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bunnyinfoxclothing · 3 months ago

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Obedient Exorcists Part 3

Part 1 | Part 2 | (you are here) | It will arrive

If you thought it was angsty before. Hahahaha

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She had hoped that if she reached the hotel before Charlie, she could get all the weapons setting inside, send the Carmine workers on their way, then find a way to hide her wings.

Truth be told. In the deep folds of her brain, she had known hiding her wings wouldn't be possible. And even deeper still, she was prepared to take her spear to them.

She wasn't living with Charlie anymore anyway. She had hidden being an angel for years. She could hide a back injury for a few weeks.

But the two women arrived at the same time. And Vaggie stood there unsure how to proceed.

She had written thousands of apologies notes during her time alone. None of them were good enough. She wasn't good enough. Charlie probably couldn't even look at her.

Vaggie was prepared to say an apology. A simple sorry. Something that Charlie had preached since the beginning of the hotel. Then she would take care of the Carmines and leave Charlie to settle in the cannibals.

Then Charlie pulls out the shrunken head.

And everything changes.

It's a perfect mix of the two of them. The red circle cheeks. The purple skin. The permanent smile. The red bow.

It was what Vaggie imagined their children would look like. Except less shrunken, sewn, and hopefully dead. (if it so much as twitched Vaggie doesn't think she will ever sleep again.)

Vaggie finds herself tucked into Charlie arms and everything feels fine again. They walk into the hotel and their friends haven't let them. Vaggie packs away the weapons and shakes hands with Carmilla's girls with a promise that she will return again. Then returns to help Charlie check in the cannibals.

The lobby is alight in so much activity it is blinding. There are so many people talking and enjoying the hotel. Husk has brought out his bartending moves and began mixing drinks like a true entertainer. Angel not far behind, with his flirting with husk, becoming a bit of a show for onlookers.

Nifty zipped through the crowd ensuring she was the only tripping hazard around. Even Alastor seemed to be enjoying the space, talking with his overlord friend.

And Charlie.

Charlie had stars in her eyes. Wetness peaking just at the corners. And the biggest smile that Vaggie had ever seen. (bigger than anything she had been able to produce)

Vaggie knew why.

She could see it.

This was Charlies dream. A hotel so full of people all of them united, and not trying to kill each other. It wasn't far off from her dream of redeeming mass amounts of sinners. This was a sneak peak into Charlie's dream. Fully realized.

Fully accomplished.

And she had done it on her own.

Charlie brought the cannibals.

Charlie wanted Alastor, and got Husk and Nifty as an addition.

Charlie wanted Angel and Sir Pentious.

Charlie had made all of this possible for herself.

Vaggie brought weapons.

Vaggie brought violence and bloodshed and the death of thousands who could have been saved.

Charlie retires before Vaggie, going to her room, getting some rest. Offering Vaggie only a smile from across the room as she heads upstairs.

Vaggie, not having been invited, stays.

While checking in cannibals, Charlie had never asked her to return the room key. Nobody was logged into the logbook for that room, not even her. And yet there wasn't a single question.

So, when everything is over and everyone has gone to bed, she heads to her own room.

Suddenly, nothing is fixed. The keychain in her pocket. The item representing her and Charlie's relationship feels like a noose. A message signed with the picture of a guillotine.

Vaggie can only empty her stomach.

She washes up and with a pain in her heart and gut, she goes to bed.

When she wakes up, she decides it's best to take a flight. She hopes a stretch will help sooth the pain that had come from sleeping on her back.

Her wings are weak. They barely get her to the roof before her lungs are puffing with exhaustion.

It's quiet on the roof.

Just like it always has been.

It's nothing like flying. It's nothing like heaven. It's nothing like anything.

And for Vaggie that's okay.

She enjoys the wind, even if it is humid heat against her face. She enjoys the view. Sinner on sinner crime at the break of dawn. Even though the crime had never ended to begin with.

The blood curdling screams make her wonder, if she screams would anyone hear? She hopes no. She could find herself a nice alleyway and scream her head off. Curse herself for every having existed. For ever falling in someones way.

For ever tainting Charlie's dreams with her face. For ever tainting heaven with her creation. She was proof that not everyone can be forgiven. Not everyone is worth redemption. She was proof that God made mistakes. That not all of his creations were loved.

She was the flaw in every plan.

Charlie finds her on the roof and all thoughts stop.

"How long have you been up here? You never came to bed... at least I don't think you did... did you? i'm sorry."

Vaggie is left reeling. What could Charlie ever have to apologize for? Did she miss something? Did Charlie want her to come to her room? Did Charlie want to talk to her about something? Did Vaggie accidentally ignore her?

Vaggie considers how to respond. How to tell Charlie she didn't know she was allowed to see Charlie again.

But Charlie is already onto a different topic. She talks about how great it is to have so many bodies in the hotel. She talks about the Carmine weapons, and the overlords kindness.

She talks about the sky, how nice Hell looks outside. And that's when Vaggie's traitorous mouth finds the words it was looking for ages ago.

"I fell asleep."

Charlie, of course, looks absolutely confused. Then assumes Vaggie meant last night and launches into an entire apology about the cannibals and how impolite it was not to ask anyone if they were comfortable sharing a roof together.

Guilt twists in Vaggie's chest. She had lied to Charlie again. It wasn't on purpose, but she didn't correct her.

Still Vaggie steels herself for tonight, where she assumes she and Charlie will finally talk.

The day goes by with Charlie attempting to see if any of the cannibals would even think about joining them full time. And no she does not mean the staff. All while Vaggie sets about getting everyone their own weapons.

It was nice having a menial task to do. No emotions. Nothing deep to think about. Just logic, and war.

This is what she was built for.

She makes incredible progress, only getting a select few weapons returned with the suggestion to make them special order.

Apparently too many people heard her with the Carmine girls and decided that she would be the perfect 'currier pigeon' for their weapon needs.

She tries not to be offended by the new nicknames.

pigeon

hot wings

feathers

bird brain

They all seemed to revolve around her new appendages.

A part of her missed the lewd renditions of her name Angel used to throw her way.

She gave everyone a quick safety brief on angelic weapons before deciding to end the day early. She would go to the Carmines with the requests in the morning.

Charlie took her by the hand and brought her to her room. A room they once shared.

She felt a bit of warmth seeing her stuff, still in its rightful places. She let a hand caress a few trinkets. Gifts from Charlie from their earlier stages of dating all til...

She reached a hand into her pocket and pulled out the shrunken head from yesterday. It felt wrong to carry it now. So she placed it amongst her collection.

