katsuki’s level and even capable of protecting him. Katsuki had the blood of Hyrule’s patron god in his veins, the legacy of a sealing magic that had been passed down through the entire royal line, but, hey, Deku had a can-do attitude and all the backbone of a welcome mat, so that made them equals, did it?

Somewhere along this line of thought, Katsuki’s hands had started shaking, and he squeezed his eyes shut so tightly it hurt as he leaned all his weight on the desk. Because if everyone was right about Deku after all—then he wasn’t just equal. If the sword chose him, let him wield it—then he’d have mastered his destiny, and all it’d have taken was plucking a blade from its stand.

This shrinking, trembling little nobody wouldn’t be equal to Katsuki, who’d tried and tried and tried and tried and couldn’t unlock the power that was his birthright.

He’d be above him. For having mastered his destiny in a way Katsuki just—just couldn’t.

Fuck, destiny—that was the real worst part, wasn’t it?

Not just that Katsuki worked harder than anyone else he’d ever fucking met and had nothing to show for it but scathing gossip from his own subjects, not just that the entire court hailed Deku as some sort of prodigy who could ever be mistaken for his peer, not just that the damned nerd might actually even shatter Katsuki’s entire understanding of the world and come back with that sword on his back as indisputable proof that everyone was fucking right and he was better than Katsuki after all and Katsuki really was useless if he couldn’t even measure up to someone so—

It doesn’t matter. It’s not just that. It’s that if Deku comes back wielding that sword, their destinies are tied forever. The hero of Hyrule, and the descendant of Bakusatsuo—they were always bound, by fate, by destiny.

If everyone’s right about Deku, Katsuki will never be rid of him—will never have hope of being free of this constant reminder that there’s nothing special about him. That the blood of Bakusatsuo in his veins, the royal position of his birth, the sealing power supposedly lying dormant within, the favor of each of the three Goddesses granted to him by his bloodline and status as Hyrule’s crown prince—it’s not enough. He had every head start in the world, and he can’t fucking measure up.

And this nobody, with no significant blood, no amazing history, no special boon—he could achieve what Katsuki never will, with ease, it seems, and Katsuki will be tied to him for the rest of their lives. He’ll never escape it.

He really does want to vomit.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do when Deku gets back—because it feels like an inevitability, at this point, how everyone talks about this. Maybe that’ll finally be it—maybe he’ll just fucking snap and the power will come flooding out of him and raze this kingdom to the fucking ground in an uncontrolled rage- and anguish-fueled haze.

That thought doesn’t bring him any sort of bitter relief, either.

Manifesting his power, being able to carry the fate of this kingdom on his shoulders—it was the one and only goal he’d worked for his entire life. Not even resentful misery at a merciless fate can erase that—can take away the need to have others see him, to have them know that he’s competent enough, strong enough, powerful enough to carry that weight. No petty destruction could bring him the same—the same—not even satisfaction, but relief.

Katsuki doesn’t just want the gossip mongers to say he’s good enough. He needs it.

Just as he’s preparing to slump into the chair beside his desk—to hell with training and prayer; he’s more than shown his devotion and dedication, and even if one of the three Goddesses or Bakusatsuo himself were to see fit to come back to this realm to personally unlock his power for him, it’s going to take something he hasn’t been doing nonstop for ten years already—he hears footsteps on the stone signaling someone’s approach, and he tenses.

“Your Highness?” The attendant who stands in the doorway might spark apprehension at the best of times—but right now Katsuki’s nerves are frayed and he’s solidly at his wit’s end, and there’s something he can’t place in the young man’s tone and expression that grates at him like nails on a chalkboard. He knows, before the attendant even opens his mouth once more, what will come out. “Midoriya Izuku has returned from the Great Hyrule Forest. Her Majesty the Queen expects your presence in the throne room immediately.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Katsuki barely registers anything past the word returned, not once his ears have begun ringing, and it wasn’t panic before but it feels like it now, and he really can’t fucking stand this. He nods dully and thinks there’s probably a scowl on his face, but he doubts it has its usual ferocity even as he grits his teeth to bite out, voice hollow, “Thanks. I’ll be there. You’re dismissed.”

The man doesn’t so much as twitch at Katsuki’s lack of formality. Obviously the castle staff all know to expect it by now. Less expected is the way he doesn’t so much as budge at Katsuki’s dismissal, even when Katsuki moves to get past him. He has to change; he’s not going to the throne room in his ceremonial prayer garb, but the attendant opens his mouth and seems to brace himself for backlash.

“Her Majesty was insistent that you come immediately—”

Katsuki rolls his eyes. Of course the old hag had been insistent, had been up the attendant’s ass about making sure the man would be up his ass about getting there. Well, they can both fuck off.

“I’ll be there,” he interrupts, halting just in front of the attendant to glare up at him. “Now fuck off already.”

The attendant hesitates only a few moments longer, likely less than enthusiastic at being caught in the middle of a battle of wills between the infamous queen regent and crown prince, but the conflict at least serves as a catalyst to pull Katsuki back into his own body, enough so that he knows the severity of his glare is back in full force. Predictably, the attendant caves.

“Your Highness,” the young man acknowledges with a nod of his head, before he beats a hasty retreat. Katsuki’s satisfaction is less than fleeting—gone in such a flash he can’t be sure it was actually there. It doesn’t matter. With something heavy and leaden in the back of his throat, he stomps out of his study and across the walkway to his room. He waits only for the door closing behind the unwanted messenger before he begins to tug off his ceremonial clothes, a process that takes hardly a couple moments.

It’s not so quick a process to don his usual attire. Still, it’s not so slow as he’d like, either, as he mindlessly and efficiently dresses with all the numb haste of a man determined not to be late to his own funeral.

He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want this news. He doesn’t want to face the nightmare scenario that’s going to be realized right before his eyes, but there’s no avoiding the inevitable—and at least there might, might be some avoiding of his mother’s temper if he doesn’t piss the old hag off by holding everything up. Despite every instinct in his body screaming for him to linger and hold off on what’s coming, he makes his way out of his own room, through the brief passageways to the sanctum.

He can’t say what it is that’s roiling under his skin, mostly because he doesn’t even feel like he’s inhabiting his own skin right now. His body’s moving itself, his mind is—it’s somewhere, but it feels miles away. There’s a grievous swooping in his gut and an uneasy tremble through all his limbs but it feels… muted, like he’s somehow disconnected.

There’s only each step his feet take, and the dread that continues to flood his system.

It turns out, his mother being such a bitch about him coming immediately was completely fucking unnecessary—not a shock, but he’s too numb to get irritated about it—because in the brief, near-unseeing gaze he flashes around the vast room as he enters it’s obvious that Deku’s not even here yet, that hardly anyone is, apart from the queen.

He bows the way he always has to whenever one of them enters the room with another, and he doesn’t even have the presence of mind for his blood to boil at the requirement like it normally does. He can’t focus on anything long enough for that.

Stiffly approaching where she stands in front of her throne to stand at her right side, Katsuki’s barely conscious of his posture or propriety. It’s all he can do to take his place, face forward, and play his part through the jumbled way his thoughts crash restlessly around his head in waves.

“Katsuki.” He doesn’t turn to see her face, but he can hear the disappointment dripping from her tone, and it makes him feel—feel—disgusting, somehow, a mental sensation like something slimy washing over his skin. “It took you long enough.”

As dazed as he is, he’s perfectly divided between the overbearing urge to snap back at her or simply not respond at all in his hazy state. Decorum, however, would mark both as unforgivable, a matter he’s grappled with all his life, moreso now that his own kingdom has started to loathe him. It takes more effort than it ever has in the past to strain for a response suitable enough to fit him through the situation, his thoughts disjointed as they are.

“I came as fast as I was able, Your Majesty.”

He doesn’t call her mother when he grits the words out—he never does. He hasn’t in years, maybe a decade. If they were alone, he’d have called her hag instead, and likely have gotten a smack to the head for it—but they’re almost never alone, almost always surrounded by an unremarkable backdrop of servants and guards and courtiers, all always listening for Katsuki to find some new way to disgrace himself.

The queen makes a scolding, derisive noise, and his hands twitch as somewhere faded and distant he feels the flare of indignation she always brings out in him, but he can’t maintain a hold on this conversation any more than anything else right now. He merely clenches his fists and, in effort to keep his gaze from flashing around the room wildly as if in search of escape, he finds a spot to the left of the main entrance, where the wall meets the floor, and levels his gaze there, eyes unfocused and unseeing.

Trying to calm himself has never come easy in the past and it doesn’t now, and he loses himself in the attempt—he couldn’t say how long it is before the massive double doors finally swing open, a servant announcing, “Your Majesty, Midoriya Izuku and his companion have come, just as you requested, ma’am.”

As simple as that, any attempt at composure is gone—once again, Katsuki’s ears ring, and it feels as though the floor has dropped out from under him as he swallows roughly, nearly dizzy for how quickly he pales. Fuck, it’s here, it’s finally happening, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it—for the first time in years he almost actually feels religious, enough so to want to drop to his knees and beg Bakusatsuo or the three Goddesses or—or fucking someone to just—to stop this before it happens, to save him from this.

He doesn’t. As it is, it takes all his strength not to sway to his knees anyways, but he keeps standing, faking steadiness with all he has in him.

His gaze doesn’t move from the spot he’d affixed it, still so inattentive he can barely register as Deku and another body move further into the room, each dropping to a knee before him and his mother, heads bowed low in deference. Fucking hell, he doesn’t know how to get through this.

“Izuku,” his mother greets, and Katsuki clenches his teeth, shuts his eyes, tries and fails to take a steadying breath. The level of familiarity is, of course, far from common, but the relationship between the Sheikah clan and the royal family has always been closer than most.

Even so, Katsuki knows she only goes as far as Deku’s given name because she knows Katsuki thinks he’s above needing Deku around as a companion, or protector, or gods forbid an equal, and she wants him to know he isn’t above shit. An awful lot of what she does is centered around trying to send him that message.

“If my understanding is correct, the day we’ve all been anticipating has come, and the Sword that Seals the Darkness has finally been drawn. This is so?”

Against his will, Katsuki’s eyes pry themselves open, and for all his reluctance his eyes flick unbidden to Deku. There’s something different about him, something beyond description—he seems… more confident, more vivid. He seems steady and unyielding, the green of his hair even seems fucking brighter somehow, and the way the light shines off of it almost creates an illusion of lightning crackling through it until Katsuki blinks. Lightning, a symbol of Farore. Fuck. Even with his head still somewhat downturned, Katsuki can see there’s a new light in his eyes, and it really sinks in.

The churning in his stomach is back, moreso than before, and Katsuki doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to move an inch before his nerves make him empty the contents of his stomach all over the throne room’s floor. He’s never felt this fucking helpless or hopeless, despair taking over at the blatant change in Deku that must have come from—

The thought stops cold as Katsuki starts to tear his eyes away, and he finally realizes something crucial.

There’s no sword at Deku’s back.

No grand, enchanted blade, no magnificent work of craftsmanship bearing the familiar Hyrulean Royal Family’s symbol. Not at his back, not in a parcel in his hands, nowhere. Even the shortsword at his waist is the same shitty eight-fold blade he’s always had, definitely not something new. There’s a hiccup in Katsuki’s thoughts, mind simply stumbling to a stop in its tracks as he fails to process for a moment. There’s… no way this can be the case. He’s heard the kingdom talk for years. He’d known the futility of hoping against the predicted outcome. He’d heard his mother just now.

How can Deku not have the sword?

His mind still hasn’t caught up, but some part of him must have, because his eyes finally register the other person in the room, the one who’d entered with Deku. His gaze shifts over unthinkingly, taking in hair that’s an absolutely atrocious shade of red, styled into the stupidest fucking spikes Katsuki has ever seen. He looks over the unfamiliar new face with the same lack of comprehension, seeing but not exactly perceiving the strong jawline paired with soft features; the pointed nose paired with rounded cheeks; the large, cat-like crimson eyes paired with small, furrowed red brows. He’s dressed in the typical armor of a Hylian soldier, though there’s no helmet to be seen to cover his absurd hair.

A feeling washes over Katsuki, one he has no idea how to name or place, one unfamiliar but that he knows, knows is somehow caused by the sight of this boy he doesn’t recognize at all. He can’t look away, except to briefly stare behind him.

To stare at a point, just over his left shoulder, where a masterpiece of a sword is strapped to his back. The hilt is elaborate; a deep, royal blue, with a green pattern woven around the hilt, and golden accents embedded in the wing-shaped guard. Katsuki’s never seen it before, but he knows, feels it somewhere deep and undeniable, that this is the Blade of Evil’s Bane.

Katsuki stops breathing. His eyes snap back to the boy’s face and slowly, finally, understanding dawns, seeps through him with a dizzying sense of relief so intense he almost—he almost fucking starts crying. Deku’s not the chosen of the Master Sword. Deku’s not the Hero of Hyrule. Deku’s not—he’s not suddenly and out of the blue a master of everything Katsuki’s a failure at, he’s not tethered to Katsuki’s side for the rest of his life—Katsuki can—can escape this, can actually fucking breathe—

And he does, lets out a breath so painfully shaky with overwhelming gratitude towards fucking any one of the gods out there who had a hand in this, who saw fit to grant him this reprieve, because there’s no outcome he can imagine worse than being some fated pair with Deku. He hopes the exhale isn’t too audible, too obvious to those in the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty, ma’am.”

Deku’s answer startles Katsuki, makes him realize—fucking—this entire winding, tumultuous journey his thoughts and emotions have trekked through has somehow taken no more than a handful of seconds. And only now, secondarily, does Katsuki’s understanding that this newcomer is the sword’s chosen shift from what it means for him and Deku, to what it means for them.

His first thought, taking in the sight of this other boy with his new understanding that this is the prophesied hero of legend he’s to save the entirety of the kingdom with is—just who in the hell is this clown?

“This marks a day of grave importance, then—and prodigious news for the kingdom, as well,” Katsuki hears his mother say beside him with the voice she uses to seem important and respectable in front of people who matter. (Katsuki clearly isn’t one of those people, in her mind.) “This makes the forewarned return of the Calamity seem all the more real—but it also gives us another weapon required to bring about its downfall. Nearly all of the pieces are in place to secure our victory.”

Katsuki doesn’t miss how pointedly she says the word nearly, and it brings him back into his own head, if only slightly.

“You understand, it is a shock to many of us in the castle that Izuku is not the hero foretold—I doubt there’s a soul in the room who isn’t surprised to discover it—but it is an honor to meet the champion with the spirit of the hero, chosen by the sacred blade. Is it true that you are a knight?”

A knight? So he’s not merely a run of the mill soldier, the way his armor suggests. Katsuki’s gaze is analytical now, and as the rush that accompanied his worst fears being alleviated finally ebbs, he finds new, subdued unease and dread taking their old place. What kind of person is this, the hero he’s destined to face the return of the Calamity beside? And—and what does it mean, that he’s drawn the sword when Katsuki can’t even manage a mere spark of the power that he’s supposed to master?

The boy nods, the very image of approval-seeking, meek respect. Katsuki feels his nose wrinkle.

“This is Kirishima Eijiro, Your Majesty,” Deku pipes up, and almost as soon as Katsuki’s irritation flares that he’s speaking for this Kirishima, the redhead shoots Deku a glance that almost looks… grateful? Katsuki wants to roll his eyes. “I—I was passing to the Great Hyrule Forest the way we planned, and when I neared the training camp by Rauru Settlement—Kirishima’s one of their most competent trainers; he trains all of their soldiers in fighting in unconventional styles—he’s familiar with how almost every army in Hyrule fights, and—”

“Izuku,” the queen interrupts, flatly. She can fake familiarity, but she can’t fake care, or patience—and while she makes it clear she must like Deku more than Katsuki, it can’t possibly be by much.

A brief glance reveals that Deku flushes, but he doesn’t startle like a rabbit frightened of its own shadow, anymore. Katsuki’s brow furrows. What in the hell is his deal, now? Even as he wonders at this, he can’t keep his gaze from the shitty-haired asshole that Deku has brought.

“Apologies, Your Majesty! I—he helped me dispatch of a monster camp that had set up too close to Rauru Settlement, that I encountered on the way, and he offered to accompany me to the sword, for safety in numbers. When we finally reached the heart of the Great Hyrule Forest, where the Great Deku Tree watched over the blade...” There’s something in the way Deku says the name, something that—that reeks of awe, and… gratitude? Something like it, at least. “I wasn’t able to draw it—it—trying took a lot out of me. But Kirishima felt drawn to it, and when I suggested he try his luck, he drew it with ease. I’m more than sure of it, he does bear the spirit of the hero, and he’ll serve the kingdom well, ma’am.”

There’s a silence that follows while his mother seems to ponder who the fuck knows what, Katsuki’s eyes still intent on the face he can’t seem to pull his gaze away from, still studying. He feels sick again, but this time the sensation’s not as physical. With ease, Deku had said. This Kirishima had drawn the blade—had mastered his destiny—had bested Katsuki—with ease.

He doesn’t know what to make of him, this boy who’s remained stone-still and stoic through this entire explanation, but he can’t help but wonder—how the fuck is this fair? As if sensing Katsuki’s thoughts, the knight suddenly chances a glance upwards for nearly the first time since entering, his eyes finding Katsuki’s as if magnetized, curious and open.

Something jolts through Katsuki so overpowering and fierce that his heart skips a beat, before galloping ahead at a breakneck pace as his breath hitches, transfixed by a sensation he cannot name. It’s—somehow, red locked with red, Katsuki is overcome by what feels almost like familiarity, but so much more than that, so much weightier. The way the knight’s eyes widen, he thinks it might be mutual.

Katsuki rips his eyes away, feeling unsteady. What the fuck was that? What the hell?

