#all these side quests are haunting me...yes this name sounds familiar no I do not know from when or where | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lettrespromises · 4 years ago

Text

╰┄───➤ LettresPromises informs you : you have one notification. ❜

╰┄───➤ Letter object : The heart speaks freely on birthdays.

╰─➤ Trafalgar D. Water Law sent you a letter, would you like to read it? ❜

Letter object : ❝Law dreads his birthday, another regular day on the calendar according to him— but this year, you’re here with him, and you teach him that the hearts speaks freely on birthdays.❞

Author’s letter : ❝dear reader,

law lives rent free in my head and he will keep on doing so for the rest of his life, as he should!! happy late birthday to my favorite character in one piece, he deserves all the love in the world. sealed with a kiss, nikki.❞

Genre : Fluff. Warnings : Cursing. Word count : 1.6K

It was a miracle in itself that you had managed to convince Law to grant himself a bit of slumber, but don’t miracles belong to the world of fiction? Judging by how Law had woken up at the glorious hour of six in the morning to finish the work languishing on his desk and answer the hushed demands of his pen calling his name and begging to be used to spill more ink on his documents... Miracles indeed belonged to the world of fiction. He was, in a way, both the literal epitome and oxymoron of a doctor— the amount of healthy hours of slumber in his body was close to none, the amount of anxiety coursing through his veins was brushing the limits of sanity. He wrote the prescriptions as a doctor for his crew, but never did he once bother to take the own medical advice he gave to his subordinates… Ah! Acerbic poetry.

The harsh grip of his fingertips, which had already turnt white, over the edge of the mattress was a physical testimony that he was letting the guilt coloring his deeds a spectrum of all the colors associated to self-denial. Law couldn’t gather the strength to lay his silver orbs upon your frame, after all, he was blinded by culpability.

He knew that, he knew because this thought kept haunting his mind and kept taunting him. Each time his lids shut close, he could picture the outline of your face and the plea in your eyes. Then, when silence settled in his earbuds until it became deafening, Law swore he could hear you say « Please, Law, tomorrow’s your birthday— I know you’ve forgotten about it, but I haven’t. So please take care of yourself, just this one time, for me, please? » And the nuances of care embedded in your every word. And just like that you filled all of his senses, yes, all of them— even the touch.

« Don’t tell me you’re already up at this ungodly hour, Law. » your words crashed against the skin of his back in a whisper.

He was tormented, hesitating whether or not he should respond.

« I know, I know you don’t care much about your birthday. But just take this day to yourself, make it an exception. » your arms snaked around Law’s waist to metaphorically use his back as a human pillow, slumber enveloping your movements. « C’mon, doctor, you should know about slumber and everything. » you said, a yawn breaking suddenly the rhythm of your sentence.

It seemed like each one of your lingering touches couldn’t make things more soothing to him, and thus he gave in to the sweet temptations and promises orchestrated by the pacifying sound of your voice. « It looks like you have won this time, Y/N-ya. » this time only, his gaze landed on your half-asleep form and he secretly cursed himself for not having given in to his temptations earlier on.

He untied the grasp you held around his waist with the delicateness worthy of the touch of an angel, Law turnt around, every so slowly not to disrupt your journey to Morpheus’ arms and cradled your cranium filled with tonight’s dreams and set it on your pillow. Of course, your pillow was only a temporary placement, you slept much better on his chest anyway, when the rhythm of his heartbeat would synchronize with yours. Ever so naturally, and eagerness influencing his movements, Law shifted in your shared bed to lay by your side. Once he was settled under the warmth emanating off of your blanket, he allowed himself to grant your silent wish and place your head above his chest whilst the tips of his genetically given thin digits brushed the strands of hair caressing your forehead. He was bound to join Morpheus’ arms soon too, but not without voicing a confession first :

« You always seem to find a way to win, don’t you, doll? I might have to be stricter on you, I can’t have that stain my reputation as the captain. » Law hushed a snicker threatening to pierce the defense of his mouth and bowed his lips into a grin instead, « but who am I to refuse your love when it’s all I crave? Tell me, Y/N-ya, because I can’t seem to find the answer. » he kissed these words into your skin, just a way to imprint these words with the crimson color of his sentimental ink.

Law shut his lids close, and took the same path as yours to join you within the hold of Morpheus, your perfume accompanied him on his journey which never made him feel alone.

And what a surprise it was when he saw that your body was missing from your shared bed once he had woken up, or rather, once his body had absorbed a tolerable amount of slumber. The absence of your lingering smell in the air, the lack of the familiar warmth emanating from your body (and although Law despised how warm you could get at nights, he did miss this), where were you? His facial features bent under the panic, his orbs scanned the room for a hint of your presence somewhere on the submarine, somewhere, anywhere.

The crave to find you fueled his deeds and the urgency to find you was surely more important than putting a shirt on, he couldn’t, he had to— Law blamed this on having overslept, surely, if he had woken up earlier (and before you), these stirring thoughts would have never crossed his mind, not even once, and even hearing you drown his ear with complains would have been a much sweeter feeling than the burning sensation of his heartbeats adopting the pattern of a crescendo.

And thus the quest began— Law looked in his office but failed to see your frame, the bathroom, perhaps? Another defeat. Somehow, the mechanic room? Wrong guess.—

« Ahh, fuck! How was I supposed to know this was still going to be burning hot? It burns like hell! » Now, now, how Law was not supposed to hear your plea of pain? Thoughts took control over his body and he wasted no time going to the source of the sounds, and, of course, you were in the kitchen. It seemed like such an evident answer, and he cursed himself yet again for not having thought of this earlier.

And there you were, in all your glory, blowing air on your reddened thumb, already guessing that you were bound to consider this burn as a medal. He couldn’t help but allow his lips to bow into a grin which shone by its genuineness : « I think I heard someone in distress, what a shame, where’s the doctor? » Law trailed off as he was reducing the space between the two of you, and soon enough— your martyr of a finger was held like the finest of china between the expertise of Law’s digits, a martyr which was soon soothed by a kiss planted by the man himself, « Oh, correct. I believe I’m the doctor here. So… Are you feeling any better? » He wondered, the smirk on his face emphasized the loving mockery lacing his words.

« Did I really deserve to burn my finger after having baked this birthday cake for you? Talk about unthankful karma! Maybe I shouldn’t have baked you this cake in the first place. » You suggested, adopting the same faux mockery tone Law had previously been using.

« You stand correct, Y/N-ya, you should have stayed in bed with me. » He begun, planting a peck on your forehead, an old habit which never faded away, « but did I really deserve someone like you in my life? I believe my karma is pretty wonderful, if I dare to say. » he mocked, but genuine adoration underlined his words, a tone only you could catch. « Will you join me in bed? It gives us an excuse to let the cake cool down for a bit, don’t you think? »

« Mhm, sounds like a plan to me, I just have one thing left to do before that. » You said, already grinning at the shenanigans taking form in your head, begging to become reality.

« What’s th- Hmph! » And there, in this very instant, your thoughts had become reality. Your lips crashed on his as your forelimbs circled his neck to invite him to deepen the kiss. And, once more, who was Law to refuse such thing coming from you? His own tattooed arms found shelter on your hips until vacuity throned between your two bodies, and thus began the marriage of your lips pushing one against the other in an union of sentiments which exploded in a myriad of smaller pecks delivered all over the flesh of his face.

« Happy birthday, Law! I love you so, so very much even if you’re grumpy all the time and never smile, you’re still handsome! » You said, a peck interrupted each part of your sentence.

And just like that, the melody of Law’s half-hushed laughter connected with your eardrums, just enough for you to hear, as per usual. Law allowed his forearms to settle on your shoulders whilst his cranium was placed upon yours, giving him a perfect platform to secretly voice his silenced thoughts : « I love you too, Y/N-ya, more than you will ever know. » It was a voiced confession, it was secret, just enough for you to hear, as always.

#law x reader #trafalgar law x reader #one piece x reader #trafalgar law #law trafalgar x reader #law one piece #one piece

101 notes · View notes

secrets-and-aetherlight · 4 years ago

Text

Of Brambles and Visions

Yves has always had a peculiar fondness for the bramble patch that covers much of the eastern reaches of the Black Shroud. Something about that sprawling tangle of oversized thorns speaks to the predator in him. Many dangers lurk in these bladed shadows, but he rests himself before a humble campfire, content in the knowledge that he is the most dangerous among them.

It’s a clear night. Stars peer through the crevices in the patchwork of thorns overhead. It’s an ideal night to camp in the open air.

Or it would be, with fewer interruptions. The wind is still, which means that the rustling he can hear in the underbrush nearby must be the sound of an approaching creature. He wonders absently if it’s another bandit intent on ambushing him. The last was enjoyable, but he has had enough terror and blood to sate him for one night.

A small figure weaves its way nimbly between thorns the size of falchions. As it approaches the campfire, its outline becomes clearer. It’s a Miqo’te. Hardly a surprising sight in the Shroud, especially at night. But then her violet eyes come into view. Her pupils are narrow, better suited to daylight than to the darkness. A Seeker of the Sun. And a familiar one, at that.

When she finally stands before his campfire, he rises. Not to attack or to defend, but to acknowledge the presence of someone with whom he has history.

A longer history than even she knows.

“J’aeda,” he murmurs, “what an unexpected pleasure.”

The Seeker gives a derisive snort. She folds her arms across her chest and eyes him skeptically. “Is it? I seem to recall that the last time we met, you called me an ill omen.”

Her talent of looking down her nose at him when she is little more than half his height has always fascinated him. Even as a child, her mastery of the withering look was already flawless. Perhaps a healthy dose of disdain toward those outside of one’s tight-knit community can be counted among the essential accomplishments of a young refugee.

“I believe when last we met, I was still a touch disgruntled that you had foretold a Calamity and failed to mention that it would rain down fire on my head, specifically,” he explains dryly.

“My visions are hardly that clear-cut.”

She settles herself on the ground before his campfire and loosens the ties to the large knapsack strapped to her back. Making herself comfortable without invitation, Yves notes with mild amusement. Fearless as ever. He would have it no other way. He lost the right to object to any liberties she chose to take with him years ago.

Yves resumes his seat on the opposite side of the fire and regards her curiously. “I was under the impression you were still in Gyr Abania.”

“My work with the resistance has come to its natural conclusion.”

“Why not stay? Ala Ghiri is your home, is it not?”

The looks she gives him this time is not precisely withering, but it is chiding. “That’s where I was born. You know very well I didn’t grow up there. The concept of ‘home’ has never really meant much to me. I go where I’m meant to be. Where my dreams lead me.”

“And they have led you here, to me?” Yves says, his tone mocking. “They must be more akin to nightmares.”

J’aeda is in the act of searching through her knapsack for something, but at these words, she stills. Perhaps he has come a little too close to the truth for comfort. But whether she has come to utter dire prophecies about his future, or whether he haunts her nightmares for reasons related to their shared past, is difficult to judge.

Her next words do little to enlighten him. “Just so.”

She rummages around in her knapsack for a few more seconds, and then she withdraws a tin which, once opened, is revealed to contain some sort of jerky.

“I assume you’ve already fed, judging by the corpse I passed on my way here,” she comments, selecting a strip of jerky.

He doesn’t bother to confirm or deny it.

J’aeda chews on one end of her jerky for a few moments in silence.Then, perhaps catching a hint of uncertainty in his expression, she says, “Relax, Yves. You’re a mere stepping stone for me this time. My dreams only made two things perfectly clear in regards to you. First, that you hold the key to the riddle I’ve been dreaming for several moons, and second, that you’ve finally finished your quest.”

“My quest?”

The look that she gives him suggests he’s being obtuse.”Your wife’s killer?”

“You dreamt about that?”

“It was tangential to another dream, but yes.” She pauses to take another bite of her jerky. “I’m glad you finally got your revenge.”

Yves finds himself with nothing to say in reply. The subject of his late wife and her murder is fraught, and not merely due to his grief and rage at having lost her too young. It was in the pursuit of his revenge that he first encountered J’aeda, and nothing about that meeting, or the fortnight that followed, was pleasant for her. No doubt the memories of his abuses as he attempted to drag information out of her 12-year-old self are still vivid in her mind. And yet she has the grace to congratulate him on his belated victory.

Oppressed by he knowledge of his own sins, he cannot even bring himself to thank her.

“Fate wasn’t kind to you, was it?” she continues, clearly not expecting an answer. “I finally saw his face in my dreams. I know his name. And it’s too late to be of use to you. But that’s the trouble with the Sight. It has a time table of its own. I rarely get the information I want when I want it.”

“Even with an angry old man poking at you with magic,” he mutters.

She hesitates momentarily before answering. “Especially then. Visions don’t like to be forced. At least... mine typically don’t. At best, I can ask my soul a question before I go to sleep. Burn incense, draw a circle of runes to sleep in. Sometimes that will work. But chances are I’ll get an answer to an entirely different question instead. Often one I never even knew to ask. If there’s an art to this process, I have yet to learn it.”

Again, he’s not sure quite how to answer. A belated apology for his treatment of her all those years ago would be in order, but that’s not really his way. The words ‘I am sorry’ have never sprung readily to his lips. But he has been acquainted with J’aeda for 18 years now. Surely she knows. Surely there is no need to speak the words aloud.

“Anyroad,” she says a moment later, coming to his rescue by changing the subject, “That wasn’t my main reason for seeking you out.”

Ah, right. “You said I hold the key to a riddle.”

J’aeda nods, selecting another piece of jerky from her tin. “It’s not actually a riddle per se, but a vision that I want you to interpret.”

Yves lifts a brow at her, intrigued. “What makes you think I can interpret it?”

“You’re in it, for one.”

“How worrisome.” His tone is flippant, but he is not entirely at ease with the knowledge that he featured in one of J’aeda’s dreams. Given that some of her dreams involve Calamities and other disasters, it’s not necessarily a good sign.

“Just listen,” she says, but then she takes a bite of jerky before immediately launching into her description of her dream. He waits patiently for her to finish chewing, knowing that this hint of passive aggression on her part is deserved.

“So,” she finally continues, “in my dream I saw a house by the sea. The rafters of the house were on fire, but instead of swallowing up the house, the fire was losing ground. It was flickering like a candle in a windstorm, threatening to blow out. Meanwhile, dark waters surrounded the house, flooding the basement and gradually rising.”

“How dark were these waters?” he asks.

“Black. Like pitch, or--”

“Ink?”

She looks at him oddly.

“Do please continue,” he says smoothly. “Where was I in this vision?”

“Standing on a hill nearby, watching.”

“Just watching.”

“Yes. As though you were interested in the outcome, but not enough to interfere.”

“That seems callous of me,” Yves comments, recalling Michaux’s words during their midnight meeting in the Coerthan snow.

You left them behind... You abandoned everyone!

Yes he did. And he would again.

J’aeda is gazing thoughtfully at him, as if trying to puzzle out what he’s thinking. “I suspect you know what house I’m talking about. Perhaps you’ve even been there, but at the very least, I think you’ve heard about it, haven’t you?”

“Hmm.” Yves tilts his head as he meets her stare. Yes, it seems fairly clear which house, and which organization, her vision pertains to. Whether he feels like sharing that information is another matter. “A house by the sea, you said? Why are you so curious about it?”

“Presumably because I’m meant to go there,” she says, shrugging. “I follow where my dreams lead. That has been my rule since I was still in my teens. You know that.”

“I know that, yes,” he agrees calmly, “and I am also aware that those dreams have led you into danger more than once.”

“Yes. And out of danger, too.”

“But why would you wish to go to a house that is simultaneously flooded and on fire? One could argue that it is already a lost cause.”

J’aeda shoots him an impatient look. “I’m assuming the dream isn’t literal.”

“Literal enough,” he mutters.

“Then explain,” she demands, gesturing with her half-eaten strip of jerky for emphasis. “You seem to know even more about this situation than I expected. You’re not just a disinterested observer, even if that does seem to be your preferred role. You’re invested. So what do the fire and water signify? Why do you think the house from my vision is a lost cause?”

Yves lets out a soft huff of annoyance. He doesn’t want this. Not for J’aeda. True, she’s no defenseless child anymore, and true, she has spent years working first with the Ala Mhigan resistance and then, presumably, helping with the ongoing war effort in Gyr Abania. And even before she slipped behind enemy lines, she wasn’t exactly leading a safe existence. But this is a different kind of war. J’aeda is used to fighting an enemy that views her as a savage, but considering her gifts, the Ink and Flame are likely to view her as something more: a desirable recruit.

But whether he helps her or not, J’aeda will inevitably find what she’s looking for. If he truly cares about her, he’ll give her all the information she needs to navigate this treacherous sea of Ink and Flame safely.

And so he does.

He explains the Ink and Flame in as much detail as he can, and even briefly outlines his own experience with the former. He describes the major players in each faction. He tells her about Priarch and the Covenant of Ash, not neglecting to heap disparagement upon the former. He explains why, in her vision, the flames appeared to be losing ground while the inky waters continued to rise. He even tells her about the disastrous masquerade in Ishgard.

He doesn’t mention the conflict within his own mind and heart. He doesn’t tell her that he has begun to feel the call of the Ink like an ache in his bones. But judging by the shrewd look she gives him, she’s a touch suspicious.

When he concludes his explanation, J’aeda takes some time to mull it over. Then she murmurs, “So... Priarch is the house divided. A literal house by the sea, inhabited by Ink and Flame. I’m not used to my dreams being quite that easy to dissect.”

“It might not be that easy,” he suggests. “Perhaps you are not actually meant to go to that house. You could join me on my hill instead.”

She smiles, amused, but shakes her head. “You seem to hate Priarch, and yet it sounds like there are several people you care about who are already involved in it. Watch from your hill if you prefer, but I’m not interested in being a mere observer.”

“And yet, do you even know what you will do when you get there?”

“Offer my services as a healer, naturally.” She smiles grimly. “One thing I have learned in my travels is that healing talents will always be relevant. That is as true in times of peace as in war.”

True. Presented with a competent healer with wartime experience who is neither infected nor tempered, Secariot would have to be a fool to not recruit her. Yves sighs. As useful as it would be to have another contact in Priarch, he is still reluctant to see her installed there. Perhaps he is not merely worried for her safety, though. Perhaps he feels that a seer of her caliber is much too valuable an asset for the likes of Priarch. Perhaps he thinks Covenant deserves her more. Or it is even possible that he prefers to keep her as his own personal secret.

But that is not his decision to make. It’s not his place to interfere with J’aeda’s choices. He learned that lesson the hard way 18 years ago.

“Well then,” he replies, returning her smile. “I suppose all I can do is to wish you safe travels. May Azeyma and Nymeia guide you.”

She will need all the help that the gods are willing to grant her.

#ffxiv #ffxiv rp #crystal rp #balmung #mateus #elezen #duskwight #miqo'te #seeker of the sun #yves severin #j'aeda rhenli #writings #ffxiv screenshots

16 notes · View notes

lothirielswanwarcraft · 5 years ago

Text

“My Secret Is Cucumbers” [25] (KHADGAR NIGHTMARE)

Join the journey on AO3!

Quest Objective: Learn how to ride a Gryphon.

~Khadgar, Outland~

“I'm going to do it.”

“Hmph. You’ve said that for years.”

“I mean it this time,” Turalyon pressed across the table. The ashen walls of Shattrath City surrounded us with the mute sounds of refugees. It was a solemn and hopeful place. I couldn't recall why we were here, but it felt right.

“I'm going to ask Alleria to marry me.”

“You’re serious?” My eyebrow teetered with disbelief.

Lyon snorted and stood from the table. His blond hair glittered like the light of the naaru that gleamed up in a fantastic spiral towards the sky. “Watch me.”

“The floor is yours, ringmaster.”

Alleria strode to our abode. Despite her slender form, she was the most intimidating of our party. Blue tattoos marked her face. Regal demeanour. The hard stare of the hunter. She had an eternal youth about her, but something seemed amiss. There was more...light. A flicker in her eyes. I felt like they hadn't appeared that way in years.

“My lady,” Lyon gathered her hands and placed light kisses on them. I tried to ignore how uncomfortable the gesture made the atmosphere. “I would like to ask for a moment of your time.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“To ask you to share every moment after.” Lyon tossed me a wink. My eyes widened with Alleria’s as he kneeled before his sun, his immortal deity that he worshipped every passing day.

“I’ve loved you for a while now…” For some reason, I couldn't remember how long exactly. Lyon continued, “and I will continue to love you for the rest of my life.”

“You’re proposing?” Alleria cut him off. It shocked me how nothing could rattle her.

“Erm...yes.” Turalyon hissed out the last word, caught off guard.

Alleria blinked. Then a small smirk spread across her pale pink lips, “Took you long enough. I swore I would have to ask.”

Lyon glanced at me, as if asking me what to do with his gaze. I shrugged, “They say time makes the heart yearn.”

“Right,” Turalyon looked back up into Alleria’s stunning orbs for eyes. “What he said.”

“And we already share a child, Lyon.”

“Uh...Khadgar…”

“Even after raising a child together, you still love her. That is an impressive accomplishment. Put that in the win column.”

Alleria chuckled, squeezing his hands. “Yes. My answer is yes.”

Turalyon leapt to his feet and punched the air with a wide grin on his face. “Yes!”

The two embraced and shared a loving kiss.

~Stormwind, Cathedral of Light~

Lilies sprouted at the end of every pew. I stood behind Turalyon, underneath the massive arch of blooming blossoms. Prophet Velen hummed under his breath as trumpets sounded.

Lyon leaned backwards towards me, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “This is the best day of my life.”

I beamed at him. “You deserve happiness, my friend.”

He laughed quietly. “Thank you, my friend.”

Arator stood at my side, casting a look out at the many eager faces. The double doors at the end of the hall of light creaked open.

Alleria did not wear white lace or layers of silk. Her armor gleamed like a thousand shimmering crystals. A longer cloak trailed after Alleria, and wildflowers entwined through her hair and leather garb.

I looked over at Turalyon. He had the face of someone gazing out at a breathtaking sunset, the kind that brought tears to the eyes that life could be so beautiful. Turalyon wore that expression, and so did the woman walking down the aisle.

They exchanged short yet heartfelt vows (I ended up writing both of them) before sharing a kiss, and the cathedral rose with applause. Pink petals fell from the ceiling like freshly fallen snow.

