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lady-quen · 4 months ago

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Hounds to Hamartia

"...Do you really want this, Commander? You wouldn't have gotten so far if not for your hunger." "...A hunger to succeed. To be recognized. To have power. You greedy creature, always reaching for more than you can swallow until the God of Flames finally made you choke on it. And yet, you'd return? To do it all over again? Don't you see how far you've already fallen - from a bright eyed Valiant to a wolf gripping tight the reins of all those who would dare question and oppose you? You're a killer, you know, right? You're never satisfied. And no matter what you do and how much you achieve, it will never be enough. You can drink til you're sick but never til you're satisfied. You will lose your Dream but your Hunt shall never end. Is this what you want?" "To save her. Yes. I will do anything." "Will you be anything?" "Yes."

[The Departing soft rewrite as applicable to my canon. 15k words. Tws for major character death, major character undeath, blood, gore, unreality, fantasy racism, swearing. The study of ambition as a fatal flaw, ironic destiny, as well as what it means to become a monster to stop an arrogant god. The Commander's encore.]

The arid Elonian air strained his lungs. That, and all that smoke from the Forged that insisted on barricading his path every step of the way.

The Knight ducked, deftly avoiding a blow from a massive Cannonade - deathly green magic snaking around the tip of Caladbolg as he angled it upward. With a shink! the Thorn slotted neatly between the plates of the construct's armor, severing the strands that bound the soul battery within. The flame fizzled out, and the colossus fell to its knees.

That... was the last of them. Maelmordha sighed, wiping a stray bead of sweat from silver skin. Sun-dried, his leaves and bark had practically lost all color. The sylvari took a short break in his climb, leaning against one of the rocky pillars that offered him some shade. Idly, his unaltered hand played with the settings of his communicator. He had already tried to enter the channel before, but the duststorms coming in from around Kesho had rendered the effort moot. Once again, the device returned nothing but static. Just like the buzz of sand in his ears when he braved the vast desert.

The necromancer pocketed the contraption, vinetooth arm adjusting Caladbolg's weight upon his shoulder. Not too long, now, he thought to himself. As he walked, the top of the Spire finally came into view - the meeting place he had arranged for the Dragon's Watch to pick him up. In theory, the altitude should allow for his communicator to work even despite the chaotic weather.

In practice, however, he really didn't like the dark clouds looming in the distance.

„Taimi, come in.” He stopped in the middle of the plateau. The only thing that answered him was yet more static, causing the Knight to let out an exasperated huff. The airship should have been visible by now. Did they get stuck in the storm? Worst case scenario, he could wait however long it took - he'd much rather spend a few extra rations than have the Watch crash somewhere far from civilization, thrown to the mercy of Elona's fickle weather and scorching sun. Spirits of this land only knew just how much of a scorned mistress it could really be, but he was beginning to get an idea. And that idea was that the sky was darkening much too quickly to be natural.

Something stirred in the pit of his stomach. Gold eyes narrowed, scanning the area around him. His stronger arm rested on the hilt of the Thorn, feeling the fuzz on his neck stand up as though seized by crackling static.

A sound. Like thunder.

The Commander leapt back, just narrowly avoiding the fiery meteor that crash landed in the middle of the Spire. What in the fucking Hydras..?! No, this wasn't a meteor -

„Balthazar!” His lips moved on their own. Fuck.

The God seemed to drink in the shock and fear betrayed by the necromancer's features. Grizzled features contorting in a self-satisfied smirk beneath a crown of obsidian horns. His gaze was oppressive, even when his voice seemed almost eerily playful. „Expecting someone else?”

Shit. This wasn't winnable.

The Commander forced a smile, even when he could already feel his skin shedding water at the sheer heat emanating from the God of Fire. His mask would do no good here - Balthazar knew all too well he held the upper hand. Still, if the Dragon's Watch were to come - how did the human God even know they were meeting here?!

Think, Mael, think..!

„Oh? Can't a man go sightseeing in peace?” He blurted out with a nervous laugh, Caladbolg poised and ready for combat. He could hear the rush of sap in his ears, heart pounding to the rhythm of alarm bells ringing in his skull. Gold eyes scanned the plateau. As if on cue, walls of fire, summoned with a snap of the rogue deity's fingers. Cutting off his escape route. Like a wolf smoked out of its den and ensnared in a ring of burning forest.

This was the end of the road. Knowing running was no longer an option, the sylvari's gaze focused on Balthazar, eyes wide and instinctive smirk turning into a wicked-looking grin. It wasn't a smile, anymore. He was a cornered beast, all bared teeth and feet ready to spring. The god chuckled. „Good. Just like that. I want your eyes on me, now, Commander.”

His title was a mockery, upon Balthazar's tongue. Like playing pretend with a child who wished he could be king. In the end, mortal rulers were but fleeting autumn leaves, falling soundless before eternal Gods. Not even a requiem, only the desert winds.

Fuck that. He was not going to think that way. He would not give this man the satisfaction. Maelmordha grinned, the sharpened tips of his fangs but polished wood before the hulking giant of flame and metal. So, too, was Caladbolg - but the Thorn had slain strange things before. And he laughed, a brazen sound to challenge Balthazar's own. If he were to fall, he would not go quietly.

„Bring it, then. Just us.”

No one was coming. Good. He would not suffer Balthazar to hurt his guild.

His attitude seemed to humor the God. An enormous blade of lupine decor and crackling hellfire rose at the fiery monarch's whim, carried solely by the strength of his will. Mael prepared himself to dodge - ducking swiftly under a wide swing that would have surely cleaved him in twain where he stood. Like a hot knife through butter. Still the red-hot bottom of the sword singed his foliage, adding a dusting of black to once pure-white leaves.

He sprang back to his feet, rolling deftly around the God's shin. Caladbolg struck viciously - a resounding clang as divine wood struck divine metal, repelled by the sheer force of magic clashing against magic. Shit. Balthazar was not only armored from head to toe - he was his armor, inhabited by flame like the lanterns in the Grove holding fireflies.

Unbothered, the God of War extended a palm - his war machine of a sword moving of its own accord and raking the ground where Mael had stood but moments prior. Lazy, like a cat swatting a toy mouse. Knowing its plaything won't run away. Catching a gaze of twin funeral pyres, the necromancer extended a hand of his own. There was no flesh nor blood here, but a necromancer of his caliber could make do.

„Rise!” He commanded, and the bleached bone of Elona's past answered his call. Skeletal warriors, rapidly assembling, with sand-worn equipment clutched in desiccated digits. Not like these could do much against the living embodiment of volcanic fury dressed in fortress walls, but they could be a distraction.

„Oh? What's this? Playing with toys? Feeling lonely?” Balthazar teased, a swing of his sword turning one of his minions into bone dust. Too shattered to return, a jigsaw with a million pieces. „...Have your friends abandoned you?”

He wasn't going to let Balthazar's teasing get to him. He only grinned in response, brows furrowed over sharp, golden orbs. Good, he wanted to say. Good, only I pay the price for my foolishness - no, don't think like that.

...You can salvage this. He's arrogant. An enemy so sure of their superiority won't be as ready for the tables to turn.

He ducked and weaved, striking with Caladbolg where he was able. Hissing as the fire burned his skin by mere proximity, retreating into a Shroud of shadows. Each step of this dance was a brush with death - against a predator who could crush him in a single blow.

„What do you say we take things a little more slowly this time?” The deity rumbled contentedly - reveling in his opponent's fleeting strength.

„I'm surprised a God can derive this much enjoyment from fighting one mortal.” Maelmordha quipped back. „Picking on prey your own size didn't go well, last time?”

„It seems you need a lesson in humility.”

He provoked him. Good.

Having baited Balthazar into advancing, the Commander leapt back. As soon as the God's boot touched the polished stone floor where he had stood but seconds prior, runic patterns alight with a green hue began their work.

An explosion, followed by another, and another. Sizzling poison accompanied by bitter frost, Death's own essence wrapped around the fallen God's form to sap his strength. The necromancer felt some of his burns heal from the sheer amount of magic taken through this gambit. Revitalized, a glimmer of hope surfaced within his mind that maybe, he could last long enough to devise a proper plan.

...And yet, even that amount of magic only seemed equal to plucking a single hair off the back of a rampaging boar. Balthazar didn't even seem to feel it.

He closed the gap faster than Mael could have ever anticipated such a behemoth to move. A motion of a fiery hand prompting his greatsword to thrust forward at unprecedented speed, and the Pact Commander could only respond so well.

A massive claw of pure darkness rose from the ground to intercept the blade, hardening quickly into solid shadow. But the flame only burned brighter. Parting the dark like a lantern, phasing right through his spell before he was fully ready to dodge.

He felt the blade brush against his side. It almost felt painless - before the scream caught in his throat.

He fell to his right, clutching his cleaved side. Golden blood gushed from the gruesome wound, Caladbolg clattering to the ground without fanfare. A howl of agony burst through clenched lips before he could ever choke it down. Shaking, he pushed down on crimson fabric, knowing no bandage could stem the flow of the sap that stickied his fingers.

Like a tree taking an axe to the trunk only to topple over. Even with all these years, he really was no more than a sapling.

No, no..! Get up. This isn't the end. Is it..?

He fought so hard to not let the terror show in his eyes. Even so much as meeting Balthazar's gaze was a monumental task. But he did. He blinked against the twin suns that threatened to steal his vision, and the Lord of Flames smirked. Satisfaction, mockery, faux pity, he couldn't even tell what it was, if not all of it at once.

„Feeling mortal yet?” He thundered, even the softest whisper of his voice an earthquake in its own right. „Do you recall the lesson? No? Let me repeat it for you: never defy a god.”

Through the haze of pain and building panic, the necromancer did the only thing appropriate. He laughed. His vinetooth arm reached for the fallen Thorn. Using the sword as a crutch, he pulled himself up to his feet. Even if his knees trembled. Even if the warmth spreading across his side sent waves of nausea through his guts.

And he felt it again. That magic he had absorbed previously. Except - no - this magic was.. was Balthazar directly feeding a sliver of his magic to him, right in that very moment? Was he going crazy from blood loss? And if so, why did he suddenly feel so much better?

Good enough to stand. Good enough to swing a sword - even with just one arm, and the other possibly the only barrier stopping his insides from sightseeing the outside world. He was still bleeding, but this... he had time. He had time.

Time. Time. Just... a little more time. What are you holding out for, Valiant? You know help isn't coming.

Tick, tock.

He bit back a groan of pain. I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

Every second he wrestled from this dire hourglass was a testament to his resilience. Every long second that counted down towards his death was a testament to Balthazar's pride. Panting, mortal breath mixed with immortal, singing fire and the roar of a sword two times his height or more slamming against the ground like a thunder drum.

A terrible symphony, for none to behold but themselves.

Tick, tock. He dodged. Tick, tock. The Thorn glanced off of impenetrable armor. Tick, tock. He slipped on his blood. Balthazar seemed almost disappointed at the lack of banter.

He couldn't move fast enough. His right hand joined the left in gripping the hilt of Caladbolg when he prepared to parry. Blinding light strained his eyes as the telekinetic strike came his way, and he angled the Thorn to minimize damage.

A sickening crunch. He skid back several meters, fresh pain seizing control of his senses. His right arm refused his control, and the tip of Caladbolg fell heavy against the floor in a pitiful attempt to stop him from falling. His breath came in ragged gasps as he beheld what had become of his uncorrupted arm - mangled at the elbow, splinters of wood tearing through vine. Fresh sap streaming down his sleeve, dripping from unresponsive fingers. It hurt. Oh, by the Tree it hurt so much. A low whine of agony escaped heaving lungs, tears flowing freely down silver cheeks. He couldn't even find the energy to meet the God's gaze, then. And he wasn't sure he even wanted to. Reality's weight was settling in, like dull ache in the bones.

If he looked at him now, what would he find? What was this sadism? How long would this last..?

Tick.

Tock.

Another blow. There wasn't even any time for him to breathe. If he were to fall, he would not go quietly. Like a ragdoll, he was practically thrown across the arena, a new slash in his shoulder rendering his right side almost completely useless. His mangled form finally came to a halt when it crashed against a pillar, rupturing something inside. A pained hiss, then desperate roar of hatred and sheer anguish. With his sole working hand, he slowly dragged himself, yet again, towards his sword.

„Suffer a little more loudly. Cry out!” The God raved in glee. „Let everyone hear!”

...Who...? There was no one here... Was there? It was getting dark. Maybe the shadows dancing at the edges of his vision were people, after all.

So he did the only thing he felt he could still do. Eyes numb to the pain. He got... up. Up to his knees, for his body refused to climb any higher. Up, as though clawing for a shred of dignity. At this point, the liquid pooling in his mouth tasted all the sweeter when he considered it signaled his coming release. And he knew how Trahearne had felt. Yes, the darkness suddenly seemed so... appealing. Even if the quiet scared him.

He didn't want it to be so... quiet.

„I do enjoy these little get-togethers. You're proving to be quite useful.” What in the fuck was Balthazar rambling on about? He struggled to focus on the words. He let out a wheezy „what” and spat anothet mouthful of sap. M-maybe if he tried to talk, Balthazar would converse rather than slowly pull him apart. Alas, his inquiry was ignored.

But something else answered. At first, he didn't know what it was.

The God of Fire walked towards him at a leisurely pace, before finally stopping mere centimeters away from the Knight - forcing him to look practically straight up. He could no longer make out Balthazar's features, privy only to a hazy outline of horns and two burning eyes.

„Listen...” Maelmorda rasped. Even that much took an unbelievable amount of effort. A long pause, just to collect enough breath to form words. „I never... even... wanted... to kill you....”

The true threat to Tyria were the Dragons. And they could not be killed without catastrophe following. He supposed all his dreams and lofty ambitions were but delusions of a madman. In a sense, Braham was right. Who gave him the right to kill Dragons, anyway? And who made him believe he could ever stand against a God? Hubris, all the way down. His very own hamartia.

„You won't.” The deity of Fire and War answered, matter-of-factly. The clock was winding down. Sleep. Please. „...How sad for you to die so far from home.” Please. No more magic moving his strings. No more teetering on the brink of oblivion.

No more. He let out a harsh gasp and fell backwards. Balthazar seemed satisfied. He supposed he could die knowing he gave a God some exercise.

There was a light in the sky. Huh, so this is how....

He blinked. This was no star, nor an opening of the heavens. It moved. It was... blue. And he felt a tiny mind hold the hand of his own. Filling his silence with song just to keep him afloat. And he knew. And oh, he knew.

„Ah, the scion... come here to defend her Champion.”

„Aurene, no...” He cried out, sole working hand reaching out in her general direction. His mind begging her to run. Grasping at the air with twitching fingers, as though he could in any way stop the God from taking her like he took all he ever wanted. Just another conquest.

She whined like a battered pup. Tiny yelps that communicated more than language ever could. Her magic cradling his weary soul even as he felt every thread that tied him to existence snap one by one. Begging her to stop. Holding her mind's hand when she refused, for he knew all too well the pain of letting go. But Balthazar had already claimed what he came for. Played him like the fool he was. So he decided to claim one last thing, just out of spite. I want your eyes on me, now.

Aurene was whisked away from the reach of his vision, fading sight filled completely by his killer. And the sword that lingered, a stake, above his heart. „And now, you die.”

...Aurene, I'm so -

In an instant, she felt the connection sever.

What am I? Who am I?

It saw a barren sky, shorn of stars. Its eyes never blinked. It did not know what a sky was. Only that it filled its sight, the very first ephemeral memory, ever since „existence” became a concept that it knew.

But besides that, it also knew one other, much more intimate thing - an idea that existed before it did. The idea it needed to be somewhere else.

It rose. Spectral fingers digging into grass, without feeling. Chest falling and rising without breath, as though in a hazy recollection of having once carried that rhythm.

The ground was cold. What was... cold? Everything that heat wasn't. It did not know why, but it brought it comfort. The idea of being something else than cold terrified it. And so it wandered. It was the only thing it could really do. It was almost familiar, like a dreamscape that it once existed in before existence became a concept that gave it meaning.

Occasionally, it passed another spark. Heard questions, and discovered it could speak.

What is my name? Something inquired. I don't know, it answered.

What is a... name? And why does everything hurt?

In the distance, an object. It moved towards it. Beside it, stood a spark, asking questions. Inside it, stood another. Different. Almost like it did not... belong. The very moment it moved closer, it was addressed directly.

„You there! Come here. Over here. We can help each other. What is your name?”

Ah, again... that word.

„I don't even know who I am. Or where I am... Or how I got here.” It only spoke the truth. It had no concept of anything else - at least at the time. The stranger, however, seemed well versed.

„You died - it happens.” It shrugged. Seemingly unbothered at the notion of whatever death was, even though it certainly raged at the predicament of being restrained within an object. „Welcome to the Domain of the Lost. I am, of course, King Palawa Joko.”

Huh, it thought, and its mind regained a little clarity. Was „Palawa Joko” a name?

„King Joko..? I'm sorry. I don't know that name,” it gently responded. Wide, curious, trusting gold, like the eyes of a a freshly blossomed hound. Ah, yes... it missed them. Why weren't there more hounds? It felt like there were, last time. When was... last time?

Its inability to recall the name sent the stranger into a fit of anger. The spark could only tilt its head inquisitively, attempting to understand the many terms that rapidly spilled forth from chapped lips. Ah, yes... it had... a body. It was not a spark - a spirit. Like it. Why was it different?

So it asked. And received another name in response - Balthazar. It felt... familiar. But it did not feel cold, and that scared it more than anything.

It seemed this Balthazar was a liar, then. A deceiver. And it understood what it meant to lie and deceive, and some of the light left its eyes. It knew that it, too, had lied and deceived in life. But... why? Why would someone do that? A concept of a headache was something that became known right after. And yet, that gnawing, anxious sensation persisted. This was no place for it. It needed to be somewhere, but not here.

And it realized it, too, had been a he. Like Balthazar. Was he.. Balthazar? No. He can't have been, right? He had half a mind to ask Joko about it, but the amount of confusion he was already suffering was enough for the time. Such as, what the difference between „God” and „King” even was, if there was any.

He imagined that, had he really been Balthazar, King - God..? Joko would have had more to say about it. He let out a spectral sigh as he watched the other spark argue with the stranger on the proper definition of godhood. He was not sure what “Genuflect, peasant” was supposed to mean, but apparently, the Domain of the Lost was where such debates commonly took place.

„Come, gentle spirit. You must take the next steps, and I've heard enough of Joko's blasphemies.” Its - her..? voice pried him from his thoughts. She had evidently grown bored with the stranger within the object, and decided to debate him next. Oh, Mother. Wait, who was Mother? But more importantly...

„...Who is the Judge..?” He asked the fellow spark, following closely in tow. The landscape was strange and the anxiety was not going away. Even existing was difficult, like every body part was ill-fitting. Uncomfortable, like his very self was a lie.

She turned her head, coal brown meeting gold. She had a soothing air around her, like the remnants of a gentle sun. Warm. But not... scary. Not in the sense that Balthazar was.

„He is a loyal servant of Grenth. Charged with sending all the spirits who come through here to their appointed place.”

„But I don't know who I am. I don't know where I should be.” He mused sadly, as though afraid to admit he had no frame of reference. Everything simply fell away the moment he arrived here. If he even did arrive. Or had he always been here..? And yet, if so, why did it feel so wrong?

They walked the haunted plain, passing many other sparks. Some tall, some diminutive, some with beaks and fangs and tails. So many shapes to exist in that he had never fathomed. So, he looked at his hands. Compared his silver skin to that of the spark walking beside him. Bronze, soft, kissed by the sun. His was... harsher, pale, cold like snow.

Eventually, his senses were filled with the presence of something far greater than mere sparks. She beckoned for him to step forward, coaxing him gently towards the being. He was... massive. Hooded, with a skull mask for a face. He absentmindedly touched his own.

„Come, spirit. Do not be afraid.”

„I'm not sure why I'm here, or even who I am.” He confessed, resolving not to lie. In truth, he wasn't even sure.. how to, at least not at the time, but if being wretched had condemned him to that place, then nothing good could ever come of it.

The creature seemed to recognize his turmoil, and spoke in a soothing baritone. „That's because most spirits find their own way to their fate when they die.” He explained. „But those whose deaths are too traumatic often forget who they were or how they perished.”

„These spirits, like you and me, end up here in the Domain of the Lost.” The spark beside him added. Again, that name. This place. So.. wrong. Traumatic. Perished..? Right. He died. King Joko told him that.

„But I can't be here.” He tried to reason in the only words he knew. He didn't know why, nor where else he was possibly meant to be - he just knew it wasn't there. Like... warm. Too warm. Like fire.

Walls closing in from every direction, every angle, and he needed to get out. He needed to call for help, but also... he needed it to stay away. He was not to be helped. Why? There was a shadow in here with him. One other being. The only one. He felt like it had all happened before, and was the reason everything hurt. Why his skin felt like a lie, and his gaze darted around corners.

