#and everyone seems to recognize how rare that is. How far they go to preserve it

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Cannot Unsee. Cannot Unknow.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[stellati0n]

✤ 𝐝𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠.

anon asked: hi there, would it make you uncomfortable to write mild reverse yandere with dottore? have a nice day

warnings: (mild) yandere, (consensual) human experimentation, leaving weird-ass gifts, needles, blood

!! reader's discretion is advised !!

a/n: come watch me maybe commit character assassination in real-time. (meaning the doc might be a bit ooc lol rip)

also x2, this post may also go to show i don't understand the word 'mild', so uh- sorry about that-

summary: what if y/n was (mildly?) a yandere for il dottore?

word count: 1.1K

what an absolute twist, it's actually you that's the nutcase! oh how the turn tables. he has far more of a disposition to being a yandere, yet look that. it's you instead.

you, a nigh-nameless fatui subordinate that he barely recognizes, stood before him with a determined look on your face. your proposition to him was absolutely baffling to him.

it's incredibly rare that he ever has people that are willing to be experimented on. in fact, you might just be the first person that went to him on the subject.  

he had no idea what to make of you, thinking you somewhat disturbed for willing to be a subject of human experimentation. you're so desperate to get stronger that you'll practically walk straight into your own death sentence? do you even know his track record of human subjects?

yet your answer to all that was a yes. you knew exactly what you wanted, and you were willing to do anything to see your goal through, even this. the way he scratched the back of his head and uncharacteristically tried to reason against you was adorable in your strange mind.

what you conveniently left out was your true goal behind all this: dottore himself. really, all you wanted was to get closer to dottore. even though you were in his commanding legion, you were just a low-ranking bottom feeder, left to watch him from the sidelines as you were left to your own fantasies. but now that could finally change. assuming you don't die, that is.

✤ gratitude

(tw blood + needles for this one; skip to piety if you don't want to read)

you took any chance you could to show your 'thanks' to dottore. not wanting to put your weirdness on full blast just yet, you started with small gestures to warm him into it. small notes of gratitude left on his desk, maybe a preserved flower, or perhaps a vial of your own blood.

you had grown accustomed to sharps through all the experimental serums that dottore injected into you. it was simple now, like night and day, like breathing. not a trace of hesitance was to be found when that sharp needle pierced your flesh and drew your blood. would you have hesitated before? maybe, maybe not. what does it matter?

when he first saw it, he was baffled. 'for testing. - (y/n)' the purpose was as clear as day, but the intention was shrouded in the dark.

is that... blood? did you take it yourself? he huffs annoyedly to himself. don't you know that only he should be the one doing that? it's far too unsafe if you don't know what you're doing, as you could potentially cause more harm than needed. besides, he has plenty of access to your blood since you seem to spend all of your time in his laboratory...

dottore sighs. perhaps you are just trying to be useful, but there's really no need for it. you're the pinnacle of his work; there's no need to go to this length when you have already surpassed his expectations. perhaps he won't quite reprimand you for it next time he sees you.

was it really just for testing or was it because you wanted to give him part of you so incredibly important to your very existence? only you'll ever know.

✤ piety

at the astounding results of your gruelling test, dottore was amazed. it seemed he managed to get his experiments right for once! not to mention your resilience was extraordinary. most of his subjects barely even made it past the first phase, yet you've made it so incredibly far.

"tell me, what is it about you that makes you so different from everyone else in the past? how have you been able to withstand everything?" he asked while resting his head in his hand, leaning into you. you could feel his piercing eyes looking you over from behind his mask.

“because of you, my dear,” you finally uttered it aloud, leaning in closer to him as well. perhaps it was something in the look in your eyes, but he felt rather strange under your gaze. with an awkward clearing of his throat, he pulls at his collar. you can feel his eyes move off you awkwardly.

“i—um, admittedly haven’t been called 'dear' by a test subject before.” to even his own surprise, his face feels warm, the faint dusting poking out from beneath his eye-covering mask. don't mind you, you’re currently trying to cement this mental image into your mind for eternity.

but you still want more, so you decide to dig further.

✤ green-eyed limerence

time went on, and you were somehow still alive and kicking, to both dottore's and your own surprise. in fact, you had actually seen improvements in your strength—something you pretended to care about. this payoff was simply an added benefit to getting to spend as much time as you wanted with him.

because of your new-found incredible capabilities, you managed to climb through the ranks and became part of dottore's own elite squadron of underlings. your dream position.

the lucky thing for you is that dottore doesn’t exactly have many other romantic suitors, but this doesn’t stop you from becoming jealous of anyone he was giving too much attention to; attention that rightfully belonged to you, the magnum opus of his work.

any time any of his other soldiers lingered their gaze on him too long, they'd be met with your stare of daggers. your standard-issue fatui mask managed to hide your cover somewhat, but that dark, oppressive aura you radiated could not be obscured.

if someone was staring too close to the doctor, you'd sidle up right by his side, subtly demonstrating only you belong there. dottore would barely pay you any mind if you got that close, these days. you're like his right hand now. both he and you knew it, and if someone else didn't, you would absolutely let them know.

dottore wasn't oblivious to any of this, of course, but he had it wrong. you weren't as protective of him as you were simply out of obligation of duty; it was far more than that, and it always has been. it's not just because he's given you this strength and you want to pay him back somehow.

it's because you love him, and he will love you back one day, one way or another.

[underworldreaderinserts]

Hey, this is my first time doing a request and I don’t know if this is the right place to put it (I hope it is). But I was wondering if you do do multiple characters, if you could do (separate) headcannons for Zagreus, Thanatos, and Hypnos falling for someone completely mortal on the surface? Thank you so much and I��m really sorry if I didn’t input my request correctly!

Hello, love! No, you did absolutely fine, this is exactly where you’re supposed to submit your requests♡ Thank you so much for sending it in! I hope it’s to your liking♡ I’m so sorry it took so long to publish. The past few days have been hectic! But I’m back♡ Do these even count as headcanons? I’m so sorry-- I know you asked for them separate, but I thought of them all together, and I accidentally made a poly circle. Since this post is long enough already, I’ll leave them out, but please let me know if you’d want me to make a post with them! I had so much fun imagining and writing it that I couldn’t help myself♡  -- Ryan

Thanatos:

✧ Your modest, mortal life hadn’t been too grandiose; you worked as a humble physician, tending to your village in ways of medication and treatment, everything between minor procedures and check ups.

     ✧ In your line of work, death was no stranger. It wasn’t very frequent that patients died in your care, but when they did -- whether it was a life lost to infection, injury, or illness -- they were only in extreme cases. (Needless to say, Thanatos had made all those visits to your practice)

✧ In the beginning, he'd refrained from any involvement in your life -- only watching over the soul whose allotted time was running out before reaping them, then departing. 

✧ But one day, he’d watched you fighting to keep your patient alive. Tears streaming down your face as you did everything in your power to stabilize the boy. His parchment read, ‘name; Nicos, age; 10, cause of death; injury by stampede’. 

     ✧ He knew that he’d have no other choice but to take the boy’s soul -- living with those irreversible damages would be a worse outcome.

✧ After that, he began to notice things he never did before. 

     ✧ The care you put in to making your patients comfortable before they passed. How you went above and beyond caring for them, and giving preventative measures to prolong their life (though he’d still be there to take the soul regardless, he’d watched as you did your best to preserve their life). All of it showed how limitless your strength was.

✧ “He’s.. doing fine. The boy.” You heard a voice one day, an unfamiliar one. You turn around from the bookshelf you stand before, holding a journal and a vial of ointment. 

     ✧ “Excuse me?” You blink, asking the stranger softly, taking in his features. He wasn’t from the village, you were aware of that. The village rarely had travelers passing through, and given this man’s robes and garments, you weren’t quite sure he was an ordinary man.

          ✧ “Nicos. He’s doing well.” The man wields his scythe, gently shifting its weight from one hand to the other. Your eyes widen as it dawns on you. “Than..atos?” Correctly identifying him, he seems to give a small bow of his head.

               ✧ You do as any sane person would, in the presence of a god; you drop everything in your hands and take a step back. You had enough reason to believe him -- after all, you knew everyone in this village, and Nicos had passed months before his arrival. There was no way he’d have known.

               ✧ “Are you... Is it my time?” You ask, leaving Thanatos a bit puzzled. “Are you here to collect my soul?” You repeat, and the understanding visually clicks in Thanatos, and he chuckles, shaking his head. Of course, you’d believe he’d come for your soul, as he’d only ever appeared before humans who have met their time. “Then... What is it you’ve come for?”

               ✧ You’d asked the million dollar question. Why had he even appeared before you? What was it that drew him out like this? “I... Can’t tell you myself. I just came to tell you, he’s doing well.” And with a toll of a bell, he’d disappeared. No word of goodbye, no mention of ever coming back.

               ✧ Reflecting on what had just happened; The God of Death himself had come into your home, just to tell you that Nicos was alright. It warmed your heart to take comfort in that, knowing that he was no longer in pain.

               ✧ Sitting on the situation a little longer, and judging by that little bit of information, it finally dawned on you that he was there, personally, for that event, and that he’d thought of you enough to reassure you.

✧ Due to his work, Thanatos makes frequent trips to the surface. 

✧ Frequent trips to the surface, meant frequent visits (where he could, of course. Lord Hades would have his head if he didn’t prioritize his job).

✧ At first, he refrained from any sort of involvement in your life -- he’d come for his job, and nothing more. But now he seeks you out. He’ll stop by to check in, or even just to see your face. And one thing differs now, when he comes to reap the soul’s whose allotted time had run out.

     ✧ “Take good care of them, Thanatos.” You’d smile softly as you place a coin over your patient’s mouth, voicing your little prayer to him. You said this each time, too, and it made him think you could see him.

✧ He wasn’t sure when it began, but thoughts of seeing you as he carried out his job filled him with a warm, soft feeling.

Hypnos:

✧ In charge of the census of the dead, Hypnos was aware of how everyone dies; when they died, and where they end up in the Underworld.

     ✧ He found that his job became so ingrained in his being that, when he’d drift off at work, his dreams would take him to visions of the lives of some of the mortals he had met, or have yet the pleasure of meeting when they come to the underworld.

          ✧ Most of these dreams always tie back to a particular individual -- someone who seems to touch the lives of everyone they’ve ever met.

✧ At first, he’d just assumed that you’d met and knew everyone in the world, as the only common denominator throughout these dreams was you. But upon further evaluation of that statement, he had determined that was impossible.

     ✧ Next, he had to admit that perhaps he was drawn to you. Whether it was a connection the Fates mandated, or it was his subconscious actively seeking you out, he’d have these visions of your life, these interactions with the people in your life.

          ✧ An image of your smile, the depiction of an experience you had. You’d invaded his dreams, and eventually his thoughts.

✧ Being shackled to the House, and without the luxury that Thanatos or Zagreus have to go to the surface, Hypnos only has a very one-sided means of interacting with you; and though he doesn’t know you, he’s very drawn to you.

✧ It’s curious. As he’s seen all these snippets of your life, he feels he simultaneously knows everything about you, yet nothing about you at all. He could see these candid shots of your life, but he doesn’t know your dreams, your ambitions, or even the sound of your voice.

✧ With his thoughts always falling back to you, he’s a bit more spacey on the job, receiving reprimands from Hades more and more often, looks judgement from his brother, and looks of solemn understanding from his mother.

✧ Achilles teases him, recognizing traits of “a lovesick puppy”, but never really gets an answer on what that means (he might even observe Cerberus for a while to see if he can understand it a little more).

✧ He awaits enthusiastically, and a tad bittersweetly, for your eventual arrival to the Underworld, desiring nothing more than to meet you, and to hear your experiences of life on the surface.

⚠️Spoilers Ahead!! ⚠️

Zagreus:

✧ Most of your mortal life is spent in Persephone’s vibrant and luscious gardens.

     ✧ You lived not too far from her cottage, and you made frequent visits to her, bringing her goods and gifts from the market, and the words from all the gossipers of the town.

          ✧ As far as you knew, she was the only one who lived here, and she didn’t seem to have any family of her own. Taking care of her gardens seemed to be her passion, and to be honest you enjoyed her company. There was something about her, so lively and inviting, that made it hard to stay away for long.

✧ Trips to Persephone were always fragrant, delicious, and warm, despite the permanent snow in the region. Conversations over meals, fishing by the river, and of course time spent in the garden where you got to watch your toils bear great produce.

✧ One day, you return to the cottage, a basket of bass and trout resting on your hip as you walk. The plan was to make a profit selling them in town, and use the coin to get better tools for the garden and the kitchen.

     ✧ Though, on the way to the cottage, you notice scorched earth in the shape of a bare footprints. The trail leads up to the garden, where you find Persephone with a man you’ve never seen before. A man like you’ve never seen before.

          ✧ You watch on as Persephone embraces this ethereal form, whose skin is much like ash and moonstone. He looked beyond out of place, yet, something about him felt so familiar.

               ✧ Focused on the two before you, carelessly unaware of your surroundings, you snap a branch under your foot, alerting them of your presence. The stranger flinched, tensing as he pulls his guard up. He turns to meet your eyes, and whatever words you’d formed in your mind vanished.

               ✧ One red, one green -- his eyes bore into yours as you admire his. That electrifying moment of attraction ends in time with Persephone clearing her throat.

               ✧ No one needed to say anything for you to recognize he’d had the same energy as Persephone. You could deduct immediately that he was her son. But nonetheless, Persephone’s words broke the silence, “[Y/N], This is... my son. This is Zagreus.”

               ✧ “Zagreus..” You sit a moment, tasting his name as it falls from your tongue, and it was something about the way you said his name that drew a shiver up his spine.

               ✧ “[Y/N]... Have you been here the whole time? How much did you hear? Do the Olympians know of you, too?” His questions went miles a minute, but made no sense to you. “Why would the Olympians...? What, do you mean the Gods?” You ask, and Zagreus exchanged a look to his mother, recognizing his own mistake.

               ✧ However, he’d reached his limit in that moment, and Zagreus clutched his chest, stumbling. Immediately, you drop your basket in worry, and go over to help him maintain his balance. Persephone placed her hand on your shoulder, and you watched as his body faded away.

✧ It was then, between that day and the next visit Zagreus paid to the garden, that the whole truth was told to you. How Persephone was actually the daughter of Demeter, the cause of the perpetual snow, and Zagreus was her son with the God of the Underworld, Hades.

✧ Since the day he’d met you in his mother’s garden, his curiosity was piqued. 

     ✧ How long had you been visiting his mother? If you hadn’t known she was a Goddess of Olympus, what was it that drove you to help her? His heart beat faster with his recount of your eyes, your voice, your worry as he felt the tug of the Styx back to the Underworld.

✧ His mission remained escaping to see his mother again, and again, but he found himself hoping each time that you were there.

     ✧ To try the food that you’d make for him. To hear the newest rumor that was spreading around the town. To help around the garden, and see you glow with happiness as each of the plants met maturity. 

✧ You’d invaded his mind, tugging at the strings of his heart -- and on the days when you were away from the garden, his mother had no problems teasing him about his crush on you. Though, she admits, if she’d have to give her only son away to anyone, it would absolutely be you.

[strangerivy]

Confessions in the Snow

Summary:  The first winter for Levi and Y/n on the surface and in the corps. A misstep in the training course reminds Levi of how easily it could be to loose you. Warnings: Swearing | Spoilers! for OVA No Regrets Pairings: Levi Ackerman x Reader (y/n) Genre: 18+ | Fluff | Tiny Angst Word Count: 3.7k Author’s Note: Let me know what you guys think! and if anyone wants to be tagged in future Levi fic’s just let me know and I’ll start a taglist 😊 💜

|| Masterlist | AOT Masterlist ||

Year 844 - Winter

It was your first winter on the surface and you so far were not a fan. It was cold all the time, you were starting to forget what it felt like to be warm. You were laying in your bunk now the blanket pulled tight around you, but you were still shaking from the cold.

You heard a heavy sigh from behind you and then some footsteps coming towards you stopping right at the side of your bed. You turned your head to look behind you to see an annoyed Levi staring down at you.

“You can’t be seriously that cold,” He stated, and you shot a glare up at him

“I’m sorry I’m not cold-blooded like you,” You spat turning back over pulling the covers tighter trying to stop from shaking but it only lasts a second before it started up again. He clicked his tongue pulling the covers completely off you, causing you to start shivering even more legs pulled to your chest as you tried to preserve what little heat was left. 

“What the hell Levi!” You yelled sitting up ready for a fight, he looked at you with a bored expression.

“You can sleep with me tonight if you’re that cold,” He said walking towards the door to head to the men’s barracks, you quickly shot up scrabbling out of your bunk grabbing your cloak since you were only in a nightshirt and shorts. Which was probably one of the reasons you were cold but you refused to sleep in pants, they made you feel too constricted to sleep. You caught up to Levi pulling your cloak tight as you walked down the hall.

“Are you sure?” You asked shyly your voice coming out smaller than you intended, he looked back over at you with gentle eyes giving a small nod before opening the door to the men’s barracks it was quiet except for the sound of snores. You scurried over quietly to Levi’s bunk at the end of the room climbing into the blanket. You heard a small scoff and peaked up from the blankets to see Levi shaking his head at you, a small smile on his lips. This made you smile, he looked so nice when he smiled. You wished he would do it more often.

He laid out your blanket on top of his for extra warmth before telling you to scoot more, climbing into bed wrapping an arm under you pulling you close to his chest making you freeze up. Eyes wide with nerves.

This wasn’t the first time you two had cuddled, but this was the first time you both were doing it consciously. Of course, when you had slept in the same bed in the underground you had woken up countless mornings wrapped in each other’s arms. You used him more as a pillow than the pillow that was there. You had offered on multiple occasions to get another bed, but he always said it was a waste and to not bother.

Furlan would go on to tell you that Levi never slept in the bed until you had come around from that first night. You smiled softly at the memory as it passed through your mind closing your eyes. You rolled over so that you were now facing Levi, his other armed draped across you.

You took a deep breath trying to relax your nerves, snuggling more into the pillow. You felt a gaze on you that had you open your eyes, he was looking at you with a gentle gaze, the hand draped across you rubbing small circles on your back. You don’t know how long you two looked at each other like that like there was so much more between you than what was shown. Like you meant everything to him. You fought to keep your eyes open and he noticed another small but rare smile gracing his lips. One that only seemed to be reserved for you.

“Go to sleep, Y/N,” He whispered pulling you closer to him, you let out a small quiet yawn your eyes slowly closing.

“Levi,” You mumbled, he hummed in response, you tried to open your eyes to look at him before muttering a small thanks. You felt his chest vibrate for a second and then the faintest feel of his lips on your forehead and the small sound of something leaving his lips but sleep was already taking you to hear what it was.

Your ear twitched as you picked up on something in the room, you let out a groan snuggling further into the blanket. It was so warm you weren’t ready to get up. The blanket shifted under you. Wait, blankets don’t move. Your eyes slow open blinking sleep out of your eyes. You gazed up at a sleeping Levi without moving to not give away that you were awake to the guest in the room.

“Honestly, I wish they would just admit it to each other already, I mean look at them!” Your eyes widen as you realized you two were no longer alone in your barracks. “Plus, it would probably soften up shorty over there,” You recognized the voice as Hange, you felt Levi shift under you and that is when you realized the position you were also in. Your leg was draped completely over Levi and his hand had found its way up the back of your shirt hugging you close to him. The blanket that was once pulled tight around you two was now at your waist being pushed down at some point in the night.

Levi shifted under you and you glanced up seeing his eyes flutter open before instantly going into a cold glare once he was fully awake.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He asked clearly annoyed by Hange’s presence and whoever was with her.

“Just coming to get you two lovebirds for training, and to remind you that she isn’t supposed to be sleeping in the men’s barracks, but I know you won’t listen,” She said cheerfully not even phased by Levi’s cold tone. “Make sure to wear your jackets, we got some snow last night.” You went to sit up a rush of excitement running through you, never having seen snow before only reading about it in the few books you had collected down in the Underground, but Levi was quick to pull you back down covering you up with the blankets.

“Out.” He demanded with a stern voice, Hange grinned with a chuckle before leaving you two alone to get ready for the day. You sat up quickly once the door was shut and you heard no one else in the room everyone already going on with their business for the day.

You raced over to the window looking out hands on the windowsill as you bounce on your toes out of excitement to see the white snow outside. You let out a soft wow as you looked out the window. The trees covered in the stuff, little pillows of snow covering each branch. You felt Levi grab your arm spinning you around while putting your cloak on you then turning you to face towards the door.

“Go get ready,” He demanded not having any of your bright energy this morning. You let out a chuckle as you went out the door and down the hall to women’s barracks going to your bed getting changed into your uniform.

You were getting your boots on when Levi appeared at the other end of the room leaned up against the door frame all set for training this morning. You buckled your boot getting up grabbing your clock putting it on as you walked towards him with a bright smile. You walked side by side down the hall.

“I hope you know I won’t be slowing down for you because of the weather,” He informed you, keeping his eyes straight ahead before opening the door for you. You sucked in a breath when the winter air hit you, but you were completely mesmerized by your surroundings the snow-covered ground and trees, looking through the frosted window did not do it justice.

A chill ran up your spin that you shook off as you adjusted to the cold, “You're just mad because I beat you the last time at the obstacle course,” You gloated giving a toothy smirk as he let out an unamused scoff before heading towards the training grounds with the snow crunching under your boots. You noticed that even though there were people out and about around HQ it seemed oddly quiet for it. A peaceful quiet that you had never really thought possible.

“That’s because I didn’t let you win, you would have thrown a tantrum like a child,” He said coolly making you frown.