The reception was to take place outside, near the edge of Elwynn Forest. There weren't many traditional qualities to the wedding, but nothing about Alleria and Turalyon’s relationship was traditional.

I sat at one of the many round tables with white skirts, sipping wine idly as I stared at the happy couple.

“Khadgar? Is that really you, after all these years?”

What in the Light’s name—? The familiar voice made my head snap up—but not too far.

Eona’s mother, Zeldormu, stood before me.

She didn't stand too far from the ground; her half-orc, half-dwarven form was short and muscled. Everything looked the same: the dark hair with crimson tips, the tiny tusks poking out at her lips…

Zelda smiled. That smile...I hadn't seen it in...I couldn't remember how long. But I knew it was a while. I hadn't seen her this jubilant since...what was his name? He was very important, very clever…

“You haven't aged a day,” Zelda teased and took the chair next to mine.

“My secret is cucumbers—don’t tell anyone,” I raised a mock finger to my lips.

Zelda laughed. I felt like I hadn't heard it in years. “I’ve really missed you, Khadgar.”

“And I you, Zelda.” I bowed my head. I had missed Zelda. I missed her strength, her unbreakable will—we had been through much together, but I couldn't recall any of it at the moment. Something to do with the Betrayer…I heard whispers…

‘I'm stuck here, on this new planet I don't even know, pregnant. This is not where I was supposed to be in my life right now.’

‘I suppose we’re both stuck in our lives, in places we aren't supposed to be.’

Zelda had always felt like an equal. There had always been an unique understanding between us, uncommon to every other friendship I had. Nothing compared to Zelda.

“It's been so long—it’s good to see you.” The emotion made my words thick. “It really is. How are you? You look so…”

“Happy?” She guessed. She laughed again. “It's the strangest thing. I never thought I would be after everything...but I am. Thrall sends his regards—his children are lovely. I had a drink with Arthas on my journey here, I never thought I’d say this, but...he might actually be pulling off this king-thing. Jaina’s a good match for him.”

“And him?”

“Who? Oh…” Zelda glanced down. “You mean…”

“Yes.”

Her lips curved up. “He's perfect.”

Warmth seeped through my chest at her joy. Zelda was completely content. For one brief moment, there seemed to be justice in the world. Everything was—

“Khadgar! Come meet this young man, I think you’ll like him.”

My fingers clutched the stem of my wine glass as I stood from my seat. I looked over at Turalyon, “Who is it—?”

I stopped short. All of the breath in my lungs emptied, like it had been knocked out of me in battle. Turyalon’s hand clapped the shoulder of a thin man draped in simple robes. His hair was dark, like the feathers of a raven. His skin was marble, polished and gleaming with youth. His blue eyes were familiar.

Because I saw them every single time I looked in a mirror.

“This youth is a mage,” Turalyon introduced him, shaking his entire body as he patted his thin shoulder.

“There will be no introductions.” The dark-haired mage said. His voice was not commanding. It was soft yet sure. “We’ve met before.”

The dark-haired mage left Turalyon’s side. He walked towards me. He made no sound as he moved across the grass, silent as a snake.

“We met long ago, when memories were young and dreams were big and grand.” The dark-haired mage declared.

A shriek cut the silence of the forest. A flash of black flew before my eyes. Startled, I looked down at my feet. The raven’s feathers were sleek and shiny with its own blood. The body was twisted and mangled, broken beyond compare.

When I looked up, the dark-haired mage stood before me.

“Yes. We have met before.”

The forest had disappeared. The air was chilly and electric with arcane. The wind tugged at my robes.

We were atop the tower of Karazhan.

“Do you honestly think you fit in with that world? Weddings, smiles, joy.” The dark-haired mage spat the merry words.

Wind shrieked in my ears like a wailing child. My lips had pursed into grim line. “I know who you are.”

“The past. Regret. What you could have had, all of the opportunities. They’re gone now.” His eyes glowed blue.

“There is knowledge—” I began.

“That is all you have now. Books. Little fantasies to drown out the truth, to make it hurt less,” The mage’s breath hissed as he drew closer. “They mock you. They let you escape your mind, but not your body.”

I started to retreat as he advanced. My boots scraped against the dark stone as I moved backwards.

I was suddenly more aware of the wind. How strong it was—or how incredibly weak I was. The wind was like time, and I was at its mercy. Would there ever be true justice? When would the blizzards cease, and breathe a soft summer breeze?

The wind tousled through Young Khadgar’s hair. “Enjoy the books. There is no happy ending.”

His wrinkle-less hands rose and a beam of arcane shot out. Pain erupted in my chest. I stumbled backward—

And my foot jerked in the open air.

I screamed as I toppled off the side of Karazhan, like a raven with broken wings.

The wind burned as I fell. It tugged and pulled with invisible claws as I kept falling, falling, falling…

“Haunted by the past, tormented by it's empty promises. Khadgar, the most powerful, and the most powerless.” A blood-curdling voice entered my mind.

“I will set you free. Release me, and I release you from the harshness of reality.”

I knew that voice. Yes! Sael’orn! It felt like ages ago since our scuffle in Dalaran. Was all of this her…?

I can't set her free. Then everyone else is tortured by their reality.

Silently, I fell, fell, fell…

#the feels #World of Warcraft #thrilling adventures of eona #khadgar #turalyon #alleria windrunner

5 notes · View notes

tartareus · 5 years ago

Text

CAOS MUSES CANON DIVERGENCE; not unlike many here, i too found the third act of sabrina’s adventures a bit…lacking, to say the least. bad writing got me more and throwing character development to the bin made me finally decide that i am not going to accept most of what happened as true - i will, however try to keep the changes to mininal as a say to make canon complying muses’ interactions with mine run smoothly.

for starters: my edward, salem and my della are primarily based on the comics (the chilling adventures of sabrina and sabrina the teenage witch) + my own head canons, therefore do expect their nature to be a bit darker\different than the show presents them. with that in mind…

edward did not die - he was in a circle of hell trapped inside a tree. once lucifer’s power over hell waned, the prision that kept the warlock there started to weaken and, thus, eventually he got out, finally free… only to find himself in…

queen lilith’s hell - yes, i am not going for that idea of lilith not being their queen, more than anyone else she does deserve the title, she worked for it and there is no point to not make all the effort during pt1 and 2 to go without a reward; for that to happen, though, i still accept the plot that sabrina went after nick, but instead of just taking satan back to earth…

edward becomes the morningstar’s host - besides being more than capable of taking him, edward is a known, talented, conjurer, had a somewhat deal or even relationship with empusa (a shape shifting demon), he knows how demons work. he knows what to expect and, other than that, he knows the boy will struggle. he won’t. although his very own existence is kept a secret from sabrina, in a similar fashion of b.ckwood, instead of struggling for dominance, edward will try and strike a bargain with lucifer (unknown to anyone else), if only to be sure that everything goes along with his own secret agenda…

he still helps zelda, though - as he is in hell and is not dead but trapped there, he makes use of some of lucifer’s powers to cross the veil and go for their aid.

della still remains a head witch - that is, still works for the council in rome, but with a slighly different twist. she herself is a hedgewitch. i’ve thought about this, and what it would mean for her character (originally in the sttw comics as sabrina’s mentor and the one that tried to guide her to the path of night, and them also as the queen of sabbath in the tcaos comics) and it seems that it just might fit her character altogether. hedgewitches are, after all, very old, powerful, lone witches who are but a few - which was what i was going for her originally. with that in mind, i have come to an hc that

della has her own very unique abilities - much like gryla, sycorax, and pesta, della possesses her own abilities as her own deal was slightly different. instead of having an aggressive ability like pesta and sycorax, she has a spiritual one - although not too similar from gryla’s ability to gather the spirits of her lads - that is very subtle: she can walk through the veil between the living and the dead, roaming in the in between without the fear of never returning (unless, of course, it is her time). that means that in her astral projections the psychopomps do not acknowledge her presence at all, one of the reasons she was hired by the council.

her age is hard to determinate - she is clearly younger than the members of the council, but way older than the spellmans. to maintain her youth and looks, and not require a powerful glamour that would make her tired and weak if she kept holding for years, della consumes babies, mostly mortal orphans, in order to survive. that ritual is only required after some centuries (if it is a witch baby) or after the lifetime that mortal would’ve had. for that, it is needless to say that…

her relationship with gryla is of mutual hate and disdain - for the two of them are rivals in their quest for younger souls. although gryla herself has no choice but pick orphans, della prefers them because it usually avoids the whole ordeal of stealing a child. imagine how complicated it must’ve gotten when she answered the distress call from the coven in greendale…

although she is part of not coven, per se, della goes to their aid - or rather, is summoned against her own will, but she’s never going to admit that. particularly taking great joy at hunting the pagans, chasing them off greendale in the timeline that was fixed. in the broken timeline (aka the end of the world), not unlike ambrose (however using slightly shadier strategies) she managed to survive and remained hidden, safe in a witch’s cell in the vatican’s necropolis. sadly, she does end up going a little mad, but before she loses it all…

she manages to send ambrose some books that once belonged to the council - in hopes that these unholy scriptures, that had never been to the access of other witches and warlocks other than the scholars of rome, would help, hoping that he would be able to do what she had failed to: figure a way out of this mess.

salem is not a goblin but, in fact, a mortal curse by a witch he scorned centuries ago. cursed to become her familiar, after the witch he was forcibly bound to died during the salem trials the dark lord himself appeared before him, telling him that he would only lift the curse if he sold his soul to him - which he did, however what samuel (his mortal name) failed to realise was that he had not been specific as the date he should be free and, as such, the father of lies told him he would only be free once he had met, served and protected a white haired witch that was and was not daughter of night. it took centuries for him to find her, but when he saw sabrina he knew inside his old bones that it was her.

he has come to terms to his current situation - he used to be a good christian, yes a bit reckless and an asshole with how he treated women, but he changed. it was a hard lesson he had to learn. as he learned to repent, he also learned to understand the nature of witches better. they reacted with what they had. as such, he started to grow fond of sabrina and her family, even her friends (although he does not fancy being treated like an ordinary house pet).

he never liked robin nor lilith (when she was pretending to be ms wardwell), hissing soundly at them as he deemed them a probably threat to his witch.

lucifer granted him a couple of gifts to endure his long life - magical abilities akin to a warlock’s (but never enough to turn himself into human again, at least not for a long while) and speech (although he spent such a long time silent that he wonders if his throat still can produce anything other than a felinesound), as well seven lives. he is currently on the begining of his last life.

in both timelines salem tries to protect the spellmans - in the broken timeline, salem is dead (with satan no longer on the throne to secure his powers, the cat, much like the witches he served, started to weaken), probably trying to find sabrina and failing miserably. in the fixed timeline, he stays with zelda and mambo, refusing to leave her side. as they escaped, salem found that a good way to distract them was by attacking blackwood with the last remnants of his strength, unaware that faustus beared the mark of cain. wounded, he hides behind vinegar tom, trusting that the protective magic surrounding zelda’s old familiar (which she insisted that was still alive, just his vessel dead), would keep them from fiding him. he eventually recovers his strength and rejoins the spellmans, but feels something off, as if there was something wrong with sabrina.

overall, my main pet peeve with this season was how poorly handled some archs were. as much as i love the new order of hecate (which btw sounds very pagan to me but okay), i wish they had kept the church of lilith and, as such i will accept both realities and place them in different timelines, especially for hilda.

i do hc that she still prays for her, away from zelda’s hearing of course, because when she was in the pit (unaware that they were praying for hecate) and in the in between when zelda and edward left, she prayed for her even though she is not the religious type, and came out of it alive. it was only after all that mess that she realised that maybe her prayers were in vain, but she didn’t mind at all.

i also hc that, after her spidey-incident she's been getting a bit uneasy near her own familiars (and they seem to notice that too, being slightly worried for her), she also decides to take a break from her relationship with cee; even though she loves him, and he proposed, she almost killed him ( and may or may not have tried to make him fertilize her eggs , unholy fuck that sentence shall haunt me for some good while) and that starts to make her realise that their relationship might be too dangerous for him, as a mortal. he already faced a witch hunter to protect her and now this? the last thing she wants is to cause him harm.

with mambo being around to look after zelda, hilda just might look for a place of her own, perhaps a little cottage in england as she so desires. it's not that she doesn't want to be part of the coven, or better the order, but even for her, non-religious and almost skeptical, bouncing off from deity to deity is not proving to be a good thing. besides, she's grown quite a backbone (about damn time) and she will no longer endure how she has been treated by her sister - i will elaborate further on the domestic abuse and the ptsd hilda suffers from being killed so many times and the mutual codependency of her relationship with her sister on a separate post, eventually

sometimes hilda puts a few drops of a soothing draught on zelda's food, because apparently if she asks for her sister to take a deep breath or watch her blood pressure it is a reason to receive a dark look. Sl instead of fretting and being pushed away, she just gets it done anyway. it is also comforting for her to know how easily she could kill zelda by putting something lethal on her food. whilst she does entertain herself with these thoughts, she knows she would never be able to kill her ow flesh and blood.

she raised ambrose almost mostly by herself, back when she lived in England. as her first child,she did spoil him rotten. Hilda never really thought of having kids herself, being demiromantic/demisexual she couldn't find it in herself to partake on the coven's festivities and enjoy lupercalia with a random witch or warlock, zelda was the baby crazy one, who had held sabrina almost possessively. she spoiled sabrina as well, perhaps due to Edward's recent death or because she knew how much her murders took their toll on her young niece, but not enough to "ruin" her as zelda always made sure.

although she could easily wear glamours to look more like the rest of her family (tall and slender), hilda learned with time to love herself, being more positive both inside and out.

#m; e. spellman \ hcs #m; della \ hcs #m; s. saberhagen \ hcs #m; h. spellman \ hcs #theres so much shit in this season that i dont even know where to start #its 5 am and i am sleep so dont mind if none of it makes sense ok

4 notes · View notes

komahinasecretexchange · 5 years ago

Text

Title: hiraeth

Author: @slickandsolangelic

For: @usernamefieldhere

Rating/Warnings: T (warning for existentialism and disassociation)

Prompt: Hinata dealing with the consequences of having Kamukura as a past self, au or canon

Author’s notes: I hope this is to your liking, and I hope it’s okay that the au I picked is dnd-esque fantasy! I had lots of fun with this, and I can only hope that you do, too ^^

The Isles of Jabberwock are oft a pleasant place to be in, their sand a fine gold that lets itself be swept away by the lapping currents from the crystalline blue ocean that surrounds them. Better yet is the sun there, bearing down on them with its golden rays, easing flowerings into bloom and saplings into growth. Hinata is very, very glad that they managed to rescue it from being leveled down by those ambitious bandits from the east.

An adventuring life was unpredictable at its core, but unusually gratifying after a job well done.

Which is to say, it feels really fucking good to beat up some bad guys and get money for it, but such a thought is embarrassingly self indulgent and thus will remain at the very back of Hinata’s mind, where it belongs.

Nanami looks up from the weapon she’s examining. It’s a medium sized spear with a silver tip. She seems to weigh it in her hands for a bit, before letting out a satisfied hum.

“Komaeda-kun, would this be good to use if you ever wear yourself out using your magic?”

“Oh, Nanami-san, that’s really kind of you to think of me,” Komaeda starts to say, looking up from the item he was examining, a small flute embroidered with bronze trimmings. “But I’ve never really been good with sharp things. And as I’m already worn out, I’m afraid I might just point it the wrong way and, as per chance’s design. Being impaled sounds like it’d be inconvenient for our party!”

“Yeah,” Hinata says solemnly, because he’s traveled with Komaeda long enough to know that this is entirely possible.

“Yeah,” Nanami says, and she puts the spear back.

“I like this,” Hinata says. He raises both his hands to show them them silk pouch nestled in his palms. “It’s magical, so you can put up to three hundred pounds of stuff in there.”

Komaeda is at his side then, gliding past the tables laden with strings and wooden instruments. His arm brushes Hinata’s when he reaches from the small card attached to the golden thread around the pouch’s hem.

“It’s also worth five hundred gold pieces,” Komaeda says.

“Oh,” Hinata says.

“Oh,” Nanami agrees.

“If Hinata-kun really wants it, I can-” but Hinata is already putting it back.

They wind up circling the aisles of items for a few more hours, the other two interjecting with commentary when one makes a suggestion. It’s more comfortable than anything, Hinata muses, surfing through their options with one another together like this. Battles where their competence and trust in one another made the difference between loss and success, between life and death; that’s something that’s undeniably special. Something that matters, in a way, and Hinata knows that, and he is grateful- but he much prefers the quieter moments like these, when all that matters in the moment is their group effort at bargaining with the shopkeepers, the sunset’s rays framing their silhouettes as they journeyed through the winding paths of towns they’d saved or served.

There’s something he’s come to appreciate about their regular time spent together as friends rather than adventuring companions. It’s more bothersome than jarring (in a way that makes Hinata feel equal measures irritated and fond) when Komaeda answers a yes or no question with a tangent which existentially questions the universe and when Nanami turns out to have been asleep with her eyes open for the past hour they were going over plans.

It’s nice, Hinata thinks. It’s just… nice, to have moments of quiet in between. Away from threats to their life during the day, and away from his night terrors when it grows darker.

The Isles don’t really have much to offer aside from scenery and impressive craftsmanship when it comes down to it. They have a good time crossing the bridges that lead up to the separate islands, though (it doesn’t take them that long to haul Komaeda out from the water when he falls off one), and the locals aren’t unpleasant folk to converse with.

The third island has a slightly less relaxing ambiance than the others. Of the six, it’s certainly the loudest and most vibrant of the bunch– Komaeda almost immediately identifies it as the art venue when they pass by a Bard-run tavern by the name of “Titty Typhoon”. It sounds like hell in there, but hell in fifty different types of musical instruments and also wildly out of tune.

“Well,” Komaeda says, looking cheerful. “They’re having fun.” His hands are clasped together, and his eyes are widened in something that’s either wonder or contemplation. Hinata’s learnt to recognize when Komaeda begins to form overly complex thoughts over things that really aren’t that deep, but he chooses not to intervene.

“Very loudly,” Hinata says.

“And out of tune,” Nanami adds, but she’s smiling.

“Everyone’s Bardic inspiration manifests in different forms.”

“Yeah, well, it also helps when it manages to inspire without being a Bardic pain in the ass.”

“Hinata-kun speaks very boldly! Well, I guess I can’t really blame you for not finding that kind of music to your fancy, not when your own bardic prowess is unique in a way that’s unrecognizable to most regular people such as myself.”

“That was months ago, holy shit-”

“The sweet melody still haunts my dreams.”

“You’re horrible.”

“You’re the most inspiring artist a commoner like me has ever had the pleasure of hearing.”

Hinata’s shoving him now, trying to stifle a smile behind the sleeves of his leather armour plating, and failing quite spectacularly.

“Asshole,” Hinata says, but there’s no bite to it. Komaeda gives him a smile that’s a different kind of unsettling, only because it makes his insides turn funny. It’s wide, but soft around the edges, and it makes his eyes crease ever so slightly. Then he looks away, and that’s that.

Hinata hasn’t slept in what feels like three fucking days.

In reality, it’s only been about two and a half- the other half he spent goofing around with Komaeda and Nanami in the Isles of Jabberwock, hooking up their party with new shit for the next challenge.

This is bad. With the map of the nearby continent spread out before him on the scratched and damaged inn table, he should be getting in the mood to mark their next exploit. It’s a pretty good map, even if the dim yellow glow emanating from their lamps doesn’t do its details much justice.The sharp strokes that form the peaks of mountains are unmistakable nearby the expertly woven lines of rivers and streams, cutting through grassy landscapes and flat wastelands. There are circles and lines which mark territories and label them, categorizing them as either off limits or safe to explore.

But with how tired he is, Hinata’s beginning to circle around the same thought over and over. In fact, is that a fucking city, or a firefly? Is that a firefly on his map? Hinata isn’t sure if what’s on his map is a firefly or a city. That circular dot of yellow– is it a firefly, or is it a city?

“You don’t look well,” says a familiar voice. The dot of yellow buzzes and leaps into the air and onto Hinata’s nose. He swings back suddenly in an effort to swat it with both his arms. The momentum drives his chair backwards.

The quiet tavern folk don’t care to stop their chatter when Hinata crashes to the ground with a sound thud, and so the warlock is left to stare at the ceiling with unblinking eyes and his palms cupped around his nose as the minuscule sphere rises and floats away. Nanami’s concerned face hovers above him.

Ah, so it was a firefly.

Their next quest is for a blond wizard hailing from an important family. Hinata thinks he’s kind of an asshole, but Hinata also thinks that five thousand gold is maybe a sufficient price to get a job done for an asshole. He wants them to retrieve this artifact called the “Eye of Fate”, something that apparently reflects a person’s psyche and innermost desires. This is worrisome considering the Asshole Status of the person they’re retrieving it for, but according to the client, the Eye of Fate is trapped within the body of a topaz crystal gollum, a probably slightly more dickish creature to bestow such a relic upon.

Nanami helps pick him up off the ground, but he needs to take a handful of moments to gather his bearings.

“You need to take care of yourself. We won’t be able to get anything done if you neglect your health.”

Hinata thinks this is rich coming from Nanami, who never seems to sleep and yet spends half of the time she’s awake in a state of trance that’s impossible to break her out of. He means to tell her this, but instead the words that come out are “Lord Togami is an asshole.”

“He’s not easy to work with,” Nanami agrees.

“He’s a big fucking asshole.”

“Okay,” Nanami says patiently, sitting him down on the chair.

“I hate rich people who offer lots of money for ridiculous quests.”

“Mhm.”

“Nanami, there was a firefly on my map.”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, there was.”

“It flew.”

“I think fireflies tend to do that.”

Hinata presses his face against the scratchy surface of the map. He traces a finger along the Mountain Range of the Dead, across the Red River, and straight through the continental tunnel into the cavernous entrance of the Cave of Wonders.

“Yeah,” Hinata mutters. “’S cause of their wings.”

“Sure is.” Nanami puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,”

“Yeah,” she says, and pets his hair gently. “Go to sleep.”

The journey is harsh, but not unbearable.