A hand snaked it's way around her waist and she was pulled flush against Charlie.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too."

Charlie continued on. Listing every little aspect of Vaggie she missed. Her scent. Her warmth. Her smile and smirks. Her sarcastic jokes. Her protective aura. Her loving kisses. Her eye that was only ever soft when gazing upon her.

Charlie let herself ramble on and on while holding Vaggie.

Vaggie felt nothing.

Vaggie felt less than nothing.

And that made her feel guilty.

All while Charlie continued to sing her praises, Vaggie could only feel the pressure on her wings, which quickly morphed into irritation the longer Charlie persisted.

She thought to Charlie's last few wishes. To be left alone. To have her sent off to the Carmines.

The look on Charlies face had been so empty. So full of hate that she had been willing to die for the girl in front of her.

Yet, this moment directly contrasted all of that.

Vaggie felt angry.

and that made her feel guilty.

Charlie had saved her life. Charlie had given her a purpose. A reason to live. If Charlie wanted to change the rules and orders she had previously set, then that was fine.

Charlie started slow, taking Vaggie's clothes off piece by piece.

It wasn't sexual, Vaggie knew when Charlie wanted more from a night together, even their gentle nights weren't like this. This was a sensual whisper of 'I missed you'.

This was I want skin on skin contact.

This was the closeness of a baby just after birth. When skin contact was vital for helping regulate temperature, heartbeat, breathing and connection.

This felt like life or death.

But only to Vaggie.

Charlie continued to whisper all the aspects she loved about Vaggie, moving from physical features to personality traits, to weird quirks.

Vaggie felt naked and scared. The words washed over her, but nothing soaked through. Her heart rate increased as she began to panic.

The closeness felt suffocating.

She should tell Charlie to stop. That she wasn't ready for any amount of emotional or physical closeness yet.

But the rules were changing.

Charlie was deciding which rules stuck. What if she no longer wanted Vaggie thoughts or opinions? She had filled the hotel on her own. Vaggie's opinion wasn't worth much anyway.

What if this was a couple clearing of the board? No rules no orders.

When Charlie brought her to bed, she finally seemed to notice the heart hammering against Vaggie's chest.

"Shhhh. It's okay, we're not doing anything tonight. You can relax. Tell me what's wrong."

Vaggie opened her mouth but nothing came out. It was an order. To tell her what was wrong. But did Charlie want the truth? Did she want half truth sounding board Vaggie? Did she want the softened words of girlfriend Vaggie? Did she want the rough uncaring truth of first found Vaggie?

The safest option was to ask.

"What do you want me to say?"

There were a few seconds of silence. Vaggie looked up to see a confused and slightly hurt look on Charlie's face. She had chosen wrong.

"The truth? Always the truth. Please, I can't- don't- don't lie to me again."

Vaggie nodded. Going with the most honest answer she could come up with.

"I don't know."

She doesn't know what's wrong. She doesn't know why she's bad at obeying. She doesn't know what the rules are anymore. She doesn't know what Charlie wants from her. She doesn't know why she feels suffocated in the arms of someone she once never wanted to leave. She doesn't know what's wrong with her.

Charlie sighs. She's disappointed in Vaggie again.

We can talk more about it after the battle.

There's a time limit now. Vaggie can feel it. She used to be so good at being hotel manager. She used to be so good at commanding respect. She used to be so good at being Charlie girlfriend.

Since they visited heaven she has done nothing but fail at all of these.

And now...

her and Charlie are over.

Vaggie doesn't sleep. Vaggie doesn't cry. Vaggie doesn't even think. Vaggie lays there and listens to Charlie quiet snores and lets herself get pulled into tighter snuggles. Vaggie ignores the burning in her back as her wings scream out. Vaggie doesn't do anything.

The arms around her body won't let her.

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 1 year ago

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the breakfast

lilac, chapter two

a/n: when my love, @chvoswxtch, asked me to bring the horny energy of miss patty from gilmore girls, of course I fucking did it, I'm not a criminal, that's what we all deserve

summary: “well, hello stranger.”

warnings: lumberjack!frank castle x reader, lumberjack AU, pete castiglione era, past domestic violence, crazy ex trope, slow burn, wholesome villagers being adorable

word count: 2373

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

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The Lilac Inn wasn’t just an inn to the citizens of Dunbrook. It was its beating heart, a hub for the small community to gather.

As the town’s only culinary establishment, the residents had always made a habit of eating a fair amount of their meals in the inn’s dining room, the door to the kitchen often staying wide open so that Harvey wouldn’t have to leave the stove in order to catch all of the juicy small-town gossip that had people blabbering.

“Dad, did you turn off my alarm?” you snapped as soon as your scurrying feet carried you into the bustling kitchen.

Not lifting his eyes from the loaf of bread he was currently slicing, your dad simply countered with a jovial, “well, good morning to you too, sleeping beauty!”

“Dad,” you sighed, jaw clenching at his usual demeanour, the paralysing dream you’d just roused from not setting you up to be in the right mood for such a level of positivity.

“You just looked like you could use the extra hour or two,” a smile still warm on his lips, the middle-aged man defensively raised his hands.

“But I’m supposed to help you out,” your eyes followed his movements as he trotted towards the stove, “I can’t do that if I’m asleep.”

“Exactly,” your dad passed by a hook full of tangled textiles and tossed you an apron, “that’s why I let you go a little longer so that you wouldn’t doze off on me before lunchtime arrives.”

“I wouldn’t have dozed off…” you mumbled pettily as you tied the linen around your waist. Exhaling lowly as you watched him crack two eggs into a sizzling skillet, you asked, “what can I do?”

“Well for starters,” he tossed the shells into a small scrap bowl to his side, “these were the last eggs, so if you could go get some more out by the front desk, that would be superb.”

“Why do you have eggs on the front desk?”

“Because Otto’s chickens are laying a lot right now and so he told me he’d give me some today when he swung by for breakfast.”

“Wait, Sheriff Nilsen has chickens now?”

“Yeah, has for a long time,” the decade of you not living here grew palpable, “he usually just drops the extra ones off here, so they should already be there because I just took his order two minutes ago.”

“Alright,” you disappeared through the back door and snaked down the narrow corridor, ending up behind the messy reception area.

Your eyes didn’t have to search for long before you noticed the petite basket, brimming with beige eggs, resting on the top of the counter right beside the small rolodex that displayed what date it was. Grasping it in your hand, your vision momentarily drifted down to the small, framed photo nuzzled behind the ever-open logbook. Sitting on the swing that still hung from one of the sturdy trees out back, head adorably posed in a tiny palm, there a 7-year-old version of you sat, forever frozen in that singular moment, beaming up at the camera.