“Would not,” You protested making his lip move into a smirk “Don’t be such a sore loser,” that’s when you got an idea which he was quick to notice the mischievous glint in your eye,raising an eyebrow at you curiously knowing this would not bow well for him. “Why don’t we make a bet?” you suggested, I mean there is nothing wrong with healthy competition when training for life and death scenarios, right?

“What do I get?” He asked as we reached the forest training ground getting our ODM gear ready. He helped you adjust the straps so that the gear sat better.

“The winner buys the other a box of their favorite tea?” You suggested and his eyebrow went up curiously, you looked up and saw Hange giving you the signal to get ready, Mike, getting ready to follow you two to observe though it wasn’t really needed, you both proving to be a skilled duo.

“I’m not buying you a box of chai,” Levi deadpanned, getting into position, you gave a small smirk.

“So, you’re saying I’m going to beat you?” You smirked

“Tch not a chance,” Hange could see you were both in a competitive mood and looked at the two of you gleefully to see what kind of maneuvers she would see from the two of you today while Mike looked slightly annoyed at the idea of having to keep up with the two of you.

“Alright you two we are almost reset,” She announced waiting for the signal from a Scout in the forest, you and Levi both waiting ready to go the second you saw the signal, and when you did you both were gone before she could even tell you to go a loud squeal of excitement as you two flew off.

The air was crisp as you flew through the trees, goosebumps forming all along your skin, but you didn’t let that slow you down, moving faster from tree to tree. You twisted and turned through them with ease making sure to keep your eyes open for the wooden titans to appear.

A fake titan appeared in front of you as you maneuvered out of a path of a tree and you gracefully bounced off of a trunk of tree going higher into the air flipping upside down dragging your blades deep into the fake nap cutting out a more than deep enough cut to kill. You flipped back up with missing a beat moving on.

“Careful Y/N, you'll dull your blades before we’ve even started,” You heard Levi mock somewhere in the trees, you continued through the trees another titan appearing on your right but before you could make your move Levi came out of nowhere just a quick flash of green.

You let out groan in frustration picking up your pace. Another Titan appeared on your right and you went for the kill but when you went to use a tree branch as a launch point you hit some ice on the branch losing your footing. You let out a small gasp as you lost control and began falling to the forest floor, you quickly caught yourself though sending out your grappling hooks pulling yourself back up just barely giving you enough time feeling your hair drag against the ground before swinging yourself back up in the air.

The last titan in the course showed up on your right and you couldn’t hear Levi anywhere and just as you were about to swing your blades for the kill, he flew past you taking the kill for himself. You grumbled to yourself as you reached the end of the course landing down on the ground.

“I didn’t even hear you!” You shouted walking up to him, he turned to face you with an annoyed look, “Where the hell did you even come from?”

“You need to be more careful,” He critiqued not even minding to address your question, you gave him a confused look.

"Yeah I didn't see the ice on that branch," You smiled at him but something was really bothering him with your slip up. He narrowed his eyes at you letting out an angered huff. 

"You would have been dead from that slip up you had," He spat

“What do you mean? We aren’t outside of the walls Levi,” You questioned him not sure why he was starting to grow this angry with you.

“That one misstep outside of these walls could cost you your life, y/n!” He snapped at you, he walked up to you anger fuming off him and that’s when you could see it in his eyes that this wasn’t about the slip you had. This was more than that. Mike moved on back to the start of the course noticing that you two were now fighting and did not want to get in the middle of it. “I am not about to lose you to the filthy beast outside of those walls! I can’t lose you!”

“Levi…” Your voice was quiet as you stood there unreactive to his anger as you stared at him with sad eyes the faces of Isabel and Furlan running through your mind. It hadn’t even been a year since you lost them. Levi hid his pain well. Until now it seems.

It had started to snow once again; you could see each breath of his coming out in heavy pants. You reached out quickly pulling him into a hug so he couldn’t reject it. He stiffened sucking in a breath at the sudden gesture so openly out her in public. You gripped onto his shirt snuggling into his chest, his arms slowly wrapping around you as he accepted the simple display of affection and comfort you offered. He pulled you tighter to him his head falling to your shoulder his breath tickling your neck.

“You’re not going to lose me, Levi,” You felt a tear fall from your eye, your hand traveling up weaving your fingers into his hair holding his head, “I promise I’ll always find a way back,” You whispered, you felt him grip you tighter at your words.  You both stood there holding one another quietly as the snow fell.

"Do you think they would have liked the snow?" You whispered to him, he let out a small scoff

"Isabel would probably be as excited as you were this morning, I can't imagine we would get anything done," He muttered fondly to you as you both thought of your two dear friends.

Levi pulled away just enough to look into your eyes his hand reach up and rubbing your cold and reddened cheeks from the winter air. You felt the familiar butterflies in your stomach that you always felt when you were together like this that you always managed to push aside but it was getting hard each passing day especially after that day when it became just the two of you left.

He had been growing more and more affection over the past couple of months leaving you completely confused on what his intentions were. You thanked god it was cold out to hide the blush on your cheeks as he looked at you. He leaned forward leaving a small kiss to your forehead.

“Ohhhh loovvvebirds!” Your eyes went wide at the sound of Hanges voice, Levi, and you both pushed the other away feeling your cheeks heat up at being caught in such a state. You stared at the ground as you heard Hange get closer and closer.

“What the hell do you want four eyes?” Levi’s voice back to his unamused self, pretending as if Hange didn’t walk into something meant only for the two of you. You looked up to see her grinning widely as she looked at the two of you innocently.

“We are getting ready to just go over some maneuvers, hurry up!” She shouted from where she stood waving her arm wildly around for you two to follow, Moblit standing right beside her shaking his head amused by her.

“On our way!” You shouted back with a wave looking over at Levi with a smile. He clicked his tongue before starting to head towards the others with you in tow. The moment you and Levi shared already pushed aside, stored in the very back of your mind.

You dragged your feet back towards your bed ready to take off your uniform and gear for the day, Levi turning what was supposed to be a simple training into an all-day event after your little slip in the woods making sure you had it down by the end on how to spot where you should and should not land when there’s snow and ice out.

You changed into a simple shirt and pants putting on some shoes heading back out into the hall towards the mess hall. You spotted Levi at your usual table a tray of food next to him that was meant for you. Hange smiled as soon as she spotted you. You took your spot next to him starting to eat your food.

Hange was probably your closest friend in the Scouts besides Levi of course. You would spend most of your time that wasn’t with Levi with her, helping with her experiments when needed or helping her organized her very messy office so she could actually find notes she needed when she needed them instead of days or sometimes months later.

As soon as you settled into your seat, she actually started talking to you about the idea of trying to capture a Titan but that she couldn’t get the approval.

“I mean that has to be really risky, wouldn’t it?” You asked her taking a drink of water from your mug, Levi rolled his eyes and you elbowed him under the table to knock it off.

“Yeah, and unfortunately, I can’t think of a way to make it safer,” She sighed disappointedly staring out past you, you could see the gears turning in her head that never seemed to stop with her.

"Well," you started, taking a bit of bread "If there's anyone that can figure it out, its you"

The rest of the meal was quick, and you said goodnight getting up disposing of your tray and dishes before heading back to your bed, but as you, passed a window, you noticed it was snowing again. You decided to go up to the roof to watch for a while. You stopped by your bed to grab your cloak before heading up.

It was cold but it felt good and it was quiet. No one around to disturb your peace this late. You walked over to the ledge whipping off the snow to clear a spot for you to sit. You dangled your feet over the edge looking up at the sky watching the snowfall around you. Blinking softly as a few flakes hit your lashes.

You closed your eyes letting out a relaxed sigh until you felt a presence. You opened your eye to see Levi staring out into the world. He held two cups of tea in his hand, offering the closest one to you. You gladly took it taking a sip letting out a hum from the warmth that coursed through your body. Levi took a seat next to you falling into a comfortable silence between the two of you.

There was that feeling again, the one that started in your stomach and filled your chest whenever you were with him. So many years of pushing it aside, it was easy at first but now it felt almost impossible but somehow you still managed not wanting to ruin the friendship you had. He was, after all, all you had left and vice versa.

“What are you thinking about?” your head snapped to look at Levi, a faint blush on your cheek as you forgot he was right next to you for a moment.

“N-nothing,” You stuttered taking another sip of tea, Levi still stared at you with his intimidating look that was just his face but still, it made you nervous when he stared like that. When he released you weren’t going to let up, he hummed getting gup from his spot leaving you to your thoughts.

You thought he was already gone but then you felt him right behind you kneeled down so his head was right next to your ear making you freeze to the spot as you felt his breath on your neck small goosebumps appearing on your skin.

“Come on, before you freeze yourself to death,” He whispered sending a small shiver down your spine. You turned your head to face him and noticed just how close he was to you, so close you could feel his breath hit your lips. You couldn’t help but glance down at his lips swallowing nervously when you looked back up to his eyes.

“Okay,” Your voice so quiet that you weren’t sure anything really came out. The corner of his mouth moved slightly into a small smirk, he leaned into you and you couldn’t move letting out a small gasp when you felt his lips just on the corner of your mouth before it was quickly gone. His hand grabbing yours and guiding you back up and back inside as you stared at the ground to hide the deep blush on your cheeks. He really didn’t need anymore boost to his ego, at least for tonight.

[hb-writes]

The Devil’s Footsteps

1913

It was Ada's day to pick up the kids, but seeing as Tommy was heading back to the house anyway, he figured there was no harm in taking the route that passed by the school. It was a few minutes past the end of the school day, but Tommy knew the kids liked to dawdle, stretching out the walk home with leisurely steps and strategic pauses throughout, so he had a good chance of catching them.

When strolled up to the school, he found Ada alone though, leaning against a brick pillar and picking at her cuticles.

"What are you doing, Ada?"

Ada recognized her brother’s voice and slowly glanced up to him, a pouting lip already plastered on when she met his eye. "I thought it was my day to get the kids."

"Right." Tommy blinked a few times, long and hard as if he was summoning some sort of ancient patience.

Smart as their Ada was, Tommy often found himself wondering where her head was at. On a boy, he supposed, though he hadn't a clue which boy. There was just something about that quixotic look in her eye. That and the new attention to her dresses and shoes and hair.

"So where are the kids, then, Ada?"

Ada shrugged. "They haven't come out yet."

"It's quarter past," Tommy said.

Ada wasn't paying attention though, her eyes drawn across the street. Tommy snapped his fingers in his sister's face when her response didn't come quick enough. "Ada!"

"What?" she shouted as she turned back to him. “Why are you shouting?”

"Don't you think you should've gone to look for them?"

"No?" Ada offered. "They'll come out when they're ready."

Tommy shook his head at her and stepped away. By the time he passed through the gates of the schoolyard, Ada was on his heels, crashing into him when he suddenly stopped short.

Clara and Finn were on the far side of the school building, the pair of them spotting their older brother and sister at the same moment he spotted them. A great flurry of excitement seemed to pass between them, lips and limbs moving quickly as words Ada and Tommy couldn't hear passed between the kids.

By the time Tommy and Ada reached the twins, Clara had tugged Finn by the arm so they stood side to side and as the boy opened his mouth to say something, Clara shoved her elbow into him. Finn was about to do it back when Clara cleared her throat.

"Hi, Tommy."

Tommy glanced between the twin's forced smiles. "Ada's been waiting on you two." 

He waited a long moment to see if the kids filled the silence with an explanation but their lips stayed quiet other than Finn offering a hello to Ada when she pulled up beside Tommy.

"What do you have there, Clara?"

Clara's hands were clasped behind her back and at his words, she started rocking back and forth on her feet, her face twisted up in thought before her gaze found the forgotten pile of dusty erasers Tommy had already spotted.

"An eraser," she offered. "The teacher asked me to—"

Finn's mouth dropped open for a moment, a small sound coming out of him before he offered his own explanation. "Clara got in troub—"

His words came just a few seconds after Clara's started, but Finn had to stop before finishing his sentence, raising his arms to take cover from the eraser Clara brought down upon him. It sent a cloud of chalk dust into the air between them and she got in a few solid hits, stamping Finn's head and back with white rectangles before Tommy tugged her to his side.

"You're not supposed to tattle!" Clara shouted, pulling at Tommy's hold.

"You're not supposed to lie!" Finn shouted back, turning and twisting away as Ada tried to pat the chalk dust off his clothes and hair.

"I didn't lie."

"You were gonna."

Clara tried to lift her arm to launch the eraser at Finn, but Tommy's grip was too tight. "No, I wasn't!"

Tommy tried to turn his sister towards him and was unsuccessful for several moments while she continued trying to work out a way to free herself. Defeated, she turned to him with her features softened, all big sad eyes and frowning lips.

"I wasn't gonna lie, Tommy," she said. "The teacher asked me to clean the erasers. That's what I was gonna say." Clara turned back to Finn. "And that's not a lie."

"Why did she ask you to clean the erasers?"

Clara shrugged and Tommy had a feeling he'd found what she intended on lying about, or as was more likely, leaving out completely. Finn had just been trying to keep her from doing it, tattling on Clara in the name of preservation rather than malice. Finn was trying to save her from herself.

It made sense considering Finn had just gotten in trouble for the very same thing—a bit of lying. He'd lied about going off to play by the Cut when he'd been told to stay on the lane, and the boy found he'd have fared far better by just telling the truth and admitting his wrongdoing.

Clara rarely lied outright, and never for anything too serious, but when she did lie, she always told the vague truth, hoping they could skirt past the incriminating details. Clara would tell him the teacher had asked for her to clean the erasers, which was likely true, and leave the reasoning out of it.

That's what the kids had been fighting about, which is what Tommy decided they had been doing when he spotted them across the schoolyard.

"Was Finn telling the truth? You've gotten yourself in some trouble?"

It wasn't a frequent occurrence. Clara tended to stay out of trouble, both in and out of the house, and when all Clara did by way of a response was shrug, Tommy repeated himself.

"Was Finn telling the—"

"Yes!" Finn shouted, the little boy's raised voice startling them all a bit.

Tommy's distraction allowed Clara to get enough leverage to launch the eraser, which missed Finn's head and left a white mark on Ada's dress instead.

"Clara!" Ada let out a scream and stopped troubling herself to clean off Finn's clothes and began working on her own dress. "Tom, aren't you going to do something about her?"

“What would you have me do, Ada?” 

“I don’t know!” Ada shouted. “Do something to control her.” 

“Me? Control a little sister?” Tommy asked. “I never had much luck with you. Can’t imagine I’ll have any luck with this one.”

Ada rolled her eyes. “Well, stop her from throwing things, then.” 

Tommy smirked at Ada's theatrics before glancing down at his sister. “Clara, can I hold your hand, eh?" 

"Why?" she asked, hesitantly conceding as his grip slid down from her arm to her hand.

"To appease our dramatic sister."

"What's appease?"

Tommy had a definition ready for Clara, something that would be informational while also likening Ada to a belligerent royal, but Ada's mouth flew open first.

"Aunt Pol's right. You spoil her too much. Let her get away with everything. She'll be a right devil when she's older."

The way Tommy saw it, everyone spoiled the babies, which was why Ada was coddling Finn, hugging him to her side when he was no worse for the wear at being stamped over with a chunk of felt.  

Tommy raised an eyebrow. "If our Clara goes that way, it'll only be because she's following in another Shelby's footsteps, eh?"

"Yeah, yours," Ada answered.

Tommy was having fun with Ada, but there was more fight in her today, her bite a bit sharper than normal and he assumed she was mad at him about something he had yet to figure out, so he let her have the last word.

Tommy pulled a coin from his pocket and flicked it to Finn who caught it in his hands. "Right, Finn. Why don't you take our Ada for a treat on the way home? Sweeten her up a bit."

Ada glared at him before grabbing the boy's hand. "Come on, Finn."  

“What about me?” Clara asked.

“I’ll walk you home,” Tommy answered. “I assume you’re still responsible for finishing the rest of those?”

Clara glanced at the small pile of erasers Tommy nodded towards and huffed.

“Best get to work then, eh?”

Clara picked up two from the pile and got to work banging them together while Tommy leaned back against the side of the building. She was quiet for several moments, the only sound the clapping of felt.

"I'm not a devil," she said.

“So, what’s all this about, then?” 

Clara shrugged mid-clap. She wasn't a devil, but she was a Shelby and she'd watched her brothers and sister and aunt never allowing a bit of disrespect to come their way without addressing it.

 “Come here," he said, lowering himself as she walked to him. Tommy settled his hands on her arms. "And don’t tell me it’s nothing. Kids like you don’t get sent out to clap erasers for nothing.”

Clara glanced up at him. “Are you going to be mad?”

“Depends on what it is.”

Clara sighed, holding her hands out between them, palms up and waiting. “Can I hold your hand?”

“What for?” Tommy asked though he'd already moved his hands from her arms to rest on top of her outstretched palms.

“So you don’t throw anything.” 

“That bad, eh?” Tommy said.

Clara had a grave and serious look on her face before she shook her head. "No, it's just…I already took care of it."

Tommy's head tilted. "You took care of it?"

"Wally kept whispering about how Finn can't read, but I took care of it," she said. "That's why I threw the eraser at his head."

Tommy snorted. "You know you can't go throwing erasers at other people, eh Clara?"

"Should I have punched him instead?"

Tommy shook his head and pulled a hand away from hers, hiding his smirk by rubbing his hand over the bottom half of his face.  

"But John showed me how," Clara said, reaching forward to place her fist against Tommy's jaw. "If I hit someone right here, I can knock him out."

"Don't listen to John."

"Why?"

"Because John was out here clapping erasers every afternoon, so I can't imagine you want to follow in those footsteps."

But Clara thought she might. A lot of people picked one person to look up to, taking step after step in their wake, but Clara hopped around, fitting her small shoe into the mess of muddy footsteps left behind by the Shelby’s that came before her. She wasn’t much fussed with who the treads belonged to so long as the person who made them belonged to her. 

[maxwell-grant]

Ok, but how would the Shadow get along with Superman?

I'm gonna try something a little different with this ask, because I couldn't really find the right words to answer it the way I usually do. So instead I took the more complicated route and ended up writing a fanfic of sorts, about potential interactions between these two I could think of.

I don't think I'll make a habit out of answering replies through fanfic but, I don't know, something about this question kinda demanded from me a different type of answer. I never wrote Superman before but I do need to get back to writing.

So here you go, the Shadow - Superman fanfic I wrote to answer this. Hope you enjoy.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were not friends. They were not enemies. They had their separate worlds to watch over, and rarely did they cross each other. Rarely did they meet under desirable circumstances. 

 The Shadow, as Superman knew him, was not a part of Superman's world. In more ways than one.

Clark knew that he was a man who was mainly active during the 1930s and 40s, that he had been a crimefighter active in the United States during that time, that he has some connection to Bruce and other heroes he knew, and that he has an associate related to Lois named Margo, but somehow, Clark could never find him on his own accord.

Even when he time traveled to said period, he could never find him. Lois and Margo share a bloodline, but Lois does not recall what exactly of what sort, not even under Clark's machines. When he asked some of The Shadow's associates, they could not recall him, and Clark knew for a fact they could not have been lying. Some of them existed in this world but with "ordinary" lives, and others didn't.

Although he seemed to come from an alternate world,there were times when The Shadow appeared to have history in this world as well. Real, tangible history, that seems to be willed out of thin air and to dissappear when Clark goes looking for it. Even Bruce seems to not remember him, and Bruce's the one who seemed to have spent the most time in his presence.

He couldn't quite say he looked fondly on his meetings with The Shadow, if he could be honest with himself. He was cold, remote, harsh and manipulative. He murdered criminals without remorse, something that even he admitted had soured his relationship with Bruce, and terrorized those he fought to a much greater extent than even Batman, who Clark already thought was going too far at times.

Clark knew he was not an evil man, he was certain of the compassion within him that thundered to protect the innocent, but Clark could hardly be certain of how much he knew about him in the first place. Clark, who could see through crowds and make a shopping list out of what each person had eaten for breakfest that morning, could not identify The Shadow's face through his mask, could not see what was behind his eyes.

Clark is extremely aware of the standards he must adhere to in order to operate as Superman, the ways in which he must be held accountable as someone operating above and within society. He understands the importance of his friends and allies that can stop and defeat him, the family he must look after, the reputation he must uphold, the control over his powers and a lifetime of experience in holding himself back. At times he was even grateful for the existence of Kryptonite as a desperate measure. He knows that Bruce goes through a lot of measures to keep himself in check as well.

But he knows little about The Shadow, who works for him, why they do so, who can hold him accountable, who is going to help him when he can't help himself. He worries about what his world must look like, to create a man like him, brainwashing people and gunning down criminals in the streets while laughing. How much good can such a man do if this is what his approach to justice looks like? What is the toil that such a grim approach to life has taken on this man's life?

He knows that overthinking is one of his worse flaws, but Superman can't help but dwell sometimes on the worlds he cannot save, on those that must take on such realities. He only wishes he knew how to find The Shadow of his own accord and try to bring peace to the man, even if he knows better than to assume peace is what he's looking for.

It is the nature of Superman to never stop trying to bring everyone to a world beyond death, darkness and sorrow, and to blame himself for those he cannot save even from themselves.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a well-known fact that The Shadow always worked alone. And like most known facts about him, it was not entirely accurate.

The Shadow strives to cultivate the image that he's alone, untouchable, that all who work for him do so because he forces them to. That he always tells those he saves that their lives belong to him, that they are trembling slaves to a monster sniffing blood in gutters.