He obstinately refuses to look back, no matter the odd draw he’s felt so far, adamant not to let himself be buried once more by—whatever the hell that phenomenon was. He grits his teeth, fists clenching tighter, and forces himself to glare Deku down instead.

“And this Kirishima cannot explain any of this for himself?” his mother finally asks, and it’s one of the rare, almost nonexistent times she’s ever said something Katsuki would want to ask himself. He still will not allow himself to look back to Kirishima, but Deku shoots the knight a look, and there’s another brief pause while something seems to pass between them.

“He… doesn’t speak much, Your Majesty.” Deku only pulls his own stare away from Kirishima halfway through the sentence, and it rankles at Katsuki to know he can read Deku well enough to tell that the look on his face means he’s reluctant and unsatisfied to be speaking as he is, that he’s not being fully truthful. His expression shifts, though, to absolute faith and certainty as he asserts, “But his skill with a blade speaks for itself, and I know beyond a doubt that you’ll only ever need to see him in battle once to agree, ma’am. He has my complete faith.”

The noise Katsuki’s mother makes in response puts him on edge, if only because he’s on the receiving end of it so often. She makes it when she won’t go so far as to assert her disapproval, but she wants it made clear that she’s withholding any approval as well.

Katsuki chances a glance to his side, to gauge her demeanor in his periphery. She’s eyeing Kirishima appraisingly, a look Katsuki has often associated with a lioness looking for the weakest in the herd to hunt down, for anything she can exploit. She seems, soon enough, to come to a decision, tilting her head upwards slightly.

“Then may I once again extend my welcome, and emphasize what an honor it is to meet the wielder of the sacred blade. Rise, both of you.”

Both stand from the knee they had taken, rising with straight postures, hands clasped behind their backs, and heads remaining bowed respectfully.

“Kirishima, it sounds as though you are more than dedicated, and notably accomplished. This is something we will need more of in the castle, as we devote ourselves with singleminded focus to our final preparations to thwart the Calamity’s return.” Again, the words are pointed, directed more to Katsuki than the one they’re actually addressed to. Katsuki can feel her eyes on him, oppressive, as she continues, “Starting tomorrow, you are to take over as the head of Prince Katsuki’s personal guard, and you are to become his appointed knight. You must accompany him at all times, to ensure his safety and to prepare for the role the two of you will share when All For One once again rears its head. Is this clear?”

Katsuki can barely even catch how Kirishima bows and nods with prompt obedience as his own head swivels, mouth agape as he stares incredulously at his mother.

“Your Majesty,” he bites out, trying with all his might to hold onto some shred of etiquette despite the red tinting at the edges of his vision, “I don’t think that’s necessary. I don’t need—”

“What you need, Katsuki,” she cuts him off sharply, glare heated and tone caustic, “is to remember your place, and to meet the needs of your kingdom in the coming Calamity. Perhaps the competence of this knight, who has no such hindrances with meeting his own destiny, will rub off on you. This is not negotiable, and you will not treat it as such.”

Hot shame and an angry flush burn at him equally. There has to be something—something he can say—some argument he can make to get himself out of this, but as he struggles desperately to find it, fucking Deku clears his throat.

“Pardon my interruption, Your Majesty, but if Kirishima is going to be with Kacchan from now on, I think that makes this a good time to explain that I won’t be able to remain at the castle any longer.”

Katsuki and the queen both snap their gazes to him, Katsuki livid at the interruption as though his time to argue his case was over, and his mother with surprise. No one simply informs the queen something like this, without asking her leave.

“And why might that be?” Her tone is even, but Katsuki’s sure everyone in the room can hear the underlying dangerous note in her voice at the perceived insubordination.

Deku meets her eye, and it strikes Katsuki as wrong. He was never able to do so so steadily before. “Ma’am, in the wake of the prophecy of the Calamity’s return, I know most people in the kingdom have been looking to old legends again—so I’m sure you’re familiar with the legend behind the Great Deku Tree. A hero sacred to the Goddess Farore, gifted with Her blessing and tasked with roaming the land to be a caretaker to Her creations.”

Katsuki is preparing to snap a dismissal, unaware and uncaring where he’s going with this, but Deku presses on, “A hero who fulfills this duty for as many centuries as they are able, before choosing a successor and settling in one place to transform into the next Great Deku Tree, to protect Farore’s creations from up close.”

Choosing a successor.

The purposeful way he says the words, the shift in his demeanor—Katsuki stares at him, agape and disbelieving. There’s no way, it’s—it doesn’t seem possible. And why him, of all people?

“Your Majesty, the Great Deku Tree of our time—the legendary warrior, All Might—he awoke when Kirishima claimed the sword. And after he spoke to us, he chose me as his successor, and passed Farore’s blessing to me. I have to return to the Great Hyrule Forest after this to learn from him, ma’am, and after that… I don’t know.”

A murmur passes through the room, making Katsuki actively aware, for the first time, of its other occupants. Mostly guards, but a small handful of courtiers as well—he’d known they were there, before, but they had faded in the background as they often did for him; seeming little more than an everyday backdrop to his and his mother’s power struggles. He only really registers them all now to share in their shock at having such unexpected turns of events, twice in one day.

He stares at Deku, and it occurs to him—yes, the rest of the kingdom was wrong. Deku wasn’t special. He hadn’t had any grand destiny, or power, or role always living inside him. He wasn’t born with the same greatness that—that the chosen hero and god-blood prince were said to have. Instead, he’d forged his own destiny, made himself into someone special, on his own terms.

Katsuki feels envy like he’s never felt in his life blow through him, grinding his teeth so hard he swears he can hear it. He’s always hated Deku, but this—this is too much, it feels like acid eating away at his insides.

In the stunned silence that captivates the room, Deku seems to understand that no one would dare or see any need to challenge his right to leave. He draws himself to his full height, and adds, “It’s been my honor to serve the royal family, Your Majesty, but I know with Kirishima here that Kacchan will be in good hands. You can trust Kirishima to keep him safe.”

In good hands—as if he needs that—as if he’s still so helpless and useless as they’ve always treated him, like he really needs protecting and constant accompaniment. Deku says it, and Katsuki feels a familiar bitterness welling up as he finally looks once more to Kirishima, a fierce glower taking over his expression.

Kirishima having the sword is better than Deku having it—anything is—but Katsuki doesn’t, can’t find it in himself to feel gracious to the knight for that.

He knows resentment when he feels it. And he’s not going to shake it—not now, maybe not ever.

If this asshole thinks he’s just going to trail behind Katsuki like a good little knight and not deal with the crown prince’s ire, he’s got another thing coming.

[aisakaab2]

Lunar Somnus

This is a story mine when I was 14 years old I try to translate to English I hope you like it

The life is such as a dark alley that when you step up on it lights up, that’s why sometimes pick up the wrong path. Just like you're the one that revolves around the future, there's times he can revolve around you, waiting for you with something you don't expect to happen. I know what I say, because everything started to revolve around me at some moment. Maybe it was there where those strange dreams that attacked me began on the nights when the night sky was not greeted by the silver sphere called the moon, and perhaps, it had luminous points, called stars, visible. In those dreams I could see a thick black fog, it seemed such as a smoke from which only I could make out a silhouette and a beautiful, mysterious and unbelievable eyes. These was of an amethyst colour, but before of can do my vision clearer, I wake up startled while a cold sweat ran through my body and my heart throbbed strongly.

Time kept passing and those dreams kept attacking me mercilessly in some new moon nights. Since then things have gotten worse or maybe just, they uncovered the lies. Why I say that? Because my two best friends. A cute girl of the school and the other the sporty. I never thought at first to befriend them, I should have drifted as far away as possible, but I didn't in due course. When my parents told me, we should move I put on my best surprised face instead of joy, I told them that I understood and nothing was wrong. When I entered to my bedroom, I put me to jump and dance When I calmed down, I found that I was alone two days to go, so I started packing my few belongings.

In less than a rooster crows, my days passed. When we get to our destiny, I discovered that we were in Tenerife. Despite having asked them a thousand times where we were going to live, they preferred to keep me in suspense until I got to this amazing house. It had a large patio totally limited by iron gates and concrete walls, whose of apparently granite. The house had doors, windows, balconies, also a large garage. When I entered to the house, I checked it have been decorated for coordinate the modern with the classic rustic. I went to the room, whose had instinctively chosen and was delighted with the decoration.

That night, this strange dream came back for attack me, but there was something new: a symbol and the door of basement of the house where I lived now. When I wake up, for coincidences of destiny I found in front of that old and dusty door, whose was open, until I realized I had my hand on it knob. Confused I entered, I went downstairs, entering the room in complete darkness, feeling the sound of my own footsteps. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the image of those amethyst eyes returned to my mind. I didn't care about it and walked up to feel... Arena? I looked down, but all it was so dark, I hadn’t my flip flops but I was step on arena and rock. Suddenly I saw some light. I approached the deceased checking that he was a firefly and I carefully opened the window, entered lighting the room. I closer where found the arena, I saw the ground of rock whose there was engraved a full moon with a waning moon and waxing moon. I touched that strange symbol which one appeared a strange light. When that succeeded, I got scared and I decided run away of the basement to my room.

The next day I wake up and I saw in my shoulder blade I had a tattoo same I saw in the basement, a full moon.

The days passed and classes had started at the institute, where I was surprised not be the only new one. A young boy with purple hair and brown eyes, almost black, and other young boy with black hair with grey streak and brown eyes. They were the ones who came in with me.

The dreams were becoming more noticeable, worrying me. One day the boy with black hair with grey streak closed to me. He had a nice voice and for some reason I don't know, it gave me a lot of confidence. We became fast friends, although... he at first said nonsense. Then that boy with almost black eyes looked at me with a strange air, I think he doesn't fall good. He came up to me one day, the night before I had been in the basement. It had been a while without sleeping well and I think it was showing. He told me not to release him and I didn't I knew what he meant.

The days went by, dreams became more frequent and then I did not I held on longer and decided to find out what that basement was hiding. I was to class like a normal day and Jisung, the boy of black hair with grey strakes told me something of release my past. I was very surprised, since they both knew something that I did not know and that worried me. What was being hidden from me? There were many questions without answer.

When I came back to home I went to the basement and I stop frightening. I was going to do? I opened the door and it done a squeal and I close to the beginning of the downstairs. I went down accompanied by the creaking of the stairs thanks to my footsteps, until I touched the wooden floor. I had a flashlight so I was able to head to where the symbol that I saw painted on the rock. Touching it again, a beam of white light came out, giving in a strange halo, I turned off the flashlight, and carefully got up. I could see how the dark smoke that covered the basement battled in a magical way with the white and bluish light coming from the symbol. Worried as I was, I waited until that the light was gone, but the symbol was still shining. I reached out and touched it slowly the full moon shone and I moved my finger around the hoop and the light became so intense that I had to close my eyes. When I opened my eyes, I found me in front of a guy with grey hair and amethyst eyes. He looked me, smiled and he help me to wake up.

-I’m Felix- told me with a smile that made me shudder.

-I’m Y/N- I told.

When I found out it was a ghost, I didn't believe it, until a while later. He told me the story, or part of it, of the moons. They were magical beings, who, when dying, they reincarnated winning a battle. Jisung was the waxing moon and the guy of eyes almost black, whose name was Seungmin, was the waning moon.

Time passed and I liked Felix more and more, even if I kept it quiet, the latter was gentlemanly and gallant. I don’t know how to do Felix came back human…

One day Seungmin and Jisung told me:

-That with the power of the visible moon will be able to save the hidden moon from darkness... but they don't know it.

Months passed and then I understood. I decided to go to the basement where Felix was, despite the multiple feelings that began to attack me, I entered and went down the stairs that were already illuminated. Felix was sitting on the floor leaning against the wall. He got up and walked over to me. I could only look at him confused and not knowing very well that do. Let it go? But I... I liked... I just liked. So why me was it so difficult?

- What do you feel? - Felix asked mysteriously, approaching me and caressing my face with his hands.

-I… -I remember trying to say something, but I closed my eyes when I felt the caress and I didn't know how to respond.

-Let me show you what happened -Felix asked me and approached me very slowly face. I felt his breath, his arms around me, his lips brushing mine until turn that simple touch into a kiss.

At first, I did not know what to do, but little by little, I stopped thinking, and my lips joined in a dance that made the kiss turn between deep and delicious. I passed out, I know because his eyes, before falling into his arms, looked at me gently.

When I opened my eyes it was all dark, but I could distinguish like another girl, blue eyes and blue aura surrounding her, she looked at me. That girl said to me:

-You and I are one. I am the blue full moon, and I know everything that you do not remember...

She told me many things. She told me how Felix and I, in a remote past, were together, even though I never revealed my feelings to him. A human, who had virtue of being a medium, he fell in love with me and killed me because he understood that he could never be hers, Felix was sealed and I understood at last.

When I woke up, Felix was holding me. He smiled at me, kissed me and I reciprocated while I whispered that I loved him, he replied that he too and disappeared, something he said that he only expected to know my feelings since he did not know them in the other life ...

Three years passed and I was already in University. I thought I would never see him again. That same afternoon I found out that there was a new student. I felt like it invaded me a tornado of feelings: on the one hand, nostalgia for the past time, on the other, an inexplicable feeling that something new was going to enter my life. And without thinking, like if something pushed me to look in that direction, I saw it. It was him; it couldn't be any other. How a sleepwalker went to him and grabbed his arm. He turned and stared at me. Of suddenly she smiled and hugged me, until that moment I had forgotten to breathe and I felt the air expelled with relief.

-Thanks for bringing me from death. I love you so much that not even death could hold me back- and then he kissed me and I knew that the magic of love existed: "I love you" I whispered.

[ashleyswrittenwords]

Of Gods and Goddesses (IV)

Note: I finally revisited this one. Here is the final installment of OGAG! This is dedicated to my burning love for HyLink. A final thank you to @royxhe for the inspirational fanart!

First Chapter

Previous

---

Of Gods and Goddesses

Hyrule had been torn to pieces by Demise’s hoard. It had been years since Hylia’s descension and the Hylians were cornered. Refugees from all walks of life met at a single point to defend both the Triforce and their survival. The goddess of light was at the forefront, organizing forces and splitting resources to sustain the camps. It would be wildly convenient if her sisters would return, but they never did. Hylia was left alone to pick up the pieces. All the while, looking forward to the day she would drive a blade through Demise’s dark heart. Her people were calling him a demon king and refused to refer to him as any sort of god.

Then one day, one of her commanders approached her with word that a man with the Triforce imprinted on his right hand was found. She rushed to the entrance of her tent and threw aside the drapes. Lightening boomed through the sky and she found him knelt in the pouring rain, knees sunken in the mud. Sandy blond hair was soggy, and his forest green attire was drenched by the travel. From what the commander had said, he was from the frontlines.

The man refused to do no less than bow in reverence before her until she demanded to see his hand. The wavering words and the sight of the triplet triangles made their eyes meet for the first time. However, to Hylia, it felt like the countless time she had seen those blue irises.

“Alikah?” she breathed out in disbelief.

His expression twisted in confusion but held an odd air. The man couldn’t quite place her. He knew who the goddess was, of course, from the tales and legends. But this was altogether different.

“Actually, Your Grace. My name is Link.”

Alikah’s death echoed pain through the years and her heart seized. Eyes wide with a tight grasp around his hand Hylia knew it was him, although now in a mortal form. It had been over 25 years since she felt him take his last breath. Usually that span of time would be nothing, yet each morning felt empty and each night lonely. It had been so long and here he was, albeit different. He didn’t have a godly glow around him, nor the perfections that came from being holy, but this was him. Alikah’s eyes, his voice, his hair, his mark that he had tattooed on his back was in her hands.

Even so, he did not recognize her. She was to him as she was to the rest of the mortals. Hylia could see it in his face. The mother goddess and the light of Hyrule.

Biting down a wave of grief, she released his hand and it fell to his side. Link returned to kneeling and she realized what Alikah had meant. He wasn’t useful as a god and there were strains in her chain of command. They revered her, but when it came to drawing out battle plans they refused to speak their minds. Having their own at the table beside her would potentially change the course of this war.

With a steady breath, she pulled the sword from her side. The master sword had been her companion since the beginning and she was no stranger to Alikah. He had wielded her once before, and he would have to unwittingly do it again. His eyes flickered up to hers as she held it out, “Link, I must ask of you to give more than just yourself. To wield my sword and stand by my side until the Demon King is defeated.” Hylia forced her voice to be strong, but the implications of forcing a mortal to endure conquering Demise… is this what Alikah would have wanted?

“You’re free to walk away. I will not hold you to this,” she finished. His eyes fell from hers and all that could be heard was the rain falling around him. When he finally spoke, all she saw was resolve.

“If it means protecting this land and your people,” Link spoke as surprise filled her, “I wholeheartedly accept, my goddess.”

My love…

Then, it was done. He took the Sword that Seals the Darkness gingerly from her grasp and the crowd that formed around them watched in awe as the chosen hero accepted his destiny from the goddess of light.

  Time went by steadily and the war dragged on longer with it. It wasn’t like the War of Old where centuries went by without a notice. Each year was grueling and tore at Hylia whose army beat down on Demise’s hoards. It didn’t matter how efficient they were, the monsters regrouped greater in both strength and number. She felt that every life that fell was by her own hand. Even still, she had to keep positive. The Hylians depended on her and saw hope in her being. If she were to lose face before her people, she feared all would be lost.

Hylia found comfort in wearing their clothes and actively participating in their customs when war wasn’t immediately called for. As she charted out where each battalion would move next, she wondered what Din would say at her discolored and seemingly bland skirts. It made her smile despite the weight on her heart. Even the generals have insisted on more elegant apparel. She had expressed her profound disapproval of the notion. Why would she wear anything different than the people that fight for her?

