#and associate it with warmth instead of pain. because he's no longer afraid of losing it. because of the trust he has built

[coquelicoq]

it's about...longevity? stability? it's about natsume believing he'll be somewhere long enough to plant flowers and see them bloom. it's about him taking touko seriously when she asks him to tell her what flowers he wants to plant. it's about making something with his own hands, building a future with the fujiwaras. it's about him repairing a rundown home for someone else, restoring it because it's beloved to them, because it's the home of someone they love. it's about him seeing touko's joy and thinking about the youkai saying we'd like to look upon her happy face forever. it's about the box garden making him think of the fujiwaras' garden and his parents' garden, about the flowers being both the memory of flowers that bloomed there before, and the flowers that he and the youkai planted earlier that day. it's about him waking up in both worlds with sensei. it's about touko finding the petal in his hair. it's about him feeling how he falls short and the youkai saying, but you have such gentle hands...

[lulu-zodiac]

Title: Twelve Phases of the Moon

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Tags: Purgatory Destiel, Pining

Summary: The quiet of purgatory makes it too easy to hear Dean.

If you want to be added to my fic tag list, let me know! <3.

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Purgatory is quiet.

Not the iridescent, awed quiet of heaven. Not even the quiet of earth that is never really quiet, but which Castiel has learned to love. Soft, stolen moments of golden summer sun slanting through the windshield of the impala; exhausted, unspoken conversations at 2am in harshly lit roadside diners; the repetitive hush of Sam and Dean’s breathing in dark motel rooms. Purgatory is quiet like a crypt. Rigid, dark, endless. It’s quiet in the same way a dead body is completely still. There is that same sense of wrongness to the silence that swathes everything here. Castiel has never felt more aware of his own heartbeat, how much it aches.

The quiet makes it too easy to hear Dean.

Castiel can’t decide if this is a blessing or a curse. Perhaps both. He has always heard the prayers directed to him, of course. But on heaven and earth, they’re hazy, faraway, easy to tune out if he tries. Here is different. Through the stillness, Dean’s prayers feel closer, disarmingly intimate. As though Dean is whispering right into the shell of his ear.

At first, it had been unbearable. Dean, wandering the endless space, shouting himself hoarse on Castiel’s name. His prayers had been abrupt, frequent, often aborted midway through. Full of the kind of rage that was a split second away from tears, his voice breaking on the single syllable of please. Sometimes that’s all a prayer would be; just Castiel, and please. Castiel had almost gone to him then. It was more than he could bear, the endless torment of Dean’s voice, slowly tearing itself to pieces in the quiet. Please, Cas. He pictured Dean stumbling around in the snarled branches and colourless fog, shouting blindly with nothing to kill, nothing to be angry at. It hurt Castiel so much it felt like physical pain, like Dean was punching him over and over again with his despair.

The only thing worse than listening to Dean slowly fall apart was knowing what would happen to him if Castiel went to him. How the Leviathans that were already so close on Castiel’s trail would tear him apart. Castiel tried not to think about how Dean might not care, anymore. That he might welcome an end to the abyss.

Time was meaningless in purgatory; it was never fully light, and dark was unpredictable, often for what felt like days. The only way Castiel had learnt to mark the passing of time was by looking up at the sky. It was choked in murky black, but he could just make out the lunar eye of the moon, miniscule ancient constellations glimmering in hope, or mockery. They were so very small, from all the way down here, but Castiel could still see them, and he held onto that. Like Dean’s prayers, sometimes he was comforted by them, other times tormented.

Three phases of the moon had passed before Dean stopped shouting Castiel’s name desperately into the unresponsive quiet.

Castiel had always assumed Dean would eventually go quiet like everything else in the quagmire of purgatory. The prospect was somehow even worse than hearing Dean’s fear, his loss. Stillness and silence were never things Castiel had associated with Dean; whenever Castiel thought of him, he pictured the shape of Dean’s mouth as he shouted “run!”, the way he drummed his fingers impatiently on the impala’s steering wheel when they were stopped at a light, how he could only fall asleep to thrashing heavy metal music or the sound of his brother snoring. Castiel dreaded the anguished prayers, but he dreaded the inevitable quiet even more; at least when he was shouting and hurting and fighting, Dean was not giving up a part of who he was.

But silence from Dean never happened.

After a few more phases of the far-distant moon, the desperate, frantic anger faded into something different. Dean started speaking slowly, as though it was an effort just to work the words from his mouth into the ether, defeated by the inevitability of the silence that would meet them. Castiel found himself almost missing the raw agony of Dean’s earlier prayers, the fluid fear and fury of them. This was stillness, if not silence. Dean’s acceptance of his isolation, of the quiet Castiel was condemning him to. He no longer said please. He just said Castiel’s name instead, as though two words were too much energy. Castiel, like it was all there was left. Cas, heavy and pleading, but with no hope. It was the way dying people said help, when they already knew their fate was sealed.

It took everything Castiel had not to go to him. But the Leviathan were still close behind him, and he knew it was impossible.

Slowly, Dean’s prayers evolved. There became a numbed quality to them, as though Dean was no longer sure if it was him saying them. They grew more unpredictable; sometimes full of anger or grief, sometimes strangely empty. Gradually, they lost their disjointed quality, often becoming longer, more contemplative. Sometimes, Dean would reflect on moments from the last few years, or even further back, from when he was growing up. These prayers were startlingly vulnerable, at times. As though Dean, lost in isolation, was using them to invite Castiel into his innermost thoughts just so he wouldn’t have to be alone.

