#and i imagine some other warden rushed to help him but there was nothing they could do
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heniareth · 2 years ago
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Crying over Adralen, elven Grey Warden who's already been dead for a few weeks by the time Astala arrives at Ostagar
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leggerefiore · 1 year ago
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Identity
cw: hurt/comfort, ingo is crying about his amnesia, pla ingo
pairing: Warden Ingo/Reader
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It was difficult to deal with some days.
The eyes of people around Jubilife village could be so judging and isolating. Even winning over the favour of the Survey Corps Captain and many of the team's members had failed to dismiss such gazes. You were an outsider. One from both out of time and space.
Though, you supposed that you were not alone in that aspect. Sneasler's Warden was just like you, but somehow, worse. All he could recall about himself was his name and nothing more. He was obviously from another part of the world and likely even time, but nothing could come to him despite his many attempts at remembering even the smallest bit about himself.
Maybe that was why you ended up hanging around him whenever he was in the village. His gaze was never anything harsh or judging. There was a certain kindness that seemed to resonate around him. That of someone anyone could easily talk to. Ingo was like you, too. It made expressing these thoughts easy. There were times you both fell into a near endless conversation, only having it end due to Zisu needing his help or the sun beginning to set. Other times, you both sat in a comfortable silence beside each other.
Somehow, you ended up at his place. Knocking on his door, there was no response from inside. Was he not there? You had not seen him in the village, but there was a chance he had gone back to the Pearl Clan settlement. Debates of whether to head there next or just give up and go back home swirled within your head.
Until you heard a strange sound.
It sounded like a groan from within the cabin, but you were not sure. Still, your mind rushed with the possibility that something may have happened to the Warden. Forcing open the door, you gazed into the small home. A fire burned in the hearth. In the back of the home, where his bed laid, you saw him.
Ingo lay curled into his blankets, face buried into his pillow. It was not a groan you had heard, you realised. The Warden was sobbing. His chest rose and fell strangely as he clung to his pillow for dear life. You fell to your knees and gently placed a hand on his arm. It startled him, making him whip his head over to you.
Seeing his face made everything worse.
His skin was a red hue, just like his eyes. Tears shined on his cheeks. You brought a hand to his face in an attempt to wipe them away. He leaned into your touch, but you can see his true feelings in his eyes. A stone-like face interrupted by such emotional eyes. Ingo was mortified that you had seen him in such a state.
The words finally left your lips, “What's wrong?” You could not even begin to imagine what would bring such a seemingly reliable and strong man to tears.
He brought his hand to clear away the remaining tears on his cheeks and gently grabbed your own to rest within his. The calloused hand was oddly cold. Eerie, when considering the heat of the room from the fire. “... Do you think those waiting for you back home will ever give up on you returning?” he asked suddenly. It was a striking question. Would they? You wanted to say you had good people in your life who would wait endlessly for your return, but somewhere, a logical side of your brain argued that many would eventually move on.
“Is that what's bothering you, Ingo?” you sat down across from him, coming down to his level. His eyes broke contact from yours to stare at the ground. You squeezed your hand around his. The solid touch seemed to draw him back from wherever his mind wished to whisk him away to.
“Who am I supposed to be?” he mumbled out, fresh tears swelling in the rims of his eyes, “Even if I return, will they want me as I am?” You froze. His mouth pulled back into a genuine grimace as his eyes reflected the worry and fear pouring into his heart. Confidence could only protect someone for so long. How had this been weighing on his mind? “I can't even recall any of them…” Ingo whispered. Tears fell onto the bedding beneath him.
You felt shaken. Ingo was facing this world without an inkling of whom he used to be, nor any of those he once called dear. A memory of an identical image speaking, but he was unsure if that was him speaking to himself in a mirror or not. You wished you knew who he was. If you could give him any small thing to cling onto, you would. Your arms came around the Warden tightly. You nuzzled into his dark undershirt as you felt his solid form in your arms.
“… I think there are people waiting on you,” you reassured him firmly, needing to be the rock on which Ingo could rely, “They probably miss their frowning, loud friend dearly. They will want to help you.” His arms came around you, squeezing you like a plush doll almost.
“What if…” he gave a rare whisper, voice nowhere near its usual volume, “What if I'm not who they knew…? What if I'm just someone attempting to imitate who they knew?”
Your hand gently began to rub his back, feeling the tense muscles under your arms. This torment Ingo was facing. It was not something you could understand, yet his agony over this was more than apparent. “… Well, then, I'll always wait for you,” you smiled at him brightly, “If nothing else, I'll love this you.” A small peck to his cheek seemed to stir him into silence. His arms locked around you tighter as he pulled you deeper into his.
“… Thank you,” Ingo mumbled out softly.
You dared bring a hand into the soft fuzz of his hair and gently stroke it. “Whenever we return back to where we came, we will meet up again,” you promised.
Ingo's tears had stopped and were replaced with a gentle affection in his eyes, much like the gaze you returned to the old man.
(Though, Ingo's concerns were entirely misplaced. Someone back in his time endlessly searched for him. Their tears as they looked in the mirror, wearing his hat while desperately forcing a stern expression. A single word was murmured. “Phony.”)
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newdestination · 7 months ago
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Nobori can't help but startle at the burst of laughter from the man. He'd anticipate a friendly acknowledgement, maybe some irritation at the potential day-long delay of whatever it was he'd needed from Nobori's fellow warden. The rambunctious peals of amusement weren't particularly high on the list.
"...Am I not..? Well." What on Sinnoh's good green earth was Tsubaki telling people about him to get that sort of reaction? Is there something he ought to be worried about, here? 
Seki's explanation really could not have come sooner— it, blissfully, is actually quite the wonderful news, and an even better distraction. He's never going to get an answer out of Tsubaki on what exactly he's been telling people, and Nobori is hardly brash enough to go grilling strangers for a hock of nonsense himself. It's... probably nothing new anyways. He may not be the most aware man in the world in this sort of sense, but he's hardly so dull as to not recognize what people are saying about him—
...Now that he remembers how to speak, at least. Perhaps that fact alone proves the elderly members of the camp right in talking about him mere feet away as though he were completely deaf. It's still hard to keep up sometimes, when people talk a touch too fast or weirdly.
"I... see! It's wonderful to make your acquaintance, Seki. My name is Nobori— you are welcome to refer to me as you wish." He's certainly aware that the other wardens expect a certain level of respect in association with the title. Perhaps he should too, but he still just can't quite associate himself with being a warden. He looks after Ohnyula, certainly! It is a joy to tend to her needs, just as much as it is a joy to care for any one of his companions. But she does much the same for him in a way that just doesn't seem... acceptable..? Not in accordance with what he's seen from the other wardens of the clan, at least.
It may all very well simply boil back down into a matter of respect. He... doesn't seem to be all that adept at the concept, and Ohnyula doesn't appear to be in all that much of a rush to establish the rules that he is clearly lacking in his knowledge of. It doesn't help that she feels the need to try and groom him like a kit every time she parts from his side for too long— he swears his charge is going to lick all of the hair right off his forehead if she keeps it up. It doesn't help that her recent litter of kits are beginning to pick up the exact same habit of hers, learning largely by their mother's example.
"—And it is quite the pleasure to meet your companions as well!" Nobori crouches down to extend a hand in offering to the nearest one— a fairly average sized leafia— palm facing the ground for her to investigate as Seki approaches. It's meant to be a friendly overture if he's reading her body language correctly, but there's plenty of space for the pokémon to simply swerve away from him if it wills. There's rarely a good reason to crowd an unknown pokémon, no matter how well-trained or kept they appear to be. He can feel the alert eyes of his own companions weighing heavily on his back with the motion, the crooning call of Glion somewhere up above.
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"I'm quite glad to have you four join me on these tracks— there's still quite a good deal I should be getting to, and I'm afraid I don't have much space left in the day to do it. This was something of a... surprise, you see." His voice drops a few levels as he talks, still somewhat mulling over the facts of the situation himself. He's not sure how long Garana knew of this, but he really can't imagine much of anything had been decided on like that a scant few days from the important date. The timing is a bit tight as is.
"You're welcome to help yourself to the tools I've brought along if need be. I intend on unearthing more of the flooring first," Nobori pulls back to point out the sections of overgrown land as he speaks, "—I suspect the stone goes much further underneath all of the dirt that's been deposited and packed down as the space moved. I cannot remove all of it before the meeting, but we can certainly neaten the corners somewhat!" He taps his fingers to his chin, mulling over the work ahead.
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...It's still going to be quite a lot, but a burden shared is a burden halved!
Oh, this guy was loud. Loud enough that Seki's ears were ringing after that greeting, and even his normal speaking volume was on the loud side. It was a little surprising, but even moreso was the fact that the new Warden didn't seem to know who he was. There was a spark of excitement in his chest that made his smile broaden and eyes sparkle just a bit with boyish delight.
Wait, he really has no clue who I am?
He'd never not been recognized before. Whether it be as a curse or a blessing or the clan head, someone somewhere knew him. Even the newcomer and leader of the Galaxy group, Denboku, had known who he was.
Perhaps it was just the change in attire, or maybe the new Warden just hadn't been told about him, but he found that it didn't matter.
He never thought that being unrecognizable would feel so nice.
He chuckled, then laughed, loud and enthusiastic, a hand to his mouth and his arm curled around his stomach. The man surely had no idea why Seki was giggling like a child as if he'd heard the funniest joke in the universe. But he was happy. It was nice.
No frills, no "Lord" or anything like that! Just the innocent question if he needed help, as if he were no one important.
To think it'd be a member of the Pearl Clan that made him feel that way. Maybe that should have been more troubling than it was.
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"Haha-- yeah, I'm friends with Tsubaki." He responded, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "Sorry, it's just a little funny... you're nothing like I expected from how he described you. Though he always has been a bit dramatic so I shouldn't be surprised." He straightened, resting a hand on his hip. He couldn't stop smiling as he added, "Thanks for the offer though, but I'm actually here to help with the cleaning and setup. I thought I'd left early enough to get a headstart, but it seems you beat me to it, Warden."
Seki took a moment to survey the work that the man had made of the area, admiring for a moment just how white the stone was underneath all the dirt.
Seki wasn't exactly great at cleaning to that level; he tended to get impatient and tired of things like that pretty quickly, but the Warden had gotten there early (a shocking thing for a member of the Pearl clan since they tended to be late to even battles) and he couldn't help but feel a touch competitive.
A member of the Pearl Clan arriving earlier than even I could... that's something else... I'll have to get up even earlier next time!
Leafia looked up at Seki, face scrunching up as if reading his mind. Across the way, his Showers and Bracky mirrored Leafia's look. All of them knew exactly how Seki was and all of them knew for a fact that they were going to have to keep him from pushing himself. They likely wouldn't succeed, but they would at least have the right to look at him with an "I told you so" look when everything caught up to him.
With renewed vigor and excitement, Seki walked forward to meet the Warden. "My name's Seki by the way. I'm looking forward to working with you."
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imagine-darksiders · 3 years ago
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Cold Hands, Warm Heart
Chapter 16 - Stage Two.
Summary: The storm breaks and it all comes crashing down...
Warnings: Angst, whump, hurt/comfort, blood, red mist of rage, graphic violence, explicit language
---
The resounding thumps of Karn's boots pulse rhythmically through your chest as you charge after him across the bridge, each step drumming along to the beat of your heart until you can hardly tell whether it's the organ that thunders in your ears, or the youngling's footsteps.
Even the heavens themselves seem to be urging you along. A snarl from the storm-laden clouds chases you towards Tri Stone with icy pellets of rain nipping at your heels. Every breath leaves you harshly and raggedly, and were it not for the steady presence of Death at your back, you might be tempted to slow down and surrender to your burning lungs.
To say that you're afraid would be the biggest understatement this side of a century. With every boom and crash you hear from the village, the pit opening up in your stomach grows wider and wider until it feels as though your heart has plummeted straight down inside it, lost amongst your roiling guts.
Teeth grit, you push yourself to run on, clumsily leaping over cracks and fissures that now litter the weathered stone underfoot. It would seem that hardly an inch of the bridge has been left intact after bearing the full weight of a rampaging guardian.
Large segments of the structure break off and your ears pick up the telltale rush of air as they whoosh down into the endless chasm far below you. It'll be a miracle if you all manage to make it to the other side before the whole thing collapses out from under your feet, but the bridge's stability, though certainly a worry, is hardly at the forefront of your priorities right now.
'The makers have to be okay,' you tell yourself, feeling not even the slightest bit reassured by your own thoughts, 'They have to be.'
They're good people.
They're your friends.
Christ, when you really think about it, they're probably the closest thing you've got to -
- A sudden bolt of lightening streaks across the sky like a whip-crack and illuminates Tri Stone's outer wall, and the thought that had lingered just beyond the reaches of your mind is flung haphazardly out of the proverbial window when you spot the mountainous figure looming at the far end of the bridge.
“Warden!” you cry out, swiping rainwater from your eyes.
The mighty construct gives no indication that he's heard you, nor does he look your way even when you all stampede onto the grassy plateau. He's collapsed onto one knee before the Makers' Forge, his blue gaze fixed upon the door as he clutches at an arm that looks as though it's just lost a fight with a wrecking ball. More disturbingly, his gargantuan slab of a shoulder is almost entirely gone – smashed into oblivion, leaving chunks of stone scattered about in the grass all around him.
Karn is the first to reach him, and you can tell that he's just as perturbed by the old construct's condition as you are.
Ears pinned back against his head, the youngling staggers to a halt and gapes in abject horror at the fragments of dust and stones that cascade down from the Warden's jaw when he opens it to speak. 
“I could not stop him,” he rumbles dazedly, more to himself than to any of you, “I could not even slow him...”
Sliding up beside the maker, you absently cover your mouth with a hand and take stock of the construct's injuries.
“Oh... Warden..” you breathe and blindly stretch your arm out sideways until your fingers find the strap of Karn's boot and wrap around it, keeping you upright even when your legs threaten to buckle out from underneath you.
The construct's heart stone sits dimly inside his chest, its once dazzling, blue light now barely visible through the rain. 
If Death hadn't heard him speaking aloud, he would have marked the giant as... inactive.
At your side, Karn stares up at the Warden for another few seconds before he lowers his eyes and glares hard at the ground, his hands curling into tight fists. “I...This is... is...” he tries, but falls silent, unable to think of anything more substantial to say. Instead, he swallows thickly and shakes his head. Then, without another word, the youngling whirls around, and the motion pulls his boot from your grasp as he kicks up his heels and stomps hurriedly towards the Forge, taking the steps three at a time until he reaches the doors and throws them open, thundering inside.
Wringing your hands over one another, you tear your eyes off Karn and return your focus to the Warden, taking a slow step towards the colossal figure. However, before you can take another, you find yourself tugged to a stop by cold fingers that suddenly fall upon your shoulder, startling your focus to the Horseman who appears next to you, silent as a ghost. “Come,” he utters, nudging you away with no real force, “There's nothing we can do for him now.”
“But, Death, he's hurt,” you argue, gesturing up at the Warden and pulling out of the cold grip.
The Nephilim's scowl darkens behind the sockets of his mask and he aims to say something reassuring, but misses by a mile. “He's a construct. It'll take a lot more damage than this to put him down.”
Well... He certainly doesn't miss the disapproving frown that turns your expression sour like curdled milk.
You manage to swallow down any retort you might have summoned and shake your head at him as you start picking your way around the remnants of the construct's shoulder until you reach his shin.
Without really thinking, you rap your knuckles against the stone to get his attention, only to immediately regret your hasty action when bone strikes the hard surface and a jolt of pain goes lancing up through your hand. “Ah! Shit,” you curse, flapping your wrist about to lessen the ache. Undeterred for long, however, you use your other hand to place a firm pat against his leg instead, raising your voice and calling out, “Hey! Hey, Warden! Down here!”
You can't begin to imagine whether or not he'd even felt your touch, yet the construct surprises you by finally dragging his azure gaze off Tri Stone's walls and turning his head down towards you, his eyes flickering several times until they at last turn strong and solid, brightening with recognition as he's pulled from whatever state of shock he'd been ensnared in.
“Little ones?” he rumbles, his voice beset with a breathlessness that stone shouldn't possess, “You are alive?”
“Despite best efforts,” you chuckle without a trace of humour, your expression wan, “Are you okay?”
In response, the construct groans and raises an arm to his face to inspect the missing chunk as pieces of detritus fall from the limb and into the grass around you.
“I will.. recover... But, the makers...” Trailing off, he lowers his arm and twists his head towards the Forge, silent.
He doesn't have to say anything further to make it clear that he's worried. You can already imagine how helpless he must have felt to see the Guardian tear through Tri Stone and know that there was nothing he could do to stop it.
It wasn't so long ago that you'd watched a colossal, bat-like demon smash through the roof of Father's Michael's church to get at your fellow humans sheltering inside whilst you watched from the Horseman's shoulder, helpless to help.
Lips pressing into a thin line, you raise a hand once again and pat the Warden's shin, far more gently this time, for your own sake, if not his. You hope the gesture of comfort translates across the mile-wide species gap - and it must, because he soon gazes down at you, his jaw somehow raising into the stiff rendition of a smile.
“You just... sit tight, okay, big guy? We'll go and make sure they're all right,” you tell him softly.
Behind you, Death silently observes the interlude with his head tilted and his eyes transfixed on the hand that you've rested against the Warden's stone, as though you really believe your fingers might hold just the right sort of power to stick his broken pieces back together.
However, his skepticism is quashed when he lifts his gaze up to the construct's pulsing heart stone and finds it shining clear and bright through the gloomy rain.
Hadn't it... been much duller only moments ago?
He's pulled from his ruminations when a sudden weight lands on his shoulder and something dark and feathered squawks miserably next to his ear. Turning his head, Death casts an eye lazily over the sopping-wet crow, who's beak is pointed very deliberately towards the forge doors and the promise of dry warmth beyond them. The Horseman grunts and faces you again, belatedly realising that you too, are utterly soaked to the skin. So, with a soft huff, he strides up behind you again and this time, his hand is firmer as it lands upon your shoulder, more insistent.
Once your eyes find his, he jerks his head towards the forge and vehemently resists the niggling tickle of relief when you nod at him, giving the Warden a final, parting wave and then allowing yourself to be pushed across the plateau, up the slippery steps and through the wide, stone doors.
It would've probably perturbed Death if he ever realised that it hadn't once occurred to him to simply leave you out in the rain.
------
As soon as you set foot inside the makers' forge, your skin is hit by a wave of comforting warmth that emanates from the nearby fireplace and chases away your goosebumps, returning some feeling to your tingling fingertips.
Grateful for the brief respite from nature's wrath, you gather up a section of your top and wring it out, following Death towards the raised dais where you can hear a familiar maker complaining. Loudly.
“Ach! Away with you both! It's not as bad as it looks.”
Alya...
Although she sounds far from happy, you can't bring yourself to care, not when her complaints indicate that she's alive.
Relief seems to plough right into the backs of your knees, causing you to stagger forwards, earning a swift and searching glance from Death.
“M'fine,” you mumble, straightening up again and forging ahead.
Dust flaps off the Horseman's shoulder as you brush past him on the steps up to the dais, just in time to see Alya shoving herself out from underneath her brother's steadying hand.
Karn is already there with them too, but he, perhaps wisely, is keeping his distance, eyeing Alya's wrist.
All three makers are standing around the anvil. Valus is wringing his hands and uttering soft, indecipherable sounds from under his visor, earning a glare from his sister, who's arm, you note with no small degree of alarm, is clutched protectively to her chest.
“Alya!” you call out, breathless, “Valus! Are you two okay?!”
As one, the makers' heads snap down to face you.
“There you are!” the forge sister exclaims, her taught expression collapsing under the weight of relief, “We've been worried sick! When we heard the Guardian wake up, we feared the worst!”
You open your mouth to ask about her wrist, but you never get the chance. Valus is upon you in seconds and you let out an embarrassing squeak of alarm as you're promptly swept up off the ground by one of his gigantic, soot-stained hands.
“Oh put 'er down, you big baby,” Alya scolds him, “You can see she's fine.”
Evidently, Valus disagrees.
He ignores his sister's words and instead lifts you up to his visor, beneath which you spot the flash of a soft, green eye as he begins to inspect you for injuries, turning you this way and that, deaf to your squawks of protest and Karn whinging for him to be careful with you.
Rolling his eyes, Death turns away from the fussing maker and gestures to Alya's arm. “What happened?”
She scowls down at the offending wrist, giving it an experimental roll. “Piece o' the ceiling broke loose when the Guardian passed over. Damn boulder struck my arm as it fell. S'just a bruise but-” She pauses to huff, jerking her chin at Valus. “-You try tellin' him that... He's been on edge all day since you three left for the Foundry.”
Her brother snorts indignantly at the accusing tone but he does relent in subjecting you to his scrutiny and places you gingerly back on the ground once he deems you unharmed, but not before giving the top of your head the gentlest of pats, his armoured shoulders clanking as he slumps forwards, relieved.
Frazzled, you readjust your skirt and offer him an exasperated smile. “Yeah. Good to see you in one piece too, Valus.”
“Where are the others?” Death presses.
Lowering her eyes back down to him, Alya drops her scowl and replies, “Muria and Thane are still out in the village. Everythin' happened so fast – I... I don't know even know if they're okay yet!”
“Meet me outside! I'll go and see to the Shaman,” Karn announces suddenly, turning on his heel to march for the village-facing entrance. Alya and Valus are, for the most part, unharmed, and with everyone in the forge accounted for, he's anxious to determine the fates of the others for himself.
“...And Eideard?” you ask, dragging your gaze from Karn's retreating backpack and returning it to the forge sister, compelled by a knot of concern that winds tighter and tighter in your belly and only grows worse when she glances down at you and pulls her lips into a thin, troubled line.
“Don't know. He's not in here, and if he's not outside... then, m'afraid he may have gone after the Guardian by himself.”
A rush of air is sucked out of you and you sway slightly on your feet, having to widen your stance to prevent an unnecessary fall. “But if he does that, then he...” Hesitating, you reach up and card your nails roughly through your hair. “- Oh god, he's gonna get himself killed!”
Unbeknownst to you, the Horseman's eyes are glued to your overwrought expression, his own, as always, unreadable beneath his mask. You look as though you're teetering right on the verge of tears.
Death isn't quite sure why, but no matter how badly he wants to hold onto the comforting familiarity of apathy, he strangely finds that he just... can't.
Inwardly, he recoils and growls a swift warning to himself.
'Not. One. Step. Deeper.'
He's just... frustrated that he'd been wrong about the corrupted heart stones. That's where the disquiet in his chest is stemming from. The fact that he just so happened to feel disquieted as soon as he spotted the glossy sheen over your eyes is sheer coincidence.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Without a word, the Horseman turns on his heel and stalks between the makers, heading down the steps in a bee line for the entrance.
Alya doesn't bother to stop him, but the very second you try to follow, you suddenly find a large, brown boot slammed down in your path, causing you to jerk backwards with a gasp. “Wha-! Alya!?”
“You're not goin' after him!” Alya barks, backed up by Valus, who shakes his head in aggressive concurrence, “It was bad enough Eideard let you go to the Foundry. Now with the Guardian's runnin' wild, it's not safe outside the village!”
“Not like it's really safe inside the village either,” you retort, flicking your gaze pointedly to her arm.
The maker's jaw snaps shut and she narrows her eyes at you, whilst her brother emits another, unhappy hum from underneath his visor.
“Look. I only want to check on Muria and Thane,” you urge, clasping your palms together, “I promise, I won't leave Tri Stone.”
The makers don't look convinced. They share a knowing glance, Alya's eyebrow raised in question, and although you can't see Valus's expression, you can only imagine that it mirrors his sister's perfectly.
Finally, Alya heaves a sigh and turns her head to scrutinise you, one eye squinted shut. “You swear it?” she demands.
You open your mouth and hesitate for a second before you manage to say, “O-of course, I swear.”
To you, the falter is glaringly obvious, but Alya and her brother don't seem to notice.
The next solemn look that passes between her amber gaze and Valus's invisible stare is brief, but after a minute or two, they both break eye contact again and Alya reluctantly lifts her boot from your path and steps back, still clutching her wrist. “All right. Go on with you now, we'll stay here a bit. Holler if you need us, aye? We have to start reinforcin' this forge in case the Guardian decides to come back and.... and finish the job.”
Hearing it said like that, your stomach clenches with the need to purge. Swallowing hard, you send the twins a quick smile of thanks, then shoot off after the Horseman, barely slipping through the door as it swings shut behind him.
------
Another booming growl of thunder greets you when you burst out into Tri Stone and come to an abrupt stop, very nearly swallowing your own tongue at the sight that you find yourself so cruelly faced with.
Though the rain obscures a little of your vision, it does nothing to hide a scene that's so, entirely familiar that it thrusts you violently back in time to the home you'd left behind, and there isn't so much as a second to prepare yourself for the onslaught of images that flash through your mind's eye like an awful, traumatic slideshow.
Buildings crushed and left as smoking ruins, the pavement underfoot torn up by an impactful force that it was never meant to withstand, the stench of blood in your nostrils, an inescapable fog of dust that you're certain will choke you with its density, and the... the screaming -
You can barely even hear the monotonous drone of your parents' answering machine above the people howling like animals as they're torn apart just metres away from the alley you've ducked into.
'We're sorry we aren't here to take your call right now. Please leave a-'
Click! You try again....
'We're sorry we aren't here to take your call right now-'
Click! Again...
'We're sorry-'
“Y/N!”
Fingers of ice suddenly latch onto your shoulder and jolt you back to the present.
“Stay here!” a voice barks into your ear and you flinch, whipping your head sideways to see Death's bone-white mask mere inches from your face.
“W..wha...?” How did he know that your mind had wandered elsewhere?
“Keep your promise to the makers,” he says gruffly, “Stay here, in the village!”
There's an unspoken 'or else,' tacked on to the end of his command as the fingers on your shoulder clamp down even harder, their pressure increasing the the point where you almost wince, but not quite. You recognise the gesture for what it is – a warning, the promise of consequence simmering in his hostile glare.
He waits for your shaky nod, and after a further sliver of a second passes, his grip at last disappears, leaving pinpricks of cold in the wake of his fingernails where they'd dug lightly into your skin.
“But, where are you going?” you blurt out.
The Horseman's reply is to turn his head towards the end of the village, past the destroyed walls and over the cliffs where a flash of lightening illuminates the distant silhouette of the towering Guardian as it moves away from Tri Stone.
He glances back at you, his eyes cold as steel despite how they burn with the colour of smouldering embers.
His intent immediately becomes clear.
He's going after it.
Squinting up at him through the pouring rain, you shake your head, incredulous. “Okay, Death! I know you've pulled off some pretty insane stunts so far,” you protest, stepping after him as he pulls away and begins to stalk across the lower courtyard, “But this is – It's just -  Death!”
The Nephilim doesn't stop.
“Wait a second! Will you listen to me!”
He ignores you outright, at least until you jog up next to him and slide your hand around his elbow, trying to tug him to a halt. But Death doesn't allow you to hold onto him for long.
Giving his arm a jerk, he rips himself out of your grasp so viciously, you stumble forwards and barely manage to find your footing again before you hit the ground.
Meanwhile, his step never once falters. “Stay with the makers,” he growls out dangerously through clenched teeth.
The sound of your footsteps splashing after him slow, then die, and once he reaches Thane's arena, the compulsion to glance back grows overpowering and although he soon wishes he hadn't, he twists his head around to catch a glimpse of you over his shoulder.
Death has seen many a sad sight in his long un-life. He's seen demons blubber and beg for mercy on the tip of his scythe. He's seen angels cry out for a Creator who will never save them.
But nothing has ever gnawed at the old bones in his chest like the sight of you staring after him in the midst of a torrential downpour.
Straggles of hair lay plastered to your face, your flimsy clothes are already soaked through with rain and there's a slight tremble that begins in your arms and ends in your legs, no doubt from the cold, stinging water that beats mercilessly down on top of you. He makes his second mistake then, of looking you in the eye, and he lets a redundant breath slip from beneath his mask at what he finds.
The old Horseman wracks his brain, trying to remember when, if ever, he's been looked at like that before – like he's unfathomably important, like whatever happens to him matters to you greatly. He hopes you'll never look at him like that again, even if the softest whisper at the back of his mind insists that it isn't as bad as he'd like to think it is.
With a rapid shake of his head, Death tears his eyes off the soggy human behind him and breaks into a run, making for the boundary of the village.
Yet again, you watch the Horseman leave, frustrated and anxious that this routine of being left behind is starting to become more and more repetitive, of late. As he dashes up the steps to Tri Stone's entrance and out of sight, your heart – which has already sunk as low as your shoes – falls right out the soles of your feet and into the ground below, disappearing so rudely as to leave you feeling empty and hollow, but most of all afraid.
All of a sudden, a mass of ebony feathers fills your peripheral and the sharp bark of a crow rings in your ear.
Startled, you twist to the side just as Dust lands heavily on your shoulder.
“O-oh... Hey,” you sniff, reaching up to run a knuckle down the front of his breastbone. You keep still whilst he settles, fluffing himself up and regarding you carefully with one, beady eye. Sniffling again, you blink back at him, casting your gaze over his glistening, black feathers and the water droplets that drip from the tip of his beak. His throat trembles as he emits a low, gentle warble.
Then, without warning, the bird promptly presses the side of his sooty head against your cheek, rubbing against it a few times before he swiftly launches himself into the dismal sky once more, offering you a final, parting squawk.
Bewildered, you silently watch him disappear after the Horseman.
Although you're still weighed down by the unshakeable heaviness of dread, the crow's gesture of affection is appreciated, and you allow yourself a long, slow inhale, holding the breath within your lungs until they start to burn.
It feels good when you exhale, like you're trying to parody the sensation of relief.
“Okay.” Your jaw sets and you begin to cast your gaze around the village, forcing your eyes see it as Tri Stone and not... not home. Turning to the right, you take in the vast gazebo that had served so faithfully as Valus and Alya's forge has been knocked down by some, mighty force and half of its domed roof has collapsed inwards and filled the space with rubble and dust.
A glance up the stairs to Muria's garden shows you that Karn has already made it to the Shaman, and he's leading her by the arm down the steps, her trusty staff seeming to be nowhere in sight. Seconds later and your heart squeezes sympathetically when you notice that the youngling is carrying what remains of it, splintered into pieces so small and numerous, it looks like it could only be used for kindling.
Still, you're glad to see that the Shaman is alive.
Trailing your gaze past them, you could weep anew as you take in the ruins of her gazebo, now utterly destroyed beyond recognition, her garden and plants and herbs lost somewhere beneath rubble and immense piles of stone.
Feeling nauseous, you tear your eyes away and face north.
Half-dazed by the destruction around you, you find that your feet have begun to carry you forwards of their own accord down the length of the village towards Thane's arena whilst you continue to sweep your eyes across the path ahead, anxious to catch sight of Eideard.
You can only pray that Alya had been wrong and he hasn't gone after the Guardian alone.
It isn't just Death whose safety you're concerned about, after all.
“Fleshling?”
You almost trip over your own feet at the sound of your name being called by a familiar, gravelly voice.
Squinting against the rain, it takes you a moment to find the source, and once you do, you wonder how far out of your own head you must have been to miss the figure melting from the long, dark shadows of the arena walls.
“B-Blackroot?” you sputter, letting your jaw hang shamelessly to the ground.
Against all odds, the old, moss-coated construct is indeed here, in Tri-Stone, stumbling towards you on stumpy and unsteady legs that still don't seem used to the motions being asked of them.
Giving him a quick once over, you soon determine that whilst he certainly looks startled, he's otherwise unscathed.
You just can't stop yourself.
With staggering urgency, you lurch into a run and close the distance between yourself and Blackroot in a matter of seconds, clinging to the modicum of good news like a mollusc clings to oceanic rocks.
The construct suddenly freezes as he's struck in the torso by a human-shaped bullet. His luminous eyes flicker and he drops his chin to peer down at the top of your head, surprised to find that soft, fleshy arms have been thrown as far as they can reach around the lumpy boulder that serves as his waist. You hardly even seem to care about the rainwater cascading down the crevasses in his rocky body and pouring onto your head.
There is, however, something strikingly familiar about having the warmth of another body pressed against him, something so achingly known and yet, when he tries to grasp the memory, it slips away from him like smoke through his blocky fingers.
A curious part of him wonders what might happen if he reciprocates, if he returns your gesture, and then he wonders whether he's even supposed to. Ultimately though, his hesitancy costs him that answer, because moments after his hands begin inching towards your back, your grip on his waist goes slack as you withdraw your arms and step away to peer up at him, squinting heavily through the falling rain.
“You're here!” you blurt out, perhaps a touch needlessly given that he's standing right in front of you, “How – I... How?”
The construct's lower jaw lifts into what you recognise is a smile and he wordlessly curls his hand around an object dangling from his belt and lifts it loose, holding it out to you in an upturned palm.
Two familiar, button eyes peer back at you.
“Eideard,” you chuckle wetly, reaching up to brush your fingers down the patch of white felt that has been stitched into a beard for the doll.
“My master,” Blackroot nods, “He was sad that he had not returned for me sooner. He thought I was lost to Corruption but I was just happy to see him again. He found me. He said you told him where I was, and he found me.” Stopping to peer at you thoughtfully for a moment, the construct's jaw lifts even further and he abruptly declares, “You are very kind.”
Flustered, you wave his compliment aside and reply, “Oh, well I don't know about that. I'm not the one who got you out of that fjord, Eideard is.”
“But he would never have found me, were it not for you, fleshling.”
Somehow, despite his eyes being little more than a pair of glow-stones set inside his skull, Blackroot manages to look utterly start-struck.
“Well, I, Um...” More than a little bashful, you clear your throat and step back, throwing your hands out towards his feet in the hopes that a distraction will stop him from staring at you like you're some kind of hero. “Hey! You're walking! Your roots - They're gone!”
The yellow lights of his eyes blink once and he shifts forwards to look down at himself, the tree on his back creaking ominously as he does. “Ah! Yes. The magic my master used to free me was very old and powerful. It did not even hurt when he severed my roots and sealed the cuts so my life force would not leak out.”
“Well, whatever he did and... however he did it. I'm just glad you're here now. And that the Guardian didn't... well. You know.”
The construct fiddles with his belt for a while before he manages to fasten the Eideard doll back to it. When he returns his gaze to you, it's filled with gratitude. “I am glad as well.”
You return his clumsy smile, until your eyes start to wander and you find yourself glancing anxiously around the arena behind him. “So, uh, have you like, seen Eideard? A-Around here, maybe?”
Slowly, the construct's rocky brows scrape together and a soft gust of air shoots out from the gap in his jaw.
His answer, when it comes, is the one you'd been dreading. “He has gone. He left to follow that monster out into the valley.”
Your stomach begins to tie itself into knots all over again and what little elation you'd regained from seeing Blackroot swiftly evaporates. Licking your lips, you try to keep the shaking from your voice and ask, “What... what about Thane? Have you seen Thane?”
As though summoned by the mere mention of his name, a rough voice calls out, “Over here, Lass.”
Under your feet, the ground shudders with the familiar and unmistakable footfalls of an approaching maker. Craning your head around Blackroot's side, you cast your gaze towards the back of the arena, only to blanch and slap a hand over your mouth at the sight that emerges from the shadows.
The old warrior hobbles eagerly towards you, dragging one leg behind him as though it's nothing but a hunk of useless, dead flesh sitting inside his boot. Belatedly, he hopes you'll assume that the water trickling down his face is merely from the incessant rainfall and not from his eyes watering thanks to the sodding, great bruise that's already sprouted across the bridge of his nose. Yet, in spite of the blurry vision and the aggravated pain in his fractured shinbone, Thane's relief at just knowing you're alive temporarily overrides the agony from his injuries... 
...Injuries he forgets to hide until he sees your hand fly up to your mouth.
Wincing at the frozen, wide-eyed stare you’ve locked him in, Thane lets out a strained grunt and forces himself to walk a little straighter, placing the weight back onto his wounded leg and plastering on a smile that hardly makes the rivers of blood that pour down his face any less noticeable. 
Blackroot moves further aside to make room for the warrior, who at last staggers to a halt and collapses heavily onto his good knee in front of you, his sturdy chest heaving.
“You're alive,” he sighs wearily, more for his own reassurance than yours, “You're alive... The others... are they...?”
Trembling, you lower your hands from your mouth, determined not to make him wait for the answer. “E-everyone's alive, Thane,” you tell him with your eyes glued to the bruise blossoming over his nose, “A little beaten up, but... they'll be fine.”
Bowing his head, the maker lets out the enormous breath he'd been holding onto. “Thank the Stone... When the Guardian ploughed through the village, I.... I thought, you might've been...” Trailing off, he averts his gaze to emit a low grumble from the back of his throat before he looks at you again, causing you to gulp when something fearsome and chilling sparks to life in his stormy eyes. “That stone bastard didn't hurt you, did 'e?” the warrior growls.
Lightening flashes above you and you stare up at his glowering face in a daze, the world around you cold and quiet whilst crimson rivulets trickle steadily and relentlessly out of a gash in his temple, pushed by every pulse of his immense heart. 
Not even the rain can wash the blood away fast enough.
You have to squeeze your eyes shut after a few seconds, fighting to regain your composure when the coppery stench permeates your nostrils and conjures up memories of crimson streets utterly saturated with life's most precious liquid.
Thane notices that you've begun to sway on your feet and, without thinking too hard about it, he reaches out a hand, curling his fingertips around your torso and effectively propping you upright. His heart-rate spikes in the meantime, now more concerned than ever that you've suffered in some, unseen way. Before he can bare his tusks and promise to tear the Guardian limb from limb however, your eyes flicker open again and you swallow thickly, glad that the rain is disguising your tears.
“No, no,” you sniff, wiping at your eyes to banish the terrible memories vying for your attention, “The Guardian... he didn't hurt me.”
The hand that isn’t holding you upright moves to his chest and he splays his fingers out over it, mumbling, “Stone be praised...” 
“But – shit, Thane – Look what he did to you!” you continue, pressing your hands earnestly to his glove.
“What, this?” The warrior glances down at himself and gives you a tusky smirk. “Ach, nothin' wrong with a few more battle scars. Ain't like they'll make this mug any uglier, eh?”
He allows a glimmer of satisfaction to ignite in his chest when the attempt at humour is rewarded by your weak, wet bark of laughter, although the humour fades almost as swiftly as it had come and you suck down a hitching breath, turning away from him and looking towards the intact staircase.
“Eideard and Death...” you begin hesitantly, “They'll need help.”
Following your gaze, Thane's face drops and he shifts uneasily. 
Though it's a loathsome thing for the proud warrior to admit out loud, he grits his teeth and gruffly says, “I'm in no fit state to assist. Reckon I'd only get in the way n' give the old man somethin' else to worry about.”
Your only response is to let out an evasive hum whilst you continue staring at the path ahead. 
You never said that it needed be Thane who went to help.
Gradually, your brows knit together until they form a hard, determined line.
The old warrior casts glances between you and the direction your eyes are pointed, his expression becoming more and more incredulous with every turn of his head. He doesn't like stormy cloud that's growing on your face. It's similar to the look Karn gets whenever the youngling is about to make a stupid decision.
“Lass,” Thane growls warningly, “Whatever’s goin’ through that head of yours, knock it off. You’ve done enough...”
Have you? 
If it weren’t for you and Death, the Guardian wouldn’t have even woken up to wreak this havoc on Tri Stone and the makers. If you’d have just stood your ground and stopped the Horseman from putting that damn corrupted heart stone into the construct, nobody would be in this mess. You could have found another way... 
Huh... Is this your fault?
‘Well,’ you say to yourself, eyeing the blood oozing from Thane’s nostrils, ‘I’ve certainly done enough to make things go wrong... Maybe it’s time I helped do something right.’
You take a breath and begin sidestepping around him, shaking your head apologetically. “I'm sorry, please don't be mad. But I – I have to go!”
At once, the maker’s face grows several shades paler. He’d been so sure that you had the sense to avoid the Guardian now that you’ve seen the damage it can do to a village full of adult makers.
Evidently, he's overestimated the intelligence of humans. 
“You don't have to do a bloody thing!” he barks, swiping a hand out after you and growling when you deftly slip around his reaching fingers, “Damn it, girl! Get back here! Don't you dare leave this village! You hear me!?” 
He's too late in shoving himself up off the ground and hobbling after you. On any other day, he'd manage to catch you in just a few, short strides, but with the injury to his leg, he doesn't have a chance of keeping up. The first step he takes is too sudden, too vicious on his battered limb and he stumbles immediately, throwing a hand out to catch himself on the training dummy nearby. He raises his head and his expression contorts, eyes growing wide when he sees that you're almost at the top of the steps.
Huffing like a frantic bull and woefully out of options, he tries for rage instead, hoping that he could frighten you into returning. 
So, sucking down a lungful of air, he roars, “HUMAN!” and uses the dummy to desperately drag himself upright. However, when you still don't turn around, and instead hop over the lip of the staircase, he peels his lips back, bares his teeth and all but howls, “Y/N!”
......
Sadly, his efforts prove to be in vain.
You don't return to the steps, you don't even turn around, you simply break into a jog and vanish inside the waiting tunnel, followed by a foreboding snarl of thunder.
