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philliamwrites · 4 years ago

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killing me softly with his song | (Childe / Reader) [chpt.02]

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Pairing: Childe / Reader

Tags: #fem!reader, #from childhood friends to lovers, #reader is a fatui agent, #slow burn, #unresolved sexual tension, #mature language, #forbidden love

Words: 3.5k

Summary: "Lybuov zla, polyubish i kozla,“ sighs your sister as she wipes off the table, but that makes you feel even more miserable. Falling for a goat might save you from an actual heartbreak by Tartaglia’s hands.

Notes: Part 1

Masterlist

Chapter 2

At the barracks’ canteen reigns the unspoken rule that no one is allowed to cook borsch, and trying to do so is punished by cleaning all windows with cold water only in the middle of the night. Can’t see anything because the nights at the outskirts of Zapolyarny are blacker than out in the taiga? Tough luck. There are so many different recipes as there are families out there, and everyone has their very own way to make it. Fatui agents have brought each other to the hospital wing over fighting which recipe is the best, therefore a couple of years before Tartaglia and you enrolled, this rule was established.

Sitting out in the cold of Jaroslawk at four in the morning, you’d kill for a hot bowl of your mamochka’s borsch—the best in Morepesok even though Tartaglia begs to differ, but the only problem with his claim is that he is fucking wrong.

Through your binoculars you see everything is quiet and dark on the other side of the compound, which is a good sign. Unfortunately, good also means very boring. You’ve been lying in the exact same position for nearly three hours now: on your belly, elbows slightly propping your upper body to see the Baron’s estate that’s embraced by a forest like a mother cradling its child. Tales have it if you make even one little mistake inside those cold brick walls, Baron Igor would personally see to it that you don’t leave these woods alive and whatever his hellish guard dogs don’t finish eating up, his servants would send to your family as a small parting gift and warning to get as far and fast away as possible.

If only he were as thorough covering his tracks as he is scaring people, but Baron Igor has never really excelled at multiple things and now, months after the first little bird brought some interesting insight, you can’t wait for Baron Igor to finally slip and confirm the rumours about him selling information on one of Il Dottore’s gun research labs to a spy from Sumeru. Intel has it exchanges usually occur once every full moon and with the orb now hidden behind thick, black clouds, this is the last chance to get some evidence before the ship leaving to Sumeru carries whoever deserves a knife in their windpipe back to their God of Wisdom.

Baron Igor has messed up, got too arrogant, and now you and your team are here to make sure he eats up his mess. It wasn’t easy to infiltrate his mansion. Mitsuki only passed because you took out two of the other contesters for one of the Baron’s favourite restaurants down in Nowobirsk. That man bows to greed and when introduced to the place’s new maître d’hôtel—the best of his kind, the most exotic to own during their flimsy ceasefire with Inazuma—Baron Igor acted swiftly and hired him. Mitsuki had gagged at those words while lieutenant Scaramouche had shown the patience of a man barely holding himself back from violence. Two days later, Mitsuki took his position as spy and head waiter of the Baron’s personal restaurant taking up the whole second floor in the right wing of his stone mansion.

��Fuck me, I look like a penguin,” Mitsuki had said on the night before his work began at the estate, glaring at himself in the mirror dressed in a sharply tailored tuxedo.

“Then we know who to call if Baron Igor decides to open a zoo,” Mikhail had said, but he was in no hurry to turn away his appreciative gaze from how tight Mitsuki’s black pants tugged his slim legs and ass.

That’s the team, Mitsuki, you and Mikhail—Lock, Shock and Barrel, one of your fellow division’s comrade likes to call you for unknown reasons, simply laughing to himself and shaking his head as if trying to get rid of a good memory. Though for all that Scaramouche is concerned, to him you’re triple double and a clusterfuck he doesn’t want anywhere near him or so help him Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, he’ll stake your heads and scatter your remains to the seagulls terrorising the coast of Port Odessa.

“He loves us,” Mikhail likes to joke, even though you aren’t sure the words love and Scaramouche should be used in one sentence.

“One day, he’ll kill one of us with his bear hands and feel nothing,” Mitsuki commonly remarks, sounding like whatever you’d do to receive such a punishment is probably ghastly enough to justify being murdered.

“His hat is pretty neat,” is usually your only contribution and they both look at you as if you’re crazy.

“Any movement?” a voice asks from your right. Mikhail shakes still fresh snow from his head and shoulders as he dugs under the narrow doorway, looking like a puppy trying to shake itself dry. Now that a year has passed since a Geo Vision user crushed his right arm and healers had to amputate it to save his life, he’s adapted pretty well to only one arm and hand at his disposal. He’s balancing a cup in his palm while holding two paper bags with his fingers and somehow makes it look easy. He rejoins you at the window, carefully placing the steaming cup and one bag in front of you. You hand him your binoculars so he can see for himself, and inspect your breakfast. “Do I even want to know where you found,” you peak inside the bag, “pirozhky at a time like this?”