“Ah!” a sharp voice boomed as you heard the front door swing shut, “oh my goodness, oh my god! Y/n!”

Raising your chin, your eyes grew wide at the rotund woman beaming at you from the doormat, “miss Rays!” you hurried around the front desk, “oh my god, it’s been so long!”

Capturing you in a hug, she pressed your form into her bosom, “darling, we’re not in bed together, call me Donna.”

Pulling back with a light chuckle, your eyes fluttered over her features, “you haven’t changed one bit,” her lipstick still a fiery shade red and hair still short and feathery framing her plump cheeks.

“You however have,” she clasped your free hand in hers, guiding your figure to give her a good view, “oh, do a little spin for me,” you bashfully obliged with a giggle, “yes! Honey, who is this woman, what have you done with the adorable little girl I used to tutor?”

To your knowledge, Dunbrook never really had a proper school, but for as long as you could recall Donna had always operated as a teacher to the handful of children that called the reclusive mountain village their home. Even though it was just run out of her living room, she had still been the best teacher you’d ever had, her patient way rivalling any of the professors you had to endure when you went off for college. As a matter of fact, she had been the person who’d pushed you to send in the application, praising that you were too clever not to go out and change the world.

“Oh, stop it,” you sighed light-heartedly, a chuckle still bubbling out of your chest as you shifted the subject away from your own appearance, “so, you still come here for breakfast?”

“Of course, I do, you’ve tasted your father’s cooking,” readjusting her purse, she hooked her arm in yours, “a real shame that he’s never accepted any of my offers of becoming your stepmom,” she leaned in to add as you crossed over the threshold into the dinner room, “I could have been served all my meals in bed like some Egyptian queen!”

“I’m sure you can easily find another fellow that can handle himself in the kitchen,” the click-clack of her heels came to a stop by one of the small round tables, her eyes briefly taking in the other patrons before a slight crease appeared betwixt her polished brows.

“Oh, darn it,” her vision stayed glued to the table in the corner as she lowered herself onto her seat, “he’s not sitting at his usual table…”

“Who?”

“The eye candy over there,” she tilted her chin in the direction of the broad, muted flannel-clad back of the man sitting by the window furthest down at the bottom of the room, “you see, I asked your dear father to always reserve this spot for me just so that I can have a great view, if you know what I mean…” gulping down the rest of his coffee, the man’s head tilted enough for you to recognise whom the rugged looking visage belonged to, “oh boy, I tell you, if I was 30 years younger…”

Haven assumed that you’d never again run into the stranger who’d helped you just the day before, a warm flutter suddenly trickled down your spine, “like that’s ever stopped you before,” you pointed out, snapping your eyes out of their trance, “so, uh, do you know what you want to eat or do you just want some coffee or something while you think on it?” you took two steps towards the oblong table where mismatched teacups where stacked and the steam of a few thermoses, all containing a different hot beverage then the next, billowed out.

“Some coffee would be lovely,” she smiled as you with one hand snatched up a mug and the decanter labelled as such, “and some oatmeal if you don’t mind, sweetie.”

Promptly pouring her a cup, you then signed off with a wink, “you got it,” before your vision landed upon the latest of Donna’s abundant infatuations once more.

Attempting to make the short journey seem spontaneous and effortless, you bounced from table to table, topping off people's cups, before reaching the final one.

Drawing in a deep breath, your embarrassingly giddy voice then found his ears, “well, hello stranger.”

Eyes flickering away from the newspaper sprawled out before him, a look of shock washed over his gruff features as he glanced up at you, “oh, hi.”

“Pete–, it is Pete, right?” you checked, slight mortification beginning to brew within your belly.

“Yes, ma'am,” his head nodded ever so slightly.

“Do you want a refill, Pete?” you savoured the taste of his name on your tongue.

“Sorry?” his brows furrowed at your offer.

“Your coffee,” you pointed with the hand that clutched the handle of the thermos, “do you want some more?”

“Oh,” he breathed, though the puzzled look didn’t seem to fade, “yes, always.”

Leaning in slightly over the newspaper, you filled up the drained mug, only a murky ring at the bottom indicating what it had previously contained, “and can I get you something to eat as well?”

Eyes narrowing, he stared up at you, “is your vacation really already so boring that you got a job here or what?”

“Oh,” you couldn’t help but breathe out a light chuckle as you answered, “I’m not on vacation and I guess, kinda,” staring back into his eyes as you attempted to repeat your question, “so, do you want any–,” though before you could finish the sentence, out pranced your father, a plate of food balanced in his palm.

“2 eggs sunny side up and some sourdough toast, as per usual,” he sang as his long arm came down to slice the air between your forms, placing the dish upon the table.

Briefly catching his eye, Pete then offered a polite nod of gratitude, “thank you,” folding the paper up and scooting the meal closer.

Feeling the small basket of eggs disappear from your grip, you blinked back at your father as he softly requested in your ear, “honey, could you give me a hand in the back when you’re done out here?”

“Sure, dad,” you flashed him a smile before watching him disappear once more.

Feet still glued to the floorboards right by Pete’s table, your vision then returned to him as his deep voice washed over you, “so, you’re Harvey’s kid, then?”

“Yep, that’s my dad,” your balance briefly shifted as you rocked on the balls of your feet, “thank you, by the way, for yesterday.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” his fork punctured one of the golden yokes, “how’s your car looking?”

“I don’t really know yet. The local mechanic is taking a look today, so fingers crossed it’s not anything too catastrophic,” you felt your palms begin to sweat as he simply stared up at you in silence, “anyhow,” you averted your gaze nervously, “I’ll stop bothering you, let eat in peace,” you nearly bumped into the chair behind you as you backed up towards the kitchen, the near accident not managing to draw any words out of him, only the hint of a smile twitched at the corner of his lips, “see you around, I guess…”

“Hey, dad?”

Briefly raising his eyes from the logbook cracked open on the wooden counter, he glanced up at you as you bounced down the wide staircase, “yeah, pumpkin?”

Hand tracing the railing, with the aid of the grip, you swung your form around the last post as you ascended the final step, “did you know that the hot water doesn’t work? Like at all.”

“Yeah, that and about a million other things around here,” he sighed, vision returning to the ledger as you rested your folded-up arms upon the top of the reception, “this is a beautiful historic building… and what I mean by that is that there are too many things that either don’t work the way they should or at all. I am not a millionaire, honey. If I was, then the issues wouldn’t be piling up the way that they are…”

Bottom lip snug between your teeth, your mind raced a moment before you quietly theorised, “exactly how long is that list?”