---------
Frigid winds hit the bare skin on your arms and face as soon as you burst out into the Stonefather's vale like a bullet shot from a gun. Your lungs are on fire, burning up every ounce of oxygen that you manage to suck down a swiftly-closing throat.
You've pushed yourself – are still pushing yourself – to your limit, and the wear and tear is beginning to show in the way you trip over your feet every few steps, the bruise from your run-in with Karkinos throbbing to a loathsome beat that threatens to bully you into giving up and turning back to Tri Stone.
But your threshold for pain, whilst certainly nothing to brag about, is at least high enough to keep your feet pointed defiantly on the path ahead, despite your brain screeching in protest.
The soles of your boots hit the sodden grass underfoot and you raise a hand to shield your eyes against the pouring rain, focused entirely on the figure standing in your path up ahead.
Death's pale back is to you, but his awareness of your presence is more than obvious, given that his head twitches in your direction and his hands snap into vice-like fists when you slow to a stop several metres behind him. He’d had an inkling - given your track-record - that you would find a way to return to his side eventually, despite his best efforts in trying to keep you at arm's length.
“Oh, well isn't this a surprise!” he scoffs, “And there was me hoping you'd have learned your lesson by now.”
You wonder how much more upset he'd be if he realises you haven't even paid attention to a word he'd just said.
As it is, you manage to remain relatively undaunted by the Horseman's animosity, namely due to being faced with something far, far more terrifying than his ire.
Further down the valley, towering like a living monolith into the storm-blackened sky, is the Guardian, its heart stones aglow with that same, putrid, yellow light shared by the gigantic eyeball swivelling manically behind it.
Just then, a flash of lightening brightens the dark valley and your eyes drop to the ground next to the Guardian's cylindrical feet.
Of its own accord, a strangled gasp leaps out of your throat. “NO!”
Eideard stands close – much, much too close – to the behemoth, with his arm raised high above his head and a blue brilliance radiating from the tip of the staff he has clutched in his powerful grip.
Even after all you've seen, the visible presence of magic still sends a rush of goosebumps along your arms. There's no time to marvel over magic's existence though, because all of a sudden, the Guardian shifts, drawing your gaze up to it once more, and in an instant, your heart takes a flying leap into your mouth.
“EIDEARD!” you scream, darting forwards, though for what reason, you couldn't really say. The old maker is halfway across the valley, and the impossibly immense pommel of the construct's hammer is hurtling down on top of him with enough force to split the earth in two.
Even Death takes an involuntary step towards the old maker, stretching out his hand and shouting, “NO!” over a particularly vicious thunder clap.
But it's too late.
You can already tell that it's far too late.
Nothing that you or the Horseman do could ever stop the fall of that terrible hammer.
The blunt end of the weapon's handle comes down on top of Eideard just as you collapse to your knees and unleash a shrill scream that cuts clear across the valley, hair gripped tightly between your clenched fists.
This can't be happening.
This cannot be happening!
You know without a shadow of a doubt that you won't be able to keep going if you lose Eideard. Not on top of every other loss you've already suffered.
Not him.
“Please,” you hear yourself gasp, “Please, god, don't. He's not – He can't be...!”
You really don't want to look, too afraid to lay eyes upon his mangled corpse laying there in the dirt, but you can't tear your eyes off the spot he'd disappeared behind a plume of debris and dust kicked up by the hammer's impact. It feels as though fingers have closed around your throat and cut off the air supply to your lungs. All you can do is let your mouth flop open around a silent, horrified scream.
Unstirred by your anguish, the Guardian grips its hammer in one, colossal fist and gives it a vicious twist.
You're waiting for it to hit you, for your mind to catch up with the world around it and send you spiralling down into a bottomless pit. In fact, you're certain you can already feel it happening. Grief rushes towards you, a tidal wave that crests high above your head, but just as it threatens to come crashing down and drown you under its overwhelming pressure, the Guardian lifts its hammer.
Through a steady mixture of rain and tears that blur your vision, you manage to catch sight of a real impossibility.
Somehow, through force of will or magic or just plain old luck, Eideard is standing upright in the spot where the Guardian's hammer had slammed down on top of him, and curved above his head like a transparent shield is a dome of shimmering, blue light.
The air that rams back into you tastes like mana from heaven.
“He's alive!?” you croak.
The Guardian seems far less pleased by Eideard's survival.
Its stone jaw drops open and although entirely solid, the construct manages to pull its rocky features to form a deep scowl as it roars indignantly, rearing back and this time swinging its hammer up over a shoulder, egged on by the murderous corruption guiding its hand. It brings the weapon's head down on Eideard again.
And again, the magic shield flares angrily in response to its vicious assault, but although you almost swallow your tongue when the hammer crashes to the earth a second time, you soon feel the ember of hope rekindling to see Eideard's forcefield still in place once the gigantic hammer is removed and its wielder steps back, evidently perplexed by its small, yet mighty opponent.
Wincing, Eideard shakes his head, flicking away the droplets of blood that have begun to trickle from his nose and mouth. Magic, for all its uses, can often be just as much of a hinderance as it can be a help. Using too much isn't unlike overexercising a muscle. Continuous strain can eventually lead to injury – predominantly of the mind, and many a delver into the mystical arts has fallen victim to exertion by trying to accomplish feats of magic that are far more powerful than their bodies can withstand. Feats such as blocking two, devastating blows from a four-hundred foot construct, for example.
“Maker's bones...” the Old One pants, staggering backwards on unsteady legs, “...that hurt.”
Frustration crawls up his spine at the prospect of having to back down from this fight. He has a home to protect, after all, and a family. It goes against every fibre of his being to stand aside. However... he wouldn't have survived to be so old if he hadn't learned how and when to pick his fights.
If his magic alone is not enough to subdue the Guardian, then perhaps the raw, unbridled power of a Nephilim will have to suffice. The old maker had heard Death's shout, had wondered what in the world he'd done to earn the Horseman's concern, and then, he'd heard a smaller and shriller voice, one that subsequently sent his heart into a dizzying frenzy, wailing out like some wild, distressed animal.
What in Stone's name do you think you're doing here!?
Exhausted, yet determined, Eideard raises his staff and focuses his mind, drawing on the subtle magics that are woven into the very air around him, feeling the atoms in his body resonate and tremble in kind. Comforting, blue light seeps from the end of his staff, swelling and growing in size and intensity until the old one's eyes snap wide open and then, with just a single thought, an explosion of energy erupts from the staff and ripples outwards through the vale, an after-effect of the sudden displacement of an entire maker. One moment, Eideard is standing directly in the path of the rampaging Guardian, then next, he's disappearing into thin air, earning a bewildered hum from the construct, who lowers the hammer it had drawn back in preparation for a third strike.
Meanwhile, you're nearly hysterical as you whip your head around in search of the old maker, dropping your mouth open to blurt out, “Wh-where did he-!?”
All of a sudden, you're interrupted by a blinding flash of light.
Before the spots have even faded from your vision, you find yourself wrapped in a firm but gentle grip and you let out an embarrassing yelp as you're lifted off the ground. 
Startled, you even call out for Death, though after another few moments pass, you start to recognise the fur trim of a sleeve and the angular, protruding knuckles that belong to the hand clasping you against a heaving chest.
“Eideard!” you gasp, wriggling yourself around in his grip and getting nothing but a face full of white beard for the trouble.
When the maker speaks, his voice booms all around you. “He's beyond my help, Horseman!” he calls, keeping his gaze trained on the Guardian as he retreats backwards towards the tunnel's entrance, “Do your worst...”
It shouldn't have surprised you to hear Eideard's voice lined with bitter regret. You'd almost forgotten that the Guardian isn't just another naturally occurring phenomenon in this mystical, ever-changing realm. For all intents and purposes, the beast is man-made. Well, maker-made. And one of those makers is currently having to witness his creation destroying the very home it was built to protect.
Bracing your hands against his thumb, you lean back to peer up at the old one, perturbed by the way his head drops in defeat. Another blink, and suddenly, you let a horrified cry pierce the air.
His face... It's a mess.
Worse than even Thane's had been.
Blood – a lot of the stuff – streams from the maker's nostrils and dribbles onto his lips, staining the ivory beard around his mouth red. His eyes too, are blood-shot and sunken, older, wearier than you've ever seen them before, like all the life has been sucked out of them and left deep, dark shadows underneath.
All it takes is one glimpse at the old one's stricken face, and you find yourself wishing your shoulders were even half as wide as his so that you could take the weight of at least some of his grief.
You're pulled from your thoughts as the rain stops falling on you, and suddenly, a chilling realisation occurs as you're carried backwards into the tunnel; Eideard is leaving Death to fight this battle alone.
You find yourself torn between relief that that the old maker isn't putting himself in harm's way anymore, and distress that Death is facing down a construct the size of Big Ben. Grunting with the effort of twisting about in such a protective grip, you strain your neck to see over Eideard's fingers, your focus zeroing in on the billowing, green mist that heralds Despair's arrival.
At least the Horseman won't be tackling the Guardian on foot.
Though that's of little comfort, from where you're standing.
Helplessness once again rears its head and sinks its teeth into your stomach.
“Eideard!” you wriggle impatiently in his grasp, “You have to put me down! Death needs help!”
The maker's immediate silence unnerves you, but you're pleasantly surprised when he lowers himself onto a knee and places you carefully back on your feet, his once patient gaze now frantic with worry as he inspects you for injuries, his fingertips lingering bare inches from your shoulders.
“Are you hurt?” he exclaims, taking one of your arms between his massive fingers and lifting it from your side, regarding your face for any sign that the motion causes you discomfort. You, on the other hand, are far too preoccupied with his own, very visible injuries. With the maker looming so close, you can see the blood welling up inside his mouth as it begins to ooze out from between his tusks and teeth, spilling down into the dip of his chin.
“Eideard...” Hesitant, you reach a hand up and touch your fingers gingerly against his cheeks.
Shaking his head, the maker wheezes, “Are you hurt?” The insistent desperation in his tone catches you off guard and you find yourself shakily replying, “Uh I – I'm okay! I'm okay, Eideard!”
Your confirmation seems to knock all the air out of him at once and he sags forwards, releasing your arm with a sigh. “And... Karn?” he asks after another moment.
“Karn's okay, too. He's taking care of Muria and the others,” you assure him.
He nods slowly, taking in a lungful of air as your words finally start to sink in. You're okay. His makers are okay. Things could have easily turned out so much worse... So much worse. Shakily, he pushes himself back onto his feet and sways a little before he manages to plant his staff on the ground, clinging to it with a white-knuckled grip as he frowns down at you and prepares to give you a stern lecture for frightening the life out of him. “You should not be here,” he starts, drawing himself up to his full height, “I am glad to see you unharmed, but I must insist that you return to Tri Stone at once.”
“But - The Guardian!” you protest, “There has to be something I can do to help!”
“You can help me by returning to the village and staying there.”
Picking anxiously at a fingernail, you avert your gaze from Eideard and peer out across the valley, your eyes landing on the Horseman, just a speck of grey facing off against a mountain of stone and rage. “But... What about Death?”
“Y/n, please...”  The maker pauses to expel a hot breath, his frown softening before he continues, “The Horseman has faced great odds before. It's my makers who need you now. Karn will be beside himself once he realises you are gone, and I'm not sure how much more stress Valus can take, the poor lad.”
You don't... not want to return to the village. There are so many ways you think you can help the other makers, and your heart gives a guilty twist for breaking your promise to Alya and Valus.
And yet...
You can't bring yourself to tear yourself away from the valley.
-----
Despair rears back onto his hind legs and Death swings himself gracefully into the saddle with the practiced ease that only a millennia will teach, unwittingly baring his teeth at the roaring Guardian and noting that its attention has shifted down and landed upon him now that he's the only idiot still foolish enough to be in the vale.
Sharp talons squeeze into his shoulder and Dust aims a particularly jarring squawk right in Death's ear.
“Thank you for that,” he drawls, giving the crow a filthy look, “You know, I was so hoping to go into this battle deaf, as well as out-sized.”
The ground trembles when the Guardian takes a very deliberate step across the valley and heaves its weapon into both hands, causing Dust to flap madly back into the sky with a caw that could have meant 'it's been nice knowing you,' or, 'good luck!'
Just this once, Death decides not to call the bird out on his cowardice.
At least Despair has managed to retain the proper amount of dignity.
The Horseman's fingers lower to brush against the snorting animal's muscular neck. “Easy, old friend,” he murmurs, scanning the Guardian's bulk.
There has to be something that will play to his advantage, though admittedly, his odds are underwhelming.
But then... when has that ever stopped him before?
A bitter smirk tugs at the Horseman's lips and in response to some, unspoken command that's felt rather than heard, Despair rears back onto his powerful hind legs before surging forwards into a headlong gallop, ears pricked forwards in anticipation of the upcoming battle.
Obviously, size and strength are not going to be tools in Death's arsenal, so they'll have to rely on the horse's speed to keep the distance between themselves and the Guardian whilst he searches for an opening.
Gritting his teeth, he twitches the reins and Despair reacts less than half a second later, turning his nose to the left and letting his body follow suit, galloping in a wide arc around the construct. Death almost breathes a sigh. In spite of the astronomically impossible odds, there's little to no denying that he's always felt better going into a fight astride his trusted companion. Despair's powerful hoofbeats pound with a sure and solid rhythm against the ground, an adequate stand-in for the beat of a heart, and it's in moments such as these that Death feels at his most 'alive.'
The Guardian's challenging roar is quick to bring his mind back to the coming battle.
With slow, unhurried movements, it swings itself about to keep the comparatively tiny creatures in its line of sight.
Death's teeth grind together as he pushes the horse into a wider arc that takes them both further down the valley's Eastern side, drawing the enormous construct from Tri Stone and allowing for a larger window of time to think of a battle plan.
The goal itself is clear: Sever corruption from its host by removing the heart stones. That should cause enough damage to put the Guardian out of commission, even if only for a little while.
The execution of such a plan, however, will not be as easy in practice as it is in theory.
Death exhales, and through an understanding built on a sturdy foundation of trust, Despair responds without missing a stride.
Skidding to a stop in the slick mud, he rears up and twists himself about all in the same move before bombing forwards into a break-neck gallop, heading straight for the Guardian.
Emitting a thundering growl, the construct raises its hammer high into the air, so high that the head nearly disappears into some of the lower-hanging rainclouds. Seconds later, the weapon abruptly begins to fall.
Despair suddenly lurches to the right mere moments before the pommel comes crashing down into the mud.
Even from halfway up the valley, you can feel the ground shudder violently from the impact.
When the horse stumbles trying to gallop over the shockwaves, your heart leaps up into your throat and almost falls out of your mouth as Death stands up in the saddle right as his steed dashes between the Guardian's legs.
“What the Hell is he doing!?” you blurt out.
Seconds later, you get your answer.
Just as the duo pass directly beneath the construct, Death springs from Despair's saddle and throws himself at one of the towering pillars of stone, latching onto it determinedly.
Despair – now riderless – bursts out on the other side of the construct and gallops around and away from it in a wide arc, leaving a trail of green wisps in his wake.
Unfortunately, though you assumed that the Guardian's attention would remain on the horse, you soon realise that the corruption driving it must have some semblance of a brain after all, because it abruptly tips its head down and the searing, yellow gaze flashes dangerously when it peers past the hefty bulk of its torso and catches sight of the Horseman clinging to its ankle.
Palpable indignation explodes from the construct in a terrible roar and it wastes no time in raising its leg and stomping it hard on the ground in an attempt to jar the Nephilim loose.
But the Guardian's efforts fail to dislodge its unwarranted passenger, and Death starts to climb, and climb, and climb, hauling himself up the mountain of stone, inch by nail-biting inch.
“He's climbing it!?” you blurt out suddenly, gripping your hair when the Horseman narrowly avoids getting crushed by a gargantuan swipe of the construct's hand, “Has he got an effing screw loose!?”
At your side, Eideard's brows are so furrowed, they nearly form a neat, fluffy line across his forehead. “He has to reach the stones,” he calls over another earth-shattering bellow, “Unless he can remove them from their casings, Corruption will never relinquish its hold of the Guardian!”
As he speaks, Death's ascent takes him up to the construct's hip, where he disappears from view for a moment behind the stone thigh guard.
Your stomach sinks as you fully comprehend how much of a climb ahead he has ahead of him.
Outraged, the construct tries to twist its immense body around and as it does, it bends one of its arms backwards to try and swat the Horseman off.
It's only by doing so that you happen to chance upon a blessedly familiar sight.
Corruption has stretched like a dark blanket all along the underside of its host's arm, oily tendrils holding the limb fast to an immense shoulder socket like a terrible, oozing spiderweb.
But spread about inside the writhing blackness, hidden deep between the strands of corruption, are faint, golden flecks of light, each glowing just enough that you can spot them through the gloom and rain.
“Shadow bombs,” you breathe.
Whatever hand is guiding your fate has apparently got a thing for explosions...
----
Death is fairly confident that he'll have no fingernails after this.
Flattening himself against the rock, he barely avoids the Guardian's wall of a hand as it passes by him, close enough that even the ensuing rush of air buffeting him is enough to have him jamming his fingers and the toes of his boots into the slippery, wet stone.
Scaling a rampaging Guardian is difficult enough. Frankly, he could do without the rain adding to his troubles.
Casting a heated glance up at the sky, Death braces his feet and prepares to launch himself another few metres up the torso.
Another bolt of lightening takes a stab at the valley, the Horseman kicks off, swinging an arm overhead to grab a segment of rock above him and the Guardian's colossal fist rushes towards him once more...
He could have sworn he'd had the timing spot on...
Death is hit from the side by a force so great, his vision goes white upon impact and his world turns upside down as he's knocked out of the sky by the construct's blow, thousands of receptors screaming in pain even though he bites down hard on his tongue and refuses to utter a sound.
Well... at least the fall is short...
Far sooner than he expects to, the Horseman collides with the soggy ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him and he rolls over and over through the mud until eventually coming to a halt on his back about a hundred yards away from the Guardian's feet. Stunned and staring stiffly up at the cloudy sky overhead, he blinks against the raindrops that manage to pelt his eyelids through the sockets of his mask.
Somewhere far away from his ringing ears, he picks up the trace of a scream, dimly registering how familiar the sound is.
“Death! Please, get up!”
Yes, he will. Of course he will. He doesn't need a distant voice to tell him that laying motionless in the mud is a terrible idea.
Curling his fingers until they're squeezed into tight fists, the Horseman pushes himself into a sitting position and gives his head a shake, his senses returning to him all at once.
That had been your voice. For an unsettling second, he pictures you doing something stupid – like running out into the valley towards him.
“Human!?” he rasps, throwing his gaze about wildly until he at last spies you still standing in the entrance to Tri Stone’s tunnel.
He only refrains from heaving a sigh of relief through sheer willpower alone.
Moving his head to the right, he catches sight of Despair galloping madly in his direction, hoofbeats swallowed up by the thunderous, booming footsteps of the Guardian as it approaches Death's flank.
The Horseman is on his feet in a flash and takes several, loping strides towards his steed, who doesn't slow for a single beat, not even as he tears past Death's side, confident that his rider will be safely back in his saddle with hardly a crumb of effort.
And of course, a pale hand shoots out as the horse passes, snagging the saddle horn and Death hauls himself up and onto Despair's back as though they'd practiced it a thousand times.
Which, upon the insistence of a figure from their past, they have.
“Now then,” the Horseman grumbles, snatching up the reins and turning his steed in another wide arc, intent on coming at the Guardian from another angle, “Let's try that again, shall we?”
------
“He's not seriously gonna try that again, is he?” Watching the spectral duo thunder towards a now increasingly belligerent construct, you clap a hand to your forehead, staring out from underneath it with your mouth agape. “Oh my god, he is.”
“Tenacity is sometimes one of the only tactics that will work,” Eideard puts sagely.
Letting out an incredulous scoff, you squint an eye shut and gape sideways at the Old one. “Tenacity? What the Hell does he think will happen if he -!....Wait a minute....” Suddenly, you cut yourself off, frowning hard at the grass by your feet. “...Tactics...”
The gears in your head grind faster and faster as you try to recall a far-off memory, holding up your hand to hush the maker when he draws a breath to speak. “Wait, wait, wait. What about... Yeah, what about uh, if we use the Hammer and Anvil?” Snapping your fingers together, you raise your head again and shoot Eideard an eager look.
He, on the other hand, appears entirely lost, turning to peer over his shoulder in the direction of the village for a moment before he returns his gaze to you, one eyebrow raised. “A hammer and anvil? What use would those be in this fight?”
“No, no, it's the, um... the name of a military tactic!” you explain, chewing your lip anxiously, “So, I took History for GCSE, and I think, I think, I remember learning about it there. So, one group, or I guess, one person, is the anvil, right? They pin down an enemy, and then somebody else – the hammer - moves around to the flank and -” You firmly thump your fist into the palm of your opposite hand for emphasis.
In spite of himself, Eideard's eyes gleam with barely-concealed pride at your insight. He hadn't realised you'd once been a Historian. Seconds later, he gives his head a firm shake to dispel the fog of intrigue.
“I remember it because it sounded cool,” you say wistfully, “And I was going through my phase of wanting to be a blacksmith to make swords and stuff at the time...”
The Old one raises his eyebrows in surprise and you chuckle wanly, adding, “Yeah, I know. Don't tell Thane. Think it might break his heart.”
Eideard is inclined to agree. It would certainly pain the warrior to know that he might potentially 'lose' you to Alya, who has a very likely chance of combusting on the spot if she learns about your interest in her profession.
Blinking, the maker looks down at you and realises that you're still peering back at him expectantly, and it takes him a further moment to work out that you're actually waiting for him to offer approval for your plan. “Well... Whilst it may certainly be a useful strategy, in theory,” he enunciates, subjecting you to a pointed stare, “have you taken into consideration the size of the enemy in this fight? How could a construct so large ever be pinned down long enough for the Horseman to reach the heart stones?”
You fall silent beside him, and at first, Eideard assumes that you don't have an answer for him, when in truth, your focus has simply returned to the underside of the Guardian's dominant arm.
You know precisely how you can pin the construct down.
All it will take is a well-placed shot... and every last ounce of courage you have left in reserve.
Heaving out a shaky sigh, you tug the little handgun from your waistband and thumb the cylinder's release latch, swinging it open and peering down at the chambers.
Three cartridges left.
Three empty chambers... One for the demon general you'd slain to save Death.
One for the demon in the graveyard...
...And one for the gun's original owner.
A shudder prickles up your spine at the memory of the dead man staring at you with wide, terrified, but unseeing eyes as you pried his means of salvation right out of his hands.
Then, the moment passes and you shove his expression to the back of your mind, flicking the cylinder into place with a purposeful snap.
You have to do this. The Guardian has to be destroyed, even if it means you've come all this way for nothing, and the Corruption blocking your path to the Tree of Life will remain where it is.
You'll just... have to find another way through.
There's always another way.
When you look up towards Death, you see that he's circled Despair away from the Guardian again and they're skirting dangerously close to the swollen, yellow eyeball that tracks their journey across the valley.
“I'll be the anvil...” You take a step forwards, your voice soft, though not soft enough that it goes unnoticed by Eideard.
The old maker tears his gaze from the construct currently hammering holes into his valley and fixes you with a suspicious glare. There are certain instincts that elders tend to accumulate after a near-eternity spent just being alive, none of which are more potent than the instinct to simply know when a youngling is busy concocting some terrible, ill-judged and outright dangerous scheme in their heads.
Striking before the seed can take true root, Eideard lifts his staff and plants its narrow end on the ground right in front of you, a less-than-subtle barrier that both breaks you from your thoughts and stops you from making further advancement towards the tunnel opening.
Understandably, you're startled by the sudden shaft of solid metal appearing in your path and you whip your head up to shoot a glare at the old giant, only to find that he's giving you his own, similarly stern look.
Holding your gaze for a few moments, he eventually expels a sigh and lets his expression ease into a more solemn frown. “Not this time, little one,” he utters.
“Not this time?” Your hands ball slowly into fists. “What do you mean 'not this time?'”
He opens his mouth to tell you, to explain every, complex thought that's been on his mind since you followed Death into the Foundry. He wants to tell you exactly why he can't bear to watch you run into danger again – that his old heart aches to see Muria wring her hands so much more often these days, or Valus pacing anxiously back and forth across the forge while his sister tries to coax him into crafting something that might take his mind off you. It had even hurt more than he'd care to admit to hear Thane explode at him after the warrior learned that you'd gone inside the Foundry.
Likewise, Eideard had hardly been able to think straight for worrying whether you'd come back out again...
His soul, of late, seems as though it's pulling itself in two, very different directions. One half of him knows that you're your own person - an adult, so far as humans are concerned – who is more than capable of making decisions without needing the input of an interfering old maker. But then, there's the other half of him - the half that has spent eons being a teacher, a leader and a protector. 
That half wants nothing more than to keep you safe and nurtured, to see what you could become as a human among makers.
How can he possibly make you understand that watching you run out into the valley would be the final nail in his coffin?
However, he doesn't get the chance to even try and explain as you misinterpret his pensive silence for surrender and you press, “It could work! You know it could! I could be the anvil, if I can just... get close enough to-”
“-Absolutely not,” he interrupts, his eyebrows pinched with concern, “It's far too dangerous.”
You aren't entirely sure where your sudden spark of irritation comes from, but it's there before you can think to extinguish it. “What, so this is too dangerous, but you let me go into the Foundry?”
“Against my better judgement, yes, I did,” he retorts, “And the Drench Fort, and the Cauldron. Time and again, I have stood by and allowed you to follow the Horseman into danger-” 
“You've allowed me?” you scoff, recoiling.
“-But I'm afraid that this is where my leniency ends,” he continues as his voice steadily grows louder with every passing moment, “This is where I have to draw the line, if not for your sake, then for the sake of the others. They've suffered enough loss to last them a lifetime, and I will not allow them to lose another friend!” Breathing hard, he swallows down a painful cough and rasps, “I will not lose another friend!”
If only you were ten feet taller, you'd grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into the sentimental old giant.
“If Death doesn't manage to beat that thing, you're gonna lose a whole hell of a lot more than just a friend!” you argue, hardly noticing that the maker's knuckles have turned bone-white around the handle of his staff, “Eideard, I am trying to help Death save this place! You can't stop me from helping!”
The soft-eyed maker's gaze narrows to something uncharacteristically sharp and he replies, “I can. For your own good!”
You wrinkle your nose as indignation rises through your chest like smoke from the fire in your belly, swelling into a ball of heat and anger. “My own g-!? You're not my dad, Eideard-!”
“- I AM TRYING TO BE!”
The force of Eideard's shout punches through your chest like a gunshot and you stagger back a few steps, your eyes growing wide with alarm. You aren't sure what's more disconcerting, what he'd shouted, or the fact that he'd shouted at all. It's the first time you've ever heard him raise his voice at you...
Staring up at the old maker, you slowly draw your hands close to your chest, clasping them together and pulling in a hitched breath.“...What?” you utter, voice small and uncertain.
Just like that, the giant blinks and his eyebrows twitch out of their frown as the realisation of what he'd just admitted aloud catches up with him. A pit in his stomach opens up and everything above it drops.
He stares back at you in muted horror that he tries desperately to disguise as stern sincerity.
Stone's breath... He swore he'd never... You've only just lost your family, and now here he is behaving as though he intends to replace one of the most critical figures in your life. He has no right. No right at all...
Even beneath the ivory beard, you can see his jaw clench after he snaps his mouth shut.
Not even the rain that cascades from overhead is loud enough to drown out the rigorous pounding of your heart.
"Little one,” Eideard croaks, fumbling over his words for the first time in centuries, “I-”
Suddenly, from across the valley, the Guardian unleashes a triumphant bellow and your eyes rip away from the maker for all of a second, just long enough to see Death take a hit.
Just like that, the whole world grinds to a screeching halt.
---------
Despair is in the middle of a charge, heading straight for the Guardian's legs, no doubt intending to bring his rider in close so that he can make another attempt at climbing his way up to the infected heart stones.
The construct, however, doesn't move to meet them as they expect it to. Instead, the colossal beast takes a few, booming steps backwards, seeming as if it’s on the retreat to the valley's eastern cliffs.
Seconds later, Death realises its intent.
The mile-high hammer that it grips in its fist has a reach that practically extends halfway across the valley, and only by putting some significant distance between itself and a target does the Guardian stand any chance of landing a devastating blow.
And Death has just galloped directly into the firing line.
As the hammer begins its downward swing, Despair lets out a whinny that's carried off on the wind until it reaches your ears, filling them with the sound of shrill, animalistic fear and you turn your body around to stare out at the valley just in time to see the Horseman fling his steed's head to the side with a brutal tug on the reins. Obediently, Despair follows his lead, hoping to escape underneath the side of the rapidly-descending hammer.
You know in your heart of hearts they'll never make it.
You can hardly bear to watch.
Then, at the very last second, right when the hammer's shadow utterly engulfs both horse and rider, you notice that Death's hand lifts from the reins and he does a wild gesture and before you can make sense of what it means, without warning, Despair's solid outline seems to collapse in on itself and the horse erupts into a cloud of sickly, green mist.
Bellowing out a final, lingering scream of righteous indignation that's soon lost to the wind, he disappears completely and his rider falls to the ground, tucking himself forwards into a haphazard roll.
Not half a second later, the monolithic face of the hammer connects with the dirt just inches behind him.
Another flash of lightening coincides poetically with the impact, burning an image into your mind's eye – of mud and rocks exploding outwards in every direction, a seismic shockwave that flings Death away from the epicentre. He lands hard in the wet earth and tumbles for several metres before he finally comes to a stop, face down against the grass, unmoving.
You barely even register that you've ducked beneath the maker's staff and hurled yourself into a clumsy sprint until you emerge from the tunnel and your face is suddenly struck by ice-cold rain. At your back, Eideard shouts something frenzied, crossing the line into panic, but his words are drowned out by another clap of thunder. You don't see the desperate horror sweep across the old maker's face. You don't see his eyes illuminate with the ensuing lightening strike. You don't see the Guardian peeling its hammer from the earth and slowly turning towards you.
All you can see, all you care about right now, is the Horseman in front of you.
Shaking off his daze, Death pushes himself onto his hands and knees and immediately becomes irked by the rainwater dripping in through the sockets of his mask again. He gives a few, hard blinks and twists his gaze to one side, trailing it all the way up the Guardian's legs columns.
The great beast flares the plates around its neck and a low, rumbling growl trickles from its throat and travels all the way down into the ground, causing Death's teeth to rattle in his head.
Dimly, his eyes rove up to the hammer, now raised once more into the sky high above the construct's head.
“Damn you,” he hisses at it through a clenched jaw.
If he hadn't banished Despair when he had, the horse may well have had its hind legs crushed. He'd felt his steed's rage once it realised what he planned to do, but frankly, he'd rather deal with an angry Despair than see the stubborn beast get hurt.
He's in the midst of heaving himself up onto one knee when all of a sudden, from across the valley, there comes a familiar cry that would have turned his blood to ice, should his veins carry any.
“Death!”
The Horseman jerks his head over one shoulder, eyes widening when he sees you haring across the valley towards him. “No,” he growls, voice rising into a ragged shout, “NO! Stay back, you fool!”
However, rather than heed his warning, you very nearly end up crashing into him as you hit the brakes and skid to a halt in the sodden grass just in time to avoid a collision. 
Somewhere unbeknownst to the Horseman, a wild and familiar presence rears its sleepy head.
Meanwhile, with all the grace of a bungling drunk, you wrestle your pistol from your skirt's hem and aim it at the clustered web of corruption that stretches across the construct's raised forearm.
The Guardian is so vast, each movement carries with it the illusion that time has slowed right down to a crawl.
Gripping the handle of your gun between two, quivering hands, you don't even spare a second to think or to worry about what'll happen if you don't make this shot.
You only have this chance. There will not be another.
There's a storm raging around you, a giant hammer rising above you, Death's incoherent bellow rings in your head and Eideard's distressed calls tug at your heartstrings.
You've never been more terrified in all your life.
But you still take aim.
And with blood and wind howling in your ears, you draw in one, deep breath...
… and pull the trigger.
It's strange, you realise with a blink, that until now, you've never really put much thought into whether the dice of life rolls in your favour. You wouldn't say that you're especially lucky, nor would you claim to be naturally unlucky either.
At this moment however, when the tiny bullet from your pistol sails straight and true towards its target, you finally begin to consider the scope of your luck. Then, the bullet hits its mark and you feel like the heavens have just aligned in your favour.
The shadow bomb explodes, setting off a chain reaction among the other bombs embedded in the webbing. Each of them erupts in rapid succession of the one before it, and the Guardian is instantly thrown off balance by the ricochets, roaring in pain and staggering back a step as its entire arm is quite suddenly blown sideways and asunder.
Whatever elation you might have garnered from the success is short-lived though, because Death is abruptly towering over you and snatching you up by the arms, holding you so that your feet dangle several inches from the ground.
“HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!?” he bellows, shaking you for good measure.
You open your mouth to reply, but just then, a dark shadow falls across Death's mask, prompting you both to whip your heads back and look to the sky.
It appears that while the explosion has blown the Guardian's arm to smithereens, some of those 'smithereens' are still absolutely enormous and haven't been blasted quite far enough to render you safe should they come crashing down to the ground.
Which is, of course, precisely what they do.
The familiar presence that had awoken deep inside the Horseman's psyche suddenly starts to go bezerk.
Barrelling down towards you at a rate of knots is a stone slab the size of a bus.
Instinctively, you fling your arms over your head and slam your eyes tight shut, hardly caring when Death drops you onto your backside and you topple over, your skull cushioned by the wet earth.
Pressed your spine into the grass, you brace yourself for impact and spare the last second of existence cursing at how bitterly unfair it is that you can do something right and still have everything go so wrong.
The slab falls, the air grows cold and still. And then...
WHAM!
The sound is loud enough to blow out your eardrums and smack your heart up against your sternum. It's deafening, it's terrifying... But it isn't painful.
'Why isn't it painful?.... Am I dead?' The rain seems to have stopped falling on you, at least.
Bewildered, you peel open an eye and tentatively lower your arms a little to peer up at a dark, shadowy mass looming over you.
Two, empty eye sockets stare right back at you, pinpricks of light sitting at the centre of each as a rattling breath as cold as winter washes over your face.
“Death?” you utter in a tremulous whisper.
The monstrous form of the Reaper towers above you, its exposed ribcage heaving up and down in the face of its agitation. Long, skeletal arms are raised above its head and when you roll your eyes past the indigo hood, you let out a gasp to find that the creature is holding the gigantic, stone slab aloft, keeping it from crushing you flat.
How a beast with no visible muscle can be so strong is utterly beyond you.
The Reaper stares down at you for a moment longer with an unreadable expression before its arms suddenly flex and it lets out a soft wheeze as it hurls the enormous slab sideways and out of the way.
The stone hasn't even rolled to a stop before the gigantic skull is lowering down towards you.
Sprawled out on your rear and immensely mindful of the beast's fangs, you lift your arms up and hold them out in front of its approaching face.
“Woah – wait a second! I – I know you're mad, but I just!-”
You're interrupted when the Reaper's nose bumps into your palm and continues to advance, despite the meagre resistance you try to put up. For one, horrible second, you grow sick at the thought that the beast's teeth are so close to your vulnerable hands.
But then, with a gentleness that contradicts its size, the skeleton forces its skull through your raised arms and, to your astonishment, pushes its nasal bone firmly into your chest and stomach – as though it isn't supposed to be a monstrous reflection of the fabled Grim Reaper, as though there isn't a stone giant gathering its wits behind it.
Too startled to react, you close your eyes and raise your chin away from the beast, unable to swallow a whimper as it nuzzles gently into your torso with a warbling croon.
'It's only Death,' you have to remind yourself, 'Death won't hurt me.'
Your fingers twitch and you gulp, hesitating for another second before you finally gather the nerve to press your palms flat against the skull's cheekbones, earning a gush of frigid air against your belly in response. Cracking an eye open, you find yourself blinking straight into one of the Reaper's softly glowing pupils. It surprises you with a sudden, insistent nudge to the stomach, like it's trying to push a sound out of you. Hardly daring to disappoint, you swallow around your dry tongue and breathlessly stammer out, “Hah, yeah, I'm... I'm all right.”
The vertebrae on the beast's neck clack together when a croak rattles up from somewhere deep inside its chest.
It almost sounds relieved.
A little more boldly, you sweep your trembling fingers underneath the curve of its cheekbones and try not to ponder on how utterly absurd it is that you're talking to a creature that wasn't even supposed to exist this time last week. Regardless, it's a hard truth to deny when said creature currently has its skull pressed up against you.
After another moment, it gives you a second bunt to the stomach, this one short and sharp and accompanied by a whuff of air through its nasal cavity as the malleable bone above its eye sockets draw together to resemble something vaguely displeased. You're beginning to recognise more and more of Death in its expressions.
The Horseman is still in there somewhere, and it takes you a moment to register that your plan, as foolish and risky as it was, had actually worked. You don't even care that an angry monstrosity's fangs are sitting flushed to your abdomen.
“Hey. I'm glad you're okay too,” you mutter weakly, trailing your fingers down a sturdy mandible.
It's ensuing rumble of contentment is interrupted by a sudden, booming roar that rips the sky apart and you jump, feeling the Reaper's teeth scrape against your belly as it lets out a furious growl and draws back at the sound.
Using one hand to shield your eyes from the rain, you squint up at the Guardian.
It would appear the the colossal juggernaut has already mourned the loss of its arm and is now raring for vengeance.
It tears its gaze off the rubble scattered around its feet and aims a furious growl down at you and the Reaper, the promise of retribution evident in the corrupted tendrils flaring from its shoulders and neck, whilst its heart stones shine through the gloom like terrible beacons of fetid yellow.
“Wait.. .The heart stones!” you realise aloud.
Skeletal fingers suddenly cut you off as they snatch you up by the collar and hoist you onto your feet, and then you're rudely shoved in the direction of Tri Stone by a snarling Reaper.
Stumbling backwards, you stare after it as it whips around and puts its back to you, flapping its bony wings menacingly up at the Guardian - as if anything it does could deter a construct that size.
The corrupted behemoth takes a threatening step forwards, bringing it far too close for comfort. In response, the Reaper's wings flare even wider across its back and it issues another hiss.
“Death! The Heart Stones!” you cry out again, “We have to destroy them now!”
Your gaze travels to what's left of its shattered arm that lays in the grass like the ruins of an ancient building. There, sitting unassumingly amongst the debris, is a familiar, pulsing glow.
Your hand curls around the grip of your sword.
Without wasting another second, you burst into a break-neck sprint and hurtle towards the first heart stone, immediately hearing the alarmed hiss of the Reaper behind you. Throwing your head over one shoulder, you point frantically at the Guardian's head and shout, “I'll try and deal with the one on the ground! You have to deal with the other two!”
The Reaper's half-buried instinct to snatch you up out of danger and bundle you away somewhere quiet and safe is almost overpowering, but there's just enough of Death lingering below the wild and primal nature of the beast that it recognises the sense in your words.
Eliminate the heart stones, eliminate the Guardian, eliminate the threat.
...Threat.
The Reaper snarls, its spinal column quivering as it finally cuts through the haze of protective anger and focuses on the solution. 
Eliminate the Guardian, and you'll be safe.
The goal is clear.
Teeth snap together in a warning and the Reaper gives its wings a tremendous beat, soaring into the storm-choked sky and making a bee line for the Guardian's left shoulder where the second heart stone lays in wait.
Responding instantly, the construct roars its defiance with the force and volume of a thunderclap as it raises its remaining arm, aiming to swat the Reaper out of the air like a bothersome gnat.
But whilst the Guardian's size might have leant to its advantage on the ground, it proves a hinderance to a creature as adept at flying as Death's spectral counterpart.
Swift and nebulous like a shadow, the Reaper flits higher and higher, skirting close to the construct's arm and either diving or spinning easily out of the way if it swings too close for comfort. By the time it reaches the heart stone, you've slid to a halt beside the one on the ground.
Whipping your sword from its scabbard, you barely hesitate to catch your breath before ramming the tip of the blade underneath the stone's edge.
“Oh, I hope this sword is stronger than I am!” you worry aloud, taking a firm hold of the weapon's grip and heaving backwards with all your might, your feet slipping in the mud underneath you. Something gives and the blade sinks a little deeper, and you're struck by a renewed burst of desperate urgency. “Come on!” you gasp, shaking rainwater from your eyes and readjusting your grip before throwing yourself backwards again, and again, and again, each time levering the sword a little further underneath the stone.
You're only lucky that the heart stone had fallen at the angle it had: tipped forwards towards the ground. There's no chance you'd be able to dislodge a stone so large without a lot of help from gravity.
The relentless downpour causes your feet to nearly slide out from under you, but step by agonising step, you manage to haul yourself backwards, never once giving back an inch of what you take in the way of progress.
Overhead, the Reaper hovers just above the second heart stone.
A flash of lightening illuminates the sky behind it so that for just a second, a gigantic shadow is projected onto the Guardian's body, ominous and foreboding, a billowing cloak and skeletal wings contrasted in black against the pale, sandy stone.
Then, the spectre draws its scythe.