Through the rocky mountain range they pass, tearing down groups of chimaeras, hopping between camping sights near the valleys. Komaeda picks flowers by one of the crevices, and Hinata feels bad when they wither under his bare hands.

They stop just a clearing away from the bank of Red River for the night. The sun kisses the horizon and turns it a warm shade of purple that lulls Hinata to slumber.

He dreams.

Hinata’s by the Red River.

His pants are rolled up to his knees, and the sky above him is as dark as the waters he’s lowered his feet into.They lap at his skin, icy and unforgiving. He pushes closer to the river side, sinks his legs further in until his calves feel numb.

Below the surface of the water, something is stirring. Moving like a shadow through the already dark film that covers the waters, closer than he wants it to be.

A voice says, “Haven’t they told you that this river is red with the blood of the fallen?”

Hinata doesn’t respond. He watches the figure grow closer and closer, a monster baited to the surface. His legs form ripples in the water when he moves them to and fro. He watches the spray of droplets disrupt the dark surface, and tries to hum away the panic in his chest.

“…You’re not listening anymore.”

The darkness is coming. Hinata is not afraid. He’s not afraid. He’s not.

(He’s terrified. He can’t move anymore, can barely breathe. He is helpless in a way that makes him angry at himself, useless in a way that makes him regret its existence.)

“You’re going to have to. It’s irrational to think you can run away forever.” The voice is calm as it says this.

It is nowhere. It is everywhere. It’s the full moon that lights up the stars above his head, the ripples his legs have stopped making in the river, the all encompassing darkness that wants to eat him whole, devour him until nothing is left of his existence.

Hinata wakes up with a start. His hands aren’t quite steady. That is to say, he’s shaking bad.

Hinata steps outside for a moment. It’s dark out still, so he snaps his fingers and watches a small flame flicker to life in his lantern. Their tent’s still steady against the breezes coming from the north. (Nanami had done a good job hammering it in right, after all. She’s always been good with practical skills like these, even if her proficiency was healing). The leaves sway high above his head on their host of towering trees, though, and the wind’s whistle is unmistakable and sharp, cutting through the night.

Hinata shudders.The bite of the air is akin to the sting of frost at his knees in the dream.

A hand lands on his shoulder, and he nearly jumps a foot into the air.

“Hinata-kun?”

Oh. It’s Komaeda. Hinata tries to be subtle about the breath of relief that leaves him, but he’s sure he failed. Whatever. God, whatever.

Komaeda retracts his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says with the kind of sincerity only he seems to be capable of. “I called for you before, but you seemed preoccupied.”

“…Ah, yeah.” Hinata tries to go for a smile, but it slips off his face at astronomical velocity. He’s exhausted, tired in a way that makes his bones ache and his heart stutter at every step. “It’s just that…” For a few long moments, he contemplates his next words, painfully aware of the tentative silence between them. Komaeda doesn’t break it, and even though Hinata’s looking away, he can feel the weight of Komaeda’s gaze pressing into the back of his head, sharper than the wind that pierces through the thicket of trees surrounding their campgrounds.

Hinata says, “You’re a bard, right?” Of course Komaeda is, that’s out of the question. When Hinata whips around, he sees the look of tempered confusion Komaeda is giving him. His head is tipped sideways, and his gray eyes blink at Hinata questioningly.

“By the standard definition, I am,” Komaeda says. “Perhaps not entirely deserving of the title, but that is the most conventional term to reference what I do.”

“…Right,” Hinata says. He tries to swallow back the lump that forms in his throat, and finds he can’t do it, just as he can’t quite bring himself to dispel the anxiety eating away at the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, I know. You’re a good bard, Komaeda, we’ve had this talk.”

“And you’re changing the subject, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda responds quietly. He’s still looking at him with those intent eyes. Fuck. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Silence. And then a howl from the wind hollow and loud all at the same time.

“Have you heard of the Ender of The World?”

More silence. And then, a laugh.

“Kamukura Izuru… who hasn’t?”

“So he has a name?”

Komaeda sets his own lantern on the ground, then lowers himself and takes a cross-legged position. Hesitant, Hinata follows suit.

“You didn’t know? They named him after the original Wizard, the one whose discoveries helped incorporate the plane of magic with our own.”

“Ah,” Hinata says. His throat is dry. “I, uh, never looked into it too much. I tried to, well- avoid. That sort of stuff.”

“…I see,” Komaeda says, and there’s an obvious question in his tone. To his credit, he doesn’t ask it.

“Well, Kamukura Izuru… Well, to start, he’s beautiful. I saw him, once.”

Hinata’s heart stops. “You did?”

“I did,” Komaeda says, and smiles. There are no creases under his eyes this time, no softness to the edge of his mouth. Only a wide curve that increases Hinata’s unease. Komaeda’s eyes watch the purple flame in his lantern flicker and sway.

“When I was still travelling alone, I took shelter in a sea-side town. I was still young then, maybe in my mid teen years, and so I was still learning how to get around alone, and still learning how to cope with my abilities. Naturally, no one wanted someone whose magical energy was as unstable and harmful as mine.” Komaeda makes animated hand gestures as he speaks, his voice remaining light and unbothered.

“So I tried not to use any, even when it got cold and I needed a fire, even if I had to defend myself. As soon as they realised their flowers wither around me and the grass their cattle eat from is poisoned by my magic, they’d throw me out. I couldn’t afford to let that happen yet, not when I was in such desperate need of a sustainable place to stay.”

“Komaeda…” Hinata starts to say, a crease forming in his brow. But Komaeda just continues.

“This is why I ended up staying by the port, where there was less organic matter for me to visibly hurt. And then he was there, and the stories? They were true,” Komaeda says. “He was- ah, I’m afraid I’m not nearly eloquent enough, but he was something else. He didn’t hurt anyone then, didn’t turn any cities to dust or erase landscapes with the swipe of his hand, but his existence was like…” He holds up a hand over the lantern, and his eyes are wide enough to hold the entire sky within then. Komaeda clenches his fist over the lantern’s glow.

He whispers, “Like fire. It was burning with the demand to be attended to. It was like being charmed, but worse, but better. And where he floated, Hinata-kun? It was over the sea, which had begun to turn inky below him. It was like void. Like nothingness was just overcoming the blue, erasing it.” Komaeda’s still smiling. How is he still smiling?

Hinata tries to regulate his breathing, but he feels sick. His head spins with a thousand visions, of tarlike darkness invading crystal blue, of lonely teenagers by ports, of magical essences strong enough to burn themselves into the hearts of spectators.

Hinata’s voice sounds hoarse to his ears when he speaks. “…And? Was he- was he evil?”

Komaeda laughs again. “Evil… Well, I suppose it depends on the standards of one’s morality. I just think he was hideous.”

“Huh?! Didn’t you just say-”

“I meant what I said.” Komaeda says. “He was the wrongest thing in the world, in that moment. Something that wasn’t destined to be. He was beautiful, too, and it had made me feel something. Now, I can identify that feeling as what it is.”

“And what is it?”

Komaeda turns to look at him then, eyes wide still. He closes them for a moment, but the smile doesn’t fade. Komaeda says, “Disgust,” and Hinata feels like he’s been kicked in the ribs.

“Oh. Um, I suppose that makes se-”

“I think he was just empty. I don’t understand how someone can have such power over destiny and be such a shell.” His smile takes a dip, then twitches back into place. It looks wrong, not that it ever really looked right to begin with. It looks… sour.

“People will call Kamukura Izuru beautiful, or they will call him horrible,” Komaeda says. “I just think that he’s like me.”

“Like you?” Hinata’s heart is pounding.

“I don’t mean to sound egoistical,” Komaeda says quickly, holding his hands up, His smile returns to its default vacancy again, “Of course, I could never hope to be as powerful. But Izuru-san and I have something in common.”

There is quiet now, and even the well timed howling of the wind fails to shake Hinata out of his semi-trance state of contemplation. He recognises that Komaeda’s given him an opening to ask. The tension in his gut notwithstanding, he does.

“What is it, then?”

Komaeda hums. His gloved fingers close around the handle of the lantern and pull it up to his face. Illuminated so closely by the glow, Komaeda looks like a flame himself. It’s a haunting kind of beauty that Hinata can’t fully wrap his head around. (His heart aches). He blows his flame out, and just like that, the world grows dimmer. Komaeda stands up, and Hinata wants to reach out and grab at his sleeve, but he’s too tired, and Komaeda’s too swift, and it’s too cold out here, so cold and dark and god, Hinata’s so tired.

“Well, when I looked in his eyes, I could tell. I could tell that he had nowhere to go either.” Through the mist of darkness, Hinata can’t see his features, he can sense it when Komaeda’s gaze leaves him.

He whispers, “Good night, Hinata-kun.”

Then he returns to their tent, and Hinata’s left alone.

There is a flash of light.

Pillars of light come together to form a gollum, at least 12 feet tall, its arms made of diamond shards which reflect the yellow light pouring out of the empty holes in its head that make its sockets. The gollum is a beautiful, monstrous thing, its voice caught somewhere between roar and song. It’s a compound of light shards taking the form of rocky limbs and sharp shoulders. Like tears, the light that runs down its head burns into the cavern’s ground, acidic.

They get in order. Hinata raises his wand, and Nanami prepares her wooden staff. The amethysts that stick out of the ground by Komaeda’s feet begin to lose their vibrancy as he puts his flute to his lips.

Hinata casts.

Nanami points.

Komaeda plays.

And the gollum unclasps a dark mouth trapped between jaws of silvery-gold crystals, and showers their attacking silhouettes in stunning light.

You are born.

You are a creature! And how alive you are, how real- your hands are small and pale, your hair back length and a light shade of a pretty colour. And you are not clothed, not yet, but you are so alive.

Besides you a person with shaking arms and a trembling form. They say, “O-oh, it worked, it worked,” and they sound like they’re going to cry.

You reach out to them, and you feel concerned.

Disorientation. Fear. Hinata’s head is spinning, and he can’t tell his head from his feet, not anymore. The world is nothing but a dull blur of colour, and all he hears is a the quiet hum of the gollum’s voice, a guttural, chilling sound.

And then the next flash of light comes.

II.

You are alone. Ash falls between the spaces of your fingers, the remnants of the home you once had. The sky cries for you, but you do not cry. You cannot cry anymore, not when you know they were right all along. Right to abandon you, right to throw a creature of destruction and havoc.

You are disgusted with yourself, with the pulse of energy that crackles like lightning beneath your skin.

Your hands dig into the ashes that were once meadows and gardens and homes, homes you grew up in, homes you weren’t hated for existing in.

You let out a scream that tears your throat in two, and you are heartbroken.

He can’t tell if he’s breathing.

He can’t tell if he’s seeing. He can only hear the roar approaching.

But he feels it, too, the third flash of light slamming into him.

III.

Magic is difficult.

Magic is unnatural- it’s strange, because for your family, it seems to come as easy as breathing. Generations of wizards have thrived from their line, after all, each with magical energy in the very air they breathe, clear in the way they carry themselves, evident in the gleam in their eyes.

Except for you, that is. You have grown up looking at your hands and hating them. You have grown up with the words of the divination mistress inscribed in your head from when you were but a youth, her raspy voice calm and factual as she tells your parents, This one’s a branch that’s been severed. He’s dry, he is.

And you are. You attempt to cast spells. Nothing happens. You try your hand at passive magic, tries to see if you can work out divination, or magical forgery, or bardic inspiration.

Nothing happens within. Your hands remain plain, pitiable things, empty of even the telltale scorch marks and scar of a beginner magician. There is disappointment in the looks they give you. There’s judgement. There’s torment in their stares, a searing fire that burns away at you in the expectations you know you’ll never be able to fulfill. A tiresome, constant hum of unease.

So plain.

What a shame, that one- think of the potential!

Maybe he’s just a late bloomer?

But you aren’t.

You press your palms to your face and try to feel for a hum of something more that isn’t there, was never there, will never be there.

Until one day, not many days from now, at the hands of a circle of wizards who promise your family prowess, progress, and most importantly magic- it is.

And you feel… nothing.

You don’t feel at all.

A flash of light.

Your hair is trimmed to your shoulders. You are dressed in a cloak of silver with a green hood, given a staff crafted of rosewood and embroidered with your initials. You are given a name. You are given a purpose.

The person who made you is loving. They are kind. They don’t make you feel like the tool that you are, but you know, and you think it’s okay.

And another.

II.

You learn that the leaves of plants wither first when you play. And then gradually, so do the stems. The petals are last to go, turning a sorry shade of gray that disintegrates to ashen black the more you continue.

You feel sorry.

And yet another.

III.

There is more magic in the air than has even been. More horror in your heart than you ever thought possible. They are chanting incantations, murmuring things in languages you can’t recognise, humming in tones you don’t understand, and you are scared, but your want to stop disappointing overwhelms this fear. Your want to be something that surpasses ordinary, something that beats worthless.

So you stay still.

And you drift, further and further away, into a space where you can’t feel your heart and can’t contain your soul.

And for a while, you don’t return. Not really.

Another.

You learn that you are a cleric. You learn that your name is Nanami Chiaki, and that you can wield light and speak seven languages and be very, very useful.

You find your place among an adventuring party, and you set off to do your job as a cleanser of despair.

When will it stop?

II.

You feel smaller than you should, a quiet mass of stark white hair and shaky hands that suck the life out of every unsuspecting thing. But you learn- you learn to sleep in the hollows of large trees.You learn to survive days without fire and food. You learn what you have to do to live, what you have to do to continue, but often you wonder if there’s a purpose at all.

And then you see Kamukura Izuru turn the ocean’s blue into void, and immediately realise what you have to do.

Hinata hears what sounds like a thump, but maybe it’s just the dull beat of his heart. Does he still have a heart?

III.

It is

Dark.

It is so dark , and so quiet, and you are not there, but you are, but the world isn’t, but you are, but you’re dead, but you’re not, but you’re in pain, but he’s not.

And he’s you.

Or you’re him.

Maybe you’re both and he’s neither. She finds you somewhere between existence and death, surrounded by the skeletal remains of the seven wizards that made you what you are.

She examines the circle of black glass and scorch marks that used to be their mountain, and the grin on her face can cut through the fabric of the universe and weave it into something new. She holds out her hand, and says, “Confused, aren’tcha? I think I have something that’ll work for you.”

And before you know it, the world is ending at your hands.

There is the sound of something falling multiple times all at once.

You love them so much.

You love them so, so much. But you do not, because you weren’t made for this. You don’t know what love is.

Do you?

It’s getting closer.

II.

You are a being of misdeeds, a creature of filth and ugliness.You are a pawn in the hands of luck and a facilitator of fate. And it’s fine.

It’s fine. You don’t deserve to feel this companionship. You don’t deserve the moments when his eyes meet yours and you feel something akin to hope. It’s selfish. It’s foolish.

It’s fine.

(It’s not.)

They are footsteps, Hinata realises distantly at the back of his head, and they fall like hail.

III.

You wake up in another circle of black glass. Your head is full of memories that aren’t your own, your back breaking under the weight of sins you earnt. You hands are pale and unscarred and yours, yours, yours, but you don’t know what’s yours anymore, so you dig them into the hard ground until your nails chip and bleed and you’re screaming because the pain is the only thing that makes you feel real.

You don’t know how long you lay there, but when you come to, you can cast flame, you can create light.

And it takes you so, so long, to pick yourself up, to tear away your memories and the bards’ songs of Him, of You.

You are sick of your own existence, but most of all, you’re not sure when you’ll be him again. You’re not sure how long you have as you.

(You’re not sure when you started to think of this in terms of you and him.)

When you find yourself a party, you worry.

When you sleep at night, you worry.

When your companion’s piercing gray greens look at you and tell you, “Good night, Hinata-kun,” you worry.

What’s a sense of self for someone without one at all?

Crash!

Splinters of diamond scatter across the cave’s floor, yellow and white and shades of off-orange, shattered, sharp and everywhere.

Komaeda is panting by the now screaming, headless gollum, its guttural screeches now reduced to weak yelps that sound more like windchimes. The splinters that caught him in the face send blood streaking down it, and he’s breathing heavy.

In his right hand Komaeda holds Nanami’s abandoned spear of light, semi-tangible and fading in his grasp. Nanami rises to her feet besides Hinata, only a distance away. Cuts and scrapes line her arms and legs where the crystals caught her, but she is healing faster than any of them can process, and she points her staff at the gollum, lips drawn in a thin line.

When Hinata gets into position besides his companions, his heart thrums with something that’s maybe determination, and that’s definitely the desire to beat this fucking thing to the ground.

Their eyes meet. When Hinata catches Komaeda’s, Komaeda gives him a tired, bloodied smile which he tries to return.

They attack.

LEGEND.

There is a legend in the land about a sorcerer. Or at least that’s what they think he is. He’s certainly not human- it’s not clear if he’s much of anything the people of this world can recognize.

He’s like something out of a night terror, spectral and haunting, ethereally beautiful in ways that are hard to encapture. Bards fail to find music befitting of him, and the storytellers, their hands bleed of their efforts to weave tales and tapestries worthy enough. An artist’s maddening, he is, a being of darkness, or maybe light, or maybe divinity.

He razes lands in his wake.

It only takes a flick of his wrist for the grandeur of towering spires, raised peaks and settlements, so many settlements built with caring craftsmanship and loving ambition, to become ash.

There are no scorch marks to tell of despairing fires, no bloodstained marble and cobblestone to tell the tragedy of battles lost. Only the memory of what used to be and the dust that remains of its existence.

Some call him the Destructor. Some call him a God. Most merely call him The Ender of The World.

And he is as beautiful as he is terrifying, the story tellers swear. He doesn’t function on malice, they say. It’s impossible to tell what his motives really are, but he doesn’t thrive off of evil nor off of death. He does not need to thrive, really, not when his very existence is that of raw energy and power, not when he can make himself a living deity on command of his presence.

Others have different stories to tell of him, all with the staples; the beauty, the divinity, the grace. But they speak of different powers- armies of the dead animated for seemingly no reason. Stormy clouds of gray that encircle him, a crown of booming thunder and imminent destruction.

Eyes the colour of rubies, painfully empty despite the ocean’s worth of magical energy they surely have.

The World is ending.

And then it isn’t.

The cities of ash remain as they are, as do the hearts of endless storms continue to beat with the booms of thunder. Every tapestry and abandoned sheet of song remain, but the Ender of the World does not.

At the gollum’s husk, Hinata brings down a spectral axe he summons; once her spear of light is back in her hands, Nanami maneuvers close enough to leave a gaping gash of oozing yellow where its abdomen was; Komaeda’s flute plays notes that manifest into spectral hammers which descend upon it, blown after blow. The amethysts around them are now a darkened gray.

With each hit that lands, crystals shatter across the floor.

Soon, all that remains is a gradient of gold in pieces at their feet.

And their prize reward, the gollum’s heart: an ornate circle of the very same gold, its surface clear and reflective like a mirror. The Eye of Fate.

Komaeda collapses on his knees.

He’s making a noise that sounds like giggling, red faced and dizzy, and then he collapses to the side, spent. Hinata isn’t fast enough to catch him, but he tries anyway. Chest still heaving from the effort of battle, he takes the time to brush away the red that bleeds from the wound on Komaeda’s forehead. The amethysts are more like coal now, a tell-tale sign of the energy he’s expended.

Nanami kneels beside him, and she’s not out of breath at all. But she looks just as tired as he feels. All her wounds have closed up. Hinata almost finds it funny- he always thought the reason her wounds were so quick to heal was because she was an extraordinarily healer. While that was true, he now more or less knows that there’s more to it. And she… they both…

Well, they both know now, don’t they? But the panic hasn’t really settled in just yet.

“I’ll get him,” Nanami says, and she nods towards Komaeda. Already her hand is on his chest. “You have to go retrieve the mirror. Hinata-kun, you know what to do with it.”

Hinata nods. Rises to his feet.

He heads towards the Eye of Fate, back turned to Nanami. It feels smooth and light in his hands. The surface reflects his face, bloodied and plain, and it all feels deceptively simple.

Nanami says, “Hinata-kun? I know you’ll make the right decision. I know you’re a good person, and you can make your own path.”

He feels the smile in her voice as strongly as he feels the sting in his eyes.

“Right,” Hinata says softly, and examines the glassy surface.

He throws it to the ground experimentally. It lands quietly without a sound.

And then he crushes it under his fucking feet. Over and over until it breaks apart for good.

Nanami laughs softly from behind him.

Hinata says, “All right, then. Now that that’s over with, let’s go home.”

Home isn’t anywhere but the three of them.

The journey back isn’t as tiring as Hinata thought it would be, but it’s every bit as emotionally taxing. He wallows in his anxiety on their trip back, just as he wallows in his thoughts.

He and Nanami don’t speak of it.

And he understand that she needs time, and she understands that he needs courage, or perhaps strength of will. But she smiles at him like he means something still, like he’s more than lost identities and failure and magic that isn’t really his, and he’s grateful. He smiles at her too, a bit less patient, a bit more jaded, but he hopes it lets her know that she means something to him like he does to her.

And then there’s Komaeda.

They’re back at their camp grounds when he finally wakes. The sun’s beginning to rise above the horizon, painting its line a faint white and streaking the blank sky with shades of pale blue and orange.

Nanami’s gone to bring them firewood for later on since they’re all too tired for conjuration. Hinata’s fingers clench and unclench into a fist. He counts the fading stars that are eaten by the sunrise, and wonders if he can still see the faint outline of the moon provided he tries hard enough.

Komaeda sits opposite from him. Neither of them says a word.

The silence is quiet and tangible, and when Hinata looks at Komaeda, really looks at him, he pauses. Komaeda’s fully healed and unscarred but for a nick that the gash on his forehead left, and even that is hardly notable. His hair is even messier than usual, dirtied and gray with dust and dirt from their encounter. His pallor is still prominent, but thankfully, it doesn’t look like he’s about to fall seriously ill.

"Hey,” Hinata says.

Komaeda raises his head to look at him. He’s giving him that look again, a look of uncomfortable intensity that Hinata feels in his bones.

Komaeda say, “Hinata-kun,” by way of greeting, and they fall quiet again.

Hinata looks at his thumbs.They’re shredded from the shrapnel of crystal, scarred in little crisscrosses.