Eyes racing to find your eyes, your father joked, “why? Did you become a contractor while living in New York or something?”

“No, but I was always the handy one out of the two of us,” you noted before your shoulders raised in an innocent shrug, “how hard could it be?”

“Let me get this right,” he raised a palm up between you as his eyes crinkled even further, “you’re telling me you wanna try and patch this place up?”

“Well, it couldn’t hurt the business side of things. When was the last time you booked out more than two rooms at a time here?”

“Oh, no, no,” the moustachioed man then began to shake his head, “you’re not turning this place into some fake, glossy tourist attraction.”

Swinging around to his side of the counter, you assured him, “hey, I’m not saying let's flood this place with tourists, but maybe just a handful more?” tilting your head in an attempt to catch his gaze that had now returned to the open book, “just enough to make ends meet, perhaps also enough to at some point hire someone else so that you won’t work yourself to death…”

Eyes frozen on the page before him, a long exhale then flowed from his lungs as he deliberated.

“Alright, fine, yeah, I guess that wouldn’t be that bad…” he tried to downplay the smile that blossomed upon his lips.

Spine pressed against the edge of the front desk, you then braced with your palms and hauled yourself up onto the spot that was just clear enough for you to sit there without knocking any knickknacks over.

“So,” you drew out, searching for a new topic to explore, “Donna seems to be quite set on that guy Pete to be her new husband, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harvey chortled, “but you know her, she’s like a dog spotting a pheasant every time she sees a new man. I think genuinely I might be the only person in town who isn’t either terrified of him or has some desire to sleep with him.”

“How long has he been here anyway?”

“Eh,” he glanced up at the stained glass adorning the front door as he thought, “maybe a year or two? He mostly keeps to himself, lives up in a cabin in the woods and only really comes down here to either provide some firewood to whoever needs it or have some coffee,” vision landing on you, he then noted, “you however seemed to have broken through to him quite quickly. Took me like 5 months to get anything more than a grunt of recognition out of him.”

“Oh,” you couldn’t stop your eyebrows as they promptly rose up, “well, he kinda helped me the day that I got here. He was the guy I caught a ride with…”

#lea’s writing #lilac series #lumberjack!frank castle #frank castle x reader #frank castle imagine #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #frank castle x female reader #frank castle x fem!reader #frank castle x f!reader #frank castle fic #the punisher fic #frank castle fanfiction #the punisher x reader #frank castle fluff #frank castle series #lumberjack au

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sleeping-sirens · 4 months ago

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wdym i saw this mingi? 😵‍💫 i still can’t get over it! watching the last logbook uploaded made me feel like everything was a fever dream frrrr

#mingi #ateez #mawazine #mawateez #save me mingi #song mingi

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victormalonso · 1 year ago

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ARAÑA NEGRA DE MIS NOCHES (VIII) un diario de sueños

en el vacío nocturno, en la noche sin final, el pensamiento te arrastra adonde la luna te añore. cavo tu hoyo de silencio en la imaginación del limbo, el cósmico fluir que nace al mundo: el negro resplandor de la nostalgia; a tu cabello oscuro lo mueve el viento, y la noche y la sal llenan el ámbito marino con el oleaje sexual de amarte. decir noche es decir tu nombre: te amo, aun desde el ruido fiero del oleaje, aun desde esta soledad.

BLACK SPIDER OF MY NIGHTS (VIII) a logbook of dreams

In the nocturnal void, in the night without end, the thought drags you to where the moon yearns for you. I dig your hole of silence in the imagination of limbo, the cosmic flow that gives born to the world: the black glow of nostalgia; your dark hair is moved by the wind, and the night and the salt fill the marine environment with the sexual waves of loving you. to say night is to say your name: I love you, even from the fierce noise of the waves, even from this solitude.

#photographers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #víctor m. alonso #vimalsu999 #isla negra #araña negra de mis noches #logbook of dreams #diario de sueños #mispoemas #Mis Poemas #black spider of my nights #poema de amor #amor #love poem #love #poema de amor a mi manera

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chloesimaginationthings · 7 months ago

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Why was Nightmare Foxy in the closet in FNAF 4,,,

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zarvasace · 3 months ago

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Chapter 14: The Infodump Chapter

2,616 words! I love this art ahaha. The last few chapters will all come out much closer together within the next week or so!

“I believe I owe you all a fair amount of information,” Prince says, smoothing out his freshly laundered tunic. He's going to dream of that bright citrusy smell for a long time. Link looks over from his logbook with a frown. “You didn't already give it to everyone at the spa?”

#my art #my writing #linked universe #lu z darks au

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endursent · 3 days ago

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- God Shattering Star

【 content; morax | rex lapis x reader , slow burn , mutual pining , multi-chapter , archon war period , afab!reader 】

【 note sorry this is also late i had to redo this chapter like 3 times cause i wasn't happy with it, i should stop re-reading a song of ice and fire while writing this 'cause i keep comparing my dialogue skills with fucking george rr martin and feel sad ｡ﾟ(*´□`)ﾟ｡ | read on ao3 】

【 word count; 6.016 | previous chapter - next chapter | masterlist 】

- Chapter 8 - Consumption

You barely recognise life anymore—or anything for that matter. You feel sick, sticky and heavy, as if your body is full of liquids in every crevice. The world around you feels lighter than you yourself do, like you’re sinking below it and perpetually struggling to reach upwards to grasp at the people staring down at you from around the cot.

Ming Hui sets her hand on your stomach, and a pain so consuming you thrash and scream overrides any thought or consciousness. Hands hold you down to prevent you from hurting yourself or anyone else as the smaller girl tears (at least that’s what it feels like to you) blackened liquids and blood from the lacerations on your belly.

You throw up every day, most of the time several times a day, nights are filled with shivers and huddling under blankets when you try to close your eyes to sleep—and wake in the middle of the night, soaked with sweat and fever.

One night, you had a terrible dream—you’ve been having many bad dreams, terrible, suffocating dreams. Nightmares. You woke up to two pairs of hands shaking your shoulders, clapping your cheeks lightly in hopes of waking you before you hurt yourself.

Another night, you couldn’t sleep, you kept seeing dark snakes slither between beds—you told yourself that they aren’t real, there are no snakes so high in the mountain of Liyue… they are far more common between the mountains, in thick forests with plenty of opportunities for food for their size.