Castiel learnt about how the dark of purgatory reminded Dean of looking after Sam when they were kids, the times they ran out of electricity and had to wait in the dark for days until their Dad got home; how time had blurred into meaninglessness just as it did here. Dean told Castiel about how afraid he’d been when he’d crawled out of hell, how he he’d stared at Castiel’s handprint every night in the mirror until it became part of him. One night, fiercely, he said, Everyone leaves me. But you always come back.

Castiel had found that the hardest to bear of all. Half beside himself, he’d almost gone to Dean that night, to prove that Dean could have faith in something. But he didn’t, because if Dean was killed, there’d be no point in believing in anything.

Dean still kept praying, prayers that made things bloom Castiel’s chest he didn’t think could exist in purgatory. I should have told you, Cas, one day through thick murky mist. We’re going to make it out of here, I promise, whispered in Castiel’s ear, over and over again, as though saying it often enough would make it true. One night, barely audible; I love you.

Sometimes, Castiel wonders if he’ll ever hear Dean’s voice out loud again. If these one-way prayers will be the last communication between them. He tries to hold onto Dean’s dogged determination, the promises he makes without even being sure Castiel will hear. The Leviathan are closer than ever now, and Castiel doesn’t want Dean’s last memory of him to be silence. He longs to sit in the same room as Dean again, hear the things Dean has confessed in his prayers out loud, be able to watch what expressions play through the complex green of his eyes. Reach out, touch his skin, the warmth of it.

It’s so cold here. Tonight, Castiel can see the moon; he’s been watching it for almost a year now. Twelve phases of the unblinking lunar eye. Castiel stands at the edge of a crepuscular clearing, staring upwards in reverent silence. He’s hidden by the jagged shadows of tangled branches, but, for once, they do not seem endless. For a moment, he loses himself in the hope of the moon, the hope that things beyond this somehow still exist, can exist again.

A sudden rustle in the clearing drags Castiel’s gaze away from the sky, and his gaze snaps towards the open space, defences immediately going up.

His heart stops.

For the first time since being here, he feels all the fear melt out of him as he looks at the lone figure standing in the clearing.

Dean.

Castiel can hardly believe his eyes; purgatory has a way of tricking the senses. But this is more real than anything that exists here. Dean. A year on, half-hidden in darkness, but unmistakable. Heaven or hell or purgatory, Castiel would know him anywhere.

Relief is overwhelming, but bittersweet. Dean looks wrecked. His green eyes are stark and staring, a year of being on constant alert, and the sharp lines of his faces are hollow and shadowed. Castiel watches him check the surroundings methodically before sinking down at the bottom of a particularly gnarled tree, putting his head in his hands. Even from the shadows, Cas can sense his exhaustion. He wonders when Dean last slept, if he sleeps.

Castiel can’t do anything but stare, frozen in wonderment and disbelief. Dean rubs his hands over his face, hands Castiel has seen a thousand times gripping a dagger or a steering wheel or tending Sam’s wounds. Warmth that Castiel didn’t know was possible here blossoms through him. He feels close to tears, as though his heart is on the brink of bursting. He feels alive in a way he hasn’t for almost a year. Maybe longer.

In the clearing, Dean tilts his head back, gazes up at the sky. He stares into the unblinking ghostly stars for a long time, before his eyes flicker shut.

“Cas,” he whispers, voice rough from disuse, and it sends a shock right through Castiel to hear it, out loud in the clearing like they both still exist, instead of through the ether. He’s trembling. Dazedly, he realises that the times Dean has prayed to him over the past year may have been the only time he’s spoken at all. “Cas, I know you can’t hear me, but –” he breaks off, takes a deep breath, eyes still closed. “I need you, Cas. I just – I really need you, Cas,” Dean’s voice tightens, like his throat is thick with tears, “Please.”

Castiel feels as though he’s breaking apart and being mended all at once. He can just see the moon; a year since they arrived here. Dean is still praying to him, as though Castiel is as much a part of his life now as he was then, as though he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. A year of silence, and Dean is still making them both promises.

Castiel can’t bear it anymore, can’t do anything except quietly step out of the shadows, and into the fragile moonlight of the clearing.

Dean is on his feet immediately, instincts sharper than ever – but then he freezes. His face is swathed in shadow, but Castiel can see the faint stars reflected in the green of his gaze.

There’s a pause that feels almost as long as the last year, then –

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is so full of hope it hurts, it should be impossible in a place like this.

“Dean,” Cas replies, and the silence of purgatory is broken.

[rickondickon]

Last Words - Jon Snow

So um. Hi? Official first fic posted on here whassup. Also, I literally wrote that in an hour last night, I have no idea where it came from or why or how. So enjoy, I hope you like it!

Pairing: Jon Snow x Reader

Word count: 1465

Summary: You use your last breaths to confess your long love for Jon

Warnings: Blood, death, sad ending (and sad boi jon), maybe minor spoilers from s8e1/2

It is true, what they say, about seeing your life play on front of your eyes as you are dying. 

You had gotten out to fight the Battle of Winterfell with the others, of course you did. Being a northerner yourself, you couldn't not fight for your land, for your King.

For the living.

You were terrified—with good reason—and it had only gotten worse when the dead showed up. However, you did a pretty good job or fighting them off, that until your luck ran out. You swung the final blow with your dragonstone dagger, destroying the White that had challenged you, but not before his ice sword pierced through your stomach. 