The curved blade gleams as it's raised over the Reaper's shoulder, and with a startling ferocity, it brings the weapon down hard, driving the pointed end deep into the stone like a knife through butter before heaving its scythe back again, wrenching the stone from its place in the Guardian's shoulder and allowing it to fall into the mud far below with a wet, unpleasant 'thwump!'
You miss it hitting the ground, because right as it does, you throw yourself at your sword's hilt with everything you've got, one, final time. There's a moment of resistance, and then suddenly, you're toppling face-first into the mud as well when the heart stone finally comes loose and thumps down just inches away from where you’d been standing.
There's no time to celebrate though.
Scrabbling up onto your feet again, you immediately have to clap both hands over your ears when the construct throws its head back and howls, the terrible cacophony of noise mingling with Corruption's wretched screeching.
The inky substance, separated from its source of power, withdraws like an octopus whose tentacles have been burned by fire. The tendrils tear themselves away from the construct’s stone body and in doing so, they leave every slab without an adhesive to keep it all together.
The resulting carnage isn't unlike witnessing a building being demolished.
First, the hammer is dropped to the ground as its fingers fall apart one after the other, followed swiftly by its entire hand and before long, both of the Guardian's arms are laying strewn about in pieces on the ground, the heavier pieces sinking into slick mud.
All that remains now, is the third and final heart stone.
High over your head, the Reaper rolls its shoulders in satisfaction and turns in the air, scanning the ground below for any sign of the human. It finds you soon enough, a speck of colour almost hidden amongst the rubble, waving your arms madly at something behind it. Cocking its head to one side, the Reaper spins about again and looks up, its eye sockets growing wide.
With two heart stones down, the Corruption's hold over its colossal host has weakened significantly. One leg tries to take a step forwards, but with nothing to keep its stones adhered to one another, the entire construct begins to collapse underneath its own weight, its legs buckling and breaking and its enormous torso teetering forwards...
… It's only once the sky above you is blocked out by falling debris that the Reaper realises why the construct's collapse is not necessarily a good thing.
You're standing directly underneath it.
It seems to register your predicament at the same time as you do, and the valley is suddenly ringing with the sound of its feral shriek.
Angling itself straight down in your direction, the Reaper raises its wings and is just about to break the sound barrier with a single flap, when all of a sudden, a dome of familiar, azure light arches over you like a cresting wave.
In the throes of alarm, it had clean forgotten that there is another in the valley who's protective instincts are just as strong as its own.
You yelp, not even noticing that there's a shimmering barrier that has appeared over your head.
Throwing yourself forwards into the mud again, you curl into a ball and shake as the Guardian's detritus slams down all around you. The din is ear-splitting, drowning out your screams.
Hours seem to pass before the noise finally dies down.
It takes you longer than you'd care to admit to realise you haven't become a stain on the valley floor.
It feels as though you need a crowbar to pry your arms from their position over your head, yet somehow, you manage without and push yourself up onto your rear, mouth dropping open once you spot the destruction all around you. Small stones and dust skitter down the side of an invisible force arching over your head, washed away by the pouring rain as you twist yourself about in a daze.
Suddenly, your eyes land on a familiar figure standing just beyond the Guardian's remains.
“E-Eideard?” you cough.
Blood trickles in a steady stream from the maker's nose and his mighty chest rises and falls with every, spasmodic breath he takes. Rolling your eyes up, you notice the crackling staff that's pointed in your direction and then the hazy wall of shimmering, blue light that stands between you and him, and at last, the pieces click together in your brain.
The old maker had just saved your life.
Only when he sees you moving does he exhale the rigidity from his spine and lower his staff, effectively dispelling the magical barrier from over your head. Deep in his chest, the maker's heart finally stops thrashing like a wild beast.
You're still alive.
He meant what he'd said in the tunnels. He won't lose you, not so long as there's still life in his old bones.
But what relief Eideard feels is abruptly superseded by dread when the rubble before him starts to shudder.
His gaze snaps up, travelling past you and zeroing in on the Guardian's head that has landed in the grass just metres away from you, and he blanches when swirling, yellow light bursts to life in its eye sockets.
A gust of rancid air nearly bowls you over and invades your nostrils, threatening to drown you under the stench of sulphur and decaying flesh.
Whirling your head around, you let out a cry and try to slide backwards through the mud when, from the Guardian's mouth, a writhing, squealing mass of tentacles spews forth, each one as black as night and all flailing wildly for just a moment before they whip out in every direction and begin to snatch up the fallen pieces of their host's body.
Every tendril, that is, except for one.
A single appendage remains poised above your head whilst you stare up at it, incapable of tearing your eyes away as it sways hypnotically from side to side, like a snake waiting to strike.
Behind you, Eideard hurries to raise his staff again.
But it's too late.
The Corrupted tendril snaps forwards, lightening flashes in the sky and renders you momentarily blind, there's a loud, metalling 'shing!'...
… And suddenly, the Reaper is just... there, hovering between you and the Guardian like a protective wall of enraged bones and prickling wings. Peering around its cloak, you can make out a severed portion of the tentacle flopping around uselessly in the grass.
For a brief instant, everything is silent.
Then, all hell breaks loose.
The Guardian's disembodied jaw splits open wide and Corruption screams its outrage for all the realm to hear.
Around you, all of the stones that had once made up the construct's body start to roll across the valley towards its head, drawn by whatever hateful power still exists within the last heart stone.
“It's trying to repair itself!” you cry, feeling your chest hitch when fear cups your heart in its icy fist.
At the sound of your voice, the Reaper snaps its skull to one side, focusing a soft, white pupil on your form, huddled on the ground, shivering, afraid.
Its enormous fingers tighten around Harvester until its grip is crushing.
Eliminate the threat. Keep you safe.
The mantra surges to the forefront of its mind and it squares its shoulders, returning its attention to the Guardian's head. The air is alive with dark, oppressive magic that spills from the heart stone like a physical current, and as if by invisible strings, the head is pulled up into the air like a marionette, its neck plates slotting back into place underneath its jaw.
All too soon, it's staring hatefully down at both you and your skeletal guard and emitting a low growl as it waits for the rest of its body to arrive.
With all the viciousness it can muster, the Reaper hurtles towards the heart stone and draws its weapon back, gliding effortlessly to a halt just before the construct's skull, scythe drawn high over its shoulders where, using the momentum of its flight, it hurls the blade forwards, and rams the tip straight into the centre of the stone.
Corruption's screeches turn to wails of terror.
It's a satisfying sound to the Reaper's nonexistent ears.
With a grip like iron on its weapon, the beast braces itself and lurches away, pulling the third and final stone from its casing.
The result is instantaneous.
A howl explodes from the Guardian's gaping maw, loud enough to rival the tempest raging all around you and causing the whole valley to shudder with the force of it.
Letting out a scream, you slap your hands over your ears and grit your teeth so they stop rattling inside your skull.
After several, long, deafening moments, the lights in the construct's eyes begin to flicker weakly until finally, they're extinguished altogether, and its parted jaw thuds shut, no longer pried open by corruption. Without a source through which to power their host, the flailing tendrils slip uselessly down through the construct's mouth until they fall to the grass below and start to sink, still squirming about in the slick mud like fat, overgrown worms.
Your eyes land on one that doesn't seem to be dissolving quite as rapidly as its brethren, and with a sudden rush of horror, you realise that it's wriggling its way towards you, as if it had a sinister goal in mind, as if it had a mind at all.
You try to scrabble backwards on your rear, kicking out, but find no traction in the mud, and instead, you're helpless except to look on in horror as the vile tentacle closes the distance in seconds, until there are only a few, pitiful metres between you and it. Trembling arms wrench the sword from your side and swing it up to point at your adversary.
You almost needn't have bothered. You should have known that with the Reaper nearby, Corruption would have a hard time getting at you.
The colossal spectre drops from the sky out of nowhere and hits the ground in front of you, wings hoisted high over its skull and its scythe gripped between two, bandage-wrapped hands.
At once, the tendril draws back and gives a violent shudder. Without a host, it is dying, fast, and the monster hovering over it menacingly is far from a suitable replacement. Too dead. Too cold. It longs for the tiny speck of warmth the lays sprawled out on the grass just a few, tantalising feet away. Perhaps, if it had been faster...
A low hiss crawls out of the Reaper's hood and it raises its weapon, braced to slice the last tangle of corruption asunder. But, if there ever was a master puppeteer driving the putrid tendril towards you, they must have decided to cut the strings, so to speak, as one might sever an infected limb. The tendril stiffens and goes utterly still, poised like a cobra on the verge of striking.
Cautious, the Reaper narrows it eye sockets at the tendril. Waiting...
Then, slowly, almost anticlimactically, it starts to... melt. Thick, oozing globules fall from its body, splattering to the ground and dissolving into nothing more than dark stains on the grass, and those too, are soon washed clean by the torrential downpour.
Only once every trace of the corruption is gone and all that remains are the pieces of construct that lay scattered about the valley, does the Reaper lower its scythe.
Resonant footsteps pound through the earth below the spot where you sit, and for a gut-wrenching moment, you're certain that the Guardian has once again started to pull itself together.
A hasty glance over your shoulder soon puts that fear to rest.
Emerging from the haze of mist and rain, steps a vast figure, neither his stilted gait nor his age detracting from the staggering power with which he lumbers towards you, pale eyes wide and swirling with agitation.
You can't tell which expression suits him worse – his current one, or the look of hurt he'd worn in the tunnel.
Worry or pain... Somehow, you'd managed to put both of them on his face.
You don't think you deserve his concern.
Twisting yourself about to face the maker properly, you begin pushing yourself up onto your feet.
But just when you get your trembling legs in order, a shadow falls over you and you're suddenly bowled onto your hands and knees again, splashing mud up into your face and cutting off a panicked bleat that makes its way up your throat.
Like a hulking, hissing shield, the Reaper all but throws itself on top of you and smashes its bony fists into the ground between you and Eideard, warding the maker off, its jaw dropped open in the most vicious snarl that such a rigid skull could possibly achieve.
Some, faded voice deep inside its head tells it that the maker is familiar. But in the wake of the Guardian's threat, there's a red mist that has descended over the Reaper's eyes, clouding its ability to reason and blinding it to everything except the little human nestled underneath its ribcage.
The Old one promptly stops in his tracks.
Peeling yourself up out of the sticky mud, you try to stand again, but the spectre is bent so low to the dirt, your head bumps into its sternum before you can even get onto your knees.
Its pupils are just a millimetre away from being nonexistent as it snaps at the maker and curls its phalanges loosely around you.
Horrified, you barely even register that you've reached up and grabbed a fistful of the billowing, indigo cloak, yanking on it sharply and crying out, “Death! Stop! It's Eideard!”
The Reaper's hood buffets against you, thrown by the thunderstorm that still howls through the valley.
Slowly, the maker ahead of you raises one hand into the air, fingers splayed, whilst the other remains wrapped around his staff to maintain his balance. “Easy, Horseman,” he wheezes gently, blood trickling down into his mouth and staining his tusks red, “You've done well. The Guardian is destroyed. The girl is safe.”
As though it had just blinked, the colossal spectre's pupils flicker, softly blooming to larger pinpoints of light, though a low, continuous growl still rattles the bones above you.
Eideard doesn't miss the change, and he slowly bows his head to the Reaper, reassuring, deferring. “She is safe,” he repeats.
Gradually, a low hiss slips out of the phantom's hood and you can feel its pressure lift from your back, the suffocating aura receding until you're able to sit up properly without bashing into a heaving ribcage. As soon as it retreats, you whirl yourself over onto your backside and lock eyes with the beast, your heart pumping a mile a minute.
It's only once you're facing it that the Reaper takes in the state of you.
Muddy. Shaking.
Frightened?
It roves its gaze down to the deep furrows that it had clawed into the grass just metres in front of you. Had it... done that?
Its pupils dilate, and just like that, the rest mist lifts and it can suddenly think beyond its basest instincts.
Hesitant, it backs away a little further and feels it’s control of the ghastly form slipping as its Nephilim counterpart begins to press forward with an insistence that borders on desperate.
Then, right before your eyes, the Reaper's corporeal forms starts to collapse in on itself, indigo mist spilling from its eye-sockets, nasal cavity and parted jaw, a billowing smokescreen that swiftly conceals the enormous skeleton's bulk. In no time at all, you're staring up at the familiar, bone-white mask of Death.
With that amber gaze trained on you, his shoulders quiver once before he straightens up, his eyes trailing from your head all the way down to your toes and back up again.
It occurs to you that he's checking for injuries.
He must have found nothing too untoward however, for he soon averts his gaze and glares off at a piece of the construct's shoulder. “Are you... still in one piece?” he pants gruffly.
Uttering a scoff of disbelief, you reply, “I'm fine. It's Eideard you should be checking on.” You fling one hand up and out of the mud, gesturing wildly in the maker's direction. “I mean, look at him, Death! Christ, I thought you were gonna kill him!”
To the maker's credit, he doesn't take offence to your vague comment on his condition. You are correct, after all. He probably looks about as terrible as he currently feels. But neither you nor Death need to know that...
He catches the Nephilim's gaze and holds it, patient and calm. There isn't an ounce of blame in the old maker's face.
He knows not to expect an apology, which suits Death just fine.
The Horseman doesn't plan to offer one.
Grounding out a rough sigh, Eideard closes the distance to you and stops, taking a brief moment to watch with a mixture of fondness and exasperation as you attempt to pick yourself up off the ground once more, only to slip and collapse back into the mud with a 'splat,' utterly spent.
All too readily, the maker's exasperation draws back a little and he reaches down, circling your waist with his thumb and forefinger and lifting you back onto your feet.
“You, my young friend,” he begins with a huff, gently dusting you off with the pads of his fingers, “are getting far too bold for my heart to withstand. Reckless, I might even venture to say.” His piercing glare seems to bore straight through you like a diamond drill. “Of all things, a human running towards the Guardian at full-tilt, armed with nothing but a sword and a pistol! Why, that has to be one of the most harebrained things I think I've ever witnessed.”
Your throat bobs at his scolding and you drop your eyes to the ground, shame-faced.
All of a sudden though, you find yourself flinching when the rough pad of Eideard's forefinger slips beneath your chin and tilts your head back up, coaxing you to look at him again.
Startled, you blink into the maker's gentle face, noticing that his glare has softened to something far less disdainful and there's even a smile that pushes at the wrinkled corners around his eyes. “..And I could not be more proud of you if I tried.”
The valley, the remnants of the Guardian, even Death all fall away for the briefest few seconds as the weight of Eideard's words slugs you right in the chest.
He's proud of you?...
For what?!
For shouting at him? Disobeying him? For scaring him?
He should be angry, frustrated, annoyed. He should be outraged at worst and disappointed at best. He should be anything! But not proud!
Shamefully inelegant, you sputter, “Huh!? But.. but I-”
“-You were willing to face down the Guardian to protect your friend and save my home, and you’re both still alive,” he interrupts, smiling down at you with a tender gaze, “How could I be anything but proud?”
Baffled, you find it harder and harder to meet the sincerity radiating from his face, so you cast your eyes about instead like a coward, taking in the rubble surrounding you. “I.. I'm sorry -”
'Say it.'
“-a-about the Guardian,” you utter hastily, giving yourself a vicious, mental kick as punishment. There are so many things you want to say, but you don't quite know how to yet with Death lingering behind you watchfully. And you are sorry about the Guardian. In spite of the destruction it had wreaked across Tri Stone, it was undeniably a magnificent beast. But there are certain apologies that are meant for the maker's ears alone. You want to ask him about what he'd said in the tunnel, but more than that, you want to say you're sorry for what you'd done to provoke his admission in the first place, and then... 
God, you just don't know. How could you possibly begin to tell the giant that his words had inadvertently wrapped your heart up in warmth and safety and made you feel wanted again, even after you'd been so cantankerous with him?
Right then and there, standing in the rain before the remnants of his greatest creation, you make a silent promise to the maker that you will tell him, just as soon as this whole ordeal is over and you're all safely back in Tri Stone.
Forcing yourself to meet Eideard's gaze, you stiffen your upper lip and try your best to convey the intent of that promise in just a look, hoping that he'll glean an understanding from two, simple words uttered by a sheepish human. “I'm sorry,” you whisper again.
Perhaps it's only your imagination, but you almost think you see Eideard's gentle smile widen as he offers you an understanding nod. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Somehow, he gives you the impression that he's referring to more than just the Guardian.
Awkwardly, you start to fidget with your hands and twist yourself about to look back at the skull of the construct behind you. “So... what happens now?” The whole point of awakening the Guardian had been to let it destroy the Corrupted mass that guards the path to the Tree of Life. “Without the Guardian, how will Death get to that tree?”
Eideard is silent for several seconds, but his expression could not be broadcasting his intentions any louder. His pale eyes meet the Horseman's fiery gaze and he sighs tiredly, a sad smile forming underneath his moustache.
In your peripheral vision, you see Death stiffen.
“What?” you ask, turning your head between them, unable to catch either of their attention, “What is it?”
Wordlessly, the maker steps past you, moving closer to the Guardian's head where he stops just in front of it and raises a withered hand, placing his palm fondly against the construct's intact jaw. Then, turning slightly to peer at you over one shoulder, he answers, and his words send a jolt of panic up through your spine.
“I have no choice but to bring him back...”
A beat passes in silence.
Then, the soundlessness is broken as you blurt out, “What!?” whilst at the same time, Death scoffs, “How many times would you have me kill him?”
“Corruption fled from the heart stones,” the old one explains, peering down at his wrinkled hand and closing it into a fist, “But the makers' souls within should still be intact... I can put them back.”
“I-I don't understand, the Guardian's destroyed,” you pipe up as your hands knead firmly into the hem of your shirt, “How can you put them back if there's nowhere for them to... go...?”
Eideard turns a little to face you and tries to give you his most reassuring smile, one that doesn't quite touch his eyes.
You can see right through it.
It looks...
..sad.
At your side, Death's brows knit together beneath his mask and he scowls accusingly up at the maker. “You intend to rebuild it yourself.”
Silent, the Old one turns away, prompting the Horseman to growl, “You understand that's suicide, don't you?”
Deep in your stomach, a pit of dread opens up into a chasm and you feel your heart plummet straight down inside it. “What!?” you cry again.
“The restoration of a beast that size will consume more magic than he has,” Death explains, never once shifting his glare off the Old one, “Maker magic is inextricably bound to their hearts. The amount of power required will quite literally burn straight through his.”
Thinking hard, you clench your hands into such tight fists, the nails pierce the skin of your palms. “Well then. He... He just won't do it. Will you, Eideard?”
The maker still maintains his lonely silence, whilst overhead, the sky rumbles ominously.
“No.” You shake your head defiantly from side to side. “No! I mean, there's another way, right? We could...  we could go and get the other makers? They can help-”
“-When we built the Guardian,” Eideard interrupts, “construction was slow. Even with all our efforts, the process took nearly a year until it reached completion.”
“So we wait a year!” you blurt out. The idea sits wrongly in your gut, yet if it means Eideard doesn't have to do anything rash, you can be patient. Rationality has long since departed from your head.
Sighing, the maker heaves himself around to face you and Death. “We do not have the luxury of time, little one,” he rumbles with a patience that serves to infuriate rather than reassure you, “Every day, we lose more of our home to Corruption. I will not wait for it to claim another of my people. I-” He stops to take a shuddering breath and his knees begin to buckle, yet his grip on the staff remains strong, keeping him standing upright in spite of his old bones. When he looks to you again, his face is set but calm. Accepting.
It's that acceptance that frightens you the most.
“I cannot,” he utters softly.
Then, to your horror, he turns back to the Guardian's head and raises his voice to be heard over the storm. “Both of you, stay back!” To himself, he adds, “This will require more than a small effort.”
“Eideard!” you cry out, starting forwards.
Inevitably though, Death's long fingers curl into the back of your shirt and he roughly spins you away from the maker and into his torso, grasping one of your forearms with his free hand. Blunted fingernails dig into your skin as you try to wrench yourself unsuccessfully from his grip.
“Let. Me. Go!” Desperate, you beat your fists against his pale, broad chest and strain with all your might to reach Eideard, but you may as well be trying to shift an osmium statue. Not even redoubling your efforts causes Death to sway. Like a boulder in the wind, he remains utterly still and steadfast, looking over your head at the old maker.
Eideard's staff is raised high into the air and held between both hands, striking the very posture that bears an eerie resemblance to a headsman, poised to bring his axe down on the neck of his latest victim.
What cruel irony, the Horseman thinks with a bitter sneer to the Universe, that the victim is to be his own executioner.
With a strength that contradicts his gentler nature, Eideard hammers the pommel of his staff down on the ground, producing a tremor that must have rivalled even the Guardian's earth-shattering footsteps. From the point of contact, old magics explode outwards in a whirlwind of blinding, blue light that forces you to slam your eyes firmly shut, your retinas stinging against the onslaught. The air whips up all around the valley and crashes into you with enough force to send you staggering backwards until your skull connects with Death's broad chest. Wincing behind gritted teeth, you pry your eyes open, your free arm thrown up as a shield to help dull the brilliant intensity of Eideard's power and through squinted eyelids, you see the maker hold unsteady ground against his own magics as they erupt relentlessly from the ground to form a perfect circle of roaring, azure flames all around him.
You're suddenly alerted by movement to your right and you throw your head sideways, struggling to see through the coagulation of icy rain and biting wind that endeavour to force your eyes shut again. You probably shouldn't have worried about trying to see– there's no way in Hell you could missed the house-sized boulder that rolls past just metres from where you stand, making a clumsy bee-line for the Guardian's skull.
The grip on your shoulders suddenly tightens when an immense shadow cloaks both you and Death in an eerie darkness. Craning your neck back tentatively, you can't help but duck further underneath the shelter of Death's chest as the Guardian's detached hand sails over your head, raining dust and slops of mud down on top of you and the Horseman. Mouth agape, you watch on in awed horror as the gargantuan piece continues its journey through the air until it joins several other clusters of stone anatomy, all twisting about and slamming together like pieces of the realm's largest and most terrifying jigsaw puzzle.
And below it all, his head bowed against the storm, tusks bared and legs seconds away from giving out, stands Eideard.
With every part of the Guardian that fits back into place, his hands slip further down the staff, his shoulders drop another inch and every ounce of the powerful maker seems to disappear, replaced with someone desperately fighting to keep himself upright.
“Death! Help him!”you cry, whipping around to face the Horseman and meeting his glare at the same moment as a lightening bolt stabs a line across his blazing retinas,“You have to do something! Please!”
He glances down, peering at the tears that mingle perfectly with the rain streaming down your face.
You look downright terrified.
Ignoring the thunderous growl overhead, Death's brows start to draw together, his gaze staying firmly anchored to yours until he pauses, and then lowers his eyes to the ground at your feet.
It's a silent, solemn and damning admission.
There's nothing he can do.
Death's quiet confession hits you harder than a slap to the face. In fact, you almost wish he'd done the latter, it might have stung less.
“No...” You shake your head in disbelief. If not even Death can do anything, then...
With one wrist still clenched in the Horseman's hand, you can do little more than give it a sharp tug and hurl yourself away from him, stretching out your free arm towards the maker and pulling against Death's hold with all your might. “Eideard, NO!”
You don't expect him to react to you, weak as he is, blood clinging to his eyelashes and staining his teeth crimson. But he does. Somehow, he manages to turn his head over a shoulder to look you right in the eye, the corners of his own crinkling around their edges, and it takes you a moment to realise that he's smiling at you. 
It's that gentle smile of his that shows more through the eyes than the mouth, reassuring and comforting - the kind of smile that tries to convey without words that everything will be okay.
That you'll be okay.
But the old maker is wrong.
“STOP!” you beg through sobs, growing only more desperate when his eyes slip shut and he turns away, “NO-NO-NO! DON'T LEAVE ME!”
Still fiercely contesting his fate, you yell his name over the deafening collisions of stone limbs and ligaments fitting together, but your scream is stolen from you, cut short by a large, bandaged hand that suddenly appears in front of you and slides around the top of your face, so large that it covers both your eyes and nose. Startled, you shout in protest and try to push at the Horseman's wrist, only to find yourself spun about and yanked painfully into him, locked against his chest by two, sinewy arms.
The split halves of the last heart stone reach the apex of their height, hovering before their original home in the Guardian's skull. Eideard's pinched eyes burst open wide, wisps of blue magic swirling out of them like dancing smoke and he draws in a breath, focusing every last inch of willpower into the heart stone floating high above him.
The pieces shimmer with that familiar blue light, standing stark against the blackened sky.
With not a second to spare, Death curls himself over you and ducks his mask into your hair, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.
The valley around you goes eerily quiet for little more than a beat of your clamouring heart.
Then, all of a sudden...
'W H U M PH!'
Even from behind Death's hand, the light that explodes from Eideard's staff is damn near blinding, searing across the vale as if the suns had just tumbled out of the sky. You feel the Horseman brace himself just milliseconds before a wall of air slams into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs and sends both of you sliding several steps backwards through the mud. Were it not for Death's preternatural weight, you fear you might actually get blown right off your feet.
Then, as promptly as the squall had arrived, it just...
...stops.
The wind suddenly dies down to a far less suffocating strength and the rain no longer stings when it hits your skin.
Cautiously, Death cracks his eyes open and raises his head to look around, letting the hand around your face fall to his side once more. As soon as the Horseman's formidable presence no longer boxes you in, you fling your eyes open and this time, he allows you to pull yourself free from his grasp and turn towards Eideard.
Your searching gaze immediately lands upon the maker and your heart stills as though it were just a rock in your chest.
The colossal, old giant has collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving up and down like a vast ship bobbing lazily on a choppy sea.
“Eideard!” you gasp, wading over churned-up ground towards him.
It doesn't even occur to you to notice that the rain has let up somewhat as the storm that carried it here begins moving north.
Sticky mud clings to your boots and weighs you down, making each step feel as though it might be the one that saps the last of your strength and brings you to your knees, yet you keep going at an awkward and clumsy run, followed closely by Death, who seems to glide effortlessly over the destroyed terrain.
You all but collide with the maker's head when your foot slips out from underneath you and you're forced to catch yourself on his shoulder, all the while uttering, “No, no, please! No – fuck!”
Your rain-slicked hands hover over his face and you try to take in the extent of the damage, your eyes darting between the blood gushing from his nose and the milky white gaze that rolls towards you. Standing so close, you can make out the even paler pupils as they attempt to focus, eventually landing on you and dilating with recognition.
“Y/n...” Your name topples off his lips in a breathless whisper and if you weren't right beside him, you doubt you'd have even heard it.
“I'm here!” you tell him urgently, placing one hand on his cheek and sliding the other frantically underneath his heavy beard to the flesh of his neck in search of a pulse. You suddenly wish you'd asked Karn a bit about maker biology, because you have no idea whether you'll even find a pulse. You know they have hearts – you've heard those beat close enough to your head to be sure – so it stands to reason that the giants should have pulses.
….There!
It turns out to be rather difficult to miss. As you probe around underneath his jawline, your fingertips and rocked by a fluttering beat and you feel your own heart jump in response.
It's definitely a pulse, but oh so terrifyingly weak. Not at all one that should belong to a giant.
He's fading.
Fast.
The knowledge settles like a weight in your chest, as though someone has tied a cement block around your heart and it's dragging you down, threatening to pull you onto your knees unless you keep them locked tight.
“No!” you whisper. Then, clenching your jaw, you firmly repeat, “No.”
Eideard's misty eyes follow you as you pull away from his face and turn towards his shoulder instead, wasting no time in throwing your hands over the lip of the leather pauldron and hauling yourself up onto his shoulder.
Amidst the chaos, none of you notice that high overhead, the newly-rebuilt Guardian's eyes slowly flicker to life.
Behind you, Death gives a start and calls your name, but you ignore him, crawling onto Eideard's vast chest and bloodying his beard with your hands as you lean forwards over his face, your right knee resting directly above a fluttering heart.
Raindrops fall from the ends of your hair and splatter onto his lip, and every breath he exhales washes over you and warms the chill in your bones.
“You-you're gonna be okay!” you reaffirm, shuffling back and placing one hand on top of the other, linking your fingers together to press the heel of your palm over the giant's sternum. You've never performed CPR in your life, at least, not on anything that wasn't a crash-test dummy, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the method is never going to work on someone as large as a maker.
Death knows it too.
He knows that one human simply isn't strong enough to keep the blood flowing around Eideard's body, you'll never be able to do it fast enough or for long enough to get blood to his brain and keep it there....
But Creator, you plan on trying, don't you? Because in your addled state, you can't help but to fall back on what you know, even though you also know that this can't possibly work.
It's an awful contradiction, another facet of humanity, to try and change the unchangeable, to challenge an immutable fact. 'What's the point?' he wonders, 'of prolonging a lie, just because you're afraid to accept the truth?'
Eideard will die. No amount of human persistence will change that.
The old Reaper watches in silence, a mellow resignation haunting his gaze. Several raindrops gather at the bottom of his masks's eye socket before they eventually spill over the edge and trickle down his bone-white mask.
If you'd have chosen that moment to look at him, you might have done a double-take, thinking perhaps that it wasn't rain falling down the Horseman's mask at all.
But you don't look at him.
Your eyes are instead fixated on your own hands as they shove uselessly at Eideard's chest. “One! Two! Three!” Numbers fall from your lips in rhythmic succession. “One! Two! Thr-!”
But movement suddenly cuts you off as Eideard's enormous hand slides weakly up his side until his fingertips press into your ribcage ever-so gently. 
Blinded by tears, your gaze snaps to the hand, then to the maker's face and you squeeze your eyes open and shut several times, determined to see him clearly.
“It's all right,” he whispers in a gentle breath, as though it's taking everything in him just to summon his voice.
Gritting your teeth, you untangle your fingers from one another and slip them tightly around handfuls of the maker's robes, croaking, “No! No, it's not all right! You're-! You can't just-!”
You freeze when Eideard's arm shifts again and he raises his thumb towards your blotchy cheek.
There, with the utmost tenderness, he sweeps the digit beneath your streaming eye, a fruitless endeavour to brush away the tears rolling down your face. Blurting out a wet sob, you suddenly reach up with both arms and grab the maker's thumb, holding it against you even as the rest of his hand falls heavily against your back.
Makers, as a species, are seldom known to shed a tear, and those that do are careful to conceal it from their fellows, if only to avoid the inevitable gossip that would follow. If a maker is known to have cried, the general understanding would be that something utterly and immeasurably cataclysmic must have happened to them, and that's if their tears are ever witnessed.
Now, here you are, not only crying, but doing so openly, in front of an audience.
“You're crying...?” he breathes, awed. It breaks his ancient heart to realise that he's your cataclysmic event. Yet there's also something so, incredibly moving about it, that he means enough to you that you're willing to bare your heart so readily in front of both he and a Horseman.
Amidst frigid pellets of rain, he can still pick out the warmth of your tears against his clavicle.
He wonders if this is how humans let each other know that they're loved.
You cling to his thumb even harder, as if letting it go will be what kills him. “Of course I'm crying,” you choke, “look at you. Why did you do that! You're dying!”
But Eideard can't look at himself. And even if he could, he wouldn't, because you're here, so why in the world would he want to look anywhere else?
A blissful smile blooms across the maker's lips and he exhales, emptying his lungs of air even as his heart swells with affection and pride for the little human on his chest. From the edges of his vision, the valley around him begins to fade into brilliant, golden light, but he still gazes at you while it does, and in a single breath, he manages to utter, “A small price to pay... to protect my... family.”
For you, the valley remains dark and dour, a perfect reflection for the state of your sorry soul.
Something brushes past you... No... through you... something that you mistake for another of Eideard's warm and steady breaths.
Using the back of your arm, you make a vain attempt to scrub the frustrated tears out of your eyes. How can he even think that he's worth sacrificing? A very raw sort of ache claws at your throat and it only hurts more when you try to swallow past it. Sniffing hard, you shake your head, hands curling until your fingernails bite into the skin of your palms.
“Your life is not a small price to pay! You think the other makers would want this!? You can't just – just do something like this, Eideard! You sure as shit can't do this to them!” you plead with him, hitting a fist repeatedly against his chest, as if for a second you truly believe that such an ineffective force could somehow bully his stuttering heartbeat back to its former strength, “They're your family! You don't leave your family, Eideard! You don't offer them a home an-and then just.. just leave!”
The maker doesn't respond, and the rain on your eyelashes makes it hard to see his face as the thumb you're still clinging to begins falling from your grasp with the rest of his hand, sliding off your back and trying to fall to his side once more.
Realising that holding on will only drag you down with it, you reluctantly let it go and the appendage lands on the ground again with a dull, wet squelch.
He must be weaker than you realised.
“Everything will be fine, okay? You saved my life, now I'm gonna save yours! They need you, they need you.” Babbling deliriously to the maker, you're completely unaware of the Horseman calling out your name behind you.
Slowly, as though he's trying not to spook a wild animal, Death approaches Eideard, stopping next to the Old one's neck and reaching up towards you. “Come now, you're soaked through,” he murmurs, gentler than the usual gruff and surly timbre, “Let's -”
“Get away!” you bellow, reeling your arm back and whipping about to face him with a sudden ferocity that raises the Horseman's eyebrows, “He's just gonna leave them! It's not fair, Death! It's not fair, he can't leave me, not like everyone else has! He can't!”
“He already has.”
Death's detached reply cuts cold and swift as a blade across your chest.
“Wh..? No, he hasn't.” You shake your head, your voice so, unjustly small, barely audible.
The Horseman falls silent.
He doesn't need to say anything further. He can see the realisation sweeping across your face, wiping away any semblance of a human expression and replacing it with a blank-faced stare, as expressionless as his own mask. He knows that look all too well. You're trying to go numb. Perhaps in preparation for what you'll see as you slowly twist your neck back towards the old maker's face.
Eideard's gentle, white eyes peer straight through you, unblinking even though the wind tugs at his wispy eyelashes. His lips are parted and tilted at their corners ever so slightly, just enough that he could be smiling at you, and yet, though you wait in utter silence and stillness, not a trace of warmth slips between his tusks to chase away the cold on your skin.
Wordlessly, Death watches you inhale and let the breath out again slowly, never once looking away from Eideard's face.
Only when the silence grows heavier than stone, you utter, “Oh,” nodding once, pretending to acknowledge what you can't bring yourself to believe, “Oh, I... I didn't realise -”
From the ground, Death has a perfect view of your face when your jaw sets..
And then, sooner than he expects, he sees it utterly and completely crumble.
Your lips and brows twist up and you suck down a shaky breath that only catches in your throat.
“I think I forgot to say goodbye...,” you bleat, lifting your arms in a useless shrug before you look over at the Horseman and offer him a tragically delirious little laugh. Stoic, he watches you in silence as your hand flies up to clamp over your mouth, muffling the rattled sob that works its way up your throat.
Behind trembling fingers, you wheeze, “Oh my god.. I didn't – I didn't even say.. I didn't say goodbye, Death! I didn't even say goodbye!”
… Just like you hadn't said goodbye to your mum and dad, or the rest of your family, nor to your friends.
You've never really thought about how important that one, simple word could be, as less of a statement, and more of a means to gain closure.
Looking back... had you even bade farewell to Father Michael?
It's happening all over again, but what's worse now is that you'd actually had the time and a chance to say goodbye to Eideard, but you just... hadn't. And now, some of the last words you said to him had been impatient and unkind, a fact which you know in your heart of hearts will haunt you for the rest of your sorry life.
Sitting back onto your haunches, you fight to keep your face neutral, but the seconds that tick by are interspersed with moments where you allow ugly, angry sounds to burst between your gritted teeth. Not quite sobs, not quite screams.
You're unaware that you've dropped your hands into your lap, fingers tightening around fistfuls of skirt as you're promptly struck by an urge to squeeze something so tightly that your arms begin to shake with the effort.
It feels...
...relieving, actually, to expend some of the pressure building behind your eyes and in your chest.
High overhead, through the clouds, a ray of sunlight bursts through and makes the valley glow marginally brighter. Somehow, that one ray of light feels so much like a betrayal. 'Where has the storm gone?' you wonder bleakly, 'It should still be raging? Eideard is dead! Why the fuck is the rain moving on!? The sky should be mourning!'
What you really want is for it all to stop, for the world and everything in it to just pause for a while, long enough for you to get yourself together and come to terms with grief until you're eventually ready to move forwards once more.
But sadly, the world is rarely so generous.
On the ground beside Eideard, Death kneels and leans over his head. Something comes over him, pushing him to lift his hand towards the maker's eyelids in the same way that he's seen humans do to one another in the past, on battlefields and in the wilderness when their clothes were crafted predominantly from the pelts of animals. He always thought it a strange thing to do, but now, he finds something inherently unsettling about seeing Eideard with his eyes open, staring up into nothingness. In a rare moment of indulgence, Death takes the time to pass his palm over each of the maker's eyes, sliding them shut before pulling away once more and heaving a sigh.
'You're getting soft,' someone tells him, perhaps the voice of one of his siblings, perhaps his own subconscious. But whether it's his or not, he's swift to vehemently tell it that it's wrong.
All of a sudden, a deafening cacophony of stone grinding against stone ruptures the air and Death is on his feet again in seconds, instinctively drawing his scythes and whipping about to face the gargantuan construct with a low growl.
He'll never admit to losing focus, not for all the riches in Heaven, but he can certainly reprimand himself with an internal barrage of curses that would make a demon blush. Amidst the shock of losing Eideard and witnessing the distress of his human charge, Death had entirely forgotten that the Guardian was even there.
Hidden beneath his mask, he peels his lips back and his hackles shoot up when it turns its baby-blue gaze onto you.
'Wait...' Pausing, he blinks and looks again. 'Blue!'
It's eye-sockets are indeed filled with a blessedly familiar, cerulean blue light, just like the light shining out of the three heart stones embedded within its shoulders and head. There's not a trace of yellow to be seen.
It's bending down slowly and – to Death's surprise – hesitantly, a far cry from how it was conducting itself only minutes ago. Tilting its head like a curious child, the beast continues to lower itself until one of its colossal knees hits the ground and sends a quake rumbling across the valley.
“Y/n,” he hisses at you through his teeth, flaring his scythes like terrible wings to his left and right. He isn't taking any chances. “Come down and get behind me. Now.”
You barely even raise your head to acknowledge his command.
The valley around you falls silent, and it's peaceful, in a way. Now that the storm has moved on, there's no sound save for the Guardian's stone joints that creak and groan as it bends its torso a little nearer to you and lets out a rumble that sends even more shockwaves out across the vale, felt more than heard. For a beast so vast, it exhibits a surprising degree of hesitancy as it shifts its arm and reaches out for you and Eideard, causing Death to plant one boot firmly in the mud, braced to launch himself towards you at a moment's notice.
He's not about to leave the makers with two corpses to mourn.
On some, unbidden instinct, the muscles across his back and shoulders tense and bulge before he registers with a jolt how absurd it is to try and appear larger to this particular threat, especially given that, as of right now, it hardly seems to pose much of a threat at all.
As the Guardian's hand draws closer and its shadow passes over Eideard's face, you finally lift your heavy head and roll your neck back to watch the gigantic appendage descend, not unlike witnessing a meteorite come barreling down on top of you.
And yet, for a reason that you're sure Eideard would gently admonish you for, you don't flinch, you don't even move. Wholly unafraid of whatever fate might befall you, you just sit there on the maker's chest, waiting until the appendage slows down and comes to rest just beside you and your old friend.
Even if you live to be a hundred, you don't think you'll ever be able to explain where your terror of the beast had fled to, especially when it had been so prevalent before. Its hand, longer than a boxcar, hovers so close. A few hours ago, you'd probably have fainted on the spot. Now, you almost want to peer curiously inside your own soul to see if you can discover the whereabouts of any trepidation.
Using the very tip of one, enormous finger, the construct nudges the maker's shoulder, jostling you both slightly before it pulls its hand back and waits, staring down at its unresponsive creator with bright, expectant eyes.
You register a tug at your heart strings to see those eyes dim as the seconds tick by without a response.  
There's a sound that could have been a whine, or perhaps the simple passing of air through the gaps in its gargantuan jaw, and though its head doesn't move, you can feel the moment when its eyes rove from the elder to you, no doubt seeking some kind of explanation.
“I'm sorry,” you choke, throat too tight to produce a more substantial sound, “He's... He didn't make it.”
There's no doubt that it must understand you, because the slabs that make up its eyebrows shift and slide towards the centre of its forehead and it glances at the hammer clenched in its grasp. An agitated groan rolls across the valley and suddenly, the construct's gaze darts to you once more, its features squeezed together somehow, so much so that it looks to be in pain. Something about the expression drags a tiny flicker of compassion out of your obtunding heart and you feebly reach your hand out in a mollifying gesture. When the behemoth looks from you to its hammer again, then to Eideard and back only to repeat the strange cycle, you start to realise that it's trying to convey an urgent and desperate question.
“It's... okay...” you say slowly, watching the construct grow very still and focus its attention on you, “You didn't do this...”
It would be so easy to lay the blame of Eideard's death at the Guardian's feet.
Easy, yes. But you're still somehow lucid enough to know that it would also be wrong and unfair.
The poor beast never asked to be corrupted, just like you'd never asked to be here.
“It wasn't your fault,” you tell the Guardian as it slowly rocks back onto its stone struts, allowing you to catch a glimpse of the writhing, black hillock behind it. At the sight, one of your eyelids gives a brief and imperceptible twitch. “It wasn't your fault...”