They never approach your bed, one circles around it before disappearing behind a shelf of ointments. Later the same morning, exhausted and dozing from a sleepless night, you thought you saw a white snake under the bandage around your left arm looking at you, you reached out to pet it, but it slid back inside. Into your bandages. Into your skin.

The week drags on for what feels like several of them. Every morning, Ming Hui would perform a cleanse and try to purify parts of your body to keep the miasma from spreading into it, but you weren’t sure how much it was helping, at least, you didn’t start feeling better until a week and a half after the seven days of cleansing.

With a groan, you prop yourself up and get into a sitting position, fumbling to grab one of the seven or so books on the table next to the cot, you let it fall open onto your lap. Staring at the ceiling is impossibly boring, and you hope your body is giving you some energy to use your brain at least a little. The book doesn’t have a name on the cover, nor does it look like a printed book—it’s full of handwriting and for a moment you thought Guizhong might have accidentally lent you a diary… but as you squint and read further, you see that it’s something of a logbook.

Documentation of a crew’s trip on the sea, the management of resources and the direction of the winds… it’s a surprisingly soothing read, you craft the ship in your mind and imagine the soothing brush of waves against the wood, sun beating down and warming the skin.

You open your eyes again as a healer touches your shoulder and asks to see your left arm again, you didn’t even realise you fell asleep. The prickly sensation of their fingers prodding at your arm is strange, like it’s felt through a few layers of clothing… you can feel it, but just kind of. You feel like you used to be able to tell what texture was touching you—a finger or a glove, the grass or floor. But now it all feels like the same kind of poking.

You feel a fragment of dread every time Ming Hui comes up to your bed, but thankfully the last few times, she’s just been bringing you things. Doughy snacks from the capital, some sesame balls from the kitchens, papers and ink to draw on, anything. Unfortunately none of the foods or snacks stick in your belly for long… but it’s nice to taste them, if only a small nibble with the front of your teeth and a poke of your tongue.

It has been a long morning, you had woken up early due to your back starting to hurt because you’ve been laying down for so long—you really wish you could start to walk around, but even just sitting up feels like you’re leaving half your organs behind on your mattress… you look up as you hear footsteps approach and see a familiar face, though not one you expected.

Cloud Retainer—rather roughly—takes your arm and lifts it up vertically, you make a strange startled, as well as surprised sound and try to tug it back, but she holds it firmly. Ground Mender follows behind and sighs. “Be gentle,” she scolds.

“Hmph, a sound of pain merely shows there’s still feeling in the limb,” she moves it horizontally and squeezes the sides of your elbow, you have no idea what she’s doing. “Squeeze into a fist for me.”

You do as she asks, curling your fingers as much as you can—it’s not a very good squeeze, if any, but you manage to curl them into a fist with trembling fingers, your fist twitches from the effort. “Like this?”

“Hm, good enough,” she nods and begins to undo the bandage. You look at Ground Mender, but she doesn’t seem to stop the other adeptus, so surely it’s okay… the bandages have been changed many times, but you’ve always been either been half-asleep or too out of it to pay attention to it. The white cloth falls away from your skin and reveals a rather uncomfortable sight—your arm looks like it’s been through the ringer. The skin is uneven and looks more like crumpled parchment stretched over bone than the arm you’re more familiar with, the deep wounds were beginning to close but you could still clearly see the raised edges where it separated, having been knit together twice.

It’s a mangled, uncomfortable thing, your fingers twitch and a dull tug pulls at your senses where you think your joints should be—as if the entire arm was misaligned, off-kilter.

Cloud Retainer turns your arm wrist up and then wrist down, looks at it with a scrutinising eye behind those red-rimmed glasses. You wonder if adepti need glasses or if it’s just fashion.

“What are you searching for?” you ask, your arm is tired, being raised like that for so long. You want to let it lay down and rest.

The adeptus pokes your palm with a sharp nail and your fingers twitch again, your eyebrows furrow in mild annoyance… you can only tolerate being prodded at without explanation for so long. Finally, she graces you with an answer. “The miasma is concentrated heavily in your arm, most of what was in your stomach has been pulled out… but there is little to do with this part here.”

You look down at your arm… it doesn’t look as rotted as you recall others’ bodies would become after as long as it has stayed in your arm. A bit discoloured, maybe… just, different. “Little to do? Extraction has never failed… can’t we just dig in and drag it out…?” you don’t have the energy or capacity to recount a lengthy process, but cleansing has never failed you—you have yet to find an object or person who was too far gone.

And surely, you are not…?

Cloud Retainer wraps your arm again carefully, you see the golden eyes of a snake staring at you from between the bandages.

“Then… what do we do?” you ask as if there was something for you to do. You can barely hold your arm at chest-height for too long.

Cloud Retainer holds her hand out to Ground Mender, who hands her the familiar wooden board someone is always holding when standing by your bed. “Observe for now, the miasma is contained below your elbow—” you look at the ink on your arm, locked. “—and it doesn't seem to be rotting the skin, it’s stagnant.”

You were better for a while, and got worse again.

You could imagine the ship, high tides and low, rocking among the waving ocean—a peek of sunlight. Two suns, warmth and stability. A calm sea surrounded by raging waters.

The perpetual taste of bile stings the back of your throat, it’s a wonder if you aren’t in danger of malnourishment—you’re unsure you’ve kept down a meal in three weeks. Your head swims and you get nauseous if you lie down, you’re nauseous if you sit up. The world spins when you try to stand, even with attendants insisting you move your legs and body to prevent clotting from forming in your feet. You are practically hauled onto a cart of some sort that holds only your upper body, when strength slips between your fingers and you slide off—only just barely caught by the attendants and brought back to bed, they decide to just assign someone to apply pressure to your feet instead to promote blood flow.

It’s strange… it’s all treatment and techniques you’ve familiarised yourself with over the last months you’ve been working for the capital. But it feels so foreign to be on the receiving end.

Like a rocking ship, you managed to down some foods one morning—and kept them down over lunch time, for the first time in… how long has it been? You feed some of the congee to a smaller snake by your bedside.

Everyone around you seemed very excited, but you didn’t have the energy to return it—you know in your heart and gut that it could change at any moment… your day moves slowly as you flip the page of a rather difficult book Cloud Retainer gave to you, it’s only about half writing and the rest is just numbers. Your eyes rise when you see Morax approaching your bed, and you straighten instinctively—he has something in his hand, a bamboo food basket with a long handle. “Good afternoon,” he greets evenly and takes a foldable table that’s used to prop on the bed to allow patients to eat there. He sets the basket on the table over your lap—over your book—and steps away again… Morax has been very quiet recently, and you’re unsure why. You would never say you know him well, you are just barely on greeting or chatting terms, but you still feel a sense that something weighs on his mind.