“Couple of blocks down there’s this place. Really nice lady, gave me one for free and added a little extra to our coffee.”

You take a sip, and instantly begin coughing and pounding your chest as it goes down burning. “Archons, that’s disgusting. Who in their right mind puts Fire-Water in their coffee?”

“I know, right?” Mikhail beams. “It’s genius.”

It’s ghastly. You take another sip. Horrible, really. But it keeps you warm and awake. So maybe it isn’t that bad at all.

While Mikhail observes the area, you dig into your beef and onion pirozhky. There’s nothing fun about pulling an all-nighter but sometimes sharing a cup of coffee and eating warm food helps to get through them. Also knowing someone suffers with you. Sharing pain is gain, after all.

“Well, they sure like taking their sweet time,” Mikhail mumbles, getting a little more comfortable on the cold stone ground. He puts the binoculars away and digs into his own food. “What are we gonna do if nothing happens today?”

“Then we’ll come back next month and do it all over again.” Hopefully you don’t have to. Fyrva’snezh was two weeks ago but this winter started off particularly brutal. Two out of three units are still missing from their outskirts training and you don’t want to be in the poor lasses’ and lads’ shoes who are still at the infirmary recovering from severe hypothermia. “What worries me more is that Mitsuki might lose his sanity if he stays there another whole month.”

“Well, what doesn’t kill him makes him stronger,” Mikhail says, wiping his greasy fingers off his pants. “I just want to wipe that smug smirk off the Baron’s pig face.”

He and probably every citizen populating Jaroslawk. “Once Mitsuki locates the communication point, we’ll go in and neutralise the target if we can’t catch him alive,” you say. “Baron Igor will try and weasel his way out of it but so far all evidence stands against him. The rest is up to Her Majesty.” And the Tsaritsa is known for many things, but mercy isn’t one of them. That will show anyone else trying to make business behind her back.

“Do you really think Mitsuki will endure another month in that stupidly tight uniform?” Mikhail sounds like he very much wished for another month out in the cold like this if it meant Mitsuki would bless him for a while longer wearing his uniform.

You stretch your leg and kick him in his shin. “Don’t jinx this, Nozhyalensky,” you say. “No matter how good his ass looks in those pants, it isn’t worth freezing your own ass off out in this cold. If we have to extend our mission, I’m going to steal your coat and own it for the whole time.”

“You don’t care if I freeze to death?”

“I really don’t.”

He puts his hand on his heart in mock despair. “That’s harsh.”

It would be his own fault, no hard feelings. You sit in silence, sharing your scalding hot coffee. In the mansion on the other side, a light flickers on in the east wing. Mikhail shifts and makes a disgusted grunt. “I did not want to know the Baron is banging the Duchess of Pavlovich.”

“Might be good leverage in the future.” You quickly dot it down in your notebook, squinting at the barely illuminated page. “Especially if the Duke refuses to pay his taxes again. I’m sure we can get to him through her.”

More minutes pass in silence. Mikhail continues his watch while you start to mindlessly doodle a little Foul Legacy Child in the corner of your page. You wonder what time it is in Liyue. Is Childe also out on a mission or tugged in and sleeping well in a land that knows nothing of harsh winds and freezing nights. Does he spare a thought of home? Is he missing you as much as you miss him or has he already filled the gnawing void with faceless, warm women that comfort him at night?

“Heard anything from our comrades in Liyue?” Mikhail asks nonchalantly, but he’s always been the poorest liar of you three and it’s pretty obvious where this conversation is going. Part of you hungers for that conflict.

“They still can’t find whoever killed the Geo Archon. But Lord Childe might have located the Gnosis and has begun his infiltration.”

Chances are good he might succeed in another month or so, though from the letters you’ve received so far, it sounds like he might succeed fucking the consultant of Wangsheng Funeral Parlor before that. Tartaglia has never started anything serious with guys before, safe from occasionally drunk making outs, but new cultures could change a lot in you and it’s Tartaglia’s first time staying for so long in Liyue and meeting a man like this so called Zhongli.

Mikhail clicks his tongue in disgust. “I can’t believe this guy is over there for three months already and is still nowhere near finishing the job.” He spits at the ground and twists his mouth in a very familiar manner of annoyance—only usually this expression is meant for initiate Fatui members who can’t tell a shotgun from a sniper rifle.

“How can you still be mad at him for handing you your ass three years ago,” you say. A man’s ego is such a frail thing, thank the Tsaritsa for being a strong, independent woman.

“This isn’t about that stupid fight,” Mikhail splutters, red blotches creeping up his neck. His inability to lie is abysmal. “I don’t get how you stand that guy. His arrogance needs its own giant room to fit inside. Someone needs to knock him down a peg or two and maybe beat out this need to whore around as well—”

You move in a flash. Mikhail doesn’t have any time to react before he finds himself on his back, pinned down by your weight with a knife to his throat. “Mikhail, I love you like my own kin and you know I’d take a bullet for you any time,” you growl. “But speak another filthy word about Childe and I will cut off your tongue and feed it to street dogs while watching you bleed out like a slaughtered pig. Are we clear?”