He says to Komaeda, “Well. I mean, god. Let’s- let’s cut right to it. Talk to me.”

And so they start to, the rising sun a backdrop to their conversation.

“You know now,” Hinata says.

“I do.”

“You wanted to find me. Or him. Whatever.”

“I do.”

“You still do?”

He tips his head sideways, and light curls frame his curious expression. Very sincerely, he says, “I do.”

Hinata feels a tightness in his chest.

“You’re weird.”

“You’re a god.”

Hinata gives him an annoyed, incredulous look. Now he knows Komaeda’s messing with him.

He says, “You know I’m not,” and can’t help the edge in his voice.

“Of course I do,” Komaeda says, voice hushed in a way Hinata’s never heard it before. “I felt your thoughts, Hinata-kun. We both did.”

He knows this. And it’s frustrating, infuriating even, to have something like that taken away from you and broadcasted so intimately. Looking at the mess he made of his own fingers, Hinata wishes he hit harder, attacked harsher.

And then he looks at Komaeda, and oh. He sees it now, the tightness around his shoulders, the tension in his frame. The sharpness of his present smile, guarded and ingenuine.

He’s hurting, too.

And god, Hinata’s so selfish. This entire time, his own anxieties have been overwhelming him, and he wasn’t able to realise sooner that his companions have their own plates full to the brim.

Of course. Of course he’d hurt. He’s felt it vividly, Komaeda’s loneliness, his pain, just as he had Nanami’s doubt in her existence, just as tangibly as they felt his own aches.

Hinata reaches towards Komaeda, who tenses like he’s about to flinch away, but… doesn’t. He places a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And Komaeda says, “I was wrong.”

“Wrong?”

His gaze bores into Hinata. “Wrong to call you beautiful and hideous.”

Hinata puts away his hand. He says, “Then what would you call me?” and feels bold for it. The way Komaeda says ‘you’ instead of 'Kamukura Izuru’ or 'The Ender of the World’ or some other superficial title makes him shiver.

“I would call you hopeful,”

“Uh, what?”

Komaeda puts a hand over his heart. And there it is again, that terrifying earnestness in his eyes.

“Hopeful. You’re not like me, Hinata-kun. Despite everything, you’re still here. You’re still doing good after what she made you do.”

What she made you do. The illusion of guilt, the vision of the perfect monster, it’s gone. It’s all gone.

Hinata is shaking just the slightest bit. His hands aren’t as steady as he thought they’d be in his lap. This is hard.

“But– so are you.”

“So am I what, Hinata-kun?”

“You’re here too, aren’t you?”

Komaeda falls silent.

Hinata can’t quite read his expression right, was never quite able to, but the stunned look of bewilderment that twists his features isn’t hard to note.

“But I- that’s not… That isn’t how it works.” Komaeda argues, a confused frown twisting his mouth.

“Isn’t it?” Hinata is smiling, and as he does, he feels the tremors start to calm.

“It isn’t! Hinata-kun, if you’re as good at drawing conclusions as you are at playing instruments-”

“Stop trying to backhand compliment me, I probably can play if I really try.”

“Backhanded compliments? How rash of Hinata-kun to jump to such a conclusion, I was only trying to speak my mind.”

He flicks Komaeda’s forehead. Komaeda doesn’t make a move to flinch this time.

Hinata dares to push back the hair that falls in front of his eyes, heart beat mingling with the songbirds’ melody. He waits for Komaeda to stop him, but he does not. He rubs his thumb over the small scar on his forehead.

“…You were good out there with Nanami’s spear,” Hinata murmurs. “Maybe you should actually consider buying one.”

“Oh,” Komaeda breathes in response.

Sunlight makes him look even prettier.

It’s quiet here in these woods, and it’s not “home” forever. Nothing will be for a while. But the permanence of home and the worries of tomorrow mean nothing when Hinata sees that smile again. A smile soft around the edges that make his eyes crease, a smile that makes Hinata not want to let go.

“Is this okay?” Komaeda says, and his voice is quiet. His eyes begin to flutter. His gloved hands reach tentative towards the back of Hinata’s neck as he moves to lean into Hinata’s touch. Komaeda’s hands are light, their pressure barely there, like he’s afraid to hurt him.

Hinata says, “It’s okay.”

And when he kisses Komaeda, it feels like the relief of something long awaited. It feels like comfort. It feels like something right. Hinata’s hands reach to cup his face, and oh.

He kisses him again, and again, and again, and everytime Hinata pulls away, he sees that smile and just can’t stop.

They’re going to be okay.

#komahina #komahina secret exchange #fanfiction

34 notes · View notes

louthegreatfurrry · 6 years ago

Text

Haunted Hearts pt.3

Percy sat cross-legged at the end of Migo’s… bed? Stone? Whatever; where he slept. On the shelf beside the bed stood a stone slab with an engraved picture on it, and Percy was currently busy staring fiercely at it.

Slowly, very slowly, he reached out to touch it.

And his hand went straight through.

“This is torture!” he cried, making a grab at his hair but awkwardly shoving his hands through his head instead. “There must be some way, all these – these ghost sightings can’t have been nothing – ”

Letting out a long-drawn sigh he slumped over, letting himself fall back against the stone –

and continuing to fall back, half-way through the floor and shrouded in darkness before he stopped.

He shut his eyes. “I am so incredibly done with this,” he whispered. “Done. So done. Never been more done with anything. Ever.”

He rose from the floor again, floating over to very gently sit himself down on Migo’s bed. After double- and triple checking to make sure that he was, indeed, on the bed and not in the bed, he turned back to the stone picture.

“Okay,” he said, trying to rub his hands together until he remembered that it would be fruitless. “Okay, it’s, uhm… it’s fine, Percy, maybe you just need… practice. Yes, practice.” He blew at his fingers, wiggled them a bit, and then went for the picture again. “You’re real,” he whispered to himself, “you exist, you’re real, you can and will touch this stone, no matter what else you do.” In his mind he could see it – his own hand touching the stone, picking it up, brushing his fingers across it as though he’d never been dead in the first place.

He closed his eyes, leaned forward –

and met resistance.

His hand still passed through the stone, but this time he’d actually sensed it. It’d been like pushing against sun-warmed butter – ultimately no problem at all, but still resistance.

Percy stared at his hand. “Blimey,” he muttered, “I did it – I did it! It’s entirely possible!” he exclaimed, jumping up from the bed in excitement. “Migo, are you seeing this, I’m – ”

He cut himself off.

Slowly he turned to look at Migo, curled up on the side of his stone bed, fur glowing pale silver in the diffused moonlight.

“Of course you’re not,” Percy whispered, more to himself than anything, as he went to comb his fingers through his hair. They passed right through, of course, but all the anger had been drained out of him at the sight of Migo sleeping so peacefully. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

He turned back to the picture. “Right. Let’s do this, then.”

As a ghost stuck in a yeti village it wasn’t easy to tell how much time passed from one moment to the next, but Percy was extremely certain that it took him at least two hours to be able to move the stone. Even then, all he could do was gentle prodding. If he pushed too hard he’d go through, and if he tried to pick it up his fingers would just grasp into nothing. But pushing it two centimeters to the left was still more than he could’ve done last night.

It was most definitely improvements.

Now he sat staring at his own hands, contemplating the color changes he’d seen during his experimenting. It was odd. As he’d mentally prepared himself for pushing that stone he’d become… less transparent. Appearing more solid, in a way. Of course, it was still very obvious that he was a ghost, and he was most definitely still transparent, just… less.

“Hm,” he said, flexing the fingers of his right hand. “I wonder…”

Did it work with voice and touch, too?

He glanced over at Migo, who was just beginning to awaken from his deep sleep.

Time to find out.

“Oh, you’re doing this again, huh?” Percy asked, gesturing vaguely between Migo and the gong. He crossed his arms to give him a pointed look. “Doesn’t it hurt? Why are you even doing this, it makes no sense whatsoever.”

Migo nodded, staring determinedly at the gong in the distance. “Launch!” he cried.

“Here we go again,” Percy muttered, a second before the rope around his waist flung him into the air.

As they flew he prepared himself – in his mind hearing his voice the way it had sounded when people actually heard and listened to him, reassuring himself that it was real, that he was real, and that if he spoke, then Migo would hear and understand –

Migo slammed into the gong, Percy pulled on the brakes, and the stop was so abrupt that both of them had to take a moments pause. Percy regained his senses first, floated down to Migo, and said, very pointedly, “There’s no point in doing that.”

Migo, who still looked relatively confused about his surroundings, squeezed his eyes shut with a sigh. He wiped his hands across his face, then whispered, “We’ve been over this, Migo. You do what you have to do.”

Percy blinked, taken aback by that response. He glanced up at the two mountaintops where the sun was rising, setting the yeti village nestled against the mountainside ablaze. And he understood.

“…it will rise on its own, you know,” he said softly.

He wasn’t sure if Migo heard him or not. There was a flash of pain in his eyes, but he shook his head and it was gone –

“Great job, son!” Migo’s dad called. Migo waved back, but Percy stood staring at him with a deep frown.

He was missing something. But what?

It was apparently routine for Migo to go down into the village after slamming himself against a gong, for he did it again that day. Why he was down there Percy didn’t know – he rarely bought anything and mostly only spoke to the other yetis, but he supposed it was fair enough. He’d had weird hobbies too, when he was alive. Like breathing.

Whatever the reason was, it made Percy’s job that much harder. He’d tried to talk to Migo once or twice more, but all the yetis around him had reacted to that, too, and so he’d given up on that particular quest. He wasn’t opposed to talking to the other yetis, he just… wanted to talk to Migo first.

With talking out of the question he’d considered making himself visible, but it didn’t take him long to realize that that wasn’t exactly genius, either. He’d resorted to, in a last-ditch attempt, to get the sense of touch across the barrier separating them.

Needless to say, that hadn’t been successful either. He’d either make his hand visible by mistake, or Migo would brush away his touch as though it was the wind. Now, it was a bit windy, but still. He deserved some respect for his efforts.

By noon he’d ran out of things to try. Either it would be social suicide – well, as much of a suicide as he could, anyway – or Migo didn’t respond, at all. He’d resigned himself to just floating through him every now and then – his long-drawn shudders and worried looks were worth it, to be honest.

Still. Percy wished he’d get his ass back home, so he could keep experimenting with him.

“Migo,” Percy whispered, focusing hard on getting his voice across the barrier. “Miiiigooooo…. Migo?”

Migo was growing very uncertain, Percy could tell. He’d been shifting like crazy since he began whispering his name. He was trying to write something, but every now and then his hand would tremble and he’d slip up and have to start anew.

Percy was quiet for a long time, only watching him work from over his shoulder.

Then, when he figured Migo had let his guard down again, he called, “Migo!”

Migo jumped nearly six feet into the air and broke the stone slab in two.

Percy howled with laughter.

Migo rubbed his horns tiredly. “I’m going mad,” he whispered to himself, slowly sitting back down in his chair. “There’s no way…” He put his head in his hands with a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping over as he curled in on himself.

A pang of guilt. The laughter died on his lips, and Percy’s smile twisted into a sad grimace. He floated over to Migo, sitting down carefully on the table before him. He reached over and patted his arm. “Sorry, big guy,” he muttered, focusing more on getting his touch across and not his voice. “But I think I deserve to give you some scares after all you’ve put me through.”

Migo stared at his arm in horror.

Percy patted it again.

“Migo?” came a familiar voice. “Where are you?”

Migo rushed to stand up and push the broken stone behind his back, subsequently flinging his arm through Percy as he stood. “Here, da!”

“Oh, not even a sorry?” Percy asked grumpily as he flew away from the table again. “Fine, whatever.”

His dad poked his head into the room, lighting up with a smile when he laid eyes on Migo. “There you are, son. Say, are you busy today?”

“Ha, nope, not at all,” Migo said, grinning nervously. In his hand he held the broken slab, and now he tightened his hold around it, stuffing it behind his back.

“Ah, great,” his dad said, entering the room fully. Percy floated up into the roof to get a better view. “Could you do me a teeny tiny favor?”

“Sure, da, what is it?”

His dad poked his index fingers together. “You know the cave? Up in the mountainside?”

Migo tilted his head. “The one with the geodes and the gems? What about it?” His dad gestured vaguely, nodding his head this way and that. “Oh! Oh, you want – yeah! Sure, I can go fetch some, no problem.”

His dad slouched over, a relieved smile on his face. “Thanks, son. You know I can’t climb as well anymore.”

“No problem, da,” Migo said, patting his shoulder as he walked past. “In fact, I’ll go right now!”

Percy had no choice but to follow. “What, are we going on a trip? Now?” he called after him. “Are you serious?”

Five minutes later and Percy was being tugged along up the snowy mountainside.

Bloody perfect.

#smallfoot #migercy #migo #percy #haunted hearts #meg og mitt #my writing #BED TIME NOW

24 notes · View notes

desperauxtilling · 7 years ago

Text

Rentrée (Jason/Nico)

History repeats itself: Jason hates his family, has good intentions going rogue, and Nico is collateral damage.

Happy Jasico Saturday, here’s some canon divergence angst.

“Can you tell me about my sister?”

Nico sits with his legs swinging over the crow’s nest, leaning into Jason, who stands with arms folded over the guard railing. He focuses somewhere beyond the rouge spattered sky. Nico thinks he looks good bathed in the red light. It tints his hair to a soft, strawberry blond he wishes he could run his fingers through.

“Thalia is… headstrong,” he starts. “I met her around the same time I met Percy. We became reluctant allies. She was better friends with Bianca than me.” He takes a shuddering breath.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up--”

“No. It’s okay.” Nico pats his knee, smirking when he jumps. “You know about the quest with our sisters, right?”

Jason nods. Some distant storm fills his eyes. There’s a tension in his shoulders Nico wishes to unknot, understand. “Annabeth told me when I asked about her gray hair.” He raps his knuckles against the rail. “My sister changed her fate by becoming a hunter. She refused the prophecy.”

Nico nods. The opposite happened to Bianca. If she stayed, she would have survived. It haunts Nico that he’s the reason she was so eager to get away from camp. The Hades figurine she tried to get him sealed her fate.

“Thanks for talking with me,” he says after a long silence takes over them. Nico’s hardly talked but he gives the slightest twitch of his lips. Jason traces a lock of Nico’s hair that fell in his face, casting it behind his ear. When he turns red, the son of Jupiter smiles. Then he leaves.

“What do you know about Reyna?” he asks Nico. Hazel and Frank are there, too, relaxing beside him. Jason is determined to be friends with Nico after the Split incident, forging something real out of the crash that Cupid crafted.

“Strong leader. Self assured. Driven.” He scratches his neck. “She led the assault on Mount Othrys with you. Well, she led the army while you took on Krios.”

“She had faith in me, even when she knew my rocky ancestry,” Frank says. “She could have refused me from camp… but she didn’t.”

“You two seemed close,” Hazel said. “Whenever I saw you both together, I got the sense you had been friends for a long time. You always covered each other’s backs.”

Jason’s fingers tap nervously against the deck. He’s fidgeting. He’s doing that more lately, Nico has noticed. It’s unlike him. An impulse strikes him and he places his hand over Jason’s. Jason is surprised, cheeks tinging pink, but he grins. Thanks Nico again and leaves.

This continues. Jason unintentionally inspires Nico to open by inquiring about the past. Thalia, Percy and Annabeth’s quests, Kronos’ rise from the side of the Greeks. He gets to know Nico, too. Wants to get to know him. It makes him feel good to have someone like that there for him.

“Is it okay that I’m mad at Thalia?”

Nico’s head lolls against Jason’s shoulder. “I was mad at Bianca.”

“I’m just angry at her because she’s lucky. Dad cares about her. She was able to escape the prophecy. She has the gods’ favor.”

“The gods’ favor doesn’t mean everything, Jason,” he points out.

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

His voice turns to gravel and Nico looks up in surprise. Jason’s face is contorted with anger. Sparks dance along his knuckles. He’s heard angry curses from Annabeth when Percy was missing, but nothing so outright opposed to the gods from anyone but… since... “Hey…” Nico hesitates to reach for his hand. “Jason. Are you all right?”

He flexes his fingers and, with steam, the electricity dissipates. “Sorry. Frustrated, that’s all.” His words grow small. “Wish that I could remember.”

“Percy remembers. Hera hasn’t…?” Nico asks sadly, trailing off when Jason shakes his head.

“Guess she still needs me.” Jason rubs the back of his head. Firms his hand on Nico’s shoulder then stands. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

Jason turns to grant Nico a small smile. “I can tell when people are lying. You never lie to me.”

Percy and Annabeth are plucked from Tartarus and he’s getting ready to leave with Reyna and the statue. There’s something about it that’s changed Jason. Seeing Annabeth and Percy sets off something in his blue eyes. His jaw clenches. His shoulders tense. When Leo and Piper try getting close, he pushes them away. “Annabeth sure is lucky,” he says one day. Nico stands beside him at the helm, trying not to look too giddy as he mans the wheel (maybe he’s finally getting to live out all those pirate adventures he read about).

Nico, stepping on pinpricks, asks, “Why?”

“She has Percy.”

Nico snorts. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“She got to grow up with Thalia.” His blue eyes are cold, his tone cross. “I wish I’d had that.” Nico lays a hand on his shoulder and Jason takes it, smiling softly. But Nico can feel a storm trembling under his skin. Jason is itching to leave, itching to spread his wings. Dangerous. Jagged. Nico pushes those familiar thoughts away.

Jason’s getting worse.

He sees him speaking quietly with Reyna by the statue while he’s securing the ropes to himself. And, to his dread and delight, Jason claps him on the shoulder and turns him around. “You be careful, okay, Nico?”

“You know me. Nothing but careful.” His taunt makes Jason laugh and the sound lift Nico’s heart. It’s just the two of them, now. Nico can’t say he’ll miss the ship but he already misses Jason.

“You know you can trust me, right?” Jason asks. He claps his hand to Nico’s face, traces his thumb against his soft cheek. Nico feels very small suddenly. “You can come to me for anything.” Jason takes a step forward.

“Yes,” Nico breathes. He hates the way his voice catches on his high breath, but. It’s hard to stay coherent with Jason this warm and this close and this intense.

“I can trust you.” Not quite a question. The statement carries a finality that scares him back to reality. Jason is so cold and serious, now. The hand, once charcoal, turns to lead against his cheek. Dragging him into the earth.

“Yes,” Nico says again. He trusts Jason and wants Jason to trust him too so he burrows that fear away from his heart.

Jason pats his cheek. Kisses his brow. Then he leaves.

Reyna and Nico and Hedge have a good dynamic. He understands why Reyna and Jason were close and sees some of those same comfortable qualities in her that drew him to Jason. But she’s harder and colder, closer to Nico. Their relationship grows. He sees the same want to protect him that he once saw in Bianca. And he doesn’t feel like he’s being bossed around, either. They’re equals. Friends. They care for each other.

That’s why he screams when Bryce’s ghostly hands wrap around her neck and she vanishes into the earth. Hedge is yelling something, swinging his bat, only to get flung back into the hard rock of the Athena Parthenos. A finger on the statue cracks. His head bleeds.

“Reyna--” he gasps out. Sword hangs heavy at his side. The earth starts to swallow him, too. The jar. Tartarus. Gaea’s soft hands creeping up his ankles. “No, no, no--” They’re supposed to be safe here. With each other.

Bryce leers over him. Grips Nico’s chin in hand. Something thunks against his head. Blood. He tastes it in his mouth, spilling over his cut lip onto Bryce’s thumb. The Roman laughs. That sound bounces around Nico’s head for hours, echoing, echoing in the tunnels of the underground.

Nico catches one last glimpse of the sky and for a moment, he thinks of Jason’s eyes.

Then nothing.

Warm, soft dirt. Spilling into him. Filling the space around him. Tempting and suffocating. Reyna’s here, somewhere, but when he tries to reach for her it’s like wading through clay. Slow. Slippery. Mud filling up his mouth and nose. Blood spilling from his mouth and nose. The earth binds him and raises him up, presenting a prize to the middle of the acropolis. Giants loom in the distance, footsteps shaking stone pillars. The sun is high and hot. Reyna’s back rests against his. That’s all the comfort he has.

Footsteps. Racing up the stone stairs. He tries to make out a voice, but it’s a garbled mess of syllables he can’t pronounce. His sister’s voice slips in there somewhere and he tries to raise his head but he’s so weak and it hits the tile again with a groan.

“Hazel, no! It could be a trap.” A beat. “Let me go in. I can fly in and out of there.”

“Careful, Jason.” Sick and barely conscious, Nico still recognizes Percy’s voice. Welcomes it.

There’s a cool gust of air and he welcomes it with a weak sigh. Careful footsteps toward him. Someone kneels down, casts a friendly shadow over himself and Reyna. “Nico.” Jason’s hands are warm on his face, rousing his consciousness. Brush some of his bangs off his forehead. “Nico, it’s me. You’re okay.”

“Jason.” He licks his lips. Tries to let the name settle on his tongue again. “What are you… why… here.” He tries to open his eyes and everything is bright, so white, he can’t focus. Jason rides the tremor out with him until he can see the rest of the seven, blurry in the distance. “I’m here to help you, Nico,” he whispers. “You were in danger.”

He remembers Bryce’s laugh ringing in his ears, slipping into the warm earth, and a horrible, familiar darkness. “Jasonngh... Where’s—Reyna is...” Unconscious beside him, groaning as she starts to stir.

“You’re both in kind of rough shape.” Jason jostles Nico into his arms, gentle, examining his wounded head. There’s something off about his blue eyes. Something that screams danger. His hair is mussed, the bags under his eyes are heavy, the scar on his lip seems so much more jagged. So unlike Jason. The reality he’s been unwilling to accept until now hits him full force. “But I’ve got you. You’re both going to be okay.” And so much like Luke.

“Jason, get out of there,” Frank advises quietly. He takes a step forward and Jason holds out his hand. Suddenly, a spark of electricity flies forth, crafting a field around the trio. Nico jumps but he doesn’t leave Jason’s arms, how warm and safe it feels. He’s scared. But he can’t leave.

The rest of their group stares at him. Nico blinks. “Jason?” he asks quietly. Tugs his shirt collar. “What’s…” He looks to Hazel, her eyes wide and full of fright. And now he knows he is in great danger. Something presses sharp and hard into his side and he winces.