„You will reach your rightful place in time.” The grand being reassured, standing ever tall. He had to look up just to meet his gaze, and his chest moved faster.

„First, you must recover your name to know who you were and how you lived. Then, you must learn your purpose, to understand the choices you made and why you lived as you did.” The Judge continued, his bright green orbs a familiar hue. „Once you know your name and your purpose, only then can I determine your final destination.”

„...But how do I do that?” He asked. Confusion and fear swirled in gold eyes, as though the walls were already getting closer. Soon, he may be stuck here forever. A cage. Let him out. Let him out. He needs to see her.

Who?

„Nenah has traveled the path you now face. She can assist you.” The servant of Grenth clarified, an armored hand signaling in the direction of the sunlit spark. He met her eyes, and understood her name. ”...For though they may have belonged to you in life, once your name and purpose enter this domain, they are yours no longer. And you will have to fight to reclaim your name.” The creature's next words rang out with a heavy finality. „Now, arm yourself.”

And he was gone, dissolving into the shadows from whence he had come. Though he still had more questions than answers, this... was a starting point.

„Nenah... So you discovered your name? How do I reclaim mine?” The cold spark mused, unsure where to even begin. He did not want to fight other spirits for something he wasn't even sure was his. What if he ended up with the wrong name? What if he stole someone else's only hope to leave this place? Was this a price he was willing to pay? A spectral hand massaged the bridge of his nose, as though the habit had helped him process similar predicaments in life. Not that... he really even knew what „life” was - just that it wasn't „here.”

And if it wasn't here, maybe he needed to be alive.

„I learned my name from the spirit of my old mentor. But only after besting him at a challenge of riddles.” Nenah smiled sadly in recollection, letting the words linger on her tongue. ”I discovered my purpose hidden in an old diary I had written as a child. I was a teacher.”

A mentor, then. How fitting. Guiding others in life, and now again in death. A luminary in a land of darkness. „Is it that simple?” He raised his brows, hesitant to believe things could ever go so smoothly. Somehow, he had an inkling that bad luck was destined to follow him wherever he went. Call it a hunch, but... his hunches tended to be correct.

„It's different for everyone. The judge said you must fight to recover your name, so you clearly weren't a teacher.” Nenah pondered aloud, taking in his form from head to toe. His gaze followed hers, and he found himself clad in crimson fabric. Comfortable, but form-fitting clothes, accentuating his graceful shape. His shoulders, adorned with metal pauldrons - and knees guarded in a similar manner. Chainmail beneath his vest, little interwoven loops of steel. „A soldier, perhaps?”

„I... I don't know.” Despite everything, he truly did not know. The world was bleeding back in very slowly. Who's to say he was a fighter? Maybe he was a scholar? A performer? His knuckle idly moved across his lip, but he excavated nothing else from the chasm that was his memory.

Nenah sighed. „Well, if you are to fight, you must first arm yourself.”

„With what?” He asked, incredulous. For whatever reason, he had an instinct to pat himself over for hidden weapons. The woman raised a ghostly eyebrow.

„Spirits must abandon their possessions before they may move on.” She set off towards some distant yonder, and once again he followed.

„I'll look around. Maybe I will.. find something.” He sifted through foliage and rubble, even when the geometry of the place didn't make much sense. For weapons, he would usually go to... a blacksmith. A mystic forge, maybe. Mother?

„You know, I.. remember. I had a sword.” He recounted, searching for a familiar outline on the floor. Sliding across stone. Reaching for the hilt. He only had bits and pieces, but he instinctively looked low. „I think.. Mother gave me it.”

„Your mother?” Nenah chatted. „Was she a warrior, then? Was the sword a family heirloom?”

„I don't... think she was, no. But I think others have owned that blade before me. I think it... had seen the blood of its wielders.”

„Too much blood spilled everywhere, I tell you...” The fellow spark sighed. „I know all about it, gentle spirit. Though with your recent revelations, I suppose gentle may not be so fitting.”

„...Why do you think so?”

She did not answer.

It took them a long time to get anywhere with the search. He supposed time lost meaning in a place such as this - with no frame of reference, who's to say what was day and what was night? If death had already come, there was nothing to count down towards. Sifting through mud, he wondered whether eternity was always supposed to be so dull.

Here and there, other sparks. Shaped like many things - the best approximations of themselves in life that they could muster. And yet, there were also those formless. Like clouds, and their voices sounded like rain mixed with lightning static. Nenah warned him away from those. He supposed that was what awaited if one did not reclaim their name.

And then some who spoke in nonsense and riddles. Cryptic warnings, issued from behind trembling hands, as though covering one's face rendered them invisible. It's coming, they whispered. What, he asked.

„...The Beast. And It will get you too.”

Before he could ask any additional questions, the spark... evaporated. Pure magic in the air, and then nothing. Wherever they had gone, he hoped they had at least escaped It.

„...Is it Balthazar?”

„Who?” The teacher turned to face him as he sifted through a pile of sand.

„The Beast. It's the worst thing I have heard spoken of, here. It feels like it matches with that name.” He had no better ideas, anyway. Each step into the unknown unlocked something - not always useful, but he was determined to connect the dots. Even when he grasped at straws.

„Oh, Balthazar? No, no. He's one of the Human Gods. The Six. And he betrayed them.”

„He betrayed them? He lied and deceived them? Why?”

„No one knows. One day, he just... did. And the Beast has been here ever since.”

The sand moved with a gust of wind. A shine caught his eye, and he moved closer.

And there it was, halfway buried, as though attempting to take root. A ghostly image of his sword - slotting neatly into his hand. Like it was meant to be there. Like it had been, for a long, long time.

„Huh.” Nenah gave Caladbolg a good lookover, before coal eyes met honey gold.

„I know now. I was a soldier.” There was conviction in the spark's voice. A newfound confidence, even when facing his truths came at a cost. His words gradually turned quiet. „I... don't think I was a good man. I lied and deceived. I think I wanted something very much.”

Nenah lingered in silence. A hand of sun-kissed bronze rested upon one of the cold spark's shoulders, feeling metal. A reassurance, perhaps. Or simply an acknowledgement. Whatever it was, her smile gave him the strength to keep going.

„Look. Over here.” She suddenly yanked him, pulling him behind a cover of trees. And then, himself.

Red cloth, bronze tinted metal. Stealing fervent glances, as though afraid of every shadow. That expression of prey-animal terror did not suit his features.

„That spirit... it looks just like me.”

„We should follow. Hurry!” They ran after it, and it broke into a sprint. It weaved inbetween rocks and trees, heading for a cave shrouded in webs. A dead end. His gold eyes met their own reflection, and his mirror image screamed.

The Thorn moved like second nature, and the dagger fell out of their hand. And so, the illusion shattered - a small creature huddled, weeping, where his warped self had been. „I yield!” It screeched. „I yield. Take it! It's yours.”

He still held the Thorn - a show of power, though he did not intend to strike down the thief. „Why did you steal my name?” Gone was the mellow calm with which he arrived. The timbre of his voice changed - and so too did the look in his eyes. No longer honey, but liquid gold. „Answer me.”

And the creature wept, for it did not know any better. But he still did not remember. Why he fought, why he lied, why he killed.

„Keep looking.” The same guiding hand rested once again upon his shoulder. Though steady, her tone was filled with urgency. „If you don't reclaim your name quickly, you could lose it forever.”

And so, he fought - like the soldier he was. And as each spark begged for his mercy, doubt surfaced in his spirit.

„What if it was.. an evil name? What if finding who I am will make me worse?” He questioned, feeling the heat radiating from his bark. Pain. The sword in his hand was singed and black. It hurt. He did not remember, but the pain was growing. „What if where I am meant to go is even...”

„That's not for you to dwell on. Your task here is merely to find it. There is nothing more for ones such as we.”

„Nothing more..?”

„Your name and your purpose are all there is. And since more than one have claimed your name, it means it must be a prestigious one. Now, ask yourself. If yours were an evil name, then would they still seek to make it theirs?”

„...Do they know who I was? And if so, then why don't I..?”

„You will. All things in time. So fight, noble spirit.”

And he fought. Until the tide of shadows finally stopped coming. And the dam holding back his tears broke.

„I remember.” He lifted his clawed hand, watching his digits tremble with each new memory that surfaced in his hollowed mind. „My life... was filled with conflict.” Always war. Always killing. „Victory... and loss. I was a leader - a commander. I was...”

A Dreamer. A Valiant. A son. A Knight. A Commander. A Champion. A Dragonkiller. A Lichslayer.

„...Maelmordha. Yes. This is who I was.” A name, of his own. Something that felt right and not like a lie - even if the pain never went away.

Umber eyes lit up with the gentlest smile. „I could tell, Maelmordha. You wielded that weapon like a true fighter.”

„But I don't know why I fought... what I strove for, or against.” The sylvari spirit looked down, amber orbs filled with indescribable longing. It was all so very tiring, and he felt bad for relying on Nenah's guidance so extensively. Didn't she have a place to be..?

Didn't she, too, feel like she had to be somewhere else?

„Next is your purpose. What drove you forward... and what ultimately led to your death. The answer is here, somewhere in the Domain of the Lost.”

„...I just have to find it.” He finished her thought. She smiled, and nodded. He returned the gesture. „But how will I know it? Where will I find it?”

The words that came next were nothing but cryptic - as his guide slowly made her way onward, as though knowing exactly where to go. „If you truly desire it... your purpose will find you. I'd start with the bird.”

„A bird..?” The fallen necromancer questioned. And then he saw it: a raven of brilliant white. Its feathers alight with a sheen that reminded him of home - like Mother's petals. And he remembered Her, and each lullaby She used to sing. „Come! I need to -”

He tripped over a stray root, and realized it was moving. The ground itself shook and parted beneath his feet, tendrils slithering like snakes as a beast - a Dragon - rose in the distance. Grand, like a monument of leaf and vine, and in front of it - a pair of lights. Caithe, one of the Firstborn. And himself. Images of the eldest Knight of Thorn, Riannoc, his blade of alabaster bark glowing with the light of hope. Caladbolg itself, which now rested in his care. And on the other end, a lich, his skeletal hands commanding death like a putrid orchestra - drowning the First Knight in a sea of corpses.

Fear not this night, you will not go astray.

The raven flew ever onward, unfurling a sea of memories. And he ran after it, hand outstretched, mouth forming a silent call.

Though shadows fall, still the stars find their way.

It weaved through the darkness like a lone bolt of lightning through blackened storm clouds. He took Nenah's hand, pulling her along - afraid to let go, but infinitely more scared to lose track of the light. And they ran. „My eyes are - they're open, Nenah!”

„Good! Let yourself feel it, and let it wash over you. He who follows his purpose will never truly lose it!”

Awaken from a quiet sleep, hear the whispering of the wind. Awaken as the silence grows in a solitude of the night.

From the dark, twisting shapes. The stench of rot and clattering of bone as a tide of Zhaitan's legions marched against the army of the Pact. Mazdak, the Accursed, fallen at last at his hand – his first Hunt fulfilled. Sieran's parting words as the gates closed. The Sunless' advance and the fall of Claw Island. The tears shed that day, and the promises made to live on in spite of them. And then, in the end, their banners, raised high upon the towers - him and Trahearne, side by side.

Darkness spreads through all the land and your weary eyes open silently

Sunsets have forsaken all, the most far off horizons.

And again, they charged. Roar of gunfire and steel. Wyld Hunts that seemed all but impossible, keeping steadfast hand in hand. And the heart of it all, cleansed and beating again, as he remembered holding him for the first time. And laughing.

Nightmares come when shadows grow. Eyes close and heartbeats slow.

The assault on Arah. The thundering of war engines and the roar of airships. Destiny's Edge standing united, and him leading the final push. Zhaitan's death throes shattering the mountain, sending the Dragon itself crashing from blighted heavens towards the shoreline. Victory, and the first kiss shared in the dim light of a study. Why was he crying? Like he was already aware what came next.

Fear not this night, you will not go astray. Though shadows fall, still the stars find their way.

„Mordremoth!”

It all unfolded in quick succession. Ceara's fall; Scarlet Briar. The assault on Lion's Arch. Aurene's egg and Caithe's betrayal. The disaster of Maguuma, all that death and then - past the horror of it all - holding his dear's broken, dying body as the foul magic bled out of his system in rivers of gold. The Thorn trembled in his hands, but he knew not to let it go. The day his eyes turned cold. He felt Nenah's hand squeeze his own.

And you can always be strong. Lift your voice with the first light of dawn.

His hatred. His bitterness. And Her light, which saved him.

The founding of Dragon's Watch. The awakening of Primordus and Jormag. Braham's burden and the wrath in his words as he snapped. A bridge, burned to ashes - a wound that they would no longer have the chance to mend.

And Her, coming into the world at last. Caithe's words, and her vow. To lay down her life for -

„Aurene.” He found himself repeating his own words. „Her name is Aurene.”

Dawn's just a heartbeat away. Hope's just a sunrise away.

The rise of Lazarus. A mystery of the great deceiver. Climbing the spire as everything around them began to burn, and yet they knew the only way was up. He knew the only was was up.

It had always been like that, hmm, Commander?

The raven disappeared into the smoke, and he dove after it. Coughing, as though his lungs remembered the feeling. White leaves singed black and then he lost her in the fire. „Nenah! Where are you!” He could no longer feel her hand. His fellow spark had disappeared, and only Balthazar's pyre remained. The planks behind him crackled and crumbled as burning heat cut off the way back. So he climbed. Following each white feather. Humming Mother’s lullaby.

„...Have your friends abandoned you?” He could hear the God's mockery in his ears. His oppression, his glee, the sadistic pleasure he took in prolonging his every breath. And then, Aurene. Reaching for him. Damning herself just for a chance to save him.

And still, in the end, she was taken, and he died with no one to hold him. His last words frozen in his throat. But now, he screamed. He screamed and wept and his eyes shot open only to find his fellow spirit clutching his hand tightly within hers. And he looked into coal orbs and in his tormented mind, they seemed to flash crimson, shadowed by a crown of horns.

„...Balthazaaaaar!!” He howled like an animal, thrashing. A hand pushed down on his chest, keeping him on his back, before pulling his head into her lap. „Shh. Shh. There, there. Just breathe. Like you remember. Even like this, it helps.”

Tears streamed freely down silver skin as he wept in terror, clawed hand outstretched towards the sky. But there was no Aurene. No dark clouds cutting him off from the world. No Balthazar, staring down at him like yet another broken toy, balancing his blade over his heart. So, he did the only thing he could. He cried, allowing the mentor spirit to gently pet back his leaves, quelling the sobs that shook his body.

„...I remember. I remember.” He repeated, the most quiet of whimpers. Wet, haunted gold found umber again as he spoke. „Balthazar - he wants revenge on the other gods, and he's going to use Aurene to get it. I... I have to convince the Judge to send me back.”

„Rest, silver tongue. Death is not something to outwit.”

„You don't understand.” He gathered himself enough to stand and walk, even as his knees shook with every step. „That bastard will destroy Tyria. All of it. This isn't about me and my ego, for fuck's sake!” The Commander broke into a sprint. Moving as fast as his legs would carry him, causing the Elonian spirit to struggle to keep up. „He wants the strength of the Elder Dragons for himself, and doesn't care that killing them now will doom the world!”

„I see.” Nenah responded. There was deep concern upon her face, now, as the true weight of all that had transpired took the time to fully settle and click into place. „...He has ravaged this place. Stolen spirits and used them to bolster his army. He has let something horrible into this place, something beyond even Grenth's jurisdiction.”

Maelmordha paused, stern gold meeting her gaze. „The Beast. Come. We need to move!”

As soon as they arrived in the Judging Ground, the grand spirit rose again from the shadows, a visage of skull and green fire ready to welcome them both. Recognizing Nenah and sensing the distress within her companion, he turned his full attention to Maelmordha.

„Grenth welcomes all, noble spirit. Step forward, and I will send you to your appointed place.”

But the necromancer had other ideas. He took exactly one step in the Judge's direction, setting his boot down with absolute conviction. „You must let me go back.”

For a moment, there was absolute silence. If the Judge could produce an expression, he would surely have frowned. A spectral sigh laced his words when he next spoke, weighting them carefully. „...I see you clearly now, Commander. Balthazar killed you, but you would face him again?

„Yes.” The sylvari replied immediately, filled with fervent - perhaps even crazed - determination. Yes, a thousand times yes. Even when it hurt. He couldn't just let her... He grit his teeth, releasing a quivering breath.

„Balthazar has done great harm here.” Grenth's right hand confirmed what Nenah had already told him. „The magic he uses to hijack spirits shakes the foundation of the Domain of the Lost. But I... cannot help you.”

No..! No, this wasn't going to end this way. He would not let it. By the Tree, he had to bargain.

Mael took another step, lacing fingers together as though in prayer and slowly shaking his hands with every word. „If I could only get back... if I could defeat him, it might undo the damage he's done in both our worlds.” There. He was officially bargaining with Death himself. Or, rather, his right hand, but the point still stood.

The Judge sighed painfully, sending ripples through the aether. „It is too late. No life remains in your body. Unless...”

Unless? Fucking hell, he was actually getting somewhere.

„When Balthazar left, a fearsome beast, the Eater of Souls, rose to prey on the waning life energy of the spirits here....”

Nenah moved closer. „That's got to be the screams I heard in the distance. So, it is true, after all.”

„...If you were to defeat the beast and claim its power, that life energy might be strong enough to reanimate your body.” The Judge continued. „Allowing you to go back. But, if you were to fail, the beast would consume your entirety. I could grant you no final reward or punishment. Your spirit would simply cease to be. Do you.. really want this, Commander? You will be changed. There is no other way. As a necromancer, you know what this entails.”

He did. Oh, he did. He opened his mouth to speak, but the sound froze in his throat.

Riannoc...! He tried to shake the memory from the Dream. Lose the ghost of the man whose Wyld Hunt he once bore. No, this was bigger than him. Bigger than all of them. That bastard had Aurene, and if she...

Maelmordha clenched his fists. Gaze downturned, shrouded in white leaves. His shoulders shook with the weight of the choice placed in front of him. With the phantom of his people's very first nightmare. Did he... have the right? To do this? And if so, who gave him it? Who allowed this man to play God in his own right?

He supposed the answer was standing right in front of him. Gazing with green orbs, waiting patiently for his reply. „Grenth does not take kindly to those who defy his domain. But he is willing to forgive this one transgression, in the name of both our worlds. You will become something different, and if you ever go astray, you will no longer be entitled to your final reward.”

„Diabolistic magic...” He muttered under his breath. His fellow spark looked on with worry. Softly, her hand once again found his shoulder, resting upon it with comforting weight. „Whatever you decide, I will help you see it through til the end. So, think - for what does your purpose call?”

Did it call for him to fall this low? And yet... if it was the only way to save Aurene - to save Tyria, then did he ever really have a choice at all? He took a breath, and his golden gaze rose anew, finding ghastly green.

„...I accept that risk. I have to go back to finish what I started.”

Clawed gauntlets rose into the air, the Judge's mask angled towards the jade-hued skies. „Then in Grenth's name, o blessed sinner, conquer the Eater of Souls and live again! Remind Balthazar that none escape judgement.”

With a snap of the servant's fingers, crimson fabric set on viridian fire, and in an instant, his body was framed in darksteel. A long, black cape extended from beneath the upturned spikes of his new pauldrons, ornate gauntlets wrapping around his forearms and tall, metal greaves fitting upon his legs. A disc of magic flared to life over his sternum, like an eye of Death itself.

He took a moment to inspect his new armor, finding it a perfect fit. „...Thank you.” He gasped, unsure at first what to make of the gift. And yet he could feel no ill magics from it - nothing meant to limit or control him, only accentuate his existing power.

„Let this be proof of Grenth's favor. An exceptional honor, in exchange for your willing sacrifice. Go, blessed sinner, and may your soul remain your own through this dire tribulation.”

„It will. You have my word.” And he turned around, features dark and the Thorn on his back ready.

After all, he who bore Caladbolg would not fall, so long as his desire was pure. Funny how that turned out. Did the sword's apparent curse carry on in death? He'd have to find out.

„Allow me to lead you, Maelmordha. The Beast stalks the deepest shadows of this land. Those spirits we've met earlier...”

„...It may already be too late for them.” He finished the teacher's thought. „I'm sorry, Nenah. But I cannot allow you to go with me, this time.” If he were to be devoured... ah, would it not simply be due payment for his hubris...? But her? She had done nothing but help him. „This is a journey I must take alone.”

„Even when dying alone was your greatest fear?” She retorted, causing the necromancer to seize up. He did not look at her, simply continuing to walk forth into the darkness. „...Thank you, Nenah. But I will take this from here.”

„As you wish, blessed sinner.” And just like that, her footsteps no longer accompanied his.

And in the deepest depths where even the raven did not delve, he found it. A hideous demon of blue fire, contorting into whatever fears his mind held to finally settle on the form of a Mouth of Zhaitan. Towering, with rows of fangs ready to snatch him up where he stood. How did one fight hunger incarnate..? He drew the Thorn, and charged.