You feel Mikhail’s chest rising and falling under your spread hand, his body warm, proof of his life. How easy it would be to take it from him, to warm the cold, dirty ground with his blood.

Mikhail’s dark eyes don’t give away anything. He’s holding very still, like a cornered animal faced with its hunter; don’t move and maybe it thinks one is dead. Eventually, he says quietly, “If you could see what an unlikeable, unpleasant person he really is, maybe...” He doesn't finish. There is no need to. You know very well what point he’s trying to make.

“I don’t need your supervision,” you say. “Or your pity.”

Mikhail barks a loud, humourless laugh. “Lassie, if I had an ounce of pity left for anyone else than myself, I wouldn’t be very good at this job, would I?”

You shift your weight. Mikhail groans as you put pressure on a wound a Pyro Vision user inflicted on him a week ago that hasn’t fully healed yet—a favour for Mikhail to prevent him from following his train of thought. You don’t know what is worse: His unrequited love for Mitsuki or Tartaglia and you knowing what you both want but can’t have.

Mikhail quietly says your name and gently lowers your hand. The sharp knife has bit into his skin just enough to leave a fine, red line on his throat. “All I’m saying is, I am not the bad guy here.”

He is right, of course. But that makes it even worse, because without a bad guy, who could you put blame on? Who would be the target of your frustration and your scorn? Who would pay for countless sleepless nights wasted alone or in a stranger’s arms?

If there is no good, no bad side, no villains or heroes to put blame on, what does that leave for you? Just the law. It is hard, but it is the law.

There is no one but yourself who carries the burden. Even knowing Tartaglia goes through the same doesn’t soothe the pain steadily growing in your heart. You’re like two stars gravitating to each other, seeking the sweet collision to finally become one and create something bigger, the most exquisite light in the endless black galaxy, but whenever you manage to come close to each other, other forces pull you apart.

You shift your position from towering above him to slumping back on Mikhail’s lap, your anger deflated like a balloon.

“Arguing with you is no fun,” you mumble, sheathing the knife back in its place inside your boot.

Mikhail arches one dark brow. “Learnt from the best. You don’t want to get into an argument with my mama.”

“Are you two leaving me out from a team bonding session?” comes a static voice from your left.

“Darling, we would never leave you out from a potential threesome,” Mikhail says back, a wicked grin flirting with his mouth.

“Blergh,” you groan in disgust and roll off him, grabbing for the plastic piece from where Mitsuki’s voice has sounded; Il Dottore’s newest invention, a voice transmitter agents use for long distance communication.

“So, how’s it cooking, good looking?” Mikhail asks, ignoring your eyes rolling back. “Anything new at the front?”

Mitsuki is silent for a moment. Somewhere, a dog barks. “I think someone might have tipped the Baron off.”

Immediately, you feel Mikhail's body tense next to you. “Do you need us to come in?”

Oppressive silence fills the room. Mikhail jerks, but before he can jump to rash actions, you grab his arm hard enough to bruise. He freezes, and you both stare at the voice transmitter in Mikhail’s hand.

A moment later, static crackles, and Mitsuki says, “I received a note on the caviar shipment. Roads are all clear, it should come in around seven in the morning.”

Mikhail relaxes, but a sweat bead rolls from his temple and disappears behind his black turtle neck sweater. He sags against you, exhaling very loudly.

A couple of years ago, after you three had been working together and hadn’t tried to kill each other as often as other teams, you guys had decided to come up with your own secret language for times like these. Mikhail had first complained about the hours put into learning it the most—the semantics always changing depending on what line of work you’d infiltrate—but eventually even he had agreed it was a pretty neat trick. What Mitsuki has said simply means all is in order and the mission is proceeding smoothly.

“Little fucker,” Mikhail grumbles, ruffling his own hair just to keep his hand busy. You agree. It feels like you’ve aged five years in those last five minutes.

That relief is short lived. A small explosion from the right wing inside the mansion lights up the night like a firework show. Mikhail is out of the window in a flash. You grab your rifle, keeping an eye on him as he crosses the street in a flash and climbs over the iron gate.

Two shadows tumble through the hole in the second floor. You sway your scope, laying eyes on Mitsuki as he wrestles with a cloaked figure. Purple sparks fly, clashing with crimson flames that rise skyward and turn into black smoke. At least something is according to plan even though your Cryo Vision would be more effective.

You watch them fight for a moment, unable to get a clear shot as both are short distance fighters. Mitsuki moves quicker than a flash, whirling two hatches over his head, parrying a deathly bow from the Sumeru’s Claymore. Mitsuki is smaller than most of his comrades. People like to underestimate him, but that’s part of the fun, according to him. Proving people wrong. He dodges another swift strike, rolling out of the way and giving you a clear sight at your target. But over his shoulder, Mitsuki catches your eyes and gives the tiniest shake of his head. Not yet.