You fell onto your knees, coughing blood on the ice dust that was now the White. Everything became brighter, and thus your life began flashing in the snow at rapid pace. 

You saw every single little detail, and forgot them as soon as they came. You tried to hold on, but they were slipping through your fingers. Nothing but one memory reminded in your mind, and your lips curved up slightly at the peaceful moment.

"Why are you out there sulking?" You called out, and Jon looked up from the ground, surprised. "It's Robb's 16th namesake. We should be celebrating!"

"Yeah, well I'm not allowed at the banquet" He mumbled, but you heard him still. "Not at the front with him anyway"

You sighed and joined him under the Weirwood tree, tucking your knees under your chin. "He's going to notice you're missing, you know that, right?" You spoke up after a moment of silence. "He always does"

"Yeah, when he's done enjoying everyone else's company before mine" He scoffed, throwing a pebble in the water. "I'm just a bastard, after all"

"It could be worse" You replied. "You could be the disgraced daughter of poor parents who wanted a boy to work on their farm, but instead got a girl so they sent to Winterfell to be a maid" 

He flinched. "I didn't say that to--"

"Hey, I'm just teasing you" You reassured, putting your hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "I know what you mean. But remember it still could be worse"

He nodded as he took some time to reflect on it, but he was pulled out of it when your arm wrapped around his shoulders and you shook his teasingly. He couldn't help but give out a smile to it.

"There you go" You laughed, keeping him pulled toward you just a little while longer. It felt good to pretend he was yours to hold close, even if you knew he was totally oblivious to your affections. "Should we go back to the fest?" You suggested, even though you didn't wanna go just yet.

"Let's stay a little while longer" He sighed, his glance far away. It was like he was reading your thoughts, but you knew this was to be expected of Jon, and not him indulging you. But still.

Yes, let's pretend a little while longer. 

"(Y/N)!"

You blinked slowly, knowing for a fact it wasn't how the memory went. You were confused by your surroundings and by the sudden darkness and thickness of the air around you. 

"(Y/N)!" The voice called again, but you didn't have the strength to look up or associate the voice to anyone. 

Then, Jon Snow came into view, sliding on his knees in front of you with a panicked glance. That was when you head reminded you that you had been stabbed, and that you were dying. It was at that moment your body collapse forward in exhaustion, falling directly into his arms. 

"(Y/N)" He muttered, his hands already red with your blood. You smiled up at him, or at least tried. "Let's get you out of here, get you patched up. It's not--"

"Jon" You croaked, meeting his eyes. He was afraid. You shook your head no, and the fear morphed into sadness. 

"I'm sorry" He said, barely audibly above the noise around. But it might as well had echoed into the valley, because you heard it loud and clear.

"For what?" You asked, your forehead creasing in worry. 

"For not protecting you" He rambled, and you knew he was just saying the first thing atop of his head. Both of you knew it would have been impossible for him to predict or stop this. 

"Jon, I have--" You were interrupted by your cough, which sent spots of blood flying onto his armor. "I have some--"

"Hey, hey" He began petting your hair as you coughed some more. The end was near for you, and you were all too aware of it. Now if you could just free your mind before going... "You don't need to--"

"I do" You rasped, taking his hand in yours in a weak grip. "I love you. I have loved you since we were kids"

Sadness only increased in his eyes at the realization of your words hit him. He hadn't known, in fact, he hadn't even had a single clue about how you felt about him. Now, he felt stupid. You must have hated it, seeing him come back with Daenerys. Seeing him flaunt their love for the whole North to see, all for it ending in a major disappointment for everyone involved. 

And he thought right; you had hated it. 

"You should have told me" He finally said with a pained smile. Now he was thinking about all the could have beens while you were dying in his arms, and there was nothing he could do about it. "You really should have told me. Maybe we could have been away from all of this right now"

"You would never have left the North, Jon" You smiled weakly, feeling your life starting to drain out of you.

You were out of time. 

"Ay" Tears welled up in his eyes as he came to the same realization that you were leaving him. "I never would have".

"Please burn me when I go" You pleaded, suddenly gripping his sleeve. A tear rolled down your cheek. "Don't let me become them. Don't make me fight you"

"I will" He nodded, voice thick with emotion. He felt her breathing become irregular as blood probably steadily filled her lungs. You didn't look in pain, however. "Does it hurt?"

"No" You huffed out. "You're here. I can go in peace"

"Good" He breathed out, trying to control his emotions. Suddenly, the prospect of losing you was scarier than he had ever imagined. Probably because it was real, now. 

"What's on the other side?" Your voice became weaker and weaker by the second. He'd tell you not to talk, but he realized he needed more of your voice before he could never hear it again. 

"Warmth" He considered telling you the truth about what he saw, but he needed to know your last moments wouldn't be spent in fear of death. "And peacefulness"

"Good" You pushed another smile, but by now it probably looked more like a grimace than anything. Suddenly, you wished you could go already, instead of stretching your last seconds forever. You were ready; you had confessed, and you would take your last breath in the arms of your first love. Of all the ways you could go, this definitely wasn't the worst. 

Jon sensed the fight leave you and he truly began to panic. No, this couldn't be it, he needed more time. You two still had so much to talk about, you couldn't go just yet. He was helpless, watching you die, the second time in his life something like that had happened. Never would he have thought to feel this agony again, but there he was, holding your body as you were leaving this world.