The same rules did not apply here as in the waking world. This was not only a fight of tooth against thorn, but a dance of nightmare. Like every worst part of him, reflected right back in his face. The shadows had been nothing, compared to this. They only wanted his name, after all.

Oh, the Beast? It wanted everything. To strip his soul, down to the marrow. And in the end, it had been decided all along. To conquer the Mouth was to embrace its hunger. To take for himself another name. Even if he had to become a worse version of himself, he would do it in every life. His right hand's fingers traced a symbol on his heart. Chanting an ancient curse, the same forbidden verse he spent his first five years researching. The Commander's spirit ignited in black smoke, Caladbolg a Reaper's scythe.

...Do you really want this, Commander?

You wouldn't have gotten so far if not for your hunger.

...A hunger to succeed. To be recognized. To have power. You greedy creature, always reaching for more than you can swallow until the God of Flames finally made you choke on it. And yet, you'd return? To do it all over again? Don't you see how far you've already fallen - from a bright eyed Valiant to a wolf gripping tight the reins of all those who would dare question and oppose you? You're a killer, you know, right? You're never satisfied. And no matter what you do and how much you achieve, it will never be enough.

You can drink til you're sick but never til you're satisfied. You will lose your Dream but your Hunt shall never end. Is this what you want?

To save her. Yes. I will do anything.

Will you be anything?

Yes.

Waken then, Fell Wolf, and hunt.

Kill Balthazar, and devour.

The monstrous body before him fell, dissolving into shadow. His scythe still lodged in its burning core, he felt the cold flicker climb up his weapon and touch ground with his skin.

The demon's magic flooded his senses. The world swirled in front of his eyes, a gaze of spectral gold darting around in terror. He saw the lost sparks return, freed from the beast's belly, as they all moved in unison towards Judgement. The Domain breathed a sight of relief - and then he felt his chest rip open.

And he screamed. By the Pale Tree he fucking screamed. Feeling every second of the blade digging into and parting his flesh, crushing organs and searing his insides. Except now, the blackness offered no relief. There was no merciful veil of Death to take the pain away, to ease his body's last gasp as embers took his lungs. And the flames did not burn his throat and steal his voice. At some point, the agonal screech turned into a howl, and his eyes wept spectral light.

Seizing, he fell to his knees. His armor glowed a deep cerulean - and more metal enveloped the Commander's form. He scarcely registered it, even when links of chain snaked round his heaving chest and hooked into the gaping cavity of his wound.

It was almost a mockery. Almost a voice, sneering into his ear. This is what you are. Do you regret it yet?

„Aaaargghh!” His own voice burst forth in strained cries. Calling names as though their owners could ever help him. „Pale Mother! Aurene! Grenth!”

No one will save you now, either. You chose this. Maelmordha, you poor, poor fool.

It felt like ages but the pain relented just enough to leave the fallen Knight gasping and wheezing in a ghastly approximation of life. Collecting his stolen breath, registering a familiar sensation upon his cheeks before he ever realized he was crying. Again. And only then did he get to truly, wholly gaze upon his form - the warped image of his own demise, seared forever into his soul.

Trembling fingers probed at the edges of his wound - the very one that killed him - and found fangs. Rows of umbral teeth, licked by flickering tongues of blue fire. This had to be... was this real? Absently, he reached inside, half expecting the slick wetness of entrails. Instead, he found only cold nothingness, and a pulse at the core of it all. A rhythmic thrum of magic where his heart had been, just barely out of reach, yet begging for his touch.

Focus, the magic whispered. The Alchemy bends to your whim. Death's defector, defiler of Nature. So he did. And the dark became corporeal.

Transfixed, he pulled on the object, and out emerged a sword of midnight. Blue veins running along its surface, magic pulsing to the beat of the orb that lay at its center; Connecting the hilt and the blade. And he felt his new heartbeat, bare within his hand. Bound to his maw with chain like some eldritch stem, bridging the gap between man and demon. The first fang of the bound Wolf, and then the second - Dromi and Lædingr.

They slotted into his grip as though he had never been meant to hold anything else. Extensions of his ambition and his sin. These blades, they felt nothing like Caladbolg. Where the Mother's Thorn tasted of light and grief, these weapons? They were forged of naught but gnawing hunger, pulled straight from the pit of his stomach.

„I'm...” He was almost afraid to have a witness. But he did. And slowly, he lifted his gaze again, finding his fellow spirit staring back with what could only be described as somber pity. „...Nenah, why did you come... I'm...”

What am I?

A Dreamer. A Valiant. A son. A Knight. A Commander. A Champion. A Dragonkiller. A Lichslayer. A... his sight was blurry.

„I'm... so...”

Static enveloped his mind. Ghastly blue light burned within his eyes.

„I'm... so... hurrggh....”

He was ravenous. He - it - the Soul Eater.

Someone called out. Their words but white noise in the void of his thoughts.

Slowly, he walked. Tips of his swords dragging against the ground and gouging the earth. The magic inside him pulsed like the want that moved his jaws. The desire that now held together his spirit. This unholy, aberrant, ugly spirit. Pounding in his split-open chest, the war-drum of instinct drowning out every alarm bell in his mind.

Devour. This is what you are. This is what you chose. Didn't you?

„...Remember...”

A voice. Did it matter? They all screamed at the precipice between worlds. Their words made no difference.

„...Remember who you are...! Remember why you did this..!”

Aurene? No, she was...

Who - whose name was this? What was a name?

„Blessed sinner..!”

Who?

There was the sensation of weight wrapping around his wrists. He growled, lips twitching. And in that moment, his mind surfaced - searching for something, anything, to keep itself afloat.

„Remember your name! Maelmordha..!”

And he snapped back. Blue eyes back to yellow, swords dissolving and chest stitching shut. A gasp, as though his soul yet remembered the rush of air in his lungs. And he found dark eyes, holding the gaze of his own - a lifeline for a dead man.

The eyes of a woman who never knew him. A woman who had nothing to gain from this, and everything to lose.

„...Why..?” He mouthed. Utter silence in his mind aside from that singular question. „...Why did you risk your li - your existence? I could have -” Mael scowled, bringing gloved hands before his face. His digits shook with the strain of keeping himself together.

He could have eaten her. Erased her. Even now she caused this beast's mouth to water. A soul - a light - pure magic. He knew now how Dragons felt, and if the hunger hurt so much, then were they ever truly to blame..?

There was conviction in Nenah's eyes as she once again took hold of the sylvari's wrists, pulling them down as to force the fallen Commander to meet her gaze. „This isn't about... what you could have done to me. Nor what could happen to you. This world is falling apart at the seams because of Balthazar. I believe... I'm here, because Kormir wanted me to help you.”

„Kormir..?”

The Goddess of Truth who could only smile sadly as she departed. No actions taken, only words of hollow solace - as she abandoned them all. Abandoned her people. He wasn't human, but witnessing the heartbreak on Kasmeer's face? He might as well have been. „Kormir left us. Left Tyria behind. The Gods have relinquished all claim to this realm -”

„And yet you're here. And you'll live again. With Grenth's own blessing. So who's to say they really left us? Who's to say they abandoned us when they still guide us?”

Mael closed his mouth. The teacher was right. This was an angle he hadn't truly stopped to consider - and what right did he have to stomp down on the hope that still remained for the people? Living or dead, they all needed a light to lead the way. Gods and spirits for men, Dream for sylvari. Heroes and concepts to hold onto - invariably, no one ever wanted to go alone into the dark.

To trudge on, not knowing what awaits on the other side. The necromancer's voice came in a soft whisper.

„...You're right. I'm sorry. And... thank you.” Maelmordha swallowed, desperately pushing down his racing thoughts. He forced an apologetic smile, a last look at the fellow spirit who had accompanied him for so long. „So... I guess this is goodbye.”

„So it is.” She returned a smile of her own. In that moment, the humble teacher truly looked like the Goddess she so loved. And he could see that love burn bright. It would be the beacon that lit her way to her final reward, far, far away from the war that took her and those she mentored. A war he'd return to, damned as he was - to make sure it took no one else. Perhaps it was a fool's notion, but a chuckle broke through the silence nonetheless.

„Good luck wherever you're going, and... Pray for me, would you?”

„I will, Commander. Trust in Grenth. And know that everything happens for a reason.” She let go, a final nod offered his way before she turned around, heading towards the Judge.

And so, Maelmordha turned his gaze towards the precipice of worlds, knowing he now possessed the strength to bridge them. But one more voice vied for his attention - someone he unfortunately recognized. Once again demanding to be the center of the world, now with the added bonus of kissing ass. A smirk crept onto the Commander's features.

„Look who's groveling. Genuflect, Your Majesty.”

And so began the worst lich feud in Tyrian history, but that was a tale for another time.

”Gods, I... I can't even bear to look at him.” The mesmer's body shook with stifled sobs. Tears charting dark lines down pale skin - washing away the paint from her lids.

Tribune Brimstone could only frown, jaws parting to offer some form of solace just before he remembered he was never any good with words. And so, lips fell over fangs again, safekeeping solemn silence. „Yeah... yeah.”

He always did make everything worse, didn't he...? Green orbs wandered back to the proof of his failure. The haphazard veil that covered the worst of the Commander's wounds was soaked in sap. Empty eyes now resting closed, the poor bastard looked almost eerily peaceful. Almost as though he were merely resting. It didn't suit him to be so dark in the evening, though. That ruby light was gone and the soldier in Rytlock - all he had ever been - knew better than to dwell on death as humans did. It wasn't sleep. No gods to kiss it all better. And all that blood and gore couldn't be dressed in words in a way that made it pretty.

„He's done so much and I can't... I can't even look...”

Kas was still crying. Rytlock winced. Clawed hand hovered over her form, as though debating whether his touch could offer any superficial semblance of comfort. Ultimately, it retreated, and his tail flicked uncomfortably. With a deep rumble, he excavated his voice.

„...He wouldn't have wanted you to.” There was no point. He was gone anyway, so it didn't matter. At least he wasn't in pain anymore. And, well, Commander never did want anyone else to have to suffer for no reason. „Shit, how we gonna break this to Taimi...”

„That's what I'm worried about. Kid won't take this too well.” Canach sighed, raising himself up from his kneeling position. „Aren't you the Watch's second? Should I call you Commander, yet?”

„Shut it, weed.” The snarl came on its own before he ever had the chance to reel in his anger. A growl seeped past the Blood Tribune's teeth, and he pinched the bridge of his snout. „Look, just - just let me think. Or make the call yourself if you have so much yapping left in you.”

Uncharacteristically, Canach merely sat quietly away to the side, closer to the body. For a brief moment, the Secondborn's stern gaze met that of the charr, before both men promptly looked away. It was clear the former convict had no interest in petty arguments at the time - whatever words he did have locked firm behind his teeth.

„I'll do it.” A meek voice picked up from the back. Rytlock's head turned, only for green orbs to meet dim blues. Lady Meade looked positively pathetic. And yet, though her eyes were framed by streaks of runny makeup, her expression was one of tired determination. Rytlock chuffed.

„You sure? You aren't looking too-”

„I said I'd do it. So, let me.”

Silence. Kasmeer raised her hand to her ear to dial on the device, and the comms crackled to life. One last shaky breath, and a tiny voice came through.

„Yes? Hello? Guys, is everything alright?” The small prodigy chirped in a fervent tone. Her voice cracked towards the end and Kasmeer Meade could feel her heart crack in tandem. „...Please tell me everything's alright.”

„Oh, Taimi. Baby, I'm so sorry.”

„Kas? Kas - I - Kas tell me what's - No no no please don't tell me he's -”

Despite the fresh tears tugging at her waterline, the mesmer knew she had to say it. „Shhh, I'm so sorry. Mael's gone, Taimi.”

It was as though the full weight of it only really sank in at that moment. Rytlock's glare seemed to actively want to bury itself in the dirt, while Canach turned away to gaze silently off into the distance. Even Kasmeer felt a fresh knot twist within her gut only to release, all that horrible, horrible tension burning like living fire the very second she heard Taimi's voice quiver on the other end of the line.

„No.. no, no.. Kas this isn't funny...” She sniffled, and the mage of Lyssa could oh so easily visualize the little girl shaking her head over in her lab. Just like when she argued with Phlunt, or any other scientist. Always so very confident in herself, and what she believed in.

„No, this isn't FUNNY, don't LIE to me, he's FINE! He's the Commander - he's - he's FINE - go check! Do the light test on his eyes - t-take his pulse - s-sylvari don't have easily accessible carotids b-but -”

„Taimi...”

Another click, and Canach joined the line. „Taimi, there wasn't even a need to check.”

„Canach!” Kasmeer could only gasp at the swordsman's blunt intrusion. „Canach, I swear on the Six -”

„Make that Five. He's dead, kid. That's a whole God that got him. Could tell the moment we looked.”

„Fucking burn me, have some tact!” Rytlock snapped, earning a scornful glance from the sylvari. The tension could very well be cut with a knife.

„Or what? Thorns, sometimes you have to be direct. Grow some spine, you people!”

„That's a CHILD!”

„...I'm still on the line. I-I’m not a child! I can hear you all. I'm sorry. I j-just -” Taimi's voice broke again, dissolving into a series of wheezy sobs. Kas's heart dropped. She was having an episode. The mesmer wasted no time in briefly disconnecting her communicator.

„Shut UP! Both of you!” The outburst was so out of character that both Rytlock and Canach promptly fell silent. Having achieved her immediate goal, the mesmer tapped the device again. „Talk to me, Taimi.” Walk her through this, Kasmeer, just like Mael used to. Don't let him down, now. This is the least you can do.

„I'm - I-I'm just... I'm so sorry I screamed.” The teenager sniffled, interrupting herself with a hiccup. „I-I knew the odds were bad... I just didn't want it to be true...”

Lady Meade smiled painfully, mustering up every bit of comfort in her voice. Oh, how she wished she could be there with her - lay her hand gently upon the asura's head and pet her hair. Just like he always did.

„It's alright. Everyone reacts in their own way. It isn't your fault. Shh. Shh. It's okay...”

„If I - I-if I weren't taking a break at the time I could have noticed the energy readings were shifting and he - B-Balthazar - was changing course - and we could have warned him before the storm set in and comms died -”

„...You know this isn't true. You can't always work. If you had overworked yourself, you could have missed something else, baby. We may all have been dead. You could have gotten hurt from overdoing it.” The only thing she could do now was speak and listen. Between herself and the Dawnborn, she wasn't ever really sure who was better at talking people down. „...He wouldn't have wanted this, alright? Commander - Mael - wouldn't have wanted you to aggravate your condition. None of us do.”

„H-he was the first person who really, truly took me seriously!” Taimi was spiraling. „What I do is my choice! And I could have saved him! I could have... Alchemy...”

Her tired body was giving out, too drained to argue in vain with herself. Deep down, she knew. She knew that she had been powerless to stop it. That even the Dragonslayer had no hope to kill a God, and it was a childish thought to even entertain. That deep down, Mael himself knew he was marching to his death, but his Wyld Hunt drove him onward anyway.

Just like shackles and chain. Being pulled ever towards the gallows, with no ability to run. And yet, he shouldered his fate with a smile.

Even when she watched him grow bitter and jaded he always found it in himself to smile for her.

„...You did your best. That is more than enough.” Kas' lids fell shut, forcing out the last tear that still lingered in the corner of her vision. „He's proud of you. I know.”

Wherever he was. If he was... anywhere. She didn't have the heart nor the stomach to consider the full implications of Grenth leaving. When she next opened her eyes, her vision was swimming - and not because of the desert heat, which had long since given way to a brisk evening chill. Taimi seemed to have calmed down, and only the occasional quiet sniffle still registered on their shared frequency. The Meade sat down on a rock, fearing her own legs too feeble to keep her upright for long.

„...So, what do we do?” It was Rytlock who next broke the silence. „It's late and there may still be some Forged in the area. Wouldn't exactly want a bullet through the skull and an early ticket back to the Mists. Would hate to disappoint Commander like that.”

Again, he thought to add. He bit his tongue.

„...I'll stay here and get a breath of fresh air.” Canach sighed, the usual edge to his tone replaced by bitter, cold apathy. „If you want to go back to the ship, then go. I need to collect my thoughts.”

„I'll cloak us, just to be safe. Let Fidus know to post sentries and be on a lookout for trouble.” Exhaustion was not going to stop Kasmeer from being cautious, and this was simple magic, anyway. With a wave of her hand and reality rippling beneath her force, the top of the Spire was encased in an invisible bubble. Reflecting sight, just like a one way mirror. If anyone else wandered inside, she'd know.

In the end, none of them had it in themselves to go back - not yet. A quiet vigil for the fallen. For a leader. For a friend

It felt like several hours had passed. The night was silent and uneventful, an air of tranquility fallen over where tragedy had struck. Ash and dust long since scattered to the wind, there was scarcely a trace of the battle. Only charred foliage, cooled armor strewn about here and there, and three broken people trying to decide where to go from there. But the night, though quiet, held danger nonetheless. Teasing fate was a fool's errand in these lands.

„It's high time we move. I'll... get the body. Set a course for Amnoon.” The revenant spoke, and the airship's crew began preparations for takeoff. Kasmeer and Canach wordlessly nodded, their gazes following Rytlock as he walked up once again towards the center of the Spire.

...The very last thing Kasmeer Meade expected was to hear Rytlock holler her name with borderline panic in his voice.

„Uh, Kas?!”

„What is it?!” Both her and Canach were already running from the deck back to the plateau, weapons drawn and half prepared to find Forged come to hunt them down and finish what Balthazar started.

But Forged did not have blue eyes. Whatever stared back at them from the very center of the Spire was no soldier of Fire. A figure shrouded in shadow, darkness itself gathering where it stood to leave its features obscured and nigh unrecognizable. Stark blue eyes seemingly lost interest in gazing into Rytlock's own in favor of inspecting the sheet of gold-soaked cloth held in one hand.

„Get back!” The charr ignited Sohothin, wide arc of his sword a warning to both sides. „Where is the bo - where is he?!”

The stranger's head turned, shifting shadows offering a glimpse of white hair. Aether warped their words, like the Mists themselves speaking. „Rytlock...”

And yet, the sound of his name in their - in his lips was recognizeable beyond all doubt. „Kasmeer! What in the hells! Is this one of yours or am I going mad?!”

„What do you mean mine - you can't be - since when do I -” The mesmer was tripping over her words, staff clutched tightly. She could smell necromancy anywhere. Jory, and Mael - she's spent so long around them, but this felt familiar and different at the very same time. A darkness she knew well, but somehow wrong. A twisted image of Grenth's magic that sent alarms going off in her brain and overwhelmed her thoughts. That aura was oppressive.

„Is that...” Canach mouthed, incredulous.

„No. It's not.” Brimstone bared his fangs, tail lashing wildly against the ground. „I've been there. I know what lurks there. This isn't him. It's a demon.”

The figure's eyes seemed almost sad. He dismissed the notion.

„Grrraaaahh!!” With a mighty leap, he charged, fury burning in his eyes - challenging the reflection of the ghost fire that razed Ascalon. If this beast thought he'd let it defile the Commander's body, it was dead fucking wrong.

Split seconds before Sohothin could sink its fangs into a gap in darksteel armor, the stranger's chest opened. A jagged maw of teeth.

„Pale Mother!” Canach gasped, and Kasmeer covered her mouth. Taimi came online and hurled a hundred questions over the comms.

Their swords met with a spectral chime. Like a rung bell, living flame against one cold and dead. That strength. How did so much power fit in such a small, feeble sylvari body? The charr grit his teeth, air hissing past his brandished fangs. A deadlock.

„Rytlock! Stand down!” The stranger repeated, forcibly. The Tribune's mind flashed back to their last fight. Pain and rage seethed in jade orbs, muscles pushing with all their might against the single sword that halted his advance. „...No. I won't let you. You don't deceive me!”

Blue eyes that gazed from where gold had once been narrowed. „I thought I had made myself clear before, Tribune. I won't take no for an answer.”

A pulse of dark magic repelled Sohothin, forcing Rytlock back. His weight shifted dangerously, hind claws struggling to find purchase. Green orbs shot wide open - he was exposed, and the dark blade was more than capable of ending him right then and there.

So he focused, a last ditch-effort; With a mighty beat, crystalline wings sprouted from his back - the Dragon Prophet's own visage bursting from the Mists to lend him her strength.

And then she just... stopped. The Commander - the stranger's free hand was outstretched, and he felt every nerve in his body refuse to listen. „What in the...” Some blasted chains - wrapped around him, wrapped around even Glint before her fleeting facet dissipated.

He felt familiar magic swallow him in rosy light and he was yanked back, appearing in a portal next to Kasmeer. Her and Canach had both stepped forward to shield him with their bodies, but made no move to advance. Hesitating? Now, of all times..?! He was about to tell them off before he noticed that very same spell binding them in place, every fibre of their bodies frozen and helpless to the fates.