“Jason, l want to see my brother,” Hazel says. Her voice shakes. “Let me see him.” Nico’s head lolls to the side to catch her worried eye. “Haze—“ Jason’s hand comes to cup his jaw and pull Nico’s face against his chest. “I can’t do that, Hazel. I’m sorry.” Jason’s tone is laden with finality and remorse. Nico is panicked now but. His lids are so heavy. His limbs are so heavy. Movement isn't an option. And Jason is still soft and temperate. Reyna props herself up on her elbow, wheezing. “Nico,” she grits out, her eyes shut tight. “Nico, where—“ Jason places a forceful hand on her shoulder. “Rest, Reyna. I’ve got you.” Her eyes remain closed. His voice registers slowly and she releases a shuddering sigh. “Jason. What are you doing?”

Percy strides forward, pulling riptide. Ready to defend. Ready to save them. There’s an understanding in his eyes. He’s watched Jason deteriorate in Nico’s absence, something he loathes to have missed. Could he have stopped this? Done anything? Could any of them have?

And still, can they?

Nico looks whatever’s digging into his ribs--a sharp golden dagger hanging on Jason’s belt. As soon as it registers as a knife, Jason’s pulled the weapon and pressed it to Nico’s throat. It’s only light pressure but he struggles to breathe. “Don’t come any closer, Percy,” Jason warns, crouching, forcing Nico onto his knees to avoid the sharp cut of a knife. “If you care about Nico at all... you’ll stay right where you are.” “Jason, you have no idea what you’re doing.” Percy’s weapon is clenched tight in his hand. His desperate eyes meet Nico’s. “I’ve seen this before. I know what’ll happen. You can’t honestly believe Gaea is more trustworthy than the gods. Than our family.” He gestures to the stars, to the disheartened crew. It's so hollow. It didn't help then and it won't now. Somewhere, Nico hears, Family. You promised. “Please don’t do this. Let Nico and Reyna go.” Reyna’s hand reaches for Jason’s upper arm. His wielding hand drops the smallest distance from Nico’s throat. “Don’t. He’s... don’t hurt him, Jason.” Her voice still sounds so strong, even when it’s that quiet. “Come home. Don’t do this.”

“Percy... this is the only way I can protect them. Protect all of you.” He doesn’t waver, though he pauses to suck in a breath. “I’ve been following the gods for so long... they’ve done nothing but hurt me. Hurt us. Hurt my sister. They hurt you, too. I can see it. I know how angry you are. They took you from Annabeth, they let you fall into Tartarus... But now I have a chance to stop that from happening again. They won’t be able to hurt us anymore.”

"This is only going to make things worse," Leo whispers. He looks so cold. "You know this isn't right."

"I don't care about what's right. I care about justice." The blade rests cool, taut against Nico’s throat and he gasps.

"Where's the justice in this?" Hazel demands. "I know you're hurt, I know you're scared--but you're just hurting the only people you're trying to protect." Her eyes meet Nico's and he almost whimpers. He wants to struggle but that knife is so tight against him he can't move. "Gaea's just using you. Don't let her."

"Don't tell me that. I know, and I--I am sick of your camp telling me what to do." Jason's blue eyes turn dark and stormy and his hand pulses low with electricity. "Your name is soldier first. War is burned into you before you can even ask what it is. You're a machine, you're a weapon, you're a means to an end. The first thing they did to you, Hazel, was burn that mark onto your arm. You're hardly a teenager. And I was--five? I don't know. I don't know anymore." Reyna's head bows low and Jason draws in a shaky breath. And despite everything, Nico just wants to unwind him, to hold him, to calm him down. All he can do is grip the hand with the blade tighter, try to soothe Jason by tracing his thumb over the back of his hand. "I've been there since I was a kid. And I took every order, every word... I was perfect. And for what?" The traces of tears in his eyes turn to ice. "If I'm going to be used, from now on, I'm having some kind of say in it."

“Jason, I know...” Piper whispers. "But this isn't the way. Just put down the knife. Let us talk to you. Let us help you." Her melodious voice carries over and stills them both. Mechanical, the blade starts to fall from its position. Jason's eyes glaze over. That gives Reyna the opportunity to pull his hand away from Nico’s throat. He falls to the floor as soon as he’s released.

Jason looks between Piper and Reyna in disbelief, then settles on the former with a scathing look. "Stop trying to control me!" Nico tries to breathe again, dizzy. The sky and the stones spin around his head.

Piper panics. Grips her choppy bangs. "No, no I wasn't--please, just listen--"

"I'm done listening." Through his struggling consciousness, he watches Reyna grapple for the knife. Jason pin her down. Jason cutting her arm. Not too deep, but he knows just where to cut to get blood to flow. She grits her teeth and groans against the stones of Athens. Her wide eyes meet Nico’s. Run.

He tries but he can hardly stand. Hazel starts running toward him, too, despite the electric field between them. "Help--" He doesn't know who to ask for help anymore. He reaches, staggers— Jason pulls him back in.

“This’ll hurt, but not for long.” Jason pulls Nico’s back to his chest, forcing his hand out. He presses the dagger tight into his palm, a threat, a promise. “I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you, Nico.” “You’re hurting me.” He chokes. “Jason, it hurts—“ The blade is cool when it slides across his palm. He gasps, soft, and the blade clatters to the ground. Jason grasps his bleeding hand. Forces his palm open. His chin rests on Nico’s shoulder, blue eyes narrowed in focus and cold as steel. He can hear the crew screaming. Hazel trying to find a way around the field, shaking the ground. Percy swinging his sword at it even though horrible shocks course through him. Annabeth standing there frozen in wide eyed shock. “They won’t hurt you ever again,” Jason promises. He isn’t sure if Jason means the gods or their friends. Then his blood spatters the ancient rock of Athens, joining Reyna’s, and the earth splits in two.

“This can’t be happening,” Nico whispers, hoping the words are enough to wake him from this nightmare. He’s not part of the prophecy. He’s not one of the seven. He’s not supposed to be here. But he is. He’s bleeding. He’s waking the earth mother.

Reyna launches herself on Jason with a cry, reaching for his blade again. His arm tightens around Nico’s throat. “--Rey--Ru--ngh--” He tries to throw off Jason and Reyna. Don’t save me, he wants to beg.

“Jason, you idiot--!” She’s yelling, arm bleeding all over his camp shirt. Jason elbows her in the stomach, knocking her to the ground again. He has the audacity to look ashamed. Nico still can’t breathe. Claws at Jason’s arm. The ground shakes and the seven are scattered. But Reyna’s distraction works. The electricity dies down.

Leo and Hazel run forward. Jason blows Leo back with a gust of wind but Hazel grounds herself in the faulty stone and raises it up around them, crafting a prison. “You don’t want to fight me, Jason,” she growls. Cursed gemstones rise from the ground and the mist warbles around her fingertips. She radiates darkness and magic. “Not when my brother is on the line.”

And then the giants come in.

Footsteps shake the entire acropolis. Nico remembers the jar. Walls start closing in around him. He’s shaking. Jason’s hand over his mouth is gentle, fingers tracing his cheeks, pulling the breath from his lips through gesture. He can’t breathe. Reyna is yelling. He’s getting dizzy. Hazel is crying. He’s so tired. Percy’s green eyes meet his through cracks of stone. Darkness.

He falls slack in Jason’s arms.

#jasico #pjo #hoo #nico di angelo #jason grace #thalia grace #luke castellan #:)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))#jasico saturday #jasico discord tag

28 notes · View notes

hirstories · 7 years ago

Text

Abraca—switch! Or The Tale of Edward Elric vs. the Mischievous Body-Snatcher

Chapter 5

A succulent dinner in the company of loved ones; Winry knew there wasn't anything else she could ask for in life. She wasn't trying to be corny or silly in her way of thinking, and she wasn't trying to be overly dramatic either. She had reasons, solid reasons for thinking—and even feeling—the way she did.

Time at the table had been something she used to hate. For years silence had been her loyal companion at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Food did tend to taste better whenever her grandmother joined her at the table but those were rare occasions because Pinako wasn't a chatty person by nature. Then the day came, after years of questing, when the brothers finally were home, and she finally began looking forward to gatherings around the table. Edward and Alphonse, and their silly antics had a way to liven up the atmosphere—and they still did—but now that Mei Chan joined their gatherings, everything sort of became perfect like when automail components come together to make-up one extraordinary piece of machinery.

Winry's reverie was cut short by sounds coming from outside. She blinked several times as she settled back into the present moment. “What was that?” she asked the group because she thought she heard something else besides Den’s barking. Seconds later, ‘that something’ was heard loud and clear.

“Looks like Den made a new friend,” Granny said after taking a long drag from her pipe.

Alphonse’s brows bunched together in worry. He pushed back the chair and stood up. “I’m going outside,” he said before hurrying out of the dining room. Quick steps turned into a hasty stride as he went down the hallway to reach the front door.

Mei stood up and went after him. The older Elric scooped up some ice cream and pie and shoved it in his mouth. Winry was still undecided about going outside or staying inside like her grandmother and her boyfriend had done.

“Dammit Den!” Edward growled again, “Just let me go already!”

The front door slammed open. Alphonse stood in front of the stairs looking around to see where Den and the cat were at. He happened to look down, and to his right, and that’s when he saw Den holding the cat in his mouth.

Edward knew the scene unraveling before his brother’s eyes looked far worse than it really was. Somehow Den had recognized him even in his current form. The dog slobbered him with kisses before picking him up like a puppy.

“Den! Put that cat down this instant!” Alphonse demanded.

The dog didn't heed his warning so he rushed down the stairs to save the cat. “Let go!” He cried as he grabbed Den’s snout and forced it open. Den whimpered. Alphonse only let him go when the cat landed safely on the ground.

Den raised his eyes at Alphonse and whined again, but Alphonse shot back a cold glare. Den’s ears flattened against his head and he began pedaling backward.

Mei rushed past Alphonse and went to Den’s side. The poor dog looked confused so she sank to her knees and tried to console him.

“What on earth is going on?” Winry asked as she looked over the balustrade. She rushed outside when he heard Alphonse yelling.

Mei looked up. “Den was holding that cat in his mouth,” she said, pointing in the general direction of where the cat was.

Winry followed Mei’s finger and saw Alphonse with a golden-haired cat in his arms. He was sheltering the cat as if it'd been hurt. Her eyes narrowed a fraction then she shook her head. “That's impossible. Den would never do that,” Winry said as she returned her attention to Mei.

“Well he did, Winry,” Alphonse snapped.

Winry turned back to Alphonse, who was still resting a protective hand on the Edward’s back. She was glowering at Alphonse but her angry expression made her look like she was pouting.

Winry’s glare amused Edward, it wasn’t everyday that he got to see her unleash her fury at someone other than himself. Out of nowhere, she turned her full attention on him, catching him by surprise. Why the sudden shift? Edward thought. Maybe she sensed that he’d been observing her. A moment later, he caught a familiar gleam in her eye that made his breath catch in his throat. To him, Winry’s stare felt as if she was peering into his very soul. But that couldn’t be... Unfortunately for Edward, he didn’t get a chance to process what was happening because Don Paco decided to grace them all with his presence.

The man stepped into the balcony and made his way to the balustrade. Standing between Winry and the stairs, he looked down like Winry had done minutes ago. His face drew down in a fearsome scowl the moment he spotted him.

Edward scowled back at the man who stole his body with the same intensity. That’s right, fucker. I’m home, he wanted to say but didn’t.

. . . Edward scowled back at Don Paco, the man who'd stole his body and trapped his mind and soul inside the body of a cat.

Edward, that is, Don Paco, curled his hands tightly around the handrail.

Den happened to look up and growled. Mei had to hold him back or he would've charged his way upstairs.

Alphonse turned his head when he saw movement. His face twisted with furious disbelief. “Stop it, Den!” he yelled. The dog lowered his head and whined. But not even this was going to calm Alphonse. “What's the matter with you boy?” he spat.

Mei let go of Den and watched him run to his doghouse. Sighing, she rose up to her feet and approached Alphonse. Her ebony eyes confronted his glare. “Alphonse-sama...” She offered him a gentle smile. “Please calm down.”

“What is all the ruckus about?” Pinako asked as she joined her granddaughter and the impostor on the balcony.

“Den caught a cat roaming around,” Winry said, her snappish tone betraying her apparent composure.

“’Caught’?” Alphonse snapped back at her. “More like he was going to have the poor thing for dinner.”

Winry gripped the handrail hard. “You know Den’s not like that!”

Don Paco the impostor, reached around Winry and pulled her close to him but Winry was so rattled by all the squabbling that she jerked away.

Alphonse narrowed his eyes at Winry. “Well Den”—he spitefully emphasized the dog’s name—”has been acting strange ever since Ed got back. Did you forget already how he nipped at him when he tried to pet him?”

Edward’s feline eyes rounded. He could feel his brother's emotions through the hairs of his fur. And right now what he was registering wasn't good. He looked up at Winry. Like his brother, she too was reaching the limit of her patience. He couldn't help but look away. The two people he loved most in this world were fighting with each other; this too was his fault. He looked up again but this time he directed a pointed stare at Don Paco. For some strange reason that went beyond logic, Don Paco was actually trying to calm Winry just like Mei had been doing for his brother.

And they haven't been successful, he concluded. It was up to him to make things right.

Edward had served as referee many times before. Alphonse had acquired a bit of an attitude after he returned to his original body. Blame it on puberty; maybe he was always supposed to be this way. While his brother often butted heads with him there were a few occasions he took the fight to Winry. And she always welcomed the challenge. It would be so easy to put a stop to their bickering if they could understand him, but he was stuck in the body of a cat.

That got Edward thinking. Alphonse was a sucker for cats—defending him is what got him into trouble with Winry in the first place. Right now he was nestled in his brother’s arms. Cats purr, he thought. He'd seen Alphonse melting into a puddle of mush before, so purring might work on him.

Edward looked up. The muscles of Alphonse’s neck were as taut as the strings of a violin. Well that sucks... Alphonse was far too gone to sense anything. He lowered his eyes to the ground.

What could he do? The answer came to him instantly.

Mewling was going to be something that would haunt him for years on end, but for Winry and Alphonse, he would swallow his pride and do it.

So Edward cleared his throat—and coughed. He sounded like he needed to cough out a hairball. The coughing must've been quite bad because Alphonse’s worried eyes were now on him. Think fast!

Edward held Alphonse’s gaze. His hairy eyebrows shot up and his eyes rounded; flickered. He held that sad face until it had an effect on his brother. Ten seconds was all it took for Alphonse to turn into putty.

Yes! That was a huge victory for him.

“What is it, kitty?” Alphonse moved his hand to the side of Edward's jaw and rubbed it. Shivers ran down Edward’s spine. Oh, that’s good...so good. He couldn't help but close his eyes and lose himself in the moment. He purred.

“You should get rid of that mangy cat, Al.” Don Paco’s contemptuous comment brought everything to a screeching halt.

Alphonse stilled his hand. He looked up, his eyes filled with confusion, his mouth struggling to form words. “What—? No, Brother!” He finally said when he snapped out of it.

Edward felt Alphonse's indignation through the hairs of his fur. He glowered at Don Paco. The fucking idiot. That man didn't know the type of mess he’s gotten himself into.

“Look at it! Who knows where that thing has been!” Don Paco pressed on.

Alphonse frowned. “I don't care!” He held Edward tighter against his chest. “Can't you see he needs our help?” Don Paco couldn't help but sneer.

Winry scowled at the impostor. “What's the matter with you?”

Until that moment, Edward only cared about exacting revenge against the man who stole his body. But watching Don Paco panic was proving to be morbidly entertaining. “Way to go, asshole!” he gibed.

Mei’s eyes widened. She slowly turned to the cat and stared at it for a brief moment before shifting her gaze toward Alphonse. His face didn't show any signs of alarm, nor did anyone else's for that matter.

Edward didn't catch Mei’s reaction. He was much too preoccupied with Don Paco to care about anything else. He kept his eyes trained on the man, who just happened to step into Winry’s personal space.

“Winry, my love, I just want the best for all of us,” the impostor cooed. He even went as far as to cup a side of her face. “That cat could be carrying some terrible disease for all we know,” he added while rubbing his thumb over her rosy cheek.

That arrogant sunnovabitch! Edward felt the hairs in his nape bristling. “Hey, asshole! The only sick thing around here is you!” If Edward hadn't been so riled up he would've heard Mei gasping.

A red-faced Winry took the impostor’s hand in hers and lowered it. She searched his eyes, then after a pause, she said, “Ed, you've never cared about things like that before.”

“I never have...cared?” the impostor fumbled to find the right words. Moments later, he was smiling with sheepish amusement. “I guess I never have, haven't I?”

Ah c’mon! “You just had to go and act stupid.” Edward sneered, hating that Don Paco was making him look like a chump in front of Winry.

Mei inhaled a sharp breath.

Alphonse turned to his girlfriend. “Are you okay?” Mei was staring at the cat with wide, unblinking eyes. She glanced at Alphonse and gave him a quick smile before returning her attention to the cat.

Edward heard Alphonse’s chest rumbling. He looked up and caught his brother staring at Mei. He too stared at her, but she averted her gaze when she noticed him watching her.

“If Al is okay with it, then I'm okay with it,” said Don Paco.

Mei clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

Edward raised his eyebrows. Mei had a look of frozen dismay written all over her face as if she had made an important discovery.

“Al you can keep the cat. And you will assume full responsibility for it,” Pinako said.

Edward put his thoughts on hold and turned his attention to Granny just like everyone else did.

Alphonse looked pleased with the verdict. But his triumphant smile was shot down by Pinako’s pointed glare. “You better apologize to Den,” she said just as Alphonse’s expression was returning back to neutral.

Chuckling nervously, Alphonse turned to Den who not long ago came out of his doghouse to become a silent spectator. He offered the dog a genuine smile, and said, “Sorry, boy. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.”

Den’s hips swung from side to side fueled by the force of his wagging tail. His silly dance came to a stop when he rolled onto his back for a belly rub.

Edward jumped out of his brother's arms and moved out of the way. Alphonse stared at him, but then Den barked. He returned his attention back to the dog, who was wiggling on the floor like a worm. “Okay, okay,” Alphonse said, chuckling and shaking his head as he approached the dog. He knelt on the ground and rubbed Den’s spotted belly.

Edward sat on his hind legs while he watched everyone from the sidelines. Alphonse laughed while he goofed off with Den. Winry joined in the fun and soon was taking over for Alphonse. Granny Pinako gave his impostor a pointed glare—the dumbass probably did something stupid to piss her off. And Mei—well—she had been slowly inching her way towards him. When he met her gaze, he saw worry crisscrossing her delicate features. But all thought disappeared from his mind when the princess, out-of-the-blue, decided to scoop him up.

Turning to the group, she said, “Alphonse-sama I think the poor kitty is hungry.”

Alphonse looked at Mei, then the cat, then back at Mei. “Sure,” he said as he walked towards her.

Mei switched the cat to her left side and grabbed Alphonse by the hand. “Hey slow down!” Alphonse exclaimed when she started pulling. But Mei didn't stop. She did shush him, though. “Less talk, more walk,” Mei said in a harsh whisper before tugging at his hand again.

She led Alphonse around the house of simply going through the front door to reach the kitchen. The impostor followed them with his eyes until they disappeared from sight.

"Okay, Mei, will you tell me what's going on?" Alphonse asked while Mei let the cat down on the kitchen floor.She made a shushing sound then looked at the entrance to the kitchen before setting her gaze back on Alphonse. "Something weird is going on," she whispered.Alphonse shook his head. "The only weird thing in here is you." He glanced at Mei then let out a tired sigh.Edward knew that sound all too well; his brother didn't want to get involved in another fight.Alphonse left their side and headed to the cupboard where he grabbed a small saucer from one of the top shelves. He then went to the refrigerator and took out the milk. After filling the saucer halfway, he set it on the floor. "Come here kitty!" Alphonse said as he crouched next to the plate.Edward ran towards his brother. He stuck his head in the plate but immediately pulled back; Alphonse raised his eyebrows at him. So Edward pushed past his hate for milk and decided to take another shot at drinking the vile secretion.

Meanwhile, Mei approached Alphonse. “Didn't you hear it?”

Alphonse let out another sigh. “Hear what?”

Edward perked his ears. Alphonse had tried to sound calm but irritation was evident in his voice.

Mei ignored Alphonse's pissy attitude. She looked again at the kitchen entrance before whispering, “Al, the cat can talk.” She set her eyes on Edward. “Not only can the cat talk but he also sounds just like your older brother.”

Edward choked on his milk; Alphonse let out a loud cackle.

“Keep it down!” Mei scolded Alphonse in a harsh whisper. Her eyes darted to the kitchen entrance again.

“Mei, that's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard!” Alphonse said as he wiped mirthful tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Alphonse-sama!” Mei screeched in indignation, but Alphonse cut her off.

“Listen, I know our trip has been rough. Maybe three days of rest isn't long enough to feel fully recharged.”

“But Alphonse-sama,” Mei interrupted, but Alphonse was having none of it.

“Mei, please stop this nonsense!” He snapped at her. A second later, he said in a softer tone, “I think you're still feeling exhausted—I know I am.” He paused a moment, then added, “Don't you think you could've been hearing things?”

Mei curled her hands into tight fists. “I know what I heard!” she snapped back.

Edward sauntered towards Mei, then, while looking directly at Alphonse, he said, “You should listen to your girlfriend, dumbass.”

Mei snapped her head down and looked at Edward. “There! Did you hear it?” She cried out.

Alphonse offered her an uneasy smile. “The cat meowed. That's what cat’s do.”

So only Al’s girl can hear me, Edward thought. It would've been nice if Alphonse could hear him too, it definitely would've made it easier to take Don Paco down if he did.

Just when despair started clouding his head, he remembered what Matilde said before he departed from the Far West.

“Gaea!” Edward cried out. “You can tune in to Gaea!” He said as he turned to Mei.

“Gaea?” Mei repeated.

“Yes, Gaea—Mother Nature!”

The excitement of the discovery made Edward forget about his situation for an instant. He spun around in a circle, sat on his hind legs one moment only to stand up the next. Unfortunately, he only noticed what he was doing when Mei started giggling.