The opening of her tent shifted, stilling her quill. A head of blond hair popped through and the rest of the man followed.

“Ah, Link,” she smiled. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

The sword on his back glowed warmly as it always did in her presence. It was rather late in the night and she hadn’t expected him. He nodded in her direction, “Your Grace.”

She glanced around, “Please sit anywhere.”

He did, drawing a chair to her desk and looking curiously at her plans. These past few years were cruel, but Link’s presence was a great help. His prior years climbing the ranks until his mark was found out gave him an edge that many generals did not have in the fight against the demon king. The man knew the varied monsters and strategies to take them down. His expertise only solidified Hylia’s conviction that he was the rightful one be by her side. Not to be forgotten was their growing friendship.

“I had a premonition last night,” Link said in that quiet voice of his. He didn’t speak loudly and the only times she had seen him upset were in the manner of his words, not his volume. She straightened, fully taken with his speech. “A premonition?”

Link’s hands rested on his knees, thumbing the seams of his trousers. “I have no other explanation for what it could be,” he looked up at her then. In his eyes there was a pleading. “Hylia, if I were to die… what would happen?”

A pregnant silence settled so softly that she hardly noticed how much he sounded like a god who was killed nearly three decades prior. Her gaze left him to rest on the melting candle before her. It wicked away at the wax and she wondered if the appropriate action were to cry. Though, she decided against it. Whatever stirred within her had to wait.

“You won’t. I do not think I could bare a pain like that again.”

He was quick to reiterate her words, like he knew something she did not. In his seat, Link leaned forward, “Again?”

Hylia searched his face. He looked so much like him. A wilted, weak part of the goddess wished to make him hold her as Alikah did. Another part desperately tried to separate them only to see their mannerism, their words, and features grow so similar that they melted together in her fantasies; causing her to start the process all over born from the frustrations of her own inadequacy. Even now, she could see that in his patient waiting the man was picking apart her words and trying to read her as she read him.

If her hunch was correct and he was the reincarnate of Alikah’s wish, there was danger in speaking too much. Hylians simply weren’t built to carry the soul of a god. If, for whatever reason, the memories of Alikah were to surface there was no telling what would happen. It was easier for Hylia to avoid talking about him altogether – no matter how much it hurt.

She wore a plastic smile and folded her hands in her lap. “I misspoke.”

His body seemed to sag at her words. It concerned her. “Link,” she reached for his hand and he did not stop her. “If you want to walk away-”

“No, it’s not that,” Link interrupted, curling his hand in hers. “I need to know if… if you would be able to endure.”

As it was, the strategy was to incapacitate Demise. At best he would be dead. Link was the driving force. Once they pushed through the hoard, the demon king would be forced down by the chosen hero. With her light, Hylia would then plunge Demise into light. If she was able to reach his heart, his life was as good as over.

If the goddess could labor both, she would. Forgoing the downfall of Demise was her ultimate goal, but if she were to slip and succumb to his darkness at any point there wouldn’t be enough power vested in her to make one final act to save her people. After all, Demise was an ancient god in himself and it took an army of immortals to vanquish three of his kind.

“Unfortunately,” she started, “even I have limitations. The future would be uncertain.”

They grew close, she found comfort in his trust. Link’s forehead brushed hers. A sad smile graced Hylia and her voice dipped into a whisper, “But you must know already that when it comes to it, I will give myself for you and this land.”

“In all of your plans, do you see yourself staying with me?”

The question was plainly stated, but it had brought back the aching. She was certain that without the dark reign of Demise, the people would be able to cultivate the land once more without her. Everything her sisters gifted them would remain. It had given her hope that when she uses herself to bring the god of darkness to his own demise, they could continue without her.

Never did she afford herself a dream where she survived.

“It would be a lie to say I haven’t tried.”

Alikah had told her that Hylian culture had many odd customs, although she found nothing odd in the way Link pressed his lips to hers. As his hand threaded through her hair, she realized that he had hid more than she thought.

  The demon below her screamed has Hylia’s light burned it from the inside. Around them, the hoard was thinning as they cut through the monsters. Black blood coated her armor as she waved the battalion forward. It was a smaller group of men and women, but their loyalty to the cause was of gold. Link retched the master sword from the head of a Hinox. Her feet touched the ground beside him.

“He’s inside,” she said gravely. A spiraling building was before them. Above that, thick clouds swirled and drowned out the daylight to create perpetual night. Link stared up with a grimace, “To think someone would want the world like this.”

Wind was rushing by them with a fierceness. The dark hurricane had been roaring since they broke through the second wall of monsters and now it was almost deafening. To Hylia, there was no doubt in her mind that this was where the portal lies – and with it the creator.

Link then turned to his soldiers and barked out orders to keep any incoming hoards away while he and the goddess confronted the demon king. They followed suit, taking defensive positions as Link and Hylia walked towards the entrance of the dark tower. This was it. This was what years of violence had led up to.

Hylia hummed, “Most of this is an illusion. He’s expecting us.”

She willed her power to course heavier through her veins. With it, any petty illusion that she used to blend in with the Hylians slipped away. Golden hair softly wavered around her in a halo and if you looked in her eyes, you’d see heaven.

Wordlessly, the hero and the goddess walked along the drawbridge. Below them were serpents in the moat that moved in the same manner as water. The walls were lined with torches and the sickening scent of death. It opened up into a cavernous throne room where a single sword laid in the center. Everything was the color of coal, yet the weapon still burned darker. Link voiced his curiosity and began walking towards it.

That was when Hylia realized she couldn’t feel its presence.

“Link, don’t!” she shouted, making him twist around in confusion. It was an enchantment. While the hero’s back was turned a sharp void shot from the sword and the goddess leapt, creating a wall of light as she did. The blast hit the wall and sent shocks through her magic. The darkness withered her light into faint sparks.

A laughter haunted through the room in several directions as black sludge melted the sword. From it an arm emerged, curling against the stone floor before birthing a twin. In long drapes, a cloak stood from the darkness. The whisperings of black magic plucked at Hylia’s consciousness for this was its father. In Demise’s grasp was a jagged weapon. Orange flames licked down his face, matching the fire in his eyes.

Blown back from the force of power, Link steeled himself at Hylia’s side.

“You been locked in your own dimension all this time,” the goddess stated bluntly.

A crooked, mangled smile spread itself on his face, “Always the clever one of your sisters. Why should I waste away on the Surface when I could be saving myself for you?”

The god walked a thin line around them slowly, eyeing Link with some curiosity. “The Almighty has assorted with dirt for so long. I wondered if perhaps you would simply guide me to the Triforce yourself. How is it living with rodents?”

“It will never be yours.”

Her words made him laugh.

“You’re living in a pipe dream, Hylia. Though, there is still time to leave everything for my good graces. I wouldn’t mind a pet,” he left her for Link. “But it looks like you’ve adopted your own to send to the slaughter.”

Light burned in her hand and in her palm formed a hilt up to a sharp point. Her feet tapped on the ground in a quick burst as she jumped through the air for her sword of light to meet his. It clashed and sent shockwaves. With a spare hand, she pressed it to Demise’s chest. Before she could gather enough power, he gripped it in his own and twisted it. She bit down and gripped his forearm in a vice, flinging him into the opposite wall. The goddess needed to buy time.

Demons poured through the hole in the wall Demise made. Link and Hylia looked upon each other. Their defenses outside the fortress had fallen. In a desperate attempt, she visualized a boxed room in her mind and made it so. As the vision became reality, the shield started at her feet and crawled along the floor like spilling water. The demon king growled, already recovered and sped towards Hylia with red eyes. She braced herself for the impact.

A different clash was heard; it was familiar. The master sword whispered in her mind and she saw Link’s red mantle, now long muddied by the journey, in front of her. His feet slid on the ground from Demise’s force but stayed upright. The shield around them was almost complete. She could feel Demise fighting it and pushing his own poison to will her light away. Distracted by the Hylian, the shield was positioned.

Demise was trapped.

“You insolent-!”

The master sword slipped in a grating sound against the spiked tips of the dark sword. Link ducked out of the way. Enraged by his actions, Demise suddenly doubled over into a hunch. Screams tore through his throat, knocking back the goddess. Before her eyes, he grew in a mangled fashion. Spores burst from his back and his veins split. Screams turned to laughter.

“He turned himself into one of them,” Hylia couldn’t look away, horrified. “I have to stop him.”

Link shouted her name, but it was too late. The goddess started out in a sprint and sent a charge through her sword. With enormous strain, she stabbed into the god’s back only to watch the wound heal. Each attempt let darkness infect her sword just as the void did her wall of light. The whispers of fear adhered to her as she tried to evaluate what to do. He was merging with his demons.

With all her might, she drew her light cleaver upwards and slashed deeply into his back. The swords dragged down with the sickening noise of wet flesh flaying. It shattered in her grasp. She thrusted her now empty hand into the bloodied tear before it could regenerate and bellowed as light burst from her fingertips. Her power drained slowly as if he were absorbing it.

Suddenly the world went sideways as Demise roared over her in more voices than one. In a blast, she hit her own shield and then the floor of the throne room. The goddess could hear her chosen hero scream her name and the wet, sinking footsteps of a monster coated in his own blood.

“Do you think I would suffer through isolation for millennia to squander at your feet?” it said through scratchy and inhumane noises. “I find happiness in your misery, goddess of light, and I will perpetuate it longer than you have mine.”

Unable to recoil from the coldness that dripped on her, it took everything to keep the shield steady. In the least, she had dislodged whatever kept him healing. Another set of footsteps and then Demise let out the awful yell that deafened her. Hylia opened her eyes to find Demise being sunk to the ground by the master sword. Her weak heart leapt and she forced herself to her feet, swaying from the drain of lifeforce.

“Damn you, Alikah!” the demon king growled. “I will take the pleasure of killing you twice!”

As the tip of the blade evaded Demise’s monstrous arms and touches what was left of his chest, the corrupted god pierced his own sword into Link’s abdomen. Link plunged the sword deeper, ignoring Hylia’s screams and the pain that would inevitably kill him. Even so, she couldn’t get to him fast enough. His hands slipped from the hilt and the master sword wavered in the chest of their enemy, Tears poured from her eyes as she fell to her knees in front of him. With a broken cry, she willed the sword to stay, knowing it wouldn’t hold him for long. Tears fell from her cheeks as Link gasped for air. The shield had shrunk around them and Demise’s hoard pounded on it.

“I’m so sorry,” she cried, pulling him into her lap. “This is all my fault.”

Link denied her with a slight shake to his head, then with a withered voice, “You don’t have enough left in you, do you?”

He grasped her wrist; her pulse was faint. Without heaven’s source, she was limited. After years of putting protections of villages and crops, this was what she was left with. A nod confirmed his fear. She wouldn’t be able to vanquish the life of a god so easily, instead she would need to seal him away and nothing was permanent. The sword shook again.

“It’s okay,” Link smiled weakly. “I’m so proud of you.”

And she saw Alikah again, instead he was dying with red blood in place of gold.

She took his face in her hands, “I want to see you again.”

“I would happily die if it meant I could know of your smile in another life,” he said. Hylia felt herself faulter as golden light surrounded them both. He was slipping away; a god’s soul was dangerous to hold onto for long. The demon king hoarsely screamed out curses as words melted from Hylia’s lips.

The light was blinding now. Around them, the Surface groaned and shifted. Link’s fingers lacked the warmth they once held. The green of his tunic was beginning to match the dark scarlet of his cloak. Far away, where they met, land was being uprooted.

Along with it, the Triforce.

Hylia was giving herself to the darkness and the darkness with giving in to her. The curses of Demise faded with his demons.

She wasn’t there anymore.

When the goddess opened her eyes, warm breeze hit her cheeks. She sat under an oak tree in a field of grass. In her lap with a languished grin, Alikah stared up at her. No longer was he bloodied. Hylia ran her fingers through his hair, “We lost.”

“Though, you’ve succeeded them.”

“The world will change drastically.”

“And they will still prosper because of you.”

She sighed, sinking deeper into her seat in the grass. Her sisters had influence in this place. There was truth in his words and despite her body not surviving, she felt comfort.

“Our destinies have become intertwined, my love,” she brushed blond bangs from his eyes.

Alikah’s smile softened, “Then I will see you again.”

[brokeco]

Far-Flung Hopes, ch1

I posted this on AO3, thought I would post it here too.

Summary: The force had two children, six thousand years apart. Dooku imagined it was about time these children meet, whether they liked it or not. ---------- The fic where Revan possesses Anakin.

Anakin knew he only had himself to blame for his capture.

He hadn’t expected, when he reached Dathomir, to be blindsided by Dooku while fighting some Nightsisters. He knew that by now, his dear Obi-Wan, Rex, and Ahsoka would be looking for him. Would probably be close to finding him too. But for some reason, this felt different.

For one, he expected Dooku to torture him for troop movements or strategies. Or even just for fun. But the Count didn’t, had even made sure that the droids guiding him to his cell didn’t “damage” him. Secondly, Dooku seemed to be moving on a timeline. Cell transfers were exactly on the hour from prison to Separatist base to underground prison. The Count also took particular care to make sure that everything on Anakin was “only of the highest quality”. His robes were replaced with something that looked traditional for Sith, his hand repaired before cuffing him with Force-blockers. They had even washed the dirt off his face and out of his hair. They tried to feed him, but he refused food and drink. If Dooku and his forces wanted Anakin well-fed, he’d starve himself. That seemed to upset the Count, but he didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t try to force-feed him, which Anakin was almost sure he would do.

At the time of Dathomir’s late night, Anakin could hear two sets of feet outside of his cell. Then voices. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but one of them was definitely Dooku and the other sounded female. He doesn’t know if he recognized the voice, but he certainly didn’t like the sound of it.

The door opened, showing Anakin that he was right: Dooku stood before him with a woman who looked like the holos of Mother Talzin, the leader of the Nightsisters. While Dooku approached Anakin, lifting from where he sat in his cell, Talzin seemed to regard him, looking into his soul.

“It is, indeed, as you say.” Talzin finally said to Dooku, both of them completely ignoring Anakin’s cursing. “Don’t mark him.” She commanded, looking intently at where Dooku grabbed his arm.

“It’s metal, my dear. It won’t be damaged.” Dooku supplied.

“It won’t be damaged, but you will be!” Anakin yelled, kicking his feet. It didn’t stop or slow Dooku’s dragging him however. “What in the Seven Hells are you doing?”

“If you really are the Chosen One, you’ll find out.” Dooku answered shortly, opening a door to the outside, a shuttle waiting for them. There were guards around it too, both Nightsisters and droids. No further words were exchanged through the three excluding Anakin’s grunts of frustration and the sounds of his feet hitting the durasteel beneath him.

Suddenly, he heard the sounds of another ship rapidly approaching. Dooku, Talzin, and Anakin all moved simultaneously to see a Republic ship flying straight to them. Anakin already knew it was Obi-Wan. It had to be.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it, as he was gently thrown into the transport, Dooku taking the pilot’s seat and Talzin keeping an eye on him in the back. They lift off quickly, but Anakin could see from the way Dooku was flying that Obi-Wan was right on his tail.

“So want to tell me where we’re going?” Anakin snarkily asked, not truly expecting an answer.

“We are taking you to Korriban, Force-child.” Talzin answered. Her voice seemed meant to soothe him, but it just made his stomach sink.

Anakin scowled. “Why?”

“You must fulfill your destiny.” She answered as if it were obvious. Anakin decided not to ask anything else, just so that he wouldn’t hear her voice anymore. By then, they had left the atmosphere and Dooku took a sharp left.

“Strap him in. We’re going to go through an asteroid field.” Dooku called behind him. Anakin almost felt nauseated when he felt Talzin’s long and bony fingers grab him to put him in a seat.

Skywalker had to give it to Dooku: he was a good pilot. His nausea grew when he realized that Dooku was a better pilot than Obi-Wan. They emerged from the field and Anakin could practically taste Dooku’s satisfaction in the air. “That shall delay them. But not for long.”

“Nightsisters are on Korriban, and shall delay them further once they have arrived.” Talzin replied serenely. Dooku nodded before turning his attention to Anakin, an eyebrow raising at the sight of the Jedi.

“You’ve paled considerably.” Dooku said to Anakin, resting his hand on Anakin’s forehead, checking the younger’s temperature. Anakin almost recoiled at the cold feel of the hand on his face. “You feel fine. Did you have a problem leaving the atmosphere, I wonder?”

“He is a Force-child. He’s had those Force-blockers on for hours now. It must be affecting him physically.” Talzin dismissed when Anakin growled at Dooku instead of answering him.

Dooku hummed at that. “Indeed.” The Count returned to steering them, still at the fastest speed he could get the shuttle without entering hyperspeed. Anakin blanched again when Korriban entered their sight. “Are you quite sure he’s alright?”

“I didn’t say he was alright, Count. I simply explained why he isn’t.” Talzin responded with a grin, watching humorously as the Sith’s frown deepened.

“Indeed.” The Count repeated gruffly. When they landed, Anakin pressed himself into his seat, even as Dooku grabbed at him. He made sure he wasn’t so easily dragged, entire body limp in Dooku’s hands. It took the combined effort of Talzin and Dooku to drag him out of the shuttle and into the near-destroyed Sith temple. Before the doors closed behind them, however, Anakin could see Obi-Wan’s shuttle entering the atmosphere. With a smile, he began to kick again, ignoring the slowly-growing nauseous feeling in his throat and stomach. Dooku huffed at the action, but made no attempt to stop him, just continuing to drag the younger down a spacious hallway.