„Burn me! Rrraahh!!” He raged against his restraints, soul reaching out through the Mists to call for aid. Any aid. What was a charr to do to get some fucking reinforcements around these parts?! Glint, Jalis, even the blasted Shiro Tagachi or Mallyx, it made no difference. The voices in his head fell silent, unwilling or unable to manifest his magic. He was stuck, and this monster was going to kill them all.

Balthazar didn't even have to get his hands any dirtier and come finish the job. Some random fucking demon was all it took. I'm sorry, Commander. It seems I can't stop messing up.

But the killing blow did not come. The blade that emerged out of the portal mouth upon the bastard's chest simply went right back in like his body was some twisted scabbard. Split open by a God's wrath and this demon was hell-bent on making a mockery of even the Commander's death. What a joke.

„...Rytlock...”

„Stop it. Just, get it over with. I've some dignity to keep.” His fur stood on end, hearing that voice when he knew it wasn't real.

„If I wanted to, I would have done so already. Pale fucking Mother, Rytlock.”

The Shroud relented, and the shadows fell away. And so, they got a chance to see him, really see him, for themselves. No anger nor malice contorted his features. Only sadness. A deep, profound sadness in haunted eyes that extinguished the blue flame within to once again welcome gold. Those eyes that had once fallen dim and unseeing weren't fully dead. There was no light inside, not anymore, but... there was a spark, nonetheless. A sliver of cerulean that danced inside his pupils - just like the color of his glow, a stark contrast against the crimson they had come to know. And above all, he just looked so... tired.

„What's going on?!” Taimi was almost going into hysteria on the channel.

The chain magic dissolved, sending Rytlock stumbling a few steps forward. Some animalistic side begged him to charge again, but the desolate look within the Commander's eyes gave him pause. Similarly, Kasmeer and Canach made no move, staring with fear and worry at the scene unfolding before them. Mael - no, he couldn't let it deceive - was he..? - opened his arms, palms facing the starlit sky. Exposing his chest. Clad in some strange, new armor, seemingly spawned from the Mists just like the one worn by the Blood Tribune. A circle of magic spun slowly upon his sternum, remnants of blue fire easing into necromantic green.

„ ...That's Grenth's regalia. Like those given to the Seven Reapers.” Kas observed.

„It's Grenth who let me go back.” Maelmordha nodded at the mesmer, gratitude in amber orbs. His voice somber, but so unmistakably his. „Even in this state.”

The asura finally managed to shove herself back into the center of attention. Her words shot forth like machine gun fire inbetween panicked breaths. „Wait, w-wait wait wait - I DEMAND an explanation right now! If this is some sick prank I- I...”

Mael reached for his own device. Luckily, it was still in one piece. His tired smile was evident in his tone. „Hi, Taimi.”

„...Hi, Taimi? You almost DIE and „hi, Taimi” is all I get?! What's going on! You all said the Commander was dead! I flipping told you! I told you to check you - you -”

„I... I was dead, Taimi. But now I'm back.”

„Yeah, but that's not how „dead” works.”

„She makes a good point. You don't just go back to being alive like you go back to being your usual cranky self after a night of drinking. Kind of defeats the definition of „dead”, if anyone wants my opinion.” Canach interjected, sword lowered but not holstered. Skepticism in a gaze of violet framed by thorns. But also hope, try as he might to hide it. „...We checked, Commander, and you were very much no longer with us.”

„Here's the catch. I'm not alive.” The Commander let out a forlorn sigh, arms crossed over his back as he turned back around and slowly walked over to where his veil lay. He bent, once again taking it in a gloved hand - feeling the weight of his lifeblood.

„You're not?” The Secondborn raised a ridged brow. „I'm getting confused here. Is this some sort of last visitation to collect the money I owe you? ...Do you still need the money?”

„You're not?” Taimi repeated. „B-but... but.. buh...”

„Oh no...” Kasmeer seemed to realize the implications first.

„Listen.” The necromancer was back to doing what he did best. The party fell silent and focused on his words. „...I'm... still me. I've got this. I'm still the Commander. Still -”

That's right. Remember your name. It may well be the last thing that remains of you. He shivered.

„...Still Maelmordha.” The sylvari finally discarded the bloodied cloth from his grasp.

„Those damn teeth dare to disagree.” Rytlock growled, frustration bleeding through his words. Had he no fur to hide them, his knuckles would have been white with how tightly he gripped Sohothin. And yet, despite the anger, all the chaos within him, he silently prayed to legends and gods he did not believe in. „...What are you, really?”

„A lich.” With revulsion in his tone, the Commander answered. Even now, he felt the true weight of it all was lost on him. Too much to process all at once, too little time - this was a wound which would open later.

He stepped forward, eyes trained on Rytlock with such intensity the charr seemed to shrink back, uncertain. With one finger, the sylvari lifted the very tip of Sohothin. Angling its blazing spikes to face his sternum, as though knowing it would not strike him. „Which means killing me isn't going to stick. And the fire that took my life? Don't plan to let it burn me twice.”

„A lich..? Like Palawa Joko...? That makes no sense.” Kasmeer spoke up, hesitant and afraid. Had Maelmordha still a heart of his own, it would have shattered against the terror in her words. „Grenth doesn't approve of breaking the balance of Death. He wouldn't have -”

„There's one thing Grenth approves of even less than me breaking his and my own moral code, and that is Balthazar ravaging the Mists and ripping the souls of the dead right out to fill his Forged quota.” The Commander's voice was laced with venom. Before the Watch could blather on in circles for even longer, the fallen necromancer growled. „Listen! The bastard has Aurene.”

„We know...” Kasmeer replied, gaze somber. „He was taking her south toward Kralkatorrik when we arrived. We tried to stop him, but there were too many Forged.” The sheer wall of steel and fire cordoning off passage into the Desolation prevented the slightest notion of following the fallen God. Otherwise, they would have already done so.

„And I hate being the bearer of bad news, but it appears that Balthazar has managed to build up quite a formidable army.” Canach added, swordwhip crackling as though on cue at his side. So eager for violence, but its owner was not as hasty to a grave of his own.

„He does seem to make 'em faster than we can break 'em.” Rytlock bared his fangs, fist hitting the palm of his opposite paw.

„That's why we need an army of our own.” His trademark smirk was back, a devilish spark already dancing in his eyes. „I met someone in the Domain of the Lost who told me where I can borrow one.”

„Borrow”... an army?”

„Domain of the Lost?” The elder sylvari questioned, knowing he would likely not get an answer. „My, my, Commander, back from the dead and already scheming. It really is you.”

The occasional sniffling on the channel gave way to a happy giggle. „Yay, we have a plan!”

„Kas, have you got anything that can change our appearances?” Mael continued casually, as though he hadn't just suggested the most ridiculous idea known to Tyria.

„Yes, but nothing that can make the four of us look like an army.” Naturally, she was skeptical, and yet only waiting to hear just what kind of deranged plot they were pulling off next.

„It doesn't have to.” The Commander gave the verbal equivalent of a shrug. „It just needs to disguise us as someone else... after I secure our cover story.”

„Okay. I'll be standing by.” Setting her doubts aside, Lady Meade took a breath - getting ready to place her trust in this new version of her guildmaster. She wiped off her makeup-stained face, making room for a small smile. Blue orbs met gold, and she could feel his relief and gratitude. The necromancer offered a nod, and the mesmer returned it. Finally, things were going somewhere.

„And I'll be at the casino in Amnoon. If you can come back from the dead, I want to double my wager on you.” Canach smirked, that same sly look on his face he so often shared with his Commander. Mael simply nodded again, and the elder headed for the airship.

„Fine. I'll get word to you all when the time is right. For now, let's get the ship moving somewhere safe.” A brief scowl shadowed his features when he considered having a repeat of the prior conversation with Fidus and his crew. A man was scarcely allowed to come back without being asked questions, after all.

For the last time, he went back to where he had fallen - collecting the singed Thorn. Its bark was charred, leaves burnt - but even now, the Mother's holy magic was regenerating it steadily. He felt it recoil at his touch. The last vestige of the Dream inside his thoughts, all because the sword had simply become a part of him in its own, strange way. I'm so sorry, Caladbolg. How dirty he felt, but he forced himself to focus on Aurene. Visualize. Think. Remember. Even now, Nenah's words were fresh inside his mind. Remember why you did this. For whom.

Blue flickered in his gaze, and a single covert tear fell upon the Thorn's cracked surface. He rose from his knees, greatsword in hand.

A gravelly grumble finally pried him from his thoughts. Rytlock cast a side glance in his direction - meeting his gaze - before groaning and looking away in an almost sheepish manner. If not for the circumstances, he might have considered it cute.

„Oh, hey, Commander...” The charr mumbled, scratching the back of his mane. „Good to have you back.”

Maelmordha only smiled in response. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but his comrade wasn't paying heed.

#finally the wretched rewrite! enjoy if you'd like haha #guild wars 2 #gw2 #gw2 fanfic #gw2 fanfiction #gw2 fic #guild wars 2 fanfiction #gw2 pof #gw2 path of fire #pof spoilers #gw2 balthazar #gw2 commander #About the Commander #Maelmordha #Hounds to Hamartia #gw2 the departing

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forevergoldgame · 2 months ago

Note

Given that there's misogyny, I can't imagine there isn't some amount of transphobia as well in this society - since there's also meur though, are there any special ways in terms of transitioning compared to our world?

The short answer regarding transphobia: yes, in a way. Vestur is not known for its social forwardness, and so what we would recognize as a trans Vesturian would face many barriers. As for transition, meur doesn’t have much to offer beyond what was already surgically feasible in the era. While white meur is something of a medical miracle, what it can do is very limited by a white practitioner’s knowledge of the human body and the issue at hand. There are things white meur can do better and cleaner than modern surgery (it’s great at clean wound closure!) but they ultimately lack the knowledge of modern medicine.

Of course, gender nonconformity exists regardless, and in absence of a clear path forward people will forge their own. How much of an impact on their life "straying from the norm" has depends on many things, namely their culture and status. The Northern nomad “woman” who adopts a man’s name and role will be considered unusual by his clan, but his presentation may be begrudgingly accepted as “haretouched behavior.” Eccentric, but not something that warrants ostracization. On the other hand, a Midland Lord or Lady might be sensationalized or outcast for even mild transgressions in gender expectations.

Despite the lack of acceptance, there are certainly Vesturians “living as another gender,” whether for reasons of identity or practicality (e.g. commoner women living as men to study law). A (relatively) smooth social transition like we do today would may not be easy and require secrecy, but it's certainly done. And there's other means available aside from full reinvention: people in theatre are allowed to experiment under guise of performance, those otherwise socially outcast or in fringe positions might form communities of like-minded individuals who live contrary to social mandates... and so-forth. Again, it's all very dependent on many things about an individual’s class and circumstance.

The same goes for sexuality: if you're a Monarch or Lord, and your predilections interfere with producing an heir, that's a much bigger day-to-day hurdle than it would be for a “celibate” monk bedding men on the sly.

Now, as an aside with not much to do with the ask, but regarding how the topic is handled in the actual game:

...You might notice I keep using vague language: "what we would recognize as trans", "predilections that interfere with producing an heir." This is because of the differing ways gender and sexuality have been categorized throughout history. Words like "homosexual" and "transgender" are fairly recent terms, even if the people they describe have always existed. Though Forever Gold is somewhat anachronistic in its setting (we are generalized nerds more than historians), the delineations in Vestur are certainly not what we have today, and are more akin to 18th century western European ideas. The kingdoms have their own terms and concepts about these things that do not cleanly align with modern definitions, and we plan to (mostly) stick to that in-universe framing when the topic arises. This is a stylistic choice – many writers, when dealing with LGBT characters, prefer to be up front and use modern language regardless of when and where the story is set. There are benefits to both approaches!

That said, I don't wish to mislead our trans players through vagueness: we don't have a main character we conceptualize as “canonically” trans in this story. While LS and I have a range of “minority experiences” between us, being trans is not one of them. It’s not that we think non-trans people shouldn't make trans characters - it's more to do with the horrors of this setting and knowing when we're out of our depth. Vestur is punishing of nonconformity, and all main characters are strange and flawed people under a stressful amount of public scrutiny. We’ve no desire to put our trans readers through the ordeal of reading an outsider’s rendition of a trans person getting defamed and disrespected the way the rest of the cast gets defamed and disrespected. It feels too far out of our lanes. Neither of us have the knowledge or first-hand experience to write that with the finesse it'd deserve.

That doesn’t mean "people who would identify themselves as trans today literally don’t exist in our setting." Even if it's not happening on screen, there are LGBT people of all kinds in Vestur. And, should anyone feel inclined towards headcanon, feel free! Art is for the viewer.

-Dan

A few nerdy extras/recommendations:

Kaz Rowe is a Youtuber who discusses history. They sometimes delve into the lives of historical figures or movements which were undoubtedly some shade of LGBT, and their videos always balance being educational and nuanced with approachable.

I'd also be remiss to not shout out the fact that quite a few IF games are also historic-inspired fantasy, and many either have trans writers or exist in settings where strife is less emphasized along gender/sexuality lines. Wayfarer is like, one of the OGs, so please give it a look. I also think A Tale of Crowns has an excellent setting inspired by Middle Eastern history, and has much delicious political drama. This is by no means exhaustive list. Look at the "made in twine" tag on itch!

#ask #worldbuilding

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keyboardsmashess · 4 months ago

Text

The Siren, or The Heart of the Matter

Chapter Eight: The Assignment, or In Defense of the Mighty Ovary

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings: language, eventual smut, fluff, eventual canon-typical violence MINORS DNI. A/N: Happy Monday, loves! I hope you're all hanging in there amidst *gestures wildly* y'know. Enjoy another installment of our girl and her adventures. Does anyone want to guess why we get two titles for every chapter? 🤔

Summary: Cleo and the Avengers discuss the future.

Chapter Directory

Entering a conference room full of Avengers feels truly surreal. I’ve sat at plenty of awkwardly-shaped tables in plenty of boring office rooms, but the group of people sitting with me isn’t usually this… unique? Strange? Capable of multiple varieties of untraceable murder?

Natasha gives me a nod and a smile when I enter, and as I smile back I find myself wondering how much of her warmth is designed to get me to let my guard down, and how much is who she really is under the master-assassin mask. Bruce nods as well, which I return, and Steve gives me a friendly little wave. I salute him with two fingers. A man I haven’t met yet (but recognize from news footage of the New York incident) sits next to Natasha sporting a boyish smile, and as Tony and Barnes file in behind me, he stands and leans across the table with his hand outstretched.

“Hey Cleo, I’m Clint. I’m a big fan of the first two letters of your name.” His grin really is charming, and I find myself unable to resist smiling back.

I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m a big fan of the whole bow-and-arrow thing - very Paleolithic-chic.”

His laugh is loud and unrestrained, and I think that I’d enjoy being his friend.

I glance around the table for open seats. As much as I’d like to sit next to Clint or Natasha, I don’t want to make a whole thing of squeezing around the oversized table, so I take the open seat right in front of me - between Tony and Steve. Barnes has decided to brave the dreaded table-shuffle and plops down directly across from me. My cheeks burn as I remember the moment we had in the kitchen a few short minutes ago, and I try not to look at him.

Tony smirks at me as I sit. “Nice outfit, kid. I’m flattered. But you forgot the slippers - they really complete the look.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help my chuckle. “Only Tony Stark has a big enough ego to stock his guests’ closets with his own merch.”

Everybody laughs at that (except for grumpy-ass Barnes, of course), and Natasha leans forward. “You can borrow some of my clothes later, and we’ll use those for target practice.”

I smile wryly at the fit assassin. “Thank you, but I doubt we’re the same size. And hopefully I’ll have my own stuff soon, anyway.”

The room goes a bit quiet at that. I sigh, lay my hands flat on the table. “Look, I’m not an idiot - I know what we’re here to talk about. Let’s just get it over with.”

There’s a moment of silence, and it seems like every person is waiting for someone else to speak first. I blow a few stray pieces of hair out of my face with a huff. “Okay, one of you needs to grow some ovaries and start talking.”

Steve goes beet red and Natasha grins widely. Clint mouths the word ovaries questioningly at Bruce, who stifles a chuckle. Barnes pinches the bridge of his nose, which I’m beginning to learn means he’s annoyed. Specifically, with me. Tony leans forward on an elbow and raises his eyebrows at me. “Come again?”

“Oh, please!” I say. “Have you ever seen a man get kicked in the balls? For that matter, have you ever been kicked in the balls?” I look at Tony appraisingly. “There’s no way someone hasn’t taken you down by now, Stark.” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Barnes chuckles at that.

Clint stage-whispers, “She’s not wrong,” and Natasha looks delighted.

I slouch back in my seat. “All I’m saying is if we want to communicate that someone is strong or brave, it makes more sense to use an organ that’s objectively tougher.” I spread my fingers wide. “The mighty ovary.”

“Marry me,” Natasha deadpans. I shoot her a wink and wiggle my eyebrows, and Steve slumps over the table to cover his face with his hands.

Tony’s eyes dart between Natasha and I a few times before he finally speaks. “Since Women’s Studies here has broken the ice so delicately, we may as well get started before she further offends Cap’s delicate sensibilities.”

Tony gestures to Steve, who seems grateful to change the subject. “Right. I won’t beat around the bush - we’d like to make you an offer, Cleo.”

I tense, growing serious as I look between him and Tony. Clearly, the shift in leadership means we’ve crossed into Avengers territory. “When you say ‘offer,’ do you mean the kind of offer I can’t refuse?” I do my best Godfather voice (which is, admittedly, very bad).

Steve brightens. “I understood that reference!” I quirk an eyebrow, but he just shakes his head and keeps going. “I mean the kind of offer that you can take or leave. You’re in the driver’s seat here.”

“I’m listening.”

“We don’t know a lot about what’s caused your… changes, or the abilities that come with them, but we do know that what we’ve seen is pretty powerful. Now, you can go back to Culver and your old life, but there’s a chance you could really hurt someone without even meaning to.” I grimace and nod - this has been the subject of my anxiety for days, ever since the conversation I had with Bruce and Tony back in the med bay.

Steve continues. “But, with the right training, we think you could learn to control your abilities - even use them to help people.”

“Help people like…” I survey the assembled Avengers. “Like you help people?”

“Exactly like we help people,” Steve says with a grin.

Tony clears his throat, pulling the attention back to himself. “So our offer, Lite Brite, is to let you stay here and give you that training.”

I ignore the nickname and try to hide the way my body goes rigid at that. If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that nothing comes without a price tag. “In exchange for what?”

“Smart kid,” he mutters. “In exchange for letting the Doc and I keep running tests to get to the bottom of your magic crystal powers.” He wiggles his fingers at me.

“And,” Steve cuts in, “joining us on the team, if and when you’re ready.”

I look around the table again. “That’s why you’re all here? To recruit me?”

Tony gives me a smile that I’m sure has dazzled plenty of women, but I’m too gobsmacked to care. “Well, Point Break is off planet at the moment, but otherwise, yeah. Pretty much.”

I take a deep breath. “Why?”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean?”

I hold his gaze. “I mean, why me? Sure, I can scream really loud and make shit vibrate or whatever, but I don’t see what that contributes to…” I gesture around the table. “To all of you.”

Steve leans toward me. “Don’t sell yourself short, you never know -”

Tony cuts him off. “Spare the ‘believe in yourself’ pep talk, Cap, she’s too bright for that. Pun intended.” I roll my eyes, but can’t help a small smile. “Kid, we may not know where your mojo comes from, but we do know you have a lot of it. Truckloads. We’re taking a gamble that the more you train, the more you’ll be able to do. And despite what happened the last time I went to Vegas, I don’t usually make bets that aren’t a sure thing.”

I sit quietly with that for a moment, taking it in. “You said this was up to me to accept or refuse - what happens if I say no?”

Natasha speaks up. “Then you go home, with the understanding that you’re risking the safety of everyone around you and, as a result, will be watched very carefully.” I hear the unspoken threat loud and clear.

I run a hand through my hair nervously, and Barnes tracks the movement. I throw him a glare, no patience left for him watching me like a ticking bomb. “I don’t know, I - I have a whole life at Culver. I mean, I figured you weren’t going to let me just stroll out of here, given everything, but I’d hoped at least…” I trail off, rubbing at my temples.

“Hoped at least what?” Clint asks kindly.

I feel my cheeks flush, and I give a small, embarrassed smile. “It sounds stupid compared to what you all do, what you’re offering to include me in, but I’m just so close to finishing my PhD. I hoped I could at least see it through.”

“We did think you might say that.” Tony says, nodding to Bruce. “And a few of us have some… pull, so to speak, at Culver. I mean, having a building named after you is a little more influential than giving some lectures, I guess, but who’s measuring?” Bruce gives Tony the finger, making me laugh and releasing a little bit of the tension I’ve been holding.