Distractions, lies, smokescreens he must create, to allow his agents to operate as spies, and spare them from the wrath of the police and the criminal underworld alike, too busy hunting a legend to notice the flesh and blood people working under their noses, people they would otherwise be all too happy to neglect or stomp on.

Misdirection, the secret of any magic trick. The true secret of The Shadow's invisibility.

There are days where the only positive thought in his mind is that his agents cannot join him wherever he goes.

The success of The Shadow depended heavily on the vast networks of agents and allies he'd gathered over the years, people from all walks of life who trusted him and had chosen to join him. Every courageous move, sacrifice and pivotal role they played was carefully recorded in his files, and never forgotten. They had skills and capabilities The Shadow did not, and The Shadow was proud to see the ways in which they would cultivate those into the betterment of the world around him.

And though the bridge between them was unassailable, though his ways and actions were secret and mysterious to them and they could never know more than he allowed, they received constant signs of The Shadow’s appreciation of their reliable cooperation, and at many points The Shadow had made said bridge less unassailable for their sake.

But they were not his friends. His allies were distant and occupied with fights The Shadow could assist, but not fight for them. His agents were subordinates rather than equals, expected to play the necessary parts and leave the scene for their own safety just as quickly. His friends were few, and often dead. And when it was the moment of danger, The Shadow fought alone. The protection of others came above all else, and on field, although they were expected to think and strategize for themselves and work together, The Shadow's word was final.

There could be no distractions, no hesitations. Those had cost him more than enough on the battlefields of the Great War, mistakes he would never repeat again. The sacrifice of companionship, his own personhood and self-preservation is an acceptable loss for the sake of those he must protect.

There are occasions when The Shadow is forced into circumstances beyond what logic and physics should allow, and in some of those occasions, Superman had been involved in them. There are occasions also where he has to work side by side with other vigilantes, and sometimes, they also include Superman.

He couldn't quite say he looked forward to working with Superman. His arrival almost inevitably carried chaos into the inner workings of reality. The existence of an omnipotent being able to crack planets with a footstep and liquefy crowds with a gaze, held back only by his human personality, was a danger that thankfully did not exist in The Shadow's own world, but was a worrying prospect regardless.

Few of his experiences with aliens and superpowered warriors could be said to be positive ones, and a lifetime of knowing the evil in the hearts of men had taught The Shadow how easily even the best of intentions and the most solid of morals could be corroded and destroyed. It didn't help matters that this being was also a public crusader and celebrity passing judgement on criminals, even while secretly holding a private dimensional prison to throw them into should they be sufficiently dangerous. Someone completely unstoppable and unaccountable, even to death itself.

The Shadow understood Superman to be a good man, a moral man who had been raised well to be the best he could. The Shadow respected and treasured the existence of those like him, men and women and everything in between that could breathe in the sun and uphold mankind, while he dwelled in the underworld to make sure those more like him would not rise to attack them.

But whatever the rewards of these partnerships, he was glad when they were over. His work requires full control. He cannot tolerate the loss of it.

Others can dream of better tomorrows and work to make them happen, his is the task of clearing the darkest paths so others need not tread them.

Hope, light and comfort are noble gifts, but they are not his to give.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first time they met had been the result of Vandal Savage's Hypertime Collider, a trap designed to keep Superman running circles through the timestreams, cycling through alternate versions of himself. He had landed in the 1930s, somewhat depowered, in a world where some allies of his existed, but superheroes were nowhere to be found (although some people reacted in terror at him, shouting "IT'S DANNER! HE'S COME BACK TO KILL US!", the significance of which was lost on Clark).

He had met a woman named Margo Lane when looking for this world's Lois, telling her he was a farmboy from Kansas lost in the big city looking for a friend with the same last name. Margo didn't recognize anyone named Lois, and Clark could tell she was only pretending to believe his story (even though it was true, in a sense), but through her, he met a tall, gaunt and hawk-like millionaire by the name of Lamont Cranston, a name Clark recognized from an old radio show Jonathan used to listen.

He had an idea of who The Shadow was. An old detective from a radio show or pulp magazines, sure, Superman's been to worlds he used to think were fictional before, some people still think he's as real as Santa Claus (who was going to join him and the Easter Bunny for checkers next Sunday).

Their conversation of platitudes was cut short, as it wasn't long before the Hypertime Collider was soon transporting him to a different time period, but before he was ejected, he remembered the moment their conversation ended.

Shortly before he could feel the Collider breaking and warping time and space in a chokehold around him, he remembered an eerie silence fall on the room. Though his hearing senses in this world were diminished, he could still pick up minute sounds from miles away, and it was a strange sensation to hear the sound of nothing. A sound that did not exist but silenced everything around it with deafening precision, a sound that Clark had not heard even in the deepest recesses of space, when he could still hear his body's metabolism at work. For a moment, though he did not need it to survive, Clark worried his heart had stopped working, for he could not hear it.

It surely was the Collider's effect at work, he reasoned.

But in that brief moment, whatever surprise he expected to find on Cranston's expression was nowhere to be found. Instead, scattered shadows slashed across his face as the air around him changed and he closed his eyes. He was still wearing Cranston's face when he opened them, and once again, they did not match his face.

The last thing he remembered before his ejection was a voice that cut through the air and the meters separating them, that sounded like a python hissing in Clark's ear, from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"This is not your world."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The second time was in another dimensional sojourn, this time of his volition.

Having borrowed a portal from Cyberwear Enterprises, Clark was rehearsing a speech intended for the Reginellian people of the Bohren System, one he was expected to give through blinking in reverse morse code, and in order to ensure the atmosphere of their planet would allow them to hear him, Clark intended to pay them a visit. But instead, he was transported somewhere else.

Before he could properly register the time period and location he had landed, he had encountered The Shadow in the middle of rescuing a steamship on fire from sinking.

He was clinging to the side of it unseen from the panicking passangers, drilling bullet holes to the bottom of the ship so it would fall to the side and steer clear from a passing fireworks yacht. He was holding a rope attached to a nearby tugboat with one hand, and with the other he was clinging to the boat's window. The tugboat was moving outside of the steamship's range, and as it moved, it would drag The Shadow and tilt the steamship as he gripped it, just enough to prevent the steamship from colliding head-on with the coming barge.

The tugboat had three men within it, one piloting it and two holding on to the rope that The Shadow had attached, working along with The Shadow to try and pull the steamship. One of these men had a missing eye and was dressed in aviator gear, presumably the pilot of the autogyro atop the tugboat. The other was a tall, muscular black man in suspenders, who dwarfed the pilot in both size and strength.

The strain of their pull could dislocate The Shadow's arms at the very minimum, if not outright kill him, his plunge would carry him 20 feet into the water and potentially under the sinking steamship. Still, they pulled with grim determination, although the boat driver had his eyes closed, and Clark recognized the Yiddish mutterings coming from his mouth as a desperate prayer.

Though they did not see him, these men were extremely thankful when Superman had blown out the inferno with a single breath, and pushed the boat all the way necessary for it's passangers to land on the barge safely, and rescued The Shadow.

Of course they knew the Chief was gonna pull through, he always does.

If The Shadow was thankful for Superman's interference, he didn't show it. In the second he had regained enough strength to talk, he rattled off dozens of names, of passangers in the steamship that had been bruised, by either the flames, the panicking crowd, or the criminals that The Shadow had stopped. People that needed to be taken to medical assistance faster than the ambulances could carry them, of family members that had to be contacted.

He did so without looking at his rescuer, for he remembered Superman, who expected his presence in this timeline to have been erased after he'd destroyed the Hypertime Collider.

Nothing indicated it hadn't been.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Their most recent encounter was the outcome of an accident where Vandal Savage had trapped Superman in the Arctic and rebuilt his Hypertime Collider, in the hopes of contacting alternate versions of himself so they could all gain Superman's powers and conquer their worlds.

One of said versions was hunted by The Shadow through the portals. The adventure ended rather quickly as the Savages all turned on each other in their tried-and-true method of solving problems with large rocks, but amidst the chaos, a final burst of energy had granted The Shadow a temporary access to Superman's powers.

Thoughts passed through Clark's head of the last time Bruce had accidentally gained access to Superman's abilities, and how despite his best intentions, Bruce couldn't help but overestimate his own ability to wield said powers responsibly. Of how many times he's come across iterations of Bruce who've gained superpowers and used them poorly or tyranically.

He thought of how often he needed to reign himself back, and of the man in black who stood before him, with eyes like thunderstorms ready to break.

The ways in which he is like Bruce, and the ways in which he is decidedly not.

But before Superman could take any sort of action or even ask how he was feeling, The Shadow turned around silently and started walking, straight in the direction of the Fortress of Solitude.

Upon reaching it, he took the million-ton key from beneath the rug that spelled Welcome in a million languages, opened the door, and walked straight into a high security anti-Superman cell within it, designed specifically as a desperate measure against rogue Kryptonians, only stating Superman was going to have to watch him so he couldn't escape.

Clark had never even told him about the Fortress.

He stayed there for the next 12 hours, as Superman ran tests on him to ensure his body wouldn't be negatively affected by the transformation. Clark chose not to remark that some of the bone-deep injuries he had spotted on The Shadow's body previously had healed, as he knew it wouldn't take long for him to acquire new ones after this was over.

They talked briefly at points, and for much of it, The Shadow assumed the façade of Cranston. Sometimes he remembered to breathe and blink, things he forgot to do with startling ease once he no longer needed them.

Clark understood it to be a diplomatic gesture, a façade over the untameable and fearsome Shadow who was frankly unnerving to be around. Even a kind gesture, an effort to address Superman as a man asking for help. Not different than how Superman would prefer to be Clark Kent in order to approach people and ask questions and say things that Superman could never say.

There was a discomfort, of course. There would always be one between the two.

Still, Superman took it as a victory when, after the 12 hours were over, he heard that familiar hiss, with equal intensity but no aggression or even contempt, spell out a "Thank you", as he turned around and was unsurprised to find The Shadow no longer there.

They were not friends, they were not enemies, they belonged to different worlds. They were opposites in their battles for truth and justice.

But truths are often opposite. It is a truth that not all opposites are opposed.

Truth is often as chilling as it can be comforting.

[weatheredpileoftomes]

dawn’s bloom

For FFxivWrite2022 Day 22, “veracity”. Grishild, early A Realm Reborn, ~1500 words. Spoilers through ARR postgame, vague spoilers through Shadowbringers; war, violence, OC deaths, PTSD, survivor’s guilt, reference to canonical attempted sexual coercion of a minor character. One line of dialogue is taken from the lv 17 quest “The Scions of the Seventh Dawn”.

It’s been a long time since Grishild had a commander she trusted.

The Brass Blades had never asked for Grishild’s…loyalty, she guesses is the word, but they’d damn sure never offered theirs either. They’d asked for her sword, her shield, and her obedience, and they’d given her coin in return.

Minfilia Warde is a tiny slip of a thing, but she seems true as steel all the same.

The Scions of the Seventh Dawn…Grishild isn’t as sure about that. Preserving the future of Eorzea sounds well enough, and she believes Minfilia means it, but…

Grishild doesn’t want this. She wants to be left alone at the Minnow, where kitchen fires might be a danger but there’s always someone close enough to grab a pail of sand if she has a vision and starts one. And that’s it. No weapons, no enemies, just her and her staff and honest work, and at the end of the day her customers go home fed and her staff go home paid.

She’s had more visions in the last few weeks than she had in the year before that. She’d thought they were stopping. She wants to tell Y’shtola and Minfilia and the whole lot of them to get lost, except—that woman outside the Quicksand hadn’t had anything to do with them. She’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught the wrong man’s eye, and if it hadn’t been for Grishild that would have been that, maybe.

“Our order is home to a number of individuals who, like you, possess a rare and special talent,” Minfilia says. Recruiters always like to claim you’re special, that much is nothing new.

Grishild would thank her and leave, but Y’shtola had recognized the bloody visions, and she still wants to know how.

As if she’s responding to Grishild’s thoughts—hells, maybe she is—Minfilia says, “Y’shtola tells me you seem to experience sudden losses of consciousness, followed by the revelation of certain knowledge to act upon when you wake. Is that true?”

Grishild nods, just barely. A scant jerk of her head.

“We call that the Echo,” Minfilia says. A harmless nickname for a killer. “I have it too.”

“And you’re looking for people who have it?” Grishild blurts. “That’s your ‘rare and special talent,’ the ability to—to leave what you’re doing in the middle and come back to find everyone dead around you?” She’d found herself at parade rest facing Minfilia; now her hands clench into fists, the nails digging into her palm and her wrist. “You’re actually looking to send liabilities to fight this primal threat?”

Minfilia looks taken aback. Grishild should apologize, maybe, but the memories are clawing at her skin and the words won’t form. “Yes.”

“I won’t do it.” Grishild hasn’t been invited to sit, but she sits anyway. Her hands are still shaking, even when she squeezes them between her knees. “I won’t be responsible for getting your people killed.”

Minfilia is silent for a moment.

The sea isn’t far away, but the sound of the tide doesn’t reach this chamber deep underground. There’s nothing to slow her breathing to. Grishild stares at the floor and tries not to see Llayan’s body sprawled at her feet, the greenest recruits piled on top of each other like they were sleeping except for the blood, any of it.

She counts tiles instead. One, under her boots. Two, running up from its left. Three, above the first one, with her toes pointing at it.

After eleven tiles, she says again, “I won’t be responsible for getting your people killed.”

“You won’t have to be,” Minfilia says, voice very gentle. She sounds a little like the attendants up at Camp Bronze Lake, if it comes to it. “I certainly will not ask you, or anyone, to take a command you are uncomfortable with. There are other members of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn who can work with you—you know Y’shtola already, I trust?”

Grishild does. She could work with Y’shtola, if someone else were there to watch the healer’s back if Grishild can’t again. She could like Y’shtola, maybe, if she could work with her.

“A senior Scion could be given the mission orders, and other Scions tasked to go with you as needed.” Minfilia shifts some papers on her desk. “You’ve been working with a group of fellow-adventurers already, have you not?”

“I’m not an adventurer,” Grishild says for what feels like the thousandth time this month. The words sound thinner and more hollow every time. “I own a tavern in Limsa Lominsa. I’m just helping deal with…” More than one problem, by now, especially if that black-robed figure was telling the truth about not working alone. Probably was. “A few things.”

Minfilia doesn’t call her on it, which is more than Grishild deserves, probably. “I have a dear friend,” she says instead, “a member of an organization dedicated to studying strange phenomena. Of late they have turned their attention to the Echo. My friend’s name is Krile Baldesion, and she has struggled with her own Echo’s manifestation at times. Not, I suspect, in the same way you have, but…all the same, she may be of some aid to you.”

“Organization,” Grishild repeats. Her head snaps up. “They’re studying this thing?”

She still dreams about the vision that had taken her last squad’s life, left them unprotected to be cut down one by one by the Garlean forces. Fire raining from a dark sky. Towers, taller than the tallest trees, with edges where they should have curves and curves where they should have edges, buckling and falling with a crash that rattled the ground. Fear like she’d never known.

(And then more fire, from a sky just as dark and bloody, so close she’d thought she was still in the vision until she realized she was lying on the ground. The right side of her face was burning, and her armor heavy with blood, and when she pushed herself up she saw Roronen lying beside her, skull split open even through his helmet, and—)

She can’t do this.

“They are,” Minfilia says. Her voice is cool and clear. Bracing. Grishild grabs onto it. Minfilia’s office is lined with bookshelves along the wall, a palm of some kind growing in a pot in front of them. She’s never been much for growing plants that have no use herself, but this one’s pretty. “If you’d like to write Krile a letter of your own, or even establish contact by linkpearl, I’m sure she’d be happy to meet you and discuss the Students of Baldesion’s work, or even…well, as I said, her own Echo has brought her grief as well.”

That might be…nice. Grishild still wants to leave—out the door, down the hall, up the stairs, past the cheerful receptionist, across the sun-drenched courtyard, to the ferry docks as fast as she can, and back to Limsa Lominsa.

That black-robed stranger had said he wasn’t alone, that his allies would have more interest in Grishild with his death than he had alive. The thought of them following her back to the Minnow is an even worse one. Y’shtola had known how to fight him, and he’d known her.

“I won’t be responsible for anyone,” Grishild says. “You won’t make me…” She lifts her elbow instinctively, tilting a shield she hasn’t carried in years up for inspection.

Minfilia must’ve known sword-and-shielders before, because she just nods. “Any weapon you like, any role you wish to fill. We will take as little of your time from your other pursuits as we can, and only when we need you. The Echo has…benefits, as well, which I fear have been overshadowed for you, but it does mean that there will be things that only one of us who is bl—who bears it can aid with. And I fear my own strengths lie in areas other than combat.”

That sounds…wrong somehow. A sweet lie, to hide the pill. “It’s good for something?” Something more than helping that woman in Ul’dah, anyway, but Grishild would have done that anyway, with or without seeing the truth.

“Oh yes.” There’s such certainty in Minfilia’s voice that even Grishild believes it. “If you join the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, you will help us save lives.”

A repayment, maybe. A balancing.

She knows the dreams will keep coming back. She doesn’t know if they’ll dwindle again, if there’ll be a point where she can save enough lives that she stops being afraid of the risk.

Llayan would’ve done it anyway. She’s always felt like she let Llayan, in particular, down, for more reasons than one, and if she tells Minfilia that actually no bloody thanks, she has her own dead to worry about already, she won’t be able to close her eyes without seeing Llayan’s corpse lift its head and glare at her with sightless eyes. “I’d like to talk to Krile,” she says. “But…sure. Yes. I’ll work with you.”

[tallyovie-writes]

Arsonists's Lullaby R.A.B.

SONGFIC

Summary: Regulus finds a soul like his in a person he would have never guessed

Author's note: unedited, after 3 exams, 1 am, please be kind I know it starts slow but there will be more parts

1.6k words

When I was a child, I heard voices

Some would sing and some would scream

You soon find you have few choices

I learned the voices died with me

At 5 years old, Regulus Arcturus Black learned that family did not always mean blood. He had yet to figure out the true meaning of the word, but he knew what he had was a dark echo of an utopist dream.

His childhood was dominated by a gray filter, muffling the sounds, numbing the emotions, stretching the minutes forever. On certain days, the lights grew darker, shadowing the world into almost black. Black like his name, black like the soul he will grow up to have. The ticking of the clocks were too loud, the walls too high, his mothers steps on the creaking stairs too firm in a world of doubt and uncertainty.

When I was a child, I'd sit for hours

Staring into open flame

Something in it had a power

Could barely tear my eyes away

Sometimes, for split seconds, burgundy took over the darkness. The lifelessness in the manor disappeared, and compensating for life's previous absence it channelled all of its heat into hate. Hate for an empty mother from Sirius, hate for a son who did not fit traditions from his mother.

Hate from Regulus, who possessed the survival instinct of laying low and keeping to himself but his brother did not. And Regulus resented him in these moments. For all the plates in million pieces, previously broken on the wall, for all the harsh words leaving their father's mouth, for all the clever little punishments their mother put them through. Them, because getting caught in the crossfire of a traditional Black "family" argument meant everyone's suffering.

It was a flame barely extinguishable. It meant the only display of emotions aside from the rare brotherly moments he shared with Sirius.

Emotions lead to addiction. And if anger is the only feeling fuelled, darkness starts to grow.

All you have is your fire

And the place you need to reach

Don't you ever tame your demons

But always keep 'em on a leash

That fire burned a self preservation so deep in him, that Regulus recognized he needed power in order to make it in this world. Power to stay strong, make it through between his ambitious peers and most importantly to guard himself. The blatant, headstrong bravery Sirius took upon arriving at Hogwarts made school holidays a hellish wartime at home.

Regulus learned not to engage. The moment the edges of his self-made cell threatened to break, he carefully tucked in his emotions once again. He didn't want to cut out feeling at all, he deemed that too dangerous for his liking. No. He just didn't let his emotions get the best of him. A man ruled by his feelings is a terrifying sight. He mentally injected himself with an anaesthetic in public, and behind four walls he let himself carefully examine them. It wasn't easy. The tangled web of emotional strings, numbed most of the time, screamed for air. Screamed for understanding, for letting go, for caring. But he cut those last remaining ties with love the moment Sirius got sorted into Gryffindor.

When I was 16, my senses fooled me

Thought gasoline was on my clothes

I knew that something would always rule me

I knew the scent was mine alone

At 16 years old Regulus Arcturus Black saw a way in the darkness. He didn't dare call it a glimmer of hope. Hope was a privilege only offered to the good and divine, to the pure and just. He was neither, he thought.

Perhaps he was right. For now. But fate has a way of changing the tides and replacing the figures on the chessboard.

He has long lost the map to his emotions. They were carefully tucked away in a forgotten pocket somewhere around his heart, but as one man, he couldn't untangle them alone. Not like he wanted to.

His salvation arrived in the face of a charismatic leader. He had answers to Regulus's questions that he long sought to find. Ever since he was a child he associated power with stability and control over one's life, and this stranger offered power on a silver plate. He couldn't have been worse. Of course in hindsight, everything seems more clear.

But as he was shrouded in darkness, he chose to become a part of the dark as well.

All you have is your fire

And the place you need to reach

Don't you ever tame your demons

But always keep 'em on a leash

One of the main problems in Regulus's logic was that he thought that being a Death Eater would solve all of his insecurities and instability. At first it seemed to work, building a new world by idealistic wishes and getting rid of the dangers life proposed helped setting his nerves right. But as the curls of the smoke threatened to suffocate him, his decision pressed hard on his shoulder.