You wish he could see the stingy eye you’re giving him right now. You’ve waited long enough out in this cold and your whole body shakes with the need to move, the need to fight. A quick look to Mikhail shows he’s fending off two of the Baron’s guards himself. Luckily, they can’t really hold their stand against a fully trained Fatui agent. He quickly takes out his opponents, closing in on Mitsuki and the Sumeru agent. Mitsuki has driven him to the edge of the forest. So that’s his plan. You wait until the spy is right beneath a long, thick branch, then pull the trigger. The shot is muffled by the silencer, slicing through the air with infused Cryo power. It hits its target, cutting the branch off. The Sumeru spy is too slow. When the branch buries him under its weight, Mikhail finally catches up to Mitsuki, and through your scope you can see him patting Mitsuki down for injuries. Mitsuki pushes him away, not hard or in a mean way, just enough to signal this isn’t the time. The job isn’t done yet.

Mitsuki advances the spy and kneels, looking for signs of life. He looks up, his dark eyes searching your scope. He holds your gaze, picking up his voice transmitter.

“I have good and bad news,” he says. “The spy is still alive, so we’ll get our answers. But now I’m pretty sure the Baron knows what’s going on.”

“Then don’t just stand there, someone go after him, quick!” you yell in your transmitter.

Before Mikhail dashes off, you hear him curse. “Lord Scaramouche is going to kill us.”

He will, considered this was supposed to undergo without the Baron noticing anything.

* * *

Dear little tygress,

forgive my horrible handwriting. I am still shaking from all the laughter your last letter gave me. Zhongli-xiansheng was actually worried for my wellbeing because I had choked on air and almost died. I swear, you will kill me one day, little tygress.

Speaking of little and potential lethal beasts, I’m surprised Scaramouche didn’t use your head as a toilet plunger. I really do think he's fond of you, little tygress. Any other team would be six feet under by now. You have to tell me your secret once I’m back. Scaramouche still doesn’t know I broke his favourite, ugly cup with the bear on the front from Fontaine, and I want to be prepared once he knows.

Everything is the same in Liyue, and at the same time, everything is changing. Rex Lapis’ murder is still unsolved, and I do enjoy watching the little traveller boy run around looking for answers. Once I return with the Geo Archon’s gnosis, dinner will be on me.

How are things at home? I hope Tonia hasn’t finished all mooncakes by herself again and saved some for the rest of the bunch. I can’t bear to hear Anthon cry again about me only sending sweets to Tonia and Teucer. Has the old man gotten in touch with you? He still doesn’t reply to me, but mama says he’s reading the letters. Maybe a bottle of Liyue’s Baijiu will loose his tongue, or hand for that matter. It’s almost as good as Fire-Water, promise.

Till next time and don’t get too much on little ‘Mouche’s nerves, otherwise there will be no room left for me.

Yours, Red Fox

__________________________________________________

please drop by my ko-fi if you enjoyed my writing!

#philliamwrites #ao3 #fanfiction #genshin impact #genshin impact childe #childe #tartaglia #genshin impact tartaglia #reader #reader insert #childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #genshin impact childe x reader #genshin impact tartaglia x reader #tartaglia x you #childe x you #genshin impact tartaglia x you #genshin impact childe x you

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inforapound · 5 years ago

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Ease The Dawn Pt. 2 Ch.6

A/N - Thank you for reading. The comments last week were so motivating.

Warnings - angst, blood

Words - 1,500

Catching Aethelswith's lips with his one last time, he released his grip on her waist, allowing her to slip free. Her tiny fingers slid out of his outstretched hand and she looked back at him and smiled. Soft wisps of strawberry golden hair framed her perfect face and Ivar thought she looked breathtaking. Turning away, she moved down the steps and toward their chambre; his blue eyes fixed on her lissom form, his body still warmed from her attention, as she made her way back to their chamber to prepare for the evening.

The small blonde slave stepped out from where she had been waiting against the wall and rushed to follow as Aethelswith made her way down the corridor. Ivar did not miss the way Freydis glanced back over her shoulder, with a hopeful look that his eyes might focussed on her. Forgetting herself, she swayed her hips and Ivar thought Hvitserk, or any other man, would take it for what it was, an invitation.

Wincing, he adjusted on his chair, hoping to find a position that might ease the stabbing in his legs. It was of no use, of course, and despite the added strain, he already missed the feel of Aethelswith's bottom pressing down on his lap.

"Gods," he exclaimed and closed his eyes. Withdrawing from her felt impossible. It forced him to question the strength of his resolve. He felt at war with himself yet avoiding her was his only chance of her experiencing just a sliver of the rejection he felt. It would be so easy to give in and plunge under the warm waters of her affection; her skin, her scent, her taste and feel, her curiosity, and the way she subtly smirked before saying something witty. He loved her. The fact that she could place her god or some nothing man between them felt like a knife splaying his ribs apart. But now, tasting her sweetness after so long made his mind soar but he could not undo his ultimatum. What kind of man would break his word? No man worthy of her, he assured himself. For the time being he would feel lost without her touch until she chose what he had to believe was their fate.