Steve speaks next, probably trying to redirect the conversation before Tony has a chance to whip out a measuring stick. “Look, Cleo. We get it - you don’t want to give up everything you’ve been working toward. And we aren’t asking you to disappear without a trace. I’m sure you have people at home that are worried about you.” I nod, even though it's closer to ‘person’ than ‘people.’

Tony pipes back in, making me dizzy from the ping-ponging conversation. “So if you agree to our little offer, I’ll use my considerable charm and influence to convince Culver to let you finish your degree remotely, from the Tower. If you need more weird old books, I can get them sent to your door.” At my shocked expression, he winks. “Considerable charm and influence, like I said. Anyway, we’re not running the witness protection program here, so we’ll give you your phone back - well, I’ll give you a new StarkPhone because yours just makes me sad - and you can call the people you trust and let them know where you are. Hell, your mom can come by for dinner. We’ll make meatloaf. The point is, we want to work with you, kid.”

I sit frozen for what feels like several minutes, just blinking dumbly at the group sitting around the table. Finally, I think of something. “Could - could I at least go back and get whatever I can salvage from my apartment?” Steve grins widely, understanding that I’m only asking because I’m going to agree. Surprisingly, I don’t find it smug - it’s just nice.

“I may have arranged for your things to be recovered and sent here a few days ago. I was waiting for you to agree before I had it taken to your room.” Tony at least has the presence of mind to look a bit sheepish.

“Oh,” I exhale, the sound much smaller than I intend. “Okay. And if I agree, do I have to stay in the building, or can I, you know, go places?”

Tony frowns. “Well, you can leave.”

I wait, before prompting him. “Sounds like there’s a ‘but’ there, Stark.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. When he doesn’t respond with a childish butt joke, I know what comes next is not going to be pretty. “You can leave, but until we’re all confident that you won’t accidentally break someone’s ear drum or bring down the Empire State Building, you’ll have to have a… chaperone.”

I rub my face and nod. “Yeah, I guess that’s only fair.”

Barnes lets out a frustrated huff of air, and my eyes narrow.

“Wait a minute, Stark.” He smiles at me, and his is plenty smug and not nice at all. “Who would this ‘chaperone’ be?”

“The only one of us who seems immune to your sonic scream.” He nods at Barnes. “Congrats, kid, your babysitter is everyone’s second-favorite supersoldier.”

Barnes’ metal arm clenches around the arm of his chair, and I suspect that when he leaves, there will be dents left behind in the chrome.

I throw my hands up in surrender. “Sure, yeah, seems like a great idea. The two of us are already the best of friends, clearly.”

There are a few nervous looks and a few amused ones, but nobody comments. Barnes refuses to meet my eyes.

I pause, knowing that as long as my abilities are unknown and dangerous, there’s really only one response to their offer. “Well, do I at least get a cool superhero name?”

******

The meeting, if you can call it that, breaks up quickly once I agree. Natasha and Clint go off to prepare for an upcoming mission, but both express their excitement to start training with me soon. I try not to look as scared as I feel at that. Bruce wanders off to his lab, muttering something about genetic adaptations and resonant frequencies that I do not understand one bit.

Tony, Steve, and Barnes stay behind with me to iron out a few final details. I’ll be allowed to roam about the residential levels of the Avengers Tower without supervision, thanks to JARVIS’ presence and Tony’s forethought in making everything virtually indestructible for the existing superhuman residents. If I decide to leave, though - even just to the employee levels - I have to take Barnes with me.

Steve and Tony are both insistent that I shouldn’t let this stop me from getting out of the Tower, assuring me that this is Barnes’ only assignment at the moment and that he will be more than happy to accompany me. One glance at Barnes tells me this is the first he’s hearing about said happiness.

Tony promises that, as soon as we have a better handle on my abilities, he plans to start making me my very own Stark-tech supersuit. I never really fantasized about being a superhero when I was growing up, but my excitement at this prospect has me thinking that I should have. Steve goes through some of the more boring details with me - signing NDAs, waivers, and all manner of other paperwork; talking me through who works for the team now that SHIELD has been shut down, who I can trust; and letting me know what kind of training to expect.

And Barnes? He just sits there, glowering, through the entire thing. I don’t understand why he doesn’t leave the moment I’m told I can move freely about the Tower because he certainly looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Every few minutes, our eyes meet across the table and a jolt runs through my body. I’m resolutely ignoring any lingering feelings from the kitchen incident, but it’s still hard to pretend that there isn’t this… tension, I guess, between us. Whether it’s lust or hate, I can’t be sure. Either way, I don’t have the space or inclination to act on the former, so I’m going to make it the latter. I start meeting his glances with glares, and he returns them with his own.

We finally get to the issue of my degree - once I tell Steve and Tony that I’m in the final stages of completing my dissertation, they both seem relieved to know that it shouldn’t be an arduous process. Tony tells me he’s already contacted Culver to arrange for someone to take over my classes, and I try not to look too disappointed when I realize I won’t get to teach anymore.

He hands over my shiny new StarkPhone and talks me through it - it’s more intuitive than my old one, so it’s easy enough to pick up. He gives me my new phone number, ports over all my old data quickly, and talks me through using it to communicate confidentially with other members of the team.

“So you can be honest, but be selective in who you tell, okay?” Steve reminds me as I take my new phone.

I look down at it and scroll through my contacts absently. Tony wiggles his eyebrows and looks over my shoulder. “Who you gonna call first - your boyfriend?”

I elbow him out of my space. “I don’t have one of those, which the invasive file you have on me probably already told you.”

He leans back in. “It did, I’m just checking.” He looks over at Barnes with raised eyebrows, but the Soldier only glares back.

“Don’t worry, Grumps, you won’t have to chaperone any dates,” I tell Barnes.

Tony smirks, looking me up and down. “Don’t sell yourself short, kid - once the press gets a look at our shiny new Avenger, you’ll have to beat them off with a stick. Or, you know, just shred their eardrums.”

I scoff. “Yeah, right. And to answer your question, who I call is none of your business so please stop peeking over my shoulder.” I elbow him again.

Steve grimaces. “Sorry, but we actually do need to know, for security purposes.”

I straighten. “Oh, right, I should’ve guessed that. Well, you won’t have much to worry about with me - I’ll just call my friend Meg.” They all look at me expectantly. “I guess I should probably call my mom, too - unless one of you wants to?” I ask hopefully. Tony and Steve chuckle, but Barnes gives me a piercing look that leaves me wondering if mind-reading comes with his bionic arm.

Tony pats my shoulder. “You’re on your own, kid.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

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ofoceansandtombsanew · 1 year ago

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Sorry: I thought of another Makima comment/question. But before I bring that up, I am very excited to see that you are writing something for JJK!!!! I know it's going to be so perfect and give me all the feels!!!

Okay so I read your response to my question, (I'm the one who asked about character study), and I just wanted your thoughts/opinions on the jealously issue that arises with Himeno. I know you mentioned Makima being jealous of Himeno's relationship with reader, and I want to know how much of that you think is nature or nurture. It's obvious she is possessive of reader due to her nature as the Control Devil, but do you think that is equally due to nurture? i.e. what she has learned from movies or from other humans' interactions with their significant others? I love the moment when she catches Himeno with her arms around reader's shoulders. I cannot imagine the range of intense emotions and inner turmoil she felt seeing that!!! And do you think that was a recurring feeling she experienced when someone got a little too close to her beloved? I feel that is a trait that will carry on to Nayuta and all other reincarnations (as possessiveness does in the Canon!)

Thank you so much for your time once again!

Hi again, I love talking about character studies and motivations so keep 'em coming if you ever have another question \^o^/

(As for that JJK fic... it is certainly going to be a grand ride and it is going to be a bit of stray from what I typically write. I'm having fun working on the draft, it's going to come with a surprise I hope people appreciate when it's finally up and posted!)

I think that as far as Makima's jealousy though, it's a mixture of both. It's in her nature to be possessive as one who is the physical embodiment of the fear of being controlled but I attribute her behavior to nurture as well. If you're someone who has been deprived of affection your whole life, you're bound to be possessive of whatever affection you receive. That's essentially how Makima's jealousy works as far as my fics goes.

When she has a shift in how she views the reader and their relationship changes, that affection is something she prefers to have to herself. But Makima is someone very patient and we see in the canon, she has no problem playing the long game to get what she wants. She won't lash out out of her emotions even if she wants to. So during the moment where she saw the extent of the reader's friendship with Himeno, there were quite a bit of ideas she had concerning Himeno and making her disappear entirely.

But at that point in time, Makima views the reader a beacon of light for the sort of relationship she can hope to have with someone one day. The reader has, at this point, never succumbed to Makima's abilities. The reader has recognized Makima's loneliness and reached out to comfort her even though at that point, the reader's opinion of Makima was quite low. Add to the fact that Makima and Reader's relationship has improved exponentially by that point, it's something she doesn't want anyone impeding on. Not even someone who was there first as "your friend".

And yet, Makima doesn't lash out despite how much she would like to. Because the key thing Makima has always desired is being able to have a relationship with someone built on equity rather than fear and control. She doesn't want to mess that up having a jealous fit. She is afraid of losing that affection she receives from the reader, but she is more afraid of there being a day the reader succumbs to the influence of Makima's powers.

So she relies on intimidation in the moment Himeno encroaches on someone Makima claims as her own. And when she feels that is failing, she decides to rely on good old-fashioned communication when the reader prompts her to be honest as to why she is upset during their date.

But when their relationship is solidified as a couple, I see Makima making it more apparent when she is feeling jealous or needy. Lovers should be honest with one another, after all. Especially after she reveals her true identity and it didn't scare the reader off. They have their contract, marriage in Makima's eyes. It's the ultimate insurance of their relationship. So it does increase a bit from then on.

Kishibe encroaching on their peaceful life.

The reader's death at the hand of the Rat Devil, destroying precious life Makima held so dearly to her heart. It's an unforgivable crime to take that away from her.

I feel that jealousy would even extend to your family as well. Your family is her family now, something she's always desired. A family that she didn't need to make her own through force. So I feel if the reader has any siblings or close family childhood friends, Makima would feel some type of way about it.

It never makes it into the final draft, but there was a small joke in my outline about how Makima would view the reader making a contract with another devil as cheating. It was something I was only planning on being some sort of gag, but I don't think it would be too far from the truth. Makima would prefer to be the only devil the reader ever has a contract with.

And when it comes to her future incarnations, they definitely have varying degrees of possessiveness regardless of the quality of their lives. Nayuta doesn't showcase it during the sequel mostly due to the fact that for an indiscernible amount of time, it's only ever been just her and the reincarnated reader. So I imagine that when the two of them begin interacting with other people on the regular from schoolmates to even Power, it begins to come out more.

But Himeno, fun as she is, is strict about that. So Nayuta isn't allowed to let those feelings run rampant no matter how much she would like to.

#look she's answering #anon #makima x reader #nayuta

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cowgurrrl · 1 year ago

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La Golondrina

Pairing: Javier Peña x CIA!reader

Author’s note: oooooooohhhh bitch plus disclaimer: I do speak and write Spanish and have for several years and will do so as I see fit for this series!! That being said, it won’t always be a perfect translation as I’m working off my grammatical knowledge and handle of the language. Please be patient :-)

Summary: The prologue [1.1k]

Warnings: backstory before the story, canonical type violence, torture

The heat of the room is suffocating. There are no windows, no fans, no fresh air. Sweat rolls down your back and sticks to your body. It's dark and dank and smells like cigarette smoke and mildew. The only light in the room emits from the crack under the door, the only indication you have of how much time has passed. Your eyes have adjusted to the dark as much as they can, and you can just barely make out the blood slicking the floor and the stained tools in the corner.

This has been going on for so long. Maybe a few days. A week? You're really not sure. You don't know where you are, but you know the names and faces of the men who've taken turns busting their knuckles across your face. They've taken their time with you just as promised, withholding food and water as they bleed you out. You've done your best not to scream and cry, to not show weakness, as they tortured you for information and shoved a camera in your face to taunt the Agency. You've stayed strong. You've relied on your training. You've done everything you were supposed to. But you're so tired. You want to be done.

Your head feels like it weighs a million pounds, and all you can do is let it hang dejectedly with your hands behind your back, metal digging unforgivably hard into your wrists. You swear you're burning from the inside out, but that could be the circular burns pressed into your skin. Your ribs ache as your lungs rattle to fight for breath. When will they come back? Did they leave you here to starve? Where the fuck is your team? Are you about to become collateral? The room spins around you, and your stomach churns from the bright pain dancing up your body.

Unconsciousness dangles in front of you like a shiny carrot, and you're about to make the leap when a loud bang sounds somewhere in the building. Automatic gunfire, screams, and loud orders called in Spanish follow closely behind. The cuffs on your wrists keep you from moving to a safer position to protect yourself from stray bullets. Of course, I would survive being tortured by the cartel just to catch an American bullet, you think. You try to shift your feet in a half-hearted attempt to get down, but the floor is too slippery. You'd laugh if your ears didn't feel like they were splitting in half and your sore body wasn't tense with fear.

The gunfire gets closer, and you can barely make out a handful of different voices, but you don't know if you recognize any of them. You don't know when the last time you heard a voice that didn't belong to a loyal sicario. You don't know what the fuck is happening. You let your head loll to the side in defeat and wait for the scale to tip. However this ends, you hope it's quick.

A few more rounds find homes in bodies and walls before the building goes silent. Ringing takes over your senses, and you're almost positive there's blood dripping from your ear. The doorknob jiggles, and you can feel yourself shaking hard. You don't try to stop the tears from rolling down your face anymore. You're too tired. Your body is too weak. You're too ready. Another boom, and you scream as the door crashes down and officers swarm the room. Sunlight floods in and nearly blinds you as you squint against its intensity. Golden bullets wink at you, and barrels swing past you as they clear the room. Nobody gives you a second glance as you sit there, bleeding and trembling.

"Soy CIA! No dispares!" Your voice doesn't sound like your own, all crackly and deep. You repeat it over and over again and hope that you're not hallucinating when you catch the Colombian flag on someone's vest. A hand lands on your knee, and your body jerks painfully to escape it. You kick at the person kneeling in front of you and let out a choked sob, unable to distinguish if the hand is friend or foe.

"Hey, hey," a familiar voice says. You blink through tears, find his brown eyes boring into yours, and slump in relief. "You're okay. We're gonna get you outta here." Javi murmurs. He moves hair out of your face and wipes blood from the side of your head. You lean into his touch and let out a shaky sigh.

"Are they dead?" You ask in English, hoping nobody but him can understand the cruel question. He nods and glances at your own handcuffs, forcing your hands behind you. "Javi, I need you to say it. I need to hear the words. Please." You beg. His hands gently frame your face and make you look at him as his eyes scan your injuries.

"They're all dead. Every single one, okay? You're safe now." He says, and you nod. Steve steps into your eyeline just enough to show you the key in his hands before he moves behind you to unlock the cuffs. Everyone is silent as they watch you. Based on the looks on their faces and how bad you feel, it's a miracle you survived.

"I'm gonna have to maneuver them to get you out. It's probably gonna hurt." Steve warns.

"Just do it." You urge and clench your jaw. The metal starts moving, and a pathetic moan slips from your chapped lips. If it weren't for you crying in pain, you would be able to hear a pin drop. Javi keeps you upright as Steve works at the cuffs, and the second the metal drops from your wrists, you fall into Javi's chest.

"I've got you. You're okay." The words are soothing, and the tone is kind, but you sob anyway. You cling to him like a liferaft as the shock takes over.

You don't remember exactly what happened after that. You know what they've told you. You know what's written down in a classified folder postmarked for Washington and forever relegated to the White Room. You know what injuries sent you into emergency surgery and which would cause aches for years. But the only thing you can say for certain about that rescue is that you heard Javi's radio chatter in Spanish and English, demanding an update. Steve tried to say something, but Javi beat him to it. Your eardrum was perforated, but you heard his words loud and clear.

“La Golondrina está libre.”

#wanted #javier peña x female reader #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña x fem!reader #javier pena fic #javier pena narcos #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x reader #javier peña #javier pena x you #javier pena angst #javier pena series #narcos netflix #steve murphy

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bg-brainrot · 1 year ago

Text

WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 19: The Wizard’s Tower

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence

WC: 9k words, 19/?? chapters

Summary: After traveling through Waterdeep, you and Astarion finally arrive at Gale's tower. Introductions are made, tours are had, and the relationship between yourself and Astarion continues to remain complicated.

A/N: People seem to disagree on whether or not familiars age, but I’m going to go with “no” because Tara is already older than a Tressym’s typical life span in BG3.

Ao3 | [Ch18][Ch20] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

Walking through the streets of Waterdeep ought to be faster than this. It should have only taken you an hour to get to Gale's tower, according to Astarion.

However, you're in a new city and every single wonder captures your attention, leading you to stray from your path.

"Astarion, what's that?"

"It's a shop, darling. We have those back in Baldur's Gate."

"I know it’s a shop– gods, you know what I mean!"

Despite his attempts to keep you on track, Astarion doesn’t resist your wanderlust. His hold on your hand remains strong and, with every twist you take, he's being pulled along right behind you. You stop for an odd street stall, finding all manner of knick-knacks. You marvel at a statue, standing grand in the center of a plaza. You pull to an abrupt halt, earning a disapproving grunt from Astarion, when you spot a street performer using magic.

After what must be the tenth detour, Astarion finally tugs back. “Darling, could we please focus? We’ll have time for outings while we’re here, I assure you.”

You look at him, finding his expression to be amused, even if slightly annoyed at you. “We’ll have time to explore the city?” you ask, tentatively. You don’t want to presume that he’ll join you for anything, but the fact that he said ‘we’ gives you hope.

“Yes,” he answers, tugging on your arm once more. “But only if we make it to Gale’s without missing his celebration. Otherwise, we will never hear the end of it.”

“Fine,” you say, allowing Astarion’s hand to pull you in the proper direction. “Though I’ll admit, I’m a bit nervous.”

Astarion raises an eyebrow at you, purses his lips some as he asks, “About meeting Gale? Whatever for?”

You avoid his gaze, focusing on the road ahead of you as you respond, “It’s odd meeting someone you’ve only ever dreamt about. I know so much about you all, but you don’t know me. He may not even recognize me. How do I approach that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Astarion starts. You can sense an incoming joke at your expense, so you brace yourself for his next words. “Maybe something along the lines of ‘You’re the man of my dreams’, that worked wonders on me.”

You wince despite the preparation. “Excuse you, that is not what I said. Besides, I didn’t dream nearly as much about Gale. I don’t think you understand how nervous I was to meet you.”

Looking back up at Astarion, you note that he is focused, staring forward as he leads the way. Despite that, you also spot unabashed satisfaction on his face. His tone is just as self-satisfied as he replies, “I would expect no less.” Then a thought occurs to him and his tone shifts, thoughtful and a bit more reserved as he says, “Though that may have been lingering guilt, I suppose.”

Your reaction is immediate and a bit overdue. “Not at all,” you say, stopping Astarion in his tracks as you pull on his arm. "I didn't come find you out of any type of obligation or guilt. I came to find you for you. I set out before I knew anything other than… than love.”

The vampire is forced to stop, look at you and your serious poise with his full attention. He doesn’t seem to believe you, and it becomes more evident when he says, “I’m sure. Certainly explains why you and my siblings have been such fast friends.”

Astarion continues to walk, yanking you after him a bit more roughly this time. Your voice is a bit breathless as you follow in a rush, “Yes, I’ll admit that after I arrived I– I let myself get a bit carried away.” The man snorts from ahead of you. “But that was never my intention when I left Neverwinter. I just couldn’t get you out of my damned mind. You can ask my parents if you’d like.”

The line of his shoulders seems to relax a bit, but he remains focused on navigating the streets of Waterdeep, ignoring your burning gaze. After a few blocks of silence, he speaks, “What are they like?”

“Who?” Your mind has wandered by now, thinking of how, were it not for Astarion’s initial chilly reception, you may never have met with Dal in the first place. Then deciding that, no, ultimately you would always have found the spawn, one way or another.

“Your parents,” he mumbles, barely audible over the buzz of the city. “What are they like?”

Oh! He’d been so reluctant to learn about you as your own person that the question catches you by surprise. Once you collect yourself, you’re only too excited to answer. Your words come out fast, unfiltered, “Well, they’re both elves, of course. They came to live in Neverwinter after meeting through their trade. It’s how they were able to send me to the best college for the arcane arts in the city. My mother is fairly practical, logical. She didn’t want me to come all the way out here, but, erm, came around to it eventually. I suppose I get my curiosity from my father, but, even so, I think you would quite like him…”

As your words trail off, you realize that Astarion’s slowed down, listening to you. “It’s odd,” he says, turning his head back ever so slightly. A worried crease lines his brow. “I am rather more concerned with what they would think about me.”