He returns again with a spoon. “Zhou’s son recently made travels to the west, and on my walk through the streets, the old man demanded I try some cuisine his son had studied there. This is supposed to be easily digestible,” Morax takes your right hand, despite it being very much healthy and mobile. His slender fingers slide below your wrist and lift your hand where he lays the spoon against your upturned palm, your fingers instinctively curl around the cutlery despite the fact that your eyes aren’t watching it. His expression is firm, stiff and stony.

“It’s not dinner time yet,” you’re not sure why you said it, perhaps the silence was uncomfortable, or you want his gaze to leave your torso and rise to meet yours.

He blinks, there are so many things on his mind that it gets pulled away even in the respite he’s taking in bringing you food. “Yes, my apologies. Master Zhou was rather insistent that I stop by and taste his son’s food no matter the time of day, he said finding me during meal hours is too complicated,” Morax lets go of your arm and his hand goes to the basket, he takes the top off and the dish out.

While the congee you ate this morning was nice and light on your stomach—this dish was a pale yellow as opposed to the white of the congee. It smelled warm and comforting but mild, like a stone left under the midday sun, a hot spring on a cold winter’s day in the mountains where the flakes melt against your cheeks, but your body and shoulders are enveloped in a warmed watery blanket.

You stop staring at the dish and stick your spoon into it, it’s soft and moist, the rice separate easily as you scoop a small bite past your lips, careful not to have too much at a time—your stomach has traumatised you over the week by acting up over the smallest thing.

“Ground Mender and Cloud Retainer surmised that though initially we thought enough of the miasma had been cleared from around your organs, your body is still too weak to push out the rest by itself,” Morax finds a stool to sit on next to your bed, not wanting to intrude on the mattress itself. In your convinced state, the bed is your only privacy space that only feels more confined when the curtains are closed around it.

The bite of food fills your mouth—and though your taste buds are extra sensitive now with not eating a lot of foods for so long… licking a sesame ball doesn’t count for much, it tastes very much like the warm embrace the smell and temperature brings. The rice is soft and nearly dissolves on your tongue, the creamy texture of the bite spreading in your mouth and down your throat—it’s five times more warming and powerful than a sip of warm water to smooth out your scrunchy stomach. It gets to work and you instantly feel a sense of ease.

Morax watches you as you lick your lips, dipping the spoon again. “What is it? It’s very nice,” you ask as you take another—now a fuller spoon—of the surprising dish.

“Khichdi,” Morax says the word carefully, as if he were trying to mimic a pronunciation. “After master Zhou’s son returned, a lot of the dishes he learned to make have become very popular in the neighbourhood.”

You hum, you can see why—the flavour is very unique, even if it’s not very strong, it’s likely made with ingredients not found in the Guili Assembly. “Some vegetables could add to it,” you muse to yourself, but quickly try and correct yourself. “I-I mean, it’s very good like this, thank you—”

Morax, however, seemed sheepish for a moment. “Ah… there are vegetables in it… but master Zhou asked for your preference and I couldn’t answer, I deemed it safer to ask them to chop a chosen few of them into… miniscule pieces, in case chewing would be discomforting, or you didn’t like the taste.”

You look down at the bowl, sure enough, there are specs of green and red—how small can you even chop a vegetable?! This looks like a crumb of salt, you think as you squint at a tiny flake of red on your spoon between two grains of rice… your taste buds are in shambles, even just the flavours of this was making it difficult to tell the ingredients, though there are some you have never tasted before. “Ah, thank you for your consideration,” you say before setting another—now spoonful—in your mouth. You almost wish you had bread now, when even two days ago you couldn’t even think about food without your stomach curling up.

Another silence lingers, but it’s not uncomfortable—not waiting or hesitant. You slowly eat while Morax sits, he looks around the calm ward, it’s usually only used in dire circumstances—when the usual infirmary tucked on the first floor on his side between the palaces is full, you’re the only patient being tended to now. “Perhaps you will soon be ready to go above ground,” Morax says absently, not turning his head to you yet.

“Hm? Someone could surely carry me there now, I can try walking again,” you say after a swallow, realising you were eating a bit too fast, you slowed down; your grandmother wouldn’t have you consuming a meal made in kindness at breakneck speed without appreciating the flavour and effort.

“Though I’m glad you feel confident, I would rather avoid you hurting yourself,” Morax shakes his head slowly. “We will see what Ground Mender says in the morning, if you keep this down.”

You better, you tell yourself.

Morax stuck around until you finished, and he helped put away the wooden board as well as placed the bowl back into the basket which had been set aside. You expected him to leave, but he walks around the bed to the side of your injured arm and extends his own right hand. “May I?”

Raising your arm slowly, it stutters and jerks slightly, as if you were fighting against your own muscles for them to listen to your commands.Morax takes your arm kindly, treats it with a gentle touch you would expect from a seasoned healer… a soft glow emits from his hands and you feel their warmth seep into your skin, for a moment it is comforting, a taste of the khichdi from his hands to your skin.

But suddenly, it’s too hot—it burns.

You yank your arm back instinctively, as if you had laid it on a raging fire and not realised until the flames licked your skin. “Ah—” your right hand fingers dig into the bandage of your left arm, trying to squeeze away the pain, to inflict it differently and drain it out.

Morax tenses at the sudden reaction, his eyes flashing with a strange emotion you didn’t see long enough to discern. “What is it?” he asks with urgency, but he doesn’t touch you again. Not if it was his touch that was the cause of your startling. “Did I hurt you?”

“N-No,” you say quickly, but you’re not sure—it only happened because his fingers rested on your arm, but they were gentle, like leaves brushing against cobblestone in a drifting breeze. “What were you doing?”

You don’t mean for your question to sound accusing, you hope Morax doesn’t take it as such. He looks from your eyes down to your clutched arm, eyebrows pinched in thought. “Does it still hurt?”

“A little…” you mumble. Your arm tingles and your fingers tremble slightly, it has felt strangely cold—as opposed to the warmth that always emanated from corrupt skin, the miasma displaying symptoms of infections, because one corrupted is being infected.

“I was merely examining your energies, but as soon as I touched them…” he looked at his own hand. Your body had rejected his energies before—but they had not simply evaporated now, he was pushed back.

He does not like it.

You rub at your arm gently, nails scratching at the bandage now that you had the excuse. The bandage is wrapped so densely, your skin is moist and itchy. “Don’t scratch it,” Morax scolds as you do, and with a defeated sigh you look up at him again and tense.