As nothing beyond them had any true meaning and at times he wondered, if he was a less greedy man, could he turn his back on everything, his throne, his legacy, his need for victory. No, he scoffed out loud, clearing his throat and straightening on his seat. They would have it all. Why should he ever choose? He was the favoured son of Ragnar Lothbrok. A Viking king, and with her at his side, more powerful than any man. Glory for him was not a question of deserving but taking.

Sinking down further into his chair, he slumped onto an elbow feeling the heaviness in his limbs. The worry struck that he might not be able to make it back to their room upright because of the degree of his pain. If the hall had been less occupied, he would simply drop to the ground and crawl back. He had pushed his limits inspecting the new sections of the wall. Still under construction, he had walked the areas his chariot could not reach before heading to the yard to oversee the training. Since starting the fortification, he had surveyed the progress each day, unrelenting in his demands for speed and excellence.

Holding his cup out to the side, it was refilled for the third time. If it did not quell the pain in his lower half he would concede and drink the tea Aethelswith kept in supply from the healers.

Hurried voices cut through his thoughts, jabbing at his foulness. He growled in the direction of the divide leading into the kitchen and took a slow drink from his topped-up ale, his eyes staring out above the rim of his horn. He could still hear the faceless thralls, jabbering on.

"Quiet!" he roared, spittle flying from his mouth as he lowered his cup down onto his armrest. Glaring out as if to challenge the room, he scanned all those occupying benches drinking his ale. No one met his stare, but everyone seemed to tense, holding their breath, waiting.

Brigit, a stout, matronly dressed slave raced around the divide, stopping below his throne at the foot of the stairs. Shifting her feet side to side she gave the impression that she might wet herself. Opening his mouth as if to deliver his wrath, Brigit cut him off.

"My king, it is Lady Aethelswith."

Closing his mouth, he listened.

"You must come. Quickly."

Hearing nothing after she spoke his beloved's name, Ivar was already up and out of his chair, down the stairs, making his way through the corridor, hardly leaning on his crutch.

The shrill voices coming from their chambre reached him before he rounded the threshold. Entering, he lurched to a stop. Blood. Her blood. Her precious, sacred, crimson blood, everywhere. Smeared across the floor from the tub to where she lay, carelessly dropped on their bed like she had been discarded. Her face was coated with what looked like red honey and Ivar's his mind raced, attempting to make sense of the scene. His love! Unconscious and nude but for a loose sheet tossed across her front.

A young thrall, no more than sixteen, crouched over Aethelswith stroking back the damp hair stuck to the side her face; the girl's hands were shaking and coated with blood. Kneeling, as if in prayer, Freydis crouched on the far side of the room, sobbing into her hands.

"No," the word tumbled from his tongue. "Nooo!" he screamed; his eyes wild with confusion. "Do not touch her!" he shouted, rushing forward, and dropping onto his stomach onto the bed. "Who did this! Get your hands off her!" he snarled grabbing her small body and pulling her limp shoulders toward him. Her eyes were closed and her slack mouth hung open.

The thralls scattered back from the bed like mice.

"My sweet? My sweet?" Frantically, his eyes darted between her features, his hands skimming her body, searching for a wound. Letting go, he heaved himself closer and pressed his ear to her chest, letting out a cry of a relief detecting the steady rhythm of her heart.

"What happened?" he roared so loud it echoed into the hall.

The older slave stepped forward, pressing a cloth to Aethelswith's forehead. Lifting the cloth, Ivar saw the dark opening of a deep gash buried within her hairline. Off-center and hard to detect with the amount of blood flowing out. Flipping the rag over, the Brigit pressed down on it with a firm hand.

"What happened!" he demanded again, snapping his head up, his cold furious eyes cutting into the woman.

Turning to look behind her, the old thrall eyed Freydis who now sat on the floor against the wall, her arms hugging her knees to her chest.

Glancing down to Aethelswith, he snatched the blood-soaked rag from Brigit and pressed it himself just above her temple. The gaze he returned to Freydis was beyond a threat, he was marking her death.

As if trying to escape, she dropped her hands to either side, pushing herself harder against the wall.

"I am so sorry, my King," her face twisted in fear. "She slipped climbing from the tub. There must have been soap on the floor. I,'I, I" she stuttered, choking on tears, "I am so sorry. Please, my King. Please forgive....."

"Get out!" Ivar shrieked, his grip around Aethelswith was the only reason his ax had not already been hurled in her direction.

Ivar flung the drenched cloth onto the floor as the older woman quickly pressed another rag to her wound. Ivar smacked her hand away and held it himself.

"Get the healer!" he barked into the air. "Run! Tell her it is the queen and she will need to be stitched. How could you have let this happen?" he hissed, dropping his eyes back to Aethelswith, too angry to cry.