Death, playing his part as the silent observer, stands astounded by one of the most unusual exchanges he's ever witnessed.
Angelic scholars would forever attest that humans are, and always have been, ruled by one, core instinct - that being fear.
Death would have been labelled an outlier had he ever bothered to say that he disagreed.
He would have attested that there are two.
Fear, most definitely, is the first. It's a strong instinct, one that has kept your ancestors alive and safe from danger for billions of years. The other, in his opinion, is compassion.
Fear might do well to keep an individual human alive, but it was compassion for their fellow man that ensured the continued survival of communities.
However, even if, several days ago, someone had asked the Horseman which of the two he believed would always, always trounce the other in a life or death situation, he'd have bet his scythes that it would be fear.
So it's tremendously baffling, if not a little refreshing, for Death to discover that fear can be quite easily overridden by something so unorthodox as concern for another.
To think that you, a little human, are offering genuine reassurance to a Guardian who could crush you flat with the tip of its finger, Death can't help but feel begrudgingly impressed. Even in spite of all you've faced these past few days, the beast should have been the ultimate symbol for everything that scares and horrifies you. Your fear of the monstrosity should have absolutely crippled you. It posed, by far, the largest threat.
That you're instead communing with the very construct that had been trying to kill both you and the Horseman only minutes ago is... frankly, nothing short of astounding.
In spite of himself, Death lets his expression turn a little less sharp underneath his mask.
He wonders whether humanity would be proud to have someone like you representing them as a whole. Were he a human, shuddersome as the thought may be, he thinks... he would be proud.
Which makes it all the more jarring when, seconds later, you remind the Horseman that for all the soft-heartedness you've demonstrated, you're still descended from the same species who used to tear one another to pieces for sport, for fun, for a concept or a king.
Your gaze slides around the Guardian's bulk and your eyes lock with a sudden fierce and startling intensity onto the corrupted mound behind it. Death had forgotten, after several days spent watching you stitch your heart firmly to your sleeve, why other species are so quick to label humans 'savage.'
As you stare up at the corruption, the Nephilim looks hard into your eyes and sees all the rage and hatred and depravity of your ancestors boiling like a supernova inside them, as though each eye is a star on the very brink of exploding and casting all that dark matter out into the world around you, wiping out everything in its path.
Thousands of years and billions of souls' worth of wrath packed into one, single look.
What choice does Death have but to balk?
Distantly, he hears himself muse, 'By The Creator... War and Fury are going to love this human.'
Drawing in a shuddering breath, you peel yourself away from Eideard's chest and push yourself off him, dropping to the ground noiselessly and taking a step towards the corruption with the most hateful sneer you can muster. “It's that fucking stuff's fault!” you hiss, pointing a shaky finger at the eyeball glaring back down at you. Raising your voice to be heard, you squint up towards the Guardian's head and shout, “You hear me!? That's what killed Eideard! That! The corruption! Right there!”
You feel as if you're egging on a dog, trying to get it to attack, to bite.
The Guardian half turns to look behind itself before swivelling back to you once more, something low and sonorous rolling up from its chest and falling out of its parted maw.
There's a searing heat in your belly that hurts like you've swallowed burning coals, compelling you to turn your murderous glare back onto the eyeball. You meet that terrible gaze and find yourself unafraid for the first time, because how could there be any room for fear when absolutely every single last inch of you is consumed by an unquenchable thirst for revenge? 
You don't care that the Grim Reaper is watching, you don't care that the construct's swirling, blue gaze is fixed upon you either. There is nothing consolable about you now. All you are - all you know – is frustration and pain and rage. Rage that you wield like a sword, pointed out towards the world around you, but most specifically, at the writhing mass of corruption that still blocks your path to the Tree.
You hardly recognise your own voice as you drop open your jaw and unleash a shout so loud and haunting, even Death is caught off guard by the force.
“KILL IT!”
At once, the Guardian throws its arms back, raises its chin to the heavens and, just as you had, bellows out a gut-churning, earth-trembling roar that shakes the very mountains around you, only this time, you don't feel as though you're going to tumble off your feet. In fact, you've never felt steadier.
“KILL THAT THING! FUCK IT UP!” you holler, spittle flying from your lips. Although your voice breaks and hurts to scream so loudly, you hurl your fist out at the corruption like you're throwing a punch, “FUCK YOU! FUCK! YOU!”
Fuelled by anguish that's barely its own, the Guardian slams its hammer into its free hand and hauls itself around to face the mass behind it. Your furious screams might as well be a powerful set of bellows that feed all that hatred and fury into the Guardian's soul, turning the fire there into a raging inferno, swelling and surging through its body like lava trying to burst from a volcano.
There's the immeasurable power of three, ancient makers' souls thrumming through the air, accompanied by the raw, physical strength of the Guardian, and Death is almost certain that he sees the swollen, yellow eyeball grow wide, its pupil shrinking with alarm.
How satisfying.
The Guardian reels its arm back and you feel your heart give an approving jolt when the enormous beast suddenly launches its hammer forward and down, driving it straight into the eye's squelching centre and pulling forth the most blood-curdling shriek you've ever heard. It's near enough deafening, but you don't cover your ears this time, instead letting the sound fill you up and thrum through the blood in your veins.
You're glad the corruption is screaming. You've never wanted something to suffer so much in your life.
The Guardian draws its hammer back again and reveals the eyeball, now resembling little more than a concave pustule on the inky wall of undulating, oozing filth.
Blackened spatters of ooze spurt from the wound like a disgusting rain and shower the grass around the cliffs, and a closer look reveals the tendrils that had made up the eyelids have been decimated and lay still and unresponsive, unlike the rest of the mass, sadly.
When the Guardian tries to bring its hammer down for another blow, several, gigantic tentacles suddenly shoot out and adhere themselves firmly around its arms whilst a fatter, larger one collides with the construct's chest, blasting out a large segment of stone as its smaller counterparts shove their slimy, wriggling tips as deep underneath the armoured plating as they can go.
Incensed, the construct tries to reel back, tugging uselessly on the insidious vines and belting out a roar of outrage that drowns out your own.
Blinded by hot tears and inconsolable with rage, you start forwards until Death has the presence of mind to march after you and pull you to a stop, his fingernails biting into the bare skin on your arm as you viciously snatch it back. However, you still reluctantly draw to a halt, never once taking your eyes off the battle ahead.
Beneath your feet, another quake rolls across the earth as the Guardian is brought crashing to its knees. Corruption, like the parasite it is, has its slimy grasp wholly and unshakeably fastened to the construct, stabbing its knife-like tentacles into the vulnerable heart stones and pouring its wicked intent into each of them.
For a gut-wrenching instance, something inside Death sinks at the sight of a sickly, yellow glow encompassing the stones, chasing away the soft blue light they'd once emitted.
Corruption is attempting to take control again.
But the Guardian, still hanging onto the final, lingering threads that tie it to sanity, will not go down without a fight.
Summoning the last of its vehemence and contempt for the force that destroyed its home and its creator, the construct braces its neck and pulls back as far as the tendrils will allow it to before they go taut and keep it from retreating further. Amidst the chaos of Corruption's thrashing appendages, the Guardian unexpectedly goes very still and there's an awful second where horror stabs through the red mist in front of your eyes.
No.. No, it can't be corrupted again, surely! That isn't fair! Eideard can't have died in vain! He can't have!
Just like that, your hatred returns in full and with a heaving chest, you scrunch up your face and open your jaw wide.
But just before you can unleash whatever terrible scream is working its way up your throat, the Guardian abruptly raises its head.
From your angle, all you and Death can see is a brilliant, blue light blossoming into existence from the construct's central heart stone, causing your own heart to roar triumphantly at the sight of it. It's magic. But more than that, it's that wonderful, familiar magic that you'll forever associate with Eideard.
The fact may well be that all makers' magic is the same shade, but you don't care.
He'd rebuilt the Guardian with his very essence, literally pouring his own life-force into purifying those heart stones.
There isn't a doubt in your mind.
That's Eideard up there.
Like a flower unfurling its petals, the light swells into a halo of magic that surrounds the Guardian's head and although its hands are still restrained by Corruption, the beast is far from unarmed.
In one, last show of might, it reels back, the plates around its neck shivering and flaring as it glares down at what remains of the corrupted eyeball. Then suddenly, like a colossal, living siege engine, it throws its head forwards into a death-dealing headbutt, smashing its heart stone into the corruption's shrieking core.
Within less than a second, the squirming mass begins to sizzle and hiss like skin under sulfuric acid as the magic encompasses it. The Guardian howls, and you realise that the corrupted tendrils are still tearing it to pieces, even as they dissolve right in front of your eyes until entire waves of it are cascading down to the valley floor alongside great swathes of the construct's stone. The cliffs to the North begin crumbling as well, losing structure as the webs of corruption woven deep inside their foundations melt and die.
The explosion of magic grows bright enough to encompass the entire valley and though the intensity stings your eyes, it doesn't otherwise hurt you. Instead, it lifts the tiny hairs all over your body, dancing and popping across your skin. And it's so warm. 
Warm like Eideard...
As the last remaining strands of Corruption bleed away, you let that tight coil in your belly unwind, collapsing onto your knees as if it had been anger alone that had kept you standing all this time.
In the same moment, the Guardian too falls apart for the last time. Like its creator before it, it had used up all the magic residing in its heart stones, pouring everything it had into one, last spell to save its home.
The magic spend, its body collapses in on itself and implodes like a star, leaving its scattered remains in front of the entrance to a once-obstructed canyon pass. Through the settling dust, you can make out a passage devoid of lushness or frondescence. Only flimsy wisps of grass grow further back, away from the acres of ground that corruption had poisoned.
Your gaze drops to the grass soaking your knees, catching a glimpse of red where your fingers rest against the material of your skirt and you let out a quiet hiss of breath, deflating into something small and tired and very fragile.
“Human?” Death's voice is uncharacteristically gentle, like he's afraid you'll shatter if he speaks too loudly.
Funny. He might be onto something.
You don't answer, not until his shadow falls over you and he tries your name instead. “Y/n?”
This time, you offer up a grunt in response, hardly more than a huff, really. You're spent.
You're done.
For the living embodiment of death, the Horseman behind you isn't sure how best to get you up onto your feet again. He knows grief well, encounters it in almost every aspect of his journeys. It's more of a companion to him than he ever wanted it to be. But for all his experience with grief and the grieving, he still doesn't know how to ease it with words.
'I'm sorry,' he could say. You seem to say it all the time, how difficult can it be?
Apparently very difficult, he finds upon opening his mouth, only to let it click shut again moments later. But then, why should he be sorry? He's not the one who killed Eideard. The old maker made that decision for himself. Death has nothing to be sorry for, so why say it?
He can practically hear your disapproving reply. 'That's not the point.'
Despite usually being such a fan of silence, for Death, every second that ticks by without a word from you feels empty and wrong, somehow. He chooses not to dwell on how quickly he's becoming used to the sound of your voice. Redirecting his thoughts away from that treacherous area, he stubbornly ponders over how much he despises not knowing what to say. Words, as well as weapons, have pride of place in his arsenal.
So he takes a step back, refocuses on what's ahead. And ahead, he knows, is the Tree of Life, and his brother.
Forwards then, to what he knows.
Looking down at you once more, the Horseman clears his throat. Maybe he can't offer you words of comfort, but he can offer you a distraction. “The way is clear,” he promptly observes, tipping his chin towards the canyon but keeping an eye trained on you, watching for a reaction. After a few seconds, he finally gets one.
“Is that all you have to say?” you wheeze through half-gritted teeth, “The way is clear? What about Eideard?”
Raising a brow, Death twists around to look back at the deceased old one and lets out a sigh. It is always a shame to lose the ancients. All that knowledge and experience lost. “What about him? He's dead.” He hadn't meant it callously, merely as a sad reminder of events. There's nothing either of you need to do. The makers will deal with Eideard's body once they find it.
When you suddenly lurch up onto your feet and round on Death, spitting like a cat, he realises he may have interpreted your question a little differently.
“I know he's dead!” you seethe, swiping away the snot that has gathered above your upper lip, “You're happy to just leave him there? Alone? Dead in the dirt?”`
Death pauses, then cocks his head to the side. “Is that not what one usually does with a corpse?”
His brother, Strife, had once informed him that he had a poor sense of timing.
For a long while, you just stare back at him, a faraway and incredulous look adorning your features. Eventually though, you lick your lips and give a small, dry laugh .”Huh.”
He can't help but ask, “What?”
“I've been hearing you say it all this time,” you admit, shaking your head from side to side, “All this 'I have no heart! I have no soul!'... I never used to agree with you.” Your shoulders droop and you fix the Horseman with a defeated glare that lacks any real bite. “Now, I think I finally see it. Anyone with a heart wouldn't just... leave a friend in the muck for his family to find. A person with a heart wouldn't do that. They'd never do that...”
Perhaps he had been too uncouth, but the Nephilim still bridles at your tone. “I told you,” he mutters darkly, “I don't have a -”
“-Yeah, save it,” you snap at him, cold as ice, turning your back and taking a step towards Tri Stone, “I'm going to tell the others what happened. Why don't you do us a favour and just... just go.”
He almost calls out to you. This parting feels... unresolved.
A flicker of anticipation ignites in his chest when you abruptly stop and twist your head around lightly, peering back at him from the corner of your eye.
“You know something?” you ask softly, “I think, if you'd've listened to me in the first place and didn't put that corrupted stone in the Guardian, then Eideard would be alive right now.”
And without another word, you force your trembling legs to carry you on the long trek back into town, leaving Death to stare after you in the silence he wishes he'd never broken.
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ginger-danica-snapps · 4 years ago
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The Wolf Queen and Her Crow Prince
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By Ginger D. Snapped
Written for @jonsaseasonalbash day 3 - 24 April: crow and little bird/king and queen/stone and snow.
I was out of town unexpectedly for Day Three, but here is my completion for the Jonsa Seasonal Bash, using the prompt King and Queen. This is written as snapshots of the time when the freefolk began to gather and the end of the long night. This is not betaed, so please be gentle. 
You can also read on my AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/30930386
Summary: Sansa knows she didn’t always live beyond the wall. Mance and his wife were not her parents, but she was freefolk to her bones and it didn’t matter who discovered her. She would save her people from the Night King and never kneel to a Southern King or Queen. 
 Sansa knew there was a time in her life that she didn’t live beyond the wall. She knew the same way that she knew what lemon tasted like and that somewhere there were people who were not always fighting the cold. Where people were fed when hungry and she was loved. The only thing she remembered from that life was her name being Sansa. 
Not that she was not loved by her people. Mance and his wife had been good to her. They had even told her some of the truth of how she came to be with the Freefolk. It was not a pretty story and she knew she had basically been stolen long before she was ready to be taken as a wife. Mance had killed the man that brought her beyond the wall, but worried about what would happen if he took her back across. 
So, she stayed with Mance and Dalla and learned the way of the freefolk. She became a sister to Val and while she did not have the fighting ability of many of the spearwives, she could hold her own well enough to dissuade any more men who came to steal her away. 
Still, she found her way across the great white to peer upon the wall several times in her growing years. She would stare upon the great monstrosity and wonder who beyond it would remember her. Was she missed? Was she loved? 
It made her melancholy in a way that was hard to explain, though Val tried to understand. 
Something else began to settle into the freefolk’s general attitude towards her in the latter year. She’d been one of them for so long that when she was happened upon by a shadowcat and thought herself dead that she was grateful to have lived free. It was not her day to die, however, as a gigantic beast flew from the rocks above them. 
She had scrambled backwards on her hands and bottom, boots scuffling against the ice and snow. Val, Mance, and Ygritte reaching her just as she stood and she leaned gratefully into Val’s own warmth. The cat was now had by the neck with what Sansa realized was a gigantic grey and white direwolf. 
They had seen only trackings of the great beasts before and often avoided the area they were found. 
When the cat was obviously dead, Sansa pushed Ygritte to the side when the girl went to draw back her bow string. 
“NO!” she cried out before she had formed a thought for what she was going to do. Then she was pulling away from Val and rushing forward to the wolf. 
She hit her knees as she reached forward, kneeling before the wolf, and realized for a moment she felt a savage joy at destroying the shadowcat and tasted blood in her own mouth, though there was none. The beast leant to her and rubbed it’s humongous face against hers. She let a giggle escape her before she was flinging her arms around the wolf. 
“Nothing to be said for it now. The rumours about the Stark girl going missing were true,” Val murmured and Sansa looked up to Mance. He looked as if he had aged twenty years in the span of moments. As if he had already not been struggling over their people going missing by the tribes, clans, and societies. 
Sansa was not stupid. 
If a Stark child had gone missing some years before and now she had a direwolf in front of her who seemed to want to keep her, then by all rational thinking she was this Stark girl. 
Amazingly, for the first time in many years, Sansa saw a flash of something in her memory. A grey and white flag with a direwolf upon it. 
She wrinkled her nose as she realized what this meant. 
She had always known she was born to someone below the wall, but she was not just the child of a kneeler. She was a child of someone that the people kneeled to. 
“Child,” Mance’s voice reached her and she looked up with a tilted head. She huffed as she realized he was worried about her reaction. 
That was stupid and she told him so. If he, a deserter of the crows, toted her back to the wall they would have thanked him, taken her, and then promptly hung him for desertion. Then it was likely they would have drummed up the support of these Lords and Ladies she was apparently blood kin too and brought an army into their home to kill indiscriminately. 
“It is fine, stop being stupid. I understand that it was even more important to not return me if I was...am...this Stark girl,” she finally murmured. 
They made their way back to the camp Sansa kept her hand on the nape of the direwolf. 
“Whaddya gonna name her?” Ygritte asked eventually and Sansa looked over in surprise. She truly had not thought about it. 
She looked at the wolf and then thought about how she hit her knees in front of her. She grinned savagely and laughed. 
“Well, I kneeled before her, so I guess she must be a Lady,” Sansa answered and Mance barked out a laugh. 
“Lady it is,” he chuckled and they made their way back to their tents, the freefolk around them all giving them wide eyes. 
-------------
It was three moons later when the world went to shit.
Their people, those that called Mance King and those that did not, were being slaughtered by these dead creatures. Sansa had seen three of her milk siblings rise and attack the same as that which had killed them. 
She’d cut the head off of one herself with Val thrusting a lit torch against the creature and setting it aflame. They’d barely managed to hold Dalla between them before Lady had returned from wherever she had been hunting. They all clamoured on top of the direwolf, gripping hands into the fur, and Sansa murmured an order for Lady to run. 
They’d met with Vance and many of the others who had been hunting and Sansa had to shut her eyes at the cries of those who realized that they had lost all their elderly and the children too young to join the hunt. 
“No one is left?” Mance asked quietly as Sansa helped Dalla down. 
“No, it was slaughter. We need to be moving,” Sansa whispered back harshly, pushing aside all feelings for the time being. 
Mance nodded, “Aye, we make for Frostfangs.”
“This will be happening everywhere, Mance,” Val added as they began to lead their people away.
Mance grunted, “Maybe now they will listen.”
Sansa was sitting before the fire, Lady beside her, working her needle through the last of the seal skin that had come at the same time as the whale blubber that Val was stirring to render over the low flame. There was not much brought by the last traveler and Sansa knew this would be the last they would receive here. 
It would not be long until they’d made their bid to make it over the wall. There had been rumors of ill tidings in the kingdom of the kneelers. A king dead, rebellion, and only little Starks in Winterfell. 
Over the last moon, Mance had taught her all he could of the world below the wall. 
He said just in case, but Sansa could read his wishes between the words unspoken. 
In case all else fails, use her name to the best of her ability, and take care of their people. 
The tent flap few open and they all looked up, Sansa’s hand automatically reaching for the spear she kept beside her at all times now. Lady was up on her feet as well and lips already pulled back in a snarl. 
“Ygritte!” she exclaimed as the girl came in and eyes settled on Mance. Sansa settled back down into her chair when she realized there was no immediate danger. 
“What is it? Why are you back?” Mance gruffly asked. 
Ygritte hesitated only momentarily before stating, “I brought a crow. Says he has forsworn his vows and wishes to join our people.”
Sansa watched as Mance’s eyebrows raised, “Well, bring him in.”
Ygritte hesitated again, “He has a wolf like our girl. Big old white thing with red eyes. Says it's the companion of members of his family.”
Sansa stood again, her spear dropping to a clatter this time as she grabbed at the fabric of her tunic. 
“He’s a Stark?” she said, her voice barely a whisper. 
Ygritte grunted in agreement, “Said something about natural and true, but I couldn’t tell you what his lips were flappin’ about. Seemed to be important to him though.”
“He’s a natural born son of House Stark. The bastard brought back from the war against the Targaryen’s by the Warden of the North,” Mance mused before adding, “Your half brother. I don’t remember his name.”
“Jon,” Sansa murmured as Ygritte answered as well, “Snow, Jon Snow.”
Sansa looked up with wide-eyes. She remembered his name and suddenly a young boy was in front of her young self with dark curly hair and solemn eyes. The same spectral boy she dreamt of on a nightly basis. She had thought him nought but her imagination. 
“You should not climb that, Lady Sansa. Your mother would be quite cross.” 
Then before she could say another word, a man was coming through the tent flap. Sansa’s breath caught as she knew without a doubt that this was the man from her dreams. This was Jon Snow, her brother, and she realized without a doubt that he was her downfall. 
She felt her heart beat faster, her palms growing sweaty, and when his eyes met hers Sansa was lost in the darkness. 
“It...it can’t be,” her crow brother whispered as his eyes darted to Lady and back up, “Sansa?” 
“Hello Jon,” she responded without thinking and then she could think no more as she was swept into strong arms and she was inhaling deep the scent of her kin. 
-----------
Sansa stared at Mance with a gaping mouth. 
“Absolutely not,” she bit out. 
Mance did not look impressed, “Absolutely so. Every leader, chieftain, and speaker has decided. I have stepped back and you are the Queen-Beyond-The-Wall.” 
Sansa shook her head fiercely. 
She’d spent the last three days just getting to know her brother. She’d already decided to steal him for her own as soon as the chance arose. After all, he was only her half-brother, and it was not unheard of among the Freefolk. 
Menfolk were sometimes in low commodity and surviving had been more important than the sharing of a parent. 
Still, Jon was sweet, if a bit naive. 
Ygritte had told her of her advances on Jon on the way to Frostfangs and she didn’t quite believe the man was truthful in his defection. This surprised Sansa not one bit. She had already come to that opinion in the three days she’d spent with him. 
It was only the wildness in his eyes and the obvious wish for the freedom of her people that burned in him brightly that kept Sansa from truly speaking out about his duplicity. Brother or not, she had an entire people to protect from the crows and those below the wall. 
“This is a mistake,” Sansa finally muttered. 
Mance shook his head, “No. This is the only way to get most of us past the wall with little to no bloodshed.” 
Sansa snorted in derision, “Whether the slaughter happens this side of the wall or once we’ve settled in some nice little field and are betrayed, the kneelers will betray us,” then she sat on a stool and lowered her face into her hands. 
“Are we even positive that Jon can help? That he will be listened to?” she asked quietly, at almost a whisper. 
Mance made an encouraging noise and sat down in front of her, “They say his brother became a king before dying and that the entirety of the kingdom is at war. We will take back proof of the dead and show the watch. I am hopeful your presence will encourage less hostility. If they decide to be fuckers all around, then I’ll take the people over the wall the way we planned and take the castle.” 
Sansa sighed and stood again, “Then I suppose I should explain the truth of things to Jon. I get the feeling he expects to return me to the stone houses to wear pretty dresses and sew little pieces of cloth with no purpose all day.” 
Mance chuckled and leaned in and kissed her forehead. She turned and went to join her brother in the tent they’d been keeping him in. 
She could not help but laugh when she entered and found Tormund and Ygritte keeping guard. Jon had apparently said or done something they didn’ t appreciate, because he was trussed up like one of the wild boars they hadn’t seen in years. 
She pulled her knife from her belt and slipped it through the ropes at his wrist. She gave him a leering smile and watched, pleased, as he turned the same color as her hair. 
“Leave us,” she demanded and didn’t bother to look and see if they obeyed. The soft falls of feet and the fabric flapping closed gave her all the answer she needed. 
“Will your crows listen?” she demanded and Jon looked at her confused. 
She huffed in response, “Your crow people and the southerner’s, will they listen when we tell them of the dead and allow us to give proof. The wall holds for now, but that will not be forever. It will fall and when it does then this is all of our problems. If you leave my people to fall behind the wall then the force that rises will be unstoppable.” 
“Sansa, you are a Stark. The last living Stark as far as I know and the Lady of Winterfell,” her crow kin told her and Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 
“I am the Queen-Beyond-the-Wall, chosen by my people here, and I will not forsake them for stone walls and kneeling sycophants,” she muttered. 
“You're the Queen? I thought Mance…,” Jon began but Sansa held up a hand to stop him. 
This time he glared at her and Sansa resisted the urge to snarl back at him. 
“I am now the Queen. The people decided just this morning and I will be the one to deal with your people. Now, answer my question and none of this manure about you supporting the freefolk. We are not stupid and you might have the heart to be free, but your mind is terribly chained up,” Sansa demanded. 
Then Jon motioned for her to sit. Sansa moved to sit and crossed her legs underneath her and they began to hammer out an accord. 
--------
Four moons later,  Sansa found herself sitting across from a man with a sterner face than any she’d ever seen. 
“You are a Stark and I am your rightful King,” the man said gruffly. 
Sansa sniffed, “I choose to be Freefolk and I am their chosen Queen. I cannot be this Stark you want to put in that stone cage and you cannot be my King. We are not married and your wife is unlikely to take kindly to the idea of you taking another one.” 
The man called Stannis, who she had taken to just calling the Southern King in her head, was now resembling one of the fish with whiskers that she’d been served since coming through the wall. 
“Put my brother in it. He seems to be fond of stone cages,” she added. 
“He’s a bastard,” the wannabe king growled. 
Sansa barked out a laugh, “You think these Northern people will accept a Stark raised as Freefolk over a bastard raised as a Stark? You must be stupider than you look. Make my brother this Lord Stark and offer my people the right to live below the wall if they fight for you and this chair you want so badly without kneeling. They’ll agree to follow the law of these lands while we are here and will allow Jon to be the direct voice to yourself. I speak for my people to Jon and he speaks for me to you. Problem solved.” 
She stated her demands and leaned back in the chair, folding her hands in her lap, and just stared at the man.  
“Your father…,” he began again, but she didn’t even let him make another excuse. 
Sansa stood and turned to walk out. She looked back over her shoulder before she exited. 
“I do not remember my father, nor my mother, nor most of my siblings. Apparently there were two I never even met. Appealing to my sense of familial ties will do nothing but frustrate me. Give me what my people need and we have a deal. Otherwise, there is no reason to send for me again.”
With that Sansa exited the room as calmly as she could. She stopped briefly on the outside and listed as the fire witch spoke to Stannis. 
“I believe she is correct. We now know where the war truly is,” the woman said. 
Stannis made a noise of derision, “Her brother already turned down my pardon of his vows, legitimisation, and being the Warden of the North. I need to place a Stark back in Winterfell or I will never draw enough support to take the throne. We need the kingdom to fight this damn war you are speaking of.”
“Then do as the fire commanded,” the woman responded. 
“Now see here,” the man that Stannis called his Hand, though Sansa did not understand why he needed someone’s else’s when he had two himself that worked just fine, “You can’t just marry a man to his sister, half or prophesied, regardless.” 
Sansa wanted to choke. What had her idiot kin done now? 
Swallowing hard, she marched off to find Jon. 
------------
“I made a vow,” Jon was now glaring at her and Sansa was getting rather tired of people glaring at her and speaking to her of words that were someone more important than doing what was necessary to survive. 
She gave him an unimpressed look, “So, did the majority of the men in this stone cage currently, but they sure seem to enjoy getting their cock wet with my spearwives.” 
“Do you know the whole of what is being asked, Sansa? Or are you going to stand there and lecture me? Marriage, Sansa, he wants us to marry,” Jon growled out and Sansa stood to meet him when he began to move away. 
She pressed her hands into his chest and pushed back with all his strength, “You will listen to me, Jon Snow. You made a vow to protect the realm of men. Staying on this stupid wall, freezing, with a bunch of other stupid men is not going to keep this realm safe. You all already apparently forgot who the actual enemy the wall was built to stop was, nevertheless leaving my people as fodder to build an army the likes of which you’ve never seen. Taking Winterfell and Stannis’s offer, regardless of what it is, will protect the realm of men.”
Jon gaped at her, speechless, and Sansa took it as a sign to do something. She stepped closer, not letting him escape her gaze, and pressed her lips against his. He made a sound that reminded her of a dying man’s last breath, before suddenly kissing her back with a fury. Sansa gasped as he lifted her and sat her upon the table. 
She had just managed to get her fingers under his leathers and was about to yank at laces when he stepped back with a panicked look on his face. Sansa wanted to scream at his ridiculous morals. 
He turned to run from the room, but she stood swiftly and passed him, sweeping her leg under his to send him sprawling down. She slammed the door closed and bolted it. Looking around, Sansa made herself not grumble at the lack of furs or a bed. 
Beds were the thing she could grow used to the most. Although Jon had said the beds here were nothing like in this Winterfell. Sansa could not imagine anything softer. 
She looked down at Jon and reached behind her to undo her laces. 
“Sansa…” he said hoarsely, staring up at her. Sansa ignored the plea in his eyes and let her dress fall from her shoulders. 
The dress had been a juxtaposition of painful and enjoyable of being below the wall instead of behind it. She’d run her fingers over the soft material when it had been gifted to her to wear instead of her leather breeches and fur jerkins. She thought Val would have liked it, for all the girl would have argued. 
She’d have liked the monstrosity they called a bathtub too.
It all made Sansa incredibly uncomfortable at the reminders of what she had been born into and sometimes, in the darkest part of night, she could see the sweet, innocent, stupid thing she would have been. She both was grateful to not be her and mournful of what could have been. 
“Now, if you can truly say you do not want me, then I will redress and walk out of this room. If you cannot honestly admit that, though, then I’m taking you for my husband, you’re taking the offer of this Stannis, and we’re going to let my people behind the wall,” She murmured as she knelt in front of him, her braid falling over her shoulder and brushing against the top of her breast. 
She watched his eyes track the movement and grinned at the heat in his eyes. She knew without a doubt that Ygritte had been correct. Jon was definitely a pure man and Sansa ignored the heat that flooded her core, causing her to grow quickly wet, at the thought that he was going to be her man to have. 
No one else would have him again, unless she was dead and buried. She’d had lovers before, occasionally a spearwife and at times a man from another clan, but never one she wanted to keep. 
Jon was staring at her still, this time with some sort of worshipful awe, when her fingers reached to his breaches and unlaced him. 
“Sansa,” he whispered, this time more like whispered words of love. 
She pulled him free and pulled herself over him to straddle. Lowering herself slowly, Sansa sat on his cock and groaned at the stretch of his girth. She wondered if these Southern boys compared cocks the way the youth of the freefolk did and if Jon realized how blessed the gods had been to him. 
She comforted herself with the knowledge that she was helping him break his vows as it would be a travesty to waste such a cock. She began to move her hips in a languid, smooth motion, rocking against him hard on the downfall to press her button into his groin. She added a longer roll as she grew hotter and hotter. 
Then without warning, Jon decided to be an active participant. He surged up, hand cupping the back of her head, as he moved them over. Sansa was pleased to find he had unclipped his cloak and she was now laid out against it. She moaned in pleasure as he immediately set to fucking into her. 
Then his mouth was against hers and she was shoving her own hips up to meet his furious pace. Sansa chased the feeling that was building inside of her and she refused to allow his control to stop her pleasure. She grabbed one of his hands and pulled it down to her button and pressed against his palm as she felt his cock inside of her as she ground upwards. 
“Sansa,” Jon groaned as she felt herself begin falling. 
“Jon!” she screamed as pleasure ripped through her body and she felt him respond to her own cry with wetness flooding inside of her. 
She prepared for him to collapse on top of her as most men she’d taken her pleasure from were apt to do. She found herself moved and cradled against him as he laid back on the floor. 
“I don’t know if Ygritte explained how this works, but I took you for my husband,” she said succinctly and dared him to argue with her stare. 
He sighed and looked over at her, “Our father and your mother will probably crawl out of their graves to kill me, but aye, I accept you as my wife. The North will not love this, but they will accept it to get a Stark back in Winterfell. Now, I can take my wife’s name instead of legitimation from Stannis. That will make them even more accepting. We have to take Winterfell first, though. Without Winterfell we will not be seen as legitimate. They might balk a southern king releasing me from my vows.”
Sansa sighed against him. The man knew nothing of bed talk. Sitting up she pulled him after her. If he wanted to talk business then they should get to it. 
Cutting her eyes back over to view his backside before she slid her dress over her head, Sansa also thought that the sooner they finished the business then they could get back to the fucking. 
A voice inside her head added, and baby making. 
------------
They meet with Stannis...it’s about as enjoyable as Sansa had imagined. They reach an accord. 
They go beyond the wall and speak to her people about the agreement to help take back the Northern key that was supposed to be her birthright and then the truly southern city where Stannis has his stupid chair. Then Stannis will bring the full force of the kingdom North to handle the enemy beyond the wall. That discussion is even less enjoyable with much yelling and even one clan defecting completely and leaving. 
Sansa says a prayer to the old gods that they find their way to somehow burn in one of the red witch’s fires before they join the army of the dead. Stupid fools. 
Stannis and Jon both choke when she tells them that there are at least 85,000 fighting men and women. The rest are too old to be an asset or too young to understand how to tell the difference between two living enemies. 
They both insist the women don’t fight and Sansa plans to ignore them. If the enemy doesn’t care about killing women, why should they care about fighting them? 
Finally, they send ravens. So many ravens and Sansa is astounded how the birds manage to find the people and return with a warg to guide and control them. Jon is astounded to learn that wargs exist and that he has the ability. He does it regularly with Ghost but had thought it was a dream. Sansa and he both begin to learn together with a freefolk skinchanger. 
Jon and her marry before the red witch in part of their agreement with Stannis and Jon is released from his vows to the watch and officially becomes Jon Stark. Then they wed again before the heart tree beyond the wall and Sansa imagines for a moment that her forgotten parents are watching. 
Mance, Dalla, Val, and Ygritte are there in the flesh though and Mance tells her later, when they are all huddled around a fire, that he is proud of the free woman she is. Dalla and he both ask if something happens to them that she takes care of Val and the baby Dalla has yet to birth. 
She drags him back to the heart tree alone and vows before it that she will save as many as she can, but she will watch for Val and the unborn babe with every breath she has. 
He is the only father she can remember. 
Her people agree, as long as they are allowed to have the truth north back as soon as the final war is over and it not be a part of the southern kingdom. They will not kneel. 
Sansa will not give her crown until the war is over and her people are safe. 
By then it would not be necessary as her people would have no need for one when they are free in their home and not in danger of the dead. 
Jon and she share a bed every night and Sansa is pleased to learn that her husband is a quick study. She also thinks her men are sharing ways to please a woman, because he attacks her center with fingers, lips, tongue, and teeth that is clumsy, but not knowledgeable in the fundamentals. 
If she was the type of woman she was born to be, she’d demure her eyes and shyly thank the wives of the men. She’s not that woman though and she makes sure her own clan of people receive three casts of the shit ale the night watch’s call a drink and leads the toast herself. Ygritte claims the majority of the thanks. 
She will never tire of Jon’s blush. 
Two men and a boy try to kill her husband by tricking him into an ambush, claiming his uncle has survived. 
She calls bullshit and when the idiot tries to go rushing down, she draws her blade and motions for the ten men and women she’d chosen to guard her and her husband follow. She’d thought it ridiculous when Stannis told her that she should have an honor guard of some sort since he was recognizing her as a queen and it was only proper. 
Her own clan had sent ten forward without hesitancy. Ygritte and Tormund among them. 
Ygritte is the one who shoots the boy, her husband’s steward, when Jon cannot do it. He cries into her breast that night and Sansa runs her fingers through his hair and comforts him the best she can. 
Tormund somehow decides that her husband should be brought closer to her people after this and begins to heckle him at every opportunity. Sansa finds them fighting in the yard most mornings now. 
Jon fits her people more than he wishes to admit. Sansa tries not to think of the day they will send them back beyond the wall. 
They begin the march to Winterfell. A winter storm takes them by surprise, but the Freefolk laugh at the southern men in Stannis’s army. Very few Northmen answered their call, but Sansa is not particularly surprised. Jon is only half Stark and she was raised among the Freefolk. Even together they won’t draw the North to them until they sit in Winterfell and the dead is more known. 
The freefolk begin to teach the southerners how to best pad their armor and they stop before dusk every night and her people train them how to move on snow and ice. Stannis, his hand, and witch take dinner every night with Jon, Sansa, and Mance. 
It’s an odd group, but they make it work. 
Melisandre is oddly good at helping keep everyone focused on the real war. She watches Jon in a way that Sansa is not happy about, however. It was on one of the later nights that Melisandre finally addressed whatever it was she had been pondering. Stannis and the others were already abed in their tents and it was only her guard, Jon, and Melisandre left around the fire. 
“Your mother, do you know who your mother was?” the witch asked and Sansa resisted the urge to scratch her eyes out when her husband almost immediately became sullen. It was a particular talent of his. 
“No, My Lady, Lord Stark never deemed it the time. He promised he would the next I saw him, but you know what happened with that,” Jon said quietly. 
Sansa’s eyes narrowed as Melisandre stood and asked for his hand. Jon, the stupid fool, didn’t hesitate and then yelped when Melisandre obviously pierced him in the palm. She was sopping the blood up with a scrap of fabric before he could move back and Sansa stood angrily. 
The witch just held up her hand and walked to the fire with the fabric before anyone could say anything. 
“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” the witch murmured and tossed the cloth in. 
Sansa could not help but find herself intrigued as the fire almost doubled in size and suddenly there were images. Jon and a short, blond woman standing before huge beast’s that could only be dragons. Jon wearing black and red and flying on the dragon. Then nothing. 
She looked to Melisandre, who looked back at both of them before sighing. 
“I fear that I might have misinterpreted the flames in regards to Stannis,” the woman said as if announcing what she wanted for breakfast, “It’s you who is our prince or the girl.” 
“Who was that woman?” Sansa asked. 
Melisandre sat and began to draw in the sand a rudimentary symbol of three creatures wrapped around one another. 
Jon whispered, “House Targaryen. That is their sigil.”
“Yes, Jon, and the only interpretation left to us is that you are a member of said house, or atleast of their blood. That woman was Daenerys Targaryen, the lost Targaryen Princess, who swears to return to Westeros with fire and blood to reclaim what she says is hers.” Melisandre finished. 
Sansa raised an eyebrow, “Well, don’t be telling Stannis that. You’ve told him that he was the promised one or some other rot. Best to let him keep thinking that.” 
“Lyanna Stark is my mother,” Jon whispered and Sansa looked at him in confusion. 
Jon swallowed hard, “Lyanna was your father’s sister. They say Rhaegar Targaryen took her away and our Uncle Brandon and Grandfather went to King’s Landing to demand her back. Aerys...oh gods, he was my grandfather...burned them alive before demanding that Jon Arryn bring him the heads of your father and Robert Baratheon. It’s why they went to war and deposed him...deposed House Targaryen.” 
“Deposed or not, you are Targaryen and Stark, the culmination of the song of ice and fire,” Melisandre said, “Your blood is the blood of kings, the blood of the dragon.” 
“I am not a dragon,” Jon snarled and stood with such a quickness and fury that Sansa found herself preparing for battle, “I am the bastard of a deposed house that holds no right to anything in Westeros unless this Daenerys Targaryen returns to conquer it again. It will not be me.” 
Melisandre hummed under her breath and Sansa watched the witch consider his words with a sense of trepidation. Sansa reached into her skirts to put her fingers on her knife. If the witch made to do something that would expose her husband, then Sansa would slit her throat before she could speak it. 
“Yes,  My Lord Stark. You have married into the house of wolves and therefore, I suppose, you are not a dragon any longer. There would be no reason to discourage King Stannis from battle and if Daenerys Targaryen returns, R’hllor will bless the one who is supposed to sit the Iron Throne,” Melisandre finally said and with a quick dip of her own skirts, she moved to head back to her tent. 
Sansa let her fingers fall from the hilt and went to stand before her husband and cousin. This made her think of something and so she reached up to cup his head. 
“Now you don’t have to worry the Gods will strike you down for fucking your sister, cousin. Do these southerner’s marry cousins?” she said with a smile and grinned when he choked in surprise and met her eyes. 
“You do realize your still in the north beneath the wall?” he asked incredulously. 
Sansa snorted, “The North is not a place, it’s a people, and those people are the Freefolk. There might be some among the kneeler’s whose heart is Northern and for that they are more my people, than Stannis’s or this Dragon Aunt Lady.”
Sansa tartly turned and made way back to their tents.
-----------
They were crossing beside a large lake when Sansa thought to ask. 
“How did this Theon Greyjoy take Winterfell if it is as large a fortress as you say it is?” 
She was sandwiched in between Stannis and Jon, riding a grey garron that was older, but sturdy. Melisandre, Mance, and Davos behind them. 
“Trickery,” Jon muttered, “He had a force attack a nearby vassal and when Winterfell sent the majority of their fighting men to stop it, Theon led a small group over the wall and took the keep.” 