He knew there was no out of this. The Dark Lord's silver tongue has lost its magic, he could detect the empty lies, the manipulation, the sinister force. He could detect it, because it takes one to know another, and he was a master in the arts of manipulation and lying. Why wouldn't he be? He spent all of his childhood perfecting the image of the pureblood son his family wanted him to be. And he did not fail. Keeping it up during Hogwarts has become a natural instinct, but also demolished his true self.

What was the true soul of Regulus Arcturus Black?

When I was a man I thought it ended

When I knew love's perfect ache

But my peace has always depended

On all the ashes in my wake

He thought he would never find it out. But then you came along and wrecked his carefully planted walls. At first he hated you for that.

You were obnoxious and the true image of what a pureblood offspring should be. What he should be.

He would have never thought that someone could be a better liar and manipulator than him. Regulus needed years of careful examination to see the cracks in your armour and the rare slips in character. At first, he was sure that his mind was imagining things that were not there. After years of reading his slytherin peers, your occasional un-slytherin-like behaviour peaked his curiosity.

One day he was sitting at the Slytherin table when an idea struck. You didn't sit far away, so you had to be pulled into the conversation too.

"Snape!" Regulus called to the oily haired seventh year. "Heard He recruited you. You finally pulled your head out of your ass?"

Of course he has seen the err of his decision by now, so Regulus asked him this for two reasons.

One: he had to keep up appearances.

Two: he wanted to see how you reacted.

He had been spending the last few weeks noticing your subtle icks regarding certain subjects. So far his theory seemed to prove true.

On the outside an appraising look sat on your face.

But Regulus learned to discover the signs. And he was once again right as he noticed the tip of your ring finger hardly pushed against your thumb nail, leaving a mark. Subtle, but still a tell tale sign of someone who is not fully on board with the subject.

One day he decided to corner you.

"I know the game you are playing" he didn't mean to sound so threatening, but it came out like that.

A snake doesn't crack under pressure, so you looked him in the eye and let a sly smile spread across your face.

"Please, do enlighten me. What game am I playing? Or is it better if I ask which game of mine you are referring to? I am a busy woman."

He let your comment fly.

"I noticed the tip of your ring finger is bruised. I would bandage it. The past few weeks you must have been careless and cut it. Wouldn't want any infection, would you?" he looked deep into your eyes, transferring the other meaning of his words.

You knew what he meant. Lately, you spotted the Black boy's eyes on you. In the Great Hall, during classes, those grey orbs never left you. You thought he harbored a silly little crush on you. Now you realized your mistake. The question however remained. What will he do with this information?

You are getting careless, if I noticed, someone might too. Someone you wouldn't want to notice. His eyes said.

Your House was not meant for easy friendships. The rising of The Dark Lord supported a lot of back stabbings for meaningless praises, so you had to be careful.

With a last nod he turned his back on you and walked away, leaving you with only frustration and more questions. Could the Slytherin Silver Boy share your views? Maybe when Hell freezes over.

Regulus knew, he should have said; I know the game you are playing, because I am playing it too.

All you have is your fire

And the place you need to reach

Don't you ever tame your demons

But always keep 'em on a leash

Fate sat on her chair and watched the two young snakes step on their shared path. Neither of them knew yet what this little encounter will set into motion.

But Fate knew and mourned the loss of another great story that has not even started, but was already told.

She sipped her wine and caressed the head of one of her demons.

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 46

Emperor Wei WuXian And His Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 | Chapter 37 | Chapter 38 | Chapter 39 | Chapter 40 | Chapter 41 | Chapter 42 | Chapter 43 | Chapter 44 | Chapter 45

Despite his insistence on carefully contrived plans, and his aversion to impulsive action, Nie HuaiSang is more than capable of thinking on his feet.

He had known that this moment would come eventually. Some day, an attack, a carefully aimed arrow, a cup full of poison, something would slip past their barriers. Wei Ying may survive it, or he may not. This has been the indisputable truth of their existence, a truth universally acknowledged, although rarely ever discussed.

Nie HuaiSang’s flesh makes a pitiful shield, and a saber in his hand is equally as useless. His skill lies in other areas, and his task, regardless of danger the Emperor faces, is to protect the throne. Many arguments have been had between them on this subject, some so heated, it had seemed unlikely that their friendship could survive them.

HuaiSang has no loyalty to the Empire. Oh, he can praise and flatter, and speak flowery words of dedication and devotion with the best of them. But deep in his heart, he has always been a simple creature, with simple and straightforward priorities.

His Sect, his brother, Wei Ying, Jiang Cheng, these are things worth living for and dying for. Everything else, including the rest of the Empire, would always take the second place. It seemed inconceivable that he could turn away from Wei Ying in pain, Wei Ying dying, in order to protect some collection of insubstantial ideals, some flimsy peace between regions that have always yearned to fight, to protect some golden monstrosity of a seat that HuaiSang himself would never choose to occupy, not for all the silver and jade in the world.

It took a great deal of time, and many bitter arguments, to accept that some day, Wei Ying may die, but that the Empire must continue to exist in his absence. It had been even more difficult to accept that HuaiSang must be the one to bring this about. To accept that there will come a time when he must step away from Wei Ying, no matter the danger, no matter the consequences, and perform those duties that the Emperor cannot.

He has assumed this responsibility, regardless of personal misgivings. He knows what he must do.

And yet, nothing could have prepared him for the reality of the task.

There is a small, hand-picked contingent of the Nie Sect, whose only priority is preserving HuaiSang’s life. Most of the time, this protection is adequate, verging on excessive. After all, HuaiSang rarely moves far from his comfortable lodgings in the Emperor’s palace, nor has he left the Immortal Mountain in nearly three years. He has rarely ever needed their protection, as the majority of the dangers at court cannot be fought with a sword. Still, having failed in their duty mere days ago, this small contingent had sprung into action before HuaiSang had even fully comprehended the danger.

He finds himself practically carried off the dais, a wall of Nie Sect uniforms surrounding him from all sides. It is not clear how far they intend to carry him; HuaiSang has never bothered learning their contingency plans, nor has he expressed any interest in listening to the instructions Nie ZongHui had insisted on issuing at least a dozen times a year.

But he cannot leave the hall; not yet.

His heels, hanging nearly a handspan off the ground, kick out. At the same time, the sharp edge of his fan finds the unfortunate ear of a Sect member he does not recognize. He does not feel pity for the man, whose tight grip will probably leave bruises on HuaiSang’s upper arm. They release him, more out of surprise than any intention, and HuaiSang tugs his collar straight, feeling rumpled and off balance.

Now, he can see Wei Ying still standing on the dais, the black chest at his feet. He can see the dark coils of smoke wrapping around his body. The hall is a chaos of noise and confusion, cultivators who should be the best, the most skilled in the whole of the Empire, stumbling into each other, overtaken by panic. HuaiSang feels it too, a quivering unsteadiness beneath his breastbone, a fear that threatens to spill and incapacitate.

A hand latches around his arm again. This time his fan is precise, striking the bridge of the man’s nose.

“Enough,” he snaps, “I am not leaving.”

“Young Master,” Nie SuiLin says, “the Lieutenant General has ordered--“

“The Lieutenant General does not issue orders to His Majesty’s Most Favored Person,” HuaiSang bites out.

Back to Young Master already, is he? The Emperor is still standing on the dais, on his own two feet, but Nie SuiLin dares speak as if the Emperor is already dead.

He resists the urge to kick the man again, this time with more force. Irritation and fury coil in his chest, suffocating the fear, pushing it to the background. Nie SuiLin looks furious as well, but he will find his fury no match for HuaiSang’s.

HuaiSang has a million tasks to perform, each one more difficult than the last, and he does not have time for nonsense.

“You--“ he points his fan at the poor man whose nose he had bloodied, “Find the General. He is to lock down the Immortal Mountain. Guards at every gate, every entrance, every palace window, every crack in the wall where someone may slip out. Once the city and the Emperor’s palace are secure, I will need him in the banquet hall. You--“ he points at another, “take charge in here. Empty out the hall of everyone who is in the way--“

A blast of power propels him back into the wall of men, nearly knocking him down to the floor. The sound of the guqin drowns out the chaos of the hall, each note forceful enough to make his ears ring and his teeth ache. Through the wall of bodies, he can see the glow of spiritual energy battling the darkness, the familiar white of the Gusu Lan Sect in its midst. The black smoke roils and snaps, fighting to keeps its grip.  

His bones feel rattled. Every one of his muscles is vibrating with the sound. His hands are shaking.

Useless as he would be, the urge to join them, to do something, anything at all, is overwhelming.

Irritation sweeps through him again. No distractions; no self-pity; no fear. He needs to focus.

He snatches the collar of the man with the bloody nose, “Find the General! Go!”

A hand latches on to his arm again, and he whirls, ready to beat Nie SuiLin until the man is bloody as well. Jiang Chen grabs his wrist before the fan can land, his expression tight and exasperated.

Although he shouts directly into HuaiSang’s face, his voice is barely audible over the now combined harmonies of the guqin and the xiao, “We need to secure the hall!”

HuaiSang closes his eyes, just for a moment, for a space of a single breath, so he does not leap at Jiang Cheng’s throat. Instead, he tugs a nearby Nie Sect member close, and shouts the same order into his ear. He sends another to find Nie ZongHui, with orders to escort all the Sect Leaders to the banquet hall and keep them there. His mind is trying to move too quickly, thoughts overlapping, contingency plans unfolding, reforming, and being dismissed, all in the matter of shaky, half-taken breaths.

Secure the Immortal Mountain. Secure the palace and the throne. Protect the Emperor. The Jiang Sect will take control of the Imperial Guard. HuaiSang needs to reach Wei Ying’s personal study before anyone else. He needs to--

He latches on to Jiang Cheng’s sleeve, “The Wen Sect?”

“On their way.”

He is stalling, and Jiang Cheng knows this.  

HuaiSang need to go. He needs to go right now, before the other Sect Leaders have an opportunity to think, to consider their own contingency plans, to place the succession in peril.

Instead, he watches Lan WangJi’s break Wei Ying’s wrist. He watches Wei Ying release an object, its shape indistinguishable from the coils of black smoke. He watches Lan WangJi pull Wei Ying away from the dais, away from danger.

HuaiSang does not notice that his fingers had wrapped around Jing Cheng’s arm until they are pried off, with more gentleness than Jiang Cheng is ordinarily capable of displaying. Xiao XingChen had stepped up to Lan QiRen’s left shoulder, two more Fan Sect cultivators bracketing Lan XiChen. More join in, their power insignificant next to the Lan Sect, but the cursed object appears less powerful now, its prize removed from its grip.

HuaiSang cannot see the place where Lan WangJi has laid Wei Ying down on the marble floor. He does not know if Wei Ying is dead or alive. Only when Jiang Cheng’s hand grabs a fistful of his robes, does he realize that he has moved forward, intending to push his way to Wei Ying’s side.

“You have to go,” Jiang Cheng says.

“I know,” he snaps, jerking out of Jiang Cheng’s hold.

Stupid Wei Ying. Stupid Empire. He is not crying. His eyes are watering. His eyes are watering because he is furious, and surrounded by idiots. Incompetent idiots, who touch things without thinking, hop over rooftops looking for an arrow through their throat, and never consider their own safety first. 

Idiots who insist on preserving some stupid, pointless legacy HuaiSang could not care less about.

With a growl, he turns on his heel, and grabs Nie SuiLin by the front of his robes, “Come with me.”

[dailycharacteroption]

Races Among the Stars 3: Elebrian

If you ever needed a concrete answer as to why Intelligence and Wisdom are two different stats, I submit to you the example of the Elebrians. Native to the planet Eox, this brilliant race of large-headed human-like beings were so advanced in the time of Golarion’s Azlanti Star Empire as to be able to communicate and even war with other planets in the same system. (The planet Verces even once threw a kaiju at them that they teleported away to Golarion. It was a wild time)

Utterly convinced of their superiority, the elebrians wanted everyone in the system to know how great they were, but when the planets Damiar and Iovo did not recognize their brilliance, the elebrians could think of only one solution: blow them up.

So they built a massive magical superweapon and aimed it at the twin planets, and fired, utterly destroying the two planets and creating the asteroid belt that would come to be known as the Diaspora. However, apparently nobody thought that maybe firing a world-killer while it is on your own world was a bad idea, because the backlash blew a continent-sized crater in Eox and set the atmosphere on fire, rendering the world almost entirely lifeless.

Most Eoxian natives turned to undeath to persist on their ruined homeworld, but even to this day in the far future of Starfinder, living elebrians exist in underground cities, rarely interacting with the outside universe except by proxy of their undead rulers and neighbors on the surface.

When seen in the wider universe, elebrians are extremely similar to humans in appearance, hinting at a shared origin (humans do seem to get around a lot in Paizo’s greater mega-setting). However, they are almost always hairless, though a rare few sport thin, whispy hair on their scalps. Said craniums are also a bit larger and more rounded than the human norm, giving them an appearance somewhere between human and the classic gray in silhouette.

Culturally, though most of the proud elebrians embrace undeath to retain some semblance of control over their dead world and pretend that they haven’t lost something irreplaceable in terms of what their home once was, those that choose to remain alive are perhaps sobered compared to their undead kin. That being said, they have lost none of the ambition for knowledge and power that was associated with their ancient ancestors. Still, life among the living is difficult, as they are often treated as second-class citizens by the undead, viewed as stubbornly resisting the status quo, or like a rare species that only survives in a sort of zoo for sapient creatures, to be preserved and curated.

 Elebrians are tough and intelligent, but perhaps a bit short-sighted.

They do have an uncanny knack for taking advantage of a weakness in foes, striking hard and fast, though they cannot typically do it multiple times in a day against a single foe, as they typically are wary of such tactics after that.

Brilliantly-minded, elebrians absorb information like a sponge, and can recall obscure minutae quite readily after having only heard it once.

Whether it be an adaptation of living underground or just a natural trait of the species, elebrians also have very good night vision.

 Adventuring elebrians are perhaps eager to shed the yoke of their undead kin and see the galaxy. Their great intellects make them well-suited to intelligent classes like technomancer, mechanic, and studious biohackers, while their constitution makes them also useful vanguards, soldiers and solarians (despite gaining only 2 hp from their race). Mystics among them tend to struggle due to their wisdom penalty, so those that seek spellcasting without the trappings of technomancy often go witchwarper instead (Perhaps hoping to see an alternate reality where Eox did not burn). Those that choose the path of the envoy or operative often favor builds that reward them for their knowledge and quick analysis, taking on the air of brilliant explorers.

Another entry down, but tune in tomorrow for more!

[shadowsfascination]

Dreams

Hot. Moist. Sweat. It gushed off him while he twisted and turned under the sheets, barely awake and still under the spell of a teasing dream. A soft sound, in between a growl and a moan, managed to escape Shadow’s lips, even with his mouth as dry as a desert.

His eyes were half-lidded, continuously blinking at a rapid speed. He gasped, clasping his hands into the ball of fumbled sheets atop him as if longing to hold on to something. His sub-conscious mind started registering the stimulus of the cold on one of his legs that peeked out under the blanket. He tugged it back under the warm, somewhat clammy sheets and a inhaled with a series of grated breaths.

“Shit… This again?”

Shadow laid his head to rest on the pillow below him and stared at the ceiling in the dark. His spiky quills pressed into the cushion, the cool cotton fabric nicely fluffing against his skin. It wasn’t until recently that he noticed how everything seemed to be the same saturated colour in the dark.

Not until these dreams decided to wake me up at the same darn point every night.

He grunted. Not only did he want to fall asleep again, he yearned to dream on that one particular dream. Shadow wriggled once more, huddling in attempt to find a comfortable position to drift off again- fast. He shut his eyes and snuggled up to the pillow beside him in the bed. A muffled groan carried away from underneath it. He was already too awake, too aroused to glide back in his dream again.

Fuck!

The black hedgehog sat up straight in a bed that wasn’t his. Ever since Amy left town two days ago for her internship, he decided he’d sleep in hers, which he convinced himself was fine… She asked me to check in on her house sometimes and I know where her spare key is hidden. It’s not like I’m doing something wrong…

In the pockets of his black jacket was an unfinished joint and a lighter- almost empty, judging by its’ weight. He opened the window in her bedroom, lit the joint and inhaled the smoke. Shadow rested his elbows on the windowsill, picturing Amy’s reaction to him smoking this stuff inside her home. Undoubtedly she’d show that cute, irresistible, agitated blush spread across her cheeks.

It had been that particular look on her face that lit a romantic spark in him. He remembered scoffing himself for the very first time after tracing the slightest affection for her. She was his friend and it should’ve stayed like that. But it didn’t and he had a love-hate relationship with his feelings for her.

Part of him despised the lack of self-discipline that eventually allowed him to fall for her, but then again: who could not fall for Amy Rose?

The young woman was simply amazing; kind, brave, strong, gorgeous, honest and pure. Hanging out with her was never an obligation to him. Even if he acted indifferent in the past, it was a mere cover. He enjoyed being with her so much that the innocent one-sided crush he made himself believe it’d become, faded over time to be replaced with an overwhelming sense of… lovesickness? Lust?

Shadow had yet to come to terms with whatever stirred inside him- if he’d ever decide to stop lying to himself. He craved being with her, even if it was just as her friend. But friends didn’t look the way he looked at her, the way he saw her, the way his mind was toyed with by her.

And lately it had gotten much worse. A feeling of possessiveness grew inside him when she told him her plans for a yearlong internship overseas. Surely she’d meet new people, make new friends, go out and meet guys. Guys who’d eventually find an interest in her. Shadow feared he might lose his chance with her forever. And yet… he’d just let her go like it was no big deal, casually waving her off like Sonic had. Along with his sigh marihuana scented smoke escaped his lips.

He looked at his phone. Nothing. His inbox was unusually quiet after Amy briefly informed him she’d arrived at her destination. It made him restless and impatient.

“I can’t believe I’m just as stupid as that faker…”

That last part was what made it so ugly. Sonic had taken Amy for granted for over a decade. Shadow had gladly been her shoulder to cry on and often told her he couldn’t understand how poorly the blue blur treated her. And now he had sunk as low as his rival when what he really longed for was to make Amy his girl and walk beside her, showing her off, proud as a peacock.

He imagined pulling her into a passionate kiss, one that would weaken her knees, send shivers down her spine. One that made it loud and clear to everyone that she was his woman. Now that was a decent goodbye! He sighed once again. She should be his!

Shadow’s mind drifted off to the night before she left. Amy went home early from the farewell-party her friends had thrown her. She had excused herself by stating she wanted a good night of sleep before her journey the next day, but asked Shadow to hang out with her in the end. Just the two of them. He knew far too well she’d do that.

Something in the way she acted that night puzzled his mind. It had lit sparks of hope that she felt the same way about him. If he wasn’t mistaken, there’d been this tense atmosphere between them.

____________________________________

 “My turn! Shadow, can you hand me that?”

…

“Shadow?!”

Amy frantically gestured with her hands to make contact with a Shadow whose mind seemed to have drifted off. The introverted hedgehog got sucked into his own mind, quietly moping and pouting to himself in his thoughts about her departure.

Blinking when he finally noticed her, she was already so close to him that it startled him a little. Sucking off the tip of the joint he held between his fingers, he instantly stiffened up. Shaking a little as he watched her, he became helpless to the arousal from the image and the prickling heat that flushed through his body.

The girl looked up to him, colouring his cheeks in a deep red, her lips still enclosing the tip. He was quickly to shift his gaze away from her, feeling she’d see right through him if he stared at her any longer.

“Sorry. I was out of it for a bit.”

She didn’t take it from him. Instead Amy let out a muffled ‘U-huh’ and guided his hand to her lips again to have another pull of the joint. Without warning she tucked her arms behind him, pulling him into a hug and chuckled a delightful laughter.

“Cheer up! I’m gonna miss you too, you know?”

“Tsk, darn right, you will!”

Amy snorted at his silly reply and gave him a playful push.

“It’s the truth and you know it.”

Shadow raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms, faking an arrogance that actually fit his personality quite well at times. Amy however saw straight through his act, aware that he found it difficult that she left. Despite everything they ended up being the best of friends and she was sure he’d feel lonely and bored without her.

“We can still catch up on the phone and stuff. It’s only for a year. It’ll be over before we know it. Besides, you’re gonna be busy too in the meantime. I’m so excited for you about the project you were tasked with. You always wanted to do this stuff, right?”

“Yeah, it’s something I’m looking forward to. I’ve always wanted to work with plants. I’ll get to investigate, plant and look after all these rare species the Central City’s botanical garden’s been given after the archaeologist department found this hidden, preserving millions of seeds.”

“A nice change of pace for you, after your last missions. Promise to show me around sometime when I’m back, okay?”

“Gladly.”

“Yay! Now… I need something sweet!” Amy said when a munchie kicked in. “But already I emptied my cabinets… Argh!”

“Wait here.”

Shadow jumped off the roof they sat on and walked up to his motorcycle. Amy watched him lift up the seat and grab something out the space hidden underneath it. He jumped up and pulled himself up on the gutter with two brown paper bags clenched between his teeth. A gleeful smile instantly spread across Amy’s face when she recognized the logo on them. He handed her one.

“I put another in your backpack for your trip tomorrow as well.”

“Aaah, you’re the best!”

Amy opened the bag and couldn’t fight the giddy, happy squeak that escaped her lips. All of her favourite candy from her #1 candy store in Spring Yard was in it, which wasn’t close to their hometown. Shadow must’ve gone out of his way to get this for her and he clearly put in some thought into picking out the confectionary in the paper bag. She happily stuffed her mouth with it and heard Shadow snicker beside her.

“You’re precious.” He chuckled at her.

“What? Oh! I probably look ridiculous.”