The admission leaves you a touch speechless. At first because of the vulnerability in Astarion’s fleeting look– Then because you’re honestly not sure how to answer. It would likely be a lie to say that they would love him. Your mother especially would hold no mercy for a man as mercurial as he is. But you decide that your words need not be so severe, “I think they would grow to adore you.”

“I see,” he mutters, accepting your word choice with as much grace as you suppose he can muster.

How I wish he would meet them, you think. But that’s not something ‘friends’ do, is it? Perhaps he thinks Gale really has a chance to stop me. Given his experience, does he actually have a chance?

You don’t have much more time to consider that question because Astarion pulls to a stop before a grand set of doors. They’re made of wrought iron, engraved in runes and intricate patterns, lined with a shimmer of blue magic. You recognize the runes as teleportation runes, and given the outer facade of the building, easily surmise that this isn’t the exact location of a wizard’s tower, just an entrance.

“Is this…?” you ask.

“It is,” Astarion says, flashing you a smile. You’re not sure what the look on your face is, but he is drinking it in with glee.

It’s just past midday, and you’ve finally arrived at Gale’s doors.

Astarion releases your hand to reach the door. You’d gotten so used to moving as a singular unit, that his sudden absence leaves you a bit off-kilter, as if a part of you is missing. You can't help but flex your hand open and closed a few times to return to yourself, to return to the present.

Once he’s reached the doors, you spot a large iron knocker in the center of them: the head of a tressym in high relief, a ring set between its sharp teeth. Astarion grips the ring, knocks it against the door three times in rapid succession.

A voice comes through the tressym a moment later, and you recognize the Magic Mouth spell. Gale’s voice is cheery, exactly as you’d remembered it from your dreams, as he says, “Welcome to the tower of Archmage Dekarios. To enter, please supply the phrase that he undoubtedly provided you with. Knock thrice more for emergency assistance.”

Astarion shoots you a look, as if to say, ‘see what I must put up with?’ then clears his throat before uttering his phrase, “'For the jubilation of one magnanimous mage, I, Astarion Ancunín, am enchanted to be granted entrance.”

The iron on the doors immediately begins to shift, unlocking whatever mechanism lies behind them. Several loud clunks and thunks later, the massive doors open to a glowing blue portal.

“Does he make you say that every time you visit him?” you ask, barely holding back your laughter.

“Oh no,” Astarion replies, gesturing you forward. “It’s a different damned phrase every year. And it seems to be a torture uniquely reserved for me. Elminster simply gets different types of cheese for his phrases.”

You follow his guiding hands, stepping through the blue portal, feeling the world behind you vanish and shift in hues of blues, not unlike the teleportation circle you used to get here. As soon as your foot touches the ground before you, the inside of Gale’s tower comes into focus.

Immediately, you feel electricity in your veins– the weave is strong here. You could only dream of having your own wizard’s tower, but you know enough about them to know their basic principles. They’re often built on spots where the weave is most highly concentrated. It’s often why they’re crafted in such odd shapes, in such inconvenient locations, and built to such great heights. It’s all in an effort to amplify the magic they’re built upon.

This tower is no different. You can’t quite tell the shape of the full tower, but the room you’re in is a semi-circle, lined with books and featuring several cozy looking couches. It’s quite possibly one of the loveliest waiting rooms you’ve ever had the chance to be welcomed in. You’re practically entranced and only vaguely register when Astarion asks from your side, “Have I lost you to the books already?”

He might have, if not for the rustling sound coming from behind you. You make an abrupt turn, only to come face to face with the man of the hour himself: Gale Dekarios steps through a set of blue, velvet curtains, wearing a set of purple robes and a gentle smile.

Unlike Halsin, who had hardly changed, only sporting a few new scars and wrinkles, or Astarion, who looks entirely unchanged, Gale looks like a new man. Or rather a very old man.

Where there was once a short, brown beard there is now a lush, wavy white beard in its place, neatly trimmed and manicured to perfection. His previously long, brown hair is white as well, carefully brushed back from his face, giving you a full view of his age-dappled features. Gale’s deep, brown eyes are as sharp as ever, surrounded by a webbing of wrinkles well-worn from a life full of joy. Your heart swells at the sight of him, looking every bit the witty sage from your memories, albeit greyer and a fair bit more lined.

You almost don’t recognize him, save that unmistakable glint in his eyes, the patient smile as he takes you and Astarion in.

Gale is the first to speak, his words aimed for Astarion, but his warm gaze falls entirely on you. “Oho, Astarion! Is this the guest you spoke of? I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised upon receiving your invitation confirmation. A guest, for the first time!”

What? you think in a sudden crack of panic. He didn’t tell him who I am?

You flash a distressed look at Astarion, who is only looking at Gale with annoyance. “Gods Gale, must you make a fuss out of everything?”

“It’s not every day that your oldest and dearest friend finds someone new worth cherishing. I was starting to grow rather fearful that you’d get old and wrinkled in your lonesome.” Gale’s smile is a bit mischievous as he turns away from you, to Astarion’s ire.

The words sound like playful jabs from Gale, but Astarion’s glower only seems to deepen. He looks just about ready to hiss like a cornered cat when you interject, “Not someone new per say. An old flame, actually.”

Astarion turns his glare to you, but it’s Gale who responds, “Phenomenal! Astarion, you sly dog, never giving even the slightest indication. When did you find each other, how long have you two been together? And how do you put up with him?”

You’ve only just entered the tower, and already the vampire looks at his wit’s end. Their friendship had always been entertaining to you when you had the chance to dream of it– they’re opposite in so many ways, alike in so many others. As such, Astarion’s flared nostrils and irritated stance come as no surprise. Neither do his clipped words as he struggles to respond to the wizard’s sudden enthusiasm, “What they meant to say is that they are– Well. They happen to be…”

His lips seem unable to say the words aloud, so you take it upon yourself to help. Stepping forward and standing tall, you look your friend and companion Gale Dekarios in the face and say, “It’s me, Gale.”

You’re not sure what you expect when you say the words. Perhaps a question, ‘who?’, or a confused, concerned look. Maybe even Astarion elbowing you in the side.

However, the wizard before you only takes a single beat. For that moment, he looks at you, with those same, familiar sharp eyes, before recognition settles in.

Then his arms are wrapping you in a warm embrace.

“My friend,” he murmurs into the hug, squeezing you tighter with a pair of ropy arms. “I can’t believe it.”

Your own arms respond in kind, crushing him back with your own youthful vigor. “I know, it’s a lot.” And it truly is– your own heart is pounding in your chest, your eyes are welling up with moisture. Astarion was your lover, but Gale? Gale has only ever been your friend. You’d saved the world together. You’d spent countless nights researching and planning together, spent even more simply enjoying each others’ company. And, unlike when you met with Halsin, you now feel so much more comfortable in your former identity. You feel comfortable claiming this hug for yourself.

Outside of your bubble of joy, you hear Astarion clear his throat pointedly. “While this is all incredibly touching, perhaps we can head into the tower before you both break each other in half?”

Gale releases you, as you do him, and you both turn to shoot daggers at Astarion. “Don’t mind him,” you say to the wizard. “He’s just jealous that it took him the longest to recognize me.”

“Of course,” Gale responds with a hearty chuckle. “Astarion has always been uniquely undiscerning when it comes to you.”

The man in question looks between you, face set in a grimace. “Gods below, I’m having the most unpleasant flashbacks.” You don’t need Detect Thoughts cast to see his thoughts written on his face. Something along the lines of, ‘This was a terrible idea.’

Gale ignores him, turning back to you in utter glee. “We have so much catching up to do!” he says, arms open wide. Then begins one of his customary rambles, “By Mystra’s grace, elves are fascinating. I knew you would reenter the Material Plane, but I had no idea it would happen so quickly. Not to mention, from my studies, elves typically don’t revisit past lives– part of ensuring that your kind continues to progress, I’ve been told. That being said, I am ecstatic that you’ve gone against the grain, my friend–”

You’re enjoying a long-lived human’s perspective on your reborn soul, but Astarion clearly doesn’t share your same sentiment. “Yes, yes,” he says, waving a hand. “Very interesting, I’m sure. However, it’s been a long couple of days, Gale. Could we please focus?” You’re reminded of when he asked you to focus on the way here and can’t help the snicker that leaves you. Astarion points an accusatory finger at you, “And you. Stop encouraging him.”

You hold up your own hands in innocence. “I’m only being a polite guest! Gale, thank you for having us.” Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re reminded of your past-self saying the same phrase of thanks every time you and Astarion came to visit.

“It’s my pleasure,” Gale says, his smile widening at the familiar words. “Now, could I interest you both in a drink?”

“We should drop by our lodgings first,” Astarion responds, before you can agree to a drink. “Or do you not want to deposit that enormous pack of yours?”

You blink at the vampire. The pack was growing rather annoyingly heavy, but you, again, hadn’t given much thought to your lodgings. A slight dread begins to build. “Where will we be staying?”

Gale turns around, gesturing for you both to follow. “Why one of the guest rooms, of course!”

One. You try to catch Astarion’s eye as you begin to follow Gale, any amount of his attention, any indication that he’s panicking internally as much as you are. Is he going to be comfortable sharing a room? Will we be sharing a bed?

The man’s face doesn’t react to Gale’s words– in fact, it remains utterly impassive as he says to you, “Don’t worry, darling. Despite his being a senile old man, Tara makes sure the place stays well kept.”

Tara! Gale’s familiar hadn’t appeared in your reveries often, only arriving for a spot of tea or to join you in chiding Gale to settle down. But your memories of her are fond and your question comes with a natural excitement, “Is Tara here?”

Gale takes you up a set of stairs as he responds with a cheerful look back at you, “She is out currently– procuring several items we still need for the celebration. But she should be back in no time. She shall be delighted to see you.”

His words warm you, glad that he’s had someone all these years. Then, remembering your past-self’s insistence and considering no one else showed up to welcome you, you ask Gale, “Did you ever listen to us? Find yourself a partner?”

Based on the way his shoulders hunch a bit, he slows as he continues to climb the stairs, you’re afraid you’ve delved too deep too soon. “Oh yes. Shortly after losing you, I found someone. I’m sorry you never had the chance to meet them.”

Guilt eats at your chest, knowing that he means that ‘sorry’, and wishing that he wouldn’t have to feel any regret. “I’m sorry, Gale, I shouldn’t have pried.”

“No need to apologize,” he says, continuing on briskly once more. “It was a lovely experience. But life goes on.”

You can’t help but look at Astarion as Gale says those words, wondering what he made of Gale’s lost love. What he made of Gale’s continuation after the fact. Perhaps, as two beings with lives beyond measure, their friendship evolved beyond trading barbs in the years after your death. Perhaps they could be there for each other, when everyone else passed on.

Astarion’s face betrays nothing as his red eyes meet yours in the dimly lit stairwell. “Darling?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you respond, turning back to Gale to change the subject. “I’ve only dreamt of parts of your tower, Gale. Would you be willing to give me a tour?”

“I would be overjoyed,” he says, climbing over the last step of the stairs. “Once you’ve had a moment to rest, let me know and I shall be right over.”

Following him out of the stairwell, you’re left in the curve of a hallway, several doors lining the outer wall– likely Gale’s guest rooms. “Amazing,” you say, looking left, right, up. “This tower is built in such an intricate way. What type of material did you use to ensure that the weave stayed stable?”

The wizard stops short of the first door and looks back at you. You can feel his appraising gaze, as if just taking in your robes, the spellbook at your hip, the inquisitive gleam in your eyes. “By the outer planes, are you trained in the arcane arts?”

You nod eagerly, your enthusiasm getting the better of you. “I am. I’ll confess, I was looking forward to meeting you as a scholar as well.”

The energy exchanged between you is palpable, and you sense that Gale is about to start on another lengthy diatribe about his tower, when Astarion clicks his tongue. “For the love of all that is unholy, could you two not wait until the tour?”

“Right you are, Astarion,” Gale says, smiling at you all the while. “What a fortuitous calling you’ve found, my friend. I look forward to imparting as much as I can.”

“More like a divinely ironic calling,” Astarion murmurs under his breath, pushing past Gale. “Which room is ours?”

“The third door,” the wizard responds, otherwise ignoring the man as he continues to speak to you. “It’s been a while since he’s been this prickly. He must be glad to be visiting with you again.”

“I can still hear you,” Astarion calls, as he opens the door down the hall.

You ignore Astarion as well as you respond in a quieter voice, “He’s been like that since I arrived on his doorstep. If it weren’t for my dreams of him, I’d have thought he was a prickly pear, not a man.”

The two of you share a laugh together before Gale continues down the hallway. “I apologize for before,” he says. When you only offer him a confused look, he continues, “For when I thought you were a new love of his. I truly should have known better. Astarion would have needed another half dozen centuries to get over you.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but Astarion looks at you both from the doorway to your shared room. His eyes are dark, looking only at Gale, as he says, “That’s enough, Gale. Let us take a moment to unpack.”

Gale reads his friend’s expression with a patience you wish to possess someday. “I shall see you both later for a tour and some tea then?”

“Yes, please,” you reply, entering the room after Astarion. “And, thank you again, Gale.”

“Think nothing of it, my friend.” The wizard leaves you both with one last smile and a small wink, whisking off with the energy of a much younger man.

Now that you’re finally in the room, Astarion lights the lantern by the entrance and closes the door behind you. Looking into the space, you spot an armoire, a changing screen, a pair of armchairs, a couch, and then– just as you’d been afraid of, a single, large bed.

You focus your energy on keeping your voice calm, your breathing steady, even as your heart races. “So,” you start, dropping your pack on the ground and turning to face Astarion. “You didn’t tell him I was coming.”

“I told him I was bringing a guest,” is all that he says back.

“But not who I was?”

“I responded to his invitation weeks ago. It slipped my mind,” he says with a shrug.

The nonchalant look on his face is driving you mad. You’re not sure how this man can make you feel so many different emotions in one day, but by the gods does he manage it. “So you neglected to mention that we weren’t exactly lovers in your letter?” You gesture to the solitary, perfectly fluffed bed.

“Excuse me,” Astarion says, pacing to the armoire to begin unpacking his clothing. “I received enough helpful words from Dal, I didn’t want an entire speech from Gale before even arriving. Besides, it’s sharing a bed, darling. It’s not exactly the erotic act that you’re making it out to be.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” you say, disregarding his words.

“Nonsense, we’re grown elves. We can trance in the same bed without issue,” he says with an eye roll. “And if I’m such a temptation to you, why did you agree to be friends so easily?” he counters, raising an accusatory eyebrow at you. After the weeks you’ve had together, he knows full well that he’s a temptation to you. But if he thinks you’ll give him the satisfaction, then you suppose you know what you must do.

“Fine, the same bed it is. You’re the one who will suffer when I have a bad trance,” you grumble, beginning to take your items out of your pack as well.

Astarion crosses his arms, watching you as you lay out your robes. “I would hardly mind, darling. I tranced next to your past-self for years without issue.”

You suppose it’s true, though you can’t imagine what their trances were like. Your reveries of their life are the most visceral– it’s hard to imagine that they did anything but sleep peacefully. Instead, you ask another question that’s bothering you, aside from the bed, “So what are we supposed to tell Gale? That we’re… friends?”

“Naturally,” Astarion replies, sitting down in an armchair with a content sigh. “He’ll understand. It’s part of living a long life.”

You nod, continuing to unpack in silence, mind filled with thoughts of their long lives. After a few minutes, you ask Astarion another question, “Why didn’t you tell me about Gale’s former love? I might have avoided bringing it up.” Your tone isn’t accusatory, simply filled with a dejected sadness you aren’t able to stifle.

Astarion lifts his head, which had settled back in the armchair’s plush comfort. His words are solemn, honest. “Unlike the rest of our former companions, Gale is still alive. It is his story to tell, if he wishes.”

It makes sense, but you still feel the guilt of hurting him in the pit of your stomach. Not unlike the guilt you felt rehashing Astarion’s past memories. “Can you at least tell me this? How did they die?”

“Old age,” Astarion supplies. “And before you ask, no, they weren’t an elf. They won’t be popping up on his doorstep unannounced like some kind of bookish ghost.”

“He never considered extending their lifespan? There are plenty of–”

“No,” Astarion interrupts, looking at you with tired eyes. “They didn’t want that, and he respected their wishes. An extended life isn’t for the faint hearted.”

You gulp, feeling the guilt bubble up again at the question you inevitably want to ask, once more afraid of hurting Astarion. “And is that how you feel?”

“I don’t know anymore.” His words are quieter, barely loud enough for you to hear, and you can’t read his expression as his head ducks. His head is back up a moment later, a nervous little smile playing on his lips. “Well, if you have much more left to unpack, I actually meant to have a word with Gale. Shall we meet you downstairs?”

“Oh, sure,” you respond, pushing your guilt and curiosity back down. You suspect you already know what he wants to talk to Gale about. “I’ll be down shortly.”

When you do arrive downstairs shortly, neither man is present. I doubt they’ll be done any time soon, you think, beginning to poke around the room. I’ll find something to read while I wait.

That’s how you find yourself perusing through Gale’s carefully curated selection of waiting room books. And sweet hells is it curated well. It’s all you can do to keep from bouncing off the walls.

After picking up and dismissing several books, you settle on one that truly interests you. “Is this a first edition of Elameth's Compendium?” you ask no one in particular, flipping through the pages of a large, red tome. In it, the elven enchanter Elameth details a variety of magical artifacts, how to craft them, and how to dismantle them.

You’re surprised to receive a response as you flip the pages. “Oh my yes. Mr. Dekarios is quite fond of that particular compendium.”

Your head snaps up at a familiar voice, a feminine, unaffected voice, distinctly posh in its lilt. When you turn toward its source, you look down to see a small, cat-like creature peering up at you. “Tara?” you ask.

“I am she, yes,” the small, but proud creature says, tilting her head at you. “And who, may I ask, are you to be rifling through Mr. Dekarios’ books?”

She doesn’t seem mad at you, rather quite curious as her large green eyes inspect you. Will she believe you as easily as Gale did? Her eyes are staring at you so intently that your voice catches a bit as you begin to talk, “I– I am–”

“Ah, I see it now, my dear,” the tressym says, taking a few steps toward you with her feline-like gait. “No need to explain yourself. You’re Mr. Dekarios’ old friend, aren’t you? You look a tad different, but then again, so do most people that have died before.”

You blink, surprised at how little you needed to say for her to recognize you. “Yes, that’s me. How did you know?”

“A lady’s intuition, darling,” she says, lifting her head proudly a bit. “However, you also have that same air about you. Mr. Dekarios will be quite pleased to see you again.”

“We, erm, re-met each other earlier today,” you say, closing the book in your hands and turning to the tressym. “How have you been, Tara?”

“Very well, thank you for asking,” she bows her head a bit in acknowledgement. “You are far more polite than that wicked vampire you call a mate. Thank goodness you’re back, if only for that pale man’s sake.”

You laugh, vaguely recalling some of Astarion’s previous encounters with Tara. They got along about as well as two opposing felines would. “Has he been very difficult without me?”

“Oh yes,” she says, and her wings shuffle a bit in discomfort. “Nigh impossible to deal with. I don’t know how Mr. Dekarios puts up with him.”

You’re about to ask another question when her ears perk up, shoot back. “Well now, it seems like he and Mr. Dekarios are on their way to you. I am still working on preparations for the celebration, so do keep Mr. Dekarios occupied until I have need of him.”

You’d already planned on thoroughly distracting the wizard with questions about his tower and are only too happy to keep the tressym pleased. “Of course, Tara.”

She purrs a hum of approval before turning around. With a “ta-ta, darling” she leaves you waiting for the imminent arrival of Gale and Astarion.

The two arrive from behind the blue, velvet curtain less than a minute later. “Oh hello,” you say, looking at them from over the book you’d reopened.

Astarion looks to be in a better mood, though Gale looks distinctly less happy. It’s Astarion who speaks first, “Hello, darling. Hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long?”

The warmth of his words comes as a bit of a surprise. You look back to Gale, who is smiling at you sadly. I see , you think. Astarion thinks Gale will convince you to leave your project be– that he can grow attached to you now because you won’t be leaving him in the lurch. No matter, you think. This changes nothing for me.

So you respond with the same enthusiasm, “Not at all! I was just looking through the excellent book selection you have, Gale.” You hold up the red tome in your hand and his expression immediately lights up once again.

“Elameth's Compendium! Why, we used that book in your prior life, don’t you remember?” he says, his crow’s feet becoming more pronounced as he smiles.

You shake your head. “Unfortunately not. I didn’t receive every memory. And admittedly…” You look at Astarion who is looking at you rather smugly, knowing exactly what you’d told him multiple times now. The smug look will certainly only get worse with your words, but you also want to discuss your memories with Gale, as the sage and scholar that he is. “Most of my reveries were about Astarion.”

At that, Gale looks between the two of you, a pensive hand stroking his beard. “Fascinating,” is all that he offers.

“Yes,” you agree, ready to provide more information, to receive any and all theories he has about you and your memories. But, of course, the subject of your memories refuses to be excluded for long.