Sansa hummed, “And this Dreadfort, the Bolton’s own keep is not but a bit over 100 leagues from here?” 
“Yes…” Jon said cautiously and Sansa could see that he recognized something in her face, “What are you thinking?”
Sansa thought of her men and the number they said were at Winterfell. There could not be many left at the Bolton’s keep, but these southerner’s seemed very attached to their stone houses. 
“Could we not do something similar? Surely this Roose and Ramsey have heard of our army marching, but they might not know it is made up mainly of my people. They probably assume it to be your own army and one not used to fighting battle in this terrain. Send a group of my own to take this Dreadfort and draw these pretenders from Winterfell. They would easily be taken care of by ambush on the journey between Winterfell and their own ancestral stones. Then we take a smaller contingent and take back Winterfell,” she said aloud and tried to ignore the way Jon was staring at her. 
“You would have us be as dishonorable as a filthy ironborn?” Stannis said incredulously. 
Sansa could not help but roll her eyes, ”I’d see as few of our combined men and women die as possible so that we may better survive the long night, but call it what you will. I care not for your southern ideals of morals beyond a night’s enjoyment of listening to pretty songs and fables.”
“Lord Stark was honorable, Robb was honorable and it got their heads cut from their body and practically destroyed the North. I say we go with Sansa. Roose Bolton broke guestright and his own oath to his King, he has no honor to be dishonored,” Jon quietly said. 
Stannis was quiet for a bit and Sansa wondered what demons of his own he was fighting in his head. Then he turned and looked at Jon, before sighing. 
“Select your men that will go to the Dreadfort, Queen Sansa. I will do the same among mine. You know Winterfell best, Lord Stark, so you select the contingency that will take the keep once the men are gone,” Stannis gritted out as if being forced to say the words. Then he turned and galloped back. 
----------
It was nearly a moon more when a large number of the Bolton forces left Winterfell and marched towards the Dreadfort. There were forty of her people with her and several men Jon had chosen hiding among the thickness of the recent snow. They made way carefully at the hour of the wolf.
It took no time at all to catch the walls with their hooks and scale the wall. 
Sansa took great amusement in the idea that they were taking back her ancestral home the same way they had originally planned to scale the wall itself. She watched amused as Jon kept her behind him and they made their way further in. 
Her people made quick work of all watchmen that came near before they began to move into the keep that Jon pointed out. It was when they were in what appeared to be the living quarters of the family that Sansa had her first moment of recognition. A woman with hair a similar shade as her own was standing in front of Sansa and curly haired boy and waving her finger. Sansa knew it was her mother and she could almost hear a soft, singing voice in the back of her head. 
Shaking herself out of her memory, Sansa stopped at the end of a hall and motioned for two of her people to go forward and kill the men standing guard in front of a specific set of chambers. They made quick work and the men did not even have a chance to raise an alarm of any type of sound. 
She stood by Jon, who had drawn his sword, as their people busted through the double doors. 
A rather pretty, but thick woman jumped from the bed as an older man did the same. His hand went immediately to a crossbow, but Tormund threw a blade to pierce at the palm of the man. 
“Who the…” the man began but was pressed into the floor onto his knees. 
“Take the woman and find a place to secure her until this is over,” Jon ordered as he stepped forward with Longclaw. He looked at the man on his knees and then around the room. His hand reaching out to caress the wooden bed frame. Sansa realized it was a carved wolf and she wondered if this had been her parent’s chambers. 
“Do you know who I am?” her husband asked as he stepped forward into the light of the moon shining through a window. The man glared and took him in from head to toe. 
“You must be the bastard. You're too old to be any of the others if they had been still alive. Did you break your vows to the wall to be here?” he said in a low voice. 
Sansa finally just laughed, the dramatics of everything was too much. 
“He is Lord Stark, but you should be more worried about me,” she said with a light voice as she stepped forward.
“Stannis named you Lord and legitimized you. The north will never follow a bastard,” the man ignored her and continued to stare at Jon. Sansa narrowed her own eyes as responded again, not giving Jon a chance to speak. 
“My name is Sansa Stark, Lord Bolton, I presume?” she icily demanded and when the man’s eyes widened. 
“Good,” she answered at his obvious identity when the man refused to speak, “I was planning to let Jon just cut off your head since he thinks that's the way to do this, but I think we might see how you’ve been treating the people here that served the Starks. Let’s see if your House has lived up to its words. You see, even my people, go around your lands when escaping the land of always winter. I think after we discover the worst of what you have done here, then we will do the same.”
With that Sansa stepped forward one more time and brought her foot down hard against his face. Roose Bolton fell to the ground in a heap. 
“Secure him until we finish sweeping the keep and clearing it out of Bolton men,” Jon ordered, “And open the gates to the rest of our people.” 
Hours later, Sansa and Jon stood facing one another in the rooms that had been her parents. Staring into her eyes,  Jon pulled her tight against him and pressed his lips to hers in a fevered kiss. 
“Winterfell is yours, Lord Stark,” Sansa whispered against them. 
Jon made a noise of discouragement, “No, My Queen, Winterfell is yours as is my heart, now and always.”
-----------
It was almost three years later when Sansa stood before her father's statue in the Stark Crypts. It would not be long now till her husband and herself would return to their people beyond the wall. They still called her queen and Sansa would honor their choice everyday of her life. Jon's responsibility to the North would soon be over and they could be free. Between bringing the North the heel in time to prepare for the dead, Jon and her people attempting to help Stannis take the throne only for him and many of his people to be blown up on ships, and reminding a dragon queen that it really did not matter if the North knelt or not since the dead were coming for them all. Sansa grinned as she remembered Jon standing before the black glass throne and telling it to the woman's face that she was welcome to take her people back across the sea if she wanted to wait to die where it was warmer. 
Then the green dragon slamming in front of Jon and putting his wing down and the secret being blown. Thankfully the dragon queen had played nice till after the long night and when Sansa refused to kneel to her, Jon took to the skies with Rhaegal. By the time the fight was over, both Drogon and the dragon queen were dead and Jon encouraged Daenerys's people to leave with Rhaegal. They were not happy, but they did as they were bid, except for the Dothraki left. They seemed to think that Jon's battle meant that he was their new Khal. Jon and Sansa just combined them with their own people and sent them beyond the wall. 
Then the great rebuilding began and continued until the day a raven came that announced that Cersei Lannister was dead, along with the remaining Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister, and several other members of the small council. 
A crunching noise drew her attention back to the present. 
“When the snows fall and white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”
The girl that spoke to Sansa was a brunette with short cropped hair and she held a small sword and wore breeches. There was a familiar look in her grey eyes and Sansa tilted her head as she considered the strange girl who had come upon her in the crypts of her bloodkin. 
Ygritte stood back in the shadows and Sansa knew she had her bow out with an arrow knocked, but Sansa held her hand out to stay any sudden shots. 
The girl laughed. 
“I will not hurt your freefolk guard, although this place is for Starks and Stark blood alone. You are the lost Stark daughter, arrived home as the Queen-Beyond-The-Wall. Do you know who I am?” 
Sansa felt herself smile, probably showing a little too much teeth, “Grey eyes as serious as a widow made five-times-over having her sixth husband die mysteriously, what appears to be more brashness than commonsense, and a wild look about you that reminds me of my husband’s fury when his aunt tried to kill us after the long night?”
She paused and stepped closer, “That would make you my supposedly dead sister, Arya.”
The girl tilted her head and considered Sansa, “You are not what I expected. The septa always said I was never enough of a lady and it was a shame that you had disappeared as you were nothing but a lady.” 
Sansa barked out a laugh, “There’s not room for ladies beyond the wall. Welcome home, Arya. My husband, your cousin, will be glad of your survival. Bran came home before the long night and Rickon was brought home by a fat lord from the sea.” 
“Lord Manderly, I heard. I’m sorry I didn’t make it home before the battle that happened. I did not hear of it until it was over and I was in King’s Landing,” Arya murmured as they turned and made way from the crypts. 
Sansa’s eyebrow raised, “What were you doing in King’s Landing?” 
“Killing a queen. That last name on my final list before coming home,” Arya said as they climbed out and into the coolness of the spring night, “Is it true that Jon and you are going back beyond the wall once Rickon is settled in as King in the North with Bran as his regent?”
Sansa startled at her sister’s knowledge, “Aye, Jon and I will be returning North to settle our people now that the threat is gone. It seems that enough of the old guard died that we will perhaps be able to establish some sort of relations beyond the wall and North Westeros.”
“Can I come with you?” Arya said as they entered the keep. 
Sansa smiled as a shout came from the head table and her husband began rushing forward. 
“I think I would like that. Who better to help the bond between the Queen-Beyond-The-Wall and the King in the North than a sister of them both,” Sansa managed to answer as Arya was immediately swept away from her side and into her husband's arms. 
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bonjour-rainycity · 4 years ago
Text
Double Heart | Chapter One ~ Cosima
|previous part|
Pairing: Haldir x OFC
Rating: G
Word count: 2100
Warnings: None
**Read on Ao3 under the user “bonjour-rainycity” if you like!**
A/n Thanks for the love on the prologue <3 also, this is the first time I’ve scheduled a post, so please let me know if something looks weird!
Translations: Av-‘osto = Don’t be afraid // Odúlen le natho = I’m here to help you // Pedil edhellen = do you speak Elvish
I was right — the peace deserts me instantly.
A sharp pain pierces my chest, my lungs ache, and my brain throbs inside my skull. A man leans over me. His long, dark hair tickles my neck. He is beautiful and smiling, but I do not know him. Fear quickens my breath. I try to jerk away from him, but he keeps a firm pressure on my shoulders, holding me in place. He meets my wide, panicked eyes with calm, reassuring ones of forest brown.
“Av-‘osto. Odúlen le natho.”
What? I shake my head at him, fear temporarily making room for confusion. The words he speaks, which had proven so irresistible when I was under the weight of the water, now sound only strange and indecipherable.
I stare at him, uncomprehending and very much on my guard.
His brow furrows, and, when he speaks again, it is with a note of hesitation. “Pedil edhellen?”
“I don’t think she does.” Another voice—confident, commanding—comes from my right. I turn my head just in time to see a tall man in peculiar armor slide off his horse. He takes quick strides towards me, then crouches near my side. “What is your name?”
I find myself momentarily silenced by his proximity, as well as his eyes. They are a clear ice blue—beautiful, depthless—but cold and calculating. They hold none of the warmth the other man’s eyes do, only suspicion. As much as I don’t like behind held to the ground by him, I turn my head, searching for the deep, honest brown I met upon awaking.
He meets my gaze with a soft smile. “Do not feel fear, we are not here to harm you. We found you unconscious and alone near the river, and stopped to help.” His voice is light, unsure, and strangely accented, placing emphasis on the wrong part of the words, but I am pleased that I can understand him now. As if to illustrate his point, that I am not in danger from them, he releases his hold on my shoulders and allows me space to sit up.
“Slowly,” he cautions. “I worry you have hit your head.”
That would explain the pounding. I grimace, supporting myself on my forearms, and turn my head to observe my surroundings. It’s all very green and brown, I suppose, though vibrant, not at all like the waters I found myself trapped under. Tall grass, puddles of mud, a river behind me. I see no roads or signs to indicate where I am.
The man to my right answers my unspoken question. “You are near the Gladden Fields on the bank of the River Anduin.” I recoil. None of those words mean anything to me. I search my mind, trying to conjure up an image, a memory, anything that would give me context as to where I am.
But I come up blank.
“I will ask you again,” the man continues. His voice is hard, completely devoid of patience, and though I don’t exactly want to, I find myself turning my head to look him in the eye. “What is your name?”
Well, that answer, I know. “Cosima. What’s yours?” I raise an eyebrow, unable to stop myself from challenging him a little. I don’t like his attitude, how he acts like he doesn’t have the time to deal with me. He is the one who stopped, after all.
“So she does speak,” an amused voice remarks from over the shoulder of the brown-eyed man. I jump, not previously noticing the two others—blond like the man to my right—who sit high atop large horses.
Okay, that doesn’t seem right.
Fragments of memory come to me, brief flashes of tall buildings, busy sidewalks, and honking yellow cars.
America.
The name comes to me just as my own did—suddenly and detached from other clues. I piece together what I can, and am left with only the feeling that this is wrong. There should not be deserted, untouched land, nor men in armor who travel on horseback.
I should not be here, I realize. Wherever ‘here’ is….
The blond to my right stands, and I shrink back, intimidated by his height. The sword at his hip and the bow on his back make me even more wary.
“I am Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlórien. The ellon to your left is Baranor, a healer respected by the Lady herself. The ellyn on horseback are Rumil and Orophin—my brothers, and wardens of our realm. Where do you come from? Were you traveling somewhere?”
I don’t recognize half the words he says. Their language and phrasing is unfamiliar to me, which gives me reason to believe that I am not in America. My limited worldview expands slightly, and I become aware of the existence of other countries, vast seas and expansive continents. A theory begins to take form. I must be in another country. Perhaps I was traveling, and hit my head, and now I’ve gotten separated from my group. Though, I don’t have any memory of a group…perhaps I will remember them in time. I did hit my head.
Haldir clears his throat impatiently.
“I…think I’m from America. Do you know if I’m close? Or at least which country I’m in?
For the first time, I see the irritation in his eyes break, giving way to something akin to concern. “You are in Arda.”  
I wrack my brain, searching for anything that even remotely sounds like Arda. Africa? Armenia? Nothing helpful comes to mind.
Baranor, still crouched at my side, brings a gentle hand to my temple, brushing his fingers lightly over the tender skin. He notices my wince, and turns back to Haldir. “She definitely hit her head. Her mind is not fully with us…I think that, as she heals, she will speak with more sense.”
“Excuse me,” I huff, annoyed at his assessment of me and them talking as if I weren’t here. “You’re not exactly making much sense, either.”
Haldir purses his lips but gives no other indication that he’s heard me. He turns to his brothers and the three of them engage in quick conversation in that language I do not know.
I keep the three of them in the corner of my eye—just because they haven’t hurt me yet doesn’t mean I should let my guard down—and catch Baranor’s attention. “I can’t remember much—anything, really.”
He nods, looking at me with clinical concern. “I guessed as much. You remember your name and seem to have some idea where you are from, even if I do not recognize the realm. It’s better than nothing—encouraging, even. I believe your memories will return to you with time.”
That’s something, at least.
The one called Rumil hops off his horse and swaggers up to me, crouching low like his brother did. “Are you human?”
I recoil. What kind of question is that? “Of course I’m human.”
He shakes his head, a coy smile on his face. “Do not say, ‘of course’. There are many races in this realm, some much more interesting than the race of men.”
I swallow, pieces of information that I’ve gathered since waking clicking into place.
I don’t want to ask.
Asking might mean confronting, and I’ve only just woken up. I’m not ready for that.
But I have to. Because I’ve woken up in an unfamiliar place with people who don’t speak my language, don’t seem to know anything about the existence of my country, travel on horses, wear armor and, Rumil has just tilted his head to the side, revealing an ear that comes to a point. I bring my hand up to my own ear, checking. Yep. Not pointed.
A sinking feeling settles in my gut. I gather what courage I can. Just ask. There’s probably a perfectly normal explanation. Maybe they’re playing a trick on me. “Are you…not human, then?”
His teasing smile never falters and he gives a sort of mocking bow. “No, my dear lady. You have the pleasure of encountering four of the eldar. We are elves from the realm of the Lady Galadriel. We have been here long before the time of man, and we will be here long after.”
This is ridiculous.
I push myself to stand, Baranor rushing to help. The world sways before me, and I wilt against the cool surface of his chest place. He holds me awkwardly—trying to keep as much distance between us as possible while still supporting my weight.
“I’ve hit my head,” I mutter, trying to fight through the fierce onset of dizziness and nausea. “I-I’ve been in some sort of accident, or had a strange reaction to medicine. Or maybe this is a bizarre dream, and I will wake up and laugh at myself and all this will have been in my imagination, or…or…” My breathing quickens, and I bring a hand to my forehead. My hand is so cold. Is it meant to be that cold?
I pitch forward, and Rumil darts a hand to grip my shoulder and keep me in place. His teasing smile disappears, and he turns to Haldir, looking alarmed. He calls out in that unknown language, and I can’t help but roll my eyes, though the motion makes me feel worse.
“Come on, you’re in my dream, so you can at least speak a language I understand!”
Baranor twists to study my face, his frown deepening. He joins the indecipherable conversation.
“Not you, too,” I whine, glaring accusingly at him. Stupidly, I had already come to see him as a sort of ally. All four of them ignore me which is quite rude, considering they’re obviously talking about me. Their discussion grows heated—they’re arguing.
Dark spots dance in my line of vision and I groan, wanting to lie down. Baranor tightens his grip around me, and his voice rises in volume. Does he have to be so loud?
Haldir barks out something that sounds very much like an order, and I focus long enough to see him mount his horse. Rumil releases my shoulder, sparing me the quickest of looks before returning to his own steed. Before I can process what’s happening, Baranor uses his grip on me to guide me towards the tall chestnut stallion.
I guess his intent.
“No!” I begin to fight against his hold. “I don’t want—”
“Hush now, it will be alright,” he soothes, his hands tightening on me as I try to get away. “We do not know of the realm you speak, but we are on a journey to a trusted friend—a wise friend—who may be able to help you. We will take you with us.”
I go stiff in his arms, weighing my options.
I have no reason to trust his word. But they haven’t hurt me yet, and the fact remains that I have no idea where I am. I probably wouldn’t fare any better on the riverbank. I don’t have food, or supplies, or a map. And traveling with them would allow me to see more of the landscape. Maybe we’ll pass a city, and I can sneak away. And from there…
Well, that’s a problem for later.
So, resigned to my situation for the time being, I nod. Baranor gives me a look of relief—I imagine he has no desire to lift a kicking woman onto a horse—and releases my shoulders to kneel and lock his hands together. I don’t particularly like heights, and this animal is much too tall for my liking, but everything about this day has been absolutely insane. I may as well get on the unpredictable beast. Baranor pushes on my foot as I pull on the horses’s mane. A second later, I’m sat firmly on the animal, Baranor in front of me. I look down to see how high up I am—a clear mistake, especially given the dizziness that hasn’t quite receded—and immediately wrap my arms around Baranor’s stomach. It’s difficult, given the armor he wears, but I manage, seeing as it gives me extra insurance that I won’t go tumbling to the ground.
“Get my attention if you feel faint,” he murmurs, taking the reins in his hands. “There is a canteen of water near your right foot if you get thirsty.”
And, before I can contemplate if I have the core strength to reach for the water and stay on the horse, we’re off, racing along the riverbank and leaving behind any chance I have of turning back.
A/n Thanks for reading! As always, comments, likes, and reblogs are so appreciated. Let me know if you would like a tag! See you on Thursday with Chapter Two :)
|next part - to be posted|
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the-hidden-writer · 4 years ago
Text
And Into The Fire
Chapter 12: A Definitely-Not-Plan
Summary: Months after the Mitchells saved the world, Linda gets a phone call asking if she’s seen two defective Pal MAX bots. Powerful people are after Eric and Deborabot 5000, and it’s up to the Mitchells to protect them.
Taglist: @squidsushi , @astro-aye , @shitmyex, @sharks-are-friendly, @snakeguy99
Check reblogs for AO3 link!
A Definitely-Not-Plan
One of the worst parts of being a parent, Linda thought, was having to wake up your children when they were sound asleep with peace written all over their faces. As their original plan of spending the night at the campsite was discarded without warning, Aaron fell asleep very quickly into their high-speed journey to Silicon Valley. Even Rick (who had been adamant that he would stay awake) began to snore after an hour or so.
She hadn’t minded. She would much rather her boys be well-rested for whatever they were about to face.
While driving, it felt like the journey was taking forever. But now that they’d arrived it felt like it had taken no time at all. They weren’t too far from the massive Pal Labs facility that looked very menacing as it loomed in the near-distance.
They’d arrived at their destination. And she had no idea where to go from here. Unless they simply charged into the building…
Doing her best to brush all illegal-sounding thoughts from her mind, Linda continued to gently shove her son awake.
“Aaron, sweetie, we’re here.”
“Mmm not yet, Mom...”
She briefly considered leaving Aaron in the car to let him sleep. Which, although it may keep him safe, could also result in him being in a whole different danger that was out of their control. She’d rather keep him close.
“Rise and shine, son.” Rick said, purposefully speaking in a louder tone which caused Aaron to wince and squeeze his eyelids shut tighter. “We need to rescue the bots.”
That caused Aaron to stir a little. “But it’s still dark.”
It was true, dawn was only just beginning to break and soon they would lose the cover of darkness. But at least there was a chance, as small as it may be, that fewer people would be there due to it being the middle of the night.
However, Linda doubted it. Especially if both of the bots were inside.
“So what’s the plan, Lin?” Rick asked her once Aaron began to sleepily climb out of the car.
Shoot. She’d promised to have thought up a plan by the time they’d arrived in exchange for letting her drive the car. And in her defence she had tried, but without knowing what the situation was going to be like she couldn’t think of anything apart from…
“We storm in there and demand that they give them back.”
The hesitance on Rick’s face was totally justified. “Uhh, are you sure? No offence but that sounds like a pretty dumb plan, dear.”
“Got any better ideas?” She quipped back. And although it sounded sarcastic, the question was completely genuine.
“Why don’t you just pay for the bots?” Aaron supplied, shutting the car door in a way that sounded far too loud for the serenity of the night around them. “Just buy them off Pal Labs then they’ll leave us alone.”
“Aar, that’s a great idea!” Rick exclaimed in a hushed voice. “We may be completely broke afterwards, but it is a good idea.”
“Yeah…”
Linda had to admit that the idea was smart and even had a better chance of working than her plan. But there was something about the notion of having to buy her sons back that didn’t sit well with her. To treat them as collectable items, as inhuman as they were, went against all of her instincts.
(Her… sons? The bots. Her boys. Her… sons.)
“Let’s keep that as a last resort.”
“Yeah, that’s a better idea.” Rick agreed. “I’d like to save my money if possible, 'specially since I’m not working at the moment.”
She smiled at her small victory. Now came the hard part. “So… shall we go?”
“What, we just drive right up to them and walk in?” Rick frowned. “We really don’t have a better plan?”
“We never have a plan.” Aaron added from below them. “But we always win in the end, don’t we?”
Linda bit back a comment about how last time was nothing but pure luck. She also admired her son’s optimism and tried to let some of it sink in to calm her own nerves.
“You’re right.” She said, bending down to kiss Aaron’s forehead. “We’ll get them back.”
Even if it meant having to tear the whole building to the ground.
~-.-~
“I don’t understand.” Muttered Katie. “So you were trying to decommission them?”
“That’s what I thought they were trying to do.” Mark replied. “That’s what I was trying to do, but apparently that wasn’t the plan. They want one disassembled and one online for some reason.”
With Agent Ward busy elsewhere and due to the lack of agents/employees at this time of night, nobody was able to supervise the two as they sat in the locked office. It gave them an ample opportunity to have a private chat.
And it also allowed Katie to gather as much information about what the hell was going on here.
“Right��� but why?”
Mark shrugged. “Beats me. Unless they want to build their own robot army-”
He paused abruptly- a look of horror growing on his face.
“Oh my god they wanna build a robot army.”
Katie wasn’t even surprised. Of course that was what they were planning, what else could it be? The robots had already proved their worth at being able to take over the world, just imagine what they would be able to do if they were utilized by the government of any country, let alone the United States.
“...Are you sure you can put him back together?” She asked quietly.
Mark Bowman blinked. “What?”
“Eri- uh, that Pal MAX bot in the lab.”
He furrowed his brows. “I’m pretty sure. I specifically told them not to break anything when taking it apart, whether they listened or not is out of my hands.”
“Right.”
They fell into silence for a few moments. Mark was sitting in his wheelie chair while Katie sat on the computer desk at the side of the room. It was surprisingly comfortable.
It was Mark that was the first to speak up again.
“You called it Eric.”
Katie hung her head. It sounded a lot more like an accusation than a comment. “Yeah… I did.”
“Why?” Mark Bowman continued. “Because the Evil Warden can’t be right, you and your family aren’t actually-”
“Working with them?” Katie finished. “I mean yeah, if adopting them counts.”
She knew it was probably a bad idea to tell him the truth, but she really needed an ally in this place, and since Mark Bowman seemed to be a prisoner in his own facility he was the best (and only) person for the job.
It took a few seconds for the implications to sink in.
“...You what? Adopted them?”
“Yeah.” Said Katie nonchalantly. “They helped us save the world, actually. A dinosaur fell on them and they turned defective and told us how to stop Pal. We literally couldn't have done it without them.”
The expression on Mark Bowman’s face was priceless.
“It's a long story. And then when all the other robots switched off, they had nowhere to go so we took them in.”
Mark looked stunned. “So you use them like normal? Get them to cook and clean and stuff?”
“God, no!” Katie cried. “They’re a part of the family! They’re practically children and they have their own personalities and everything. They gave themselves the names ‘Eric’ and ‘Deborahbot 5000’.”
“...And ‘Eric’ is chopped up on a table in Lab 5.”
Katie sighed, the memory of what she’d seen flashing through her mind. “Yeah. That’s it.”
“Well that makes a lot more sense.” Said Mark. “I still think turning them off is the best option though. They may seem nice, but they’re dangerous-”
“No they’re not! They’re absolutely harmless! Deborahbot practically started crying when he stood on a beetle by accident!”
Mark scoffed, but at least he didn’t argue.
“We all love them.” She added. “We just want them back. And I’m pretty sure the whole world is safer if they’re with my family instead of the CIA.”
Mark seemed to contemplate this for a few moments. “I mean…”
All of a sudden, the computer behind Katie began to flash red, causing her to jump straight off and Mark to leap onto his feet.
“What’s that?!” Questioned Katie, pointing at the screen that was flashing the words: CODE #15.
“That’s the alarm.” Said Mark worriedly, rushing to the computer. “Someone’s broken in.”
Comments make my day! :)
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theharellan · 4 years ago
Text
Written for Stories of Thedas Volume II. Pairing: Solas & Cole (platonic) Prompt: Library
Masks upon masks. The Winter Palace is strange to Cole, who attends at the Inquisitor's bidding and finds himself at a loss for how to help. Solas comes upon him with ideas for how to cope with the deadly Game.
Read on AO3.
Couples spin on the dance floor, turning and turning, going nowhere and everywhere at once. Their heads fill with daydreams, one gazes into her partner’s eyes through their masks, imagining the hidden corners they could lose themselves in. Another, all he sees is the faint outline of a knife in his companion’s skirts, so all-consuming he almost forgets the steps. A third, their eyes bore holes into the other’s heads, hate springs from love eternal. His eyes dart from one couple to the next, glimpses into minds fraught with thoughts of a Game no one ever really wins.
He breathes in and feels the air catch in his throat. Honeyed words mask the taste of poison, cold compassion, they understand only so they can hurt. It isn’t right, it isn’t fair, it isn’t–
In the blink of an eye he’s in the library, surrounded by pages that whisper the words of yesterday. Not so sharp against his skin. Below, a dead man in the shape of a Warden pretends to stare at a plaque, praying no one will look at him twice, fearing they might see his valourous wings are clipped. It’s still a hurt, a tangle, but he’s trying to help. Cruelty does not become him. He lets out a breath he forgot he was holding, hands coming together to pull at his sleeves.
Oh.
He had forgotten about the uniform. The fabric doesn’t come away at his touch, no matter how hard he tugs.
And he misses his hat.
Cole wonders how long he will wait here, alone with his panic clawing at his throat. In the Spire he spent months isolated, forgotten by all save the one who no longer cares to know him. Suddenly the soft, inviting lights which illuminate the halls of the Winter Palace seem as cold as the dark cells they had kept Rhys in, clapped in irons for crimes Cole committed. Anxiety squeezes every inch of him. He counts the beats of the music that drifts from the distant dance hall, just to assure himself only minutes have passed since he came here.
A door opens behind him, and he nearly jumps into shadow, the Veil waiting to envelop him, drawing him from prying eyes, but a familiar face waits on the other side. “Solas!” he gasps, relieved and ashamed that he had doubted, but grateful most of all.
Solas shuts the door behind him, turning the handle so the latch doesn’t make a sound. “I thought I might find you here.”
That gives Cole pause. He hadn’t known he would find himself here, until it happened. “But I don’t read.” The books here are newer than those kept in the Pit, some hum with the occult, others recount poems about the shape of a woman’s hips, but he still doesn’t read. There isn’t a question in his tone, but Solas hears it, all the same.
“This place can be overwhelming for anyone, even without accounting for your abilities. Books carry meaning, but without eyes upon them those meanings are static. Far easier to take in,” he answers as he walks towards him, gait stiffer than usual. His feet had forgotten what it was like to wear shoes. Solas has been quiet that evening, quieter than usual, the stem of a glass glued between his fingers, bottomless. He lets his hat do his talking for him, the Drasca’s dissent lived on atop his head. He stops beside Cole, leaning upon the marble rail, gloved hands bearing weight. His eyes turn upon him, no brimmed hat to hide behind. “Are you all right?”
He pulls on his sleeves, this time he thinks he feels a thread come loose. “Yes... No? There are two faces for every person.” The Left Hand smiles and laughs, she comes alive, but inside it’s cold and cruel. The rose withers upon the vine. He finds the thread with his finger and pulls, but it doesn’t break. It unravels, further and further, if he keeps going his whole sleeve will be an unspooled mess on the floor. “I don’t know which to look at. I-I don’t know how to help.”
Solas reaches out, subduing his worrying hands with a single, steady touch. A gentle gesture, despite the blood which stains them. Sometimes they do not seem so different from his own, they remember the bodies because forgetting would be worse. Killer’s hands, but there is no deceit in their tenderness. Solas wraps the thread around his finger, string bright white against his brown glove, and he tugs. It snaps, suddenly brittle, and falls to the floor to be swept away by a servant who will never know they were here. A comforting hand is placed deliberately on his shoulder blade, and Cole stills. He inhales, eyes snapping from the abandoned thread to Solas. There is kindness in his eyes, quiet assurance. He has seen this all before and he will make it easier to bear. So many tricks just to make it through a day, an evening, an hour. “You will not find much compassion in these affairs, any help you offer will be perceived as duplicitous, a means to get what it is you desire.”
“Then I… shouldn’t help?”
He hesitates, delaying his answer with a moment’s deliberation. “The choice is ultimately yours, but their comfort should not come at the cost of your peace of mind.” His hand slowly falls from his back as Cole turns his advice around in his head. “While we are waiting for the Inquisitor to call upon us, rather than mend the missing pieces in strangers’ lives, perhaps I may help you.”
“Help me?” He searches Solas’ eyes for answers, compassion seeking solace in pride. They are quiet, revealing only as much as intended. Cole chips at the cracks in the rock and hopes for water to spring forth, but he guards his sorrows like a wolf guards her den.
“Would you care to learn how to dance?”
A dozen thoughts pile into the spirit’s head, most too quick to catch, but he grasps one by the tail. “Do spirits dance?”
Solas claims spirits are people, and each day that belief is realer in Cole’s own mind, reinforced by the Herald and Solas himself. He need not change to be loved, or understood, he need only be himself. But if he is a person, then he is not a person the way Varric is, or Cassandra, or even Solas. There’s a touch of sadness in the corner of his smile, as though he is sorry the question needs to be asked. “I suppose it falls to us to answer together,” he replies patiently with an offered palm.
Uncertain how it will help, but ready to trust that it can, he takes Solas’ hand.
“Listen closely,” he says, but he declines to speak again. Cole’s instruction takes a different turn, a manicured glimpse through a window into Solas’ soul.
“Delicate hand folded like a paper crane between my shoulders, her eyes shine like the gold she deals in when I take to the dance.” Josephine had poured so much into tonight, all her smiles and favours, anything that will see the Inquisition prevail. “She didn’t think you would be asked to dance, but she was afraid if you didn’t learn, someone would.”
“Her time was likely better spent elsewhere,” he agrees, “though nothing would have given me more pleasure tonight than refusing one of Celene’s court. Listen again, parse the thoughts which cloud the memory and see how we move.” Cole nods, and concentrates. He remembers the palm tucked in the valley between Solas’ shoulders, and he moves his there. His feet, too, he moves in line with his hips. It’s strange, focusing upon his own body and the space it takes up in the world. Lighter now that he has chosen compassion, but still very much real, empty only in the seconds the air rushes from the chambers of his lungs.
He feels eyes upon him, questioning, searching for confirmation before the music dares move them. “I’m ready.”
When Solas steps forward, Cole steps back, like they’re two puppets on the same musical string. He clips his strides, travelling farther faster than Solas can hope to without magic to carry him there. Awkward at first, but with each beat he feels him join with the dance that exists in his head. Old melodies, half-remembered, play in distant memories. Like the sky he knew it, once, but made himself forget. Dancing wasn’t always this way, was it?
Solas remembers. Feet too full of motion to keep his thoughts safe in his head, they spill onto the fabric of the world where Cole breathes them like his own. Memories of moving on a dancefloor to a familiar tune, swaying with the stars themselves, spinning until they parted from the earth. He swells with pride, a beast alive beneath his ribcage, it thrives and fights and inspires. When they dance the heavens and the earth move, and an empire holds its breath. It fears what dread the dawn will bring, but his People find freedom in the impromptu steps.
“What are you two doing here?” A voice snaps the string. Halamshiral looks different than it did heartbeats ago, all the magic hidden in dark corners (all the elves, too). When Cole turns to see the servant who disturbed them, he’s surprised to see a bare face behind her plain mask, and a second later cannot recall why.
With silver eyes she stares at him, unblinking. “She can see me.”
“A consequence of our dance, I believe.” Yes, he can feel it. Solas fades with each passing second, growing distant as his hand falls from his waist. “It will fade in a moment.” He speaks as though she is not there, but he’s waiting. It’s another dance, only it’s Cole’s turn to lead.
Cut loose, he turns his attention to the woman. Fear flows through her veins, the dagger beneath her sleeve is ready to open theirs. Beneath the steel, her heart wavers. Stranded between duty and love. “I’m warning you-”
“There’s still time,” he says. “She waits for you beside the fountain where you wished away Your Lady’s collection.” There were wiser things to do with gold, but oh how they’d laughed with every dream plunged into the water.
Cole steps forward and she braces, but not fast enough. “Forget.”
Time is unmade behind her eyes, and she slips the mask from her face to rub the last place she’d been kissed. Gone as quickly as she came, with new purpose in her step.
“It seems you found a way to help someone, after all,” Solas remarks after the library door has shut behind her. “You never fail to impress.”
Something in him shines brighter, bolstered by his pride. “Thank you.” He falters, looking down at his feet, curling his toes inside their boots. “I’d like to try another dance, if you think there’s time.”
A laugh coloured wine red parts Solas’ lips, punctuated by a snort that makes Blackwall down below look around for its source. “I believe there is time for one more,” he says, outstretched palm seeking Cole’s hand. “Since you have devised a way to put off intruders, I daresay we have all the time in the world.”
It isn’t a lie, but neither is it true. Like the golden caprice coins that shine beneath the lovers’ reunion, Solas’ words glow like wishes.
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imnotusedtobeingloved · 4 years ago
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RIOT
(PLEASE DON’T REPOST/REBLOG)
Warnings: heartbreak, betrayal.
Pairing: Zuko x f!Reader
Characters: Zuko, Katara, Aang, Toph, Sokka.
Requested: I guess?
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, nor the gif. Credit to the owners.
Summary: Part nine of “destiny is a funny thing”.
previous part
A/N: Next part! Tell me what you think!
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All prisoners mingled in the yard, where Sokka, Suki, Hakoda, Zuko and you finally met. “This is it! We have to start a riot,” Sokka said. His father claimed to be fit for the task, trying to get another prisoner angry by shoving him, but failed. “This isn’t working,” His son stated. But then Chit Sang appeared behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey you! You’re lucky I didn’t rat you out,” He smiled. “but my generosity comes with a price. I know you’re planning another escape attempt, and I want in,” You raised a brow at him, but turned to Sokka when he had this certain look in his eye. He had an idea. “Actually, we’re trying to escape right now, but we need a riot. You wouldn’t happen to know how to start one, would you?” The man huffed. “A prison riot? Please,” He grabbed another prisoner, lifting him up in the air and lifting him up and down. “Hey! Riot!” And the people started chanting. “Riot! Riot! Riot!” And several blasts of fire went off. Hakoda looked shocked for a moment, before mumbling to himself. “Impressive,”
“Good, we have a riot, now all we need to do is grab the warden, and get to the gondolas!” Sokka said, pointing above. “And how do we do that?” Zuko asked from beside you. “I’m not sure,” The prince groaned at that. “I thought you thought this through!” “I thought you told me it’s okay not to think everything through!” “Maybe not everything, but this is kind of important!” He rubbed his forehead, while you looked between them, wondering if you should interrupt or let them solve it on their own. Eventually Chit Sang took the descision off your shoulders. “Hey, uh, fellas. I think your girlfriend’s taking care of it,” Your heads turned, as he pointed towards Suki, who hopped on the heads of the rioters, before jumping and flipping onto the tower. You all started running to get to her, while she easily defeated the first guard with a few quick jabs, taking out the rest of them with the same ease and finally grabbing the warden. Once you arrived, completely out of breath, Suki had already gagged him with his headband. “We’ve got the warden! Now let’s get out of here!” She said, and Hakoda raised his brows. “That’s some girl!” Sokka smiled proudly. “Tell me about it,”
“Come on guys, we’ve got to go!” You said, maing a run for the gondola. “We’re almost there!” You heard Suki call out from behind you, but already more guards we’re trying to stop your group. “Back off! We’ve got the warden!” You heard Zuko from behind you, and as you turned your head you could see him block the flames from the guards. “Let’s go!” You arrived at the door first, ripping it open. “Everyone in!” Suki said, jumping in. Once the group was complete, Zuko started the gondola, kicking the handle a few times, trying to break it. The guards rushed towards him, blasting fire, as he tried to reach you. “Zuko!” you yelled as he jumped. You leaned out of it’s window, gripping his hand tightly. You groaned upon lifting his whole weight, trying to get him up. Luckily, Sokka was there to help him, dragging him inside where he landed right on top of you with a gasp. “We’re on our way!” Suki cheered, while the two of you stared at each other, before quickly getting up. You avoided his gaze, reminded of the kiss you’d almost shared in the cooler. The atmosphere between you sizzled and hissed like a fire. You could only hope that the flames weren’t high enough to alert the others. The only thing that would resolve in, is endless teasing. He knew that as well as you did. And yet you could feel his burning stare at your profile. “Wait! Who’s that?” Hakoda, Sokka and Suki were all staring out of the windows. As the two of you joined them, you spotted new faces appearing on the platform. And to your dismay, you knew exactly who they were. “That’s a problem. It’s my sister and her friend,” You huffed, barely able to imagine that someone as vile as Azula could have any genuine friends. Looking up at your group, the princess snatched a pair of handcuffs froma guard’s belt and ran forward. Meanwhile Ty Lee jumped onto the cable, running along. After elevating herself to the line below her friend with a fire blast, Azula used the cuffs to attach herself to it and propelled herself forward.
“This is a rematch I’ve been waiting for,” Suki said in a determined tone, a grim look in her face. “Me too,” Zuko rasped, turning his head to look at you. You gave him a brief nod. Then you began climbing onto the roof with Sokka and Suki. Once she was within reach, Ty Lee flipped into the air, lading right in front of the Kyoshi Warrior, who growled and assumed a battle-ready position. Azula on the other hand, pulled herself up on the roof, facing her brother and the Water Tribe boy. You got caught up in the middle, switching your sight between both sides. The princess took her stance, performing a kick sending blue fire at her opponents, but Zuko blocked it. Now Ty Lee got active as well, trading blows with Suki. Your friend was able to block most of her hits, but soon you saw an opening in her defense, the circus girl was ready to take. You formed a whip of fire around you, lashing it into her direction and forcing her to the edge. “Thanks,” Suki grinned, before refocusing, once Ty Lee came back out on the other side. Behind you the two royal sibling were wildly blasting fire at each other, only barely interrupted by Sokka who managed to draw Azula back to the edge with his sword. As you turned, you could see Zuko going for a finishing blow, but his sister dodged, staying on the gondola and responding with a huge blast so wide, that it would’ve reached Suki and Ty Lee, had you not blocked it with your own.
But then the gondola started rocking back and forth, causing Sokka to lose his balance. He slid to the edge, which had Zuko sprinting to his rescue and Azula casting another blow. You covered the boys as they got back up, while ty Lee jumped up to the top of the wire, to see what was going on. “They’re about to cut the line!” And as the guards worked to stop your escape, you noticed another gondola approaching behind you, heading inbound. And apparently, so did Azula. “Then it’s time to leave,” She smirked, blasting herself up in the air. “Goodbye, Zuko,” She simpered, reaching the opposite rooftop. Ty Lee backflipped, landing next to her, but looked back at you with concern in contrast to Azula’s sadistic smile, much to your surprise. “The gondola’s about to go!” Zuko confirmed and Hakoda rubbed his neck. “I hope this thing floats,” You nibbled on your bottom lip, brows furrowing in concern. There was nothing you could do to stop them from here. You were completely out of reach. As you looked to your right you could see the gears in Zuko’s head turn, mulling over the possibility of a solution, just as you were, but then... then it continued in motion!