“I think it’s endearing.”

She quickly gulped it down and fake-shyly fidgeted, trying to compensate for what she thought was unladylike behaviour. In sudden confusion Amy scratched her quills. Since when did she care about that when she was with Shadow?

She then spotted Shadow unroll a liquorish-fruity roll, her absolute favourite. Tearing the paper bag as she searched for it in hers, her face soured, eye-lids dropping halfway down. She regretted she impulsively ate all the candy in three big bites.

“That’s what you get for eating them all at once.” Shadow said.

He shrugged and put the end of the now unrolled, spaghetti-like candy in his mouth with an amused expression. Amy turned around, bent over him and took a bite from the candy string, her grin turning as smug as his was before. Surprised by the pleasurable tension she experienced from being so close to him, she giggled her unease away.

There wasn’t much left of the candy string. To bite off that last piece, she practically had to kiss him. The thought spread a burning sensation through her chest. With Shadow’s heart jolting rapidly and the blood whizzing in his ears, he slowly sucked up the candy string into his mouth to see how she would react.

Don’t think too much of it. She’s just teasing me! Isn’t she? Shadow thought to himself.

Locking her jade eyes with his ruby ones, Amy leaned in a little closer. Shadow didn’t protest. Amy bit her lip for a second, but then enclosed her rosy lips around the other end of what was left of the short candy string.

He took in her flowery scent and felt her breath gently brush against his lips, their noses almost touching. His palms turned sweaty inside his gloves. Amy’s face was blazing, its’ heat radiating against his own.

He cupped his hands around her back ever so carefully, putting the smallest amount of pressure on them. Aghast and undecided Amy sat down on his lap, one hand on his chest, the other tracing the outlines of his lips.

Shadow decided to take the leap and leaned in a little closer to bite off the string when his phone loudly buzzed in his jacket, startling the hedgehogs. Amy squeaked and quickly slid off his lap, her face and ears coloured in a deep pink blush. Shadow awkwardly hid his face from her, grabbing his phone while he inaudibly cursed whoever ruined this moment for him.

Rouge: ‘Do you really think this is a good idea?’

What the-? How’d she even-? If she’s been spying on us, she will not hear the end of it!

 _______________________________

 After Rouge interrupted them, things became weird. They said their awkward goodbyes like they’d see each other again the next day. But they didn’t because she left for her internship and he went to pick a fight with Rouge. The bat was genuinely concerned about him and what it’d do to him if he and Amy kissed and she’d leave the next day for a whole year.

Even when Rouge meant well, Shadow had yet to comprehend how she’d caught onto his secret feelings for Amy and felt violated in his privacy. On top of that she should have minded her own business.

He put his joint and lighter on the windowsill and snuggled up in Amy’s bed again. With his crimson eyes slowly closing, he concentrated in good hopes the fantasy would sprang from his mind and reignite his dream.

Come on, come on… I’m at the station, where are you? You should be here!

He whispered aloud while Dream-Shadow skated towards the pedestrian-bridge that crossed over the train tracks at high speed. He jumped up the stairs, his heart wildly pounding in his chest, hurrying him forward, pushing everyone aside who blocked his way. The strangers always delayed him in so many, annoying, different ways and every time he was left no choice but to jump off the bridge as a shortcut to get to the platform in time. Although a part of him feared, a part of him knew, he’d be too late -again. A sea of unknown, irrelevant others were standing in his way. Why is it always this crowded?

‘Move! Out of my way!’

The pod had done its’ job and Shadow drifted off into a deep sleep. His gaze locked on to something in the distance, the familiar shape of the one he was after.

‘Wait!’

He clenched his teeth and sped up, screaming to the strangers to make room for him, but his cries fell on deaf ears once more. The empty voices of everyone out here muted his screams before they could reach her.

‘No! Not again! Please! I must…!’

Shadow never seemed to get closer to the train he tried to reach before it’d fare away, even when he was skating towards it at full speed. It drained him, sending stinging pains to his sides, but he never got to it. Like his feet were glued to the ground. Soundless, hoarse, growling cries leaving his throat as the train departed and the crowd suddenly vanished, like it had never been there to begin with.

‘WAAAAIT! YOU HAVE TO WAAAAIT!’

He never mastered control over the rotten feeling, even when he knew it always ended the same way. The fact that he didn’t make it, didn’t reach her, never was fast enough… It was mortifying for him. He was the fucking ultimate lifeform and he didn’t deliver.

He pounded his fists into a brick wall and growled like a beast. His muscles trembled from the impact as he watched the train disappear into the distance. The thought of chasing it tempted him for a second. He let the thought pass on and slid down against the wall, scouring his back to the raw structure and sharp chunks of stone in it. He bled, but didn’t bother. Shadow’s chaos energy always healed him so fast that hardly anything was an actual threat to the ebony hedgehog.

He let his dream counterpart stroll over the platform of the train empty station. It somehow was always empty at this point in the dream. The sun stood low, casting soft beams of light in magnificent deep oranges, reds and yellows, painting long, dark shadows behind objects blocking its’ reach. Shadow sank down on a black, metal bench on platform 3-b, its’ many thin metal lines pressing into his skin. He rested his head on his hand, curling up to a ball.

‘I’m so stupid! So DARN stupid! I should never have let you leave like that!’ He cried. ‘And now you’re gone! ARGH!’

The powerlessness and anger inside the black male came crashing out of him when a chaos sphere ignited from his hands. It destroyed the tracks with a shrieking bang, curling up its’ irons.

‘I thought you were different, Shadow.’ crawled up a voice from behind him.

Dream-Amy’s voice scared him wide awake. His muscles soured, adrenaline rushing through his veins, his breathing irregular and his phone buzzing under the pillow. The disappointed tone in her voice hurt him badly. He seized the phone with trembling hands.

Amy!

Suddenly only seeing her name on the screen made him scared as never before, but also strangely excited at the same time. Nausea sprung in his middle.

Amy: ‘U awake?’

Shadow: ‘Yes.’

An incoming call from Amy popped up on his screen. He swiped it to the right to pick up.

“Why are you still up? Tomorrow’s your first day, right?”

“I went out with some people from the dorm.”

“O-kay... Did you- did you have a good time?”

“Sure did. In fact a really cute guy asked me out. We’re going out Friday night.”

All right. He knew what this was really about. She was trying to make him jealous, trying to make him feel bad about the way they parted. And it was a totally justified thing to do, but her act revealed to him that she wanted him to care. Shadow’s muscles relaxed again and a confident smile curved his lips.

“Is that so? Did you tell him you secretly have feelings for someone else?”

“I’m not in love with Sonic anymore!”

“Who said I was talking about Sonic?”

…

Shadow was unable to fight the amusing feeling inside him from how baffled she was all of the sudden.

“Well- I-! I can’t believe you just let me go like that!”

“I’m sorry.”

Amy shrieked with a high pitched voice when she heard the acoustics of his apology twice. She turned around, the phone still held against her ear to see him standing in her dorm room. In one hand he held a chaos emerald and his phone in the other.

“What are you doing here?!”

“Confessing how much of an idiot I am.” He pouted.

“Go on.”

“It was highly indecent of me to let you go like that and I’m sorry.”

Part of him wanted to confess everything to her, take the leap and come clean, but he didn’t. The repeating dream that haunted him since she left had awakened a new fear in him: that she was only fooling around with him that night. It was yet to be proven irrational. He felt it was her turn to say something for this wasn’t a one way street.

“Thank you. It’s just… That night- I thought you cared about me.”

He sat down next to her.

“I do.” Way too much actually.

Shadow leaned in on her, resting his arms on her legs, his lips close to her ear. He closed her in between the wall behind her and himself in front of her only to whisper: “In fact, I don’t like that you’re going out with someone if that someone isn’t me.”

Amy let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She tilted her head and unintentionally tightened her grip on Shadow’s chest fur. Her lashes softly tickled on his muzzle when she blinked. His musky scent and flirting intoxicated her senses. He levelled with her to catch her gaze, internally screaming from how hot she looked in what he realized was in fact one of his sweaters.

“Heh, here I only thought I had the hots for you, but it seems I was wrong.”

He pulled her closer by the cords of the sweater. Slowly he closed the remaining distance between them, softly pressing his lips against hers.

“So wrong!”

Amy smiled against his lips and straddled him, clamping his legs between her own, before passionately pouring into the kiss.

Chaos! I wanted this for so long!

_______________

AN: This one’s long! I decided to care less and just write and draw whatever I want, trying out new styles. Here goes...

Shadow and Amy are both adults here. Where I live smoking marihuana is tolerated.

Like always: send me a note for annoying typos, grammar mishaps etc. 

[shioririn]

Happier | K. Doppo x I. Hifumi

We often think about how our life would be should it not be what it is - whether it be better or worse - and if we would be happier that way. People crave the life they don’t have, and for the most part, that’s what makes us unhappy and dissatisfied, unable to live life to the fullest. 

It’s a funny little thing, fate is. 

Izanami Hifumi used to wish upon shooting stars for himself to stop being ordinary - to be someone special, someone people would look up to - much like the red haired idol that he often saw plastered on billboards throughout Shinjuku’s streets. He wondered how it felt to be recognized for his own talents, and to stand out among the rest, having others supporting him despite not seeing it himself, and for that same reason, bringing smiles on people’s faces instead of frowning as he worked through long hours with despicable pay. 

His name carried the meaning of “the one that’s loud”, so why did he feel so small and invisible?

Passing by the busy streets of the city who never sleeps, Kannonzaka Doppo couldn’t help but envy the blonde haired salaryman that seemed so carefree, casually enjoying a bowl of ramen by the many food stalls that decorated the bustling nightlife of a city, seemingly free of worries and pressure that everyone else had involuntarily placed on him. There were days where he missed the years where he was ordinary and blended in with the world, following its pace without fear that he’d be left behind; and when he’d traded it all for a life of fame and fortune did he realise how much he craved what he had. 

He wanted to support those whom he felt loyal towards instead of having to put up a front for strangers to admire for fear that he’d lose sight of who he really was, and instead, wanted to surround himself with people that he could trust his life on, should it be only one person. How rare it was, loyalty is, in the competitive entertainment society of Shinjuku. 

And while his name translates to walking alone, there was nothing else that he’d craved more than to never walk alone again.

They’d realised that life was cruel, unfair, and unjust, but maybe - just maybe - they’d have the chance to live a life that they desired in another life.

But for now, they were content with the life that they were destined with. 

Crossing the busy street with loud chatter and busy nightlife seemingly muted, two shoulders brushed against each other, both belonging to people of opposite lives, yet neither of them were as dissimilar as portrayed, for both desired the same goal. The brief contact that resembled the touch of a butterfly on one’s shoulder symbolized the moment of a new start - a better start - that neither would be able to deny, intertwining their fate together by a red string, reeling each other closer.

From the moment blue met gold, both men of different worlds were freed of the chains that bound them to society’s expectations, breaking walls only to be met with a sight with nothing but hope for a brighter future. It was a beautiful sight, and they had only wished to preserve the precious smile that came with the end of each conversation, holding onto the warmth that only each other can provide as if that were the last thing they’d ever be able to experience, cherishing each second they had next to each other.

Distance melted away into nothing, and worries faded away into the rising sun, for to someone else, Izanami Hifumi had become more than just ordinary; and for Kannonzaka Doppo, ordinary. The equal footing that paced each other was what they’d been seeking their entire life, and to find it was a blessing of its own, as if the gods had heard their plea, granting them with the one wish, knowing that it’d complete them, bringing out the best of each other. 

Maybe life wasn’t as unforgiving as they had thought after all.

And under the autumn sky where they’d first made contact, they’d spend their last together. Belonging together, in each other’s presence felt natural. Right. A dream that once seemed so far away and impossible was now within reach, touchable, and liveable as long as they never let go, believing in the promises that they made.

For even if the world were to end at that moment, they would be content, as when they have each other, they would only be happier.

[hysterialevi]

Eitr | Chapter 3

Fanfic summary: In an alternate universe where the Raven Clan is wiped out, Sigurd ends up being rescued by the son of a Saxon ealdorman, and is tasked with being the boy’s new bodyguard. Upon meeting the boy’s father however, Sigurd soon realizes that the ealdorman is responsible for his clan’s destruction, and secretly plans for revenge while hiding behind the guise of a Norse pagan turned Christian.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male OC

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

TWO DAYS LATER

FORANGAL CASTLE, THE CHAPEL

Placing his hands together, Ealdorman Aegenwulf bowed his head in respect and gently shut his eyes closed, whispering a brief prayer as he stood before the chapel’s great Crucifix.

At the moment, there was no one else in here with him. The chapel was dim and grey due to its enclosed nature, and the only light that managed to seep in was through the circular window that stood aloft the lonely altar.

Strangely enough though, Aegenwulf found a sense of peace in it. He had spent so much time warring with the Danes and battling against his own grief, that the overwhelming silence of the chapel actually provided him with some tranquility.

It was the only place where he could be alone with his thoughts nowadays. Outside of these stone cold walls, everyone always seemed to be watching him; studying him. Waiting to see his next move.

And on top of that, he still had three other children to protect, in spite of losing his eldest. They were young and inexperienced, and less aware of the war’s cruelties than Gareth had been.

It was a responsibility that Aegenwulf wished on no man. The weight of his burdens often felt impossible at times, and the more the tensions began to rise in Wedenscire, the more the ealdorman found himself wondering if any of this was even worth it.

“O, Father,” he said softly, his voice low and desolate, “thou who watches us from the heavens. Forgive me of my sins, and free me of the darkness that troubles my soul. I fear this war has led me astray from the path of righteousness, and I do not wish to deviate from Your grace. Please, deliver unto the dead the paradise they could not find in this world, and protect those who still stand from the evil that would sheathe them. ”

He paused for a moment, trying to keep his composure. “...Guide my son as he finds his way into your kingdom, and embrace him with the peace that was robbed of him in death. Allow him to rest at your side, and eradicate any shadows that should linger in his heart. Teach him not to fear, for I know he is in a far better place now.”

The ealdorman brought his hands closer to his face, muttering one last word. “Soþlice.”

Standing up from the floor, Aegenwulf fell into a profound silence as the lingering echoes of his prayer bounced off the chapel’s walls, filling the air with a solemn chime.

He knew not whether God could actually hear his cries, or if He had any intentions of answering them, but in a time when comfort was so rare to find, Aegenwulf frankly didn’t care.

All he needed was peace. The death of his son had torn him apart with a grief unlike any other he had ever experienced, and as the days rolled by -- minute by minute, hour by hour -- the ealdorman found himself being drained of the tenacity he once held.

It seemed pointless sometimes, to come to this chapel. Very often, Aegenwulf felt as if his prayers fell on deaf ears, and considering how the flames of the war were rising so rapidly, part of him began to wonder if this was all part of God’s plan somehow.

Was there a meaning behind all this? Some sort of higher purpose that was being written in the blood of their fallen soldiers? Did their suffering actually contribute to anything? Or was this all simply a result of man’s nature, and the chaos that humankind often sowed?

He didn’t even know if there was a Heaven at this point. The brutalities between the Saxons and the Danes had become so horrific in the recent years, that Aegenwulf found it more and more difficult to believe that anything pure awaited them beyond their realm.

How could it even be possible for something like that to exist? In a world where death, hatred, and pestilence were so prominent, how was it that something as perfect as Heaven -- or as God Himself -- could’ve been somewhere out there, watching over them?

Aegenwulf didn’t know the answers to these questions, nor where to find them, but for the sake of granting his son the afterlife he deserved, and for preserving his own sanity, the ealdorman decided to not second-guess it. It was the only hope he had anymore, after all. And he did not wish to snuff it out.

“Ealdorman?” Someone suddenly said, drawing the man’s attention away from the altar.

Aegenwulf glanced over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn the rest of his body.

“Hundwerth,” he greeted dourly, recognizing the man’s unscrupulous voice. “Solitude is a luxury in Forangal these days. I would not have it robbed of me.”

The bishop bowed his head apologetically, approaching the ealdorman. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lord. I know you come here for solace. But I fear there is a much more urgent matter that requires your attention.”

Aegenwulf sighed, returning to his more dutiful temperament. “What is it? And speak plainly, bishop, for I have no desire to run around in semantic circles.”

Hundwerth came to a halt, standing directly in the sliver of light that poured in through the doorway. “Your housecarl, Algar, has returned from his travels. He brings news of the ambush in Ravensthorpe, and awaits you in the throne room.”

“He’s back already?”

“Indeed. He seemed rather confident when he arrived this morning. I assume things went well in Ravensthorpe.”

Aegenwulf stepped away from the altar, addressing the bishop more directly now.

“Assume nothing in war, Hundwerth. I will not rest easy until I know for a fact that those barbarians lie dead in the muck. Are my children aware of this attack?”

Hundwerth shook his head. “No, my lord. They asked a few questions in light of Algar’s absence, but overall, they still seem to be preoccupied with mourning their brother.”

The ealdorman was relieved at the news. “Good. They keep a strong face, but I can see that Gareth’s death has shaken them all. I would not have them burdened by the troubles of this war as well.”

The bishop changed the subject, eager to inform Aegenwulf of the second issue. “There is... one other matter, my lord. And I fear this one will require a much more delicate approach. That is, if you do not wish to alarm all of Forangal and Agenbury at once.”

Aegenwulf didn’t like where this was going. “Oh? And what would that be?”

Hundwerth began pacing around the chapel, lowering his voice as he spoke.

“Your healer, Linette. I noticed she’s been acting rather... odd, recently. Different. Granted, she’s never really been an ordinary woman, but her behavior has shifted over the past two days, and not in a manner that I would consider beneficial.”

“What type of behavior are we talking about, exactly?”

“She’s become distant. Secretive. Perhaps even a little paranoid. I’ve seen her pacing around the castle late at night, and making trips to the infirmary underneath the shadows. She speaks to no one during these mysterious endeavors, and often seems to actively avoid me. It’s almost as if... there’s something she would not have me know.”

The ealdorman shrugged. “So, you wish for me to investigate? Is that it?”

“No, my lord,” Hundwerth corrected. “For I have already taken the liberty of doing that myself. I entered the infirmary this morning whilst Linette was away, and found the most interesting patient lying in one of her beds.”

Aegenwulf grew tired of the bishop’s ramblings. “Get to the point, Hundwerth. What did you see?”

“A Dane, Aegenwulf. Your healer has a Dane in her infirmary, and is tending to his wounds as we speak.”

The ealdorman froze upon hearing that, not entirely sure if he understood Hundwerth correctly.

“A Dane,” he repeated sternly. “My healer is lending her aid to a Dane. Are you certain of this, bishop?”

The other man nodded assuredly. “As certain as I am that the moon will arise in the evening. Though, I should clarify, it was not Linette who brought this pagan into our midst. Based on the information I have gathered thus far, I believe she is helping this Dane at the behest of your daughter, Edlynne.”

Aegenwulf shook his head in frustration. “Oh, Edlynne... that naive girl. She carries the same compassion her mother once did, but I fear her rationality is often overshadowed by it in these situations.”

Hundwerth furrowed his brow in disapproval. “She has also been rather vocal about her interest in the Danes before, I’m afraid. It seems your daughter is drawn to them.”

“That’s because she has not witnessed the same horrors I have. She has not seen the way those savages sacrifice our people to their gods, nor what they do to our women. Edlynne believes the Danes to be misunderstood, and would have me welcome them with open arms. What she does not realize is that I am simply trying to protect her.”

“She is but a child, my lord. She will soon understand the necessity of your iron fist. Just give her time.”

Aegenwulf sighed, crossing his arms. “I suppose you’re right.”

“So, what do you intend to do about this issue concerning Linette? Shall I have the guards remove this pagan from our grounds?”

The ealdorman thought about it for a moment. “No. That won’t be enough. I know Danes. They never stop fighting until their last breath. If we wish to be rid of this man completely, we will need to kill him.”

Aegenwulf began making his way out of the chapel, swiftly heading to the throne room as his cape fluttered behind him.

“I shall speak with Algar and get his opinion on the matter. He has just returned from the very nest of these snakes, and I would like to hear what he has to say before taking any action.”

Hundwerth seemed content with the plan. “A wise approach, my lord. I shall be here in the chapel if you need my assistance. Stay safe in these trying times, for I worry things are only going to get worse.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A FEW MINUTES LATER

THE INFIRMARY

Pain. That was all he could feel. 

In the midst of the cold and darkness that currently surrounded him, Sigurd found nothing but its familiar embrace to welcome him as he finally emerged from his slumber, bringing him into an environment he did not expect.

Instead of feeling the warmth of Fólkvangr’s sun-kissed fields, or the bone-biting winds of Helheim’s wintry snows, the only thing Sigurd could detect was the comfort of a soft bed lying beneath his fingertips. 

...He wasn’t dead. Not yet, at least.

The gods had granted him a second chance.

He had been saved by that mysterious man on the shore, and given an opportunity to recover. 

But... what about Eivor? Or Randvi? Or the rest of his clan? Were they still alive, and healing from their wounds just as he was? Or had the Valkyries already escorted them to Odin’s feast, and laid them to rest?

Part of him didn’t even want to think about it, given the circumstances. He had already struggled so much just to survive, that he did not wish to hear if his brother had become a corpse by now. He imagined he was already going to have a difficult enough time trying to regain his strength, but to be entirely alone in this ordeal... the very idea of it made his heart sink.

Forcing his eyes open to a slit, Sigurd squinted as a burst of sunlight flooded his vision, painting everything in the room around him with a disorienting haze.

The only things he could make out were the soft edges of a nearby window from which the light poured through, and the blurry silhouette of what appeared to be a girl accompanying him.