Your eyes finally closed after what seemed like years, and one by one your senses went away. First, the blood in your mouth became tasteless warmth, and the smell of smoke dissipated into nothingness. Then, your body stopped feeling the warmth Jon provided, as well as his touch. 

As the sound of the battle faded away, you finally embraced the darkness that overcame you, but not before picking up one last word, one final mutter that eased you into eternal slumber.

"I love you too"

Jon remained unmoving for a minute, before reality settled back in. With a shaky breath, he gently placed you on the snow and stood up, sniffing away the emotions boiling up inside of him. He grabbed the nearest torch—he almost didn’t do it, couldn’t do it—but he finally burned your still body.

He immediately turned around and headed back to the fight, unable to watch the remnant of you disappear forever in ashes.

[coloursflyaway]

Every Little Thing Anticipates You [2/6]

Pairing: Dirk Gently/ Todd Brotzman

Rating: T

Words: 1.857

In a world where everything you write onto your skin appears on your soulmate’s as well, there are five times Todd writes Svlad, and one time Dirk writes back.

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

I don’t want to go, Svlad scribbles on the soft skin of his thigh, underlines the don’t, just so Teddy will know how much he means it. Lately, Colonel Riggins and the seemingly endless row of doctors he brings with him haven’t been pleased by his results in the tests they have him do. They are getting increasingly difficult, not just cards with hearts and crosses and dolphins, now there are hypothetical scenarios, murders and kidnappings and different kinds of state crisis, which he is supposed to solve by looking at the paper they have written the questions on for long enough, sometimes throughout the night. When he’s not quick enough, they give him jalapenos to chew, which turn his mouth into purgatory itself, make him put his feet in icy water. It doesn’t do anything but distract him, but Svlad has long since learnt that his opinions are not what the doctors want to hear.

He’s about to pull up his pants again, but then his skin starts to prickle in that familiar way; Teddy is replying and although Svlad knows he’s late for his daily session, he at least has to see what his soulmate wants to say.

I know. But once you’re done, I can tell you about how Amanda bit a girl at school today.

There’s a certain kind of warmth spreading in Svlad’s stomach and chest, the kind he has come to associate with Teddy and Teddy alone; he picks up the pen he stole from Colonel Riggins two weeks ago and scrawls, Great! Can’t wait! Bye for now! The amount of exclamation marks always makes Teddy laugh, or that is at least what the other told him a few months ago; ever since then, Svlad has made sure to use even more of them.

Hiding his pen again, Svlad gets up and pulls up his pants, tying the drawstring tight. He can’t be sure if Colonel Riggins would mind him having found his soulmate, but Svlad won’t risk that, not when it could mean he’ll lose Teddy. After all, he’s the only one Svlad has left, now after they have taken Bart away, and that before he ever could meet the girl face-to-face. If that means that he’ll have to spend another five years hiding his arms and legs, ask Teddy not to write for a few days when he knows that a medical exam is coming up, steal pens whenever he possibly can, he will do just that.

That’s why he makes sure he looks presentable now, that the trail of shuriken Teddy has painted across their collar bones is hidden, even ignores the tickling on the inside of his thigh that means that Teddy is replying. For a moment, Svlad allows himself a rare pleasure: a dream.

He dreams of getting out of Black Wing, away from the tests and the small room he lives in now, the hiding and the prodding. He dreams of going to America, to Seattle in particular, and he dreams of meeting Amanda, the little sister his soulmate writes so much about. It feels like he doesn’t have to meet his soulmate anymore, because he knows him so well already, and yet he dreams about that too, about Teddy picking him up at the airport, holding a sign with Svlad’s name on it. He dreams of hugging the other, feeling a living, breathing body against his, of finding out how Teddy smells, how his voice sounds, how his skin would feel against Svlad’s lips, should he dare to press a kiss to his cheek. He dreams of a life in America, of living with Teddy and getting a cat, eating pizza every day instead of only at his birthday, of buying his own clothes and going ice skating and waking up in a cosy bed with sunlight filtering through the curtains, feeling safe and happy and loved.

Usually dreams are meant for night time, when he can spend long moments painting the walls of their imagined apartment in the brightest colours, try to conjure up a face from the messy sketches Teddy drew in scars on his calf some months ago. But Svlad doesn’t have time yet for any of this, so a brief glimpse has to do for now, before he straightens and hopes that it will be enough to get him through whatever the day holds in store for him.

  “Svlad, we have been thinking”, Doctor Seitchek says and her voice is so gentle, so friendly that Svlad represses a shudder; this can’t be anything but a bad sign. There is a reason why she is his second to least favourite doctor in all of Black Wing. “And this is not working, you know that as well as we do. We thought that maybe the jalapenos would be enough, but they clearly aren’t. So we will try something new now. Take off your shirt.” “What?”

Svlad can feel the blood drain from his cheeks, his heart first stops, then starts beating thrice as quickly. His fingers curl around the hem of his grey shirt, as if he could somehow keep it there, hiding the scribbles in blue and black on his skin, the scar-like lines in between. He feels cold all over, terrified, and Doctor Seitchek doesn’t even flinch, only her smile grows tense, annoyed.

“Take off your shirt”, she repeats, pronouncing each word carefully, the vowels crisp and clear, and yet almost drowned out by the ringing in Svlad’s ears. He has been afraid before, terrified even, and yet it’s nothing against this, a bone-deep fear that pumps through his body with every beat of his heart, another ice-age starting in his chest, the pit of his stomach. It’s not a hunch, it’s worse than that; it’s a certainty. They are going to take his soul mate from him.