They entered a large, barely-lit room swarming with Nightsisters. At the center of the room was a stone coffin, embellished with carvings and gold figures of all kinds. Two stone stands stood on either side of the room, both of which with lightsabers presented on top. A couple of Nightsisters sat in a circle around the room’s edge, each on some Sith symbol on the ground. The others seemed to be there entirely for protection, weapons in their hands. Just as Anakin was about to say something, he was lifted suddenly, laid onto the coffin, chains quickly replacing the Force-cuffs.

Dooku turned to Talzin from where she seemed to set herself up in the circle on the ground. “I do believe we should start this ritual quickly, if we have any hope if it working.”

She nodded at him, watching as he stood at the doorway, ready for the Jedi that would show up at any moment. “The mask.” Talzin commanded a Nightsister who approached Anakin quickly. As soon as she entered his sight, he recognized the mask from his studies as a child in the temple.

Darth Revan’s mask, thought lost to the sands of time.

Anakin fought against his restraints, but the mask was strapped onto him quickly. His breath came in deeply, echoing in his ears. Talzin and some of the other Nightsisters began some chanting, but Anakin couldn’t focus on what they were saying, a purple fog suddenly covering him. Panic almost gripped him before he realized that he could feel Obi-Wan and Ahsoka and an entire squad lead by Rex and Cody were all making their way down the hall.

“Obi-Wan!” Anakin yelled, trying to see passed the fog. “Obi-Wan!”

“Can’t you shut him up?” Dooku asked, not receiving an answer from the still-chanting Talzin. Soon enough, Obi-Wan was in-sight, Ahsoka and Rex hot on his tail, weapons at the ready. “Your timing, as usual, is impeccable.” Dooku drawled as he shot lightning at the group. Obi-Wan quickly blocked it with his saber, but was pushed back. Ahsoka ran passed him, jumping behind Dooku, only to have Nightsisters jump at her and the troopers trying to run in.

Anakin, meanwhile, felt his head swim, something slowly making itself at home in his mind. “Obi!” He called pathetically. He couldn’t see any of them. He could feel them fighting, but they weren’t fast enough. “Master, please!” His voice wasn’t completely his own, hearing the deep voice of someone that wasn’t there before. Immediately, he felt Obi-Wan push himself into the room, trying desperately to make it past Dooku in order to free Skywalker.

“Hold on, Anakin!” Obi-Wan called to him. “I’ll be right there!”

As the fog finally completely covered his body, mind numb, Anakin whispered. “I can’t.”

The fog exploded outwards as Force-lightning struck the tall ceiling and traveled along the symbols there before striking Anakin, who wasn’t himself anymore. The lightsabers on either side of him flew towards the coffin and were caught by suddenly-free hands. Obi-Wan could feel that there was a new presence as they all stopped fighting to marvel at the event before them.

The fog lifted, revealing the now-free body of Anakin, possessed by the shattered heart of the Force themself, Darth Revan. The ancient spirit seemed to size them all up, gaze lingering on Obi-Wan.

They lifted their hand, and as suddenly as their fighting stopped, the Nightsisters, Talzin included, went limp, their unconscious bodies hitting the ground. “It most certainly wasn’t their idea to raise me from my slumber.” Revan spoke, deep voice carrying and piercing the hearts of the clones and Jedi.

Dooku merely smirked. “It was mine, my Lord.” Dooku approached the ancient being, bowing respectfully. “Another war calls to you --” He was cut short, Revan’s red blade burning through his heart.

“I never asked to wake.” Revan explained simply as Dooku’s body fell before him. Revan looked to who was left, only one person not raising their weapon at the slight movement. “Jedi.” Revan addressed Obi-Wan, approaching him despite the weapons trained on them. “Are you not afraid?”

“No.” Obi-Wan answered dully.

“Why is that?” They asked, head cocking in confusion.

“The body that you are currently inhabiting is a very good friend of mine. I could never be afraid of him.” Obi-Wan looked Revan up and down, their form familiar but so different. “I doubt anyone in his body would attempt to hurt me.”

Revan hummed, body close to Obi-Wan’s as they looked to the others, gaze first resting on Ahsoka. “You’re a child.” They stated simply.

“No!” Ahsoka pouted, weapons still ready.

“How old are you?” They asked simply.

When Ahsoka didn’t answer, Obi-Wan did. “She’s 16.” Revan hummed again at Obi-Wan.

“She’s very short and thin for a Togruta of her age.” Revan noted. Suddenly, they took off their cloak, handing it to Ahsoka. “It’s very cold in the desert at night. And you are very small. You’ll need something to warm you.” Ahsoka hesitantly accepted after Obi-Wan nodded to her.

“Thanks?” Ahsoka said, even as she no longer held Revan’s attention.

Revan looked towards Cody and Rex, who still held their blasters up, but not necessarily at the ready. “There is something odd about and your fellow troopers.” They stated.

“They’re clones.” Obi-Wan supplemented, finally regaining Revan’s attention. “That’s what’s odd.”

“And yet, they are different in the eyes of the Force.” Revan wondered aloud. “We should leave before this miserable group awakens.” Revan nodded towards the Nightsisters, slipping quickly past Obi-Wan, walking down the hall. The others looked between themselves before quickly following Revan out.

[mittensmorgul]

This talk of the early seasons gives me another question: do you think the demons were trying to break John in hell? Like, were they trying to break the first seal with John a couple years before Dean? Or do you think breaking Dean was the original plan all along? (I'm aware the writers wouldn't have known about the seals while writing John being in hell seasons 1/2. I'm concerned about the Watsonian perspective here.) Thanks for your wisdom btw, I love your perspective on this stuff 😬

Hi there! First off, thanks! I do my best, and I’m glad you’re enjoying it :D

Second, wheee! Watsonian perspective is what I care most about, so I’ll stick to that. Well, mostly… the one thing I feel I do need to bring up is the timeline of s2, which I would suggest falls roughly over the span of time during which it airs– that’s to say that 2.01 (where John dies) and 2.22 (where John pops out of Hell and gives the assist in killing Azazel) are approximately eight to eleven months apart, depending on which theory of the timeline you subscribe to.

We know that 2.22 takes place immediately after the events of 2.21, which we have a concrete date for– Dean sells his soul on May 2, 2007. According to the Superwiki, John was killed by Azazel on July 19, 2006, but that’s a guess based on the date listed on the heart monitor of the girl who dies in the hospital in 2.01. And we all know how… timey-wimey those sorts of props can be, and I’m uncomfortable making definitive timeline estimates based on just those things. But for the purposes of this post, we’ll assume the range of potential timeline for 2.01 runs between late July and late September 2006 (since 2.01 aired on September 28, 2006, and often without other concrete dates, we assume canon runs approximately parallel to our real time).

So, John was in Hell for somewhere between 8 and 10 months, approximately, of canon standard time. But what do we really know about that time he spent in Hell?

We know DEAN’S experience in Hell, where he was being specifically worked over to the point of breaking. We know that his four months (actually more like four and a half– from May 2, 2008 through his resurrection date of September 18, 2008), but that it actually felt more like 40 years to him.

I need to stress this specifically, because the fandom assumption has always been “well, this is just what time is like uniformly throughout Hell, and not a targeted, concentrated experience catered specifically to accelerating Dean’s progression to surrender and pick up the blade himself, in fulfillment of the prophecy.”

I… always assumed that Dean’s experience was unique in Hell, and that– based on every other glimpse we’ve seen of Hell– Time runs… pretty much like normal Earth time there. Think of Crowley’s meeting with Cas in 6.20, in Hell’s waiting line. Or 11.09-11.10 (where we see more of Hell than ever before– both Crowley’s “dining room” there, several passageways, and the “stage cage” in Limbo), where time in Hell parallels exactly the characters who are still on Earth. While waiting for Dean and then Cas to arrive, for example, Sam only spends about half an hour with Lucifer in the cage alone, and Crowley and Rowena only spend the same amount of in-show time there as it takes for Dean and Cas to arrive, respectively. Finally, we have 8.19, wherein we know Sam had exactly 24 hours to break into Hell, retrieve Bobby, and escape to be picked up by the reaper who never arrived because Crowley was killed. Sam’s time “in Hell” exactly paralleled Dean’s time on Earth, as well as “purgatory time,” which we know runs approximately parallel to Earth Time after Dean spent “about a year” there.

So the logical conclusion is that “Hell Time” is malleable, but that Dean’s experience there was… unique. According to the prophecy they were ALL trying to bring about, Dean was put on the Break-The-Righteous-Man-Speed-Run plan. And I do believe this was a highly specific circumstance, and that Dean’s “Hell Time Dilation” was specific to his time in Hell, and not a universal blanket statement on how time works in Hell in general.

So… I postulate that John only spent those 8-10 months in “normal time” in Hell. And despite Alastair’s taunts in 4.16:

Alastair: John Winchester. Made a good name for himself. A hundred years. After each session, I’d make him the same offer I made you. I’d put down my blade if he picked one up.Dean: Just give me the demon’s name, Alastair.Alastair: But he said nein each and every time. Oh, damned if I couldn’t break him. Pulled out all the stops, but John, he was, well, made of something unique. The stuff of heroes. And then came Dean. Dean Winchester. I thought I was up against it again. But daddy’s little girl, he broke. He broke in thirty. Oh, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?

Because JOHN WAS NEVER THE ONE THAT NEEDED TO BREAK. But Alastair was intimately familiar with Dean’s experience, intimately familiar with how to HURT DEAN SPECIFICALLY, and this was an excellent try. But John… was NEVER the righteous man who needed to break, according to the prophecy. It ALWAYS had to be Dean. So… why would John have been tortured that way?

Not to mention, if John HAD been literally strapped to Alastair’s table, tortured constantly for his entire time in Hell, then how the heck did he manage to sneak out the Hellgate in 2.22? Like… think about it for a second.

The demons who escaped were essentially “in the right place at the right time,” because the one demon Azazel was trying to let out– which we won’t learn until 4.22– was Lilith.

We assume that the other demons who managed to sneak through before the gates were slammed shut happened to be Lilith-adjacent– such as Ruby (who knew Lilith’s whole plan from the start), and other demons who were already loyal to Lilith (such as Casey from 3.04, and Tammi from 3.09, and eventually all the demons Lilith surrounded herself with in 3.12 and 3.16).

And yet… out strolled John Winchester. Because Hell literally didn’t need him anymore. Dean had already made his deal. The clock was ticking on the guy they ACTUALLY needed. And heck if that doesn’t parallel exactly what Zachariah said to Adam in 5.18:

ZACHARIAH: Hey, don’t get me wrong. You’ve been a hell of a sport, really. Good stuff. But the thing is, you’re not so much the “chosen one” as you are…a clammy scrap of bait.ADAM: No…but what about the stuff that you said? I’m supposed to fight the devil.ZACHARIAH: Mmm, not so much. Hey, if it’s any consolation, you happen to be the illegitimate half-brother of the guy we do care about. That’s not bad, is it?ADAM: So you lied…about everything.ZACHARIAH: We didn’t lie. We just avoided certain truths to manipulate you. 

Because that’s the thing with this show– Heaven and Hell are pretty much the same. Sam goals, same methods, same objectives, just with a different set of aesthetics, a different interior decorator if you will.

If John had actually been tortured the way Alastair claimed in 4.16, would he have just been at liberty to conveniently stroll through the gate in 2.22? Would he have even been able to leave at all? Would he have looked so fresh as a daisy? I mean

Looks pretty good for a dude just strolled outta hell, you know? Not even the least bit demon-y, right? And we know it takes a heck of a lot less time than a century for a human soul to be demonized in Hell… So everything else– aside from Alastair’s statement to Dean in 4.16, which was a deliberately targeted barb specifically said to make Dean doubt himself while he was actively torturing the demon who’d tortured HIM for four decades and therefore HIGHLY suspect in context of the rest of canon– would suggest that John had been basically stashed in Hell’s Cold Storage for about 8 months while the demons were meticulously arranging circumstances on Earth to set up the events of 2.21-2.22, luring Dean into selling his soul for Sam, and Azazel getting the Devil’s Gate opened to let Lilith escape.

Because strangely enough, I believe the Crossroads Demon in 2.08 more than I trust Alastair in 4.16:

DEAN: Can you bring him back? My dad?DEMON: Of course I can. Just as he was. Your dad would live a long and natural life, like he was meant to. That’s a promise.DEAN: What about me?DEMON: I could give you ten years. Ten long good years with him. That’s a lifetime. The family can be together again. John, Dean, Sammy. The Winchester boys all reunited. (she advances towards him) Look. Your dad’s supposed to be alive. You’re supposed to be dead. So we’ll just set things straight, put things back in their natural order. And you get ten extra years on top. That’s a bonus.

John was never the one they actually wanted. John was never going to work as the Righteous Man, or as Michael’s True Vessel for the purposes of the specific prophecies of the Apocalypse. As Gabriel once said in 5.08:

GABRIEL: You sorry sons of bitches. Why do you think you two are the vessels? Think about it. Michael, the big brother, loyal to an absent father, and Lucifer, the little brother, rebellious of Daddy’s plan. You were born to this, boys. It’s your destiny! It was always you! As it is in heaven, so it must be on earth. One brother has to kill the other.DEAN: What the hell are you saying?GABRIEL: Why do you think I’ve always taken such an interest in you? Because from the moment Dad flipped on the lights around here, we knew it was all gonna end with you. Always.

So… no, I think John’s tenure in Hell was probably a boring (compared to Dean’s) few months spent adjacent to Lilith so she could keep an eye on him in case Dean did take some sort of demon deal to trade his life back for John’s before they were scheduled to.

And finally, a bit of a Doylist justification for all of that: I don’t think any of this was planned back when s2 was being written. I don’t think they’d considered the later retcon of s4 and Dean’s “forty years” in Hell while writing s2. I don’t think they’d thought any of this was part of some larger prophecy of the Apocalypse yet. None of that came about until 4.01, because there had NEVER been any intent to introduce Angels or Heaven into the cosmology of that universe until that point anyway. So… they made the most out of what they had already stated canonically, and left it to us to make the most sense out of it. And this ^^ is my best, least plot-holey, most canon-compliant theory based on the entirety of canon. :)

[fatefulfaerie]

Beyond Time Itself

Zelink Week 2019 prompt #8/10

Todays’ one-shot is actually an excerpt from one of my previous works entitled ‘One Moment’, centered around Link and Zelda’s journey in Skyward Sword. You can find the full story via the link below, but otherwise the chapter I’ve posted here is perfect for todays’ prompt.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17659280/chapters/41646086

We walked forward into what looked like the Sealed Temple where I first met that mysterious old lady. It seemed different, but somehow, even more familiar.

"We are now in the distant past," I heard Impa say as I stepped forward, "where Hylia and her servants have only just waged the battle for this land that you have heard of through stories and legends. This place, although eventually renamed to become the 'Sealed Temple', was at this time known as the 'Temple of Hylia'."

As she walked slightly in front of me, Impa gestured her hand forward through large stone doors that revealed a large room.

"And it is through there that you will truly be reawakened as the Goddess Hylia.”

I nodded as I entered, Impa following me inside as I walked up to a red-carpeted pedestal and sat down, closing my eyes.

It wasn’t long until I was thrusted into a vision, much like the ones before.

In front of me was a large, dark hole that deepened in its' mystery as it spiraled downwards into a dark chasm.

And somehow I knew that I was looking into the conduit for a growing evil. Subdued for the moment, yet still a great threat to my land.

I started to hear the sound of cascading footsteps against the charred grass behind me, before they completely stopped.

"Yes, Impa…" I said.

"Impa…perhaps it's a relative of the Impa I know."

"All of his forces have been defeated. The war is over."

"No, Impa, it isn't," I replied, sighing before continuing with, "the war is only just beginning."

Impa took a couple steps forward to stand next to me.

"Is that?" Impa asked.

"Demise, " I replied with a nod, "I have created a seal that I must maintain….but…my power…it's…"

"Goddess!" I heard someone exclaim behind me, prompting me to turn around and find an odd, burly creature panting heavy breaths.

“We found him.”

At the sound of those three words, I felt my heart lurch.

“Lead the way,” I said to the creature before Impa and I followed him through the Temple of Hylia and out onto the vast land that echoed the past calls of battle, its’ beauty ruined by the flames of war.

We soon entered a familiar clearing where bodies of monsters and hylians alike had been rendered completely immobile, their carcasses stacked on top of each other in a morbid display of the cost of the battle waged.

In a corner to my right was a small gathering of creatures who turned around to face us with sad expressions.

And, at the sight of Link laying on the ground they stood on, I let out a shaky exhale.

The creatures parted as I ran to his side, feeling the cold drop of tears wetting my cheeks.

There was no denying it, the blood that coated his tunic, the stillness of his chest, the drooping of his head, his arms.

The man I now held in my arms was dead.

It was hard for me to see him like this, to touch his limp body. Not only because of Hylia's raw feelings of loss, but because I couldn't bear to imagine my Link in this same state.

As I hugged him close, accepting the truth of his end that I already suspected, the creatures started a walk back to the temple. The sound of footsteps prompted me to watch Impa walk closer to me, her red eyes warped with sadness.

I laid Link gently back on the ground and closed his pain-stricken blue eyes before taking his left hand with both of mine.

"Golden goddesses of old," I started, "you entrusted me to be your agent, to protect the Hylians and the Triforce that was left in your stead. In this, I have succeeded at the unfortunate cost of many lives. It is apparent that the fight for the peace of this land has only begun, so I ask you to assist me one last time so that it may continue."

"One last…" Impa said, "Hylia, what are you doing?"

Ignoring her inquiry I continued,

"Farore, the goddess of courage, who, with your rich soul, produced the life forms that walk the earth. When the evil starts to brew again, I ask you to bring back into this world the soul of this hero, who gave his life for my protection, so that his unparalleled courage may be of use to us again."