“Maybe if your evenings researching together were less dreadfully dreary you might have dreamt of more of them,” Astarion offers with a flip of his hand. “Now, shall we begin with the tea or the tour?”

The three of you decide to begin with a tour.

Gale leads the way, his mane of long, white hair guiding your path forward. As a tour guide, he’s clearly well practiced, describing each room in detail, explaining its purpose, and even peppering in the odd anecdote or memory from your past life.

You go through a sauna, heated with fire runes. You walk past his actual library, filled head to toe with books of all kinds. You drop by his study, and its sweet scent of ink trails after you. An astronomy room, a storage room, a dining room, a sitting room– you begin to wonder how tall this tower truly is from its exterior. Gale explains that he’s had to renovate a few dozen times over the years, to ensure that the tower’s magic remains stable. As such, rooms come and go with a few, necessary exceptions.

Even among all of these extraordinary rooms, a few stand out to you, clear gems in the wizard's remarkable living space.

“This is the alchemy room, where I grow plants and create my various concoctions! I’m quite proud to say that you’ll find some plants that grow even on the other side of Faerûn. I’ve created many an interesting tonic– I’d exercise some caution if you find yourself in here. Why one time…” He trails off into a story about how Tara turned purple for a week. She was not amused, apparently.

“And this is the experimentation room, where I bring anything that may be dangerous to test. There are a variety of different materials for me to test spells and artifacts on, and the room is warded with a wide assortment of protection wards to make sure that the rest of the tower is unaffected. It certainly is helpful when it comes to any errant magic, wouldn’t you say Astarion?” The look Astarion shoots him is that of a man who has seen one too many Fireballs in his life.

“Now this is the enchanting room, where I create magical artifacts. Now this includes your customary garden-variety fare, but I do have the opportunity to create a few rarer objects, such as the sunlight rings that I craft for the spawn. You'll find that I boast all types of spell components and even have a few specialized work benches, infused with various magical properties.”

You want to stay in this room for hours, you want to look through each and every book, peruse the shelves, test out the recipes that are strewn about the place. But you hold back, merely asking Gale a few questions about where he sources his materials, whether or not he had a bench for each school of magic, and how long it took to create a sunlight ring.

Easier questions answered, you eventually ask him, “Is this where we worked on our ring designs together?”

Gale takes a quick glance at Astarion before nodding. “Yes, precisely. That’s exactly the type of thing we used to work on.”

You elect to ignore his word choice, pressing on, “I had a dream about that just last night. We’d settled on a ring made of silver, it had slotting for an inlay along its edge.”

Recognition passes over Gale’s eyes before he bows his head wearily. “One of the last times we spoke. That was our most promising candidate.”

You already know that much. Despite the way Astarion’s eyes tighten around the corners, the way that Gale’s sadness creases his mouth around his beard, you continue, “I had an idea I would love to speak to you about. Would you have time before your birthday festivities?”

The wizard’s head lifts back up, the sadness reaching his eyes now. “I think it’s best if we leave that part of our past behind us, wouldn’t you say?”

Luckily, you’d prepared for such a response, expecting it. From your memories, from understanding who he is, what Astarion might have said to him, you think you know just what to say. “I wouldn’t. At least, not until I figure out one last thing. I have memories of the necromancer’s notes. Untouched, unbloodied, but undeciphered. I just need someone to delve into my mind and pull them out. If it amounts to nothing, well, maybe I could move on. But a wizard once told me, my intuition has rarely led us astray.”

Neither of your companions say anything to this, but you can tell see the wheels turning in Gale’s mind. He’d tried, just as you had, to remove the blood from the notes. He’d attempted, just as you had, to decipher what was left. Here you were, offering him the key to a century and a half’s mystery. He’d be remiss to not take you up on it.

Astarion, for his part, is simply looking at you. His red eyes seem to glow in the enchanting room’s magical lighting. You wonder if he believes you, that this will be your final attempt to try, that you would leave it be if it amounted to nothing.

I just know it will amount to something though, you think to yourself. I refuse to let it lead nowhere, not when I feel so close.

Gale interrupts your thoughts. “Well, I shall have a think on it and let you know later. For now, let me show you both to our last stop: the kitchen! Where we can also enjoy a lovely, little morsel and a cup or two of tea.”

Musings pushed aside for now, the three of you head to the kitchens for a late lunch. With all of Gale’s commentary, Astarion’s snarky interjections, and your own questions, the tour ended up being quite a few hours. You’re ravenous by the time the tea kettle rings and Gale shuffles about his kitchen preparing an afternoon meal for you all.

“Do you need any help, Gale?” you ask, scooting your chair back, ready to get up and join the wizard as he flits back and forth.

“No need, my friend. You are a guest after all,” he assures you, with a wave. A blue, spectral hand floats behind him, opening and closing doors for him as he artfully arranges what seems to be a hearty assortment of various meats and cheeses. “I may have aged a touch, but I assure you that I am every bit the gourmet chef I have always been.”

“Right,” Astarion mutters under his breath. “Every bit as capable of giving an entire adventuring party food poisoning.”

You chuckle at Astarion’s comment, only to recall that Astarion hasn’t had a real basis for Gale’s food since his early days of pretending not to be a vampire. Since then, his main diet has consisted of blood and wine, which you haven’t seen him partake in in over a week. “Aren’t you hungry?” you whisper to the man, leaning over to him in the event that Gale shouldn’t overhear.

His red eyes meet yours, and, as always, you can see the underlying hunger in them. It’s fruitless to ask, you realize. He’ll always be hungry.

“I’m managing. Don’t you worry about me– Focus on getting your noisy stomach to quiet down.” He shoots you a wry smile, but you can’t help but worry regardless.

“Fine, but once that’s quieted, I will be bothering you again,” you say, pointing a finger at him menacingly.

“What’s this about noisy stomachs?” Gale asks, walking over with a plate stacked full of meats, cheeses, smears, breads, and assorted fruits. Far too much food for the two of you who could eat it– Perhaps more than would feed you for a week. “Why, I have just the remedy.”

The three of you, well Gale and yourself, enjoy the feast he’s prepared for you, chattering all the while about the various things you’ve seen in his tower, what he’s gotten up to in the last hundred and fifty years, and your life back in Neverwinter. You’re surprised when even Astarion chimes in with his own questions about your current life.

You learn about Gale’s latest research. They learn about your time at the arcane college in Neverwinter. Collectively, you reminisce about times that you’ve only witnessed through dreams.

Together you have a pleasant afternoon, one that quickly turns into evening as you continue to chat. The entire conversation and atmosphere bring about a warmth you’d missed in your ‘normal’ life. Seated at Gale’s round kitchen table like this, you can almost pretend that this is your life. Perhaps it is now.

It’s only after a small “Ahem, ahem” interrupts Gale’s latest recounting of a particularly explosive application of the Weave that you all realize how late it’s gotten. “Mr. Dekarios, I’m glad that you and your friend have gotten reacquainted, but I am afraid I require your assistance in the dining room.”

“Tara! Of course, I shall pop right on over.” Gale turns to you and Astarion, smiling at you both in turn. “Well, my friends. It seems I’m needed for the party preparations. I hope you don’t mind my absence.”

“Not at all, Gale,” you respond, bowing your head in acknowledgement. “Hosting is plenty of work without my showing up here unaccounted for.”

“Nonsense!” Gale cries, standing up from his chair with a few creaking bones. “Why this may be the best birthday present I’ve ever received.”

His words sound so genuine, his smile so sincere, that you nearly miss what he’s said. A birthday present. Oh gods, I need to get him a present. “Say, Gale,” you say, catching his attention before he leaves. “When is the party proper?”

“Oh, right.” He gives a lighthearted chuckle, looking at Astarion as he does so. “You’ll forgive me for the befuddling schedule– it’s the only way I can ensure Astarion actually shows up on time. You know how he likes to avoid people.”

��Not to worry, I understand.” You snicker, only to earn an indignant elbow from Astarion.

Gale looks between you two knowingly, and you feel your face flush under his sympathetic eyes. “Well, let’s see…” The man begins a countdown on his fingers. “Including tonight, the party is in five nights.”

“Oh!” you breath out, surprised. Plenty of time to explore the city, to hopefully speak to Gale, and, most importantly, acquire a present for him. “Sounds lovely. Thank you, Gale.”

“My pleasure,” he says. “I shall see you two on the morrow then.” Gale gives you both one last wink before following Tara out of the kitchen.

That’s how you and Astarion are left alone once more. The silence that settles between you is all at once easy and yet deeply uncomfortable. You want to fill it with something, but what can you say? That you know he wants Gale to dissuade you from your goals? That you haven’t known a peace like this in your entire lifetime and you’re afraid it isn’t meant to be yours?

Whatever it is, you need to say something, to fill the silence. You turn toward him in your seat and begin, “Astarion–”

“Darling, I–”

You both stop before you start, realizing that you’re interrupting each other. You’re the first to collect your bearings. “Go ahead, Astarion.”

He smiles at you and the tenderness in his eyes is difficult to miss, catching you off guard. “I just wanted to thank you.” When you only offer him a puzzled look, he elaborates, “For coming with me. I know it was a bit of a gamble for you after, well, everything. But this is already proving to be more… tolerable, than most years.”

His words spark a tingle in your chest, cause a warmth to bloom on your cheeks. It’s a compliment of sorts, and one that you weren’t expecting to receive. Given his sullen attitude and snarky comments, you’d expected a half-sarcastic, ‘This has been riveting.’

But the man never fails to surprise you. So you’re left speechless, nodding at his thanks, unsure of how to accept them.

“Now, what had you wanted to say, darling?” he asks, expression back in a confident mask, as if his words hadn’t just blanketed you in a deluge of emotions.

What had you meant to say? Right. You had wanted to fill in the silence, which seems almost banal in the wake of his sincere thanks. You comb through your own thoughts as quickly as you can, trying to find a reason to speak, to answer his expectant gaze.

“Would you like some blood?”

He blinks at you and you blink back, as if neither of you had expected you to say this. His response comes a moment later, a bit guarded, “I suppose I could use a snack. But with all of the day’s travel and your rather delicate constitution, are we sure that’s the best idea, darling?”

It may not have been your first or most pressing thought, but now that you’ve said it, you realize that feeding him is still quite important to you. So you press on. “I’ll be fine. It’s plenty late and I’ll be able to sleep off any ill effects,” you assure him.

“In that case, perhaps we first head back to our room? That way I won’t have to carry your limp body up several flights of stairs.” His use of ‘our’, his quick acceptance of your offer, it all feels so surreal. Maybe that’s what friendship means to him, but it’s sending you and your body mixed signals.

Either way, you agree without argument, and you both head back to your shared quarters.

Once you’re standing in the center of the room, you ask, “Where would you like me?”

Astarion raises a suggestive eyebrow at you. “Oh, you absolute fiend. Here I was, thinking that a bite on the wrist was already quite intimate.”

“Astarion,” you chide, ignoring the way his low, sultry voice sets your skin alight. “I meant, would you prefer the bed, the couch, maybe a chair?”

“How dull, darling. The bed then,” he says, gesturing toward the yet untouched plush, blue bedding.

You follow his direction and sit on the bed. After taking a quick breath, you get to work, rolling up the sleeve of your robe for him and exposing the tender flesh of your wrist to him. “Here you are,” you say, holding out your wrist to him as he takes a spot next to you.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, taking hold of your wrist, angling it back and forth between his cold fingers, as if trying to find just the right spot to bite.

“What’s the matter?” you ask, after the third rotation.

“It’s nothing, dear,” he says, fingers trailing the line of veins extending from your wrist. With his soft touch shocking your brain into submission, you barely register his words as he continues, “I was thinking, perhaps, I might need to bite a bit more carefully to keep you from growing faint again. I’m afraid I had rather gotten used to biting that delectable neck in your past-life.”

You gulp and you’re certain that the sound is audible to you both. “Is that so? Would you… prefer a neck?”

“Don’t you worry your lovely little head, darling,” he says, bending his head over your wrist. “I shall manage.”

You’re about to protest, to insist that he’s allowed to bite your neck, even as your heart pounds brutally in your chest at the thought– but his fangs sink in before a word can escape your lips and you’re left huffing out a small sigh.

Astarion’s lips smile against your wrist, and, were it not for the kind consideration he’d just shown you, you may have smacked him on his beautiful silver head for it.

Much like the previous times he’s had a nibble, his seemingly involuntary hums are more the source of your lightheadedness than anything else. The deep rumble that sounds from his chest sends your heart into a frenzied rhythm that your blood just can’t appear to keep up with.

Calm down, you think, imagining images of still water, light breezes, soft cats. Calm down or you will fall back again. Nothing seems to be working to quiet your pounding heart and, as you look at the angle of his nose, the soft curve of his cheek, you can feel your breath catching, your vision blurring.

No, you repeat to yourself. He will starve himself if it means you don’t get injured, keep yourself together. You’re startled by how accurate the thought sounds to your own mind. You knew he cared about you, but had you ever really sat down and understood the depth of it? However, you don’t have time to think about the implications of his concern because your world is beginning to spin.

Breathe, you command of yourself. You take a deep breath.

Another, you think, and you feel your eyes start to focus as fresh air enters your body.

Two large breaths later and you’re feeling significantly better– your heart is still racing, but the room has stilled and your body feels your own again. Just in time too, as you feel Astarion take one last drink from your veins, remove his fangs, and breathe a sigh of bliss onto your skin.

When he pulls back to look at you, the flush on his face, the pink on his ears is still somehow worth the miserable feeling of blood loss. “So darling,” he says, licking his blood-stained lips. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling fine,” you say, smiling at him with the best, least exhausted grin you can manage. Certainly better than you have after your previous feedings. “Though I do think it is your fault that I feel faint sometimes.”

“Really?” Astarion asks, raising an eyebrow at you. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Well,” you start, not sure how to approach the issue with him, but needing to tell him all the same. “I think it’s the noises you make while you feed. My heart just, erm, panics a bit.”

Astarion looks at you with a blank expression. “Noises?”

Ah, so they are involuntary. “Yes, the mmm’s and the hmm’s and the–”

“Stop that.” Astarion raises a hand up to your face, placing it over your mouth. When you look toward him to see what could be the matter, you see that a blush covers his cheeks, that the tips of his ears have turned a deep red. “I– I thought I’d stopped doing that years ago.”

It’s as if time stills. You struggle with your confused, nervous thoughts as you register his embarrassment, the words he’s said.

Astarion is blushing, your brain thinks.

Of course, the rational part of you counters. He’s just fed, he’s going to have some blood in his system for a while.

But he’s blushing because of something I said, you supply.

Your mind goes blank at the thought.

You’re grateful that you can’t reply to Astarion, not with his hand over your mouth, because you’re not certain what is liable to come out of it at the moment.

Luckily, Astarion continues to speak, not releasing your face, “Well, I apologize for the noises. I’ll try to control that. In the meanwhile, why don’t we get ready for bed? It’s been a long day.”

You nod into his hand, after which he removes it from your mouth. His face continues to have a touch of pink, and his eyes refuse to meet yours. You can hardly be bothered by it, because the only things running in circles in your mind are the feel of Astarion’s hand on your face, the sight of his perfectly blushed cheeks, and the fact that, somehow, despite everything, he still cares about your well-being.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. You end up having to take a quick bath to clear your mind, and you both get ready for bed separately. However, at the end of the day, you both wind up in the same, immense bed after all is said and done.

You thought that maybe something big would happen. Perhaps that he would recoil from you. Or worse, grab onto you. Maybe that the earth would open up and swallow you both. But nothing of the sort happens.

You both simply lay down, tuck yourselves in a variety of soft blankets, rest your heads on the best down pillows magic can conjure, and remain several feet apart on the massive bed.

Much like last night, Astarion puts out the lantern next to the bed and whispers to you, “Goodnight, darling.”

“Goodnight, Astarion.”

There’s simply no way that your reverie will take you tonight, of that you’re sure. You’re convinced of it, because all you can hear is the pounding of your heart, the muffled breath you take when you try to be quiet. But eventually, against all odds, your trance does overtake you.

That night as you enter your reverie, you blink your eyes open to a familiar inn.

Again, the establishment is dead, not a soul in sight in this remote village. And, as always, the innkeep reaches down into their front desk, pulling out another book.

It looks to be a book that they’ve already started– a bookmark is placed about halfway through its pages. The cover is mostly plain, a black leather with a large tower embossed in the center. In the smallest script you catch the title before they open the book, “The Midnight Tower and its Master.”

The innkeep flips open to their current page and begins to read…

When you wake up from your reverie a few hours later, you sit up with a gasp, a hand clutching at your chest in surprise.

Next to you, Astarion stirs, looking at you with a drowsy concern. “Darling, are you alright?”

“I–I’m fine,” you say, taking several deep breaths. “I dreamt of the tower.”

#astarion #astarion x tav #fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x reader #astarion fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion masterlist #gn reader #astarion x gn reader #astarion x gn!tav #astarion baldurs gate #bg3 astarion #when he's all but forgotten how to love again #whabfhtla #reincarnation trope #elf!tav #astarion x you

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buddhaamitabha · 4 months ago

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I personally believe Buddha to be more of a chatterbox then how RoR leads us to believe. Communication of some sort is highly important in any relationship, Buddha completely acknowledges and recognizes that certain fact, its a rule of nature that understanding is an order to unify.

Especially if 'we' personally more accommodate with sound and tone of voice, and it is so for a lot of anicent religions. In the world of Buddhism, words literally shape the world; bringing peace and happiness, they practice special categories for human speech. So it would make sense if Buddha was very expressive in voice.

I firmly believe that Buddha is so forward and straight when he speaks, and we see in Canon that he doesn't bother with any Shakespeare or fancy words. Buddha doesn't beat the bush, he says things factual. it's either here or there, how he perceived it is how he will say it is.

Its hot and human to know just how much effort he puts in living amongst others, he sustains a type of tranquil pride in solitude, and he holds another variety of pride in understanding people and their sows, their future and past literally bare before his eyes.

Even the smallest notes in his personality make up a majority of his character, and I want to kiss him for it. He's just a pleasant breath of fresh air in any setting. You feel free when you see Buddha, you feel open and listened to. He's so real for that, I will hold hands.

Random Budd rant in your inbox BOO!

I'M OUT OF THE LOOP BUT YOU'RE SO RIGHHHHHHHT OUGH STOP

Not going to lie, I sort of studied how he talked in the series for a while and had been binge reading on Buddhism because it highkey echoed a lot of what I already held as my core principles and morals?

I love how purposeful he is in anything he says, though he admits easily whenever he doesn't know something and as we've seen, wastes no time getting to discover more about it through any accessible means even if it went against some's wishes.

It really illustrates how involved in philosophical debates he was without straying from his mindset while also teaching others!

Like how fucking difficult it already is for one to communicate themselves from a place of mental fortitude and a peaceful resolve when talking about things that most would lose their line of thought or get too emotional or even feel unable to speak freely on it. I find it amazing in so many aspects it's insaneeeee

THANK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU FOR BRINGING THIS INTO MY ASKBOX WEIRRRR sorry it took me this damn long, I been fighting demons!

Hope you've been doing well?

#talking #record of ragnarok #buddha ror #buddha snv #shuumatsu no valkyrie #sort of OOC

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i-cant-stop-fandoming-help · 6 months ago

Text

Mika's basic writing tips

I wrote a bunch of these at ~12:30 AM last night, so my apologies if they are hard to understand.

Will reblog with more writing tips that come to mind! these are just starters.

One!! usage of paragraphs. I have no doubt that all of you know how to use paragraphs, punctuation, capitalization, etc, but let me tell you. I am in a creative writing class and I have had to read more walls of text than normal. it should be classified as a form of torture.

Adding onto the last point, to clarify on punctuation; do not use commas and periods for everything. Do not limit exclamation points to just displaying positivity, as they can be used to convey yelling/screaming, alongside the positive things. I don't use exclamation points a lot in my writing because it never feels fitting; but depending on the scenery and the personality of your character, it will work.

Two!! Get into character; pretend you are that character. If they're angry, dig your heels into the ground and think of anything and everything that makes you grind your teeth. Focus on how your heart beats in that moment of rage, focus on how your mind swirls and all thoughts become bitter, focus on how your nails dig into your palms. The same goes for if they're sad; think of a memory that hurts, or think of a time you felt sad, and recognize how you felt in that moment. How you felt hopeless, how you felt burnt out, how you felt like you weren't good enough. Writing is a great way to get out feelings such as these, because you're able to use both your own and other people's characters to vent.

It is okay to not be okay, and it is okay to write about not being okay.

Three! Have fun with writing fanfiction. Of course, don't stray so far from canon that the characters are basically ocs, but you can incorporate headcanons and project onto that. In some of my own fanfiction, which I rarely share here, I use headcanons to expand on a character's personality if they barely get any screen time. For characters like those, everyone will have their own interpretation.