Mei dropped to her knees to be closer to Edward. “Do you mean the Dragon’s Pulse?”

“Yes, that thing you said!” Edward felt like leaping excitedly around the room but he sat on his hind legs to save himself from more embarrassment.

“Mei, really?” Alphonse scoffed, his eyebrows raised in utter disbelief.

Mei let out a frustrated sigh. “Alphonse-sama, try blocking out the ambient noise like I've taught you.” Alphonse’s eyes brows hiked up higher. “Just do it!” Mei yelled at him.

Alphonse frowned. “Okay-okay.” He closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, which he released slowly. He opened his eyes and looked at Mei. “There.”

“Talk to the cat.”

Alphonse was about to complain but Edward shut him up. “Gee, Al, you sure can be a real handful when you want to,” he said, then shook his head. ”And people say I'm the pig-headed one.”

Alphonse’s eyes grew wide, and his mouth gaped open. A few heartbeats went by before he managed to suppress his shock. “What in the—?” Alphonse mumbled, and looked towards the kitchen entrance like his girlfriend had been doing. “How in blazes are you doing this?” he asked when he returned his attention back to her.

“I'm not doing anything!” Mei retorted.

“Listen, Al,” Edward intruded, trying to capture his brother's attention. He waited for Alphonse's eyes to be on him before continuing. “This is really happening,” he added.

Alphonse's scrutiny was intense. Edward knew his brother was going to react in one of two ways: either Alphonse was going to take things calmly or— “Al, don't freak—”

Alphonse let out a sharp gasp. “Hot dogs on a stick!”

Edward was now certain that his brother’s calm and calculating disposition had been left with the armor. Still, he was expecting an entirely different reaction to the one Alphonse had. “’Hot dogs on a stick?’” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “No ‘oh shit’ or ‘what the fuck’?”

Alphonse snapped out of his shock. “You know I don't like to curse, Bro—” He began admonishing, but then shut his mouth closed. His silence didn't last long. “This is crazy!” he cried.

Edward walked towards his brother and stopped when his front legs were about to touch the tip of Alphonse's shoes. Edward sat on his hind legs then he looked up. “Al, I know this is freaky—hell—I'm still freaking out myself.”

Alphonse shook his head. “But how?”

“Alphonse-sama...” Mei took one of her boyfriend’s hand in hers.

There was much Edward needed to tell them both so he spun around and headed for the table—hopefully, the would follow. He jumped on top of the table, then sat down. After taking a deep breath, he started telling his story.

“Magick,” he said in a somber tone.

“What do you mean by ‘magic’?” Alphonse was quick to interrupt.

“’Magic—k’,” Edward corrected by stressing the sound of the letter ‘K’ in the word. “Magick with a ‘K’ is not the same as magic without the ‘K’, as you can see.” He stood up and modeled around the table to drive the point across.

Alphonse pressed two fingers to his temple.

“Edward, who did this to you?” Mei asked.

Edward’s expression darkened. “A sorcerer.”

“A sorcerer?” Alphonse repeated.

“As in the kind that can cast spells and shit,” Edward explained, then he fell silent. His thoughts went to the moment before passing out. “But this one can also use alchemy,” he added after he returned his attention to them.

Edward knew, by the look of complete shock drawn on their faces, that he needed to elaborate, so he continued. “He has a Sanguine Star—a Philosopher’s Stone.” He paused to give them enough time to absorb the new bit of information. Then he said, “He might've used the stone to do this to me.”

Alphonse groaned; and Mei put her hands on his sagging shoulders.

“Are you—?” She began but stopped talking abruptly. Her eyebrows arched and her expression darkened.

Edward understood her perfectly. Shaking his head, he said, “I'm not a chimera, Mei, but I think Don Paco used the same process of affixing the mind and soul onto something else, in this case, his cat.”

“Dammit, Ed! How could you be so careless?” Alphonse bellowed.

Edward looked away in shame. Alphonse and Mei also avoided looking at each other. And the seconds stretched out in silence.

But the stillness didn't last for long; Edward’s stomach roared with the fierceness of a lion. Both Alphonse and Mei turned their eyes back to him and caught Edward with his ears flattened against his head.

“Al, I haven't eaten much in two days...I'm starving,” Edward said in a mortified tone.

“Brother...” Alphonse muttered. His face softened quite a bit and so had his tone of voice.

Alphonse motioned to pick up the saucer. “Um, since you're a cat now—”

“Don't you fucking dare serve me more milk!” Edward hissed. He could still smell that stinky secretion all over his snout. “I only drank some of it because I was starving.” He shuddered, then shuddered some more.

Alphonse let out a snicker. “Got it. No more milk for the kitty.” He waited for Edward to glower at him before continuing, “We still have some leftovers from the other day.” A pause. “It's beef stew, by the way, but since you don't want any more milk, and the stew has milk in it—”

Edward bared his fangs at him. “Do you want me to scratch your face?”

Alphonse burst out laughing, so did Mei.

“One beef stew coming up!”

Edward did well in telling Alphonse and Mei to sit down before telling the rest of his story.

“Okay...” Alphonse started but fell silent. The tale of a body-snatcher sorcerer from the Far West had been hard to digest. Edward had managed to explain things well but there were still some loose ends in the story. Alphonse looked at Mei and saw in her face that she was thinking along similar lines.

“Don Paco took my body for himself,” Edward said, his words left both Alphonse and Mei stunned.

Xiao Mei, who decided to join the group a while back, approached her companion. She sniffed one of her hands before rubbing the side of her face against it. Mei gathered her in her arms.

“How?” Alphonse muttered to himself. Turning to Edward, he said, “That sorcerer had us all fooled, Brother. I mean, he knows things—private details of our lives.”

Edward remained silent for a brief moment. “I don't know how he's doing it,” he admitted, frowning. “This man is more dangerous than I ever anticipated.”

Mei stopped petting Xiao Mei. She looked at Alphonse then at Edward, and said, “Gomenasai, Edward, I shouldn't have suggested coming back inside. That creep is right now out there with Winry and Granny...I just hope they're okay.”

Xiao Mei’s ears perked up, then she started growling at the kitchen entrance. Edward snapped his head in that direction too.

“Hey, guys!” Don Paco said as he stepped into view. Edward and Xiao Mei bristled while Alphonse and Mei jumped out of their chairs.

Don Paco put his hands on his hips and grinned. “Sorry to interrupt your meeting but you two”—he pointed a finger at Alphonse then at Mei—”were taking so long that I decided to get you.” Then he turned his full attention to Edward. “Cano,” he called, his grin transforming into a wicked one. ”Were you fibbing about me?”

#fmabb17 #fma #fmab #story update #reblog please #fmachallenges

5 notes · View notes

queen-of-deans-booty · 7 years ago

Text

Hook Man- Part 2

Pairing: Eventual Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,952

Warnings: Typical Supernatural violence, angst, language, minor character death, blood, you know the usual

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Please, if you want to be tagged for this series, let me know and I’ll add you! If you want to be tagged for my other fics, I’ll add you! I want to hear what you guys think about this.

Read the backstory for this episode!

You go Camping with Dean

Feedback is always appreciated

Tags at the bottom

Part One

You pulled up and turned the car off. You didn’t even have to honk or walk inside because at the first sign of his Baby, Dean was out of the house and storming to you. Dean made sure there was no scratches or dents and then went to you.

“That was fun.” You grinned, getting out and holding up the keys.

“You are so going to get it later.” He stepped closer to you, your chests almost touching.

“Ooo, kinky.” You giggled and he snatched the keys from you and you moved to the back. Sam walked out and he chuckled when he saw Dean’s pissed face and your laughing one. He got in the passenger’s seat and looked at you.

“Did you find anything?”

“Yes I did and you’ll love it. We just need to get to a library to do some more research.” Dean grunted but complied, starting his car and driving off.

“You know, I might get myself a car like this.”

“Sweetheart, there is no car out there like this one.” He chuckled softly, and continued to drive. It was true, this Impala was the only one like this and you couldn’t ever see Dean driving around in a different one. Dean reached the library and he got out with you and Sam, walking inside.

“Okay, want to tell us what she told you?”

“She said she heard scratching on the roof. Police found the body suspended upside down over the car.”

“Wait, the body suspended? That sounds like…” Dean was cut off by you. You were excited about this one. Well not excited about the Hook Man itself but about finding information on your own.

“Yeah, the Hook Man legend.” You confirmed.

“That’s one of the most famous urban legends ever. You don’t think that we’re dealing with the Hook Man.” Dean sighed, walking with you and Sam further into the library.

“Dean, we just dealt with Bloody Mary and you’re telling me about this legend? She’s one of the oldest ones too.” You looked at Sam when he spoke.

“Every urban legend has a source. A place where it all began.”

“Yeah, but what about the phantom scratches and the tire punctures and the invisible killer?” Dean asked.

“Well, maybe the Hook Man isn’t a man at all. What if it’s some kind of spirit?” Sam noticed an empty table and sat down with Dean. You spotted a librarian and told the boys to wait as you walked over to her.

“Hi, I was wondering if you had arrest reports here from as far back as they go. I’m a new student here with my two brothers and we already have a project due for our criminal justice class.”

“Oh, of course, let me go get those for you.” You smiled and watched as she walked to the shelves and you waited for her to return. You saw her carrying two boxes and offered to take it from her.

“They are dated all the way back to 1851.” She smiled.

“I appreciate your help.” You smiled and grabbed the boxes, walking back to Sam and Dean. You set the boxes down on the table and sat across from the boys.

“These are dated back to 1851 so if it’s not in here, we’re screwed.” You smiled and brought a box to you, opening it.

“So, this is how you spent four good years of your life, huh?” Dean asked his brother, chuckling as he opened the other box.

“Welcome to higher education.” Sam chuckled, grabbing a file. You grabbed one and started to read through the files. You spent a good 3 hours here and nothing was coming up. This was harder than you expected it to be.

“Please tell me you two found something. I’m on the verge of tears right now.” You sighed, pushing the file from you. Both boys were looking at one file together and you waited for them to say something.

“Yeah, check this out. 1862. A preacher named Jacob Karns was arrested for murder. Looks like he was so angry over the red-light district in town that one night he killed 13 prostitutes. It says here that some of the victims were found in their beds with the sheets soaked with blood. Others were suspended upside down from the limbs on trees.” Sam said.

“Get this, the murder weapon? Looks like the preacher lost his hand in an accident. Had it replaced with a silver hook,” Dean added, looking at you. “Guess where it happened.”

“Let me take a wild stab at it. 9 Mile Road?”

“Same place where the frat boy was killed.” Sam sighed.

“Nice job boys. You should really have gone to college, Dean. Your researching skills are giving a girl all kinds of feels.” You winked and giggled, gathering your things and getting up.

“Yeah you wish.” Dean chuckled, getting up, Sam following yours and Dean’s actions. It was night by the time you got to 9 Mile Road and you got out when Dean parked the car. If you were going to hunt a spirit down, you would need weapons and you waited for Dean to open the trunk.

“Here,” Dean said once he got it open. He handed you a rifle and Sam one as well.

“If it is a spirit, buckshot won’t do much good.” Sam said, looking at the weapon.

“Yeah, that's why it’s rock salt.” You grinned.

“Huh, salt being a spirit deterrent.” Sam nodded. Dean took out a coil of rope and shut the trunk.

“It won’t kill them but it’ll stop them.” Dean nodded.

“That’s pretty good. You and Dad think of this?” He looked at you and shrugged.

“I told you, you don’t have to be a college graduate to be a genius.” Dean chuckled.

“Since when have you ever said that?” You wondered. You stopped joking around when you heard rustling come from the bushes. You raised your gun and cocked it, ready to fight whatever was coming.

“Put the gun down now! Now! Put your hands behind your head.” A police officer yelled at you. You groaned and uncocked it, dropping it to the ground.

“Shit.” You muttered.

“Now get down on your knees. Come on, do it! On your knees!” You complied with the police officer and just hoped he didn’t recognize you. “Now get down on your bellies. Come on, do it!” You and the boys did as you were told.

Shit, this wasn’t going to go down well.

You were locked in a room and you had your hands cuffed to the table in front of you. You were the dumbass that tried to shoot a cop. You had no idea what was happening to Sam or Dean. You didn’t know how to get out of this one but luckily, you didn’t have to because the cop that arrested you, came in and set you free.

You frowned but followed him out of the room to where Sam and Dean were waiting in the lobby. You smiled politely at the cop and quickly got out of the place. You hated cops.

“Saved your ass! Talked the sheriff down to a fine. I am Matlock.” Dean grinned once the three of you walked outside.

“But how?” You sighed. “You know what, I don’t care. As long as he didn’t recognize me as the murderer that killed a bunch of people in Ohio, I’m perfectly happy with a fine.” You said, walking further outside.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re safe.” Dean grinned.

“So where to now? Did you find anything?” You asked. Dean and Sam didn’t get a chance to answer because there was commotion coming from the police station you were just in. half a dozen police officers ran out of the building and into squad cars, hurrying to get to wherever they were going.

You quickly got in the car and Dean drove off after them to see where they were going. They were headed to either a sorority house or a college dorm because there were a lot of college kids hanging around.

Dean drove by slowly and you saw Lori sitting on the back of an ambulance. You made eye contact with her but lost it when Dean drove away. Dean parked his car on another street, which was a smart decision. You got out and walked with Sam and Dean to around the sorority house. You knew they wanted to break in.

“Why would the Hook Man come here? This is a long way from 9 Mile Road.” Sam thought.

“Maybe he’s not haunting the scene of his crime. Maybe it’s about something else,” You said quietly. You saw sorority girls come out of the side of the house. You hid against the wall with the boys and waited until they were gone to continue your quest.

“Dude, sorority girls! Think we’ll see a naked pillow fight?” Dean asked with a grin. You rolled your eyes at his comment.

“Dean, you know that’s not what girls do in their spare time.” You watched as Sam climbed up the side of the house to the balcony.

“Why you gotta ruin that for me?” Dean sighed, helping you up with Sam before climbing up himself. Sam looked over the edge of the balcony to see police and women out there. You saw a window and hoped it was open. It was and you got inside the room quickly. You moved out of the way for Sam and Dean to come in.

You noticed you were in a closet and you crept towards the door and peeked through the crack. You held your breath, seeing the last police officer walk past you and out of the bedroom.

You walked out when the coast was clear and gasped when you saw the room was covered in blood. You looked at the wall and nudged whoever was closest to you.

“Look, ‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the light?’ That’s right out of the legend.” Sam sighed. You looked up at him with worry.

“Yeah, that’s classic Hook Man all right,” You were so focused on trying to find clues that you didn’t notice a horrid stench in the room. “It’s definitely a spirit.”

“Yeah, I’ve never smelled ozone this strong before,” Sam said, moving to get a closer look on the writing on the wall. “Hey, come here, does that look familiar to you?” You walked over to him and noticed tiny symbols under the letters. It was best to take a picture of this so you did it with your phone.

“We should get out of here before someone catches us. I think we got what we needed.” You said. The boys agreed and you got out the way you came in. You made sure to leave nothing behind. When you got to the Impala, you were free to talk about it.

“From the research we did, these symbols look very similar to those ones.” You said, looking at your phone.

“Alright, let’s find the dude’s grave, salt and burn the bones, and put him down.” Dean shrugged.

“That is going to be hard. Jacob Karns was laid to rest in an unmarked grave after execution.” Sam said, remembering what he read.

“Super.” Dean sighed.

“Ok. So, we know it’s Jacob Karns. But we still don’t know where he’ll manifest next or why.” You bit your lip.

“I’ll take a wild guess about why. I think your little friend Lori has something to do with this. While you were out taking a joy spin, Sam and I got to talking with Murph. You like to party, right?” Dean smirked, looking at you.

Part Three

Masterlist // Series Rewrite Masterlist // Buy me a Coffee?

Series Rewrite tags:

@helllonearth @amyisabellal @deanwnchstr @caseykitten6 @roxalya19 @quixoticcat

Forever tags:

@deans-shorter-squirrel @maddieburcham1 @ginamsmith @mogaruke @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @whit85-blog @inlovewithbja

Dean tags:

@akshi8278 @mega-mrs-dean-winchester @winchesterandpie

Other tags:

@jensen-jarpad @notnaturalanahi @deathtonormalcy56 @27bmm

91 notes · View notes

bakurapika · 7 years ago

Text

i wish this fic existed

wait didn’t i start writing that fic and give up

let me check

“It’s okay,” Greg said uncomfortably, looking up at Ryan. Those huge round eyes seemed to bore into him. “I know they told you to act nice. Everyone’s been acting weird since I lost my brother.”

“Yeah, well.” Ryan tried to choose his words carefully. How was he supposed to comfort a grieving six-year-old? “They probably just want you to know he’s in a better place.”

“I know. I was there too.” Greg smiled, almost wistful. Creepy.

“Listen, I don’t think your mom would want us talking about this,” Ryan said.

“I go visit him at night! Wilfred’s there too.”

“He--what?” Ryan looked back and forth between the dog and the boy, his stare lingering accusingly on Wilfred, who shrugged.

“No idea what he’s talking about, mate,” Wilfred said helpfully.

“You see… Wilfred, in your dreams about your dead brother?” Ryan said to Greg. “You just met him!”

“Wilfred’s the name of my frog, silly,” Greg said, holding up the croaking frog for emphasis.

grew up moving around, no one place to call jime

sunup to sunset on the bus all alone

mom was sick, dad at work, and with two younger kids

took care of them and herself, that was just how it is

went toe to toe with a number one killer

inked her, tazed her, didnt even phase her

got a pill and a bill that was forty feet long

got so pissed at the man cuz she knew it was wrong

flew thru pure force of rage straight to wdc

had a speech on tv for the whole world to see

haters say its ok that shes just starting drama

but so much fame, check her name, on her arm, Michelle obama

stepped up, packed up, drove to colorado

shes movin faster than a real desperado

dont start it youll regret it brother

if you try and start it, shes a real mother

“Yeah!” Wirt nodded eagerly, sitting and gesturing at Greg. “Last night we were setting up camp in a clearing. Everything normal, right? Greg’s bugging me, I mean, talking about eating bugs and stuff, but we all get to bed and everything’s fine. But I wake up and he’s like this.

“I’m hungry,” Greg complained loudly as he gathered darkened leaves in his arms.

“Yeah, Greg,” Wirt said. He’d already pushed together enough leaves to make a respectable pile to lie on. He was propped against the bark of a towering tree, hands folded on his stomach. “We’re all hungry. We can try to find a town or something again tomorrow, okay? Or an apple tree.”

“From Johnny Appleseed?” Greg’s eyes sparkled as he looked over at his brother.

“Yeah, sure. Maybe we’ll meet the guy. Stranger things have happened here.”

“Hooray,” Beatrice said from a branch above the two of them. “Then we’d get two weirdos with pots on their head.”

“Excuse me, madam!” Greg looked mortally offended. “This is a trunk!”

“Great, you’ll be able to fit even more apple seeds in it, then,” she said. “Ugh. Seeds. What I’d give for a handful of seeds right now.”

Wirt looked up to her and said, “Can’t you just eat some bugs or something?”

“Sure I could,” she said. “So could you two.”

“Yuck,” Greg said, finally deeming his leaf pile large enough to push toward Wirt. In trying to relocate the pile, he lost half the leaves in the process, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. “Wirt, you can split my share of bugs.”

“Split?” Wirt said.

“Yeah, with Paul Bunyan!” he said, pointing at his frog, who croaked in hungry anticipation.

“None of us is eating bugs. Except Beatrice. Because she’s a bird and it’s okay for birds to do that.”

“I guess I’m eating you two, since you won’t stop bugging me and get to sleep!” Beatrice said, feathers ruffled.

“I dunno if I can sleep,” Greg said, scooting up alongside Wirt and grabbing his pet frog. Wirt was cold but not quite cold enough for cuddles with his kid half-brother, so he correspondingly inched away. “That tree over there keeps looking at me.”

“Which tree?” Wirt said warily, craning his neck to look around. Greg didn’t answer. Wirt opened his mouth to repeat himself when he noticed Greg curled up, breathing softly. Sound asleep already--so much for staying up all night. “Guess we’re safe from trees after all, huh,” Wirt said.

“I’m not gonna slow down for you tomorrow if you’re dead on your feet from lack of sleep,” Beatrice said grumpily above him.

“Gosh, I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping,” Wirt said, turning to lie on his side and face the deep forest around them. He didn’t see any trees with faces. Hopefully that meant they couldn’t see him either.

His sleep was undisturbed, save for a few quiet complaints of hunger from a restless Greg beside him. But each time one of the brothers awoke, they fell asleep again soon after, exhaustion outweighing every other bodily need until the sun peaked over the treetops and threw its beams into their eyes.

As usual, Beatrice seemed to awaken at the crack of dawn and spend the next hour pestering Wirt to “get up and get a move on already!”

Wirt’s protests for “five more minutes” were useless and he soon found himself waking up, limbs creaking like an old rocking chair when he moved and rubbed his eyes.

“Time to get moving, Greg,” he said, stifling a yawn and reaching out to shake Greg’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

At first it seemed Greg was still sound asleep. Wirt was about to shake him a bit harder when Greg smoothly turned to blink up at him. There was something disarming about his expression that gave Wirt pause. More than anything Greg did, though, what he looked like startled Wirt.

His eyes.

Those huge, bulbous, familiar multi-colored eyes: pink pupils ringed with yellow, and a sickening sky blue around the iris that invaded the whites of Greg’s eyes.

“Greg?” Wirt asked hesitantly, pulling his hand back.

Greg smiled as though nothing was wrong.

“Thaaaaat’s not okay,” Wirt said, scrambling away from his brother. “Greg! Can you, uh, can you hear me?”

“Of course,” Greg said pleasantly. His blinking was slow and unnatural.

Wirt gave him a once-over, checking for anything else weird. There were vines growing beneath Greg, twining up his limbs. Wirt thought he saw one move. Greg’s frog was watching warily, keeping his distance. “Seriously? I mean, you don’t, uh, look… um. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three,” Greg said when Wirt flashed three fingers at him.

“And you’re feeling okay?”