"Din, the goddess of power, who cultivated the land and created the red earth with your strong, flaming arms. I ask you to create a weapon, that matches the power of the evil sword of Demise, yet opposes it in its’ divinity and proves its' greatness through its' benevolence. The spirit of this sword and the true power of the hero will grow together, becoming stronger within their goal to truly eradicate Demise. The reincarnated hero will be the master of this sword until the evil is truly defeated, armed with the justice of his cause."

"Nayru, the goddess of wisdom, who poured that wisdom onto the earth and gave the spirit of law to the world. I ask…"

I took a shaky deep breath.

"I ask that I be reborn as a mortal at the same time as the soul of this hero. So that…so that I can make up for the mistakes that I've made and ensure that no one else suffers because of them. And also…so that the Triforce, our last hope, can be used for the eradication of Demise. An asset for us as opposed to a force against us,"

"And, of course, the price I pay for this request, my final act that will set all of it in motion…"

"Hylia…" Impa said with and inquisitive tone of warning, not quite sure of what I would say but obviously sure that I could say something risky.

"I will relinquish my immortality."

"Hylia!" Impa said with a distinct shock, as if she were disciplining a child, "Your injuries from the battle, you won't survive if you succumb to them without the protection of the goddesses. You need to ensure that the seal holds…without your power you will subject this world to the evil you are attempting to destroy. There won't be a land left to save."

I took a pause and gently placed my right hand on Link's cheek.

"My power…I can already feel it dwindling…without him, I…I can't…"

The weakness of my voice inhibited me from continuing, yet a warm, supportive hand on my shoulder reminded me of a welcome presence.

"My incarnate," I continued, "can I trust you to guide her? To this time?"

"So…does that mean…Impa is from this age…she was tasked by the goddess to travel across time."

"Or rather, she was tasked by me…"

"And the Triforce…" I said, “its' power is too great to leave in the grasp of man. We may need it a time like this, yet that is a dangerous habit to fall into. Dependence on its' might is an invitation to disaster. When it has served its' purpose, it must be secreted away to lay dormant once again…the knowledge of its' existence hidden from mortal history."

"Yes, of course," I heard in reply before Impa stepped back.

"Link," I said as I retreated my hand from his cheek, "surely this love that we felt will carry on, will ensure that our fates are intertwined, will connect us in a way that will always bring us together."

I then closed my eyes and said,

"Goddesses of old, I urge you, as the chosen guardian of this land and its’ chosen people, hear my pleas and see them through. With that hope in my heart, I now…I now relinquish my immortality for the future protection of this land."

An overwhelming loss of energy overtook me, for I could barely make out,

"…please…" before I felt a sudden dizziness, my vision blurring as the pain of the injuries that I sustained overpowered the capacity of my now mortal body.

I started to feel my consciousness drift away as I lost any sense of being, the whole experience becoming increasingly more dreamlike as the pain swelled.

To brace me from falling hard to the ground I felt Impa's hands quickly grasp around my right arm before I gently was laid down.

I squeezed Link's hand as my eyes slowly closed again.

Soon, all I saw was a golden light, completely enveloping the otherwise black void of darkness. 

When my eyes opened, I felt within myself an awakening, of my understanding, of my purpose, of myself as Hylia's incarnate. It was as if I truly did close my eyes on the ground next my hero and opened them here, in this temple.

So, when I turned around to find that Impa was bowing down to me, I only stood, accepting my destiny and the reasons for her reverence.

"I know what I must do now," I said when my eyes found her red gaze, "I must stay here, in this time, to ensure that Demise does not break free of his seal."

Impa nodded in agreement before I asked,

"So I shall start then?"

"No, your grace, Now we wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For him"

"Link?" I retorted, trying not to get too hopeful about the prospect of seeing him again.

"Yes, I believe now is the time, his blade is in need of your magic and both of you are in need of each other. I will step aside. I now see that…I must apologize to you. I underestimated your chosen hero, I ignored him, cast him aside, berated him. He didn't deserve the way I treated him. I should never have doubted that he truly is the one. I'm so sorry"

"How am I supposed to respond to that?"

"It's okay, Impa."

"No, it's not okay. None of this is."

"But…she was really just doing her job, the job I tasked her with, the job that entails her to sacrifice everything for my protection."

"I understand," I said as I walked down the steps.

"After all, perhaps she was right that it's best that we didn't really see each other and confirm our feelings."

"Because look what it did to Hylia and her hero."

"Things are so much different now…"

"You look apprehensive," Impa stated as she studied my expression.

"Things have changed. I can no longer expect love from him after he has heard that I've taken advantage of him. I need to at the very least tell him the truth, all of it."

"Do with your time what you wish," Impa replied, "I will not interfere."

[themostcleverandwittyname]

There’s Power in Pain

CH1 CH2 CH3 CH4 CH5 CH6 CH7 CH8 CH9 CH10

CH11

Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess

(LinkxOC)

Summary:

A farmer with a troubled past had found a fallen hero on a riverside and makes the decision to take him in. With Ganondorf gathering power by the minute, there is no time to delay in his defeat however there is a time and place for everything as well as a lesson to learn. Link will have to do the hardest thing he has ever done and that is wait until he is ready to defeat Ganondorf.

But will Link ever truly be ready to rely on help to do the impossible? To accept that even heroes need support even from the most unlikely of people?

Meanwhile, a group of thieves organize to steal the sacred sword of the Hero of Destiny for themselves.

Chapter 5: It’s real

Chapter 5 on AO3

Two days had passed since Link had brought the beehive down and he had managed to keep himself from reopening his wounds for that long. His progress was remarkable, the scabs had shrunken far faster than Annette had anticipated. He was able to move around and bend more without as much pain, but no progress was made for his left arm, which Annette was surprised to learn was his dominant arm.

Still, feeling that she had proven enough that his sword was not the Master Sword by handling it herself twice so far, a final piece of evidence would be the only one that she would need. Link was currently outside with his horse, Epona. He said he felt up to brushing her and Annette didn’t argue too much, thinking maybe now it would be okay for him to move around more and stretch his legs. It was also a get time to get him out of the house because she wanted to put the final test of evidence to pass and she had the distinct impression that he didn’t want her touching the sword with how he reacted two days ago.

She grabbed the bound notebook that she fished from her brother’s room and brought it into the living room, where the sword rested on the mantle. She composed herself and her fingers trembled as she opened the book, flipping carefully past pages of drawings and paragraphs all in her brother’s handwriting. Finally, she got to the page she was looking for and her breath was taken away. On the page was what was the accurate depiction of the Master Sword, the drawing had been copied for generations from traveler to explorer to thief. It was detailed to every detail and if this matched the sword in front of her, then this was either the Master Sword or a very close replica, which no one had ever attempted before.

She looked at the diagram and felt familiar with every curve of the graphite, it all looked the same. Placing the book down, the brunette picked up the sword and studied every inch, her realization that there was no variation between the drawing and the sword she held in her hands dawning on her. She stared, dumbfounded and uncertain. She looked at the book and read the passage beside the drawing.

“ None that attempt to wield this weapon shall succeed unless they are a goddess’s chosen hero. Those of tainted heart cannot touch this sword as the goddess Din’s flames endued it the power to vanquish and lift evil, for those unworthy shall surely perish or have their soul forever trapped.”

Surely, she would perish if this one was real… but it did not specify if that was true of the scabbard or the blade. It didn’t matter, she had touched both proving it wasn’t real… or was there a way? Link had only seemed antsy about her reaching for the unsheathed blade, not the scabbard. She had a mental roundabout, wondering if it could be real until she took a deep breath and came to a conclusion.

She was not a goddess’s chosen.

She was not pure of heart.

She was not affected by touching it.

This sword was not the real sword, it was only a replica. She tried to convince herself and did a fine job but she just couldn’t shake the doubt. The sound of approaching footsteps sounded from the kitchen and she didn’t have much time to react or to place the sword back. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want to be caught with the sword and this book open. Given no choice and little time to do anything about it, she held it parallel to her body behind her back, hoping that it would go unnoticed.

Just in the nick of time, she had gotten it hidden behind her as the swordsman walked in and was startled by Annette’s stiff and awkward stance. She gave him a sheepish and awkward smile, mentally kicking herself for being so obvious.

“So, how was your horse? It’s hot out there, you didn’t overheat?” She asked, trying to distract him. He shook his head and looked towards the spare bedroom.

“The breeze is nice…” He trailed off and scratched the back of his neck, a nervous habit of his she had noticed. “Um, Annette? Have you still got my green tunic?” he asked the question, and it was something she hadn’t thought about.

“Um, yes I do. It’s in bad shape and ripped in places but the chainmail that was under it is totally fine. The um… fun hat is good too as well as the other accessories like bracers and your boots. Why do you ask?” she wondered, perplexed as to why he was wondering about this all of a sudden.

“I think it’s time for me to go. I have to find some things and it’s eating me up not knowing where those things are. Thank you for helping me but I can’t afford to stay here any longer.” he said, looking away.

“I would say “good luck” and “see ya” if you were in any state to pack up and leave but you’re still… Hey, I can’t keep you here, but it’s suicide to go out like that right now, Link.” She began and the blonde took a sharp inhale of breath, his eyebrows pinching forward.

“You don’t understand, I have things that I am responsible for and have to do as soon as I can. I need those items and I’m wasting precious time. I know I’m not up to do it but I don’t care if it’s “suicide”. It’s my duty.” his voice came out strained.

“Ruining your body and putting yourself in life-threatening danger is part of no man’s duty. If it’s that important, rest up and heal and then go find your stuff. That should be your duty. I’ve seen too many good men die for their duty and it’s never worth it, Link. Trust me.” She argued. Link stared back at her, conflicted.

“I- It is my duty because my duty is special. You don’t even know.” His voice was harsher and it was the second time that he had begun to get cross with her.

“What don’t I know? Are you invincible? Obviously not, look at your state! You might not be lucky next time and I don’t want to let a man die if I can stop it, okay?” She tapped her foot, all she could do with both her hands behind her back.

“I’m not invincible but I’m more inclined to succeed than the average person because…” he stopped in his tracks and took a breath to proceed “Because I have been chosen for this and it’s my responsibility.” he interjected. Annette perked at the word “chosen” and she decided to pry.

“Chosen? What do you mean?” she asked, tilting her head.

“I don’t like to mention this but…” and without a word, he lifted his left hand from the sling and closed his eyes. To her amazement and horror, in the dim light of the living room a glowing, radiant light gleamed from the top of the man’s hand, the light traced along a triangle, smaller triangles appeared revealing the mark of the Triforce. She had to be dreaming or hallucinating. Zania couldn’t have been right. This was all… fake. She had convinced herself that magical, chosen heroes were all just legend. Just a story to make someone feel hopeful.

She had been holding her breath for several seconds. This was… impossible.

“So you see… I have to go, for the sake of Hyrule.” He concluded, his voice soft and the triforce faded away leaving only his skin. Annette shook her head.

“No, that’s not… that’s not possible. It’s not...” she trailed off defeated, unable to make any argument, yet still having trouble accepting that a triforce holder stood in her living room.

“And that’s why my sword and those other items are so important to me. That sword is-” he was cut off.

“The sword, it’s fake. It’s a replica. It’s not real.” she said. His puzzled expression only proved it’s realness to her more but she denied it. She couldn’t accept this. “It’s not the Master Sword. It’s fake. It’s not…” she choked out. Link looked over her shoulder to find that the sword was not on the mantle behind her. He then noticed the open book, the diagram of the Master Sword clear on its pages. He connected the dots in an instant. Fear sparked in his widened eyes.

“It’s not real, I can prove it.” Annette said defiantly.

“Annette, do not unsheathe that sword. Hand it to me carefully.” he instructed, speaking slow and clear. She pulled the sword out from behind her back and placed her hand on the grip, wrapping her fingers around it in defiance. Before she could move, Link had closed the short distance between them in a bound, grabbing both of her wrists before she could pull it from its scabbard. His grip was surprisingly strong, his movement no doubt hurting his broken arm and straining it. She was breathless, surprised at his tight grip and his speed. He had never been this close to her and he towered over her.

They held each other’s gaze for a while and Annette still challenged his grip.

“It’s not real, Link. You have to find the real one if you’re chosen.” she repeated, certain of her words. She had to be.

“I can assure you it’s real. If you unsheath this, you will-” in his moment of speaking, he had let his grip lessen and Annette took the opportunity to prove to him that she was right.

Pulling the sword from its scabbard, Link yelled in surprise and horror at his mistake in lessening his grip. Yet, nothing happened and the brunette pulled the sword in its entirety from the scabbard. Link jumped back in anticipation, his horror and shock carved in his wild eyes. Annette held the sword dumbly and Link let out a deep, forceful breath, coming to grips with the fact that nothing had happened, his amazement was the final answer.

Was it really real? Could it actually be the real thing or was Link wrong because one thing was for certain and that was that the swordsman believed it was authentic. The fear in his eyes and relief after he realized nothing happened couldn’t be faked.

“Fake...it’s...not real.” she breathed out, sheathing the sword and holding it back towards the man, who looked too shaken to take it back and perhaps even feeling the consequences of using his broken arm.

“Annette, you-”

“If you are… chosen then you need to find the real one. Since you can wield it, you shouldn’t have to carry around a fake like this.” she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to process what had happened, that her brother was right and that the Triforce was real. There was no faking that mark and Annette knew it. She didn’t want to admit it, but she had been wrong and the proof was in front of her. It all made sense now, why Link was so anxious to leave.

Link gave her an incredulous look, reaching out for the sword with hesitance, his movements slow. He took it back and swallowed, still pale. He opened his mouth and his words fell from his tongue.

“You don’t believe this sword is real?” was all he managed, his words hesitant. Was this perhaps the first time he had met a cynic? Annette was silent, unable to put into words exactly what she meant but still managing to let something spill from her mouth.

“I think you’re real, I mean, your triforce mark but that sword is not authentic. I wasn’t sure if a sword like that even existed but considering that you are real, then it would be silly to claim that the real sword is not out there somewhere.” she jabbered on, not making much sense to herself and mourning for Link who had to listen to her pathetic excuse for a proper explanation. Link laid the sword down on the couch and looked towards the open book, sizing up the document.

“Do you mind if I-?” He began and Annette immediately nodded. He leaned over and swiped the book up from the table, taking a long, studying glance at the drawing. After a moment of his blue eyes scanning the page, he looked up smiling to himself.

“Why do you think the sword is not the real one? You were going off this diagram and it’s exact to my sword.” he inquired, his point hidden behind his question. What was he getting at?

“It is accurate but it can’t be real. I know you don’t have to look at the passage to know that anyone who unsheathes the sword will die, as proof, my red wrists.” she joked, presenting both her wrists where he had grabbed her so roughly. He flushed, embarrassed by his damage. “So that being known, I am obviously not dead so ergo, fake sword. The real one must be out there somewhere and I might know where.” she explained, motioning toward the book in his hand. Her words held uncertainty because the location of the sword was only speculation from the mouths of thieves and her own brother, whose book was dedicated to the legends.

Link gave a knowing smile and placed the book on the table, keeping the pages facing upward.

“Is the place you’re thinking of in Faron Woods?” Link asked, his voice coy. She narrowed her eyes at him, knowing for sure that the location wasn’t on that page.

“...yes in a-” He cut her off for the first time since she had known him and she was surprised that he had.

“In a sacred grove that is hidden in a place that no one can find in a wood that time stands still.” he paused and she had no words. He must be familiar with the legend.

“I know, I was there and this is that sword. This is the Master Sword.” his words rang and for once she didn’t question his truthfulness, the authenticity, the possibility. She was silent, speechless. What did this mean for her? It had to be a mistake. It had to. She knew better than anyone that she wasn’t worthy of a sword like that. If that were the real sword, it must be a mistake or just chance. Was the magic waning over time?

“Annette,” Link began and she realized she had just been lost in her thoughts, staring off. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe in yourself and even harder to accept that you’re good, but being able to hold this sword means that you’re a really good person and I believe it. You’ve been nice to me and you haven’t asked for anything back since taking me in.” he paused and Annette still said nothing. She couldn’t find any words because while she wanted to believe his words, she knew it had to be a mistake. There had to be another explanation for this and a good heart wasn’t it.

“If you’re that good of a person, then I’ll stay and heal and I’ll try not to bother you. Besides, it’s something that I need to do anyway.” he trailed off, something like sorrow in his voice. His words were kind, but his honesty spoke volumes. It was easy to tell that he had felt the way she does now if maybe only a bit. They held each other’s gaze and Annette pushed her lips together, feeling guilty. He didn’t know how wrong he was to believe she was a kind person.

The man in front of her was a legend come true, the very personification of what she dreamed about when she was a child and he was nothing like she imagined. He was real, he was an ordinary person who wasn’t invincible. He was a hero and she had no clue what he was up against, what had injured him, or what his duty was. This whole time she had assumed he was stupid for being hasty, for being impatient and stubborn. Yes, he was injured, but she now realized that he was also a goddess’s chosen.

Where did the line between a tool of fate and an injured man who had basic human needs to be accounted for start and end? She had helped him for a reason, she now understood. She knew when she drug him to her home and dressed his wounds that she would have to make sure he left in one piece. She thought it was just making sure he was rested and his wounds healed but she realized that it was more. Helping him was perhaps the least she could do to right the wrongs that she had done in her past.

Annette knew what she had to do.

The silence had hung for so long that Link had held his breath, waiting for her to respond.

“Thank you, Link. I’m glad you are going to be patient and rest up. It’s for the best, but you’re right. Duty comes second to health.” she stated and took a deep breath, her mind now set on what she was going to help him with. He gave her a look and watched as she scrambled over to the book, flipping through the pages for anything useful.

“What triforce piece do you hold? Is it power or wisdom or…?” she trailed off to let him respond in her absence of words.

“Courage, I think.” he responded, his cooperation continued despite him not knowing what she was getting at.