There is an unmoving silence before you quickly look away again, but Morax saw the surprise and—fear? Concern?—on your face before you turned back to your arm. He says your name firmly, firmer than you’re sure you’ve heard before. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. There was a snake around his shoulders. Writhing and wrapping around his throat.

They’re not real. You must just be malnourished, sick. Hallucinating.

Morax doesn’t react when the snake squeezes his neck.

It’s not real.

You pant, heart racing and pounding against your chest—you feel it so vividly you’re sure you could lay your fingers over your chest and pinch it when it presses between your ribs. You feel dizzy, and disoriented, eyes looking down to your left arm, it’s there—all fingers attached as usual.

Just seconds ago it had been red, open, you could reach out and touch the bone, you could wrap your fingers around it while your skin and muscles slipped off your arm and landed with a wet squelching sound on the floor.

You’ve been having nightmares again.

It doesn’t have any comprehensive or predictable patterns, one night your head is in the maws of a beast, another you’re drowning under a tidal wave of iron-tasting water, unable to breathe or see as it stings your eyes and burns your lungs. You squeeze your eyes shut, running your right hand over your face tightly, squishing your nose slightly with your palm.

It’s exhausting. The day is tiring enough already, and you find no solace in sleep. You don’t even have the luxury of turning from one side or the other, any position other than flat on your back feels like your intestines are going to spill out through your belly button.

You glance at the breakfast laid out for you, sitting on the bedside table as it cools. Congee and some bread… but you don’t feel hungry. Not for what feels like the hundredth bowl of congee, you haven’t returned your meals in a few days, but yet Ground Mender denied you when you asked if you could be brought above ground.

“We don’t have much space in the palace infirmary.”

“Did something happen?” you had asked, you hadn’t heard of anything, but you haven’t heard much of the outside world in a while.

Ground Mender changed the subject without telling you, and you were starting to feel that you were being kept alone in this massive hall for… what? You’re getting better, slowly, you managed to walk around your bed with some support, but you would never make it up the endless staircase leading to the sun-touched hallways.

It’s been a month and a half, according to an attendant that brought your breakfast. Your muscles have atrophied terribly and even just standing so someone can help you bathe is exhausting.

A hand touches your breakfast tray and you look up to see Moon Carver. It feels like every person you’ve met in the last months has been coming around to check on you… it’s strange. You’ve never stayed in one place for long enough for anyone to notice absent days of sickness, to inquire why you close your home off for cleansing for a week.

You had returned to a small village that specialised in silk weaving and no one had remembered your face, despite the fact you had discovered the foul energies poisoning a part of the nearby forest, which caused a devastating number of lost silkworms over the span of three years.

You had seen your reflection recently and didn’t recognise yourself either.

“Time to stretch your legs, come on,” the adeptus tilts his head for you to get up. “The more you skimp out, the longer it will take to build those muscles up again.”

If you don’t move, he’ll continue to pester you… you move the blanket off your lap and Moon Carver takes under your right elbow to help you stand. You’re steadier on your feet than you were before, but you always feel like your legs’ sense of balance is different from your mind’s.

“Starting to think you ask for babysitting duty,” you mumble, a poor attempt at humour as you take careful steps. You feel exhausted, but not like you would after running—there’s no burn, there’s no ache or cramp. You just feel like you’re going to slink down onto the floor like a dropped paper, swaying back and forth before gliding under a cabinet.

Moon Carver huffs, his grip is strong. “It’s not easy to say no to this one’s Lord.”

“Would you if it were?” you wonder why Morax would ask Moon Carver to check on you, surely he has more important things to do.

He doesn’t answer, changing the subject. You’ve started to notice that when an adeptus doesn’t want to tell you something, they will just become quiet or dodge your question. “Let us go towards the stairs and back.”

You frown. “All the way? It’s far…”

It’s barely thirty steps, sixty in total there and back. You’ve walked this distance without a thought several times, so many you can’t begin to imagine how often. Light on your feet, walking briskly with tools, trays or heavy baskets you are sure you couldn’t try to lift up now.

It seems so far, yet you know it’s not. You just have to put one foot in front of the other, not think, not look at the distance, look at your feet, the floor.

You’ve had different nightmares.

Strange, different.

Sinking below the claustrophobic, choking earth. Deeper into the iron water. Sinking. Watching the surface of the world like a reflection of sunlight from above the sea, blinding.

They’re vivid, but not scary.

Just strange. Different.

Not nightmares.

You wake and feel the warmth of the sun on your cheeks, it filters through oiled paper and you shift to your side. You don’t feel pain laying on your side anymore, but it’s not comfortable either… but you want to sleep, and the sun—though filtered—is in your eyes. You prefer to lay on your right side when you rarely roll, it’s easier if you have to sit up.

“Hmm, I would have thought you would be happy to see the sun?” Guizhong sets her hands on her hips, standing next to your bed suddenly—you didn’t hear her approach, but her preference to forgo shoes makes her footsteps very quiet.

You are happy to see it, Moon Carver helped Ground Mender carry you up the stairs last night. There’s less quiet in the palace infirmary, more patients coming and going and attendants rushing about… but as you don’t feel as sick as you did even just a week ago, it’s not as overwhelming to hear people wandering about, if anything, it’s comforting.

“I am,” you mumble, giving up on your prolonged rest to turn back on your back. “It��s warm.”

“It won’t be for long, summer is coming to an end soon,” Guizhong approaches your bed and makes room for herself on the side of it next to you. “You should try and enjoy the warmth while it’s still here, do you want to go outside?”

You do, you want to feel the warmth of the sun on your skin, to breathe in the fresh mountain air and feel the breeze ruffle your clothes.

But you don’t trust yourself to make it alone, even if you were to just stand by the walkway and hold onto the railing. “Will you help me?”

“Of course,” Guizhong moves off the bed and straightens. “Let’s greet the fishes in the gardens.”

You want to squat down and let the carps nibble on your finger, but you worry you might not be able to get back up easily, or you might pull on something. Instead, you merely stare longingly while Guizhong kneels down and feeds them from her hand.

There’s not much wind today, barely the breeze you longed for—but even just the soft brush of air is more than you’ve had for weeks. You squint up towards the sky, a few clouds lazily drifting across the vast expanse as the sun hangs high above your heads.

You hear the waters of the pond and small stream that cuts through the back gardens, a usually peaceful ambiance that makes you slightly uneasy now. You can’t imagine yourself stepping into a river anytime soon… you know that rationally, there is no danger in the small waters of the gardens, but the thought of touching the waters makes your skin crawl.