Having driven a blade into countless skulls on the battlefield, he knew head wounds could be the most gruesome. Hers made worse by the hot bath opening her veins and after a blunt blow, her thin blood was raging. Pressing his lips to her sticky red face, he rushed out whispered assurance and how much he loved her while pulling the stained covers up to shield her body.

It was hard for him to breathe, feeling cold spread through his chest. The sensation making a memory flash of him breaking through ice on his chariot. Lifting the cloth, he watched the jagged tear in her skin fill again with blood. Pressing harder, he could only stare and pray to the Gods.

She lay peacefully still with her eyes gently closed looking like a perfect doll but soiled with gore and blood. He wanted to kill everyone in the room and the hall, Kattegat even, but he would not let go of his sweet. She was his heart, his dreams, everything; his beautiful Aethelswith.

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#ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok #ivar's heathen army #Ivar and Aethelswith #ivar fanfic #ivar fic #vikings ivar #vikings fanfiction #ease the dawn #ivar love #ivar romance #ivar smut #ivar slow burn #ivar and princess #king ivar

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jaegertango · 7 years ago

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Origins: Memento Mori

((UNDEAD METAL BAND WITH @elksy AND @amilaine LET’S FUCKING GOOOOOOO))

((EDITED: ADDED IN @adries PART, MIMI IS HERE LADS))

How did the heaviest, most metal band to sunder the world like Deathwing come to existence? Few know, but whispers call about its legend. The furthest go back to the dark halls of Acherus, where souls are corrupted into Death Knights - or discovered to have a destiny even greater than mere violence.

Not much is known about Fenix Deathguard's previous life, and he claims that he was never truly “alive” until he was reborn in Acherus. One thing is for certain though: his resurrection always seems to be the starting point of the greatest Metal endeavor to flood Azoerth. It is said that when the ritual to corrupt his soul into a Death Knight of the Scourge was complete, a thousand wails screamed out from him. They shrieked and writhed and roared throughout Acherus, too inhuman to be alive, and too melodic to be a banshee. All that is certain is that the sheer noise, like the most infernal guitar solo to ever grace Azeroth, even attracted Highlord Mograine's own attention. As the Death Knights approached their newest recruit, they found a towering man with a mane of black hair and gaunt white skin. Both of his forearms had been transformed into a dead black, but his left hand was constantly fidgeting with life as if aching to press around one's throat – or fret on a guitar neck. Veins of darkness ran up to his shoulders and towards his black heart, where it seemed the whispers of maddening music tempted all to listen closer. Azeroth's most metal guitarist had been brought forth – and now he needed his axe.

But not just any axe would do. No, he needed something suited for his pure strength and neck-breaking speed. Taking the remnants of his old axe (a broken and defeated guitar), he wrapped it in layer upon layer of Saronite. When it was heavy enough for him, he then found the largest Frost Giant in all of the Storm Peaks, and he ripped out its heartstrings so that he could use it as the strings for his weapon. Securing the end with the horn of a Frostwyrm, all that was left was to bathe the guitar in a sea of blackened blood. So he brought it forth to slaughter the most corrupt creatures to ever vomit their way unto existence – the Faceless. He brought the giants down, washing it entirely with their foul life fluids and strumming their songs into the steel. The bodies piled high, enough to bring the vicious whispers of Yogg-Saron into Fenix's mind, and it was only then, with a single powerful note, that the Death Knight was victorious. His guitar, Affliction Forever, could wail the fastest solos, thunder the heaviest notes, and raise the very dead in armies to hear his world-ending songs. His legacy, however, was only just begun. The world needed more metal, and he needed to find those strong enough to help him deliver it unto every inch of Azeroth.

He wasn't sure where to search, but before he could consider, a vision unlike any other haunted him. Images shifted and whirled like razor water around him, not real enough for him to shove away, but real enough to shred their marks into his flesh. They screeched endlessly at him, more sound than actual sight. Such hallucinations would have driven any other mad, and he could see the many mangled and captivated victims swaying even in death to those calls, but Fenix found himself enraptured by such a curse. Moving to the West, the images got more violent, but so did the Death Knight. He wailed the most thunderous of riffs back, like a wolf returning a howl. The Plaguelands writhed under the tremendous force of his solo, and Tirisfal buckled by the returning siren call of Death. It was only when the very landscape was furling and smashing upon itself like one huge mosh pit that Fenix found himself face-to-face with a woman easily his equal: Cecilia Felweather. She had the same goal he did, to spread the glory and power of Metal across all of Azeroth, and only now did her banshee cries bring her a guitarist worthy of her voice. The two made a pact immediately: Undeath had only given them the immortal chance they needed to fulfill their goal. Together, they would create the heaviest, blackest and most metal band in all of Azeroth, and together they would turn the world Metal. For they were Memento Mori: Remember You Will Die.