“Can’t you do it when I’m dressed?”, he asks, and no matter how hard he tries, he cannot keep the desperation out of his voice, his fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt a little bit tighter still. “It’s – it’s so cold.” “It isn’t”, Doctor Seitchek replies impatiently, steps closer, her eyes narrowing. “And I don’t have time for this, Svlad. Take. It. Off.” “No.” Of course it is futile; if they want to, they can make him undress, but for some reason, it feels important to resist, just to know that he has done everything he could to keep Teddy safe and with him. “Why?” Doctor Seitchek says the words like it’s an accusation already – she knows something is wrong, just cannot yet pinpoint what it is. Maybe, Svlad thinks and feels himself despairing, if what she thinks now is worse than what he really is hiding, maybe they won’t be as mad at him. “Svlad, what have you done?” “Nothing!”

“I won’t be mad at you, if you tell me now”, Doctor Seitchek tells him, her voice to sweet to be genuine, and Svlad cannot even speak, can’t answer. He just shakes his head, his knuckles protesting as he grips his shirt tighter, feels the fabric strain against his skin. “Please, don’t”, he finally whispers out, holding onto the sounds like they could maybe safe him. They can’t.

      He most likely will never speak again, Svlad thinks to himself after the door has shut; his throat is raw from screaming, crying, begging, until not even a whisper would come out anymore. His eyes are hurting, as if someone scrubbed them clean with sandpaper, but his tears have long since dried up, because Svlad spilt them all already, leaving him empty inside, a giant hole gaping in his chest and swallowing up all emotions. All the pens he hid under his mattress, the corners of his closet, taped under the sink, are gone now, every object he got for good behaviour removed from his room, his skin scrubbed clean and pink. Teddy’s words are still there, thin white lines, but Svlad knows that they’ll fade, like they always do, and knows that he won’t be able to reply anymore; they have made sure of it.

A distraction is what they called Teddy, unnecessary, Doctor Seitchek sneering at him when she found the little smiling daisy Svlad drew on his ankle the night before, the shuriken on his collarbones. Teddy is anything but that, Svlad would give his life to prove it, but of course that wouldn’t do either of them any good. And he cannot even tell Teddy, have the other reply with a quip or a quick doodle, a familiar It’s going to be fine, Svlad following the line of his hipbone, which always feels a bit like a caress when the words appear on his skin. The thought makes his eyes prickle with tears, although he feels completely dehydrated already, because not being able to talk to Teddy again, maybe never again, might just be the worst punishment in existence. Already, his soulmate’s absence is clawing at his heart, a quiet, cruel ache.

And Teddy won’t know what happened, will think that Svlad is dead, or in a coma, or even worse, doesn’t want to speak to him any longer. A tear rolls down his cheek, the pain in his chest multiplying until it is hard to breathe; he cannot let this happen. There are cameras in his room, at least there are now, so he will have to be quick; there’s nothing to write with, so he will have to be creative. He sits down onto the mattress, the ache momentarily easier to bear because he has something to do, a goal to achieve.

There is nothing left but the barest amount of furniture, the walls, the door… and him. It’s an idea like a sun rise after a seemingly endless night, a glimmer of hope, and that’s enough to try.

The pain is sharp when he bites down onto his thumb, but Svlad hardly registers it, because the ache in his chest is so much worse, instead bites down harder, harder, until he can taste salt and copper. When he pulls his hand away, there is blood spilling down to his palm, smearing pale skin a bright red, and Svlad writes tall, messy letters down his arm.

HELP THEY WON’T LET M

That’s when the guards come in.

      The door is slammed closed behind him, and Svlad is tired, impossibly tired and allows his body to crumple right where he is standing. They have washed the blood off his arm, and yet he raises it to the height of his eyes, ignores the white material of the mitten they secured around his wrist, making it impossible to get to the skin beneath, to write, and lets his cloth-covered fingers trace the new letters scattered across his arm, messier than he is used to, hurriedly scrawled onto skin.

What is wrong?

What happened?

Svlad, what is going on?????

Why aren’t you answering???

Did they hurt you???

Svlad???

Please answer, just so I know you’re okay

Please, I can’t lose you

Please

Please

I will find you, I swear, Svlad, I will find you and get you home

[lillotte17]

General Lavellan AU for the Time Travel Baby Anon! Better late than never, right?? >_>

@feynites for Uthvir/Squish/Lavellan mentions

Aili is coming to the end of what has proven to be a very long and trying day.

She climbs up out of one of the discreet entrances to the sewers in the Lower City, covered in bruises and slime, and drenched in foul-smelling water. Weary, down to the very marrow of her bones. But at least this section of the tunnels has been cleared of demons, and the new wards that the General had wanted laid down have be successfully put into place.

There is some satisfaction to be found in that; a sense of pride that does not fade even when she is met with a cold gust wind hurling a flurry of snowflakes directly into her face.

She wraps her arms around herself and shivers, rubbing at her sleeves with a touch of magic in an effort to dry the thin material of her shirt a little. It doesn’t help much. Things will be better as soon as she can change into a fox, and have a nice layer of fur to keep her warm.

But that will have to wait until she gets up onto the rooftops.

She hastily ducks into a nearby alleyway, it’s very late, but she would rather not run the risk of someone seeing her if she can possibly help it. This is mainly a warehouse district, so anyone else wandering around at this time of night probably wants to avoid being seen as much as she does, but she would rather be safe than sorry. There are a lot of wards laid out around the buildings to protect precious goods, but she knows where the merchants tend to set them, and they aren’t likely to be an issue once she is up on the roofs anyway. But she does have to get there first.