”Who’s that?” Sokka asked, leaning out of a window, as everyone joined him. Back down on the platform was a girl. A girl with raven hair and a red robe. “It’s Mai!” Zuko’s shock was evident on his face and a shiver ran down your spine. The daughter of a Fire Nation General and the princes former lover was helping you escape? But why? And by the look of your team mates, you weren’t the only one wondering about her intentions. You shook your head, banning the negative thoughts from your head, as you reached the top of the hill. “Well, we made it out. Now what?” Suki questioned and looked at Sokka, who noticed Zuko standing still. “Zuko, what are you doing?” He mumbled a response. “My sister was on that island.” “Yeah, and she’s probably right behind us, so let’s not stop!” Zuko shook his head. “What I mean is she must have come here somehow,” Your eyes widened in understanding and you joined him, walking up a hill by the sea. “There!” You pointed a finger, eyes lighting up. “That’s our way out of here!”
All of you reached the Western Air Temple by nightfall. Zuko, Sokka and you exited the ship first, once it was returned, where Toph, Katara and Aang already waited for you. “What are you doing in this thing? What happened to the war balloon?” Katara asked as soon as she spotted you. You bit your bottom lip, rubbing your arm. “It kinda got destroyed,”
“Sounds like a crazy fishing trip,” Aang smiled, holding his staff, before Toph chimed in. “Did you at least get some good meat?” Now a soft smile appeared on Sokka’s face. Sweet enough to make the corners of your own lips curl. “I did. The best meat of all. The meat of friendship and fatherhood,” He spoke as Suki, Hakoda and Chit Sang came out. “I’m new. What’s up, everybody?” The man said, waving. Katara teared up, overjoyed to be surrounded by her entire family once again. “Dad?” She ran to embrace him. “Hi, Katara,”
“How are you here? What is going on? Where did you go?” She rambled the next second, making you laugh, while Sokka grew sheepish. “We kind of went to a Fire Nation prison,” Hakoda pulled him into the hug, holding both of them close. “Seriously? You guys didn’t find any meat?” Toph complained, pouting slightly. Inching towards her, you wrapped your arms around her shoulders from behind, resting your chin on her head. “Don’t worry, sweet cheeks. We’ll get you your meat,”
tags:  @zvkonation​ @viva-la-millennia​ @randomness501​ @drheinzd​ @kaylove12​ @duh-dobrik​ @yeetscreetiwannaeat​ @ashnkamfeun    @hailkyoshi​ @shortmexicangirl​ @animexholic​ @sorrythatspussynal​  @mochminnie​ @ninadewitt​  @iamthecabbage​
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malkumtend · 4 years ago
Text
Their Booth (Human SquirrelCrow) - Part 2.
He’d be lying if he said her room was any different from what he expected. Light yellow walls that became vibrant in the strong sun, white bedsheets patched with warm orange stripes, a bookcase piled with texts on film theory and more Stephen King novels than Crow thought existed, another bookcase completely stacked with Blu-rays and obscure DVD’S, and an entire wall plastered with film posters. It was honestly quite scary to look that way and find a hundred pairs of eyes, mostly behind the gleam of a weapon, glaring back at you.
Spirited, flashy, intense. It was just what he imagined. It was her.
It was welcoming.
She throws her bag across the room, slumping back on her bed. “I’m so tired.”
Crow sets his own bag down. “Why?”
“It’s just been a long day.”
“Oh really?” Crow begins scanning the pile of books. “What have you done?”
She kicks her boots off. “I got ten pages of the new script done.” She says, sitting up to pull her coat from her arms. “Took me around two hours.”
“Wow.” Crow deadpans, pretending to look wide-eyed. “I only had to run three marathons today. How did you survive?”
He only sees the coat for a second, floating like a ghost, before his face is covered by green.
“It’s not my fault you’re a freak.”
In the darkness, Crow chuckles. He’s smiling by the time he pulls the coat off. “Takes one to know one.”
Squirrel has an arched brow, as well as her boot armed back, ready to throw.
Crow gently puts the coat on her door. “So, what do you want to start with?” He unzips his bag, scrambling for his English textbook.
The ginger girl groans, but mercifully lets Crow’s face go un-booted. “Ugh! Seriously! We just got out and you want to study!”
Crow rolls his eyes, but the laughter warms his throat. “That’s kind of why I’m here, Squirrel.” He looks to her door uneasily. “At least it’s the only reason your mom didn’t kill me.” Sandstorm had been nice enough, told him that she’d heard nothing but great things about him from Squirrel (her daughter had denied that - blushing) but he could feel the warning squeeze as he shook her hand, and he could have sworn he’d seen her nod when he’d looked up in question.
The familiar flash of a mother’s eyes. If you like your kneecaps in their normal place, no funny business.
She hadn’t needed to say it. Crow had nodded vigorously. Message received.
“Oh, please.” Squirrel sits up again, her hands slipping her hair back over her shoulders. “She’d kill you regardless. She’s like a shark. And what do you mean? You don’t hang out to study! That’s like the opposite of hanging out!”
Crow paused, taking a seat beside her on the bed. Truthfully, he didn’t care about studying. He was on course for an A, and as far as he knew so was Squirrel. But her parents wanted to make sure she kept on that road. It had been Leaf who had begged Crow to give her a hand. As much as she loved her sister, she had her own studying (and girlfriend) to see to. Squirrel apparently hadn’t been too on board with the idea. It was ‘too humiliating’ apparently.
It was when Fireheart suggested asking Bramble to come back and help her that Squirrel finally resigned to texting Crow non-stop until he agreed.
He’d actually agreed after the first text.
Crow knew full well how little Squirrel wanted to see Bramble anymore. The idiot still hadn’t mentioned Squirrel’s film to her. Whenever he was mentioned Squirrel shifted and made a face that Crow hated to see her make.
He suspected that she still wasn’t over him just yet.
And while that was understandable, it cut into Crow for more reasons than one.
That was why he wanted to make sure they got some work done. If her parents walked in and saw Crow wasn’t doing what he was meant to come over for, he had no doubt they wouldn’t hesitate to sack him off and call Bramble back.
The thought of that made his fists clench.
“Well, it might be better if you remember I’m not here to hang out.”
“Oh, so this is just work for you?” She sighs like one of the actresses she would direct. “And here I thought there was something special between us.”
That shouldn’t sting as much as it does. She doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t even know.
“Not my fault you’re wrong.” He plays along. “Look, let’s just do an hour at least. Then if your parents come in, they’ll keep of your back for the rest of the night.”
Squirrel pouts sulkily and Crow knows she’s considering it. She never let it look like she was giving up. She always had to show some restraint, real or imaginary. He turns back to the textbook now. He scans through for subjects she needs work on. He’s split between starting with Poetry or Analysing the role of women in Dystopian Fiction.
There is a creaking that moves across the bed towards him. Two hands curl on the base of his skull, digging in softly. He knows from the extra weight that she has balanced her chin on her hands. It’s not a lot of force he needs to keep himself up, but the heat on his face is slightly worrying.
He feels her elbows on his shoulders. “Can’t we make it half an hour?” She asks her human table.
Somehow, he shrugs. “If you want your mother to get the belt, sure.”
“You’d like the pain.”
“If it’s yours, then you’re damn right.”
“Sadist.”
They both talk so simply, words rolling off in the natural balance they’d built.
She sighs, her hands move off his head and onto his shoulders. His body is dragged back a little as she curves back with a contemplating mutter. A twist of shame and a happy flutter simultaneously come over the boy. He almost feels he could lose his balance. The fear of discovery is what keeps him stoic. He wonders a little if he’s always been like this about these things. He doesn’t think it was like this around Feather, but how could he know? Denial was probably his eternal security when it came to his own pathetic attempts of keeping cool.
The fingers on his shoulders all tap then slap down lightly. “An hour and then a movie?”
“Sure.”
“Can I pick it?”
“Will it be Breakfast Club?”
“Possibly.”
He didn’t know how many times she’d seen it, but four was enough for him. “An hour and something new.”
Squirrel leans forward again; she practically sings into his ear. “Can I still pick the new film?”
He says yes, if only to make sure she can’t see his eyes widen.
She doesn’t as she falls back, shoving him gently. “Let’s start with poetry then. I’d rather get the worst done quickly.”
It doesn’t go quickly for her, Crow can see. After every point she makes she checks the clock and audibly gnashes her teeth when she sees only another minute has passed. With an actor’s heart, she falls back dramatically at least half a dozen times, murmuring a prayer. Crow learns not to pay her the attention after the third time. They needed to get the work done. It turns out the best trick to get her back up is to just tap her ankle with the textbook, gently prodding her like a woodpecker, until she sits back up.
But as dramatic and reserved as she was, she definitely isn’t an idiot. She doesn’t stumble on her points. They come out smooth and rehearsed with the diction of someone who knows what they’re talking about. Presumably because she knew if she struggled it would mean more time on the stuff  she hated. That makes it go just a little quicker.
She actually answers them easier than when Crow has to speak, to her evil delight.
“I thought you were meant to be the tutor here.”
“I’d call myself your warden more than anything.”
Crow isn’t as annoyed as would have been. He can’t deny that she’s smarter than him here. Bragging rights were hers.
Besides, she looked happy.
Also, he’d get his chance to brag eventually. They’d have to move onto math sooner or later.
They only get two interruptions through the whole hour. The first is Sandstorm, under the guise of checking in on them, asking if they needed anything. Once she saw her daughter actually working, Crow was relieved to see her grin at him thankfully before heading away. He’d been holding in that breath of relief like an ancient treasure.
The second is Moth, carrying in an iced tea for Squirrel and a mocha (with a froth of whipped cream stirred in) for Crow. She’d been getting drinks for her and Leaf and said she felt guilty if they weren’t getting anything as well. Crow has to admit, Leaf had great taste in women. Moth was almost unnervingly friendly and bizarrely just as much of a genius as her girlfriend, she’d already been offered a medical scholarship. It was even more amazing considering what Crow had heard about her… background.
Leaf had been right about that Hawk guy. She didn’t mention him much, but when he came up and Moth was in the room, the girl shook with such sheer fear that Crow would not have imagined it was her brother they’d mentioned.
Apparently, she was doing better though. For reasons that Crow knew were none of his business, Hawk had been thrown out of his and Moth’s home. Where he was now, Moth didn’t know and didn’t want to find out. The others respected that. All they needed to do was stand by her and help if she needed it. But her auburn hair looked less withered, her cheeks had more colour, and she showed off her impressive height without the scrunched gait she had seemed to linger in before.
As long as she was happy, Leaf was happy. Crow and Squirrel just did what they could to make sure it stayed that way.
And that was easy when she was so damn nice. That mocha had been delicious.
Five minutes later, they call it a session.
“That’s a wrap!” Squirrel stretches her arms up triumphantly. The sleeves she wears are too big and roll down clumsily. She says it makes her look bigger. Crow doesn’t get the logic but he says nothing.
“For today.” Crow spites playfully.
His friend makes a raspberry. “That’s all that matters.” As if the tension and stress has evaporated, she jumps off of the bed, rushing over to her Blu-ray collection. Crow still feels like he should whistle at the multitude of titles she owned, they must have made up at least $300. He’d mentioned it once. She’d shot back if it was necessary to own a dozen pairs of running shoes. He had tried to tell her how each shoe was more adaptable to certain tracks or states of weather, but she was about as interested as he’d been about why it was necessary to own, like six, various versions of Blade Runner.
Whatever they did with their money, they decided, was their own business.
“What to watch. What to watch.” She pulls cases out one by one, her face igniting with thought at every cover.
Crow rolled his head back onto the head of her bed. “Pick anything.” He isn’t that fussy about these things. Whether it was some art-house thing he wouldn’t understand, or some Disney flick where Squirrel would know the words to every song in the thing, and sing along right in front of him, he’d sit and watch.
“Oh okay, then-”
He just makes it. “Not Breakfast Club!”
“Spoilsport…”
“Don’t you get bored of watching that thing every day?” He asks flatly.
“Do you get bored of running around the same track every week?”
Oh, he is so not ready to play this game. “Okay, whatever. Point taken.” His eyes close, listening to her fumble through the films. Every so often he hears her murmur something like “Nah, not his best film” or “Bit too sappy for him”. She’s analysing her decisions around him. Crow doesn’t know what to think about that. It makes her sound like she knows him so well. It’s a little embarrassing. But then he considers how she’s clearly trying to pick something she thinks he’ll enjoy. And it’s based on the tastes she associates with him.
Crow’s stomach goes light. Did she often think about what he liked? Was he that easy to read? He inhales, his nostrils feel numb. He knows he’s overthinking this. All he really knew for sure was that she wanted to make sure he enjoyed her pick.
He’s content with that.
She pulls out Jackass with a smirk, shaking it at him. “Too close to home?”
“It’s in your hands.”
“Touché. I’ve already picked something anyway.” She rises, holding a film called Little Miss Sunshine. Crow doesn’t recognise it. The title makes his mouth twist though. You never knew what you were in for when it came to Squirrel.
“What’s it about?”
She places the film in the player, looking back at him with a glint. “I find it best when you go into films without knowing anything about them.”
Crow regrets asking. This girl could be impossible. “That’s not very smart advice.”
“Why’s that?”
“Like, what if I hated horror movies and someone stuck one on without me knowing? Or if some weirdo stuck on some porno flick or something?”
Squirrel stands up, swipes a lock of hair behind her shoulder and holds the cover up with a terse look on her face. “Does this look like some horror porno to you?”
“Knowing you, I can’t trust the cover.”
She chuckles, sitting down on the end of the bed with the remote. She’s a mix of irritated and playful. “Tell you what, if at any point some guy ends up cut in half or gets his dick out, I’ll turn it off. Happy?”
“Is this secretly some plan to get rid of me?”
She shrugs. “Don’t need a plan, the door’s right there if I need to kick you out. Now do you want to watch the movie or not?”
He’s not that bothered about the film. But he knows she wants him to watch it, and he knows he’ll enjoy hearing her talk about it. So they watch it. Crow actually enjoys it quite a bit. Some road trip movie about a family taking their youngest daughter to a beauty pageant. It’s acted great, and there are enough twists to keep Crow entertained (the ending scene is genuinely hilarious to him though).
And when he looks like he’s enjoying it, the faces Squirrel makes make his night.
She always likes having a discussion after every film they watch. It’s clear that she loves film with a passion. Every character, every scene, even down to the ways the camera moves, Squirrel has an opinion on it all. And it’s not like she’s pretentious about it in anyway. She’s convincing and always leaves Crow points where he can offer his own point. He doesn’t do it much (He’d rather hear it from someone who actually knows what they’re talking about). It’s just fun. She’s passionate about this and Crow likes to see that.
Although she does slip sometimes.
Such as tonight. She’s talking about how the protagonist is able to go against the conformities of beauty and success when Crow hears her voice tighten just a hint. He realises it’s odd to notice these things, but maybe he is odd when it comes to her. He’s seen her like this before, not in a while but it still leaves him cold.
“Isn’t that the point though?” Crow says. They’re sat at the head of her bed, side by side. “They realise she can do things her own way. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is.” Squirrel lays down, her ginger locks look like gleaming spiderwebs on the pillow. Her face is hardened on the ceiling. She pauses a moment. “It just sucks though, doesn’t it?”
“What does?”
“Like, the fact those pageants exist. I mean, I get that it gives some kids confidence or something. But there’s at least ten more kids who watch that shit and think they’re too fat or too, just, like, not normal to do anything in it?”
“I feel like there’s some projecting going on here.” Crow says slowly, leaning onto his elbow. The bed is remarkably soft and he almost falls off.”
Squirrel narrows her eyes at him. “You think I’m wrong?”
“I never said that.” Crow flicks a strand of hair over her nose, she creases and blows it away. “It’s bullshit, any idiot can see that. But why are you so worried about it? Have you got a pageant life I don’t know about?”
She punches his elbow, but she’s laughing. “You wish, perv. I just don’t think it’s right, that’s all.”
“I agree with you on that. But it’s not like you’re conforming to anything right?”
She blinks at him.
“I mean, you make movies and you’re really good at it.”
Was he putting too much effort with the ‘really’? He doesn’t try to think about it. “I haven’t heard anyone hate on your festival picture, and reminder.” He pokes her arm. “You came in the top five in that national contest!”
Her eyes flutter. “It was actually a regional contest.”
Crow waves a hand at the air, as if batting away wasps. “Who the hell cares? Fact is, you’re great at it!”
“Great.” It’s just one word. But Crow hears something different in how she says it. Small and curious, perhaps suspicious. It’s infrequent, but Crow panics whenever he hears it on her. He feels like the signature on a poorly made painting. He tries to picture what normal was for him and he thinks back to when thought of Squirrel or the idea of friends with nothing but disgust.
That normal was impossible to want, yet Crow missed the routine of not giving a shit.
He can only go with it. Keep his face like stone. “Obviously. Every idiot is great at something.”
Maybe remembering her own self, but her eyes still glimmering, Squirrel sits up with a cheeky look. “Oh, you mean how you were great at running?”
The relief of the straight line is temporary. “Yeah exact-” His eyebrows curve up. “I’m sorry. Were?”
Squirrel smiles at him with a look that’s almost sympathetic! She pats his back like she’s a mother comforting a child. “Don’t look like that Crow, just because you can’t run it doesn’t mean you’re a loser to me.”
He starts ranting about doctors’ orders and muscle strains as she laughs hard. He ‘argues’ his point for what might be ten minutes before Fireheart sticks his head in to ask about the racket. Crow has the sense to look apologetic while Squirrel explains they were done with the tutoring.
“Sounds like it too.” Fireheart says his arms crossing. Though his hair burns ginger like his daughter’s, there is a seasoned hardness on his face. Crow doesn’t want to get on his bad side.
“Sorry about that.” Crow says, easing away from the man’s daughter just a little. Fireheart smiles, unoffended.
“I’m kidding. It’s fine.” He nods to Crow. “Thanks for coming to help. It’s good to know Squirrel is getting some work done.”
Squirrel blushes furiously, “Dad!”
The man laughs genially, “Lighten up, kiddo!” Off of his daughter’s sulking look, he looks back at Crow. “Would you like me to give you a ride back home?”
The boy thinks that’s his signal to go, but before he can agree Squirrel cuts in. “We were actually just going to give Feather and Storm a call before he goes. It’s been a while.”
Crow is surprised by the change in plans, but he doesn’t object to it. It has been a while since they last spoke to their friend. Plus, he wasn’t in any hurry to go.
“Ah.” Fireheart makes a sound of agreement. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Well just give me a call if you want me to take you home, or I could call Ashfoot to come get you if you like?”
The friendliness of the man encourages Crow a little. “Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
Fireheart nods again. But this time he gives Crow the spasm of an eye that almost looks like a wink. And was that a smirk? Crow feels his throat dry up again.
Squirrel sighs irritably once he’s gone, “That’s why I want a lock.”
Crow coughs to cover his unwinding nerves. “So we’re calling Feather and Storm?”
The girl beams, reaching to her bag to pull out her laptop. She slides her belly across the bed, lifting her legs and resting them on Crow’s knees. “Of course, we are! You’ll want to see her again, no doubt.” He thinks she’s smirking. Crow’s eyes dim.
“Not funny.”
“It’s true.”
It isn’t. But what can he say. As far as she knows, nothing was different about him. That hurt a little. It almost made it look like there was no point in thinking he could ever move on. But he had, he’d done it before she’d left.
But the idea that Squirrel would realise that scared the shit out of him.
Her legs swing away from him as she walks towards the door, “I’ll go ask Leaf if she wants to join. Don’t jump out the window or anything.”
Crow picks his head up, mimicking being annoyed rather than perturbed. “You know me.”
Squirrel blasts him a wiggle of her brows and then she’s gone. Taking her presumptions and theories with her. It’s strange to be alone in her room. It’s like she’s never gone. Crow sighs at the way his stomach is throbbing. He’s stuck in a paradox. He didn’t want to be found out. But the way she misjudged him, or his feelings, still stung no matter how stupid it really was.
She no doubt was going off to Leaf about him seeing Feather again, like it was some Romeo and Juliet type bullshit. That wasn’t it at all. If they looked at him when he saw his old crush again, there wouldn’t be anything like that. He missed Feather terribly. She was a great friend to have around. They all missed her like that.
But that added glow that came to her face so long ago. That was gone.
Or rather, it’s spotlight was centred on someone new.
...
So I wanted to add some more to this Human AU idea. It will come in small parts this time, compared to a massive one shot. That way I can alternate between this and ILYL. Now this is done, back to working on the main fic. Expect the next part of this after that chapter is released.
Thanks for reading.
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bigfan-fanfic · 3 years ago
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Kost Aban as a Companion
(Face Claim: Brant Daugherty) Kost Aban, Road Dad of the Inner Circle and Magesmith for the Inquisition. He’s charming and sweet, and he’ll handle requisitions so you never have to worry about that Requisition Officer ever again. Also he makes travel snacks as well as serves as a portable weapon and armor crafting station. Did I mention he’s romanceable?
Companion Name: Kost Aban (lit. “Peaceful Ocean” in Qunlat) Race, Class, and Specialization: Qunari Mage (Rift Mage) Varric’s Nickname for Him: Shiny (for his horn ornaments) Default Tarot Card: Page of Wands
How He Is Recruited: His adopted human son, Roland, a young man of about 22, will rush out into the plaza in Val Royeaux on the first visit and request the Inquisitor come meet his father. Kost will immediately offer his services as a magesmith to the Inquisition, as well as his son’s skills as an apprentice. If the Inquisitor is a Qunari, he will also mention that sometimes it helps to have a friendly face around that one doesn’t have to look down to see. Where He Is In Skyhold: With his son, Dagna (and conditionally) Harritt in the Undercroft. He can generally be found talking smithing techniques or occasionally insisting Roland and Dagna go get refreshments and sunlight because they’ve been working too long. If he is recruited, he will also set up a cozy-looking sitting area/lounge in the Undercroft. Things He Generally Approves of: Upgrading Skyhold, completing Dagna’s sidequests, not siding with the Qunari, showing mercy Things He Generally Disapproves of: Siding with the Qunari, executing prisoners, siding with the Templars Mages, Templars, Other? As a mage himself and a former Saarebas, Kost definitely approves of siding with the mages and giving them freedom.
Romanceable? Yes, by any gender or race.  Friends in the Inquisition: Blackwall, Sera, and Cole. He befriends Sera through Dagna, Blackwall because of their shared enjoyment of crafting, and Cole because Kost can’t help but adopt the kid. He becomes friends with Iron Bull if the Chargers are saved. Small Side mission: Collect 10 dawnstone and 10 bloodstone. Kost will Greatly Approve and unlock schematics for Magewrought Weapons
Companion Quest: Kost is happy to have his son working with him but wonders whether Roland might prefer a different career or perhaps to attend the University of Orlais. He once caught Roland studying magic books and worries that he’s pressuring him into apprenticeship. He asks the Inquisitor to speak to Roland instead. When confronted, Roland admits that he’s been studying magic books so that he can tinker and improve his prosthetic arm, but he didn’t want to offend his dad, who spent years working on the magical formulae. He asks the Inquisitor not to tell.
Option 1: Tell Kost - This will net Great Approval from Kost and Cole, and Kost will talk to Roland and say that he couldn’t be offended that Roland is so interested and asks for them to proceed together with the tinkering. Father and son embrace and thank the Inquisitor
Option 2: Cover for Roland - The Inquisitor has the choice of telling Kost that Roland was merely curious about the process of magic or lie and say the magic books were hiding naughty material. Either way Kost will agree to let the matter drop.
Cole’s Reflection on His Thoughts: “The mask is gone and the bonds broken, burnt away and banished. My voice shall never more lie lost and leashed, locked away behind bars of word and deed.” Comments on Mages: “I know what it is like to be born different, and I once knew nothing more than imprisonment and shame for what I was. I have nothing but sadness to know that even here, others share my fate.” Comments on Templars: “If your protector is also your jailer, I think you have somewhat of a conflict of interest.” When looking for something: “Listen... there is something...” When finding a campsite: “Allow me to whip up a little something from these field rations.” When he is low on health: “I will not make my son an orphan again!” When he sees a dragon: “Not that I’m saying we should fight it, but... I could make some seriously good stuff out of dragon bone and hide.” Default saying: “Do you think Roland’s doing alright?”
Travel Banter:
Vivienne: So, Ser Aban. I have heard much of your magesmithing techniques. The Formari believe you are usurping their dominance over the market. Kost: I’m afraid, Madam, the Formari are mistaken. I happen to make useful items, not decoration. Vivienne (amused): Indeed? Then you must prize function over form in your pieces. Kost: Of course. I want to keep people alive, even at the cost of fashion. Vivienne: Some costs are worth dying for, darling.
Kost: I didn’t get the chance to thank you, Blackwall. Blackwall: What for? Kost: The extra firewood. My forge requires more than a normal smithy to stay working, and you provided. Blackwall: Wasn’t for you specially. I... I like chopping wood. Kost: And teaching my son how to swing an axe played no role? Blackwall: Oh. Kost: Too many people treat him as though he’s useless. I saw how happy he was with you. So as I said. Thank you... for the firewood. Blackwall: ...you’re welcome. Kost: There’s a magewrought sword with your name on it when we return to Skyhold.
(If Cole was made more human) Kost: You don’t have to handle everything, you know. You changed, right down to the core. Cole: I am fine. Kost: Sure, sure. Just as long as you know you don’t have to be. We’ve got you, Cole. Starting with rest. I got you a spare blanket - I’ve seen you shivering in your sleep. Cole: But I don’t- Kost: I’ve seen what you do for people. You’re not invisible anymore, you know. So it’s time you let someone else help you. Do you mind it if it’s me? Cole: I... th-thank you.
Iron Bull: You don’t like me much, do you? Kost (sarcastically): I didn’t know you were going for universal popularity. Iron Bull: Ha. You talk like one of these Orlesian bigwigs. Too important to waste time on mercs? (If the Inquisitor is a Qunari) And what about being “a friendly face,” huh? Kost: You won’t get a reaction out of me, Ben-Hassrath. Iron Bull: Even a lack of reaction is a reaction. Kost: Fuck you. How’s that for a reaction?
Friendship: “Ah! Come here for a shield or a cup of tea and some chat? Either way, I’m at your service.”
The Fade
How he reacts: “Oh, I’m not enjoying this at all.” Their Tombstone: Bereavement What the Fears look like: Himself in the mask and chains of a Saarebas What the Nightmare says: “The so-called peaceful ocean. I’ve been watching you for years now. The eyes of the Qun are everywhere and now, there’s nothing you can do to deflect their gaze.” Their reflection about the Fade: “Never again. Never.” Hawke or Warden: Depends on Hawke’s actions. If Hawke sided with the Chantry in DA2, Kost will suggest that they are responsible for the Qunari improving their foothold and force and believe they should atone in the Fade. If not, Kost suggests the Qun’s respect for Hawke is one of the only things keeping the Qunari from invading and believes they should escape the Fade.
The Wardens
Their feelings: Believes the Wardens make hard choices to save the world from the Blight. Exile or Allies?: Allies
The Ball
How they feel: “It isn’t my first ball, but I’m surprised at how many people I know, here. Babette de Launcet just tried to poach me from the Inquisition!” Where they linger: The garden balcony, near the bard singing in Orlesian Are they good at the Game?: He’s not great at being fake, but he is good at schmoozing, especially since his smithing skills are an avid topic of discussion. What people say about them: “Did you see the Magesmith walking by? So tall and dashing...””You do realize he is a Qunari, don’t you?” “My dear, that’s all part of the appeal. Imagine those burly muscles sweating at a forge...” Gaspard, Briala, or Celene?: Briala, or Celene with Briala - he fears Gaspard in power most of all, and he’d hate if war broke out between Orlais and Ferelden with the Qunari lurking at the borders.
Temple of Mythal
Rituals or Hole?: Rituals Agree with the Elves’ bargain?: Agree. Morrigan or Inquisitor for the Well?: The Inquisitor
Comments on Canon Romance
Cassandra: “The Seeker? A worthy choice. Though... I can’t help but wonder whether she’d choose love over duty should the time come.” Dorian: “Dorian? That must be fun - I hope he doesn’t criticize the patterns of your britches!” Sera: “Roland likes Sera - I think you two will get up to all sorts of mischief together.” Iron Bull: “Bull? Well... you do remember he was a Qunari spy, right? Never mind, I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” Josephine: “Don’t you hurt her, Inquisitor. She’s a wonderful person and a light in this world.” Cullen: “You know, I can craft certain soft lamps for the night. I’ve seen the look of a man who doesn’t sleep much on his face. Perhaps it will help.” Blackwall: “Tell me, I’m curious. Is the beard scratchy?” Solas: “D’you know, he hates tea? Suspicious, if you ask me.”
Sexual/Racial preference:  Any race or gender. Nickname for PC: Little One Romance only mission: (Can only be completed after Kost’s love confession) A cutscene featuring Kost and the Inquisitor in bed plays, involving a pillow talk discussion where Kost says “I love you.” The Inquisitor can choose to say it back or not, and ask about his past. The conversation finishes with Kost suggesting marriage would be more than acceptable to him, although he wouldn’t pressure the Inquisitor into it. The quest involves speaking to Kost’s son Roland to get his blessing to propose to Kost. The Inquisitor must perform a War Table mission to get Roland some parts to aid in the proposal, which will affect the next cutscene. If Cullen is chosen, Roland will be given some explosives and dyes and he will shoot fireworks during the proposal. If Leliana is selected, smoke pellets will be given and Roland will make a clockwork smoke machine to give a mystical air to the proposal. If Josephine is chosen, Roland will meet with some bards and make a music box to play while the Inquisitor proposes. The Inquisitor will then meet with Kost in the Skyhold garden at night and propose, choosing dialogue options that are sweet, nervous, or humorous, all resulting in Kost accepting the proposal and promising to marry the Inquisitor and love them forever - once Corypheus has been dealt with.
Dialog to being asked for a kiss: “Did you come down here just for this? How romantic... I must make it worth your while, little one.”
Halamshiral dialog: “Of all the magnificence in this palace... I can say without exaggeration that nothing compares to you.”
Being asked to dance during mission: “Josephine would kill me if I kept you from some diplomat or duke. But I shall gladly sacrifice myself once you have made your rounds.”
Asking to dance post-mission: “I- I warn you, little one, I’m not very good. But I’d do anything for you.”
What Cole says about companion to PC: “There was always darkness behind the mask, both of the masks he’s worn. But now it is safe and soft. Now there is you.”
Who is concerned about the relationship?: Vivienne. Josephine (for political reasons)
Who supports the relationship?: Blackwall, Dorian, Cullen
Who had a bet running on it?: Cassandra, Sera
Banter(between NPCs):
Vivienne: (after the romance only mission) I understand I am to offer you and the Inquisitor congratulations? Kost: We are engaged, yes. Vivienne: I do hope you understand what you are doing. Kost: I understand that I am in love. I understand that I am loved in return. And I understand that political considerations do not matter to me when I am with the Inquisitor. Does that satisfy you, Madam? Vivienne: Satisfy? No. Please me? Quite. I wish you every happiness.
Blackwall: You’ve... been around a while, haven’t you? Kost: Er... yeah? Blackwall: And the Inquisitor doesn’t mind? Not that it’s a problem, not that I think it’s a problem or anything, just- Kost: Ser Blackwall, do you have your eye on someone younger than you? Blackwall: What? I- where would you think tha- no. Kost (teasing): Fascinating. You blush right through your beard! Blackwall (groaning playfully): Oh, piss off!
Sera: You and the big man, eh? Hehe, because- Kost: Sera. You’re not subtle. Vivienne (if present): My dear, your lack of tact is simply appalling. Sera: Rolly likes you too, yeah? You better not hurt his dad or you know what? Kost: It’s arrows, isn’t it? Sera: Arrows!
Flirt options: Upon reaching Skyhold and unlocking the Undercroft, Kost will be ecstatic at the sight of the new smithing area and the Inquisitor can say he looks adorable when excited. This opens up a dialogue option later to begin romancing him.
If PC breaks it off: “Ah. I- uh. Of course. I hope I haven’t done anything to offend you. I shall continue to help the Inquisition as best I can.”
Love confession: Kost will ask to take a walk with the Inquisitor and they will end up on the battlements. Kost will talk about his life as a smith and as a father and say that he never seemed to end up with anyone to love and romance... until the Inquisitor. He says he hopes he didn’t read the situation wrong, but that he has fallen hopelessly for them.
Romanced tarot card: King of Pentacles
End game dialog: “Isn’t that something? No matter how hard I tried, I could never forge something as beautiful as a sunrise. I could never capture that kind of beauty. And yet... it is nothing compared to your face. The sun rises and sets each day without fail, but I promise to be even more constant for you - I am with you.”
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laudedliar · 4 years ago
Note
♠: One character adjusting the other’s jewelry/neck tie/ etc.
♡: Accidentally falling asleep together
Cullrian, but i couldnt pick just one prompt so you're welcome to pick your fave or do both or whatever works for you :)
This is the falling asleep.
The adjustment will be happier, I promise. :)
Dunno why I like angst.  But I sure seem to.  Awkward.
~*~*~*~*~
Adamant.  Once a bastion against the dark evils from the underbelly of the world, was now a ruined shell of it’s once glorious past.  Cullen walked along the broken battlements and stone walkways, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stepped over more dead Warden’s and Inquisition soldiers.  If what Solas said was true, their memory would forever be locked in a ferocious battle between the two.  To be enacted again and again by spirits of the Fade.  It was a tragedy that would be written and retold for millennia henceforth.
Cullen knelt at the side of an unblinking, lifeless Corporal.  He reached down and let his fingers close the woman’s eyes, so she may rest peacefully in the next life.
“May the Maker take you by his side.”  He murmured, pressing a kiss to his fingertips before laying them gently along the woman’s cold brow.  Slowly standing from where he knelt, Cullen continued his weary walk, kneeling at each of the dead he passed (Warden and Inquisition alike) and sent his pleading prayer for their souls to the Maker.
He was tired.  Exhausted.  Physically, mentally, emotionally.
He hadn’t noticed he was weeping until a Chantry Sister approached him, her own robes reddened along the bottom hem from the gore she waded through as she blessed the dead in turn.
“Please, Commander.  Go see a healer and take some rest.”  The young woman reached out to touch his cheek, a thumb running along the dark circle under his eye.  “We shall see these poor souls to the Maker’s side.”
Cullen nodded and stepped away from the woman, one hand roughly wiping at the cooling tear tracks along his cheeks.  “Thank you, sister.  Please, if you can save anything that we could send back to families...”
“Of course, Commander.”  The Sister walked with him down the stairs until she was certain he was stumbling through the rubble back to the camp that dotted the open expanse in front of the large, crumbling keep of yore.  Their large battering rams and trebuchets stood stark against the eve darkened horizon.  Soldiers were already put to task to begin dismantling the war machines for use in the funeral pyres.
Funeral pyres that would undoubtedly burn from dawn to dusk and on until the morning broke once more.
He was tired.  So tired he could feel it in his core.  A bone deep weariness.  The healer’s tents were collected nearest the keep.  People rushing too and fro, cries from the wounded and dying filled the air with a melancholy chorus.  It sent shivers rushing down Cullen’s spine and his feet detoured away from the wailing howls.
His wounds were minor, a few scrapes and cuts, a couple bruises.  Nothing that wouldn’t heal on it’s own given time and a little care.
The camp was somber.  Eerily quiet for a victorious army.  A few gathered soldiers shared skins of wine but most sat in silent contemplation of their hearth fires.  Many of the soldiers were Ferelden.  And Ferelden’s remembered the bravery of the Grey Wardens.  They remembered the horrors of the blight.
And they felt the loss of Warden Alistair Theirin acutely.  The man, after all, had been with the Hero of Ferelden.  Had fought beside him.  Had been there when the Hero died to save them all.  And the Warden had, in turn, sacrificed himself as well.
Heroes.
His throat tightened painfully and Cullen turned away from the fires of his subordinates to walk the lonely path up to the Inner Circle’s tents.  Inquisitor Cadash sat quietly, staring into the fire before her own tent.  Blackwall sat beside the small dwarven warrior, holding her hand and whispering soft sentiments to the stout woman.  Leliana was nowhere to be seen and he could not fault her.  She had known Warden Alistair.  Had fought and bled with him.  She had been in love with the Hero of Ferelden and the two had spent many nights in SkyHold laughing and reminiscing about their lost friend.
He skirted around the Inquisitor’s fire pit as well, not wishing to speak with either warrior pondering the flickering flames.  The rest of the companions were interspersed through the tents.  Most were weary from battle and huddled around their own fires or already in their tents.  The Chargers were softly singing dirges for the lives lost that day, Iron Bull drinking from a large skin as he hummed along with his companies melancholy songs.
Cole was perched upon a chair just outside of the circle of light, watching them all drink and sing.  His curious blue eyes flickered towards Cullen as the ex-Templar shuffled past to his own tent.
“Everyone is sad.  I cannot help them all.”  The boy said, drawing the blonde’s attention to him.
“It is impossible to help everyone, Cole.”  He answered, shoulders slumping at the admission.
“But it is possible to help some.”  The boy whispered as his eyes searched Cullen’s haggard face.
“Yes.”
“I want to help.”
Cullen watched the boy as his distant gaze slowly moved back out over the sprawling army camp.  “Good night, Cole.”  He muttered when the boy didn’t continue his thoughts out loud.
“Good night.  Commander Cullen.”  Cole replied, his tone distant.
A raised chorus of singing followed in his wake as he stepped into his tent.  The heavy fabric dampened the mournful chorus as it fell closed and Cullen brushed a hand over his face, wiping away a flaking crust of sweat, dirt, and blood.  He paused, hand resting over his mouth, as he noticed a hunched form on the edge of his sleeping roll in the dim candle light.
“Dorian.”  He called softly, surprised to see the mage sitting in his tent.  He would have expected the man to be with the Charger’s or the Inquisitor.  Not here.  Not inside the Commander’s personal accommodations.
Red rimmed grey eyes blinked up at him and the mage nodded slightly.  “Commander.”
“What are you doing?”  Cullen asked, a hint of anger on the edge of his words.
The Tevinter wrapped his arms around his chest and shrugged, glancing away to the far corner of the tent.  “I am... Hiding.  I figured no one would look for me here.  And had not expected you to return for some time.”
“I see.”  Cullen murmured softly, unsure exactly how to approach the situation.  He shifted foot to foot for a moment before sighing.  “And why are you hiding, exactly?”  He asked as he began to toe off his blood soaked boots.
“Mostly to be alone.”
Cullen kicked the discarded footwear to the side and began to unbuckle his cuirass.  “Well, I’m afraid this is my tent.  If you wish privacy, perhaps your own would be better suited?”
Dorian’s hands clutched at his upper arms and the mage shivered as if chilled.  He didn’t answer Cullen’s sharp retort straight away, instead remaining huddled on the edge of the sleeping roll as the blonde removed his armor with a groan.  When the Tevinter still hadn’t moved by the time Cullen stood in his shirt and pants, the ex-Templar considered the man.
“Dorian.”  He began, curious to the glazed far off gaze upon his counterpart’s face.
“Would you have made me Tranquil?”  The other asked suddenly.
“I - What?”  Cullen asked, eyebrows drawing together in concern.
“Do you believe me weak?  Susceptible to - to temptations?”  Grey eyes shadowed by a furrowed brow looked up.  There was fear plainly written in the creases marring Dorian’s face.
Cullen frowned, pondering the man’s questions.  No one had spoken yet of what had taken place when they’d fallen into the Fade.  His teeth worried the inside of his cheek as he considered his answer.  There had been a time he would have absolutely argued for Dorian’s tranquility.  The man was brash, far too intelligent for his own good, and had a cutting tongue.
But time had tempered Cullen’s anger and impetuous desire to see any mage in shackles.  He knew the ultimate price of such enmity.  And he had vowed to see more than just a mage’s abilities.  To see them for the people they were.
Carefully he stepped towards the man and knelt down to sit on the bedroll next to the mage.  “No.  I do not believe you are any of those things.”  He finally answered.
Dorian seemed to relax with his assurance.  The man let out a shaky breath and nodded carefully, as if the motion would cause his head to roll from his shoulders if he moved too quickly.  They sat in silence for a while, each absorbed in their own thoughts.
Cullen once more found himself reflecting on Kirkwall.  Thinking of all the Rites of Tranquility he had personally overseen.  Thinking of the pleading, helpless men and women.  Remembering as their struggles against their binds would suddenly... Cease.  How they would stare cow-eyed at the surrounding Templars afterward, awaiting their orders.
No.  No he could not imagine Dorian in such a state.  Not without feeling the crushing weight of guilt at all those who were.
“You may stay here.  If you wish.”  He murmured, fingers plucking at the bottom of his shirt.  In part because the mage was right in that no one would think to look for him in Cullen’s tent.  But also because the ex-Templar himself did not wish to be alone with only his memories for company.
A soft hiccuping sigh was his only answer and Cullen did his best to look the other way when the mage sniffed lightly, a hand sweeping quickly across his eyes.  He removed his sweat and blood stained shirt before crawling to lay behind Dorian on the soft bedroll.  He waited a moment, eyes lingering on the back of the mage’s head before he reached up and gently patted the other’s quivering shoulder.