But they were not enough. They needed more brute force, one more to stand at their side like the bulwark of metal they were. Deathguard played one bellowing note to call out, and he felt the earth quake in response. Cecilia screamed out her own commanding cry, and the ground shuddered its vicious reply. There was another out there, and they needed to find them. But they knew, their third was not somewhere in Azeroth, but even deeper than six feet below. Together, Memento Mori blasted a solo, echoed by a chorus whose vocals ripped the sky into a bloody crimson. Reality could not keep stable by the sheer force of their playing, and the ground gave up first. The two fell, deeper than the crust, deeper than Hell – Deepholm was their destination. And within the bowels of the Earthen realm, chaos was playing at its fullest. A single corpse, buried far deeper than any other, could not be contained even by the World Pillar. With only two sticks and every stone as his drums, he sundered and rocked every inch of the world, making volcanos erupt with every bass kick and the earth quake under his violent barrage. Even the Pillar itself was little more than a snare for him to assault and call out to his metal brother and sister that Riley Rorschach was here, and he was pissed. Lava flowed like an ocean, and great columns of fire exploded from every quaking crater he crashed into the earth. Memento Mori's drummer had given his call, and he reminded all of Azeroth of his perpetual hangover – as well as the fiery, quaking revenge he was about to wreak upon the world for it.

But as they returned to Azeroth, the land uprooted and twisted by their arrival, all three of them simultaneously turned to the South. They all heard it together, a symphonic shriek that rattled their bones and bit at their skin like knives - their Fourth was calling. So the three journeyed to Pandaria, some say on a storm of darkness and flame, others by a monstrosity of metal. The devilish wail only grew louder and more violent, warning them of the power of the source. When they journeyed into Kun'lai, and the music had wracked the sky into a sea of black and pink, they found not a Pandaren region, but corruption unlike any other. Tides of Sha energy, writhing like water, splashed across the mountains, swirling in one great hurricane in the center. The outline of a great nightmare roared and signaled the herald of doomsday – the Sha of Metal. The bellow and screech of a guitar blared above all else, and it was matched only by the piercing shriek of Deathguard's own solo. Only then, the two of them played together, a harmony of destruction that tamed the corruption into a true force, one of pure Metal. Kun'lai was ripped apart and renewed simultaneously, tearing the region into pieces and fixing them back into a better place immediately. When the storm of black finally subsided, a single woman stood in the eye of the hurricane, an axe twice her size strapped to her. There, Memento Mori found Miette Obsidian, and silently judged them worthy of her cause. With her mighty double-bladed axe on the some power as Affliction Forever, she was the perfect second guitarist. The Three were now Four.

Yet, even as they stood, the most dangerous and Metal undead to ever be brought forth into existence, they all knew there was more. Memento Mori's call was infinite, and they knew more would return the call. Only then, could they begin their Black Crusade, their Metalocalypse.

#something short because fucking hype yo #memento mori

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schemesanddreams · 8 years ago

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Part Six – The End (or Not).

I was relieved when Keith purchased a handgun. And then a shotgun. And then another rifle. While firearms certainly are not my thing, I felt relieved to live in a house that had them (secured and out of reach of our child, I must add). Still, my fear was not completely abolished; if David truly wanted to kidnap my daughter, a gun wasn’t going to stop him. While I locked every door and window in the house, I still harbored concern – a fear that I didn’t speak of, lest I be looked at strangely.

My paranoia was very real and very justified, despite those closest to me trying to alleviate my worry by insisting he was harmless. I cannot adequately describe the sincerity in the e-mail in which he flew off the handle, promising his threats and uncomfortably “praying for the souls of [my] favorite dead bodies,” whatever that meant to him in his delusional state. I caught a glimpse into the soul of a mentally unhinged, damaged man who I had poked at with just the right words to send him into a tailspin.

Still, I didn’t know if he really existed. Sure, there was a guy named David that existed and who was a bit strange but I still had no proof that he was the same man who kept after me. It was entirely possible that Lee Israel stole yet another identity and impersonated someone to entertain herself, scare me or both.

So, when news of her death was delivered, I was ecstatic. My nightmare was over. Lee was gone, my involvement in the case was over and even if David was one of her minions and not a creation of her twisted mind, he would have no reason to contact me again. I was overjoyed at the death of another person – something I am not pleased to admit. Yet, I felt completely justified in hoping that she died painfully, slowly and alone - just as she deserved.

She had done nothing but use me for her own ego-stroking, offering mere documents in return and holding back so much that she easily could have turned over to me in my quest for the truth. She offered much misinformation that I ended up having to wade through, separating the wheat from the chaff to find what was valid and what was horseshit. (There was a lot of horseshit.)

Helping me wouldn’t have hurt her; I wasn’t out to profit off of Dorothy’s death and I certainly was no threat to the aging author. I still am not interested in cashing in on the case or death of Dorothy – a brave, flawed woman whose story I ended up caring for in a protective way that really was unnecessary, considering she died 23 years before I was even born.

Learning about Dorothy taught me countless things about life that, while wildly inappropriate for a 13 year old, were invaluable. I learned more than I ever needed to know about Minimum Lethal Dosage of drugs, alcoholism, bisexuality (both her husband Richard and her first boyfriend, singer Johnnie Ray were bisexual) and many other things that opened my eyes to worlds I have never and would never encounter in my life.