A few blocks down from where she started, she knows of a storehouse for various imported pottery and fresh clay that has an awning low enough for her to pull herself up from the street. She is more than two thirds of the way towards her intended destination, picking her way carefully over a few large crates that have already been divested of their previous cargo, when she is blinded by a sudden flash of light. Startled, her fingers lose their purchase, and she finds herself falling backwards, her elbow smashing painfully into the smooth stone of the street. After a low hiss of pain and several muttered curse words, she shifts into a fox and tucks herself into the shadows, hoping that the burst of magic was someone else in the vicinity setting off an alarm, and not something she has managed to trip herself.

For a minute or so, there is nothing but silence and snowfall.

And then she hears it; a thin, high keening sound, muffled by one of the crates. She might mistake it for a stray cat, or some other small lost house pet, that had somehow succeeded in trapping itself beneath a stack of boxes, but there is a palpable aura of grief permeating the air. And a thick, cloying fear, intense enough that she could almost swear she could taste it in the back of her throat.  

Aili pads out of her hiding place on nimble paws, sniffing cautiously until she thinks she has located the box the noise is emanating from. There is a strange acrid smell lingering in the air, almost enough to scorch the inside of her delicate nose, but beneath that, there is a definite scent of…person.

Quickly and quietly as she can, she shifts back into the shape of an elf and begins to move the crates away from the one that seems to be occupied. Not as easy a task as she might have hoped, as it turns out. Although they are empty, the boxes themselves are large and sturdy, and not even the frequent exercise of lugging Uthvir out of danger has built up her upper body strength to the point where this is an easy task. And she was tired to begin with.

Still, she manages. Perhaps spurred on by adrenaline, or concern, or genuine empathy for the poor little creature trapped in the dark. She is fairly certain that there is really only one thing it could be, and it is doubtlessly going to cause her no small amount of trouble, but that doesn’t mean she has the heart to simply abandon it to its fate.

Sure enough, when Aili finally pulls the lid off the crate, she is met with a startled, hiccupping gasp, and a pair of wide green eyes. He is a bit hard to make out at first, a little smudge of olive skin and dark hair nestled in a pile of wood shavings. Long and lean, and without any sort of injury or defect that she can immediately discern; she wonders what in the world could have caused someone to abandon him out in the snow.

A baby, thrown away with the garbage.  

For a moment, they both simply regard one another, the little boy’s gaze boring into her with an intensity that she does not tend to associate with babies, black brows furrowing in an expression of obvious misgiving. She did not think a child so young would be capable of suspicion, but perhaps, given the circumstances, it is not so strange. He cannot have learned much of love or trust if his caretakers were callous enough to dump him in the warehouse district.  In the dark. And the cold.

A great swell of fury rises up in her. Surely, this was not his parents’ only option. There are plenty of elves who would have taken him in, even knowing the risks. He could have been left in the Upper City, were some high-ranking follower might have found him. He could have been left in a tavern somewhere, sheltered and warm. …They could have at least left him a blanket.

Unless…it was not their intention that he survive.

Aili shakes the thought away, as it is far too horrible to even imagine, before reaching into the crate to scoop the child up into the relative warmth and safety of her arms.

He makes a startled squawk at the sudden movement, visibly recoiling from her outstretched hands. The fear around him sharpens again, and she hastily pulls away. She frowns, puzzled. Uncertain if the child is afraid because she is a stranger, or if his treatment before now has been so terrible that he is actually petrified of being held.  

Very slowly, she reaches one arm into the crate, extending a single finger and tracing soft patterns along the skin of his arm. He flinches slightly, at first, but slowly seems to relax a little when it becomes apparent that she is not going to grab him again. Then he fixes her with the same penetrating gaze as before, though perhaps with a trace of pensiveness, now. She heaves a weary sigh.

“I know I don’t smell very good,” she whispers in what she hopes comes off as a soothing tone, “but coming with me has to be better than spending the night in an old shipping crate, hm?”

They sit together for a few minutes, the baby still contemplating her with an air of great solemnity as she hums to him in a low voice, slowly moving her touch until she is brushing fingers across his chest. Over the plump curve of his cheek. Into the dark sweep of his hair. He no longer seems dismayed by the contact, but he does not lose the tension in his limbs, and there is a lingering wisp of anxiety curling around him.

Sooner or later, she will have to take him, regardless of his protests. The snow does not accumulate in the streets, of course, but that doesn’t stop it from blanketing the discarded crates, or an abandoned child, or her, for that matter. There is not much call for weather regulation in this part of the city, as no one lives here, and the individual warehouses are kept at the appropriate temperature for whatever they might be storing. Already she can feel the stiffness settling into her clothing, the numbness in her bare toes and the tips of her ears. She can only imagine how cold it must be as a small naked child without even the aid of magic to keep him warm.

As if on cue, the baby shivers and glances around, as though just now noticing the state of the weather. His face scrunches in a look of consternation before letting out a deep breath and burbling something at her. The sound seems to take him by surprise, as he makes another soft squeal of dismay, glancing down at his limbs and flailing them a bit. Wriggling as if trying to get somewhere without much success.

“Are you cold, little one?” Aili wonders, “I admire your determination, but if you plan on getting anywhere, I think you’re going to need some help.”

She holds her hands out to him, in offering this time, waiting to see if he will shy away again.  