“I feel fine, brother.” Greg’s smile didn’t leave him, nor did those huge eyes waver from meeting Wirt’s.

“Beatrice!” Wirt called up to the bird circling above them, trying to navigate from the sky. “This is creepy, right? I mean, it’s not just me?”

“What is it now?” Beatrice alighted beside the boys, unconcerned until she got a good look at Greg. “Holy moley, that doesn’t look good.”

Wirt made a confused groan, waving his hand in front of Greg slowly. Greg’s eyes didn’t follow it, staying locked onto Wirt’s face. When Wirt stood and brushed himself off, though, Greg stood as well. The vines caging his limbs moved with him, their roots skimming through the dirt without resistance as if Greg were standing on water rather than solid ground.

Wirt glanced up and down at the boy, then, with a grunt, stooped and picked him up experimentally. Greg was dead weight in his arms, grinning without concern as the branches stretched up to accommodate his new height.

“This is bad,” Wirt said, dragging Greg away from the leaf piles they’d slept on. The plants followed. “Greg, what are you feeling right now? What happened?”

“I feel fine,” Greg said. He was breathing--Wirt checked--but otherwise there was no movement, none of the animation that always accompanied Greg’s words.

Wirt set him down, his arms aching. “This has to have something to do with the Beast,” he decided. “Those freaky trees. We gotta cut you out of these things.” He grabbed at a thin branch for emphasis, but it stuck to Greg as if it were part of his natural body. “So we gotta find something sharp. Maybe there’s a doctor or something around that can… remove this? I dunno.” Wirt grabbed his cap from the forest floor and stuck it on his head. “Can you walk okay, Greg?”

“Yes.” The curt answer might have sounded rude if it weren’t so cheerful.

“We’re pretty far from any buildings,” Beatrice said, alighting on Greg’s teapot where the branches hadn’t reached. “I say we keep heading toward the ferry. Worst case, we can get Adelaide to help us.”

“You think he can go across water?” Wirt asked with a frown.

“Look, boats have safety equipment and stuff, don’t they? I’m sure they’ve got something sharp on board. Now c’mon, this way, we’re losing daylight,” Beatrice said.

Wirt murmured in reluctant agreement. Greg obeyed Beatrice thoughtlessly, walking so smoothly as to almost glide across the ground. With a croak, the frog followed, always at least arm’s length away from Greg.

Wirt watched them go for a moment, staring at the back of Greg’s head. The odd cadence of Greg’s movement, normally so bouncy and halting but now as effortless as the shadow of a storm cloud sliding across the landscape, disturbed him. But more than anything else, those eyes glowing in their nauseating washed-out neons--the eyes of a predator, accessorized by the fancy-free smile of youth--haunted Wirt’s thoughts. Something deep within him stirred, urging him to run, abandon the quest for home and escape the Beast while he could. The mortal terror he’d felt when facing the mill’s dog was present in him now, but amplified. But as impossible as it was to pretend there was nothing unworldly about his brother, it was equally unthinkable to leave him. Even the ghost of that thought made Wirt recoil. Leaving Greg was fundamentally undoable.

So, delayed, perhaps, but with a steeled resolve, Wirt forced himself forward and took Greg’s hand. It was cold and dry, and Greg didn’t acknowledge the touch. But Beatrice turned her head to look at Wirt, confused at the sudden gesture.

Wirt couldn’t remember the last time he’d held his brother’s hand.

Onward the three of them went, plunging deeper into the thick forest of the Unknown.

---

“What was that?” Wirt said, stopping short. They’d walked all day, the blazing sun arcing above them until it sleepily settled behind the horizon, tucking itself in and preparing for nighttime. They’d have to stop and make camp soon, though Beatrice insisted they could make it to the ferry before midnight.

Hearing an odd, almost melodic clanking drove Wirt off course. He’d held Greg’s hand all day (still with no reaction from Greg himself), so when Wirt froze and turned, Beatrice’s teapot perch stopped too.

“Ignore it, Wirt, we’re almost there,” Beatrice chided him, but Wirt shook his head.

“That wasn’t an animal. I think there might be a house nearby,” he said, pulling Greg behind him toward the source of the noise.

“It doesn’t matter! Stick to the plan and stay on course,” Beatrice commanded.

The way Wirt ignored her was unprecedented. “No, I was right!” he said, gesturing at a clearing as they came upon it. “A house! Whoever lives here has gotta be able to help us fix Greg somehow!” A clinking answered him cheerfully from what appeared to be a homemade windchime--shards of something white wrapped by twine and hung from a stick near a window. It might have been makeshift, but Wirt took it as a comforting sign. It was definitely a gamble to ask a stranger for help in these woods, but this shack came across as homey. Wirt thought he smelled fresh tea and vegetables; his stomach felt emptier than it had a moment ago.

He wasted no time in dragging his brother on the porch, rapping his knuckles on the wooden door. No answer came, though he almost certainly saw a silhouette move inside the dark home.

“Let’s go, Wirt, no one’s in,” Beatrice said from behind him.

One more knock, and then Wirt said, “Excuse me?” through the door. “I’m sorry, I know it’s late, but this is an emergency and we need your help!”

It seemed like the door would stay shut, but as Wirt raised his hand to knock again, it rattled and opened cautiously. “What sort of emergency?” a suspicious voice, high pitched enough to be either a girl’s or a young woman’s, asked through the crack.

“I, um. That’s a good question.” Wirt bit the inside of his cheek while staring down at a silent Greg. “Something really weird is happening to my brother. Do you know where we can find a doctor or something? As soon as possible.”

The door opened a little wider. Wirt spied a girl around his age, crowned with a wild mousey-brown head of hair and swathed in a yellowed nightdress, in the cabin. “I’m sorry if I woke you up,” Wirt added nervously.

“Oh--” The girl looked down, clearly only now realizing that she wasn’t dressed for company. “It’s all right, I wasn’t sleeping yet. You’d better come inside. There’s no doctor for miles and miles, and it’s not safe to be out in the forest. Especially at night.”

“You’re telling me. C’mon, Greg. Beatrice!” he called behind him. “Are you coming?”

“I might as well,” Beatrice grumbled, swooping in beside Wirt.

The girl looked as if she’d been delighted out of her trepidation, holding the door open for all three guests. “A talking bird! Amazing!”

Beatrice didn’t miss a beat, altering her voice to be so polite that Wirt thought it must be physically painful for her to speak as she alighted on the inner corner of a window sill. “Ah, right, pleasure to meet you. My name is Beatrice, and these two darlings are Wirt and Greg. We’re nearing the end of a harrowing journey, and I’m positive we won’t be bothering you for long.” She shot Wirt a look.

“I can’t believe--Beatrice, have you seen Greg?” Wirt took Greg by the shoulders and spun him around to face the bluebird. Greg stared blankly at her, tricoloured eyes glowing in the dim lamplight of the cabin. “He’s not even Greg right now!”

Beatrice hopped from one side to the other, unsettled by the stare. “It won’t matter once we get to Adelaide. She’ll fix things.”

“Or, maybe--” Wirt started to retort, but looked at his host, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

The girl was standing off to the side, hands behind her back, but offered a smile when spoken to. “I’m Anna. It’s a pleasure to meet you all as well.” She waved a hand toward a table, three chairs already set around it. “Make yourselves comfortable. May I ask what’s wrong with your brother?”

qJ YP

u u

u u 0

L 5

j J

G P

Y L

8G Z

5 Yu k

P 15 P

0 L F

G q

E Y J G

G XE2

8 j

8 0

L Z 8 uq

k u

To tune of mexican hat dance (or ‘nations of the world’)

Triceratops prorsus was really herbivorous though it had three scary horns

Then right above us is a Quetzalcoatlus, a reptile who was airborne

Thescelosaurus, a “lizard” so wondrous, though it got left in a crate

When Hatcher shipped Marsh this neglected specimen and Struthiomimus by freight

Daspletosaurus is a big frightful lizard a little older than T-Rex

And nearby you see the marsupial teeth of a didelphodon called vorax

Dromaeosaurus was covered in feathers and might have evolved into birds

The crocodile lizard (by name, Champsosaurus) was, before Cope, quite unheard

Stangerochampsa was found in Montana, above it’s a Pteranodon

And here is a juvenile cretaceous duckbill, the “lizard” named for Edmonton

The 80-feet dino is not an Apato, it’s Brontosaurus since last year

And Allosaurus is the common meat-eater that Felch found as Marsh’s souvenir

Denver has hidden its Stegosaur blueprints but hopefully we’ll get one soon,

Though pterosaurs nearby were dug up right here by the quarry back in ‘92!

The big Pterodaustro fed like a flamingo by filtering water with bristles,

And next to it, gracious, we see Dorignathus then Rhamphorynchus fly like missiles

Our cutest dimorphodon came shipped from London by Marsh for his pterosaur round-up

And that’s it for dinos and fossils from dry land since an asteroid blew the ground up

This 42-footer is Elasmosaurus, whose head Cope put back on the tail

And here from Dallas, Protostega gigas, a turtle whose shell’s not to scale

And the Cretaceous snake’s-cousin from Kansas, the Tylosaurus with a snout

As well as the pteranodon from Niobrara, whose male’s wings are twice as stout

Xiphactinus audax is last of the big fish which Ed Cope managed to procure

Now give directions to museum sections and hope that they enjoyed the tour!

#WHY AM I LIKE THIS #wilf is NOT '[old north] wind i'd like to fuck' contrary to my own expectations #under the cut is just a bunch of wips #i found as i clicked through various untitled documents

1 note · View note

blackboard-monitor · 8 years ago

Text

Heavenbound, chapter 1

sort of forgot i started doing this so sorry if you were waiting for this, although i sincerely doubt anyone was

1 THE END IN THE BEGINNING

It was Tuesday.

Tessa Jokinen woke, feeling refreshed and full of energy. As if that wasn’t strange enough, once she rolled out of bed and stood up, she discovered that although she had gotten up, her body had not. In was still sprawled out on the bed, one foot sticking out from under the covers, her shoulder-length hair forming a tangled halo around her head.

Tessa decided that the peaceful image was somewhat ruined by the dark handle of a dagger jutting out between her shoulder blades. She rubbed her temples, feeling a little off course.

‘This is going to be really hard to explain,’ she said out loud.

‘Indeed,’ said a deep voice behind her. ‘You have died.’

‘I have arrived at that conclusion, too,’ said Tessa and turned around. There was a man leaning against her desk. Tessa couldn’t see very well in the unlit room, but she got an insistent feeling that she was looking at a classicistic sculpture. There was a definite air of smooth, bronze skin and certainly a lot of toga. Tessa raised her eyebrows.

‘Who are you? Like, Zeus?’ she asked.

‘No!’ snapped the man, clearly insulted. ‘I’m an angel of death.’

Tessa sighed. ‘Well, that’s really something then, isn’t it? I’m dead and there’s an angel in my room. I was actually kind of hoping for the grim reaper. You know, tall skeleton guy with the black robes and the scythe…’ she trailed off when the alleged angel just stared at her blankly. ‘I guess there’s a God, then?’

‘It is very likely,’ said the angel, ‘but I don’t have much to do with him. Do you want to hear something about being an angel?’

Tessa didn’t comment, because she was trying to decipher what was the point of an angel that didn’t have much to do with God. The idea wasn’t compliant with her knowledge of Christianity.

‘Well, the in the recruitment office they go on and on about duty and honour and the excitement of it all and then the next thing you know you’re on minimum wages and find yourself in the furthest corner of the multiverse at half past five in the morning, thinking this isn’t what I signed up for,’ the angel was complaining.

‘Do you have a point?’ asked Tessa. By now she was fairly convinced that this was all just a particularly absurd dream, but in the off chance that it was actually happening, she didn’t think the working conditions of an angel were among her biggest concerns.

‘Yes I do,’ said the angel, ‘I was just getting to it. The thing is, you are not merely dead. You were murdered.’

‘Oh, really?’ Tessa said pointedly. ‘Just when I thought that dagger appeared into my back out of natural causes. An unhealthy diet or something.’

‘Lose the attitude, would you? It’s not my fault you got stabbed,’ the angel protested. Tessa half wanted to point out that she wasn’t exactly in the best mood, but decided that she was more interested in seeing where this was going.

‘As I was saying, you have been murdered. However, this isn’t just your everyday murder we’re talking about it. The person who killed you just so happens to be Queen Random of Yölund,’ the angel said pompously.

‘The queen? Of Yölund? I’m pretty sure there’s no such place or person,’ Tessa told him.

‘Not on this planet or this reality, no. But Yölund is a real place just as much as Tampere, Finland,’ the angel replied.

Who names their kid Random? thought Tessa. Out loud, she said, ‘You know, I’m not a Christian, so why are you even here? To carry me to heaven?’ Tessa demanded.

‘I was getting to that, but you won’t let me finish. Indeed, usually that would be the case, but your death is something entirely extraordinary,’ the angel said conversationally.

‘Just tell me already,’ Tessa said with a sigh.

‘Fine. You’re awfully impatient for a decedent,’ complained the angel. ‘This is the Zephi Act from the Laws of the Deceased,’ he continued. A look of great concentration came over him as he recited, ‘ ”anyone whom has been slain by another being, be that being of another reality, can and will not be taken directly to Heaven. If they wish to continue their existence in Heaven, must they find their own way, and, in addition, punish the being that slay them in any way they see fit.” ’

‘Another reality? What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Tessa.

‘Are you familiar with the theory that every time anyone anywhere makes a decision, it creates a new reality -- or dimension, if you will -- parallel to this one?’

‘I do read sci-fi.’

‘Well, it’s not just a theory.’ The angel beamed at her.

Tessa rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, fair enough. I’m not saying I believe you, but even if I did, what does this have to do with me?’

‘You remember when I told you about Random of Yölund earlier?’

‘It was two minutes ago.’

‘Well then. As I said, Yölund is a real place, but it is located in a different reality entirely. Therefore, the law indisputably applies to you. I am here merely to send you on your way, not to take you to Heaven,’ the angel explained.

‘But why? What’s the point? If I’m to go to heaven, why should I have to get there myself, just because of who killed me?’ Tessa demanded.

The angel made a face. ‘It always seemed a little illogical to me, too. I suppose the idea was to reduce our workload.’

‘That makes no sense, though,’ said Tessa, ‘how does it lighten your workload if you have to come here anyway to explain how this works?’

‘You tell me,’ said the angel. ‘But the law’s the law. So, get ready. You’re going on a quest.’

‘A quest? Am I in a video game now?’ asked Tessa.

The angel shrugged.

‘Fine. And if I refuse?’

‘That is a little tricky. On paper, it would mean you would cease existing. In truth, the possibilities vary. You might stay here and haunt this place, or roam around as a restless soul, or you might end up in the Other Place. Technically reincarnation is always possible, although highly unlikely unless you really believe in that sort of thing.’

Tessa sank down on the side of her bed to reflect on this, momentarily forgetting that she was sitting in a pool of her own blood.

‘So, what’s your answer?’ asked the angel.

‘Well, this has all been very interesting and all,’ said Tessa, ‘but I think I’d like to wake up from this dream now.’

‘Ah,’ the angel said, ‘that explains a lot.’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘People are rarely that calm,’ the angel explained. ‘Except the ones who don’t believe it’s real, of course.’

‘But it isn’t real,’ Tessa argued. ‘Obviously it isn’t. All of this is completely absurd.’

‘Maybe, or maybe your view of reality is just limited. Does this really feel like a dream to you?’

Tessa had to admit that it didn’t. Even the most vivid of her dreams were never this detailed, let alone internally consistent. People would warp into different people, places would suddenly be other places, and there certainly had never been a pair of jeans flung across the back of her chair, where she had left them last night. Looking around her room, she saw nothing out of place -- apart from the angel, of course -- nothing out of the ordinary. The alarm clock on her nightstand glared 05.42 at her in red, digital lines.

She turned back to the angel. ‘Okay, so this seems real, I’ll give you that. But it can’t be, can it? I’m seventeen. I can’t just be dead. It doesn’t make any sense.’

The angel sighed. ‘Yes, yes, too young to die, life is so short, how very tragic and all that. Look, you’ll have plenty of time to mull over this later, but right now you’re going to have to get to the next stage of grief because I need an answer.’

‘Just give me a minute!’ Tessa snapped.

The angel obediently fell silent.

Okay, Tessa told herself, what am I going to do?

She found herself looking at what apparently was her dead body. There really was a lot of blood, and she knew she should have felt a lot more upset. If all of this was real -- and everything indicated it was, -- it meant that her life was over. She was awake now, but at the same time she was never going to wake up again. Knowing this should have made her sad, but she just felt sort of… blank.

‘Why aren’t I sad?’ she said out loud.

‘You are currently incorporeal and therefore lacking in the hormone and neurotransmitter department. You ability to experience emotions is obviously impaired,’ the angel said impatiently.

‘Huh,’ said Tessa, ‘that makes sense.’

‘Are you going or not?’ the angel demanded. ‘I really am on a schedule here.’

‘I didn’t get to that yet,’ said Tessa and received a heavy sigh as a response.

Now that she finally gave herself the chance to think about it, however, Tessa realised that there really was only one real option. She knew she didn’t want to be reincarnated, at the risk of becoming a mosquito or a right-wing extremist; nor did roaming around restlessly sound like a good way to spend an eternity. She wondered what the “other place” was and decided if the angel was from heaven, it had to be hell. That doesn’t seem like a viable option either, she thought. This quest is the best shot I’ve got.

‘Okay,’ said Tessa, ‘I’m done.’

‘Finally,’ groaned the angel.

‘First, I’d very much like to know your name, because having to think of you as “the angel” is driving me crazy,’ Tessa went on, ignoring the comment.

‘My name is Argon,’ the angel put in. ‘Would you just answer the question already, please?’

‘I was getting to it,’ Tessa said, ‘I’ll go. Oh, and by the way, your name is a noble gas.’

‘I am aware of that, thank you,’ Argon told her coldly.

‘Sorry. Finally, I’d like a little privacy, so I can change into something that isn’t Eeyore-pyjamas,’ Tessa concluded.

‘If you insist,’ said Argon, and vanished.

‘What is he suggesting?’ Tessa muttered under her breath as she walked over to her wardrobe, ‘wearing pyjamas on a fantasy quest? Not gonna happen.’

Changing proved to be a little challenging, however. Standing in front of the mirror on the wardrobe door, Tessa realised that her reflection had decided to take the day off. No matter how much she stared, the image of her pyjama-clad body, round face or small ears failed to appear on the glass, and things only got worse from there. When she attempted to open the wardrobe, her hand slipped straight through the handle like her fingers were just wisps of smoke.

‘Bugger,’ she said.

Now what? Tessa thought. Looking down at her hands, she realised that Argon had meant it when he’d said she was incorporeal. Where she was used to her body being was just a translucent glimmer of what she had looked like, pyjamas and all.

I guess if I’m immaterial, that means I’m not technically wearing anything, she realised. Which means, if I imagine hard enough, I can be wearing anything I want to be wearing.

Tessa focused and decided that she was wearing her favourite jeans, a t-shirt, her warmest black hoodie and a worn-out pair of sneakers. It wasn’t a very glamorous outfit by any standards, but Tessa was a believer in practicality over looks. She didn’t know what this quest awaiting her had in store, and she felt a lot better facing it in comfortable shoes.

Looking around her room once again, wondering what to do next, Tessa spotted her Lord of the Rings poster. On impulse, she imagined herself a cloak like the ones the hobbits wore in the film. This, she decided, completed her outfit, and she felt a bit better prepared.

Tessa returned to her bed, sat down gingerly and proceeded to experimentally poke a finger through the back of what had until recently been her head.

‘This must be the strangest thing I have done in my entire life,’ she said out loud.

‘Technically this is no longer a part of your life,’ Argon pointed out, reappearing.

‘Fine, the weirdest thing in my death then,’ Tessa corrected.

Argon nodded his approval.

‘How am I supposed to go on this quest thing if I’m immaterial?’ Tessa inquired. ‘There’s not much I can do if I can’t touch anything.’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ Argon assured, ‘Heaven is lending you an artificial body for the course of your journey. Of course I can’t let you have it here, because we certainly can’t have the deceased walking around in their own reality. That happened once and that’s a mess we’re still trying to clean up, take my word for it. Anyway, you will find yourself material once more when you arrive in another reality.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’

‘Now, as I said, I’m on a schedule, so let’s get this done as quick as possible. You can’t go alone and – ’

‘Why not?’ interrupted Tessa, who quite enjoyed being alone.

‘Because, to start with, you wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to go and how to get there.’

Tessa gave this some thought.

‘You’re probably right,’ she agreed, ‘I don’t exactly have tickets for the Heaven Express in my back pocket, especially since I don’t have a back pocket.’

‘Precisely,’ said Argon, looking very pleased with himself.

‘But who am I supposed to go with?’ asked Tessa.

‘We can hook you up with a freelance wizard and a faithful steed. You can also bring a friend, if you like, but if they’re alive, they have to come back after,’ Argon told her.

‘I don’t really have a lot of friends,’ Tessa said slowly. ‘Not ones that would be willing to go on a quest with a dead person, at any rate,’ she added.

‘I’m sure there’s someone.’

‘No, not really. My best and oldest friend is probably this stuffed animal,’ said Tessa, attempting to grab the small, shabby tiger by the tail. Her hand went through it. Remembering that she was immaterial was proving surprisingly difficult.

‘Well, that’s not a problem,’ beamed Argon, ‘hand me the tiger.’

‘I can’t touch anything, remember?’

‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ said Argon, stepping over to snatch the tiger himself. It had been a birthday present from Tessa’s dad when she turned nine and, for some reason she’d forgotten, she had named it after the Colombian pop singer Shakira.

With an air of grave dignity, Argon placed Shakira the toy tiger on the floor in the centre of the room, closed his eyes and began to chant something in strange language with sharp consonants. It seemed to be doing absolutely nothing.

Tessa blinked.

A full-grown Bengal tiger was sitting on her carpet.

‘Jesus bloody Christ!’

‘Mind the language,’ said Argon reproachfully.

‘Oh, shove it, cherub,’ the tiger snarled at him.

‘And it talks?’ Tessa asked weakly. She had begun to feel a little lightheaded, despite the fact that, technically, she had no head.