Footsteps approach the two of you and Cloud Retainer stops next to you—she has a floating bird crafted from bamboo and paper next to her, you hope it doesn’t shoot darts at the fish—with a flourish of her hair. “Your breakfast is waiting for you.”

Ah. “I’m not hungry,” you turn your gaze away from the eccentric inventor, looking down to the Lord of Dust that pets every fish that comes to eat from her hand.

“You said the same thing last night,” she folds her arms over her chest. “You need energy.”

She’s right, of course. “... okay, I’ll try.”

You sit on the side of the road, a weary log under you and soft grass beneath your feet, the sun slowly sinks below the treeline as you stretch your legs and raise your gaze to the pink sky, your surroundings are peaceful and silent—a captured moment in time where you get to be alone with yourself.

Long, high trees line the road behind you and shield you from the rest of the world, the view before you is a comfort and home. Rolling hills, distant farms and fields of flowers spread over the land, coloured orange and pink with the reflective sky.

A child runs past you, they trip on a rock and tumble to the floor—but no sounds of pain leave them, giggles and snickers as an older sibling runs past them, grabbing their shirt and hauling them up on their feet as they continue their sprint.

You don’t recognise them, but they feel familiar.

You feel no wind nor the heat of the sinking sun, the sky is clear of clouds and birds, there is nothing but the wide scroll of the heavens furling across the air, opening up to reflect their blessings of fertile lands and fresh produce. You stretch your arms above your head and stand up, patting your clothes down to rid of any grass or dirt before continuing on your way.

You see him in the distance, and your pace increases. A flow of white robes and long brown hair, he turns off the gravel road and walks towards the thick treeline. Where is he going? You only see his back, the golden lines glowing in the darkening surroundings—as if beckoning you to follow, a guiding light.

But before you can leave the road and follow him into the forest, a hand grabs your elbow and stops you.

You hear your name and blink—there’s no trees in front of you, there is a deep crater that is centred with a pool of water. Dry dirt crumbs fall down from below your foot and roll to the body of water, creating ripples in the still waters.

Suddenly, you feel as if all the weight of the world is bearing down on your body, you’re cold, your feet hurt—you’re not wearing shoes. You stand at the edge of a crater, one step from tumbling down, and in the battered state you’re already in, it wouldn’t be a good tumble. You look back and see Morax staring at you, his hair is tousled and eyes strangely wide—you have never seen his face make such a vivid expression, one of surprise and concern. He tugs you backwards and you fall into him, your legs give out and tremble with strain. There’s a dull, agitating throb in your arm and stomach, a pulsing throb in tune with your heartbeat, in tune with the sway of the grass around you. Back-forth. Back-forth—

You hear your name again, his arms hold you up and prevent you from sinking down to the ground. “Can you hear me?”

You can, but you find it difficult to voice your confirmations. You’re cold, it’s nighttime—how is it night already? The stars dot the sky with bright flickers and you try to stand, but your feet feel like heavy weights, a thrumming prick of needles rushes through them when you try to put pressure on them.

Why does it feel like he is always seeing you at your worst?

Sick. Injured. Hurting.

You would rather fall into the crater, he must think you a burden on—

“You’re trembling,” his voice is louder than the brushing wind, louder in your ear than the sway of branches and rustling of leaves. “How have you found yourself here? In the darkness of night, alone and so far from the city?”

He sounds different, urgent and more pointed—as if a front has been reached through, a hand through fog holding your arms as he steadies you against him. Morax’s body is warm. “You… it was you, I was following you,”you finally manage. But when did you start chasing him? You don’t remember starting a journey.

“Me?” he hesitates for only a beat of your erratic heart. “Are you certain?” Morax reins in his urgent tone, carefully choosing his words. “Word was sent to me that you had disappeared from your bed, it has been two days—do you know where you are?”

“No,” it’s an easy question to answer, despite it being so difficult to think of what had just happened mere hours ago, days ago—a week ago. Your tense of time is ruffled, what had been the last thing you had been doing? Were you asleep before or after finishing the book Guizhong had left you?

“The energies in your arm have spread again,” he moves—tugging your rather limp body along with him as he kneels on the soft ground. You feel the tickle of grass on your calves and realise you’re still wearing the short pants and shirt you were put in and made to use by the medical ward. Morax tilts you towards him as he unfurls the bandage on your arm, your side and right arm rest against his chest and torso, your head falling rather lamely against his shoulder—it’s a strangely intimate position that neither of you consider given the circumstance, it doesn’t feel intimate, it only serves the purpose of not having you fall over while his hands are occupied.

The ink that had been sealing the miasma below your elbow was smudged—this type of ink doesn’t smudge for this specific reason. Blackened veins travel up your arm, so stark against your skin that they might as well be drawn on. They rise up your bicep and fade just below your neck. Morax’s eyes are focused and firm as he turns your throbbing arm palm up to examine it further. “The seal has been torn,” his fingers ghost over the blackened veins on your arm, you’ve only felt his gloved hands before, you wonder if his fingers are softer than the texture of his clothes. “You said you were following me.”

You were… or, you thought so. “It looked like you,” you say it more so to yourself than him.

“Did you see its face?” he asks as he wraps your arm again, your skin is ice cold to the touch—the weather has cooled as summer is coming to an end, and with the Guili Assembly’s elevated land, it gets colder faster.

“No,” you mumble, shoulders raised as a cool breeze brushes past your neck, raising shivers on your skin.

Morax doesn’t ask further questions, but it doesn’t leave his mind either. He believes what you say, what you saw… real or not, it only serves to drive his concern for your well-being, physical and mental.

His hand raises, and you feel something touch your head. You squint your eyes open—you didn’t even realise you had closed them—and tilt your head to look at his face. Morax’s face is so close you can feel the warm brush of his breath on your cold chin, it blooms over the bottom half of your face. “What are you doing…?”

His fingers halt and lift from your head, Morax blinks down at you. “I… heard it is a sign of comfort.”

He was patting your head, trying to comfort you—it was… rather cute, that he tried even while struggling to grasp whether it would be appreciated or not. “Oh… thank you, it’s okay,” your torso doesn’t feel as cold anymore. Morax seems to take your waiting eyes as permission, and his palm rests on your head again, carefully. He doesn’t stroke or scratch like one would do with a pet or animal, his palm and fingers lift slightly and touch back down a few times.

You never thought you would be petted like this by a god, had you told yourself a few months ago, you would have found it funny—silly maybe. But… now that his warm hand touches your head gently, you find that it is comforting.

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