At the moment, she seemed to be unaware of his newly conscious state and simply tended to her own matters, humming quietly under her breath. Her voice sounded fairly younger than Sigurd would’ve expected, and the size of her shadow led him to assume she was no more than a child. Possibly the daughter of whomever rescued him.

Lifting a hand to block the sunlight, Sigurd suddenly felt a sharp sting gripping him in the chest as his wounds strained to keep up with his movement, causing him to let out a faint grunt.

The girl instantly glanced upwards upon hearing the abrupt noise and gasped in surprise, pleased to see that her friend had finally risen from his sleep.

“Oh my goodness...!” She said softly. “You’re actually awake! Can you... can you hear me?”

Sigurd remained silent in response, still trying to get his bearings. 

This girl... she sounded like a Saxon. Though, she clearly wasn’t just any Saxon. Her appearance suggested she may have been some type of noblewoman -- or perhaps, in the service of one -- and the quality of her dress was obviously not something that a commoner would’ve been able to get their hands on.

Her hair was well-groomed and decorated with a few simple braids that stretched down to her back, and a beautiful necklace dangled from around her neck. An heirloom, perhaps?

She spoke with an unusual sense of kindness that Sigurd did not typically receive from her people, and the discretion in her voice only led him to believe that she was in the minority. Was he even welcome in this place?

“C-Can you understand me?” She asked, picking up on Sigurd’s confusion. “I know this must be... strange for you.”

The Norseman blinked a few times, finally able to make some sense of what was going on.

“What...? Where... where am I...? What’s going on?”

The girl’s expression lightened with relief. “So you do speak our tongue. That’s good. You’re in Wedenscire, friend. In the ealdorman’s castle. The infirmary, specifically.”

That took Sigurd by surprise. “...The ealdorman’s castle? Why would an ealdorman save a Norse?”

“Well, he didn’t,” she clarified. “His children did. Me and my brothers brought you back from the nearby town after a fisherman found you washed up on the shore. Normally, we would’ve left you alone, but you would’ve died without a proper healer’s treatment.”

Sigurd took on a more serious demeanor, suddenly growing wary of the girl’s intentions. “So... you are the ealdorman’s daughter, then. And why would you go out of your way to keep me alive? What is it you hope to gain? Information? Secrets?”

The girl shook her head, eager to deny his suspicions. “Oh, no! Nothing like that.”

“Well, you must want something. Or did you simply save me out of the kindness of your own heart?”

She glanced downwards, admittedly a tad embarrassed to confess her motivations.

“...Well, y-yes, actually. I know that may sound incredibly naive of me, but you were dying. And I didn’t have the heart to just... leave you behind. The fact that you’re a Dane--” she quickly corrected herself, “--or a Norse, doesn’t change that. The truth is, I don’t want anything from you. I only wish to see you recover.”

The girl sounded like she was being sincere, but even then, Sigurd’s instincts urged him to keep his guard up regardless.

“...If your words hold truth to them,” he said, “then you have my thanks. I do not remember much from that night, but I know for a fact I would not have survived without your people’s help. Or your own. I owe you.”

The girl relaxed a little bit, hoping to maintain the trust between them.

“Might I ask your name? I’m Edlynne.”

He sat up, his body aching with every movement. “Sigurd.”

“Sigurd...” Edlynne repeated with a smile. “Well, Sigurd, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. You’ve been unconscious for two days. If I’m being honest, part of me never expected to see you wake up.”

Sigurd paused at that. “...I’ve been here for two days?”

“Indeed. You were on the brink of death when we found you. It’s a miracle you survived. How do you feel?”

The viking glanced down at his bloodstained bandages. “Better, considering how I was before.”

“That’s good. Do you think you can walk? You sustained quite a few injuries from that night.”

Sigurd shifted his body a bit, testing its limits. “I... believe so. Just give me a moment--”

Interrupting their conversation, a boy suddenly came barging into the infirmary with a panicked expression on his face as he brought his gaze to Edlynne, quickly shutting the door behind him.

He also carried the look of a nobleman and wore a simple yet sophisticated tunic, paired with a short cape wrapped around his shoulders. As for the boy himself, he appeared to be around Edlynne’s age and had hair of the same color -- only his was cut so short that the bottom of his head was nearly bare. A relative of hers, perhaps?

“Sister...!” He said urgently, keeping his voice down. “We--”

His eyes landed on Sigurd, causing him to fade into silence.

Edlynne glanced back and forth between the two of them, unsure of what was going on.

“...Joseph?” She asked, her tone quiet with anxiety. “Are you alright? You seem perturbed.”

Joseph gestured to the viking, his eyes wide with surprise. “He’s awake?”

“Yes. He woke up not too long ago, in fact. We’ve only been speaking for a few moments.” She held an introductory hand up to him. “This is Sigurd. Sigurd, this is my twin brother, Joseph.”

The boy strode further into the room, his actions swift with haste.

“You’ll forgive me if I’m not in the mood for pleasantries, but I’m afraid we have a much bigger issue to address at the moment.”

“What is it?”

“It’s father. I don’t know how, but he’s discovered that we have a Dane in the infirmary, and he is not happy.”

The girl quirked a brow. “What? How could he possibly know that? Did someone tell him?”

“I-I don’t know...! It wasn’t me or Edric, that I can assure you.” He froze. “...You don’t think it could’ve been Linette, do you?”

Edlynne rejected the idea. “What...? N-No, of course not! I know she was apprehensive about all this in the beginning, but she wouldn’t endanger the life of one of her patients, Dane or not.”

Joseph sighed in discontent. “I suppose it no longer matters. The main problem right now is that Algar has returned from his travels, and is on his way up here as we speak...!”

Sigurd joined in. “I assume this is bad news for me?”

The boy turned to him. “Considering our father hates your people and would see you all dead, yes, I would say so. There’s also the fact that Algar himself isn’t fond of vikings either.”

A thought crossed Edlynne’s mind. “Well, what about Edric? Do you think he could sway father’s mind?”

Joseph didn’t seem too confident. “Possibly. He’s speaking to father in the throne room at the moment, but you know how much he distrusts Danes. Even if he convinces father not to kill our new friend here, I doubt the outcome will be favorable anyway. If you truly want to help Sigurd, we’ll have to do something ourselves.”

The girl was at a loss. “Like what?”

“...We’ll have to get him out of Forangal.”

Edlynne gestured at the stone walls around them. “And how are we supposed to do that? We’re locked in a castle surrounded by guards. Not to mention that all the gates are shut. How do you expect us to leave with a viking in tow?”

Joseph paused for a moment, trying to devise a plan. There weren’t many escape routes they could access from the infirmary -- especially in broad daylight -- but every castle had its blind spots. There had to be something.

He perked his head up in realization, his expression lighting up with an idea.

“Wait, I might have a way out.”

“Well? What is it?”

The boy gave Sigurd an apologetic look, uncertain of how the man would react to his suggestion.

“The corpse carts.”

Edlynne blinked in confusion. “...You want to use the corpse carts?”

“Why not? They’re filled to the brim nowadays because of the war. I doubt anyone would notice if we snuck another body into the pile--”

“--Oh, for God’s sake, Joseph!” The girl exclaimed in disgust.

“Well, do you have any better ideas?”

Edlynne paced around the room, crossing her arms in thought. “I don’t know, but there must be a better way. One that isn’t so... morbid. Perhaps we could disguise Sigurd? Clothe him in Saxon attire?”

“Disguise him?” Joseph repeated, clearly not on board. “Look at him, Edlynne! Unless you can get him a full suit of armor with a helm and cloak, he’s not getting past anybody.”

The girl grew frustrated. “The same could be said about the corpse carts. Our guards might be lazy sometimes, but they’re not stupid. Those bodies have been in there for days now. Surely, they’ve already rotted and turned grey. You really think they wouldn’t notice a living person hiding amongst them?”

Joseph shrugged in defeat. “Well, Sigurd looked pretty dead when you first brought him here.”

“That isn’t--”

“--My, my.” A fourth voice said, causing the twins to fall completely silent. “Bickering already?”

They both turned towards the door, only to see Algar himself standing in the entryway. 

“...Shit.” Joseph muttered, sticking close to his sister. “Hello, Algar.”

The housecarl leaned against the frame, greeting the siblings. “Lord Joseph. Lady Edlynne.”

Algar was a mountain of a man. Even without the thick layers of plated armor to bolden his towering physique, the man himself was intimidating enough.

His face was lined with deep creases around the eyes and nose, and the shape of his brow always seemed to be stuck in a permanent scowl. There were multiple scars littered across his skin -- the most prominent one being a gash that traveled from the top of his head all the way down to his cheekbone -- and one of his ears had been sliced clean off.

Despite his damaged exterior though, Algar still seemed to look after his appearance somewhat. His dark hair was short and parted -- save for the baldness that had been rendered by his scar -- and his beard had been neatly trimmed to  fit his jaw.

He was certainly unlike any other Saxon Sigurd had ever seen, and the further he stepped into the room, prowling towards the viking like a lion, the more the Norse began to wonder if there was any hope of him surviving this day.

“My God,” Algar said with a chuckle as he gaze landed on Sigurd. “You really do have a Dane in here. I didn’t believe Hundwerth when he first told us about your new friend, but it seems that the bishop isn’t completely full of shit, after all.”

He glanced at the twins. “Where’d you find him?”

Edlynne knotted her hands together out of nervousness. “I-In Agenbury.”

“Agenbury?” He said, his voice quiet like the hiss of a snake. “Odd place for a viking.” He turned to Sigurd. “Care to explain what you were doing there, Dane?”

Sigurd scoffed. “You speak as if I was there voluntarily. The river carried me there when I was unconscious. I had no intentions of delivering myself into the hands of the enemy.”

Algar smirked. “No, but it seems that God did. For He knows of your crimes, and He knows you must face retribution.”

Joseph stepped in, admittedly uncomfortable about letting the housecarl too close to their new friend. “Why are you here, Algar? What does father want with Sigurd?”

“He wishes to meet the man. Face-to-face.”

Edlynne didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. “That’s... it? He just wants to meet him?”

Algar nodded. “Indeed. Unlike some of the other ealdormen in England, Aegenwulf actually looks his enemies in the eye before executing them.”

“No!” Joseph protested. “You can’t kill him! He’s done nothing wrong!”

The housecarl gave him a cautionary glare. “Calm yourself, little lord. Whatever your father commands is what I will carry out. If you have your quarrels with him, I’d suggest taking them to the throne room. He’s rather eager to see this Dane removed from our midst... and so am I.”

Algar placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, urging Sigurd to follow him. “Well, come along then, Dane. Ealdorman Aegenwulf awaits.”

Edlynne timidly approached the man, hoping to dissuade him. 

“Please, Algar. Leave him be. He’s still injured. Can’t you let him rest for a moment? W-We don’t even know if he can walk yet.”

“Then I’ll drag him by his bloody ankles.”

She glowered at him. “You can’t just--!”

“--It’s alright, Edlynne.” Sigurd reassured, holding a hand up. “I’ll follow him.”

“But...”

“It’s alright.” He reiterated. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve dealt with an ealdorman.”

Joseph placed a hand on Edlynne’s shoulder, attempting to calm her down. “Let it go, sister. There’s nothing we can do now.”

The girl let out an uneasy breath, but stood down nonetheless.

As for Sigurd, the man slowly threw his legs over the edge of the bed and braced himself for the upcoming trip, uncertain of how his body was going to handle his weight.

It had been days since he last stood on his own, and judging by how severely his wounds reacted to him simply lifting his arm earlier, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to walk without leaning on something -- or someone.

Pressing his feet against the stone floor, Sigurd grunted in effort as he pushed himself up from the bed, trying to ignore the agony that was now piercing his flesh.

It was clear that he wasn’t quite ready to be roaming around just yet, but based on the urgency of the situation, he assumed he didn’t have much of a choice.

“Well, would you look at that...” Algar taunted with a grin. “The dog’s still got some bark left in him.”

Edlynne stared at Sigurd with a shocked expression, evidently taken aback by his surprising height. The viking wasn’t quite as tall as Algar, but he still towered over the twins like a walking Goliath.

“How do you feel...?” She asked.

Sigurd clutched his arrow wound, attempting to suppress the pain. “Far better than I look, I assure you.”

Algar beckoned the Norse. “Then you’ll be fit enough to see Aegenwulf.” He turned on his heel, taking his leave from the infirmary. “Follow me, Dane, and try not to fall over. We don’t want your blood staining our floors.”

Staying behind for a moment while the housecarl made his way out, Sigurd exchanged looks with the twins and fell into an agitated silence, unable to deny that he shared their fear.

He had no idea if he’d be leaving the throne room alive, or if he’d even get the chance to make it that far, but seeing as how Edlynne and Joseph were fond of him, he hoped they’d be able to convince the others to spare him.

He wasn’t normally in the habit of begging Saxons for his life, but with the state that his body was currently in, Sigurd had no intentions of provoking anyone just yet. He may have been a warrior, but he certainly wasn’t stupid.

“Be careful, Sigurd.” Edlynne warned. “Our father isn’t a bad man, but... he’s controlled by his grief these days.”

That piqued the man’s interest. “Grief? Did something happen?”

Her tone sank with heartache. “...Yes. Our eldest brother, Gareth, was killed about a month ago. By a clan of Danes.”

Joseph added onto her explanation. “The Raven Clan, specifically.”

Sigurd froze upon hearing that, paralyzed on the spot.

...Did he just say the Raven Clan? Surely, that couldn’t have been right. He was well aware that the vikings had a reputation for being cruel to Saxons -- not all of it without reason -- but their clan was different. Eivor was different. He would not have condoned the killing a man who did not deserve it.

Though, of course, that presupposed the notion that Gareth was innocent. If someone in the Raven Clan deemed their brother worthy of a kill, Sigurd was certain that it must have been for a good reason.

There was clearly more to this story, but for the moment, he restrained himself from prying.

“Ah...” Sigurd simply replied, trying to conceal his sudden dread, “I see. You have my condolences.”

Edlynne didn’t seem to notice the shift in his mood. “Thank you. We pray for him everyday, but... there’s no way of knowing if he’s truly at peace. We can only hope.”

Joseph changed the subject, not wishing to dwell in these thoughts. “But enough about that. You have an ealdorman to greet, and we have much to prepare for, in the event that you don’t return.”

Sigurd nodded, following Algar’s tracks into the corridor. “I understand. Thank you both for your help. Even if your efforts end up being in vain, you will still have my appreciation.”

“Good luck, Sigurd.” Edlynne said, bidding him farewell. “May God guide you in the storm ahead. I have a feeling these next few days are going to be difficult for all of us, and I would not wish for more struggles to be thrust upon you.”

[imaginaryelle]

Fic: And One He Writes Himself

(also yesssss. \o/ headcanon, but even though everyone blames wwx for the new rules, lwj going off script 100% freaked the clan out way more and imo would make the clan elders far more likely to chip out some more lines on the wall than anything wwx could do alone, lol)

@vera-invenire​​, here it is! Thanks very much for the prompt, I had a lot of fun writing for it :D Many thanks also to @morphia-writes​​ and @miyuki4s for their wonderful beta work, you are all awesome people.

Tags: CQL-verse, Chief Cultivator Lan Wangji, Wangxian, five times fic, pining, getting together, first kiss, long distance relationship (with meet-ups)

Length: ~6k (AO3 link here!)

**

1: Do Not Use Clan Techniques Inappropriately

*

To His Excellency, the esteemed Chief Cultivator, Hanguang-jun, the letter begins.

How will you ever know which letters are mine if I start them so formally? I promise, I promise, never again. Forever onwards you will be only Lan Zhan in letters, no matter what I have to write on the address.

But Lan Zhan, did you know? I’ve heard the most outrageous rumor lately. It’s the talk of traveling merchants and wine houses everywhere that you used the Lan Clan silence spell during the last cultivation conference. On every sect leader! Lan Zhan is so cruel. How could you do such a thing—and not invite me to see it? A baker in Yingchuan said Sect Leader Ouyang turned redder than his robes, and that Sect Leader Yao risked his throat and mouth still trying to speak. I’m tempted to call on Jiang Cheng and extract a full account from him, but we’d probably only fight again. Especially if you used it on him, too! Perhaps Jin Ling will be more accommodating for his long-lost uncle. Can I even think to trust a version of the tale from our dear Sect Leader Nie? I’m sure he managed to keep his voice unhindered, sly fox that he’s become.

It looks as if the rain is letting up, so my caravan will be leaving soon. I’ve heard all my life how beautiful Kuizhou is and now I finally have the time to visit. Have you seen it? I’ll send sketches of the landscape in my next letter; if you’ve been, we can compare notes, and if you haven’t perhaps they’ll help you decide if the rumors are true. For now, I can only offer this picture of your Gusu mountains. Think of it as a promise that I’ll come see them again someday.

Yours,

Wei Ying

P.S. I know you won’t tell me the story yourself, but I plan to beg you for it anyway. A tale like this is too good to keep behind your lips.

Lan Wangji reads it twice, committing the ebullient flow of Wei Ying’s writing to memory. The drawing is inked in a looser hand than he remembers from portraits and rabbits so many years ago, but he recognizes the landscape as the ridge on which they bid each other farewell, as seen from the trail towards the Qingling mountains.

He sets it to the side, smooths it carefully, and tries to take up his work again. The Jin Clan’s collected accounts of the last twenty years are neatly stacked before him, the white-gold bindings gleaming in yellow lantern light. He even manages to open one before his mind flits away, following the swooping energy of Wei Ying’s brush strokes into the night. He puts down the ledger, snuffs out the lantern, and stands. Perhaps he will check on the rabbits before curfew.

There is no announcement to go with the new rule listed in the main courtyard; it simply appeared on the Wall one morning, and then in all the library copies on the day after. But rumor swirls, of course, even in this place where gossip is prohibited. Perhaps especially here, behind white-and-blue sleeves in the juniors’ classes and through barely-moving-lips in the crafting, sword and music halls. As seems to be happening ever more frequently in the past few months, the name on the wind is Hanguang-jun.

Lan Wangji walks the wide, wandering paths between the back mountain and the Jingshi with the crisp folds of Wei Ying’s letter pressed between his yi and hanfu, over his heart. “Inappropriately” is a qualifier with more leniency than he is used to hearing from the Lan Clan elders. He wonders, with a sudden surge of surprise, if they are just as unsettled by and unprepared for his appointment to the position of Chief Cultivator as everyone else. Or perhaps it is simply that they have all attended more cultivation conferences between them than he ever wants to imagine. He can’t be the first Lan to have such an impulse. Loudly proclaimed falsehoods are, after all, exactly what the silencing spell was created to counter.

Yes. He is secure in his judgment. He has no doubts.

If the Sect Leaders cannot restrain themselves to speaking the truth, they will not speak to him at all.

*

2. Do Not Bother the Kitchen Staff

*

It’s supposed to be a surprise. A good surprise, for Wei Ying’s first visit to Cloud Recesses since Lan Wangji’s appointment as Chief Cultivator. He’s been working on it for weeks, ever since he received the letter declaring Wei Ying’s intent to visit for Qixi: he knows that Wei Ying’s greatest complaint about Cloud Recesses is the food, and so he will make certain Wei Ying has at least one meal more fitting to his tastes.

He knows it’s foolish, wishful thinking, but the idea that if he could just fix this one thing Wei Ying would stay has snuck into his mind, and so he purchases dried chilies and their oil from Yunmeng and spicy peppercorns and ginger from Caiyi, and rises before five every day for two weeks so that he might visit the kitchens and learn enough to prepare something simple.

If the kitchen staff are curious about his presence, they never let him see it. Li Jing seems pleased enough to teach him—stern and exacting, but never cruel—and pronounces the dishes of hot clear noodles, freshly pickled mushrooms and spicy tofu soup Lan Wangji produces “acceptable,” which is the highest praise she ever gives anyone. He makes them again the afternoon Wei Ying arrives, so that they will be ready for the evening banquet. He leaves a preservation talisman over the tray, and a note: For Wei Wuxian’s Return.

He doesn’t have time to check on it again. Wei Ying arrives like a spring storm, wild and sudden and casting the quiet paths of Cloud Recesses into disarray. He flits here and there like a blown leaf, greeting Lan Sizhui with an enthusiasm that violates at least three Clan principles before teasing Lan Jingyi with familiar humor and then complaining aloud—and loudly—that the rabbits still don’t like him. Never once does he venture further away than the reach of Lan Wangji’s shadow, and rarely even so far as that, but it is still not quite enough to quiet the tangled threads that pull and knot in Lan Wangji’s center. The press of paper against his chest is a habit born of a new kind of waiting, and now that Wei Ying is here, in front of him, the warmth it brings is more distraction than comfort.

Evening comes quickly, sweeping over Cloud Recesses with a cool, creeping fog and painting the mountain peaks in lively shades of red. Wei Ying tips his head back to watch a pair of cranes fly overhead and Lan Wangji watches the tilt of his mouth as he smiles and the line of his neck as he turns and waits.

He would have preferred a private dinner in the Jingshi, where Wei Ying might pair his special meal with his favorite wine and there would be no audience to comment on a lingering touch of fingertips as the cup passed between them. But it is not to be: his uncle is eating alone to aid his recovery after several days’ work refreshing the outer wards and his brother is still in seclusion, and so it falls on Lan Wangji to be present in the main dining hall for the evening meal.