Through researching her story, I learned how to be brave in the face of very scary things, I developed my own voice and opinions on her case and I stepped out of my comfort zone many times, interviewing several people and creating relationships with others who I never would have spoken to, let alone befriended.

Dorothy allowed me a glimpse into a world that would never be my own. I was, through the grace of time, allowed to study various aspects of her life and death, learning firsthand about conspiracy and the complexity of people who would go to great lengths to obfuscate the truth.

It was through the lens of Dorothy’s case that I grew up.

It’s worth mentioning that she was found dead in a bed she never used, fully-clothed and made-up with a book beside her that she had already read and no sign of the eyeglasses she relied upon. Two drinking glasses, one with traces of Nembutal, were found at her bedside. She was discovered dead multiple times, with two sets of police dispatched and two medical examiners sent at different times to pronounce on the morning and afternoon of November 8, 1965… More about her death was convoluted and confusing than just the question of suicide, accident or foul play. In the end, though, the minutiae didn’t matter as much as the lessons I had learned, I realized.

I finally felt, upon Lee’s death, that I could fully enjoy the ride I had gone on due to my research. A gigantic weight was lifted from my shoulders and I experienced a palpable relief. I started 2015 with a sense of optimism and safety I had not felt in years. Finally, I could relax.

An aside: when Lee was just about to publish her memoir, I sent her a positively scathing letter, swathed in charming congratulations. As a final dig, I addressed the letter to her by forging her signature. I got a great deal of pleasure from that catty letter, I can’t even tell you.

Unfortunately, my sense of calm only lasted a year. In October of this year, both Keith and I received emails via Facebook from David – under another alias. My heart felt as if it stopped, however momentarily when I realized. Lee had died and David was, indeed real. I had hoped he was a figment of her imagination and was so let down to realize he was back and more real than ever. He was not her creation; her minion, perhaps but he was absolutely a person who still was intent on stalking me for whatever fucked up reason. It was still important to him, nearly 15 years later, to let me know he is still around and thinking of me.

I’ve spent considerable time over the last decade tracking the man down. Finally, I caught a break. Not only does he now have a face but he has a location, a place of employment and family. I know who his relatives are and their information. I know that when his father passed away, he really went off the deep end and began writing crazier things – if such a thing was possible. (It was. Trust me.)

I now have a deeper insight into the man who terrified me like some faceless boogieman for years. I now understand the man who threatened to kill my daughter. Let me make clear that while I understand him and why he so badly craves attention and validation, I do not forgive him. (Nor will I ever forgive Lee - something I made clear in that snide letter I sent to her. Answering the title of her memoir with a resounding NO.)

I understand that I am putting myself at risk by sharing my story. It is beyond ingrained in me to be deceptive about my location online, to not post any photos that will give away where I live. To be cautious. Until he dies, I will be exceedingly careful just in case. Clearly, he’s not through with me. Even though he had a cooling off period, like a serial killer, he returned. For whatever reason, I matter to him. It isn’t my connection to the case, for I have left that in the past, save this series I’ve written. I don’t understand why he cares and quite frankly, I no longer give a damn. That said, it is possible that he can find this and that, in and of itself, puts a bigger target on my back.

It was a conscious decision to take my life back from fear and to take away the control I had not meant to award him. So while I will always be aware of what I post online, I will no longer afford him the opportunity to control my emotions by way of fear. I have done everything I can do to protect myself, including accept firearms into my life (something I never was particularly comfortable with) and I have done everything I could possibly do to protect my daughter.

This story is not over, by any means. It won’t be over until his cold, dead body is lowered into the ground or incinerated in a retort. The lessons this experience has granted me however, are lasting. What I’ve learned about confidence, fear, manipulation and building meaningful inter-personal relationships are lessons I am forever grateful for.

Unfortunately, they came at the cost of becoming entangled in a web of misinformation, manipulation, insanity and psychopathy. That said, I also encountered a variety of amazing, thoughtful, intelligent and brilliant people who contributed to my faith in humanity.

The amount of love, support and care that I have already received by publishing what I have so far about this story completely overtakes any negativity I once experienced in my quest for the truth about Dorothy. It’s absolutely amazing to me, the positive response I have received in the last few hours.

So, yes. I uncovered the truth about Dorothy – her life, her death and her legacy. I also uncovered many truths about myself and those around me – people I am so very grateful for.

If you have stuck with me for the past six posts, I thank you. For your time, your attention to this story and – to those of you who proved to be amazing copy editors – your constructive criticism and sharp eyes.

If you are reading this and experiencing any of the same fear I had, know you are not alone. If you are reading this and are struggling with substance abuse, please seek and accept help. If there’s one thing I learned from Dorothy, it’s to not make the same mistakes she did.

After all of the crazy, weird, fun experiences over the past 15 years, at least I have an excellent story one day to tell my daughter...

#cc

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