He blinks at her. Gurgles something reluctant, before twisting his face into a look of utter frustration. The behavior seems a bit strange for such a young baby, but there is something undeniably endearing about his apparent orneriness as well. He huffs at her, petulant, and Aili does her best not to giggle.

Finally, he extends his hands back towards her, making a grasping motion that is clear in its meaning: ‘Pick me up.’

Aili beams at him as she complies.  

He grumbles a bit when she takes a moment to snuggle him, but she finds that she cannot help herself. Sullen or not, he is still a baby, and an uncommonly adorable one at that, though she might be slightly biased in his favor. She plants a kiss on his brow, and he puts his little chubby hands over her mouth in an obvious objection.

She snorts in amusement, grinning down at him and kissing at his fingers instead. Which earns her even more disgruntled babbling as he hastily moves his hands away from her mouth. What a strange little thing.

She loosens the ties on her tunic enough to tuck him into it, though the fit is a bit snugger than she would like. She does not envy him the smell that must be pervasive in there, but he only makes another low burble of dissatisfaction before settling in and accepting his lot. At least he is a quiet baby, she hates to think what might have happened if one of the Peacekeepers had come upon her has she was making this little discovery.

The thought stills her, and she takes a moment to actually consider the situation she has now found herself in.

It’s the middle of the night, she can’t just waltz into one of the Great Leaders’ palaces and hand him off to the first person she sees and expect to go skipping home afterwards. Cruelty towards a child is a very serious offense. There will be an investigation. Questions. Where did she find him? What was she doing out there so late?

And they will know if she lies. And she will be…punished.

Aili is a low-ranking servant. A nobody. An easy scapegoat. Many high-ranking followers would be content with blaming the entire incident on her and calling it a day. It certainly isn’t like Ghilan’nain is going to get worked up over the loss of one person under her ‘protection’.

She cannot do it. Outside of the risk to her own life, she would be risking the carefully laid groundwork that the resistance has been setting down for decades. And it would put other people at risk as well. Her friends, the General, and Dorian, and Squish… Uthvir…

She shakes her head.

Well…wherever she ends up taking him, they can’t stay here. And it would probably be best for everyone if she changed into something that didn’t stink of the sewers. And the baby could probably do with something to eat and a nice warm bath after his ordeal.

Back to her living quarters it is, then.

It takes her nearly twice as long as it normally would to get back to her little room, since she was not about to risk jumping from rooftop to rooftop with a baby in tow. She also tried to stick to as many of the back alleys and less-traversed areas of the district as she could, in the hopes of avoiding anyone who might be out for a late-night stroll, or just getting up to cover the early morning shift of their duties. Which, unsurprisingly, slowed her down considerably. But it is worth it if no one saw her roaming around covered in muck with a very suspicious lump under her tunic.

She ducks into her parents’ rooms to quickly gather some provisions, relieved for once that they are both out attending to their duties. Her father tends to keep all manner of goods hoarded away, in order to look after whatever strange little beasts he can smuggle away from Ghilan’nain’s laboratories. The failures are either executed out of hand or picked apart in search of flaws, usually while still very much alive, and Adhamh has never been able to bear the sight of suffering. Most of his brood tend to be young, so there are plenty of things that could easily be converted into some essential supplies for infant care.  

The baby blinks up at his new surroundings curiously when she finally settles him down in a nest of blankets on her bed. There is not much to see in her cramped little quarters, but she and Uthvir had made a small decoration from discarded pieces of pretty glass and beads rescued from the incinerator in June’s tower that she keeps hanging near the window so it catches the light. She twirls it gently and the child’s eyes latch onto it in apparent fascination. She smiles down at him and heaves a sigh of mingled satisfaction and relief.

Safe.

For now, anyway.

Quick as she can, and with at least one eye trained on her little guest to make sure he does not roll off the bed or attempt to eat something not intended for consumption, Aili strips off her dirty clothes and does her level best to scrub herself free of the sewers with nothing but a wash basin and a simple bar of soap. It takes a bit of doing, as it always seems to, and her skin is pink from furious scouring by the time she is free of any unpleasant stench, but in the time she is clean and dressed in one of her night shirts, the baby seems to have grown bored with the makeshift mobile and started an inventory of all his limbs. He’s got one foot almost all the way up to his mouth and a look of befuddlement on his face, and she can’t help laughing at the sight.

“I think I can find something better for you to eat than toes,” she grins at him, daring to sneak a few fingers over and lightly tickle his belly before going to make up a bottle for him. Getting the proper formula for infants had not been an option, but there had been milk and bottles for nursing in her parents’ rooms. It is not ideal, but it will do well enough for a single night.

Aili sits down on the bed and pulls him back into her arms. He makes no fuss of it this time other than a look of mild concern, which she takes as a definite sign of progress. She shows him the bottle with a smile, sending a brief pulse of magic to her hand to warm it before offering it to him.

This is apparently the wrong thing to have done.

Fear bursts into the air around them as the babe makes a startled cry and begins a frantic bid to escape from her grasp. Aili finds herself at a complete loss, and it is all she can do to keep a hold on him so he does not end up toppling onto the floor. When it becomes apparent that getting away is not an option, the baby sags in her arms, dissolving into a hot mess of tears.

She moves him so that his head is resting on her shoulder, smoothing her hands down his back and murmuring words of comfort as he continues to wail into her shirt. He grabs a fistful of her hair, a great wave of grief rising up to mingle with his terror, and she does not know what else she can do to help him.