“Okay, courage…” she began, thinking to herself how to begin. She set down the book and looked around frantically for a notebook or something to write on. She found a small journal on the surface of the bookcase that sat in the corner of the room, toward the primarily unused front door. She snatched it up and without explanation motioned for Link to find a place on the couch in front of the small table. She pulled the pen that clipped to the side of the book out and plopped down next to the swordsman, her shoulder bumping into his injured arm. She muttered a short apology and slapped the notebook onto the tabletop. The brunette looked over his injured arm wondered if he could write in that state.

“Can you write, with your arm like that?” She asked, leaning back, ready to offer up the pen. He stared at her for a moment, processing her words as he bit his lip. He nodded and she handed him the pen. He looked at the paper in front of him and took the cue to get into writing position, which for him and his arm being in a sling meant leaning close to the table and resting his weight on his other arm so that he could refrain from pulling his arm from the sling. Once he was ready, he looked up expecting some kind of answer as to why he had to write something.

“So Link, I want you to write down a list of everything that you lost and need back. Can you remember everything?” She asked, rubbing her temples. She felt a headache begin to form. The blonde nodded and stared at the paper for a moment to gather his thoughts before starting with his list. There was nothing but the sound of pen on paper and Annette watched over his shoulders as the letters formed a list. At the top was written “Gale Boomerang” and she felt that the words were familiar.

Link looked up to notice that she had been watching and he stopped writing. Had she been making him nervous? Awkwardly, she reached for her brother’s journal and thumbed through the pages.

Just as she had expected, there was a page with a short note scribbled at the bottom. It detailed the myth of a boomerang that could alter the wind but no one knew how. Annette looked up and before she could share the small passage with Link, he had set the pen down, concluding his list. He picked the list up and offered it to her.

“Trade?” she remarked, handing the journal to him in exchange for the list. Her eyes skimmed over it and some of the things were unheard of and obscure. One of the most perplexing to her was iron boots. Iron Boots? Like armored boots or boots made of iron? She let herself imagine what iron boots would be like to walk in and all she could come up with was broken ankles.

“Where did you get this book?” he asked in a lowered voice. She realized he had flipped through the pages and was looking at a crude diagram of what she remembered to be some important mirror.

“My brother was a fanatic. He was so obsessed and intrigued by legend that he would spend months looking for information about one tiny thing. He searched libraries, talked to travelers and scholars. He even explored dangerous places and temples to try and find something more. He would almost get killed every time, but he never learned his lesson until he…” she trailed off, looking with spite towards the Master Sword, “His obsession killed him and all he had to show for his research is that book.” she finished, Link gave her a sympathetic look. His grip on the journal immediately lessened and he handled it with more care. He almost looked as if he wanted to hand it back to her.

“Oh.” was all that the swordsman managed, gazing down at the pages.

“Hey, don’t feel bad for me. It happens eventually, his was just much sooner. He would have wanted me to help you.” She said, deflecting any sympathy or pity. She was sick of it. “So, you rest and I’ll try and get everything on this list back, okay? I have friends who can help and I will look myself.” She revealed, not wanting to look at the blonde for fear of seeing opposition.

“You’d do that for me? That's very dangerous and-” Link began, lowering the book in surprise.

“Oh, so it’s not dangerous if you do it? I can handle myself, believe it or not.” Annette snickered, used to being underestimated.

Link opened his mouth but words escaped him. That’s what she thought.

“First, I’m going to check in the river where I found you and then maybe Lake Hylia because some things may have washed into the lake. I can see if I can get help from a Zora to get anything out if there is something in the deep water. You stay here and get some rest and I should be back before dusk.” She said, folding the list up and pulling open a drawer on the lower half of the bookshelf. She pulled out a long, curved dagger, it’s scabbard black and silver. She looped her belt through the loop on the scabbard and buckled it secure.

The blonde was shaking his head when she looked back at him.

“Please, just let me go with you. Besides, you need me to confirm that whatever you find is truly mine.” He pleaded. Snap, she hadn’t thought of that. She couldn’t do this entirely alone. She didn’t know what anything looked like and not all of these items were in the journal, let alone with diagrams. She took a breath and thought about it for a moment. Link had been cooped up and surely a short horseback ride wouldn’t be too tiring for him in his state? He had been antsy for the past few days and with his willingness to cooperate and rest up, taking a few hours to look around wouldn’t hurt anything.

She hadn’t seen any bokoblins or bublins around that area in months so maybe it would be completely safe? She could hold her own against thieves surely, but she knew Link wouldn’t be able to right now.

Deciding it was worth the risk, she bit the inside of her cheek and sighed.

“Fine, but please don’t over-exert yourself. If you start feeling tired or you start hurting, let me know so we can come back. And for the love of the goddess, don’t rip your wounds open again. They’re almost healed.” she nagged on, really feeling like a mom, much as Zania had joked a few days prior.

Link smiled in triumph, and grabbed his sword up with his right hand. The awkwardness was visible and his left-handed disposition meant that swinging that sword around would not be easy. He still managed to surprise her by throwing that sword through a beehive, so that could be the least he could do in his state. Still impressive, but still worrying.

She shook her head and resorted to going out and saddling up the two horses for their small but hopefully meaningful journey.

CH1 CH2 CH3 CH4 CH5 CH6 CH7 CH8 CH9 CH10

CH11

[sanjuno]

SI prompt: Sailor Moon?

(2/32 SI Promptfest)

One of the things that Security always mentions when you start a new job and they hand over your accessbadge is that you need to completely close the doors behind you after passingthrough. A small piece of very important,very good advice that is sadly ignored more often than not once people settleinto their positions. Unfortunately, I failed to realize my coworker’s hubrisuntil the first shots were fired.

‘Oh shit.’ Thethought formed independent of the gibbering panic and pain as the horrificallyloud set of gunshots tore me out of my chair and flung me to the ground. ‘This is a brand new suit.’

I finished bleeding out about three minutes later.

/…/

Standing naked in the void, skin glowing like a star, myshocked mind could only offer up yet another inane thought. “Telling my motherthat I wanted my ashes turned into a diamond and mounted on a sword for my heirto wield as they avenge my death because I only intended to die when I waskilled was supposed to be a joke not aprophecy!”

“Too bad. Find comfort in the fact that your last wishes will be carriedout as you intended.” The human-shaped figure stepping out of theaether was a familiar stranger, their expression both sympathetic and uncaring.

“… Honored Janus.” Was I supposed to bow? Offer a handshake?How exactly were the dead supposed to greet a Roman God of duality and change?“I gotta say you’re not who I wasexpecting to run into roundabout now.”

“Who better than I to meet with one who so accepted the necessity ofchange, of growth and balance? Yours may not have been a grand story, but itwas a true one, and in the telling of it you have encouraged many changes.”The god of beginnings and endings grinned at me with one side of his face andfrowned with the other. No wonder the sculptors always put two faces on hisstatues. I would not want to be thecarver responsible for recreating that expression. Complicated was a bit of anunderstatement. “I find this useful for my purpose. Enjoy your new beginning, child ofthe Eclipse, Warrior of Dawn and Dusk.”

“… Eh?” I was the mostconfused. Was there supposed to be an explanation somewhere in there? “Wait,what the heeeee-olyshitwhatthefuck!”

Glitter. Glitter everywhere.Mixed with glowing bubbles and fireworks and no, really, what the fuck?

/…/

So.

Reincarnation was a thing. That actually happened to people.To me, specifically, in this case. If anyone was wondering.

It took awhile for my memories to come back, after I wasreborn. Which was actually a good thing because I needed those first few yearsto absorb a new first language. The confusion generated when I was six and myEnglish resurfaced was only funny in retrospect. At the time it was justfrustrating and slightly embarrassing.

Although once the initial assimilation was over with it wasnice to be able to code switch between English and Japanese. Almost like aconsolation prize for my new lease on life. Whee.

Oh, also I was a boy now. My eyes were still grayish-blue,my hair was still a dark ashy blond, but I was also Japanese and male. It wasan interesting mix of old and newfeatures coming together to make ‘me’.

… Probably Janus’ fault, now that I think of it. Good thingI never put any stock in gender or sex. Yay for the unexpected benefits ofbeing Ace-spectrum!

Nah, the gender reassignment was nothing. What reallybothered me was that I was the youngersibling. It was odd and wrong and upset the universal balance of what Iknew to be true. I could handle the educational pressure of being a ‘childgenius’. I could handle the overbearing social reinforcement of gender roles. Icould even handle the loss of everything I had once known and everyone I onceloved. (Granted, I did this by compartmentalizing and being slightlyemotionally stunted, but what works, works.)

I could not handle someone trying to ‘big sister’ me.

Thankfully, my new sister was… a flake. A ditz. A completeand total dunce. I loved her dearly and I would tear out the tongues of anyonewho spoke badly of her, but she had almost no academic intelligence at all.

I had expected it, really. After all, just because I wasreborn was never going to change such a fundamental part of her character. Heremotional and interpersonal intelligence was still off the charts, and hercharisma was frankly ludicrous. I still had a hard time accepting anyone who had proof positive of theirown ignorance not taking steps tocorrect it.

It was not like I wanted perfect grades from her. I justwanted enough effort put in to achieve competence.There was a difference between ‘I cannotdo this’ and ‘I will not do this’.Saying no once you have proved that you cando something is fine, but saying no without even trying sticks in my craw something fierce.

Knowing that a failed test paper plays a big part in Fate’sfuture machinations for my sister was also upsetting. Would pushing my sisterto study ruin the future? Would she still meet the people she needed to, stillmake the connections that allowed her to survive and win, even after all mymeddling?

I had no way of knowing. I could only trust that her Destinywould come for her. No matter what I did, or how many random first encounters Ineeded to contrive to bring it about.

“Shingo! Are you ready to go yet?” A voice I had beenfamiliar with long before my reincarnation called for me before my sister pokedher head into my room. “Come on,Shingo! I didn’t melt my brain studying all month just for you to flake out! I earned this shopping trip and youpromised to come with me!”

“Ehh, don’t pull out your hairbuns, Usagi.” Grabbing mysatchel off the back of my desk chair, I grinned at the future Queen of theWorld and winked. “Being this perfect takes work, you know?”

“Shingooo.” The eleven-year-old girl who was going to savethe world rolled her eyes at me and pouted. “Why are you like this?”

“Because not being me would be boring.” I stuck my nose up in the air with as much pomp as I wascapable of in a seven-year-old body. “Now let’s go! If we play this right Mamawill finally cave and get us the bedazzling gun so we can ‘enhance ourcreativity and encourage mental flexibility’.”

“Okay!” Usagi giggled, happily taking my offered hand andswinging our joined arms as we headed down the stairs. “Do you think we canconvince Mama to let me get my ears pierced too?”

“Eh, maybe.” I thought about the refractive properties ofcrystals and energy resonance as I glanced at my sister. The Imperium SilverCrystal, the Shintennou’s stones, Hearts Crystals, Star Seeds… crystals weregame changers in this world. Powerful ones. Tagging Usagi with a set that mostenemies would overlook… yeah. That was a good idea. Good job, self, excellentplan. I nodded. “I want my ears pierced too. We have an undeniable right tofreedom of self expression so long as we do so in a safe and healthy manner.”

Usagi stared blankly at me for a moment, nose scrunched upabove pursed lips. “You know I don’t understand you when you talk like that.”

“As long as you know what the words mean you’ll figure outhow they go together eventually, Bun-bun.” Cheerfully unrepentant, I hauled mysister down the last stair. “Onwards! To victory and glory everlasting!”

/…/

Ignoring the dull throb in my earlobes, I admired the hoopsI had chosen. Simple, elegant, unlikely to fall out unnoticed, and large enoughto hold three gemstone beads. For myself I had convinced my mother to buy blacktourmaline, lepidolite, and lapis lazuli. For Usagi I had picked outlabradorite, selenite, and rose quartz. Not expensive stones, but powerful onesfor the way their energies intersected and channeled power. Especially once Iwas done priming them as foci.

Abalone shell bowls with small, upwards facing mirrors atthe bottom. A little water in the bowls, add some salt, and then four undyedcandles in a circle, burning on the windowsill under the full moon. I watchedthe moonlight slowly gather in the stones, the smoke from the candles pulleddown into the water. Within moments of moonrise, each bead started to glitterand shine more brightly than nature intended.

Satisfied that it was working, I turned back to the blade inmy hand. It had appeared on my bed soon after my memories finished returning.It was ferociously sharp, and lighter in my hand than anything that size andmade of metal should be. The hilt was too big for my seven-year-old self to wieldeffectively, but the sword was perfectly proportioned for my old adult height. Carvedinto the blade was ancient Latin that named the sword VERITAS.

“Beware the truth, for it is a double-edged sword, whichcuts both ways.” I smiled, wiping the blade down to remove the excess oil. Itwas a magical blade, and probably did not need sharpening, but… better safethan brainwashed. “I do love a good pun.”

The milky diamond in the hilt flashed in the light, glowinglike a lantern in my dim bedroom. It was hard to look at the sword sometimes,especially since I knew what it meant. I was magic, the sword was magic, mysister was the fucking Queen of magicfor the entire damn solar system. It was still hard to look at my funeral stone,knowing that the diamond was formedfrom my ashes, and not feel cheated.

Violent deaths always leave something unfinished. I wondersometimes, now that I have experienced that incompleteness for myself, how muchof this resentment the Senshi felt after they knew of their past lives… and ofthe way the Moon Kingdom fell. At least, when the time came, I would be able tohelp Usagi deal with Serenity’s unfinished business.

“Sing, o muse! Of love everlasting!” I saluted the moonsolemnly before I fed the blade and sheathed it, shrinking it down to a pen andtucking it away. “Sing, o muse! As the old tale is told anew!”

Nothing and nobody would be allowed to stand in my way. Mysister was going to get her happy ending this time, and any assholes who triedto interfere with that were getting a death-sword to the face.

[ladyrevanhalin]

ONLY LIGHT CAN CAST SHADOW: CHAPTER ONE - THE YOUNG KNIGHTS OF DANTOOINE

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15753210/chapters/36659886#workskin

          Many Jedi lined the walls of the Council Chamber within the walls of the Jedi Enclave of Dantooine. The Council of Dantooine was in full assembly, and eager Padawans stood watching their comrades as they approached the Masters one by one. Apprentices who had not yet become Padawans looked on excitedly as they watched the ceremony take place. A young human woman with blond braids pinned neatly atop her head approached the Masters and kneeled before them.

           “By the right of the Council, by the will of the Force,” one Master spoke as he passed the green blade of his saber over each of her shoulders, “Opela Moraf, you may rise.”

           The young woman rose and stepped aside, taking her place apart from the others as another Padawan came forward. The process repeated, a different Master leading the knighting this time. “…you may rise.” The Padawan stepped aside as the next came forward, this time, a woman with wild raven hair pulled back out of her face and piercing eyes. She knelt before the Council and a Twi’lek Master came forward, passing his pale blue blade over each of her shoulders.

           “By the right of the Council, by the will of the Force, Halin Chan, you may rise.”

           Halin rose and took her place among those recently knighted, next to Opela Moraf. Opela was Halin’s elder by three years. She was a polite woman and made friends quite easily, but she was also quite… complacent. Not that there was anything wrong with following orders from one’s superiors, but it seemed odd how she would often choose the path of the follower when many of the Masters saw the opportunity in her natural abilities for a great leader. Opela, however, seemed to be content with this. Her greatest desire was to serve and inspire as a teacher, rather than in other affairs. In this way, her choice to follow the path of the Jedi Consular seemed rather fitting.

           “By the right of the Council, by the will of the force, Alex Khaar, you may rise.”

A towering man with a shaved head who had been kneeling before the Council rose and took his place among the others. Alex was the same age as Opela, but had become a Padawan with Halin. He had never been much of one for popularity among his peers, but what he lacked in social adeptness he made up for in his skill with a lightsaber. Alex was one of the most skilled among the Dantooine youth with the blade. His sheer size granted him a certain level of brute strength which gave him an advantage in that regard and made him an excellent Jedi Guardian.

He and Halin had grown to be great friends during their training. The two had the same insatiable thirst for knowledge and helped each other to make up for their flaws. Halin was the more clever of the two, and often assumed the role of the leader among the pair. She had chosen to follow the path of the Jedi Sentinel. She was significantly smaller than her companion though, and so Alex was generally the brawn to her brains.

Eight Padawans in total knelt before the Council on Dantooine that day. Each rising as a Padawan no more, but as having been granted the title of Jedi Knight. When the ceremony had ended, each Master went to congratulate their former Padawan. Master Sana approached Halin.

           “I congratulate you, Halin Chan, on attaining the rank of Jedi Knight. You have grown beyond your apprenticeship to me, but know that you may seek me at any moment you feel you have the need for my wisdom or consultation. Remember what I have told you. Always seek the truth for yourself. There are those even within the Order whose intentions are not always what they might first seem. Be mindful of this, young one. I feel it will lead you down the path to discovering your own greatness.”

           “Thank you, Master Sana,” Halin said with a bow to her former Master. “I assure you that I will not forget your teachings.”

           “Good,” Master Sana replied. “You have been the most brilliant of my students. Your destiny lies ahead of you now that you have joined the ranks of the Jedi Knights. Now if you will excuse me, I have matters I must attend to.”

           “Of course, Master Sana,” Halin replied. And the Jedi Master departed from the room. It was then that Halin felt a hand ruffle her hair and looked up, trying to shield her head with her own hands. It was Alex. “Hey!” she protested, laughing a bit. “What was that about?”

           “Aren’t you going to congratulate your old friend? Or does being a Jedi Knight mean you’ve moved above talking to losers like me now?” He went to ruffle her hair again, but this time she caught his hand and punched him lightly in the chest.