Wei Ying pouts at this revelation but he joins the crowd without much protest—with so little in the way of objections, in fact, that Lan Wangji is certain he has some small rebellion in mind. As he is a single note of black and red in a chorus of white and blue, whatever it is is sure to be noticeable, but perhaps the food will be distraction enough. It is at least different from what Wei Ying has been served in Cloud Recesses before. Different enough that he frowns at it, and then opens his mouth to speak before he catches the slight shake of Lan Wangji’s head: silence during meals. Instead he fishes a whole dried pepper out of his soup for inspection and shoots Lan Wangji a questioning glance. The look of glee on his face when Lan Wangji nods is so captivating that Lan Wangji hardly even looks at his own portion before he starts eating.

It’s not that he doesn’t notice the unexpected added spice; his mouth burns after the very first bite, but Wei Ying’s surprised pleasure is worth any momentary discomfort. Even if it means he can’t actually taste most of the meal. It’s only when Lan Jingyi makes a faint choking noise that he realizes anyone else’s food has been affected. He can see the moment Wei Ying notices it too—his lips curl in like he’s clamped them together with his teeth trying not to smile, and his eyes widen even as he determinedly doesn’t look at anyone. Lan Wangji keeps his own eyes lowered as he examines the room. He is abruptly thankful that his uncle is not present, but many of the other elders are not so lucky. Several have already gestured for more tea or rice, an action that quickly ripples through the attending juniors as well.

The prohibition against talking during meals has never felt so smotheringly present as in this moment, watching faces turn red behind fiercely-clutched cups of tea. It’s Lan Bai who stands from his table and glares at Wei Ying, his face transformed more with emotion than the spicy food. He doesn’t speak—silence during meals—but he flaps his sleeve derisively and starts to sweep contemptuously past them, and Lan Wangji knows he will go straight to the Grandmaster, and then to the Sect Leader if he is still unsatisfied, because he always does. It will be an unpleasant waste of everyone’s time and an unnecessary stress on both of them because Lan Wangji already knows this incident is highly unlikely to repeat itself. It can only have happened at all in Li Jing’s absence, which means she has been called away earlier than expected for her grandchild’s birth in Caiyi.

“Do not be picky about food,” he reminds Lan Bai, and even the clicking of chopsticks stops in the wake of it. Lan Bai looks so affronted that for a moment Lan Wangji thinks he will actually argue the point.

Anything that might have been said is promptly forgotten as Wei Ying hurriedly stands and runs from the hall. He makes it just outside the doors before laughter bursts out of him, loud and joyous and likely audible to the whole of Cloud Recesses. Lan Wangji holds Lan Bai’s gaze. He will not have this falling on Wei Ying’s shoulders, and he is no longer just the Second Jade of Lan, too young and too-headstrong, who spends too much time away from home. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Lan Sizhui nudge Lan Jingyi, and both pick up their chopsticks. Slowly, the normal sounds of dinner resume, if with a great deal more tea than usual. Slowly, Lan Bai manages a rather stiff bow and excuses himself without further dramatics.

After he’s gone Wei Ying returns, mirth still spilling from every movement. He finishes his meal without speaking but it’s clear, as cultivators file out of the hall in silent rows, that he has plenty to say.

“That was—” He laughs again in the quiet of the Jingshi. “Lan Zhan, I can hardly believe someone so righteous as you would do such a thing. And to so many at once! Do you know how many times I tried to get into the kitchens when I was a student here?”

“It was unintentional,” Lan Wangji admits as he pours wine into Wei Ying’s cup. The incident is, in retrospect, rather reminiscent of a childish prank, and he should not be surprised to learn that Wei Ying might have planned something similar. “My preparation of your portion was not meant as a general instruction.”

Wei Ying accepts the cup with a soft brush of fingertips and a grateful smile, and then stills with it halfway to his mouth.

“Lan Zhan.” He sets the cup down with a sharp click. “Are you—Lan Zhan you made that? You—” his gaze drops for a moment and then he slides around the corner of the table to sit beside Lan Wangji instead of across from him. “You cooked that? For me?” His eyes are very wide, all traces of humor gone.

Lan Wangji hesitates, his fingers curling deeper in his sleeves. Perhaps his confidence was misplaced.

“Was it unpalatable?” he asks, because of course that’s possible. He hardly knows what the dishes are supposed to taste like to someone who actively enjoys them.

“It was delicious,” Wei Ying assures him. He reaches out with both hands and finds Lan Wangji’s fingers, and then his wrist. “Perfect.” He laughs, the sound a little watery. “I can’t believe—” he squeezes Lan Wangji’s hand, “—no one’s cooked just for me since—” he breaks off and turns away. His breath shudders through his frame.

Lan Wangji turns his wrist and links Wei Ying’s fingers through his own. This is perhaps not the reaction he hoped for, but he is hardly unfamiliar with the ways grief can lie in wait to ambush the most vigilant of minds.

“Sorry.” Wei Ying’s grip tightens. He manages to meet Lan Wangji’s eyes before ducking his head again, his chin tucked to his chest. “Sorry, sorry, this is—I don’t know why I—”

“It is alright, Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji guides his head back up and wipes the tears from Wei Ying’s cheek with his sleeve. “I’m here,” he promises. For you, always here for you, goes unspoken, caught somewhere deep in his chest.

Wei Ying’s face crumples. “Lan Zhan,” he says, the syllables half strangled on a sob, and he leans first into Lan Wangji’s shoulder and then sinks lower, until his head rests on Lan Wangji’s forearm above their joined hands, and he cries. It is not a particularly comfortable position, but Lan Wangji does not protest, even when Wei Ying’s tears soak through his sleeves to dampen his skin. He is, for a moment, at something of a loss for what to do. A faded memory comes to him of another night in this room, so long ago it’s more feeling than image: his mother’s soothing warm hands on his back and soft humming above him. And then another memory: Lan Zhan, won’t you sing for me echoing back at him from two decades passed.

He strokes Wei Ying’s shuddering shoulders, and he hums, soft and soothing, and he holds Wei Ying’s hand until he quiets, wrung out and limp with exhaustion.

Tomorrow he will rise early and prepare another meal for Wei Ying’s breakfast, shuttered away from curious eyes and open judgment. Tomorrow there will be music, and stories of mountains and rivers they never saw in their youth. Tomorrow they will walk the paths of his home side-by-side, and visit Little Apple and the rabbits, and he will watch Wei Ying revel in the afternoon sun. Tomorrow, together, they will build a lantern and release a promise to the heavens.

Tonight, he unbinds Wei Yings hair and combs it smooth with long, slow motions. Tonight he guides Wei Ying carefully to the bed and removes his boots and sees him settled under the blankets. Tonight he holds Wei Ying’s hand in his own and sits vigil against any specters of memory or dream that might come to haunt him, and for tonight—for tonight, that is enough.

*

3. Do Not Be Overly Affectionate in Public

*

“Pssst. Wei-qianbei.”

Wei Wuxian stops, much to Little Apple’s annoyance, and lets one hand slide down to Chenqing as he inspects his surroundings more closely. Cloud Recesses’ main gate is just around this bend in the path, and sometimes he thinks the donkey might be looking forward to their arrival even more than he is.

“Wei-qianbei.” A flash of white on the mountainous side of the path reveals Lan Jingyi, stumbling down to meet him with Lan Sizhui at his side and a gaggle of other young Lans in his wake.

“A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian greets Lan Sizhui with a grin, “and so many upright young Lans. Whatever could you all be doing outside your own warded walls?”

Lan Sizhui steps forward. “Wei-qianbei,” he says with a bow, proper as anything, “before you meet with Hanguang-jun, there’s something you should see.”

Wei Wuxian purses his lips, considering. “How many rules are you planning to break with this venture?” he asks.

“Um. None.” Lan Sizhui looks back at his companions and then nods firmly. “It’s actually the Wall of Discipline we want to show you.”

Wei Wuxian clicks his tongue in disappointment. Youthful creativity squandered once again. “Really, A-Yuan, don’t they teach you Lans anything about negotiations? This proposal is not at all appealing to me. I’ve seen enough of those rules to last a lifetime. Or two.”

“We know that.” Lan Jingyi folds his arms over his chest and smiles like he has something to be smug about. “But we think you’ll want to see this one.”

Hm. There’s a bit of cunning in Lan Jingyi’s expression that Wei Wuxian must admit is refreshing to see in a Lan. And he’ll have to walk past the rules anyway, on his way to the Jingshi. It can’t really hurt to take a look.

“You see?” He gestures at Lan Jingyi. “This is much more intriguing. Take note.” He ponders for another moment, then nods. “Alright,” he agrees, nudging Little Apple back into motion. “But it had better be quick.”

They get some curious looks from the cultivators on gate duty, and it takes some time to get Little Apple settled, but soon enough they’re in the main courtyard, staring at the engraved hunk of rock that dictates so much of life in Cloud Recesses. Wei Wuxian isn’t certain what he’s supposed to be looking at. Yes, there’s a new rule: Do not be overly affectionate in public. He’s just not certain what was so important about it to merit a special visit.

“It was added months ago,” Lan Wangji says, appearing at his shoulder. “Shortly after your departure.”

Wei Wuxian looks up at him, searching for some hint of what he’s supposed to be understanding here. Lan Wangji is doing his best impression of an implacable jade statue, which generally means he’s having some very pointed thoughts indeed. Wei Wuxian leans in to jostle his shoulder and gets a faintly amused deepening of the corner of Lan Wangji’s mouth in response. Success.

“How long was that, a few breaths?” Lan Jingyi asks to their right, too-loud as ever. “A count of ten?”

“I’m not certain that breaks it,” Lan Sizhui says, softer, “You’ve never been punished.”

That prompts Wei Wuxian to watch Lan Wangji more closely, waiting for confirmation or denial. But surely not. Surely they couldn’t mean...

Slowly, ever so slightly, Lan Wangji nods.

Wei Wuxian stares at the characters so carefully etched into the rock and struggles to contain his laughter.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, trying to hide his snickering behind his sleeve. “Lan Zhan, they can’t be serious. This sounds like they think I’m going to ravish you in the central courtyard.” It’s a joke. Very much a joke. He would happily ravish Lan Wangji in private, of course, if he could ever be certain Lan Wangji was interested in such pastimes, but—

“It’s not you they’re worried about,” Lan Jingyi says, though his smirk slides off his face almost as soon as it’s out of his mouth. Lan Wangji’s gaze settles on him for a moment, until Wei Wuxian draws his attention back by tugging at his sleeve because that—that doesn’t make sense.

“Lan Zhan,” he says. “Is this—this can’t be about Qixi. Can it?”

Lan Wangji looks away. The tips of his ears are turning pink.

“It is?” Wei Wuxian thinks hard, but he can’t remember anything from his last visit that would be drastic enough to prompt a new rule as a response. He frowns. “But we only built a lantern together. Building a lantern is hardly debauchery in public.” Even if it had felt like a bit more than just building a lantern at the time, with the mix of hope and nostalgia rising in his chest.

“Wei Ying is shameless,” Lan Wangji observes.

“I was a perfect gentleman!” Wei Wuxian protests. Well, alright, perhaps he had been overly touchy in his affection for Lan Sizhui. Or overly loud, at least. And there had been, admittedly, several moments where he’d had to to sternly restrain himself from kissing Lan Wangji in full view of all his elders and students. He had restrained himself precisely because he hadn’t wanted to spend the precious after-dinner hours of the festival writing lines or banished to kneel somewhere as some sort of penance. And also because even he wasn’t so shameless as to subject his first kiss to such a display. What if he did it wrong? Getting it wrong in front of Lan Wangji would be bad enough, but the whole of his clan as well? It hardly bears thinking about.

And yet, Lan Jingyi had said…

Wei Wuxian does have some well-worn memories of that time, of Lan Wangji’s steady presence at his side and the jumping, choking pulse of hope and want thrumming under his skin. There had been moments. When Lan Wangji plucked leaves out of his hair after an afternoon’s game with some of the younger Lan disciples. When their hands had touched over and over and over again as they built their shared lantern. The way Lan Wangji had looked at him after they’d released it. The mornings, when Lan Wangji presented him with breakfast made especially for Wei Wuxian, and the evenings too, when they played together, sharing songs both old and new, or simply sat together in easy quiet with a cup of Emperor’s Smile passed between them: one to pour, one to drink, fingers brushing. Moments when he’d thought—maybe that kiss was going to happen.

Maybe Lan Wangji had thought that too. Maybe—maybe he was waiting for Wei Wuxian to move first, maybe—

“Lan Zhan.” He reaches for Lan Wangji’s sleeve again. Lets his fingers slide down to linger on Lan Wangji’s own.

Lan Wangji turns, just slightly. Just enough to actually be facing him. There’s a quickly muffled noise to their right, which Wei Wuxian resolutely ignores.

“Lan Zhan,” he repeats, softer. “I really… I really do like you.” He shifts closer.

“Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji’s fingers clench around his hand, and Wei Wuxian squeezes back.

“I like you so much,” he says, “and I wish...” He drops his gaze to Lan Wangji’s lips. “I wish...” His words dry up. All he can do is squeeze Lan Wangji’s hand tighter and stare at him and hope that—that his intent is clear. That Lan Wangji… understands and—

And then Lan Wangji is kissing him, moving their linked hands up to Wei Wuxian’s jaw and holding him still with Bichen pressed against his side and kissing him, and Wei Wuxian suddenly remembers the rules—rules Lan Wangji is breaking! For him!—and their audience, and he can’t stop the blush that burns on his face and neck but he’s not going to stop kissing Lan Wangji either.

“That definitely breaks it, right?” Lan Jingyi says in a whisper that is likely louder than he thinks it is, and Lan Wangji pulls away.

Wei Wuxian, embarrassingly, whimpers a bit, which turns into a only-somewhat aborted exclamation of surprise as Lan Wangji turns and starts dragging him along in the general direction of the Jingshi.

“Lan Zhan!” He jogs a little to keep up. He wonders how many rules they are breaking now—they’re not exactly running, but they’re certainly moving faster than usual. He’s definitely making noise. Is kissing someone still an impulsive act if he’s spent months and months thinking about it? And he’s quite certain that anyone looking at his expression, at least, would mark him down for “excessively happy” because the smile he’s wearing feels like it’s been stamped onto his face.

“Lan Zhan!” He stops in the Jingshi’s doorway and clings to the wall a little and waits for Lan Wangji to look at him along the taut line of their still-joined hands.

“What is it?” Lan Wangji’s voice is unexpectedly flat, and his grip on Wei Wuxian’s hand tightens as his eyes drop to that point of connection. As if he is perhaps afraid Wei Wuxian will try to slip free now.

“I just wanted to say, it is an honor to break the Lan Clan rules with you.” Wei Wuxian’s grin widens as Lan Wangji’s gaze narrows. He loves that glare so much. So, so much it feels like emotion is going to burst out of him like a breaking dam. “And,” he adds, gleeful and almost giddy, “I’m happy to help you break that one again any time you like.”

There is a moment of considering silence.

“Perhaps,” Lan Wangji allows, a smile pulling at the edges of his lips, and Wei Wuxian steps over the threshold and lets himself be pulled in like the moon pulls the tide—surging, crashing, and eternal.

*

4. Do Not Speak to Wei Wuxian

*

There is a new rule on the Wall of Discipline. Lan Wangji glares at it, which has little effect except to make his lover cling to his sleeve and laugh at him.

“Unjust,” Lan Wangji mutters. The rule has, admittedly, come in the wake of three separate disturbances to the Lan Sect’s calm, quiet existence, but Wei Ying is not to blame for them. If anything, it had been Lan Wangji himself who asked his young students the question: Who is just, and who is evil? Who is wrong and who is right? Who decides what is black and what is white? And how will you tell the difference outside these walls? 

Just because Wei Ying is present in Cloud Recesses does not make him responsible for disruptions, even if he does take a certain amount of glee in watching such debates unfold.

Wei Ying’s glee is currently threatening to completely undo him as he collapses under the force of his own humor, more and more of his weight coming to bear where he holds Lan Wangji’s wrist.

“Lan Zhan,” he gasps, laughing enough to be hardly intelligible, “this is my favorite rule.”

Lan Wangji steadies him and waits, patiently, for an explanation. There usually is an explanation even if it is not always something Lan Wangji himself would consider reasonable or logical. Wei Ying tries to speak three times, each instance interrupted by a fresh peal of laughter before he finally heaves a few calming breaths and stands straight.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes, “with this rule, any time your uncle yells at me, he must break it. And the other elders! How will they punish me for talking at meals and running in the courtyards if they can’t speak to me?”

Lan Wangji’s lips twitch. “Ridiculous,” he says.

Wei Ying smiles, wide and exuberant. “Yes, yes, yes, so many of your rules are ridiculous,” he agrees, which is not what Lan Wangji meant, but he is well familiar with Wei Ying’s opinion in this matter. “But Lan Zhan,” he continues, “this one is silly. If only speaking to me were such a danger then you, you! Hanguang-jun, the Second Jade of Lan, the Chief Cultivator! You would be entirely beyond hope.” He shakes his head, incredulous and dismissive. Matter closed.

The implication, Lan Wangji is certain, is meant to be that he is obviously still an upstanding member of the Lan Clan, committed to its principles. This is true, but is perhaps truest in Wei Ying’s eyes, and in his own self-perception, rather than that view belonging to his Clan’s elders; Lan Wangji’s interpretation of the rules differs from his Uncle’s, and he knows the friction that causes is unlikely to resolve itself quickly. And then there are the rules he breaks willingly, repeatedly. The rules he is breaking right now, standing here with Wei Ying without attempting to hide either his affection for the man before him or his critique of an elder’s decisions. Speaking to him, as is apparently now prohibited. Lan An’s principles—and his exceptions—are well known to the Lan Clan elders, but Lan Wangji is still certain his ancestor would be much more forgiving of his transgressions than his living relatives are.

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying leans into him, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Do you want to know the best thing about this rule?”

Lan Wangji nods, and Wei Ying presses his lips tightly together, perhaps suppressing another laugh.

“Lan Zhan,” he whispers, leaning ever closer, until his hair brushes Lan Wangji’s ear and his breath is warm on Lan Wangji’s face. “Just think,” he says, conspiratorial and jubilant oh-so-dear, “I can never be punished for breaking it.”

*

5. Do Not Vandalize Sect Property

*

Their belongings are packed, the weather is clear, and Wei Ying is eager to return to the road. Lan Wangji, if pressed—by Wei Ying, in a quiet moment caught between breaths, private to themselves—might allow that he is also pleased to be leaving Cloud Recesses, at least for a time. To go night hunting again, to use his cultivation skills where they are most necessary, and to extract himself from the incessant politics of squabbling clans. To spend time with Wei Ying, and only Wei Ying, and to see the world as Wei Ying sees it. He has dedicated months of planning to this journey. Weeks of work to guarantee that they will not be interrupted, and that the cultivation world will weather his absence without more than the usual level of strife between sects. 

Still, he stops in the courtyard, before the Wall.

“I will meet you at the back gates,” he says.

Wei Ying shoots him a curious look. “Is this about whatever had you talking to Zewu-jun for days and days?”

“I will meet Wei Ying at the gates,” Lan Wangji repeats. This topic is only tangentially related to matters he has discussed with his brother recently, and it only concerns Wei Ying in the way that most of Lan Wangji’s life concerns Wei Ying—his thoughts ever returning to him like the flow of rivers into the sea. There will be time to inform him of this later, when they are alone on the little-used mountain path to the southern provinces. He retrieves a bundle of bok choy and carrot tops from his sleeve and holds it out for Wei Ying to take. “For the rabbits.”

Wei Ying pouts, but he takes both the vegetables and the direction. “Secret Lan Clan business,” he mutters. He frowns and shakes the carrot tops at Lan Wangji. “You could have told me you were planning something.”

Lan Wangji could have, it’s true, but he knows Wei Ying. Even the hint of something unusual is enough to keep his interest for days—often long days, featuring frequent leading questions—ambushes from a probing enemy. And this is Clan business. Clan politics. Involving Wei Ying even as an observer courts resentment at best and chaos at worst. Wei Ying himself at least seems to realize the same. He sighs and waves the topic away.

“If you take too long the rabbits might start to like me best,” he teases instead, turning away and deliberately avoiding Lan Wangji’s skepticism.

Lan Wangji watches him until he’s out of sight and waits several slow, steady moments longer. He has gathered an audience, eyes watching from latticed windows, just-barely-open doors, and entirely-too-convenient conversations stopped just far enough away to allow observation. But that has been true of his life for years now—eyes wherever he goes, whatever he does. Here, now, perhaps it will actually be useful.

He approaches the wall and runs two fingers along the top edge, where he can feel the protective layers of generations of cultivators’ wards and talismans sunk into the stone. He could break them, with enough effort, or unravel them with the right array, but it won’t be necessary. What he has planned should not interfere with any of them. He steps back, pulls a talisman from his sleeve, and centers himself. He’s still not certain the words are exactly right, but they are the closest he could get.

It’s easier than expected. Perhaps due to something in his bloodline, or his cultivation level, or the memories he can bring to bear, stretching back past this handful of years, past Wei Ying’s resurrection, past his death, past Lan Wangji’s own injuries and seclusion, stretching back across long years to a childhood spent etching rules into his bones in the hope of one more afternoon listening to his mother talk and laugh and sing.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps the Clan has simply depended more on custom and reverence to protect the Wall than he anticipated. Perhaps they thought to ward only against actual damage. Whatever the reason, it is only the work of a few heartbeats to write the seal, focus his intent, and let it go.

The ink shines against the stone, stark against the carvings: An attempt to control others is a loss of self.

It won’t scrub off, or be easily banished. It will wear away with time, and rain, and wind, as all the world does. It will last weeks, at least. Perhaps months. Long enough. He suspects, in the utter stillness that the courtyard has suddenly become, that even a day would be long enough.