She starts singing.

The old lullabies her mother used to get her to sleep as a child. Silly songs about rabbits and cats and bumblebees. Soft songs about water and wind and ships sailing at night. Songs about trees and rain and sunlight. Songs about love.

Eventually he quiets, his sorrow mellowing to hiccups and the occasional sniffle. He looks tired when she cradles him in her lap again, pink-faced and yawning. She hesitantly lifts the bottle again, and he does not cry or flinch or push it away. He suckles at it as though on instinct, his eyes drooping slowly until he is finally claimed by sleep.

Aili stares down at his little face as he finally seems to relax, utterly at a loss.

He was not afraid of the bottle when she picked it up in her parents’ chambers, and he had not seemed remotely scared of it the second time she had offered it to him. What could have upset him? Had she moved too quickly? He does not seem to like sudden movements or a lot of touching, but while he had been wary of her holding him at first, it pales in comparison to the visceral reaction he had to a warm bottle of milk.

She pauses, considering.

Could it have been the spell she had used? Could it be that the people who had been looking after him had hurt him with magic as well as physical injury? Such a thing seemed too ghastly to even imagine, but…

But someone had left him alone in the snow. Left him to die.

Her heart aches, even as she feels a fresh wave of anger roiling in her gut. She can’t be sure if her theory is correct, and she would rather not test it and upset him again. He has already been through so much. Too much for someone so young.

She lays down on her bed, loosely curled around him, watching his face until she falls asleep.

~

She wakes a few hours later to the pale light of sunrise and the soft sounds of her little guest’s discomfort. She changes him and feeds him and sets up his nest of pillows and blankets again so she can put on fresh clothes. He lays there placidly enough, wide green eyes still peering around the room curiously.

On a whim, she turns and looks at the carvings she keeps on the top of her dresser. They are only made of scrap wood, but they are pretty enough in their way, and she is starting to build up quite the collection. Her father’s stag. Her mother’s barn owl. Her own pert eared little fox. The rough beginnings of a hawk, wings spread wide. And the oldest one; a crouching hare with long ears.

Aili palms the little creature, running her fingers over the smooth worn grain of the wood. She brings it over to show the baby, who reaches for it instantly. It is big enough that she doubts he could manage to choke on it, so she lets him take it, smiling down at him even as he regards the rabbit with a look of confusion.

“You remind me of someone I used to know, little man,” she tells him, running her fingers gently through the soft tuft of his dark hair, “He was always landing me in some sort of trouble, too.” The baby blinks up at her, the hare’s nose jammed half way into his mouth, and she sighs at him, lightly tugging it away. He can’t swallow it, but she probably shouldn’t let him try.

“What am I going to do with you?”

She…she cannot keep him herself. Not with her low standing and poor resources. This matter will undoubtedly be taken before the Evanuris themselves, who will squabble and bicker and pass him around to whichever of their followers seems the most suitable. Even if the term ‘most suitable’ really means ‘whoever is in favor right now’. Being good at political machinations is no indication of parental competency, not that being inept ever seems to stop some people from rising to prominence.

But what does she have to offer as a counterpoint? She is too young. Too lowly. Too unattached. The only people who really trust her judgement are her parents and the General’s ragtag group of miscreants.

The General. Now there is a thought. She will at least hear her out, and listen to her concerns about his dislike of touch and his sensitively to magic. She already has an adopted son of her own, after all. A foundling, just like her baby.

Aili swallows thickly, something unexpected and heavy lodging itself in her throat.

Her baby.

She shakes it away. Even the General could not convince Ghilan’nain to allow her to raise the child on her own. But Lavellan will look out for him, she can be certain of that. She will make sure that the parents who take him in are good, kind people. Uthvir and Squish and Haninan will keep an eye on him too, when they can. And maybe…maybe she will still be permitted to visit him every now and then.

She bundles him up in an absurd amount of blankets and tucks him into a deep basket. She lets him keep the hare, a token to remember her by. And then she takes a deep steadying breath, and heads out of her building in the direction of June’s tower.

It takes her the better part of the morning to get there. There is not anything overtly suspicious about a servant toting around a large basket, but she would prefer to avoid scrutiny just the same. Her cargo is mercifully quiet, and the few times she ducks into an alcove to check on him, he never seems to have managed anything worse than drooling on his toy rabbit.

She comes in through one of the servants’ entrances that Uthvir showed her. It can be a bit tricky to find her way through June’s ridiculous puzzle house, but she can usually find the meeting room the General favors, as well as Uthvir and Desire’s private rooms. She wishes she would run into one of her friends though. It feels like her heart is liable to beat its way straight out of her chest.

She comes to a junction of passageways and pauses. Weighing her options. Determining likely outcomes. She tucks herself into a little dark nook behind a statue and pulls the blankets away from her baby’s face. He looks up at her owlishly, glancing around at the strange new place she has brought him to, uncertainty permeating the air around him.

He reaches out and takes hold of her finger.

Resolution solidifies in her chest.

~

Uthvir answers the door when she knocks, looking half asleep and wholly surprised. She can’t exactly blame them, as this is neither the hour nor the place they would usually meet each other. She bustles her way into their room without so much as a greeting, too caught up in the flurry of her own feelings and choices.

This is utter madness.

They look like they are about to make some sort of joke about the state of her arrival, but something about her expression must still their tongue. They do quirk a brow at her, though. Expectant.

She holds the basket out to them, tears welling in her eyes.

“Please, help me.”