           “Of course it doesn’t, you nerf-herder. Congratulations! You’ve earned it—we all have. Now about our bet…”

           “Our bet?” Alex said, seemingly confused. “What bet?”

           “About who would be knighted first.”

           “We were both knighted at the same time…. Doesn’t that make it a draw?”

           “Well, technically speaking, I was knighted exactly one person ahead of you, which makes me the winner.”

           “Wait… but that’s not fair! I let you go ahead of me in line!” Alex protested.

           “That’s your own fault,” she said with a smirk. “Next time you should think ahead. Now pay up.”

           Alex leered at Halin—an expression to which she replied by batting her eyelashes in an attempt to feign innocence as she held out her palm to claim her reward.

           “Are you crazy!?” he whispered, glancing around briefly. “Later. What would the Masters think?”

           She took her hand away and shrugged. “That you’re a fool? Don’t take things so seriously, Alex. Loosen up a little. We can settle this later if it would make you feel better.”

           “Thanks,” he said dryly.

           “Oh, stop being such a crybaby. We’re supposed to be celebrating right now! Now go congratulate Opela.”

           “Why should I do that?”

           “Because it’s good manners, and if you want people to more openly interact with you, then it’s a good place to start,” Halin explained, nudging him a little.

           Alex groaned.

           “Is there a problem here?” came a voice from behind.

           Halin and Alex spun around to see one of the Masters on the Council watching them with his arms folded, a rather disapproving expression set upon his facial features.

           “Of course not, Master Lamar,” Halin chirped. “Alex and I were just shooting the breeze, congratulating each other and whatnot. Nothing to get worked up about.”

           Master Lamar raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Miss Chan, do you mean to make a mockery me?”

           “Of course not! Why would I think of doing such a thing?”

           “Because you don’t seem to be taking me very seriously…”

           “I?” she gasped. “I would never dream of it! Now, uh… If you’ll excuse me, Master, I really must get going. I promised one of the locals I would take a look at their droid. Apparently it’s had some glitches since the last memory wipe.” And with this, she bowed out and headed swiftly to the exit.

           Alex made a move as if to follow her, but Master Lamar stopped him. “Be mindful of that one,” the Jedi Master told him. “She is too headstrong and proud of herself. Her Master was always too liberal with her teachings and only encouraged this behavior from her pupil. I fear miss Chan’s defiant nature may lead her down the path to the dark side. Do not allow her to have a negative influence on you.”

           “I will keep your words in mind, Master Lamar.”

           “Good. I must continue in offering my congratulations, so I leave you to meditate on this.”

           Alex looked after where Halin had gone. He somehow doubted that she was really headed to help some farmer with their droid, but that was just who Halin was—always rushing off on some sort of new ‘adventure.’

           “Congratulations, Alex!” came a feminine voice from behind him. It was Opela. Alex froze for a moment.

           “Congratulations,” he murmured back, hesitating before turning around fully to look at her. Opela was a rather beautiful human female. She had hair as gold as the Tatooine sands and eyes that were the same pale blue of a Guardian’s blade. Though he had taken the oath of a Jedi, Alex was not blind to her beauty. Her image made him feel things that he knew were forbidden.

           There is no emotion; there is peace….

           “The same to you,” he finally managed to reply. Alex was generally the strong quiet type. He didn’t talk to many of the other Jedi, with the exception of Halin. She generally did the talking of the two and he would sort of follow her lead. Right now, however, he couldn’t rely on this status quo, and he couldn’t help but to wonder to himself if she had somehow planned this when she chose her timing to depart from the ceremony.

           ‘Damn you, Halin…’ he thought.

           “Where did Halin run off to?” asked Opela. “I wanted to wish her the same.”

           “Oh, uh… she said she had something she needed to do… Sorry about that.”

           “No, don’t apologize, it’s not your fault. I just figured that I would ask, since the two of you seem to hang around each other so often while here at the Enclave… Are you busy later?”

           A moment of terror passed over Alex’s features before he could answer her. “I…. I was planning on doing some sparring practice later on.”

           “Mind if I join you?”

           Alex was stunned. Was he really asking her this question? It was no secret that Opela was a bit weak in her skills with a lightsaber, and Alex was certain that his skills might overwhelm the poor young woman… And yet, there was something about her… something unspoken, which compelled him to say yes to her.

           “I don’t mind at all,” he said, before he could even know what he was doing.

           “Perfect!” she said, her face lighting up. “I truly admire your combat skills, and hope that I might take much away from this valuable opportunity to spar with you. I promise that I will not disappoint you.”

           Opela Moraf had always been known to make fast friends and allies with those around her, and Alex was beginning to see why that might be the case. It was something about her aura that put the minds of those she was interacting with at peace and encouraged them to follow her desires almost blindly. Some Jedi Masters had been known to be quite gifted in the art of persuasion, and could use the force to easily influence the weak of mind. While Alex certainly did not consider himself to be weak in any sense of the word, he couldn’t help but to wonder if Opela was having a similar sort of influence on him.

           “I trust you won’t,” He replied. “I’ll see you later in the day?”

           “Certainly! I wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

><><><><><

           Alex paced the floor of the sparring room. Along one side sat several deactivated training droids designed to be used for sparring practice. One could spar with a droid, or with a fellow Jedi, though Alex more often than not chose the droids. Droids could be set to whatever level was suitable to the one practicing, and any injury could only occur upon that person, should they have overestimated their own skills and set the droid to too high of a level. People, however, were a different story. Injuries or even deaths could occur if a miscalculation was made.

Such miscalculations were a thing that Alex feared greatly, and the reason why he generally avoided sparring with his peers. Occasionally, he would spar with Halin, but only because he knew that she was clever enough to read his forms and to respond appropriately. In fact, on more than one occasion, she had bested him with some unorthodox method she came up with that exploited a weak point in his form. Sparring with her always made him better at spotting his own flaws, though he was convinced sometimes that she must have cheated by secretly observing him outside of their sparring sessions.

Opela, however, was not at all like Halin. She was far too trusting and known to let her guard down at crucial moments when she could have easily taken the opportunity to strike her opponent. Opela was clearly more of the Mentor and Negotiator than Swordsman… So why did she ask to spar with him?

Alex was pondering this exact question when Opela entered the sparring room.

“Opela!” Alex said, “It is good to see you.”

“Likewise,” she replied. “I hope that I’ve not kept you waiting for long?”

“Not at all! Though I have to ask… Why did you wish to spar with me? I… I don’t mean to come across as rude but… well… I… er… you… I mean…”

“I’m not very good?” she said, completing his thoughts. “And you don’t usually choose to spar with your peers?”

Alex could feel his face reddening. “I didn’t mean it like that…”

“No, please. I know all of this already. No offense is taken. I have chosen the path of the Jedi Consular---it is, after all, what probably suits me best. We rely more on our connection with the Force than our skills with a lightsaber, and generally try to avoid direct combat wherever possible… Though even among the Consulars, my skills with a blade have always been my weak point…”

Alex wasn’t sure where Opela could be going with all of this. If she had known, then why would she even want to join him in the first place?

“…You may know of Master Kavar?” she continued. “He’s an excellent swordsman—one of the best in the order—and is a dear friend of mine. At one point, he wished me to become his Padawan, but it was clear to him that, given my nature, he would not be the most suitable of teachers for my case… Now that I have graduated from Padawan to Jedi Knight, I wish to show him that I have grown and that, despite my nature, I can learn to be skilled in lightsaber combat.”

“I empathize with your case—I really do, but…” Alex began in protest, “Would not a droid be most suitable in this case?”

Opela shook her head. “A droid is not living. A droid cannot become one with the Force. Since my strengths lie with my connection to the Force, I think that, maybe, if I learn to draw upon it more during combat, instead of relying upon the physical nature of lightsaber forms, I might have greater success.”

So there was a plan behind her seemingly mad request after all! Perhaps she was not so very different from Halin as Alex had initially thought her to be…

“I see… While I admire your reasoning, I must admit that I am hesitant to spar with you, despite my previous agreement to your request. I do not wish to harm you as a result of our training together.”

“I trust that you will not,” she said simply in reply. “Of that, I am confident. I sense much unrest within you. Perhaps this experience will be good for the both of us. Perhaps I will also be able to teach you to trust in your own self-refrain.”

Alex considered this. Perhaps she was right? Perhaps the problem was that he had difficulty trusting himself to know when to stop? Surely he was wise enough to know such now.. After all, the Council had granted him the rank of Jedi Knight. Control was something that he was expected to have learned much more of than he was while still a Padawan.

“Fine,” Alex said with resolve. “Let us begin then.”

He ignited the blue beam of his blade and assumed a ready stance, waiting for Opela to do the same. Bowing graciously in acceptance of his decision, she removed the hilt of her saber from its place hanging at her waist and pressed the trigger, causing a brilliant silvery-white blade to spring forward with a whirring sound. She assumed her ready stance. “Yes, let us begin.”

><><><><><

Halin Chan sat upright in her bunk, sorting through information in her datapad. What she had told Master Lamar had not been a complete lie. She had gone to take a look at a droid, but it wasn’t malfunctioning. It had been a security droid on the estate of one of the wealthier locals on Dantooine. The droids were meant to prevent trespassers and kath hounds from roaming the property, but Halin had found a hole in the security system and had created a sort of backdoor through which she could observe the droids’ systems at close proximity without sounding an alarm.

It was risky, sure, but there weren’t many combat model droids on Dantooine other than those used in combat training in the enclave, and those were difficult to observe the mechanics of without being reprimanded by the Jedi Masters. Security droids were the next closest thing. Halin thought that a droid could be a useful tool on either side of a conflict, and so she wanted to have a good understanding of them in order to make the best of any situations which arose in the future.

In her mind, she had toyed with the idea of building her own droid. She understood enough of basic mechanics that she could have done so easily if she chose… but Master Sana had never been particularly fond of droids, and so Halin had refrained as a sign of respect for her Master. However, this did not mean that she hadn’t created any of her own plans based on her findings.

Droids, despite not being directly connected to the Force, still radiated energy and vibrations which could be felt by those who were well attuned. Like sentients, Halin found that droids often had their own unique personalities that would develop over time, particularly without frequent memory wipes. They were capable of a large variety of tasks, but, like people, had their particular specialties.

Halin sighed and collapsed backward onto her bunk. She knew quite well that there would be nowhere to hide a droid, and anything beyond a protocol droid might be highly questioned. A simple protocol droid wouldn’t be any fun though…

She switched off her datapad. One day, though not now…. A protocol droid would be useful, yes, but the only particularly challenging programming would be a simple study of language and etiquette…

She shoved the datapad into a drawer beside her bunk and then rolled back onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. She supposed it might be best to rest right now. After all, she and Alex were supposed to travel to Coruscant in a couple of days to serve as extra security for a treaty between two insectoid races from a rim planet.

She closed her eyes and attempted to calm her mind. Eventually, she drifted into sleep, the sound of the creatures roaming the plains of Dantooine resonating in the far background.

[ceejay1163]

The Salem Bitch

A little fic I decided to work on. May end up tying into Creation but unsure as of now. Not edited but enjoy.

Warnings: Swearing, Blood and Gore, Rituals.

Part 1

Nyssa couldn’t believe that this was happening to her. That they were doing this to her. After all she’d been through. She came to them for help. And they’d betrayed her trust.

The cool marble of the alter made her shiver. Her wrists and ankles hurt from being bound too tightly. The dim lighting made it hard to see the faces of the cloaked figures in the pews. She shivered looking at the red walls. Nyssa knew why they were painted that deep shade of red. It was to hide the blood stains that once lingered on those grey walls.

After all she’d done for them. She’d shown them the way. Given them the secret to reaching their god. For getting whatever their hearts desired. Wealth, fame, sex, power, influence, knowledge. All of it. Theirs because of her. And now they were throwing her out with the garbage. For some new guy’s black mass. 

And let's be honest the only reason he was because his incompetent, impotent ass couldn’t hold onto a steady job or get a girlfriend because he wouldn’t stop whinging about some video game he was playing. Nyssa had met guys like him before, pathetic really. Always having something to complain about, nothing ever being their fault, always someone else to blame. And he’d asked for a woman to sacrifice. Typical. Nyssa knew it was so he could jerk off when he got home. He’d probably ask for something stupid, like women never rejecting his advances, little did he know it doesn’t actually mean they want him, it just means they can’t say no to him. At least Nyssa knew she wouldn’t have to be one of those poor souls who couldn’t say no to the disgusting slob about to slit her throat.

It made her sick. All of these people only thinking of their own personal whims. Never looking at the bigger picture. Such selfish creatures. Nyssa on the other hand. Nyssa saw the big picture. The be all and the end all. The end of all. The end of all of this selfishness and disregard for anything but oneself. It’s why she was here. To end it all. 

But would they listen to her? No. It’s not like she had centuries of experience. Nyssa couldn’t believe that she’d lived through the witch trials, been burned at the stake and rotted in hell for almost 400 years only to have some grubby asshole get hard while he slit her throat. On the plus side when she returned to hell she’d eventually have a chance to torture this ungrateful fuck in hell. And with that thought she calmed her mind and a peak of a smile slid onto her face.

All the members were assembled and the mass was starting. Nyssa laid on the white marble alter, surrounded by black and red candles all giving off an ominous glow to her half naked body. The choir in the background, getting louder, more high pitched, vibrating through the hall. A man stepped forward from the front pew walking towards the alter, cloak over his head. The head of the church, a blonde woman named Hannah, led the cloaked figure to a table to the side of the alter where an assortment of weapons were kept. He ran his hands along the weapons opting for a ceremonial looking knife. He looked at the woman on the alter with hunger in his eyes. The way she was strapped down to the alter, stretched out on the marble in nothing but her dark red lingerie. She didn’t look scared which annoyed him, in fact she almost looked peaceful. 

Hannah and the man approached the alter going to stand behind it. She began her long winded speech about the rites of the black mass and what an honour it was to serve their lord. She looked towards the man as he held the knife above Nyssa’s chest near where her heart would be.

“Anything else to say sweetness?” The man whispered to Nyssa, his breath smelling like stale cigarettes. 

“Yeah actually. I do. I’m going to enjoy ripping your organs out from your chest when you get to hell.” Nyssa hissed at the man as she lent into the knife he was holding. He spat at her and raised the knife above his head ready to strike.

“Wait! This sacrifice belongs to another!” Madelyn yelled as she ran down the aisle, her cloak billowing behind her. 

“What is the meaning of this? What do you mean this sacrifice belongs to another?” Hannah projected in her distinct voice while signalling the man to stop. 

Madelyn stopped before the alter and turned to the man at the back of the room. A young man with shoulder length slightly curled blond hair and the most striking blue eyes Nyssa had ever seen. His eyes widened seeing the sight before him, almost shocked, before his eyes darkened with what Nyssa could only describe as lust and envy.

“He is the chosen one. The one we’ve been waiting for.” Announced Madelyn almost giddy. The man strode up the aisle with confidence and an allure of power. He stood next to Madelyn and Hannah approached him cautiously. They spoke quietly for a moment before he turned to show her something behind his ear. Hannah gasped as she took a step back. 

“It’s true. He is the one.” She murmured. Hushed whispers encompassed the room as Nyssa’s smile grew and her laugh echoed through the room. She turned to look at the stunned man who now held the knife at his side. 

“Better luck next time asshole.” Anastasia hissed at the man.

“No!! It’s my turn! I get to be in charge now! You can’t stop me.” He growled as he moved to plunge the knife into Anastasia.

Crack. The man went flying into the wall as the knife dropped onto Nyssa’s torso. The blond man was holding his arm out towards where the man was. He walked up to Nyssa studying her as he did. He gently took the knife from her torso and cut free her wrists before gliding the knife down her torso, slowly making Nyssa gasp at the cool feel of the blade. He moved past her, still slowly gliding the knife down her thighs before releasing Nyssa from the last of her restraints. He ran his hand up her body as he moved towards her face. He grabbed her bloodied wrist to help her up into a sitting position.

“You must be Michael Langdon. It’s about time.” Nyssa purred at the man who was currently lifting her wrist to kiss her hand and taste her blood. At the mention of his name, he paused, his tongue pressed against her wrist, feeling the pulsing of her heart. He raised his head, tilting it ever so slightly a light smile gliding onto his lips.

“How do you know who I am?” He questioned. Still holding onto her hand.

“I know who you are because you were prophesied. I struck a deal with your father. To be able to meet you. I served him for many centuries. I struck more bargains for him than any demon. I taught these people what it was to serve their god. To worship him. To kill for him. To fulfil their darkest desires.” 

She raised herself from the alter moving behind it to bring up the man in the cloak by his hair. He was whimpering and bleeding from the back of his head. 

“I am one of your father’s best soldier’s. While these pathetic excuses asked him for wealth or sex or fame. Futile things. Not able to see the big picture. I asked him if I could be there. To help him and his son. To reward the world for what it did to me and my coven. For burning us.” 

She swiftly grabbed the knife and ran it across the man’s neck, deeply slicing through the muscles and arteries. She lifted him up and onto the alter, blood spurting everywhere. Nyssa gripped the knife and plunged it below his sternum running the knife down deeply. She removed the knife and dug her hand into the now dead mans torso, grunting and reaching deeper into his chest. Michael watched with fascination as this woman looked at him and slowly removed her hand from the chest cavity of the man who had tried to kill her. He looked down at her bloodied hand and the heart that was still oozing blood. 

“For you Michael, a peace offering from a witch to the son of satan. The heart of a faithless believer, someone who only wanted to take from your father. I can sense how much you hate the witches and I don’t blame you. But I want to show you that I can be an ally. That I can help you fulfil your destiny.” Michael took the heart from her and turned to look at his congregation before taking a large bite from the muscle savouring the sounds of the gasps of the Satanists.