He does not look at the watchers in the windows, or across the courtyard. He turns and walks away, looking only forward. To Wei Ying, who is sitting on the ground near the back mountain gate with a leaf of bok choy in one hand as he attempts to coax a rabbit ever closer.

Wei Ying, who pouts as Lan Wangji approaches and the rabbits immediately lose interest in his offering of treats, instead gathering around Lan Wangji’s ankles. Wei Ying, who stands and tosses the leaf aside with a disappointed sigh more befitting of a child than a cultivator of his talent.

“Important Clan business done with?” he asks.

“Mn.” Lan Wangji gently nudges the rabbits away and steps over them, joining Wei Ying and Little Apple at the gate’s threshold. Wei Ying nods a few times, like he’s not really aware of his actions.

“You know, Lan Zhan.” His voice is oddly low, the words stilted. His hands move aimlessly in the space between them. “If you’d rather stay here—if you don’t want to come—”

“I want to, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji assures him before that line of thought can go any further.  He takes Little Apple’s lead and holds Wei Ying’s gaze. “The paths we walk do not need to be lonely ones.”

Wei Ying smiles, his eyes overbright, and something between a sigh and a laugh bursts from his lips. “Lan Zhan,” he says in something closer to his normal voice, “you just say these things and I can’t—” His hands rise warm and familiar to Lan Wangji’s jaw, and their lips meet, and Lan Wangji stands still and steady and kisses Wei Ying for as long as it takes for Little Apple to become agitated and shove her head into Wei Ying’s hips, pushing him back. Based on the displeased scrunching of Wei Ying’s face as he glares down at his donkey, Lan Wangji is certain they would both agree it wasn’t nearly long enough. But there will be more chances. More long afternoons, more starlit nights and soft morning sunrises to share. He watches Wei Ying shake his head fondly and rub the donkey’s ears. Watches him grip Chenqing at his belt and turn with a smile.

“Alright, Lan Zhan,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling with good humor and excitement and what Lan Wangji has tentatively started to think of as love, right there on his face for the whole world to see. “Where should we go first?”

[raevenlywrites]

The Ties That Bind 3 of ???

“My lady wake up!”

I was shaken awake by my lady in waiting, Elanor. I clutched at her shoulders, in a move utterly out of character for me, but she returned my embrace nonetheless. Elanor, along with Rei, had been my closest companions since the loss of my alastair. Though neither could ever take Vasili’s place, they did their best to fill his roles: Rei as my protector, and Elanor as my rock.

“The dreams again, my lady?”

I nodded and burrowed into Elanor’s chest, taking in the clean, crisp smells of open air and clean laundry, trying to drown out the lingering sense memories of the bloodied fields of my dreams. Elanor smelled like the wind, bright and bitter cold, and suddenly I longed for a flight myself.

Sensing the shift in my mood, Elanor pulled back, giving me the space to compose myself. I was allowed a few moments of weakness upon waking, but every morning when Elanor did up my amour of fine hair and clothes, I put my face together in a deeper way.

“What time is it?” I asked, trying to ground myself.

“Nearly nightfall, my lady. I came to fetch you for dinner, but...”

She trailed off, and neither of us had to say aloud that such dreams rarely left me with any kind of appetite. Elanor would see to it that something simple and cold was made available to me, on nights I missed formal meals, and would often keep me quite company through sleepness nights, taking advantage of my rights to the frivolous use of candles at all hours to work on her embroidery.

Her talent for cloth was what had brought her into my service; Elanor’s entire family had been collected to the Keep like many other artisans, brought into the shelter of our tower walls to fill our market. Pretty as it was to think of my family preserving art for art’s sake, the reality of our market and court was that our artisans provided us with an essential resource. Throughout the long and costly war, precious time and materials had been devoted to silversmiths and gem workers and seamstresses and silk painters, because the rulers of the falcon nation loved beauty, and our people were as intimately familiar with crafting around the challenge of demi-wings as they.

The shm’Ahnmik were one of the few nations that made trade with our people, along with the enterprising Desmodians, the people of the bats. Our Keep was heavily fortified in favor of those with wings. The Desmodians brought goods sold at a premium, as the only merchants truly available to us. The falcons...

For generations, the falcons had offered every Tuuli Thea the same proposition as a coronation gift: accept their aide, and join the falcon empire. Every queen down to my mother had refused, and I intended to do the same. Our refusal did not stop the falcons’ delivery of am’haj, the deadly poison with which we tipped our arrows, nor did it stop their occasional visitors from coming to make trade. The precision and prowess with which their warriors defended their merchants was truly spectacular, and surely dearly tempted every queen who witnessed their efforts to accept their aid. I don’t know why my mother refused them, nor her mother before that. Perhaps there was some element of the bargain I had yet to understand. Perhaps, very soon, I would be tempted with such a bargain. I did not know which direction I would choose.

As I thought these far away thoughts, my fingers turned over and over and bit of hard metal. I realized my absent behavior only when the flash of a jewel caught my attention.

In my hands was an elegantly woven signet ring, slender and crafted for a woman’s hands.

For a Cobriana hand.

I dropped the ring in shock, the twisted metal glinting on the way down. It rolled under the bed--and to my utter shock, Elanor dove after it.

I watched my lady’s maid and childhood friend scramble after the Cobriana ring and thought surely I must still be dreaming.

Elanor would not look at me as she emerged from under the bed, treacherous ring clutched to her chest.

“Elanor?”

Her eyes darted up and away, an air of something desperate in them as they flashed.

I realized suddenly where I’d recognized that unfamiliar voice from in my dream.

My dream that hadn’t been a dream.

“Elanor. Stand before your Tuuli Thea and explain yourself. How did Zane Cobriana come to be in my bedroom while I was sleeping?”

I did my best to remain calm, and also to play back the entire “conversation” before it faded. He’d said the ring had been his sister’s. He’d wished he had something less bloodied to offer me.

He’d said he could learn to love me.

Avians almost never fainted. Our kind are built for the mountains, for the thin, chilled air of flight and high altitudes. But as I replayed the “dream” in my mind, I felt the world start to go grey around the edges.

“My lady!”

Elanor sprang from the floor, attempting to catch me as I swayed on my feet. I managed to sink back to the bed, but my mind was whirling.

“What... could you possibly... have been thinking?”

I panted the words around a thundering heart, the shock and the fear warring with my desire for control. I was Danica Shardae, heir to the Tuuli Thea; I would not faint, I would not vomit, I would not scream. I had witness far worse horrors than this. Zane had come to my room in the Mistari camps to talk. Was this more of the same?

But Elanor...

“You are the only one who dreams of peace.”

Her voice was tight with emotion, too high and trembling. But the thread of steel that ran through it, the absolute conviction that gave her the power to speak thusly to her Tuuli Thea--

Or maybe, she was just speaking to a friend.

“A lot of us out on the edges, we don’t see this war the way the soldiers do.”

“Soldiers” was nearly spat, a harsh bitterness that made the word nearly a swear.

“They trample fields and commandeer beds and rations, not a care for who it puts out in the cold.” She held her chin high as she spoke, hard eyes fixed firmly ahead. Like this story was a bit of shrapnel to be removed. And the only anesthesia she had to dull it with was her resolve, and tight avian reserve.

“We know they’re meant to keep us safe, but when we see the shadows of the flights overhead... The ravens are the worst. They mean someone important is on the battlefield--oh no offense to you, my lady!”

She finally did look at me now, because those important somebodies had all been my kin. She held a hand out like she might offer comfort. But her other hand still held the ring clutched in her lap. It was my turn to stare straight ahead, to gird myself up in my reserve.

“Continue,” was all I could manage. It came out perfectly level.

Elanor swallowed hard.

“We trade with who we can out there. Serpents love pretty things too, did you know that my lady?” When I made no offer of an answer, she continued. “Scarves, mostly, at least from my household. They give them as gifts to their beloveds--oh, but you don’t really care about why I did what I did, do you? You want your peace, but do you even know what it would look like?”

Of course not. None of us did. We’d been locked in this war for generation upon generation--or, at least, those of us of the Keep. I was beginning to suspect that my castle walls were built just a little too high. Or that I’d not tried hard enough to peer over them. Elanor was my friend, had been my comfort since the loss of Vasili and my eldest sister--but what comfort had I offered her? A warm bed, some extra hours of candlelight for her needlework? I didn’t even know her family, beyond the mother, father, and sister than had been taken to the Keep. Did she leave cousins out there on the edges? Childhood friends? An alastair? I’d assumed if she’d had one, he’d have been brought to the Keep with her. But what of his family, and so on? They couldn’t al live in the Keep. There was only so much space.

Elanor continued when I didn’t speak, as if she’d never interrupted herself at all.

“They trade in meat, furs, food. The serpiente land is more arable than our toehold in the mountain. Good for keeping safe, but not so good for growing things.”

I finally snapped. “We have fields on the lee of the mountain! Everyone is welcome to them--”

“And we don’t all live on the lee of the mountain. Your majesty.”

She added that last as an addition, though whether it was to placate or underscore I couldn’t say. She’d never cut me off before. Neither of us seemed to quite know what to do with it now.

Overwhelmed and frustrated, my gaze fell to her clutched hand again. I could almost see the ring burning within, the onyx ring seemingly overlaid with the burning red of Cobriana eyes.

“What does all of this have to do with Zane, Elanor? Why is his sister’s ring in your hands?”

I deliberately did not think about how I knew it was his sisters, or what Zane’s intent in leaving a woman’s ring for me might be. Elanor opened her hand, offering the ring up to my view. Her gaze stayed fixed on it in her lap.

“I was out visiting my aunts while you were away. You were supposed to be gone for days, at least, and you’d said the Mistari had limited your party size--“

“I’m aware of why I didn’t ask you to come with me, Elanor. Please, just explain.” I pinched the side of my nose, rubbing a small circle over my temple with my thumb, trying to relieve the headache. “I... I’m too overwhelmed to be mad. I just want to know what’s going on.”

“He wants to meet with you, my lady.”

I stared at her, at her steady, earnest gaze. My eyes were too wide, I could feel it around their edges. It took too many tries for me to say,

“So you brought him to my rooms?”

She dropped her eyes again, bashful.

“He... is very charismatic, my lady. Very passionate. He came riding up on the biggest black horse I’d ever seen, and he promised it and all that was in his saddle bags if he’d just find a way to get a message to you...”

I could see that, actually. What little interaction I’d had with Zane, I could at least understand why Elanor would find herself doing things she’d normally never dream of, when faced with the heat of that flashing garnet gaze. Zane had a way of making the astounding seem perfectly plausible, of the daring to be his absolute right, and would you like to come along and seize it with him? I felt creeping up my face just thinking about it. I was glad Elanor’s eyes were downcast.

“And he just so happened,” I ventured, “to find the house of my lady in waiting?”

“He said it was Fate.” Her voice carried the edge of a hysterical giggle, as if the spectacle of it all, even just in memory, was enough to make her feel faint. It wasn’t like Elanor to be so emotional--but then again, it wasn’t like any of us. At least not on the outside.

“He said, 'A’le-Ahnleh. By my will and the will of Fate, we have been brought together to build this impossible dream'. Oh, my lady, if you could have seen him---“

She stopped then, with a little startled sound. I jumped, the surprise of it making me flinch.

“What?”

“Oh you will see him, my lady. You must. He and his guardswoman are waiting at my aunts’ house for you this very night.”

The Ties That Bind Tag list: @thehellinsideyourhead @therecouldbecolorsandlove

Raev’s Gen Tag List (should I tag you guys in this? It IS a thing I wrote. I’m gonna say yes unless you guys are like “no of course not we’re sick of hearing about your stupid fic for a twenty year old book XD)

List is currently: @lordkingsmith @writinglyra @drbibliophile @mperialscribe @adie-dee @lexiklecksi @writinginslowmotion @apollon-arium

[ficsandcatsandficsandcats]

*tosses coin to my writer, o valley of plenty* if I may get a little Jask fic where the reader is cursed to be extremely ugly, and is ashamed and hides in a cloak/helmet/whatever to hide her face. Obviously shes in love with him, but theres no way he would ever love someone so hideous. Inevitably, one day someone sees her without the mask, (I dont care who, it can be anyone, even Jask) and they end up talking feelings and shame and all that good stuff.

Fandom: The WitcherPairing: Jaskier x ReaderWord Count: 2,236 Rating: Ga/n: I love the concept of a reader being cursed and bonding with Jaskier over emotions instead of the usual “you’re hot, I’m hot, let’s fuck” (though my catalogue supports that I am not against this particular trope at all). I had a bit of a dilemma when trying to figure out how to approach because I am very cognizant of the way ugliness is socially constructed and I didn’t want to put a bunch of features on blast that someone may recognize in themselves and feel shitty about. Fanfic should either make you happy or sob or sigh but it should never make you feel bad about yourself. So I put a bit of a spin on it and I hopethat’s ok. I think I’ve still got the core of what you’re asking for here and I hope I handled it well. Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk.

There were those who spurned fairytales. They dismissed the stories of fairy godmothers and curses as children’s tales, moralistic tools for discipline. You knew better. You knew all too well how real fairy godmothers were, and how vicious they were when their charges were mistreated. You’d never been able to glean from your father what act he committed to enrage the fairy so but you knew the fallout. Your mother died in childbirth and you, against all odds, stubbornly clung to life and survived. Another punishment had to be handed down and the curse was placed. When you looked in the mirror you saw someone plain. Features indistinct and uninteresting, a canvas of a person. 

You were the lucky one. When others looked at you, they saw the face of the ugliest creature their imaginations could conjure. The fairy had been clever, knowing all too well that beauty was in the eye of beholder and that the only way to ensure your misery and loneliness was to make sure that every eye that beheld you saw something so uniquely gruesome to their own taste that they could not look past it. Your father was included in this and though he denied it you knew between that and losing your mother he was not able to feel or express love for you as he would have been if you weren’t so repugnant in his eyes.

You took to traveling and healing, still clinging to life like you had in your infancy, still determined to fight for your space in the world. Travelling meant you never had to get to know anyone too well or get too close. You’d tried using paints as other ladies did if they wanted to change their appearance but this only seemed to intensify the revulsion you inspired. You ended up wearing a heavy, hooded cloak and a kerchief about your mouth for extra measure. You were an intimidating figure but you tried to balance this with a soft voice and greater skill in healing. If you could offer something to people, you could briefly get the interaction you craved. But you always kept travelling and you rarely ran into the same person twice.

Until Jaskier.

You met him the way you met most people; providing a service. He’d come by your wagon in a rough state, explaining as you cleaned up his wounds that he’d gotten into a disagreement during his performance the night before. He was charming and kind, only asking about your odd attire once and then leaving it be when you made it clear you didn’t want to discuss it. He paid you more coin than you would have asked and you felt grateful that you’d had the chance to meet him and knew it would remain an encounter you kept close to your heart the rest of your days.

And then you saw him again. This time he caught you unawares, out on a very rare excursion away from your wagon to get some supplies. You’d never had someone see you a second time and look so happy about it. He joined you on your shopping, haggling with the shop owners and asking you for advice on the songs he was writing. He tried to get to know you a bit more, asking about how long you’d been traveling and why you’d chosen healing as a profession. It was easy to talk to him and you almost forgot he couldn’t see the burden you hid beneath your wrappings. He walked you back to your wagon, even going so far as to help you up into it, his hand grasping yours lightly to support you. Your touch starved skin tingled for hours in the spot his hand had been.

The third time you saw him was the worst day of your life. You’d known you were taking a risk by leaving the wagon without the hood and mask but you tried to convince yourself that you were only going down to the river for a moment to bathe. It was early winter and you knew no one would be around, smartly tucked up in their houses with their loved ones and fending off the frost. The water stung your skin but you enjoyed the sensation, happy to be free of the heavy clothes for these moments.

And then you saw him.

You clamored out of the river but you’d only pulled on your dress, still scrambling for the cloak when he stopped in his tracks. Confusion followed by recognition followed by even more confusion washed over his face and you felt your heart break as he cautiously approached.

“Y/N?” he asked. There was no point in pretending, the cloak and kerchief were in hand.

“Jaskier,” you said. You stood across from each other in silence for what felt like ages. You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to do. Not everyone who saw you was cruel, some were just afraid which was almost worse. Jaskier just looked confused and intrigued. His eyes kept traveling over your face like he was trying to commit it to memory.

“Say something,” you said finally, your voice choked with repressed tears. He walked towards you slowly as though he were trying not to spook a horse. By the time he reached you the tears fell from your unblinking eyes. You kept looking for the moment he would turn. The revulsion that would shatter the lovingly preserved memories of him forever. He reached out and brushed away the tears and then reached down and took the cloak from your hands. You stood unmoving as he gently wrapped the cloak back around you, lifting the hood to cover your half-frozen hair. He held the kerchief in his hand but didn’t cover your face, just fidgeted with it as he worked to form words.

“So this is your deep secret,” he said. You nod, unable to form words.

“I’m disappointed.”

The words broke your heart.

“I thought it would be that you were a murderer or a dangerous fugitive,” he continued.

“What?”

“Well, I mean, unless, are you?” he asked.

“No,” you answered.

“Ok so you wear the cloak and the kerchief and the layers and things because…” his voice trailed off, leaving the question open for your answer.

“Because I’m hideous,” the words are like ashes in your mouth but you’re accustomed to the taste.

“According to whom?” he asked. You scoffed incredulously.

“Everyone. Literally everyone. That’s how it works.”

“That’s how what works?”

“The curse.”

“You’re cursed? How fascinating.”

His words anger you and you fear that he’s mocking you, that maybe the kindness he’s shown is just an act and that this a fresh way to experience cruelty. You thought you’d seen them all.

But you tell him the story. You tell him about the curse and your mirrorless childhood and the moment you saw your face and the worse moment when you began asking people to describe you and learned the true nature of the curse, far beyond the loss of a mother or a plain face. You don’t know when you both sit on the ground but at some point you’re there next to each other, leaning against the wheels of the wagon as the words continue to tumble out of you like a dam that’s finally broken. No one has ever heard this much of you, seen this much of you, or sat this long with you in your life and you stop caring how he’s going to react at the end. This isn’t about him anymore, this is about you releasing all that you’d carried and all that you’ll carry with you for the rest of your life. When you’re done you notice he’s taken your hand at some point and his thumb is softly rubbing soothing circles around your knuckles.

“So now this is my life. I stay hidden for my sake as much as everyone else’s. I heal because it’s better than sitting locked up in a house all my life and because it helps me feel… well, just that I suppose. It helps me feel. I would rather feel those brief moments of connection than stay numb my whole life,” you say. You’re startled to see there are tears in his eyes and he pulls you into a hug, not sure if he’s comforting you or himself but you hug him back though you’re long out of practice.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into the hood of your cloak, “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Everyone has their curses I suppose,” you mumble, a little embarrassedand uncertain how to respond.

“Yes but the worst part is it’s all so stupid. So people find you ugly, so what? What could that possibly have to do with your worth as a person?” he asks.

“It’s easy to say that when you’re beautiful,” you say bitterly.

“Beauty doesn’t secure your place in people’s lives. It sure as hell doesn’t make them want you around either,” he says. “But tell me you realize this can’t keep on forever.”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Well this… lonely existence, it’s miserable. No offense. Even you said as much. Are you really going to just hide yourself away forever?”

“I didn’t… I don’t see any other option.”

His hand is warm as it gently cups your face and your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.

“Take me with you,” he says.

“What?”

“Take me with you. I make a better travelling companion than most think. And I can help! Not with the healing and such but… listen, I had a friend who was treated much the same as you describe and I was able to help… bridge the gap between him and the people around him,” he says.

“How did you do that?”

“I wrote a song. Now, I’m not suggesting I write a song unless…” his voice trails off and he waggles his eyebrows winningly but your stony face is answer enough.

“Yes that’s what I thought. In any case with me by your side your loneliness is eased and if being there doesn’t communicate a more welcoming message I can at the very least defend your honor.”

You laugh, the sound foreign to your ears.

“And how will you do that?” you ask.

“I… will figure that out!” he vows.

“Can I ask you something,” you ask, growing serious again and avoiding his eyes.

“Anything.”

“What do you see? When you look at me? What do I look like?”

He considers the question and then pulls out a journal and quill from his travelling bag. You try to lean over and see what he’s doing but he pulls the journal away from your sight, tsking at you and telling you to be patient. Your stomach twists in knots as he glances between the journal and you and just when you’re about to lunge for it, he makes a final flourish and hands you the book.

A sob wracks through your body the moment your eyes meet the page and a trembling hand covers your mouth.

“I’m not an excellent artist but I don’t think it’s so bad,” Jaskier says, concern furrowing his brow. You can’t form words for a while, the jagged sobs seemingly endless as Jaskier rubs your back, confused but trying to be supportive until your sobs break into something that sounds a little less heartwrenching and then breaks into laughter. You look at him, eyes shining with tears and something else, something a bit more hopeful and new.

“It’s me,” you whisper, pointing to the drawing. The drawing of the face you saw in your reflection as a child, just older. The face no one has ever seen until this man who’s looking at you like you’re insane but also very relieved that you’d stopped crying. Well, not entirely, but they seem to be happy tears now.

“Yes I know,” he says.

“No, Jaskier, Jaskier, it’s me,” you can’t explain what this means just yet. There aren’t words and you aren’t sure you understand yet yourself.

“I see you,” he says, wiping away some of the tears again, leaning in closed to rest his forehead against yours, “I see you.”

There are those who spurn fairytales. They dismiss the stories of destiny and of a love that cannot be repelled by curses or the weight of a life heavy with trauma. You know better.