Dorian turned his head, his face dark in the dim candlelight.  A soft squeeze on the man’s shoulder and wordlessly the mage rolled to lay beside him.  The solitary lit candle flickered out as it’s wick burned down to near nothing.
Cullen rolled to his side, grimacing when he disturbed a growing bruise upon his ribs.  He looked at his companion, the other’s eyes glimmering in the darkness of the tent.  The mage’s profile shadowed as he contemplated the ceiling of the tent.  The dampened sound of the Charger’s mournful melodies lent a haunting air to the mage’s brooding.
They lay beside one another, Cullen observing his unexpected visitor.  He wondered about the other’s question.  What had made him ask such a thing.  What could possibly have driven the normally sharp witted Altus to his tent to hide of all things.
“What happened?  In the Fade?”  He asked, genuinely curious.
“A great many things.  I wouldn’t know exactly where to start.”  Dorian’s voice was tight, as if he were walking along a razors edge and barely keeping upright.  The man’s breath came in shallow pants, and Cullen waited.  He could hear words gathering along the back of Dorian’s breath, could practically feel them gaining substance as the mage collected them together.  The way one can feel the roll of thunder just before the crackling rumble.  “Tell me, Commander, does a Lion feel fear?”
A sharp hiss as he drew in a breath between shuttered teeth.  “Of course.”
“What are they?  A Lion’s fears.”  Dorian asked, his head turning to face Cullen in the darkness.
Lips moved silently as he considered the other’s question.  The bared vulnerability in the Tevinter’s voice and actions eased any suspicion.  His throat tightened as he examined the answers to the inquiry.
“I fear not being strong enough.  Of failing again.  Of not giving enough of - of -” His throat flexed painfully and Cullen released a heavy sigh.  “That I am inadequate.”
Darkened eyes flickered across his face and Cullen lurched in surprise when a soft touch brushed across his brow, smoothing a stray lock of hair back.  “Thank you.”  Dorian hushed.
They lay side by side, each considering the other.  The smell of battle permeated the air between them, but underneath it all the scent of Dorian’s perfume tinted the air.  And Cullen drew a deep breath, trying to place the faint spiced scent lingering beneath.  He didn’t jolt away when another brushing finger traced the outline of his face.  And when Dorian rolled to his side and slid closer, body warmly pressing against his own, Cullen allowed his hand to rest gently upon the mage’s waist.
The need to be near a <i>living</I> being after the horror of battle was heavy between the two men and they in turn answered that desire for the other.  The closeness helping to push away the open dread each man gave voice to only minutes prior.  The human hunger for touch pulling them closer in their open vulnerability.
“You are the strongest man I know.”  Dorian whispered, the words brushing faint across Cullen’s skin with their proximity.  “Would you make me a promise?”
“What is it?”
“Promise you will not let me - that you - that I -”
Cullen lifted his hand from Dorian’s waist and pressed his fingertips against the other’s lips.  “I need not make that promise.  You are more than what you fear.  You have proven so again and again.”
A slight nod and those dark, shining eyes squeezed shut as a shuddering breath shivered through the Tevinter.  His hand fell to lay upon Dorian’s rib cage, squeezing gently in assurance.  They remained that way, Dorian’s fingers curling along his neck, his own resting on the man’s side.  Weary exhaustion and an easy solidarity between the two beckoned them into sleep.  Arms weaving around each other, as if their closeness could keep the nightmares at bay.  Even if just for a short time.  Keeping each other safe from the fears that crept through the shadows, bidding time until morning saw them part.
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drethanramslay · 4 years ago
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Rock Bottom
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Pairing: Mona X MC (Alexis Jennings)
Masterlist
Word count: 1.8 K (I really tried🤧)
Warnings: None, there is swearing, also there is a crossover 👀
Author's note: I'm taking part in @rodappreciationweek and this is my entry for day 3 (mona)
The hosts of RoDaw @client-327 @brightpinkpeppercorn and @choicesarehard are donating $5 usd to the Lebanese red cross, up to $500 for every piece of Mona content today! Please consider making/posting something for Mona today if you haven't already❤️
I'm also taking part in @wackydrabbles so you will find the prompt in bold
Forgive me if I make any mistakes
"Prisoners move back to your respective cells." The loudspeaker blared, cutting sharply through the air, giving Mona a cold splash of reality.
Until that godforsaken announcement, Mona had been sitting on the steps, her eyes closed as she enjoyed the cool breeze threading through her hair. The sun rays poured over her and she enjoyed the warmth emanating from them. She could smell the ocean and with her eyes closed, she could almost imagine standing on the shores of Santa Monica, the sound of the waves washing over her.
But there is only so much imagination one can use to forget that she was in jail.
To her darn luck, she had been transferred to Trask Island, a maximum security prison off the coast of Florida. It was one of those dreary prison where you were completely cut off from the world.
No call, no letters, no communication.
Whatever fucked up environment they created here, that was her world and Mona hated every second of it.
It was also called the 'rock' because one, it was on a island and two, it would drown all your hopes and wishes of a future, just like how a rock sinks in water.
No one has ever escaped Trask Island and no one ever will. The words of the warden echoed through her head making her scoff.
It's cute that he thinks I will be sticking around in this shit hole.
Mona was super determined to get the fuck out of here even though there were moments when she was completely and utterly lost.
She hated the orange tracksuits she had to wear. She hated the way these spiteful men dictated her life and tried to break her spirit. She hated being stuck in a tiny cell.
She longed to feel the adrenaline rush in her veins when she raced.
She longed to feel her hands gripping her steering wheel, as she drove at speeds defying gravity.
But most of all she longed for Alexis... The girl she left behind.
Mona found it ironic. After her ex ratted her to the police she swore that she would never let anyone have that power over her. That she would never wear her heart on her sleeve again. She built this impenetrable fortress around herself so that no one could enter and know the real her.
But Alexis managed to do that by just smiling at her.
The way their hands fit perfectly into each other's... The way that all her worries would go away when Alex was in her arms... The way that they both pushed each other, looked out for each other and challenged each other...
Mona had never witnessed such a feeling of companionship and she couldn't help but fall for her.
I love you Mona... Those words haunted her but at the same time motivated her to keep going through the motions of the day.
Her fantasies were abruptly interrupted by the guard kicking her combat boots. "Up and going, or do you want a month in solitary?"
And the thing she hated the most about this prison are the guards. I mean it was normal to hate them but this was some next level shit. She absolutely abhorred them to such a extent that she wanted to strangle them with her bare hands.
The number of times she was thrown into solitary was not even funny. And all of them were for the dumbest of the dumbest reasons.
Hell she was thrown in the hole for a fight she wasn't even part of.
All men are the same... Power hungry and drunk on greed. That's why girls are better.
So not wanting to risk living in the darkness for a month, she bit her tongue and got up before joining the other cellmates.
"What a dick." Eris Huang, an expert demolition muttered under her breath, so low that only Mona could hear it, causing her to snort.
In the six months she was here, she was low-key glad that she met Eris. They two met when Mona was moved into Eris' cell. Both were strong willed, hard headed and sarcastic woman so it wasn't really surprising that they became fast friends.
"Tell me about it. One of these days he is gonna piss me off so bad that I will end up castrating him with a blunt knife."
"Oof. I will hold him down and break his legs." Eris offered causing Mona to smirk. I like this girl. 
"Anyways, I have a shift at the library so meet you later." Eris spoke.
"Get me another notebook if possible."
"What are you writing? A love letter?" Eris teased which made Mona roll her eyes but she wasn't very far off from the truth.
"A lady never tells." Mona answered causing Eris to chuckle as she took a left to go to the basement.
Mona reached her cell and she felt the the cell gate close behind her with a loud clang, which resonated in her ribcage.
Sure, hanging out in the yard and working in the workshop was a welcome distraction but staying in her small cell for more than 17 hours would make a girl lonely.
So, in all these hours of loneliness, sadness and hopelessness Mona found some sort of solace in writing about her dreams, list of things she was going to do once she was out, her aspirations... But most importantly, how much she missed Alex and how she wished to be by her side.
So settling into the corner of her bunk, she opened the notebook with tattered pages so that she could write.
Dear Alex, I know I told you to not let me imprison you but that's not applicable to me because you are always on my mind. It's hard to forget you. I miss you so much....
Do you know what day it is today? It's the fifth... Or I assume so because there is no calendar here. We aren't told what date, month, year it is. It's just days which sinks into the lonely nights and the cycle continues.
It's been six months since I last saw you... And I guess it just hit me hard.
It's just cruel how little time we had together.
I still remember that night. How happy we were in that cute little prom of yours. I still remember how heartbroken you were when I betrayed you.
But you didn't let it break you.
I still remember the way you took down those bastards. I still remember how fucking proud I felt on that moment. I still remember how I took a bullet for you and the shock that coloured your face.
And I know the thoughts which ran at your head in that moment. "Someone actually cares enough for me to take a bullet for me."
I'm here to tell you that yes, I took a bullet for you and I would do it a thousand times over just to prove that I love you and I care about you. I'm here to tell you that you are worth it and you deserve all the love in the world.
I wish I could hold you in my arms and tell you all of this but... Life loves fucking with me and you got caught as collateral.
It's just... Hard some days. Sure I have made friends with some other criminals and tried to make this fuckery my new normal but I'm only human. I'm few moments away from sinking to rock bottom, as shocking as that may sound.
You always perceived me as an aloof, careless and a strong badass but that changed when I met you.
Sure I was always strong but you make me stronger. You and me... We both are like two knives sharpening each other. Pushing each other to reach new heights of awesomeness.
But, I also want to worry for you. I want to appreciate you. I want to wake up next to you and I want to love you.
I often wish how we would have met if I had not gone down the wrong path. Would we have met at some pub? Or in some Ivy League college? Or some frat party?
People often say that you shouldn't waste time thinking about the things that could have been but when you are in a prison with nothing but time, that's all you seem to do.
So yeah, you are the only thing preventing me from going insane.
I think that's enough emotional bullshit for today and I'm low-key relieved that you aren't reading these letters, of me talking like a sap.
But one thing is for sure- I love you.
Yours, Mona.
She heard the electric buzzer and the door of her cell opened. Eris walked in with an impassive face with a guard standing at the entrance. He shut the cell gate and walked away.
Mona's eyes narrowed as she sat up straight. Wait a minute-
She waited for the guard to be far away before she spoke up. "You have a plan."
Eris turned the light off of the cell and plopped on to the bed opposite Mona's.
"Smartie. Always knew I did a good job of recruiting you."
"But how? Do you remember the last time you failed and ended up in the hole for a month and a half?!"
"Yes I do remember but this is foolproof. We have outside help."
"... I'm listening."
"Do you speak thief?" She asked which made Mona scoff in disbelief.
"Obviously. I have stolen cars and kidnapped people. Obviously I'm no amateur."
Eris proceeded to explain how her friends Rye and some other chick had come up with a plan. She listened with complete attention and only stopped her to ask valid questions.
"So... Are you in?"
Mona tried weighing the pros and cons. It's sounded a tad bit unrealistic and far fetched. There were a couple of loose ends which made her hesitate.
Eris noticed that and grasped her hand. "See Mona, no escape plan is perfect. This is a rough draft and we will work out the kinks. But remember, the three crucial things an escape plan needs is- Luck, faith and determination. We don't know about what lady luck has in store but, we sure can have faith and determination."
"I know that you hate it here and I know the punishment of escaping is harsh but what's wrong in trying? We are already suffering as it is, what's a little more? And I see that fire in your eyes, M."
"The fire to break free and the fire to go back to your girl."
Mona looked up and the momentary joy of getting to see Alexis soon. Adrenaline courses through her veins, causing her heart to beat faster.
Eris leaned forward, her voice intense. "So tell me- Would you like to blow this joint or rot in here for the next five years wishing you could have atleast tried?"
Mona's eyes met hers and a smirk formed in her face. Reaching forward she shook Eris's hands, sealing the deal.  "What the hell. This is without doubt the stupidest plan you've ever had. Of course I'm in."
Don't worry Alexis, I'm coming home.
Hope you liked it 😊
Mona x MC Taglist : @kamilahsayeet2063 @kaitlynliaofanxx @vampiregirlsblog @made-me-deep-blue
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magalidragon · 4 years ago
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4 or 10 please!!!
Okay so I was going to do #10 in the when the sun sets in the east universe and I still will BUT then I got hit with feels and did #4 “hey I’m here now” in my silent shadow universe which hasn’t been posted yet. It’s angsty and sad but hopeful too. Don’t hate me! 🙈 (For those that didn’t see it, the moodboard and teaser for this fic is on my tumblr somewhere. Jon is deaf and has a wolf sanctuary, Dany is the veternarian)
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#10. “Hey, I’m here now” — set in the as of now unpublished silent shadow universe
The world was closing in on him.
It was a constant sensation in his life, one he had grown used to since he was six-years old. Since that terrible day when he'd been playing with Robb, like nothing was wrong, and then he woke up in a hospital, with tubes and wires, his head exploding in pain, and...silence. Just nothing, nothing but vibrations when it was loud enough, nothing but humming when the frequency was just right.
He spent twenty years in his world, a world he'd created for himself, and part of that world entailed Ghost. Ghost was his counterpart, his equal, his shadow, and his heart and his soul. His entire world was courtesy of Ghost. Ghost let him know when someone was there, he saved him from stepping off the sidewalk without hearing the car coming around the corner...he was his ears, his eyes, and his entire life. Without Ghost he didn't know where he'd be.
Arya tried to get him to calm down, but it was no use. He dug his fingers into his scalp, tearing at his curls, yanking them free from the messy bun on the back of his head, and whimpered, like how he imagined his wolf felt. No, not imagine, he knew. His cousin held his wrists, her lips moving, gray eyes just like his wide and focused on him, and his brain processed what she was saying, but he didn't hear it. They were just words.
She let go of his hands, signing furiously, like he didn't know what she was already saying. It didn't matter. “Where is she!?" he shouted, knowing in his heightened state what he said was probably unintelligible. He caught sight of the huge Suburban rolling up and raced towards it, panicked, not even waiting for the tires to squeal to a stop before he threw open the door and grabbed her hand, yanking her out of the cab.
Silver hair flew around her face, her cheeks flushed, and she was dressed haphazardly. Arya had called her about thirty minutes ago. It took almost that long just to get from the front gate to the location in the depths of the sanctuary. He'd be impressed with her speed, if it weren't such dire circumstances. She was speaking to Arya, running with him, her bag slamming against her hip. He felt the pounding of his heart in his ears, the rush of his blood. Each foot on the ground anchored him to the present, the vibrations moving from his soles into his actual soul.
They broke through the trees, to the clearing, where his heart lay on the ground, white fur damp and stained red. They always said that his eyes were bloody, but no one really knew, he supposed, what the real color of blood happened to be. It was crimson, so dark it was almost black, pumping from the gashes and wounds in his side. Ghost's eyes were red like rubies, like the glow of a sunset, not the hideous hue of the liquid leaving his body as fast as his body could generate it.
His beautiful red eyes were closed, breathing labored, fighting with all the strength left in hi.m Jon didn't know what he would do if he lost him. He knelt to his companion's side, looking over at Daenerys as she began to work, pulling on gloves and instantly triaging. A finger darted out, guiding his chin up and he stared at her, watching her lips form the words clearly while her hand moved in unison.
"Hey, I'm here now."
He nodded quickly, knowing that if anything would save his wolf, it would be her. He didn't sign his response; he didn't need to, just mouthed the words, not a whisper from him. "Thank you."
In their language, the strange mix of sign, lip-reading, and gentle touches they'd perfected over the months together, he helped her stabilize him, get him onto the stretcher Arya and Gendry brought out, and into the back of the Suburban. He felt the vibrations from the siren in his head, wondering if it was even legal for her to have one when she wasn't a police officer, but he didn't care. He'd deal with it if they were stopped. it was Winterfell, everyone knew everyone. They understood what this meant.
At the hospital he fell back, while she and her assistants ran in to work on him. Arya came up to him, tried to get him to come wash his hands, change out of his bloody shirt, but he didn't move. He replayed it all in his head, how they had even gotten to this point. The tracks in the snow, the worry he felt as one of his beloved wolves had already been injured-- Lady was a gentle creature, she was too used to humans and other creatures, no doubt she thought the animal was friendly.
A fully grown male grizzly bear early awakening from hibernation, hungry and still exhausted, confused, a single wolf would not be able to survive against it, but Lady had gotten away with a gash on her muzzle, her beautiful white and gray fur marred forever with the scars she would have. He went out with Ghost, to track the animal, to try to find it and figure its location, intent on calling the game wardens and having them come to relocate the animal somewhere else. Not in his sanctuary, for instance.
And Ghost saved him.
"She's a good doctor, Jon. He'll be fine."
He signed the words, too tired to speak them. "He saved me."
Arya clutched him, her tears wet on his cheek. She tapped the words into his hand, signing them even when he wasn't looking, but he knew. "He did what he was meant to do."
Ghost saved him from a bear, but he saved him from despair and loneliness, and he gave him a voice when he had none to give.
He did what he could, pushing it from his mind, and hours passed. Hours where he wondered if his heart would stop beating, if his breath would just suddenly cease, and he would die with his wolf. What am I going to do? he wondered.
"Jon."
The light touch on his shoulder jerked his head up, seeing her sign his name, her lips forming the words, and he knew. He lunged for her, tears hot on his cheeks, wracking sobs escaping his body, shaking him to his core. She clutched him, burying her face into his neck, kissing the pulse there. He pushed by her and ran into the room, and almost collapsed atop the white form lying on the bed, stark white bandages around his body, a tube helping him breathe, but the line on the computer monitor beside him beeping.
Jon might not have been able to hear it, but he knew what those lines meant, and he verified them with his ear pressed to Ghost's chest, the steady thud lulling him into a trance.
Thud-thum. Thud-thum. Thud-thum.
He turned his face from his wolf's soft fur, kissing at his muzzle and crying, Dany behind him holding his shoulders steady as his body, exhausted and overwhelmed, just gave out, relieved. He didn't know how long he knelt there, or when someone moved him, but soon he was in his house with Dany, both of them frantic, adrenaline and need raging through them.
They tore at each other's clothes, falling into each other, consumed with desperation to just feel alive. He knew the psychology of it, the reasons why when faced with death and chaos and possible loss, the human mind and body finally synced up with the single focus of wanting to fuck, to take and give to another person's body and mind, to remind itself there is still life, there is still feeling and love and passion, even when faced with ones own mortality. We aren't dead yet, was all it repeated.
He collapsed beside her, his face buried in her chest, inhaling the slightly floral scent from her shampoo, the lavender of her body lotion, and the sweat and lingering antiseptic and coppery blood from the surgery room. His fingers sought hers, clenching, embracing over her heart.
Jon might not be able to hear her voice-- one of the only things in his life he truly missed, truly wished he could go back in time and tell the little boy not to climb that tree, not to go dancing along the edge of the castle wall, and not to slip and fall trying to beat Robb in a race. He could not hear her voice, but he could feel it, in the beating of her heart, in the steady thrum of her pulse, and the way her lips moved at his ear, the breath tickling. Her fingers sought out his, clenched tight, and she moved her hand in front of them, heads resting together on the same pillow.
“I’m here now”
He smiled, a rare sight only she got to see. He touched her lips, as she formed the words again, reassuring him, and he understood. He mouthed the words back: "I know." He then slipped his hand between them, covering her heart, and moved his fingers into the sign, the one she knew, that everyone in the world seemed to know, but for him was the hardest one of all. The only one he never used, in some ways never felt he would ever have need to use, but when Daenerys came into his life, it was the only one he felt he truly understood.
I love you.
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juju-on-that-yeet · 4 years ago
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Old Fears
Whumptober Day 18: Panic! At The Disco Prompt: Panic Attacks/Phobias
Summary: All the Jim Twins meant to do was pull a harmless prank on Yancy. Instead, they brought back Yancy's worst memories.
Warnings: Panic attack, claustrophobia, flashbacks
Read on AO3 (Full Whumptober 2020 series)
Enjoy!
~
Every once in a while, the Jim Twins get the mischievous inclination to prank the other egos.
Nothing serious, nothing harmful, nothing emotionally manipulative. They don’t set up jumpscares or fake their own deaths or do anything malicious. But they’re not above throwing a bath bomb in the washing machine, or putting toothpaste between the two halves on an oreo cookie, or hiding an item belonging to one person in the room of another. While they might cause momentary frustration, they’re forgiven quickly, and never ruin anyone’s day.
Well, usually. The Jims have miscalculated before. But today will be fine! The prank they line up is simple: Once someone walks by their set-up and trips the line, a system of pulleys will go off, pushing them into the hall closet and locking the door behind them. The Jims don’t really know how it works; Bing helped them make it. But regardless, they set their trap up in an often-traveled hallway. Across from the door and the trap, they set up a tiny camera to record what happens, both to see if it works and for humorous posterity. They put a tiny night-vision camera in the closet as well. They don’t intend to keep the person locked in the closet forever, of course; if no one comes by to let them out for a while, the Jims will either do it themselves or ask someone else to do it, depending on who gets trapped. Ed is known to drag the Jims by their ears to Bim to inform him of their misdeeds, so they’ll probably have someone else pull him out of the closet if it happens.
But that doesn’t happen, because not long after they go to their rooms to watch the camera feed on RJ’s laptop, Yancy walks into view.
“Is he gonna…?” asks RJ, vibrating with excitement. CJ watches with equal excitement.
They can see the exact moment Yancy’s foot trips the first wire. He stops and looks down, having felt his foot hit it. That gives the trap’s pulleys enough time to go off, one by one, swinging open the closet door and pushing Yancy in. He yelps as he’s shoved, and the door slams on him and locks as soon as he’s inside.
“Hey!” he yells from the inside. The Jims switch to the feed of the second camera, and watch him jiggle the doorknob and whack the door indignantly. “What the hell?? Lemme out! Whoever did this, youse ass is done for when I get outta here!!”
The Jims can’t help it, they crack up. They laugh so hard that RJ falls out of his chair and CJ snorts hard enough to make his nose feel weird. It takes them a good minute to get themselves under control and return to watching the camera feed, expecting Yancy to be in the process of kicking the door down or cursing up a storm. But he’s doing neither of those things. At first, Yancy just seems bored in there, but the longer the Jims watch, the more concerned they start to get. Eventually, CJ taps RJ’s shoulder to get his attention before signing to him.
“RJ, I think something’s wrong.”
~~~
At first, Yancy is angry.
He doesn’t know who set up this stupid prank, but he’s looking forward to throttling them once he gets out of this closet. He tries the doorknob, tries hitting, even tries kicking. But it doesn’t work; the door is locked tight. As far as he knows, no one else was in the hallway, so he’s stuck here for the time being.
Stuck.
In this locked, dark room.
“Ugh, this is stupid,” he mutters, kicking the door one more time for good measure.
So maybe his heart is beating a little faster, maybe his mind is starting to race. But he knows he’s fine, it’s just a closet. This was just a dumb prank that someone pulled on him, and whoever shoved him in here is probably going to let him out in a few minutes. Yancy can deal with a few minutes.
After all, solitary used to last much longer than a few minutes. He’d be in that windowless room for hours, sometimes days. Once it was even two weeks, and Yancy can’t even remember what he did to deserve it. He only remembers the way the days melted together, how each second began to feel like an hour. He remembers counting cracks in the wall, trying in vain to listen to the conversations happening nearby, just to have any mental stimulation at all. By then, he knew better than to make a fuss while in solitary, but his first few trips to that room were marked by screaming and pounding the door until his throat and fists were raw.
Yancy starts to breathe a little faster, a little shallower.
But this closet is not solitary. There’s some items in it, for one thing: A mop, a bucket, some cleaning sprays and gloves. Yancy doesn’t know for sure how any of it looks, because the room is also dark, another difference from solitary. He feels along the wall but finds no light switch. He supposes that makes sense; the closet is too small to warrant a light inside. That’s the last difference between this and solitary: The room for solitary wasn’t huge, but it was big enough to pace around in, at least. This closet is hardly big enough to take a few steps in any direction.
The more Yancy thinks about it, just because this situation is different from solitary doesn’t make it better. He tries the doorknob again. No luck. The room is too dark, it’s too cramped.
“Hey,” he says, trying to put some power and anger into his voice, “Let me out! Lemme outta here right now! When I find out who youse are I’m gonna knock ya into next Tuesday, I swear!!”
“Don’t make threats like that,” says a voice in the back of his mind, unbidden, “The guards don’t like that, it’ll only make them keep you here longer.”
Yancy shakes his head, trying to dispel the thought. This isn’t solitary. This isn’t solitary. But the room is so dark he’s forced to imagine what he sees. He tries the door again. He whacks it with his hand.
“Let me out of here,” he gasps, words coming out softer and weaker than he intended to.
It’s too dark in here. He can’t see anything at all. It’s too enclosed. Yancy can hardly move. He can’t even pace. The room is too small, too hard to see through. He tries the door again. And again. He hits it. He hits it again. His breathing gets shallower, his heart beats faster. He grabs the sides of his head, trying to get a grip. He staggers backwards, lightheaded, but bumps into the bucket and nearly falls over. The room is so small that the arm he throws out to catch himself hits the wall and keeps himself standing. A whimper escapes his throat.
This isn’t solitary. This is worse.
With sudden ferocity, Yancy throws himself at the door, pounding relentlessly.
“Lemme out!!” he screams, “Lemme out, please! This ain’t funny anymore, get me out! Out, please, I have to get out–”
His words are cut off by his own sob. He slides down against the door as tears keep coming. He doesn’t want to cry, the guards always make fun of him for crying. But he can’t make them stop. He knows he’ll be in even more trouble for causing a fuss, and it only makes him cry harder. He can’t even remember what he did. What did he do? Why is he stuck here?? But it doesn’t really matter, he knows that. He crawls to the back of the closet to sit in the back, staring at the door, crying and waiting for the guards to let him out.
It happens sooner than he thinks it will. The door opens, and Yancy blinks against the light. He hurriedly wipes his face, trying to remove the evidence of tears from his face, despite still crying. It takes him a moment to realize that the door hasn’t opened to Happy Trails, that it’s not a guard or Warden Murderslaughter who’s opened the door.
The open door shows a hallway of Ego Inc. Standing in the doorway is Illinois, panting a little like he ran to get here, eyes full of fear and worry.
Yancy starts crying harder again.
“Oh, angel,” Lio murmurs, coming into the closet to pull Yancy into his arms, “You’re alright, Yancy, you’re safe. You’re in Ego Inc., you’re home. I’m right here.” He stands, pulling Yancy up with him. “C’mon, let’s get out of this closet.”
Yancy lets Lio put an arm around him and lead him out of the closet. That’s when Yancy realizes Lio isn’t the only one who’s come here; the Jims are standing in the hallway, nervously looking at Yancy, sadness and guilt written all over their faces. Yancy wipes his face again, trying to stop his tears. He hates crying in front of people, he hates being weak. He feels Lio kiss his temple and squeeze his shoulders before hearing him address the Jims.
“I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” he says icily.
“We have, Adventure Jim!” RJ exclaims. Yancy takes his hands away from his face in time to see CJ nod in agreement.
“Anything else you want to say?” Lio asks.
The twins look down nervously, then look at Yancy, eyes big and sad.
“We’re sorry, Prison Jim,” RJ says earnestly, “We didn’t know you’d get so upset. It…It was supposed to be a silly prank. ”
“We didn’t mean to hurt you,” CJ signs, “We’re really, really sorry.”
The Jims did this. They were the ones who locked him in that godforsaken closet. For a prank.
A rush of anger, of shame, of embarrassment cuts through Yancy’s lingering panic. He’s lunging out of Lio’s hold and punching RJ in the face before he can think twice about it. RJ cries out and stumbles back, hands coming up to his now-bleeding nose. CJ grabs him to keep from falling over at the same time Lio puts an arm in front of Yancy to keep him from punching again.
“Hey! Hey,” Lio says, keeping his voice steady and calming, “That’s enough, Yancy, they didn’t know any better. Let’s get out of here, alright?”
Yancy’s burst of anger fades quickly, leaving him exhausted. There’s suddenly nothing he wants to do more. He lets Lio lead him away, not bothering to look back at the Jims. He doesn’t regret punching RJ, but he doesn’t feel self-righteous about it either. He’s just tired and trembling and still crying just a little.
Lio takes Yancy to Yancy’s own bedroom. Yancy’s bedroom is not like solitary at all, and it’s not like the closet, either. Lio turns the light on and closes the door, but doesn’t lock it from the inside. Yancy sits on his bed, lets the familiar feeling start to ground him. The theater posters on his wall help, too. But most helpful is Lio, who comes to sit beside him. He puts an arm around Yancy again, kisses his hair.
“I’ll stay here as long as you need, alright?” he murmurs, “Whatever you want from me, I’ll do, sweetheart.”
All Yancy wants is to bury his face in Lio’s chest, and for Lio to wrap his arms around him in the only tight space that doesn’t make Yancy afraid.
So Yancy does, and Lio does, and they stay that way for a long while.
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bang-to-the-tan · 5 years ago
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Moth to Flame 
Chapter 8
Reader x OT7
► Vampire!AU
Smut/Porn With Some Plot
Warnings: Degredation, Somewhat Dubious Consent/Hypnosis, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Male Masturbation, Handjob, Choking, Gagging, Threesome (M/M/F), Foursome (M/M/M/F), Possessiveness, Vampires (Biting, Blood-Sucking, Reference to Death), Language
Words: 11K Exactly Because I am a Superstar
↳ Summary: Robbed of your memories and intended as a birthday present for a deadly creature of the night, you unwittingly become the center of a territorial dispute between two covens of vampires. Tensions are rising and the brothers are getting hungry...
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It takes a while before you can convince yourself to leave the safety of the wardrobe. But there aren’t any more voices from outside and you’re beginning to get hungry…Finally, you unlatch the doors and slip out, pausing in the quiet to check that your dismount didn’t catch anyone’s attention. Nothing happens. You count your breaths, but there’s still no sign of any movement other than your own. Relaxing just a little more, you avail yourself of Jin’s bathroom and dig into the snacks he brought while you process your situation, sitting cross-legged by the bed to avoid getting crumbs everywhere. Idly you promise yourself that you’ll slide underneath it if anyone comes up again. It’s not exactly a feast—convenience-store burritos that you wish you could heat up, snack foods like pretzels and bizarrely, a handful of suckers.
A kink, maybe? You muse on the possibility of your warden having a fetish for lollipops as you chew laboriously through a mostly-thawed hot pocket. Maybe he just thought you wanted a candy? The memory of his excited face when he mentioned the food comes to mind. He seemed legitimately proud of himself. Like a kid with a pet.
Cum all over your master’s fingers, just like a good little pet.
You swallow, hard, and challenge the arousal that momentarily flashes through you. You can’t just sit here and be complacent. It’s weird. It’s wrong. What’s next? A collar? The marks under your bandages throb, and a quiet gasp escapes your lips at the sudden image that accompanies the thought. A collar and a leash that he could tug on and you could be so good for him—
You stand up, finishing what’s left of your pitiful meal with one vicious bite. Okay, escaping is now the train of thought, you’ve just decided. No more of…any of that. Especially with what just happened. Packing everything back into the plastic bag, you set it by the side of the bed.
Can’t trust the hallways—not with everyone up and about. There’s at least three of them wandering around at any one point and you’re pretty sure all of them know you’re here. They’ll catch you no problem if you step foot out of this room by way of the door. The window, then, like you’d planned to begin with.
You shift, frowning, rubbing your thighs together. God, were you always this horny all the time? On the outskirts of your mind, imagining what kind of punishments exactly they might have in store if they caught you? When they catch you… You shake your head violently.
Anyways.
Out the window.
The curtain pulls aside easily when you tug at one corner, lifting it just enough to peep out again and confirm your suspicions. It’s still nighttime. Still? Again? Wish there was some way of knowing. Another fact about vampires triggers in the depths of your mind. They sleep during the day and get up during the night. So with that logic, the house should be clear by daytime—you’d be home free. Could even walk through the front door, if you’d had a mind to, but considering you’re batting zero for two on that score, maybe you’ll stick with the window. You’ve got the beginnings of a real plan, then. Wait for it to be light out, take your bag of snacks, use the duvet to slide out of the window. Perfect. Flawless.
 There’s a quiet sound on the door, as someone tapping their fingers gently on it.
“It’s me.” Jimin. “Open the door. Quick, before they come back.”
Shit. Shit.
You scramble for the bag of food, nearly tripping over yourself in your haste to reach the window. No time to wait, you’ve already been caught—you need to leave now.
“I don’t want to have to haze you but you have to open the door!” Comes the urgent whisper again.
Fuck off, Jimin, you think venomously, flying to the window, throwing the curtains aside and curling your fingers under the pane.
“You can trust me, I promise.” On closer inspection, it looks like it might soon be dawn, the pitch black of the sky threatening to go purple as it dips below the horizon. Not perfect, but good enough. A few more hours until sunrise, as far as you can reckon. You’ll take it. You have to.
“I think we can help each other, you know? But you have to open up. It’s not safe.” You cringe at the sound as the pane slides all the way up, but grit your jaw anyways, throwing the bag over your shoulder.
“Wait, was that the window?!” He sounds panicked. Too late, you think, throwing your leg over the sill. Too late. You’re getting out of here. Right now. Craning over the side, you can judge the distance as far enough to cause some problems if you just dropped down, even with the hedge breaking your fall. You can tuck and roll, can’t you? Yeah, definitely. Tuck and roll. Easy. Despite your self-pep talk, you’re still hesitating.
But you can do that, you insist hurriedly. It’ll be locked away in your head somewhere. Gotta be. One of those survival things, like adrenaline-powered moms picking trucks up off their children. Your other leg swings forwards, dangling off the sill, hands braced against the frame.
“Fuck—Stop!”
You halt dead in your tracks. The light from the room behind you wavers, coiling as it caresses the bare skin of your arms. Thinking sinks into a chore, the world oozing fog from the corners, filling your limbs with sand. A breath escapes your lungs that empties your entire body, leaving you heavy and hollow. Wait. What are you doing? Jimin said to stop. Where were you going without him? You frown.
“It isn’t safe out there!” He’s definitely right about that. It is most certainly not safe. Why were you so determined to jump?
“I know you want to get out, but you’re gonna end up hurt if you leave now!”
You would get hurt, yeah. You cast a disparaging look at the ground beneath the sill.
Tuck and roll. Tuck and roll? You don’t know how to tuck and roll.
 “We aren’t the only ones with haze,” Jimin continues hastily, “And you already went missing—we won’t be the only ones looking for you, either. Jin must have bitten you. You can’t miss those marks. It leaves a smell. A-a trail. And the others aren’t always like us. They can be really cruel.”
“Others”? What is he—…Other vampires? You purse your lips. Jimin did say to stop. You should stop. But on the other hand it also did seem like you were in a real rush to jump out this window. Like you had a good reason at the time. What was it? It’s really hard to grasp, but you can’t shake the feeling like it’s incredibly important.
“Some of them really like pain,” his tone is hushed, “They’re scary. Bad.” He shifts, encouraged by the ponderous silence on your end as you mull over his words as well as your own thoughts. Time-sensitive. It feels time-sensitive. Something to do with time. And the window. Maybe you could compromise? Could you ask him to catch you when you jump out of the window? He seems strong enough. But you could probably also just as well ask him to hold you, if that’s what you wanted. Is it what you want? You’ve lost your train of thought, too easily distracted by the thought of Jimin’s soft, warm arms around you. Maybe that is what you wanted. You aren’t sure. You certainly want it now.
“I know you want to leave. But what if they catch you? They’ll make sure you suffer. We don’t want you to suffer. I don’t want you to suffer.”
 Part of you is more aware of what he’s saying than most of you, and parts of it come to you much slower than the rest. It leaves a smell. You raise a hand to the bandages and rub at them, feeling the itch, the throb, the vague pleasure that shoots down your neck. I’ll have to catch you and bring you back anyway. So that must be how Jin planned on tracking you down if you’d ran away. Looking back, he was really confident he was that he could. Not ‘try to catch’, not ‘hunt you down’. Catch you, bring you back. Maybe chain you up or something. The thought goes straight between your legs and you hum at the feeling. Is that what you were doing? Playing a cat and mouse game with Jin?...That doesn’t seem right, either.
Playing with Jin…A spark of concrete thought lights in your mind and you snatch at it even as it slips through your fingers like water.
 “…I’m not supposed to be playing with you, Jimin.” You point out, slowly, thoughtfully. You don’t have to raise your voice too much—you know he can hear you just fine. “Namjoon said so.”
Jimin sighs. “I misbehaved a little earlier, but I promise I’ll be good now. I’m just trying to help now. I promise I’ll be good.”
‘Misbehaved a little’. Memories of his plush lips against your sopping core rise to the forefront of your mind. You shiver.  Is that what you were after? No…that doesn’t have to do with the window. It could, maybe up against the window? An option.
“I’m supposed to go to Jin when my greedy pussy needs filling,” you add, swinging your legs faintly. “Not you, not Jungkook, not Taehyung.”
You can hear him choke faintly. “I-I know, I know, and that’s got to be confusing for you, but Jin isn’t here right now. It isn’t safe anymore.”
Now that doesn’t seem right. You roll your eyes. Not safe. That can’t be right. A breeze sweeps up outside the window and it raises goosebumps on your arms. You’d move back into the warm, but Jimin did tell you to stop, and you can’t think of why you wouldn’t listen to him just yet. Plus, you haven’t figured out what part the window has to play in all this. Something in you really wants you to jump. Something in you is screaming, but all you hear are echoes.
 “Jungkook’s so hungry...I kind of wish they’d just give you to him...But even so, I think you could help us. All of us.”
It’s quiet for a moment. You turn his words over in your head.
“Really? I could help you?” That’s an interesting take. You’d love to help, any way you can. You like helping.
“Yeah! You could help us! Please, please, open the door. We can’t keep talking, I swear to God he knows that you’re in here and if he finds you in here…Please open the door. Please come with me. I swear I won’t do anything.”
Helping, yeah. Maybe that was what you were doing. You can always ask Jimin about the window while you help him. Your legs are already swinging back over the window, albeit shakily. You’re reluctant to leave it, but you get distracted again by the bag over your shoulder. Whatever it was that doesn’t want you to go definitely isn’t going to let go of the bag. It’s a small compromise—keep the bag, leave the window. Jimin shouldn’t mind. You start towards the door, reaching for it.
“I promise I won’t touch you. I won’t even look at you if you want. Please.”
“No touching?” You repeat, stopping just in front of the frame. You’ll open the door. That should be okay. Although you won’t deny that you’re a little disappointed at the thought that you can’t touch Jimin.
“None! I’ll back up from the door, even!”
You clutch the plastic bag over your shoulder, and your mind briefly drifts to what it would be like if he was lying to you about touching. It can’t be your fault if he starts it, can it? Maybe then you won’t get in trouble. It’s a nice thought.
Curling your fingers around the handle is not nearly as difficult as when you opened the door for Taehyung. This time, the choice is so much easier.
When you pull it towards you, you immediately spot Jimin on the other side of the hallway, pressed fully to the opposite wall. His face crumples into relief when he sees you emerging, but his eyes are wide with urgency. His hands are held up in a gesture of peace, and there’s fabric slung over one arm. He doesn’t look halfway as dangerous as you’d think—his oversized sweater swallows him whole and his mussed hair makes him look so sweet, so small. A neon sign reading “Innocent” draped over his chest couldn’t scream ‘harmless’ any louder.
“Why aren’t I safe in Jin’s room anymore?” you ask curiously. The question seems to come from out of nowhere.
“His job has him caught up for a little while.” Is the immediate reply. The only part of him that moves are his pillowy lips. You remember those lips. “You would’ve been okay if no one knew you were in there, but somehow…somehow they figured it out.”
You hum, eyeing him absently.
“Where are we going?”
“I’d take you to my room, but neither of them need permission to come in, and I don’t think they trust me right now. I don’t think I trust me right now… I’m thinking the left wing.”
“The left wing?”
He nods. Slowly, deliberately, as though dealing with a spooked animal, he unhooks the fabric from his arm and offers it to you. After a half-second of hesitation, you take it from his hand, being sure to avoid actually touching him, despite the urging in your fingertips to brush his. It’s a hoodie. Oversized, well-worn…and a little dusty…? There are holes in some of the seams and whatever date was printed on the front, letter-man style, is rubbed most of the way off.
“For the smell.” He explains quickly. “You can’t leave Jin’s room smelling like him if he’s not here.”
Obeying a knee-jerk instinct, you raise a black sleeve to your nose and inhale briefly. You’re sure you don’t have half the sense that they do, but there is a scent. Vague, light. Oddly familiar.
“What’s in the left wing?”
An old wound twinges in his eyes and his gaze flits away. “Nothing, anymore.”
You grasp the hoodie more firmly between your fingers, scrutinizing the vampire as he pins himself to the wall, arms still up, now avoiding your gaze and frowning with the ghost of some distant memory. No touching, needs help, window jumping. You’re not sure you’ve got the space in your head to unpack everything. Not enough to make the connections that need made.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” he says again, softly.