‘What use would I be to anyone if I didn’t talk?’ asked the tiger cheerfully.

Tessa squeezed the bridge of her nose. ‘Shakira?’

‘Yes, Tessa?’

‘Is that really you?’

‘Who else would I be?’

‘But how…?’ Tessa stammered.

‘Having lived all your life in predominantly Christian culture, you shouldn’t be that surprised by an angel performing a miracle,’ Argon pointed out.

‘Did I not tell you to shove it just a moment ago?’ the tiger asked him icily.

‘You did, but fortunately I don’t take orders from artificially animated tigers. I gave you life and I can take it away as well,’ Argon replied with equal temperature.

‘Would the two of you knock that off?’ said Tessa, glancing at the clock that was now declaring 6.01. ‘My parents are going to wake up any minute now and I’d like to be out of here by then. I’m pretty sure this isn’t the kind of behaviour they would appreciate.’

‘No need to fret. The toy and yourself will be quite invisible to anyone living in this reality,’ said Argon, ‘and besides, you must wait here while I search out the rest of your party.’

‘What about--’ Tessa attempted, but Argon had already vanished with a flash of light.

‘What a prick,’ Shakira muttered.

‘Now what?’ asked Tessa. ‘We just wait for him?’

‘I guess so.’ The tiger gave her a grin full of yellowed teeth longer than her fingers, which was really quite unsettling.

Trying to not let herself get too caught up on how completely insane this all was, Tessa looked around, searching for something to occupy her mind. Her gaze landed on the open books on her desk and, out of habit more than anything, she sat down. She had time to spare, so she might as well try to get some homework done. Or, so she thought, until she realised that the vague shape of her hand, more idea than flesh, passed straight through her pencil when she tried to pick it up.

‘You have got to be kidding me,’ said Shakira. ‘Come on. You’re dead. Could you finally get a life?’

Tessa turned to look at her.

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Look at yourself. You’ve just died, and what’s the first thing you do? Your bloody book report, cause it’s due next week?’

‘I have to get it done sometime.’ Even as she said it, Tessa felt like there was something a little off with the statement.

Shakira rolled her eyes, which was also an alarming expression on a tiger.

‘No you don’t, Tessa, that’s the point! I’m pretty sure your English teacher doesn’t expect you to turn in your project if you’re dead!’

There was a silence, in which the truth in Shakira’s words settled in the room like a fine layer of dust, broken abruptly by a sharp rap on the door.

‘Tessa, time to get up.’

Tessa froze.

‘It’s Mum,’ she hissed at Shakira, ‘we need to get out of here!’

They rushed to the door, straining to hear the receding footsteps and the distant click of the bathroom door.

‘I think she’s gone,’ whispered Tessa.

Shakira just rolled her eyes and slinked out of the door.

Willing herself not to look back at the life she was leaving behind, Tessa followed.

#heavenbound #written

4 notes · View notes

soulexplorer21 · 3 years ago

Text

SUMMER DREAM

It‘s dark.

The sky is painted with thousands of stars in bright small dots.

Cold wind breezes through my hair matched with the crashing waves of the sea.

Surrounding the tall coconut trees are fireflies dancing carelessly with each other.

On my feet is a little crab crawling and a shell I picked up to examine.

Suddenly, a strange man in pitch black of shadow approaches in my direction.

―You‘ve been sleeping for hours already. It‘s getting very unhealthy of you.‖

The room is suddenly lit after switching on the light source. Annoyed as I regain consciousness of the reality, I

realized I was having a dream, again. Scrambling through my side table in search of my eyeglasses, I opened my

eyes and see my mom standing at the door.

―Why are you here? I thought you we‘re on a vacation‖, I said, sounding like a whiny teenage who‘s ‗going through a

phase‘

―I‘m worried of you, it‘s why‖, her voice is a soothing lullaby I‘m very familiar with since childhood.

―And speaking of a vacation, I think it‘s you who needs the vacation, darling.‖

―Mom, I‘m okay. You don‘t need to worry about me. I‘m just –― I stop, thinking of words to mask what I‘m really going

through.

��Depressed.‖ Oops, okay here you go. The bomb is ticked. Yes, I am, in fact, has been very sad for the last few

weeks. I don‘t even know why. Or I know why, but just couldn‘t exactly pinpoint the ‗what’ exactly. Everything has just

been uninteresting and had me indisposed completely that I even have to resign from my job. Each time I wake up

from oversleeping, it‘s like I don‘t have any energy to start the day and just wish to sleep it off again.

―I know it‘s been very hard for you to absorb the breakup but please, you need to take care of yourself and maybe

unwind a little bit.‖ The worry in her voice is convincing.

―I mean, look at these takeout orders you‘ve been ordering. You don‘t see your friends anymore, too.‖

―I don‘t even have friends, Mom.‖ My ex was the only friend I got.

―Just go on a vacation, will you? Travel. Meet new people. Take on an adventure and have fun.‖

That sounds like an energy drainer to me. A fantasy that I don‘t ever want.

―Yes, mother. I will. Anyways, thanks for dropping by‖.

―I booked you a ticket‖

―What?‖ No!

―To Maldives,‖ with a big grin on her face.

―Exciting, mother.‖ As I roll my eyes in sarcasm.

Maybe I could really use a breather. This house is containing me and my thoughts in darkness. Maldives is perfect, I

think. I just hope the trip goes well.

The flight to Maldives was not as exhausting as it was expected. As soon as I arrived at the tropical paradise of

pristine blue waters and sparkling sand, what‘s left is to enjoy and relax the majestic scenery from the native hotel inn

I was checked in.

Vacation was going perfectly not until the boredom starts creeping in. The sun‘s scorching heat at 12pm is definitely

something that has urged me to wander around the front beach for some adventure.

As I walk the fine sand in no particular destination, I reached the area where beach lounge chairs and high umbrellas

were situated. Then I decided to sit and rest for a while, opening a book to read until I feel a little sleepy to take a nap

and kill off the time.

Across the beachfront where I rest is the banquet hall where Theo (my ex) is having their conference meeting. While

listening and exchanging comments, Theo gazes outside the beach and catches glimpse of me laying down. What a

coincidence that he‘s here! He must be thinking I‘m following him when I clearly am not!

The hours progressed swiftly and moments later, it was 6 o‘clock in the evening. A mini festival with bonfire and tribal

program stars to commence at the beachfront of the hotel. Curiosity has led me to observe the event as I‘ve never

witnessed one like this before. I sit on the sand and enjoy the sight of the stars and the sound coming from the beat

of drums from the event.

While all of a sudden, a waiter comes with a cold beer.

―Good evening, ma‘am. A drink is being sent to you by a man over there.‖

Looking at the pointed direction of the waiter, Celeste catches sight of Theo, waving and smiling shyly.

―Thanks. Tell him thank you for the drink. I appreciate the gesture.‖

Maybe he‘s just goofing around as a way to enjoy his trip here in Maldives, who knows.

Shortly thereafter, the Theo indeed joins me for a drink.

―Hello, can I join you?‖ Theo asks as he sits down beside Celeste.

―Yeah, sure. Thanks for the beer by the way. How‘s Maldives so far?‖ Celeste attempts to move along the

conversation, avoiding any silence.

―Well, it‘s been nice. I haven‘t been in a vacation for a while. I actually just came here for work. How about you?‖

―In a quest to find the meaning of life.‖

―That‘s interesting. How are you actually going to ‗find the meaning of life‘?‖ Theo wonders.

―I don‘t really know,‖ and I laugh timidly.

―I‘m just going with the flow. See where this trip takes me.‖

―You know what, I got an idea to make this trip an adventure to remember‖ said Theo, abruptly showing an intense

feeling of hope and eagerness.

―Spill. What do you have in mind?‖ as I reply in split second, arousing spark of enthusiasm.

―It‘s something that I‘ve thought randomly one day. We‘ll go on a little escapade, exploring the islands of Maldives,‖

Theo pauses, intensely assessing if I am actually interested with his idea of mini adventure. And to his surprise, I am

in fact is looking right at his eyes, it‘s as if I am trying to look at this man‘s soul, assessing the worthiness of this plan.

―-And then you can tell me anything. Everything. As I am with you, too. Like we‘re our own little vault of secrets,‖

―That‘s how we‘ll get to know each other. Because it‘ll make the trip more interesting,‖

―Okay, proceed.‖ Celeste utters with anticipation.

―But the catch here is that, we‘re not allowed to treat each other like we‘ve known each other before,‖

―This gets interesting, continue.‖ I am clearly starting to like this plan.

―Yeah, that‘s basically it.‖

―So how are we going to name each other then, do we make an alternative name or something?‖

―Yeah, we can do that! A word that actually represents who we are. Do you have anything in mind already?‖

―Hmm, well, I could go with Serenity, which means calmness and tranquility because I think that‘s what I would really

like to have for the rest of my life. While at the same time you can also call me Seren as a nickname,‖

―Why, does it have any meaning?‖ Theo asks.

―It means star.‖ Celeste says while looking up at the sky to refer for the stars.

―Woah. That one is so nice. I think you can call me chance,‖

―It kinda‘ means opportunity, you know, a possibility of something happening. I think that‘s what life is, taking chances

despite failure and mishaps,‖

―means good fortune as well.‖ Theo grins from ear to ear.

―Impressive, Chance.‖ Celeste voices out his name trying to get the hand of it.

It‘s 10 in the morning and the sun‘s up in Maldives. Theo and I have made plans to meet and discover interesting

places in Maldives together.

―Hello, Serenity. It‘s nice to see you‖ Theo beams as Serene sits down beside him on the sand

―I want to tell you something by the way,‖

―What is it?‖ Serene asks.

―It‘s like I‘m having a déjà vu right now‖ Chance says, with a confused face. It‘s as if he‘s trying to remember this

particular moment.

―I think I‘m experiencing déjà vu as well, I don‘t know‖

―I feel like this happened before.‖ Chad‘s brows furrows.

―Like a dream, huh?‖

―Exactly! That‘s it! I‘ve had this consistent dream whenever I sleep. It mostly is about the sea and a woman I can‘t

seem to remember‖

At this moment, Serenity is able to recall the man in her dreams as well.

―That‘s weird. I had dreams of the beach, too. And a man that usually is just covered in shadows. I think it was you or

something, haunting me‖ Serene chuckles.

―What a coincidence. Do you think our dreams were connected?‖

―I mean what are the odds, right?‖ Chance says.

―Dreams do not work that way, Chance.‖ Serene shuts off the idea, thinking that it is not likely of that happening in

reality.

But if it was indeed, deep down in their souls, Chance and Serenity might really have that connection. The question

is, for what reason? Have the stars aligned to make way of their destiny for Chance and Serene?

―What do you think of life, Serenity?‖ Chad questions out of the blue as they finish their lunch at a local fast food

restaurant they have stopped by.

―That question is hard. But I‘ll try to answer that,‖ I paused for a second and thinks of words to answer the question.

―I think the appropriate question would be, what is the purpose of life?‖

―But I think the question itself is the answer, you know.‖

―The purpose of life is to find the purpose of life?‖ Chad is a bit confused for a moment. Trying to figure out what I just said.

―It‘s kind of in the philosophical aspect. But yes, the purpose of life is for you to constantly search for its purpose and

eventually fulfill it, and it‘s a cycle.‖ Serenity doesn‘t even know where the words have come from, or let alone the idea.

―That‘s so deep‖ Chad finally understands the context and realizes how meaningful it is to apply in everyday life.

―By constantly searching for life‘s purpose, you‘re actually is living life.‖

―Yes, precisely. Amazing, huh‖ I say.

―It is, indeed.‖

―Okay, my turn. Do you know yourself?‖ I ask while sipping the cold milk tea.

―Or will a person even completely ever know its self, like in all aspects‖

―I think not‖ Chad says without hesitation.

―Because a person constantly is subject to changes as its environment does, also.‖

―So if you come to think of it, there can inevitably be times when an individual won‘t probably ever know thy self.‖

Chad continues.

―Example when someone is falling in love, or is head over heels with someone; there will be instances where you‘d

rather make adjustments just so both of the couple be able to compromise with each other‘s demands.‖

―Adjustments that you‘ve never thought of. Or even claimed once that it‘s not going to happen.‖

―I think that‘s it‖ Chad smiles.

―You‘re smart, aren‘t you‖ I blush.

After eating their lunch, Theo and I decided to wander off the streets of Maldives just to explore the area.

―You two look like a lovely couple‖ An old woman says.

―We‘re not couples‖ We both replied the same thing nervously and looked at each other for a second.

―Why don‘t you have a matching tattoo? It would make your vacation here more memorable‖ The old woman adds.

―You know what, let‘s do it‖ with a big grin on my face, and then I turn to Chad as if I‘m pleading to have matching

tattoos.

―Okay. What will we have?‖

―Sorry but my clients doesn‘t get the chance to pick a design. I‘m the one who chooses it. Based on the person‘s

aura‖ The old woman interrupts.

―That‘s fascinating‖ as I squeal.

I found out that the old woman‘s name is Whang-Od, and is famous for her tribal tattoos. She stars to ink the skin of

Serenity first. Whang-Od claims that the ink of her tribal tattoos is made up of charcoal and water. Once the tattoo ink

was mixed, it is tapped into the skin using a thorn from a citrus tree — choosing between calamansi or pomelo. The

thorn is then attached to a 12-inch long bamboo stick and from there, Whang-od starts tapping it deep into the skin.

The tattoo took hours to finish. After it was done, Whang-Od explains the meaning of their matching tattoos.

―There are three figures I tattooed; the fern symbolizes fertility, strength health, and safe passage to the land of the

dead. The python symbolizes protection, good fortune, and health. Lastly, the standing eagle symbolizes strength,

freedom, and guidance.‖

―Woah. This tattoo sure is going to be the most memorable.‖ Chance says.

―Thank you so much!‖ as I at the freshly inked tribal tattoos.

The time goes by so fast that the day was too short for us to spend more time. Afterwards we headed back to the

hotel inn after the long walk they had. Both of us went to our respective rooms and called it a night.

The vacation stay ends. Theo and I both said our last farewell before leaving the hotel and still clinging unto their

promise of not just staying as strangers with some memories.

Pretending to not know anything about each other‘s lives is something we‘ve never thought to be comforting enough

to get to know each other so deeply. This time, knowing someone was a whole different experience for me; because

it was not the cliché setup right from the start, and gradually, little by little, as I have gotten to discover each Theo‘s

deepest dreams and thoughts, I soon start to realize and understand a piece of myself, too.

My flight way back home made them realize a lot of things. But most of all, it sparked hope and understanding of the

world and myself. Our meeting was of no accident but was a destined circumstance, highlighting my trip as one of the

most unforgettable one.

Time passes by and Theo still remained as a stranger to me, but I do sure know and remember how pure our bare

minds are during the trip –that gave me a much better perspective.

#travel #beauty

5 notes · View notes

tubbyrogue-blog · 8 years ago

Text

A Quest Begins?

I stood at attention as much as I was capable of doing, which wasn’t very much, in front of Her Majesty’s… something. I knew he was a member of the government because of the obnoxious orange and blue uniform he was wearing that had the Queen’s coat-of-arms on it. A half turn of the glass earlier I’d been wandering down Queen’s Way, the capital’s major street, simply looking for a merchant who might have need of a potion or two or who might have left some odds and ends unguarded. I had been ready to filch a brooch that looked like it might have been silver from a stall when the man-at-arms had grabbed me by the arm. I started objecting immediately but he wasn’t at all interested and dragged me to the castle commons and into a small hut where the man in orange and blue was sitting behind the desk. “Stand at attention rabble,” the guardsman snapped from behind me.

“Relax guardsman. We wouldn’t want to terrify the kiddling that will save us all from destruction, do we?”

“I’m no kiddling, I’ve seen seventeen winters,” I objected in the most strenuous way while crossing my toes. The guardsman gave a grunt and I suppose silently asked for permission to leave because the orange-blue man made a shooing gesture and I heard the door open and close behind me. The man looked at me for a moment and then looked into what I recognized as a scrying crystal. Scrying crystals sounded a lot more exciting than they were, at least for those that Her Majesty’s government possessed. They apparently were used for storing records and communicating and a lot of other things that no one was supposed to be about. They didn’t see the future but they should could resurrect the past if someone had filled out a form about it.

“Rowan. Born right before the Grendling Cataclysm struck…”

“I didn’t have a thing to do with that.”

He continued reading from the crystal. “Born in Grendling to a thief and a druid and apparently schooled in both arts. Became an orphan at twelve after an unfortunate event that the Queen’s Sheriff became very interested in.” He looked up at me, “There was an archbishop very put out by that. He thought your father was a witch and didn’t like being cheated of his right to execute him.”

“Hey! He was a member of the Druidic Council. He wasn’t no witch and I’ll take on anyone who says he was, archbishop or not,” I shouted. Orange-blue man didn’t seem surprised by my response, but did give me a look that spoke volumes about my physical presence. It’s possible I blushed which is always magnified about a thousand times when you’ve got both red hair and freckles.

“He put the crystal aside and gave me a once-over. “What’s that purple stuff on your hands? Some sort of alchemy stain?”

“Uh no, they’re blueberry stains,” I informed him in a quiet voice, since I was pretty sure he already knew that.

“Ah yes, the unfortunate blueberry addiction. Such a shame. I guess you still haven’t found a cure for it then, have you?” I just shrugged. It wasn’t exactly something I worried about and anyway I liked blueberries which may have been the reason I was addicted to them, or maybe it was that being addicted to blueberries was why I liked them. I attempted to shove those thoughts out of my mind because I would give myself a headache if I didn’t. “Since the time you’ve been orphaned, you’ve wandered along the Queen’s Road through the kingdom selling fake potions and stealing those things which aren’t yours.”

“You do me wrong. I have stolen nothing and the potions I make are of the best ingredients. I’ve heard no complaints about them.”

“I’m sure that would have nothing to do with the fact you don’t spend more than two days in any town, would it?” I chose not to answer that although I was fair at alchemy… a lot of the time. I also had a bit of ability in shapeshifting, communicating with some animals, and even had my own familiar who was waiting for me outside the capital. When he saw I wasn’t going to respond, he shrugged. “We’ve been on the lookout for you because we know of your… deeds and we need someone of your special skills.”

“Uh, as much as I’d love to help Her Majesty in any way I can, I do have to be somewhere. It’s a prior commitment that I’m afraid I just can’t get out of. You know, druidic heraldry and all that stuff. They tend to take it badly if you don’t show up for these things.”

“Indeed? Yet there’s no record of you in the Druidic Councils. In fact, the way I understand it, they’re looking for you because they seem to think you are besmirching their reputation through certain actions you’ve been taking. There’s also the issue of you not making yourself available for conscription to the Queen’s Arms and a matter of several gemstones that vanished from a manor four days’ ride from here.”

“Pshaw,” I said trying to sound as unconcerned as I could. I don’t think I pulled it off as the man on the other side of the desk displayed a grin that would have looked at home on a dragon. “The whole Druidic Council thing is an error. I just forgot to do a couple of things as far as getting registered. I don’t know nothing about any gemstones since I’ve never been near the manor and I told you I’ve seen seventeen winters.”

The official sighed. “Enough, I don’t have the time to play these games. You can either agree with what I tell you you’re going to do, or I can call the guardsman back and have you thrown in the dungeon for theft and then give you over to the Druidic Council.” The dragon’s leer came back. “If you’re lucky, all they’ll do is render you down.”

“I told you, I’m no thief,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t for some reason want to check the toe of my boot since there was a gemstone nestled there, “but I will consider your offer.”

“A boon that I must sing prayers to the gods for allowing me to receive,” he said in a voice that was several levels above sarcastic. “Very well. You will continue traveling north on the Queen’s Road until you get to the Haunted Woods…”

“Seriously? The Haunted Woods? Couldn’t anyone come up with a better name than that?”

“The Haunted Woods. Deep in the forest is where a certain elvish druid resides. He isn’t a member of the Druidic Council either and is considered to be evil and one who consorts with demons, imps and dragons to bring doom and despair to the Northern Borderlands. He also has a magic staff from which his power is both strengthened and renewed. We also believe that’s how he controls dragons.”

“You know, if he’s a druid, he probably doesn’t need a staff to control dragons.”

“Oh? Can you control dragons?” I looked down at my boots. “I didn’t think so. Your duty to Her Majesty is to defeat the druid, steal the staff and bring it back here.”

I scratched my head as I listened to my stomach rumble. It didn’t like it when I went too long without eating and had nothing to do with the blueberry addiction and everything to do with my sweet tooth. “You don’t need a thief… I mean, If I was one, which I most certainly am not. It sounds like all you need to do is send a battalion up there, kill the druid and take the staff.”

The official shook his head. “No, that would create too much commotion and awareness. This must be done stealthily and by only one person who has your special skills.”

I was beginning to get really irked with whoever thought I had all these special skills and was telling everyone about them. “Do I get paid for this?”

“Of course. I won’t have you jailed, drawn or quartered.”

“What about equipment. You know, swords and things like that.”

“I’m sure whatever is in that pack you’re carrying on your back has all the tools of the trade you’ll need. It also looks as though you have a most serviceable staff strapped back there as well.”

“It’s not magic,” I pointed out.

“Good thing. I’d hate to have to give you over to the archbishop.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll do it. Where do I find this druid?”

“I’ve already told you. The Haunted Woods. We know he’s there but not where in the woods he lives. I have no doubt you’ll be able to figure it out though.”

I had several doubts but didn’t feel like sharing. “What’s the staff look like?”

“It’s a staff with a green orb on it. Sometimes the orb glows, sometimes it doesn’t. You’ll know it’s the right one when you’re near it.

“Are you kidding? There are like hundreds of staffs with green orbs on them that sometimes glow and sometimes don’t. What if this guy has more than one?”

“As I said, you’ll know it when you’re near it. After all, it’s magic. Now, I have an appointment so it’s time for you to go. May the gods be with you and all that. Oh, and we’ll be keeping an eye on you, so you might want to avoid trying to disappear.” He picked up the scrying stone (damn it) and placed it in a pocket of his tunic then stared at me until I got the message, turned and left the building and the castle grounds. I had thought about trying to pick his pocket, but I liked my fingers attached to my hand.

#druidic thief

0 notes