“I will let you consider my offer Mr Langdon. Madelyn knows where to find me when you have an answer.” And with that Nyssa walked out of the church, stealing a spare cloak to hide the blood dripping from her arm and hailing a cab.

[etherealblasphemy]

The Myth of Calypso

Okay, GUESS WHO FINALLY FINISHED FINALS????? I AM DONE WITH SCHOOL, JUST A WEEK OF WATCHING MOVIES AND THEN SUMMER BEGINS!!!

Without further ado, here’s the ever so important myth of Calypso. Since it was finals week, I used this little filler as a way to actual have something to offer without out burning myself out. All lot of the myth will directly relate to future events, so keep that in mind when I utterly destroy your hearts and just laugh when you cry that you had no warning >:)

(FYI, all the sides (including Thomas) are in this story. Some are more obvious to figure out; leave a comment saying who you think is who, I wanna to know who you think each Side is represented by)

Alright, now to the story! :)

   In a world not known to others, a dimension shielded by our naivety, there was a little girl whose strength matched any grown man’s. She had fire in her eyes and anger in her soul, furious at the slow crumbling of her world as others did naught but sit and watch the world burn. The name of the girl bequeathed to her by her parents is no longer known, lost to time and space. She is known only by the name given to her: Calypso, conqueror of the dark.

   Young Calypso saw the world burning to flames like parchment paper in a library fire and knew her world was lost. In her silver eyes, she could see the beast whose fingers clutched the world in a vice-like grip, whose sweet and melodic whispers reminded the girl of her mother’s voice, though the warmth inside was not love, but the flames of hell.

   The seeing-girl wondered why none of her friends could see this looming beast who was bringing forth their doom, this death-loving creature of ash that spoke as loud as a clash of thunder. She tried to warn her beloveds that this creature was not to be trusted or listened to, but as she looked upon their eyes, she saw the glaze slicked over their unseeing orbs like early-morning dew and realized they now belonged to the beast.

   She couldn’t save them.

   Calypso screamed until her throat was strained and wept until her eyes could cry no longer, asking the heavens why she could not save those who meant most to her, when a speck of light floated before her like a miniature angel of life. Bewildered, the girl withheld her whimpers of sorrow to listen to the light that floating before her, a messenger of destiny. It told her to dry her tears, for in another world she would find her family once more.

   The guardian whispered to her tales of a world just beyond her reach, one she was destined to save. It told of her of planets where crystals grew off tree branches, where the fantasy creatures she had only dreamed about walked and breathed, where palaces touched skies the color of peaches and emeralds. The beast, the light told her, scours thither, too. The beast could only be defeated by a child of the light, the messenger said. She could save this world.

   But Calypso couldn’t leave her friends. She loved them too deeply to allow them to wither away without her by her side. And so the guardian showed her a vision of the other world. There, she saw four beings of different walks of life, still unaware of their fates. These beings, the light promised, would be thy family. Thy friends. Thy loves. Thy world.

   The tears brimming in the silver eyes of the goddess-child dried slowly, like a rain puddle after a storm when the heavenly rays of the sun caressed its surface. “Can you promise I’ll be able to save these people if the beast grips them?” she asked. The messenger promised the events of her life in this world were not to be repeated. The divine heart beating in her chest began to race, unsure of the decision she should take.

   “And why is it that I was the one chosen to go to this secret world?” Calypso asked, her voice weak and trembling. The guardian remained silent for three counts before telling the troubled child that it was the will of the world-walkers, that it was her fate, the story written in her blood upon the scroll of history. The light told her that though her heart refused to accept the fate of her beloved friends, she could rescue countless others if she accepted her own fate.

   The silver eyes of the holy girl closed with decision, at last convinced of her divine destiny. “Then I shall do what is dictated for me in the irreversible memory of storytellers.” With that, the light grew, blinding the young child with its power. She threw her hands in front of her face, protecting her precious eyes from the will of the heavens.

   When she opened her eyelids, awe overtook the holy woman as she looked around at the new world unraveling before her, eager to share with her all of its untold secrets. Before her stood a being she called an angel, one she had read about as a little girl.

   “Take my hand, Calypso, warrior of the worlds, champion of the righteous,” the angel told her. “Be not afraid, for thou hast more power than thou believe thyself capable of containing. Take my hand, divine being, and I shall teach thee the ways of this world.” Calypso looked around again, at the bustling wildlife moving past her, at the earth that seemed to breathe with her, at the angel in front of her, their wings outspread as if welcoming her home. Breathing in the sparkling air that filled her lungs, she reached out a hand, grasping the concrete palm on the angel, proving the truth of the world.

   A deafening roar echoed across the universe, and Calypso fell to her bloodied knees, covering her ears against the blood-curdling shrieks. “Young child, dost thou hear why this world needs thee?” The terrified woman nodded meekly, unable to rise until the pounding screams of the damned faded. “Find the strength within thee, goddess of purity, and thee shall vanquish the wretched evil that threatens the very existence of every world,” the angel urged.

   Calypso rose at last, having seen a vision as the beast screamed of a perfect world where harmony and love ruled justly, corrupted by a world where infants coughed up ash and parents mourned the loss of children taken by weapons no man should have ever made. She yearned for the first, a utopia she had the power to create, the power to save.

   “Please,” the divine woman begged, “I want to at least save something.” The angel grew stoic. “Teach me how to defeat the beast, how to save the ones I hold dear, how to save myself,” she pleaded.

   “I cannot teach thee how to fulfill thy destiny. In thy soul, thou know'st how to conqueror the unconquerable. I can only provide thee guidance, protect thee as thy soul is nurtured,” the angel told the holy woman. “Come hither, savior. We’ve many a task at hand to prepare thyself for the coming battle.” With that, the angel’s grip tightened. Wings unfolded, massive and blinding and powerful, the color of justice and ethereal harmony and ever reminiscent of the rainbows that had dotted the sky of Calypso’s homeworld. The angel took Calypso took their home, where creatures of myth took hold of Calypso’s hands, guiding her to a small room. They told her she would sleep on the humble cot made of wool and sticks for the night before the angel would return to begin her training.

   The creatures left before the young woman could ask what training the angel meant to subject her to. As the next morning sun rose, so did Calypso, roused from her sleep by the angel, who in silence offered her a blade the colors of the night skies at home, saying, “Rise, gallant warrior. There is much to learn.”

   Years passed as the holy woman grew older and stronger, the fire in her eyes burning brighter. Finally, the angel decided, the goddess-woman was ready to meet her Generals. In the midst of a swordfight, the angel told Calypso to come with them, taking her hand the same way she had the first time she had looked upon the world of light. Though confused, the holy woman followed her guardian into a path of marble and sandstone, where four beings waited, talking amongst themselves.

   “Young warrior, thou art strong alone. But with thy Generals at thy side as protectors and friends, thy shall be able to vanquish the despicable beast. I shall introduce them,” the angel stated as the beings known as the Generals paused their conversation. They waved forward one with eyes the color of violets in summertime. “This is the Mage.”

   “Hello, Calypso,” greeted the Mage, shy and quiet. He bowed his head, Calypso answering with the same gesture of respect.

   “This is the Warrior,” the angel told the divine woman as a man with eyes the color of glittering rubies stepped forward, bowing deeply.

   “My most humble greetings, sweet Calypso,” hailed the Warrior as he straightened, his red coattails flapping in the wind.

   “This is the Scholar.” The winged being gestured to a man with eyes the color of the ocean at midnight who nodded his head curtly.

   “Salutations, Calypso the conqueror,” acknowledged the Scholar, whose eyes beheld warmth despite his cold demeanor.

   “And this is the Lover.”

   A happy being skipped forward to embrace the startled woman. “I’m so happy to finally meet you, dear Calypso!” exclaimed the Lover, who eyes reminded Calypso of the sky on a clear day absent of clouds. The Lover released Calypso, returning to his ranks beside the other Generals.

   “Do ye Generals, the Mage, the Warrior, the Scholar, and the Lover, swear to protect the Vanquisher, Calypso, until she hast fulfilled what destiny has been bestowed upon her?” The Generals each nodded in turn, speaking in tongues as they responded to the angel’s demand. “Then I shall leave ye in peace, to commune and to congregate. Farewell, holy woman. May Fate be kind to thee.” Without another sound, the angel disappeared, never to return again.

   Calypso understood she no longer needed the guidance of the angel; now that she was strong of heart, there was little the angel could do to protect her. The beast would begin hunting her.

   “Fair maiden, it is my honor to present you with a gift, given to us by the angel that brought us together,” the Warrior said, reaching into the depths of his cape. From its shadows, he brought out a stone, crystal and transparent, reflecting all sorts of colors upon the pathway. “This is what the beast seeks. We have protected it until your arrival, for if this stone fell into the hands of the beast, its power would be unstoppable. The second you touch it, m’lady, the beast will know where you are. We have trained for eons in many different forms for this moment. When the beast comes, you must kill it. Are you ready for the moment you’ve trained for, m’lady, or shall we postpone this event?” asked the Warrior. Calypso had no words to speak for her gaze was lost in the stone, marveling at its perfection and beauty.

   “What is it called?” the goddess-woman inquired.

   “It is known as the Gazer Stone,” the Scholar replied. “It contains a great power, one that should have never been harnessed.” Calypso continued to study the strange stone.

   “Not here, then,” the woman decided. “A place where we can fight unconfined, a place where our abilities will be able to flourish and aide us in the battle.” The divine woman paused, a dark feeling swirling in the pit of her stomach. She brushed it off, pushing forward. “My home. There are savage lands there that stretch for miles.”

   It was decided. The goddess-woman, using the knowledge she had gained throughout her training, shut her eyes and whispered an incantation the angel had taught her. Opening her heaven-painted lids, her gaze fell upon the lands she had once called her home, in a time she had nearly forgotten.

   “Is this where the battle shall take place?” one of the Generals asked. Calypso nodded, sighing as she took in the desert that expanded unto the horizon, not a soul in sight. A single hare hopped across the barren sands that melted into the soles of the divine woman’s slippers, the only sign if life in the wasteland Calypso hardly recognized as her home. Some much change had befallen the lands in her absence. Perhaps, now she could set her world to rest in its insipid grave.

   The Warrior brought out the Stone from his cape, holding it gingerly. “Shall we begin the final battle, m’lady?” he asked. Calypso stared at the Stone glittering in the burning sun and placed her fingers on it. All at once, the sky blackened and a scream ripped through the desolate desert. Calypso, concerned for the safety of the Stone, placed the Stone within her heart, for the beast had arrived.

   A tornado of emotions plagued the holy woman as her Generals withdrew their weapons; the Warrior drew a sword made of gold and joy, the Scholar brought forth two handheld daggers curved like scythes, the Lover shapeshifted in a creature of terrifying power, and the Mage held up his hands, his eyes glowing violet as he cast enchantments.

   Young Calypso searched the horizon, expecting to see a monster approaching her. But all her eyes caught was a lone figure on the dunes of sand, limping forward with a stagger. “Who’s that?” the woman asked her Generals. They all answered that they did not recognize the mysterious person.

   The figure grew closer, cloaked in shadows and depravity. Eyes the color of an amber sun peeked out from eyelids that flickered closed, begging for the sweet release of slumber. “Young child,” the figure called. “An offer of assistance is needed. I cannot find my way home, and the sun shall soon set on a scavenger’s residence.” Calypso went to the figure to find a young man with one leg twisted like the truth, amber eyes glowing in spite of the fiery star up above that painted the landscape in light.

   The man grinned like a liar who knows he has gotten away with his deceit as his wide eyes watched the divine lady of the heavens. “Dear Calypso, do you know what powers are concealed by your naivety?”

   The heavenly woman jolted back, the grip of the Generals on their weapons tightening.

   “How is it you know my name?” she demanded as the Generals came forth to protect the savior.

   The man cackled, letting his head fall back to address the heavens. “Divine Calypso, all beings know of your name: ‘Calypso, the conqueror,’ ‘Calypso, the vanquisher,’ ‘Calypso, the savior,’ and many other lies. For me to not know the being that is you, why, that is unacceptable!”

   What happened next was lost to the mysteries of the universe, whispers gone silent as the truth they harbored became unspeakable for beings unenlightened. Some say that Calypso struck the man, angering the beast within. Others weave a tale of years the mysterious newcomer spent with the Savior and her Generals before revealing the true masked nature inside. Even others claim that Calypso saw right away the eldritch demon and began the battle posthaste. But the stars shall never reveal the history they were witness to, and so Calypso’s story shall remain half hidden in shadows, rumors emerging like the dead from its dark clutches.

   All that can be said is that the beast revealed himself to the Savior at one point or another along the chronology of the universe. And when the utter truth lay bare before the eyes of the divine woman, all chaos broke loose, baring its brazen teeth with wild ferocity. The battle that would seal the fate of both of Calypso’s worlds had begun.

   The Generals drew their weapons as shadows shot up, soldiers summoned from the other world, prepared to risk their very lives to protect the world they called home. On the side of the beast of ashen death stood monsters conjured from nightmares and the darkest niches of man’s immortal mind. Calypso stood in front of the army that had risen behind her without warning, insecurity ravishing her nerves. These innocents would sacrifice themselves for the holy woman’s victory. She couldn’t let them down.

   The beast, its body made of a hurricane of ash and smoke woven together with human hatred and anger, swayed as it grew until it towered over the celestial Calypso and her army. Its pure white eyes gleamed as it foresaw the destruction it would wreck as soon as its inky fingers touched the Gazer Stone. A smile full of teeth sharp enough to rip delicate flesh crossed the beast’s smoky mouth.

   “Darling Calypso, are you ready to see who shall first succumb to the will of the immortal gods who watch our crusade?” the beast asked. Its eyes scoured the wasteland, its infernal gaze landing on Calypso’s Generals. “Young Generals, why do you feel the need to shelter this pathetic creature? What if she doesn’t win, and all your lives have been wasted? What will you do when you find out all this time, you were preparing for nothing, wasted your precious youth for nothing but a little girl who will lead you to your doom?”

   “Shut up!” one of the Generals cried suddenly. The Mage stepped forward, his violet eyes near black as his eyes scorned the beast towering above him. “Calypso is a hope for my world. If she can save it, save my friends and family, everything I love, then I will protect her without hesitation. If she can save me from myself…” the Mage spared a glance at the goddess-woman, certain of the bond she would forge with her Generals for generations to arrive. “...then I would give my life in exchange for hers,” he declared. The Warrior stepped forward, the Lover and the Scholar reciprocating their companion’s motions, until the four of them stood just behind the savior, staring down the demonic beast with defiance.

   “I shall valiantly sacrifice my life if it means saving Calypso and our worlds,” the Warrior added.

   “And I,” said the Scholar.

   “And me, too,” the Lover finished.

   The beast eyed the four brave Generals, a low cackle emerging from its mouth. “Then I shall vanquish you first,” it uttered as it grew ever more so in size. It opened its mouth, canines the color of pearls visible underneath the charcoal ash. From the depths of its throat billowed clouds the color of death and deceit, depravity and despair. The clouds became ashen vines that reached out for any sign of life and happiness.

   The Generals turned their weapons of choice on the approaching vines to no avail. They raced forward, branching off as they grasped the Generals with unrelenting fury. The Mage yelped in terror and one long vine overtook him, grabbing him like a crooked, gnarled hand. It began racing back towards the omniscient beast as the Mage’s companions tried their best to rescue their friend. Calypso let out a shriek of terror as the Mage was dragged across the harsh lands, his hands clawing at the ground racing beneath him, desperate for traction that would release him from the clutches of the smoky vines.

   “Let him go!” the divine woman yelled, her words propelled with the force of a thousand waterfalls. As if they had been slapped, the vines jolted back, releasing the Mage as the scurried back to the beast, who snarled angrily. The Mage leaped off of the desert ground and ran for his dear ones, falling into their embrace with heaving pants, his breath erratic and his eyes full of panic.

   “Stupid girl!” the beast seethed, its wispy limbs swirling furiously. “You can’t play defensive forever!” It lashed out another horde of vines, smashing into the holy woman’s army, crushing the innocents.

   And the holy woman breathed fire upon the land, ravaging the fallen with the purity of her soul. She screamed, “Begone, wretched creature of darkness! Leave the goodness of this world, retire to your universe and be content to rule over those who have strayed.”

   The beast, which stood as tall as the heavens themselves, only laughed. Its voice shook the very ground, and all but Calypso fell. She alone stood fast against the mighty but terrible creature before her, and she alone had the strength to stop it. From the depths of her heart she brought out the strange, glittering stone. The monster tilted its head, its eyes locking on the mineral.

   “Is this what you seek, traveler of the corrupted worlds?’ she asked. The beast hissed, transforming into one familiar to the valiant warriors. It slid closer, speaking from its mind to all those concerned.

   “Give me the Stone, darling, and you can end this. You can save your people, your friends, and yourself. Wouldn’t you like to play hero?’ it said. The silver eyes of the goddess-woman lit up in anger, mist swirling around her, bending to her will.

   “The only true way to save the ones I love is by protecting the Gazer Stone.” The creature snarled, whipping its tail towards nearby bystanders. In an instant, they fell to the ground, to rise back up no longer. Calypso shrieked as the beast turned its gaze back towards her. Swallowing, she asked, “You want this?” The creature nodded, sliding ever so closer.

   “Then come and get it.”

Haha this was me trying (and failing) to sound old and mysterious. I spent about a day analyzing the language of ancient myths to try and write like one. It didn’t help, apparently, but oh well. :)

Anywho, I hope you all enjoyed the next installment of Starbound! Feel free to leave me any questions or comments you have, and leave me any critiques you have (I know I need it haha). Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the tag list, and I’ll be happy to do so! :D

(do I sound professional now?)

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