 You place the bag on the ground, pulling the hoodie over your head and gathering your hands from the insides of the massive sleeves, slinging the food back over your shoulder as you tug the bottom of the jacket down. It reaches all the way to your knees; it’s awkward, clumsy—you look like a teenager stealing her boyfriend’s stuff. Kind of cute. Does Jimin think you’re cute? You cast a glance up at him, but he’s very busy looking away from you.
“Okay?”
“Okay.” You affirm, shuffling comfortably.
“Good.”
He turns from you, spinning on his heel, and immediately makes a beeline down the hall. You try your best to follow, but he’s seriously booking it. You catch a flash of a worried, thoughtful expression as he casts a furtive glance down the stairs when the two of you pass them.
Momentarily, you lose yourself in gathering your bearings. Behind you, the opposite way of where you’re headed, is Jin’s room, then Jungkooks a little further down, and finally at the end of the hall is the bathroom they share. Where Taehyung was. Come to think of it, you don’t think you’ve ever actually been down this way, to the left from the front doors.
The light from the chandelier passes over your face and then dips back out of view. There’s a flash of trepidation, of anger, that grips your throat. No. It’s frustration. You aren’t supposed to be going this way for some reason. The window again…? The front doors.
Jimin’s pulling away, his pace quickening. You skip to catch up.
He leads you down the left hallway, all the way to the end, and then immediately veers to a sharp right. You almost run into him, skittering to a halt just behind him when he stops by a specific door. It doesn’t look any different from the others to you. You wonder what he sees.
He casts another look around, concern pulling at his lips, avoiding your eyes. He’s very pretty, but you wish he wasn’t frowning so much. Those sweet, soft lips should be pulled into a smile. Or even better, wrapped around your skin. Want dances briefly over your limbs, curls in your chest. The door opens with a creak of old wood and Jimin visibly flinches, but holds out an arm to usher you in. He almost forgets not to touch you, quickly dropping his arm back to his side as you walk past him. Missed opportunity. Obediently, you trail inside, casting a cursory glance about the room as he closes the door carefully behind the two of you.
It looks just like the other rooms you’ve seen, but even more bare somehow. The bed is made, but there are no decorative pillows. The bookcase in the corner is mostly empty, except for one or two faded, worn books. In the corner is a wardrobe just like Jin’s, though the doors are flung open. Recently, judging by the lines in the dust.
 “Okay. You have your food,” Jimin begins pacing, patting dust off surfaces as he goes like its an afterthought, using his other hand to rake through his hair—still avoiding your gaze. “You have your food, so that’s good.”
You drop the bag to the floor, scooting it close to the door. The feeling inside of you that needed it with you is satisfied with leaving it there. Within easy reach. Whatever that means.
The bathroom door is ajar, and from here, you can see a flash of green on the tiles. Are those…frog stickers decorating the walls? Jimin’s still worrying aloud, but you’re already tapping over to the door, pushing it open delicately, immediately distracted with the childish flourishes.
“Jin should be back soon. He said he’d be back soon. That usually means a work day.”
They are frogs, little cartoon frogs. Bright green, some of them red and blue. There are ridiculously cartoony ones with huge eyes and ones that are more anatomically correct—closer to the shower in the corner you can spot a whole host of charmingly anthropomorphic frogs holding…garden supplies?
“Maybe tonight? Hopefully tonight.”
You ghost closer to the wall, delighted to find these friendly faces. You trace over one with an extended finger, noticing the way its faded. How long have these been here? One of his brothers has light scratches, as though someone tried to peel it back and then smoothed it down when it wouldn’t come up cleanly.
It doesn’t occur to you that the bathroom door has creaked just that little bit more closed behind you until you sense movement. You move to turn, to tell Jimin about these fantastic little comrades you’ve just found, but a strong arm wrapping about your midsection stops you from going far. Automatically, your lungs fill with a squeal of surprise, but a hand clamps over your mouth and a familiar voice hisses in your ear with an urgent tone, warming your hair, making the surface of your skin tingle with the heat of his breath.
“Don’t scream.”
Your mind wipes entirely clean, the lights around you growing halos, the edges curling with shadows and warm, filtered glows. The entirety of your body floods with warmth, safety, belonging, all within a second. Scream? No. No, the sound that escapes you, muffled by Jungkook’s palm, is a moan. He’s so close, his body molded to yours, you can feel his heart beating through your back, can feel the body heat coming off him in waves. You’re already putty in his arms. There’s a heavy pause, marked only by the sound of you panting through your nose. In the other room, you can still hear Jimin complaining to himself, quieted somewhat by the mostly-closed bathroom door.
 “Jin’s pajamas…” Jungkook murmurs in your ear after a furtive beat. “Namjoon’s hoodie…No one would guess who you really belong to at this point.”
He sucks in a sharp breath, and you feel him press his nose to your neck, where your bandages lie, inhaling deep. The rush of pleasure that follows the mild ache beneath nearly takes out your legs, your body sagging against where he has you held against him.
“Both of them?” he whines quietly. The hand over your mouth disengages with a vaguely wet sound from where you’ve already begun drooling, fingers flying to the bandage, curling under and peeling it off, feverish. He throws it out of sight, somewhere on the floor. You squirm against his grip in anticipation, but he shushes you. The fresh air caressing your bites feels almost cold, tingling. A slick heat suddenly presses to the marks, hot and firm, tasting the scabs formed there, and it feels so good you almost cry out, but his hand reappears, curling around your chin to force three of his fingers past your lips. Desperately, you suck on them, pulling them deeper into your mouth, hips beginning to circle against him seemingly of their own volition. You think of what he promised you earlier. What he promised you.
Behind you, he grunts under his breath, grinding his pelvis against your ass and you can already feel him getting hard, the thick muscle of his thighs slipping across the thin fabric of Jin’s pajamas.
“You know who you belong to, right?” he rasps, “You remember me? You remember my fingers?”
You nod vigorously, hollowing your cheeks around his digits, sucking them down like they were his cock. The arm around your waist shifts, his other hand trailing down your hips. He roots past the hoodie almost violently, searching for the waistband of the pajama pants, jamming his hand down the front as soon as he finds it. The pads of his fingertips stroke past your folds, testing the slick gathering there as you widen your stance to allow him more space, slobbering enthusiastically around the digits clenching absently around your tongue. Two fingers breach your quaking walls, shoved upwards into you and curling with one smooth motion. You buck forwards just as he thrusts, exhaling a shuddering gasp into your hair.
“Yeah,” he hums, fucking upwards with his hand, circling his wrist and sliding his thumb down against your throbbing clit to send lightning flickering through your spine, “Yeah, you remember me. You remember this.” Even as he fingers you sloppily, fervently, he keeps you locked in place, imprisoned by his strong forearms, pressed to his legs and torso.
 “I don’t know if I can keep being good the longer I stay here with you,” Jimin’s voice suddenly wafts over to you from the bedroom, though he seems hesitant to come too close to the bathroom door.
Jungkook’s hand doesn’t stop, but his motions calm to simple strokes, rubs, fingers pulsing inside of you with a delicious drag that has your eyes rolling back, hips stuttering to chase after more. His own breath is quickly getting out of hand, heavy exhales you can hear him trying to muffle into your neck.
“But before I leave, I just want to make sure you aren’t gonna try and escape, okay?”
 Lips press to your bite marks, feverish and possessive. Jungkook’s teeth catch the tender, not-quite-healed flesh in a bite that is less than kind, but the aching pain sends your legs into spasm with a spike of heady pleasure, choking around his fingers as he presses down hard on your tongue. The moan that arises from your chest is garbled and messy as you drool and huff openly, wetly. He ruts against you through the unforgiving starch of his jeans, rolling into you like he could reach your sex through the layers. You rut back, just as desperate for him to be inside of you.
 “Uh…Hello?” Jimin’s voice speaks up again, concerned. You can’t see the door, but you can hear it as it creaks open lightly, can see the light growing from the room outside, casting gold onto the frogs that watch you shudder with wide, impassive expressions. Jimin’s breath hitches inside his throat.
You feel the impact as suddenly Jungkook is wrenched bodily off of you, nearly taking the pajama bottoms with him, his teeth scraping your marks with a sting of pain. You’re thrown violently backwards in the wake of it but are caught in another arm’s embrace, soft sweater fabric cushioning your fall into his Jimin’s chest, his forearm bracing you underneath your armpits.
Shocked, your head whips around, only to both hear and see Jungkook at the end of his arc, flung a ridiculous length across the threshold into the bedroom, slamming into the wooden poster of the bed, legs caving underneath him. You wince in sympathy at the sound when his head snaps against it, but you don’t have the chance to ask if he’s okay. Jimin quickly disengages your limbs to push you behind himself, spreading his arms and legs against the doorway to the bathroom, acting as a physical barrier.
“Jungkook, what the fuck is wrong with you?!” he shouts, and you cower at the unbridled fury in his tone.
You peek under one of Jimin’s arms, peeping with concern at the cherry-haired vampire sprawled at the foot of the bed. But he looks more upset than hurt as his neck lolls and he cradles the back of his head with a wince.
“I—Jimin, I just—“ “You JUST! What the fuck were you thinking?!? Seriously, I could kill you right now, I swear to God—“
“What were you thinking?! Y-You’re just gonna hide her? In this house?? When all of us are starving?”
“That was not my decision!”
“It is your decision to blindly follow it like some kind of sick fucking dog!”
“Fuck you!”
You can see Jimin stiffening, his voice escalating, can see from here the snarl on Jungkook’s face, the way his fangs peek out from his top lip like some kind of animal. He hisses, sharp, angry—and suddenly his head lolls again and his eyebrows pull together like he’s in incredible pain, eyes screwing shut. When he speaks again, it’s no quieter, but it cracks with hurt, desperation.
“I’m so hungry…I’m so fucking hungry.” He chokes. “It hurts, my fucking throat hurts so bad.” His hand drifts to circle around his own neck. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly. “I can’t see straight anymore, I can’t think. Everything hurts.”
Jimin’s arms waver and he hesitates. As you listen to him lament, your heart breaks, distant and vague, but sympathetic to his obvious suffering if nothing else. Your cunt pulses around nothing, as if to remind you of what’s been interrupted, and the juxtaposition of the two emotions is conflicting to say the least.
“I know.” Jimin’s own voice has dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You just—you just have to—“
“It doesn’t work anymore!” Jungkook interrupts with a whine. “It doesn’t work, I tried it, Jimin, it doesn’t work. They’re too scared, there’s too few that it works on, I’ve got, I’ve got fucking holes in my shoes from wandering around our tiny little cage trying to find something to fucking eat. Don’t you think I’m trying? I’m trying, but it’s so hard.”
“It—it’s just until Namjoon comes back,” Jimin tries again to be defensive, but you can hear it in his voice; the sympathy, the worry.
“I can smell her in my dreams, when I can manage to actually sleep. I can taste her through the walls. I-I can’t keep doing this. It’s killing me. I’m actually going insane.”
Jungkook shifts to stand shakily, using the bed for support, and Jimin immediately twitches to protect you, pressing you further into the bathroom. His arms are really soft and nice, you kind of want to wrap up in them. Maybe convince his hand downwards? That sounds good. That sounds very good. Your thighs rub together.
“You can’t trust me.” Jungkook says quietly. “Not around her. I’m not going to stop trying to get to her. Namjoon or not.”
“I—“
“I know he already hates me. It’s okay.”
“Jungkook…He—Namjoon doesn’t hate you—”
“You can’t trust me.” Jungkook meets Jimin’s eyes, desperation etched into every crease of his face, tinging every word out of his mouth. “But I trust you.”
“…What are you talking about?”
You’re gauging the distance between Jimin’s fingertips and your pussy. Not too far. You could probably just sidle right up, if he only relaxed that little bit more. You worry at the hem of the hoodie with your own fingertips, debating the pros and cons.
“You could stop me.” Jungkook’s tongue flits out to pass over his lips as he pleads. “You could stop me from taking too much. I trust you.”
Slowly, he begins to stalk closer, one step at a time. Jimin flinches, but he’s also distracted by this new train of thought and doesn’t seem to notice.
“Jungkook, that’s not a…that’s not a good idea.” You can hear Jimin swallowing harshly as he pushes you back further, his resolve wavering.
“Why?” The younger vampire whines again, face crumpling. “Please. Please, just a little, just a taste. A swallow.” He gestures tiredly at the bed, like his arm is too heavy. “We can roll her around on here after? No one has to know.”
“They would know.”
“I’ll take it. I’ll take the punishment. Whatever it is. Please, Jimin. I-I think I’m dying.”
“No—“
“You could have some, too? I’ll take the blame for both of us.”
“—Jungkook—“
“Do you really think you can resist her?” he demands, suddenly angry. He’s managed to slink to within a few feet of your guard. Jimin doesn’t seem to have noticed the dangerous proximity. “You know she gets so wet so easy. You know it doesn’t take much.”
You understand him this time, those terms in particular. As a matter of fact, you’re currently thinking of ways you can work Jimin’s hands into your pants without him realizing. You need something between your legs. Anything to soothe the want flaring there. Hungry. Yes. You know what it’s like to be hungry.
“Don’t you miss the way she tastes?”
Jungkook takes another step, staring his shorter elder down. The blonde automatically lifts one hand as if to push him away, but it’s weak, wary, only placing a palm on his broad chest, briefly straining in warning.
“This is a bad idea.” He protests again, an answering whine coiling about the edges of his speech.
“It is,” Jungkook agrees, his voice low, catching in excitement.
 Fingers curl around one of your wrists and you look down in mild surprise, just in time to watch Jungkook leading your hand around Jimin’s side. He snakes your arm around his still form, to his front. And down. When he presses your hand to his crotch, you suck in a startled breath. The boy in front of you stiffens and sways backwards, but you surge forward with a wave of excitement, realizing just a beat late what he’s inciting.
“This will be better for both of us,” Jungkook murmurs. “I know you’re hungry, too.”
Jimin doesn’t reply as you slide your palm down the front of his skinny jeans timidly, rubbing at the bulge that’s already begun to build there, hidden beneath his sweater. Emboldened by his increasingly sloppy breaths and lack of coherent protest, you grab the zipper and yank it down. When you sneak your hand inside, he makes a high-pitched noise in his throat. His hips buck, thrusting into your eager fingers.
“This is bad,” he hums, chokes. You seek out his cock through the soft fabric of his boxers. “We’re gonna get in s-…so! M-much trou-trouble, ahh…” You curl around the shaft to fish it out and he makes a soft hiccupping sound.
Jungkook tugs at your wrist again and you limply submit it for him, watching in fascination as he drags his tongue against your palm, spitting once, gathering his saliva for you to use. For a brief moment, he leans closer, presses a lingering kiss to your pulse. His eyes meet yours over Jimin’s shoulder and you feel an answering gush of arousal slip from between your neglected folds. You return to your grip around Jimin’s member when he releases you, tugging experimentally, and he shudders into you, keening.
“You couldn’t help yourself.” Jungkook is still talking, mumbling, but you’re watching Jimin’s face as he leans back, finally relaxing into your palm. His head falls backwards and you admire his soft lips drawn into a pout, the way his eyebrows furrow, his eyes squeezed shut. You twist your stroke upwards and his tongue prods at the corner of his mouth, the muscles of his neck constricting around a needy moan. “I hazed her and it-it was too much for you. I made you do it—“
Jimin’s eyes fly open and sharpen, swiveling to glare at Jungkook with a gaze like fire, lips curling with a derisive snort. He snatches at your wrist, pulling you in front of him suddenly, his cock bobbing when he slides gracefully to the side. Markedly less graceful, you stumble, but fall to your knees when he bends your wrist over your head and pushes down pointedly. You’re eye-to-eye with his crotch now, staring straight into the flushed skin, the thick shaft, the feathering of downy hair at his base. Your mouth waters. You glance up at Jungkook, but he’s watching Jimin throw your arm back to your side with a heated expression.
Jimin’s hand slides across the top of your head in what starts out as a petting gesture, but immediately curls into a handful of your hair towards the back, gathering the strands unmercifully in a grip that burns against your scalp. He forces you forward and you gratefully oblige, opening your lips, tongue lolling, welcoming his leaking dick into the wet cavern of your mouth with a fanatical eagerness.
 “Suck my cock,” he hisses down at you, lips curled in a snarl. You lock your lips around him and comply, hollowing your cheeks, slipping your tongue against the heady underside. He tsks sharply through his teeth and you can see the muscles in his thighs twitch, hips thrusting shallowly to meet your motions halfway.
“Fuck, you really like that?” Jungkook coos thickly above you. “You like the fucking taste of cock, baby? Fuck, Tae was right, you’re so fucking nasty…”
You swallow around Jimin in answer, humming with pleasure at the stammered moan that falls from his lips when you do, your throat pulsing around him. You keep your hands by your side obediently, allowing him to maneuver your head exactly where he wants you, using you like his personal fuck toy. They’ll come to you eventually. You know they’ll take care of you.
“You don’t make me do anything,” Jimin growls. There’s a strict dominance in his tone that is completely at odds with his soft boy persona, and yet fits in perfectly with the way he fucks into you, leaking down your throat. “I hazed her first. She was going to go out Jin’s window. This is my fault.”
“Out the window?” Another hand appears on your jaw, squeezing, the thumb prodding for the bulge in your cheek. “Why would you do that when you’ve got all the cock you could ever want, right here?”
You hear a zipper. Excitement rises in your chest. Jimin pulls you off of himself with a harsh tug of your hair, leaving you with a sick plop of saliva, smearing precum across your cheek when his dick bobs against you. You lay a chaste, if sloppy, kiss on the tip and he groans, forcing your head to the side, to meet Jungkook’s member waving in your face expectantly. Again, you open up for him, shuffling at the feeling of arousal pooling in Jin’s pajamas, your nipples rubbing uncomfortably hard against the top, hidden away and too hot inside the hoodie. You whine through your nose, casting a pleading look upwards, but Jungkook only meets your gaze with a blown-out look of lust as Jimin starts encouraging your head down further, sliding you up and down his shaft as you suckle the hard flesh. His eyes roll back and his jaw drops, his hand coming to meet Jimin’s, twining through the strands.
“Fuck, fuck,” he moans, breathless. When his hips jut forward, his cock pushes through your cheeks, spittle leaking from the corners and dripping down your chin. It gets just to the point where you can feel your gag reflex rising and you twitch backwards, but the two of them hold you in place.
“Choke on it,” Jimin commands thickly, pushing you down further. The world shimmers about you and you feel static rising through your chest, up through your throat, your hands flying to tear entreatingly at Jungkook’s thighs as a retch immediately bubbles up in answer. It only lasts a second, your back bowing, your eyes rolling, before Jungkook is tearing both of their hands away and yanking his dick out of your mouth. Air rushes gratefully, harshly, back into your lungs and you cough, hacking, only just managing to catch yourself on the floor with your palms smacking down. Your sight blurs with tears that burn, your throat constricting painfully in protest.
“Fuck, Jimin,” you hear Jungkook chastising, though he’s still having trouble getting his own wind back. Gentle hands this time wind about your arms to lift you up, taking your hand in his as he helps you to sit on the backs of your knees. Large, warm palms cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears even as you continue to cough, limp in his grasp.
“If Namjoon’s gonna kill us anyway, I’m getting my worth out of this,” Jimin gripes petulantly. “And she’s too responsive.”
“You’re okay,” Jungkook soothes, watching your eyes carefully, ignoring his elder. You gulp down a huge lungful of air, your tears slowing in their descent down your face. He wipes at your cheeks sweetly.
“That was so hot, you did so good, you’re okay,” he repeats. A smile crawls across your spit-slicked expression at the calm that spreads down your form. You look at him with all the adoration in the world while he praises you, the shining sun of your universe, the bright center of your world. You’re okay. You are okay. You pleased him. You did good. He returns your grin.
“You like sucking our cocks, hm?” he hums, almost teasingly, casting a glance down your body. You nod in earnest, feeling the soft skin of his hands rubbing your cheeks as you do. “Good. That’s my good girl.”
He turns to Jimin, who’s watching you get praised with a slack look on his face, stroking his own dick thoughtlessly.
“My present, my rules,” Jungkook frowns, dark. “I don’t want her broken before I even get inside of her. You don’t tell her what to do.”
Jimin’s eyes flick to meet his. “I wasn’t going to break her—“
“Don’t haze her. Or else I’ll send you out.”
“I’d like to see you try.” “Don’t haze her,” Jungkook repeats, raising his brows, his hands slipping from your face. You take the respite to start working the hoodie up and off, suddenly incredibly aware of how stuffy and hot it is inside the thick fabric. “Or else. I’ll send you out.”
“Mm,” the blonde hums, his eyes widening in mock obedience, inclining his head once. “Yes, sir.”
 You lose sight of them as the hoodie passes over your face, but you can feel it grabbed at from the top, shirking it off of you easily. Jungkook reaches for you again and this time he helps you stand on unsteady legs. He leans forward, encouraging your lips to his and you accept his gift thankfully, craning towards him. As he kisses you, gently but hungrily, you feel a wandering hand from behind caressing down your spine, under the pajamas, sending shivers dancing down your frame. Fingers trace your back, down to your ass, slipping a palm up and under a cheek to squeeze it deftly, and you rock back towards it while Jungkook slides his tongue across your lips. Heat flares inside of you, unbearable and yet too good, too perfect. You need more, you need to be touched and kissed and filled.
“She didn’t hate it,” Jimin points out, low, as his fingers sneak further, brushing your cunt.
Jungkook hums warningly, but his own hand slides down your front to fondle at your pussy, pressing a curious digit, two, between your folds. He rubs there, drags through the wetness that oozes from you so easily. The three of you break for a second so they can rip your pajama bottoms off of you with two sets of determined hands, deftly unbuttoning Jin’s top and discarding them to the side of the room, leaving you completely naked between the two men. As strange as it might be, it’s exactly where you should be. How you should be. You don’t even feel embarrassed, only one step closer to what you want.  Jungkook finds your mouth again, reaching up to cup your breast and tease at the nipple with his thumb, sending sparks of pleasure skirting straight to the apex of your thighs.
You break the kiss with a squeal when Jimin’s hand comes down hard on your ass cheek, and then immediately coasts sweetly back between your thighs, dipping one finger inside of you before slipping back out. He slaps you again, and this time as you jolt forwards, Jungkook takes the opportunity to slide straight from your clit to your entrance, sheathing two of his fingers past your quivering walls. Idly, he allows you to ride his hand for a moment, watching you with wide eyes. You’re breathless at the teasing, the butterfly kisses that Jimin peppers across your shoulders and the playful kneading of your backside. When Jungkook takes his fingers from you again you whine in disappointment, but he pops them into his mouth, laving his tongue around his own digits as though savoring the tastiest dessert you could possibly imagine, his eyelashes fluttering closed.
He takes them out with a pop, grabs your hips, spins you around violently, and you almost knock into Jimin, who’d been making his way closer and closer to your back. He grins when you come face-to-face, pupils blown wide, skin flushed prettily, the visage of Lucifer—an angel of sin. He’s discarded both his sweater and his jeans, revealing the compact but powerful muscles usually hidden beneath his cute façade. Jungkook noses into the crook of your neck and you feel his hand curling around your thigh, lifting it, holding you firm. The soft, burning heat of his cockhead brushes your thigh and you give a low moan, circling your hips as if you could convince it inside you faster, the demanding static under your skin growing louder and needier with every inch it gets closer.
Jimin watches you seek out his lips with yours as you slide your arms about his bare, warm shoulders, though he pulls back and smirks at the way you chase after him. He finally allows you to make contact, rushing forward to swallow your lips whole, just before Jungkook sinks effortlessly inside of you. All three of you groan as you slide onto his member, the seemingly endless supply of glistening wetness gushing between your legs making for a smooth glide, stretching your cunt and filling your belly with his hard heat. Jimin kisses you hungrily, devoutly—pecking, sucking, nipping—as Jungkook attacks your neck, on the side opposite your bite marks.
“Does that feel good?” Jimin croons, and your back arches as he pinches sharply at a nipple, licking the corner of your mouth. You nod, humming, trying to keep your wits about you as Jungkook shifts more comfortably and somehow inches even further inside, rubbing against every crevice, fitting you like a glove.
“Me too?” Jimin guides one of your arms off his shoulder, down to his shaft, sandwiched between your bodies, and you wrap your fingers around it just as Jungkook starts to move. “Make me feel good too…” Jimin exhales a plush breath at the feeling when you begin to pump him again, purring at your obedience.
Jungkook keeps your thigh up for easy access to your pussy, which welcomes him in earnest, his cock rocking in and out in a steady rhythm, filling you up good, so good, with every thrust. He pants against your neck, kissing, licking, tasting the sweat that drips from your nape, his free hand holding your hip. The room fills with hums and grunts from the three of you, the wet sounds of your coupling, the gasps from Jimin as he mouths decadently around a nipple and twitches in your palm. You arch back, pushing your breasts into Jimin’s face, your head craning over Jungkook’s shoulder, when slick fingers meet your clit, circling and pressing in time with the thrusts. You don’t even notice Jungkook’s heightening pants and huffs, the way he noses into your skin.
“J-Jimin,” Jungkook suddenly whines, and the panic in his tone is what tears Jimin’s attention away from your chest. “I-I don’t think I can—“
“Not here,” his elder warns, eyes wide with concern. He reaches over your shoulder, leaning closer. He absently shushes your keening when his cock presses against your clit, sliding through your slickness to bump the swollen bundle. You feel Jungkook’s head shifted carefully away from where he’d buried his mouth on your neck, sucking bruising hickeys onto the slender column.
“Not here, not standing,” Jimin repeats, giggling. “Bed. Jungkook, bed. Come on.”
Jungkook growls, but you feel him moving away, peeling his chest off your back and sliding out of your pussy with a sinful noise that steals the breath from three pairs of lungs, the sensation leaving you empty and wanting. You whimper, and Jimin shushes you again.
 As Jungkook steps back, Jimin steps forward, his arms collecting you easily and you almost fall into him. He walks you back, caging you in his body heat, his scent, until you can feel the soft bedsheets at your knees. He pauses there to reach behind you and dig around the blankets. Your eyes meet Jungkook’s over his shoulder. He’s pulling his shirt off of his chest, shirking his jeans to the floor before wrapping his hand around his cock. He strokes himself, eyes blown wide, jaw set tightly in an expression of pure lust. A thrill shudders up your spine and you have to swallow down the saliva that builds in your mouth. He watches you.
“These sheets are so fuckin’ dusty,” Jimin’s complaining idly. Finally, he pulls away enough to lick up your lips, humming his approval when you try to suck his tongue deeper into your mouth. “Lean back.”
You oblige, your gaze casting up to the gold-painted ceiling. You squeak when he pulls you further onto the bed, hoisting you up as he crawls onto it to sit beside your head. It does smell like dust, but he must have peeled the first layer off, the sheets underneath cool against your fevered body.
Jungkook reappears above you, broad hands ghosting up your thighs to push them apart, upwards, cradling the backs of your knees, allowing him the room to slot back between your legs. His maroon hair sticks to his forehead, his neck, frames his far-off expression that burns with such intensity you have a hard time keeping eye contact for too long. Your hips flex upwards, the rushing in your ears building to dizzying volumes, the screaming of every nerve ending for again and more.
“Not her neck, either,” Jimin mumurs as Jungkook lines himself up with your cunt and presses back in with a delicious, slow push. Filling you again, pushing on your legs to get ever deeper, he leans in to attack your lips, sinking down into you. You moan at the feeling, at the way he bites and nips, the way he rolls his pelvis to stroke at your walls. “Not her arteries. Nothing major.”
You arch, swallowing him further, and he growls thick, hips snapping.
“Hey! Listen to me!” Jimin complains, though his hand appears to curl around yours, tugging it back behind your head. His cock slides between your fingers and he molds your hand around it. You comply, jerking him off as best you can while Jungkook begins a strong pace inside you, your ass pressed to his lap, your feet dangling in the air beside your head. The bed creaks beneath you.
“I’ll bite her chest, right next to her heart,” Jungkook mumbles. “I’ll suck her dry right from her fucking tit.”
Jimin groans, deep, thrusting into your hand. “N-not dry, not dry, remember, Kookie. We need to be good, remember. Good boys.”
You can’t think, you can’t do anything but bounce as Jungkook pistons into you with the strength of a runaway bull, holding himself up on his toes for leverage just to make sure there’s no inch of you unfucked. His dick parts your pussy like it was made for him, brushing against your g-spot deep inside, sending your legs into spasm every time he bottoms out. It’s too much, it’s too good, a rising pyre building inside of you of yes and more and please. Your head throws back and you cry out, cut off abruptly when Jimin slaps a palm over your mouth.
“T-too loud, fuck, shh,” he hisses, hand flexing as you continue to moan and whine, muffled now, breasts jumping along with the rhythm.
 You don’t hear the door open.
But you do hear it close, clicking behind a new entrant into your depravity. You feel Jungkook stiffen, panting, dropping your legs as if to hide your body beneath him, his forearms falling to either side of you possessively, head whipping to the side. Jimin pauses with a sharp intake of breath, his hand stilling yours against his cock. You whine, humping upwards, but they’re momentarily distracted by whatever—whoever—it is that you can’t see, your view obscured by the sweat-drenched maroon mop on the back of Jungkook’s head.
A beat passes.
 “Tae.” Jungkook barks, exasperated. His body jiggles with the force of the shout, and you try to use it to your advantage to garner more movement but he remains still above you.
“Nobody in this fucking house ever knocks, what is the point of even having doors,” Jimin bitches under his breath. “Fuck, Tae, I thought you were Namjoon.”
“I’m not Namjoon.” You hear Tae’s distinctive, deep rumble reply, though he sounds distracted.
“Good for you. We’re busy, fuck off.”
“Is that the human girl?”
“None of your fucking business—“
“—Don’t tell anyone—“ Jimin tries to butt in, pleading.
“’Don’t tell anyone’, Jesus, I could hear you downstairs, could smell her through the vents—“
“Mind your own business Taehyung—“
“I was minding my own business, I had my fucking headphones in and I could still hear the three of you—“
“Get OUT, Taehyung—“
“—sounding like a fucking elephant orgy—“
“Tae!” Jimin shouts, commanding. Jungkook starts up again with a tsk, but Jimin quickly cuts him off. “Jungkook! Please! Come on, seriously. Who knows how long we have until they come home? We don’t have time for this.”
“Tell him to go away, Jimin.”
“I want in.” Taehyung interrupts.
“What?”
“I want in, you said I could fuck her mouth, I want in.”
Jimin sounds deceptively calm from above you, his voice like sugar and poison. “When did you say that?”
“Not important!” Jungkook shrieks, jerking upwards, hand thumping into the sheets by your side. He inadvertently thrusts into you hard with the motion and has to choke off a rough growl as you clench around him, hips jerking to meet him eagerly. You accidentally lock eyes with Taehyung when he moves out of the way. He stares wide-eyed at you as you moan, low. “Fuck, that is not important right now. She’s—my fucking present—“
“That’s right. She is.” Tae responds levelly, too levelly. He doesn’t blink. Jungkook’s hands fist into the bedsheets on either side of you, his endurance faltering at the feel of you pulsing around his cock so greedily. He pants, hums deep in his chest, smoothly fucking into you, slowly, as he’s if trying very hard not to. “She is your present. And you decide what happens to her.”
The next thrust lifts your ass back onto him and you squeal, still caught in Taehyung’s hypnotizing, half-lidded gaze as his expression drops into that sultry mask you know too well.
“And you said that I could fuck her mouth.”
“I said I would think about it.”
“I think she should get a vote.”
“We aren’t voting—“
“What do you think, hmm?”
“Don’t answer him.”
“Answer me.”
You’re already babbling, Jungkook’s steadily losing battle with keeping his pelvis in check encouraging the words that bubble up from your throat instantly, summoned forth by the powerful haze dancing through Taehyung’s velvet tone. Your mouth hanging open, breasts again beginning to jerk with each thrust, eyes threatening to roll back, you spit like someone possessed, speaking in tongues.
“Yes,” you hiccup, as if you can’t get it past your lips fast enough, “Yes, yes, I want to taste his cock, I want to taste him, feel him in my mouth, please, Jungkook, please, I want it so bad, I do want him to fuck my mouth, please let him fuck my mouth, please, Jungkook.”
The side of Taehyung’s mouth flicks upwards at your confession, his eyes blinking slow.
“See?” His tongue flits out before he raises his eyebrows pointedly.
Jimin’s hand covering yours squeezes your fingers around his member, convincing it upwards, and stroking down once more as he begins to speak, thoughtfully.
“He could help,” he points out, distant. He rolls forward, flexing into your palm with a soft exhale. “He could help, and we could all keep an eye on each other. It would be—hm—it would be easier than just me trying to keep you from going too far.”
“I’ll tell Jin if you don’t let me in,” Tae adds.
“Fine! Fuck, fine. You’re such a dick.”
Jungkook leans over, pulling your attention back to him. He plants a sloppy trail of kisses over your collarbone and neck, sucking a path up to your lips. When he cranes away, you separate with a slick pop and he huffs.
“Help me move her,” he mutters. He peels himself up off of you, wincing when he slips out of you. You grab for him, trying to get him back inside your warmth, but he collects your wrists with one wide hand. You arch, whining. Another set of hands curl underneath your arms to haul you back, and you scoot with the motion obediently until you can lay your head back over the edge of the bed. Jungkook relinquishes your wrists and they fall limply to your sides.
“What do you think you’re doing?” You hear him complain sharply.
“It’s my turn to fuck her pussy,” Jimin growls back, and you hear shifting by your legs, the violent tugging on your thighs to face a direction so you can more comfortably hang over the edge. “You’ve had long enough.”
“Some fucking birthday present.”
“I’m not having a hand job for my last meal while you hog her cunt.”
“You’ll last longer if you’re not always inside her, anyways. Right?” Taehyung moves into your field of view. He’s already rid himself of his clothes, his long, thick cock straining into the air just by your face. When you feel his hand caress through your hairline, circling your throat, you hum your approval, already twisting to convince him into your mouth. He giggles, once, fingers drifting to purse your lips while his other hand curls around his base and guide it through your jaw—hot, heavy, feverish against your tongue.
“Good girl,” he praises deeply, “God, so good. Relax. You’re okay.”
You are okay. The deeper he goes into your throat, the better it feels, sliding downwards, your nose pressing into where his testicles hang. His grip returns to your neck and you shudder, whimpering, when he squeezes ever-so-slightly, as if only to feel for the lump he makes inside your throat. Meanwhile, hands are petting your legs, slipping across your thighs, flicking occasionally at your clit, opening your folds, rubbing. Finally, there is another prickhead warming your entrance, teasing upwards before sinking back down and pressing inside of your cunt. Jimin isn’t quite as long as Jungkook, but he’s thicker, and the way he stretches you around him has you bucking, waves of pleasure cascading underneath your skin, making you dizzy. Your vision spins when he thrusts, testing, and lets loose a thick growl.
A hand takes your wrist and leads it impatiently to another dick, sticky and slick with your essence. Jungkook groans as you clamp down on him, jerking him vigorously.
The cock down your throat twitches, and Tae’s hips rock lightly, almost teasing, eliciting loud sounds of suckling interrupted, filling your ears. Jimin begins a rough pace inside of your cunt, alternating deep, powerful thrusts with long, slow glides, and the juxtaposition makes you quiver around him, legs shaking where he’s pressed you into the bed. It’s so good, it’s so good, so slick, cocks inside of you and against you and fucking into you with perfect synchronicity, tears build up in the corners of your eyes, joining the slobber as it dribbles down your cheeks, pleasure building in your gut fit to burst; close, so close. Above you, the heavy breaths from Tae, soft gasps from Jimin, grunts from Jungkook, the pathetic whimpering of your own, muffled voice, the sopping sounds as you’re used so thoroughly.
 “F-Fuck, I’m—I’m gonna—“ Jungkook whines, tsking through his teeth as he humps into your palm, his hand forcing yours tight around his cock. A tongue slithers over a peak of your breast, gathering your nipple in a wet, sloppy kiss before relinquishing with a ‘plop’, swollen lips humming against your skin.
“Go-go ahead, Kookie,” Jimin stammers, tenderly. “Go ahead, I’ve got you.”
Taehyung’s grip on your throat curls tighter, depriving your lungs of precious air as he begins to fuck steadily into your mouth, but you’re good, you’re okay, you’re so wet and so good, allowing for the slide of his dick through your throat. Your eyesight shimmers and bursts with every twitch of pleasure, humping along with Jimin’s strong, insistent hips, feeling entirely full and perfect and almost, almost there.
The mouth reappears on your tit, mouthing wantonly, dirtily, and you arch for more of it. It travels inwards, placing a brief kiss to the valley between your breasts before harshly suckling at the pulpy flesh of the opposite slope. A thumb presses to your clit, circling with every motion of Jimin’s girth parting your cunt smoothly and the simultaneous fondling, kissing, grunting quiet approval, has the room whirling around you. It builds inside you even further, rushing up through your toes, dashing over your body like an unstoppable tidal wave, every limb tingling in anticipation, back bowing off the bed, muffled moans drawn from your chest with every movement.
“Cum for us,” Tae grunts, so quiet you almost don’t hear him.
The sensation of teeth piercing your skin floods your entire frame with only a second of pain, but is quickly overwhelmed by pleasure so strong that you seize, neck craning, hips humping, legs going into spasm. Your vision goes white and you’re screaming as you finally cum, your entire body shaking, lifted off the bed with the force of it, even as three pairs of hands pin you down. Someone above you curses, grunts, and through the crashing force of your orgasm, you feel warmth painting your insides, the cock between your thighs pulsing against the clenching of your pussy, the digits rubbing your clit faltering, clawing, as your pelvis bounces unforgivingly, bruising, bringing with it surge after surge of gratification. The member in your mouth throbs and suddenly there are ropes of hot semen painting the inside of your throat, even as he ruts fiercely, forcing it deeper, clutching your throat around himself, snarling like an animal. Between your fingers, you feel the swelling of cock, the way it leaks and finally spurts wet heat up your wrist and arm.
The lips at your breast take that first pull of your blood, the first decadent sip and your back almost snaps in half. Your vision whites out with a flash and you’re screaming again, hoarse, briefly aloud as Tae slips out of you but clamps a hand over your mouth, unable to stop the flood of cum that falls from your open jaw and oozes lewdly from the corners. He says something but you can’t understand, you’re thrashing and writhing in their grasp, focused so entirely on the feel of Jungkook’s gentle kiss, the sensation of being fed from, like everything in your veins is his to take, like everything you’re made of belongs to him, belongs to the way he suckles at your sweet life force.
You’re sweating, panting, shivering, mindless, caught in this timeless space between the caress of his tongue and the world you’ve left behind. Voices, hummed and muttered. Hands, brushing hair back from your forehead, travelling to your lips, gripping your hip, dancing up your torso, clutching your legs. The lips, teeth, leave your breasts with a break of suction that you feel more than hear, spurring another twitch from your exhausted, heavy body at the brief thrill that hurts.
But quickly, they’re replaced. Another pair of lips, plump, frenzied, insistent, drawing from you like a prize won. Your breast aches, but it’s immaculate, it’s right and what little strength you can summon from your limbs propels one arm upwards. It’s made of stone, of marble, too heavy, too hard, and even as your sight begins to clear into blurred shapes and smeared colors, you have trouble maneuvering it around the two pairs of everything you see. Initially, another hand bats it away from your intended trajectory, the one relinquishing your mouth to allow your whines and moans full volume, and it pushes your arm to the side. But even as you waver, you’re finally allowed to make contact with the head of hair pressed to your chest. Strands of hair, some slick with sweat, decorating the warmth of the head above you. You weave your fingers into it and tug it closer, curling towards the puff of amused air that answers, the gentle hum before the second mouth also disengages. He leans away from you but takes your hand with him, long fingers disentangling yours from his hair to clasp around them instead. He holds you against his warm palm, presses an affectionate kiss to the back of your hand. You don’t have long to be disappointed at the interruption.
With the other moving out of the way, the light from above flashes in your eyes and even though it’s too bright, too much, it gives you the brief glimpse of the sweet, hungry smile of the next face to drift to your breast. You slip your free hand into his shining, blonde hair as he kisses you, too, brushes his tongue against your skin to collect the beads of ruby essence gathering there, spikes of pain coiling into deep pleasure to make you gasp when he begins to suck, plump lips stroking the flesh. He doesn’t stay with you as long as the others, but he remembers to press a modest, lingering kiss to the wound that makes your heart flutter before he cranes up and out of your fading vision.
Your afterglow sinks into your limbs, makes you limp, tired, but sated and warm. The bed rises to claim you, swallowing you whole, as the painting above spirals and winds about itself. The flashes of gold, the glimmering of so many details, are beautiful, distracting, and there are palms against your cheek now, voices buzzing in your ears that you can’t decipher. They brush more hair from your face, and as you dully watch the painting drift off of the ceiling to reach for you, intertwine tendrils of painted sunlight with your arms and legs, you feel yourself being moved, from one cloud to another, your head now supported by a cushion. You’re grateful for that. Makes it easier to watch the ceiling dissolve into gold dust, turning into a shower that feels cool against your face. You can almost taste it, like a breath of fresh air. It makes you feel at peace.
More voices, getting louder, faster. Tapping, prodding, all over, but it’s no longer your body that they’re touching. You’re in the ceiling, being dissolved with the painting.
The curtains surrounding the world draw closed, and your vision shuts out.
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