It's okay to have fun. You don't have to stick to just aus or just scenarios from canon. Mix and match. Put AU versions of characters into scenarios from canon! And vice versa.

Four! Writing bizarre and nonsensical things can help improve your writing. I wrote a story about a chair named Harold for my aforementioned creative writing class, and it helped me recognize how to reference things vaguely, as well as helped me figure out how a chair might feel about the going ons around him.

Five!! Do your due diligence when handling sensitive topics. Research it; maybe there's threads on reddit of people talking about their experiences, maybe there's tips on tumblr, maybe there's an influencer talking about how that specific thing affected them. Listen closely to those stories. However, you must also keep in mind that not everyone will handle things the same.

If someone is in a life threatening situation, they have three options: Fight, flight, freeze. Depending on the type of character you are writing about, they may fit into one of these categories. Or maybe they'll begin in one category as the moment starts, only to switch to another as it continues.

The same goes for writing about medical scenes and wounds; some people will learn things from fictional works. Sometimes it's life lessons, but having things like proper wound treatment can help inform the reader as to how they should handle a potentially life-threatening situation. If you have a possible surgery scene, perhaps there'll be a reader who has an upcoming surgery, and reading about a character they like also getting one, with accurate details, will help soothe their nerves.

It's also helpful to have proper research when writing about physical and mental disabilities. There are a lot of stigmas and, if research is not done, you risk feeding into said stigmas. It is another story, however, if you have the physical/mental disability you are writing about, because you know your own experience. You have firsthand experience.

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lululeighsworld · 3 months ago

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ALL OF THEM (ahem) oooor 4, 11, 12, 17, and a random one you're dying to answer :D (for the selfship meme)

hehehe I started answering these as writing warm-ups so I am planning to share my answers for all of them next month!! but here's a lil sneak peek for now, in the spirit of it being OC x Canon Week!

FEH Selfship meme

4. And what attracted your S/O to you ~ ?

Although they need a lil confidence boost in the beginning (his 5-star LVL 40 convo), Gunter enjoys observing how Leigh manages their role as the summoner. In turn he spends a lot of time mulling over how Leigh conducts themself and why he feels pride for them in a way that is…noticeably different, from his previous times mentoring.

For starters, it’s nice being under the command of a leader who both makes rational decisions but also isn’t afraid to speak their mind; a refreshing breath of fresh air compared to the life he was used to in Nohr. Gunter also finds it very satisfying to watch the other ranking members of the Order defer to Leigh, a non-royal, to make final decisions; it feels like, for once, the common man is getting a say in things. What attracts Gunter to Leigh the most (despite trying to keep a professional distance) is that they’re never afraid to show their truest colours. When something is important to them, they care for it with the deepest compassion, and when they feel judged, they aren’t afraid to bite back.

[EXTRA!!] 6. How did you meet? Was the first time you summoned them the first meeting?

Gunter and Leigh’s first meeting was when they summoned him to Askr, in the first few hours of them acting as summoner! He was the third hero they summoned overall, following Virion (who Leigh summoned in the midst of battle) and Frederick (who was summoned with orbs). So Gunter was one of the first heroes they ever met~ And likewise, none of the summoned heroes of the Order would argue they’ve been there longer than Gunter (that Virion and Frederick are no longer with us o7).

11. Is there any character that's *not* supportive about the relationship? do they change their mind over time?

Oh Jakob… I don’t think I need to explain his pre-existing disdain for Gunter, but Jakob and Leigh also do not get along. A friend described their relationship really eloquently: Jakob and Leigh are like two cats that haven’t been properly introduced to each other. They are constantly at each other’s throats in Askr. Jakob doesn't perceive the summoner as being devoted enough to their role, meanwhile Leigh often wonders how genuine Jakob actually is to his duties as a servant. And so when Gunter and Leigh decide to earnestly see if a relationship between them will work, it becomes Jakob's worst nightmare as he receives criticism on all fronts. In retaliation Jakob often spits venom in the couple’s general direction.

Jakob’s opinion of GunterLeigh does ameliorate slowly, over time. For all of Jakob’s faults he does care about those from the Northern Fortress in his own way, including Gunter. Eventually he does recognize that Gunter needs someone like Leigh in his life, and he no longer perceives the summoner as a threat to the stability of his little bubble. He will *always* throw mocking remarks or pointed looks in the couple’s direction, however. That’s just how his stray cat personality conveys his affections.

12. Is there any item from the series that has special meaning to the two of you or is central to your memories?

Gunter and Leigh both hold the purple crown of flowers from Idunn’s Forging Bonds conversation really close to their hearts. Dipping into my headcanons here for Gunter’s backstory, the accessory reminds him of the flowers that grew in the fields of his wife’s village. Residents would harvest the flowers and weave them into gifts (like flower crowns) during one of their local festivals, which is where he first met his wife, many decades ago. Gunter tells Leigh of this history by the time Ascended Idunn is summoned, and, upon hearing what Idunn has to say about finding peace after the war, Leigh sees an opportunity with the flower crowns to both cherish the past and kindle a hopeful outlook for the future.

17. Is there any of the heroes journey instances that happen/are canon?

There are a couple that come to mind!! I like to imagine there’s an afternoon where GunterLeigh are visiting Askr’s castletown (or some place comparable) and they experience the Lost Little One event. It’s fun to brainstorm what they would do in a situation where they need to impromptu babysit together, with some potential lingering feelings for what the future *could* hold ;3c A Dark Summer Night is also canon for them. I’m not sure when it would take place yet, but I can envision a scene where they’re lazing about in a meadow somewhere deep in the woods and mid meaningful conversation they are surprised by a flurry of fireflies <3

#ask meme #summoner leigh/gunter #THIS IS WHY I WAS THINKING ABOUT HARMONIZED GUNTER/IDUNN.............LONG SHOT FEH UNITS THAT WOULD MAKE ME SO HAPPY #im still not ~totally satisfied~ with my answer to what attracted gunter to leigh so that answer is up for revisions #let's be truthful. every answer is up for revisions at any point in time in the instance of i think of something better.#fe heroes

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dreadsuitsamus · 2 years ago

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Day Zero | Kensei Muguruma x Reader |

author's note: i want him 🤷‍♀️

pairing: kensei muguruma x fem!reader

warnings: takes place during turn back the pendulum, canon-typical violence, light angst, comfort, established relationship

"Missing souls?" Your stare down with your much taller husband is fierce, despite his weariness and lack of time to do anything but gather his things and maybe even get a quick kiss before he goes on his mission.

"So you do know how to listen to me." He murmurs, avoiding answering any further questions that he really shouldn't be answering. You're his former lieutenant, not an active member of the Gotei 13 as a result of it, so you hold no official title to mark any claim on top-secret information.

But you're also his wife, and there's a very different fine line to cross when it comes to these situations. A happy wife equals happy life even in Soul Society.

"And why are you the one that has to do this??"

"You were a Shinigami once. You already know the answers to all the questions you're going to ask me!" Irritation bubbles beneath his skin, as his temper is quick to flare up as usual. But it simmers down just as quickly: you're just worried about him, as a good wife should be for her husband.

He sees the fear flickering in your eyes and takes your hand with exceedingly gentle care. "You trusted me more before we got married, I think."

"Souls didn't go missing when I was your lieutenant." You allow your husband's kiss to your palm, flicking away a stray hair from his eyes as he presses another to your soft skin. "Let me come with you."

"No can do." Kensei mutters. "If you were active duty, I would let you. This is a high level threat, and as out of practice as you are—"

"As long as my blade can cut anything or anyone, I can fight!" Your lips curl in a snarl and your husband feels your ire behind the smack against his chest. "Mind you, I only retired so I could marry you, bastard! I could be a captain now, if not for that!"

"And the significance is not lost on me!" Kensei circles your wrists easily with his long fingers, holding them tightly enough to your sides that you can't lash out again with ease. "I know what you did for me, for us. And we can have this argument later, for as long as you like. I have to go now."

The desire to argue burns your bones, if only for the sake of keeping him home just a bit longer. Souls don't just go missing! But his decision is final: you're not a Shinigami anymore, and thus you have no place in such a dangerous mission. It's your heart and your worry that compels you to tag along rather than anything close to a sense of duty, and such things wouldn't be recognized as a good reason to intrude on a mission by the head of the Gotei 13.

"Fine. Stay alive, otherwise you'll wish your soul had gone missing."

Kensei can't help but smile for you and lean in for your kiss. He claims they bring him good fortune, and while you see through such a bad excuse for his wife's love, this time you actually do kiss him with a sense of good luck behind it.

Sleep never comes easy when Kensei is away, but this time is different. It hasn't come at all, and your zanpakutō calls for you relentlessly as it nears an hour past midnight. Your husband's word lingers in your mind, an all-too annoying reminder that he was once your captain and in charge of you and as your husband, he still relatively holds that sort of power. Your Kensei is rarely wrong about these decisions, but this time…

He's dead wrong.

In a flash, you're wearing your old Shihakushō and your dear blade is buzzing with excitement as adrenaline rushes your veins. The moonlight is cold, chilling your bones just as much as the ugly scream that resembles only one sort of monster as you follow what feels like Kensei's Spiritual Pressure to the same area those previous souls were lost.

The group around it, made up of a rather odd pairing of individuals, ponder what exactly is going on with only a little bit of surprise at your approach. Captain Hirako gazes at you expectantly, eyes dark as he holds a wounded Hiyori at his side.

"Lieutenant." His joke holds no mirth, though he's certainly happier to see you here than not.

Praying that your voice doesn't shake as the overwhelming, imposing Spiritual Pressure looms over the area, you speak to the captain of the 5th Division with only one goal in mind."Where's Kensei?"

"You don't need me to tell you that, do you?"

There's another ugly, horrifying scream and as Shinji raises his blade to defend you, all whilst still holding the 12th Division's lieutenant, your impressive speed and decisiveness has already struck out and blocked the attack yourself. A mask covers his face, but there's far too much left, even with this transformation, for your dear husband to be unrecognizable.

"He should've let me come with." Your husband's strength is much more powerful now as he pushes against your blade, and certainly the Hollow before you doesn't intend to pull punches against his own wife. "Where's Mashiro?!"

Another Hallowed scream and the sounds of swinging blades and bursts of Kidō answer the question for you, and Kensei quickly overpowers your hold and kicks you squarely in the stomach, the agonizing feeling of your lower ribs cracking leaving you nauseated. Air harshly escapes your lungs and the cold ground beneath your back doesn't soothe anything as the Hollowfied man you married looms over you, the mask on his face betraying absolutely nothing even in the face of the one he's loved for a hundred years.

"Kensei…" Coughs splutter out as Love, yet another captain that's been caught in this mess, swoops in to pull you to safety just before Kensei destroys the ground you laid on with a single, all-powerful punch that reduces it to nothing.

"Attacking his own wife?" Rose responds with a swift blast of Kidō, anger evident as his brows knit together. "The Captain I know is far above something so scummy."

"It's not his fault." Your murmur of defense falls short: of course your husband would never lay harm to you, or to any woman. But this is no longer your husband, you determine as Hachi binds him with the strongest thing he can: Bakudō #99. Kin.

Kensei is pinned with ease, officially down and out now. The sight of the mask on his face, covering the sharp jaw and the warm eyes of the man you've spent countless decades with, makes your stomach turn with relentless nausea. He's a Hollow, and there's but one thing Shinigami are known for.

Clutching the hilt of your zanpakutō, you release it from its scabbard to the surprise of those around you. "Sharpen—"

"No!" Shinji's sword clashes with your own. "Do not kill your own husband."

"What do you presume we do?!" You growl, sneering right in the face of a revered captain without a care in the world. Kensei would be distraught at the sight, but not anymore than he'd hate himself for what's happening now. "He's not Kensei anymore!" Despite the strength you put on, doing your best to mimic your husband's usual demeanor, the breaking of your voice is heard clearly.

"We will find a way to save him." Shinji's promise is hardly heard before an inky darkness surrounds everyone on the battlefield, and you fall to your knees before your restrained, Hollowfied husband.

The last thing you see before nothing is the mask that covers your husband's face, and fruitlessly, you reach out to touch it.

There's far too much light as you come to, with a mix of murmured voices doing their best to remain quiet while ultimately failing to do so. The air around you is different— This isn't Soul Society.

Thin blankets fall as you shoot out of the bed and reach for your zanpakutō, but the dizziness sends you into a wall instead. How long have you been unconscious? What happened after Kensei was restrained?

The sliding door to the room opens and your vision clears as the room stops spinning around you. His voice is deep and his arms look strong, and that handsome face cracks a little amused smirk at the rare sight of you being caught off-guard.

"You're noisy."

"K-Kensei!" Your body feels odd and there are plenty of questions to raise, but damn does none of it matter more than making it across the room and tackling your dear husband in a tearful fit.

"Oof!" Kensei's arms encircle your frame, taking the brunt of the impact as his back hits squarely against the wall. "Control your strength!"

"Bastard!" His tank top is soon drenched in your tears and you're in Kensei's arms fully as he picks you up and encompasses you both in the thin walls of privacy your temporary bedroom provides.

He settles at the end of the bed, wiping your fretful tears away as best as he can once he's placed you beside him. "Crybaby… What do you remember?"

"You… As a Hollow."

Kensei sighs grimly. "In Soul Society?"

"Yes? What's going on, Kensei? My body feels strange— No, it's not just me… The world feels strange. Where are we?"

"In The World of the Living." Your husband murmurs, his eyes meeting yours. "We're in exile."

Flashes of the recent days come to life as Kensei explains further, his story no doubt the truth as your memory recovers. Captains and lieutenants alike, Hollowfied and cursed with such monstrous forms that give an inexplicable boost of strength and speed. Ousted from Soul Society and left to meander in this world you've sworn to protect…

"Are we Hollows?" The shaky whisper matches your unstable core, the feeling of something there that wasn't there before putting you on edge. You remember a fight in the same plane of existence your zanpakutō lives on, scratching and clawing and forcing your way to the autonomy you've always had until after what felt like weeks, you emerged with the victory.

"Urahara tried to undo what was done, to no avail. We're not Hollows… Entirely, at least."

"So what do we do?" You murmur, hands eagerly clutching his tank top as his warm arms come around you once more.

Kensei's lips find your forehead, a soft, lingering kiss saving him from a question he can't answer right now. He supposes the real answer is to just simply survive— even with Kisuke and Yoruichi's help, there's nothing guaranteeing that Soul Society won't come to finish the job. Or rather, there's nothing explicitly stopping Aizen from making sure those who know his true self take their information to the grave.

"So… You came to the battlefield." Your husband murmurs against your skin, no sense of anger or mirth alike in his tone.

"I did."

"I know you know how to listen to me." His deep chuckle dispels any ideals that he may be less than pleased with your insubordination, given your current situation would be far different had you remained home that night.

"You like a brat." Your teasing falls flat and silence fills the gap between you, the sounds of Shinji and Hiyori arguing in the other room preventing it from becoming too quiet.

Never one to mince his words, Kensei murmurs in a soft tone. "Is it true that you raised your blade to kill me?"

Your lips turn to a frown. Why the hell did Shinji tell him that? "I did. Are you upset?"

Kensei's arms squeeze tightly around you, encompassing you in his warmth and desperation for his wife's love. "You should've been faster. You were hurt because of me."

"Not you. The Hollow." Your arms hold your husband as tightly as he holds you, the scent of soap pleasing your senses as your husband accepts forgiveness.

"I'm sorry." There's an edge to his voice, a hoarseness you don't often hear from him; he's always been strong, so put together and brave that it's a tad frightening to hear him on the verge of tears.

"I forgive you. Will that help you forgive yourself?"

A smile pulls at your lips as you're pulled closer to Kensei, so impossibly close to his strong, scorching body that your arms loop around, and you press a soft kiss to his cheek before gazing out of the window as the sunlight rises. The world is upside down now and the future is more uncertain now than it was back when you were caught between a career or a love life, but the laugh bubbling up comes anyway.

You've at least got one helluva trump card for the next time you blatantly ignore Kensei's command.

"And no…" Kensei murmurs against the flesh of your neck, nuzzling in comfortably. "Being right once doesn't mean you can defy orders."

We'll certainly see about that!

#kensei muguruma x reader #kensei x reader #kensei muguruma x you #kensei x you #kensei muguruma #x reader #reader insert #fic #bleach imagine #bleach fic #bleach x reader

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egg-emperor · 1 year ago

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Game canon Eggman is pure evil y'all, rest assured to my fellow evil Eggman enjoyers. He's never acted for any reason that wasn't fueled by his evil/selfish intentions. I've carefully analyzed him in all of his scenes for hours and hours for years and years. I don't need to theorize, speculate, or insist on personal interpretations to get to this conclusion because I specifically go by what the games tell and show me undeniably.

I analyze very literally, not abstract or based on how I feel about it, only literally what I can see and hear. I feel this avoids a lot of unnecessary confusion and complication and it can actually be this way and yet still have a lot of depth to it to explore despite this. I don't see appeal in straying too far with the what ifs rather than the literals that are deliberately blatantly presented because the former is when bias can seep in.

But I know some probably think, "If you think I'm biased because I don't like pure evil Eggman so I don't want to see him as such, why aren't you biased for not liking less than pure evil Eggman? What if you're just seeing what you want to see?" But with the way I only go by what's blatantly there to see and hear in the games themselves in bold explicit forms, I feel I avoid any chance of bias.

I don't like to admit this but when I was younger, I had some incorrect interpretations about Eggman. Yes, even me. XD I never thought he was this completely good and caring guy but I definitely didn't have the most accurate understanding of who he was, how he'd act in certain situations, and what he is or isn't likely to say or do. A lot of my own personal biases at the time were to blame.

Years of heavy studying and analysis got me to where I am now. And I realized he said or did the exact opposite in the games to what I thought he'd do or wrote in my silly private fanfics back then. So I started to look at him neutral and unbiased, without expecting or wanting anything specific and letting it influence my perception. Only exactly what I could hear him say and see him do instead.

I rebuilt my understanding into what it is now and ever since, it has stayed completely consistent. Every new piece of media just reaffirms it or gives me new stuff to add that tracks and doesn't contradict the old in the slightest. I'm still having new revelations, discoveries and eyes opened to new things about him but they only further prove, develop, and strengthen my understanding now.

This was all done by me just shutting off these biased parts of my mind and letting the game canon show me who he was, not by my own personal desires and influences. Then I realized I was such a big fan of what I understood him to be, all of my desires turned into loving game canon Eggman for exactly who he was and wanting him to stay the funny pure evil bastard he is. And he does! 💜

But yeah because of that, even though my old perception years ago certainly wasn't the same level as those that spread misinformation of him being way nicer, softer, and morally good than he is in the games, I know what it's like for bias to influence me in some ways. And those little things I believed then are far different from what I know now, so this isn't an example of me being biased lol

I'm very happy that I came to fully recognize, embrace, and appreciate his funny but very much pure evil self! And one of the main goals of my blog besides expressing my passion, is to help people learn more about him and understand him too because I swear, your enjoyment and appreciation of him can grow so much stronger when you do. I love when I'm told I've helped with that!

But if you really don't like that he's pure evil because it makes you uncomfortable, that's fine. But there's a difference between not wanting to see it because you don't like it and what happens in the games. And if you don't like game canon Eggman like that, I have a lot of respect for you if you admit that and just do something different in your fan stuff, without claiming it to be fact.

But game canon Eggman canonically being a funny silly but very evil and threatening bastard man personally fills me with immense joy and it's why I adore him so much. It's endless fun and entertainment! 🥰💜

#hope people don't take this the wrong way as telling people what to do. tried to make that clear at the end #and I'm trying to say that I almost understand the opposite perspective #just speaking my mind honestly as usual #dr eggman #eggman #dr robotnik #dr. eggman #my post #eggman is evil

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novafire-is-thinking · 1 year ago

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(If you're still doing the headcanons) Chromedome?

Headcanon A: realistic

Sometimes, Chromedome’s old conjunxes show up in his dreams. They repeatedly show up in small roles, but he fails to recognize them even though they feel oddly familiar.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

Back in the day, Chromedome used to carry around a dart gun with him; he would shoot Prowl every time he was annoyed or just wanted to be annoying.

Prowl would sometimes walk around with stray suction darts in hard-to-see places, and wouldn’t realize it until someone pointed it out or laughed and pointed at him.

Soon, Chromedome was getting the same treatment by Prowl’s personal dart gun. lol

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

After Rewind’s death, Chromedome gradually isolates himself from everyone. Eventually, he disappears, and no one can find him.

One day, Prowl receives a message. It’s Chromedome, who explains that his health is declining. All those years of mnemosurgery are catching up to him, and his mind is failing.

CD doesn’t say it outright, but he wants Prowl to be there for him until the end. Does he still hate him? Of course. But that’s the point: he doesn’t want anyone important to him to witness him slowly losing his mind. He’s counting on Prowl to feel just sentimental enough to come to his aid, yet detached enough that he won’t fall apart when the inevitable happens.

Remarkably, Prowl shows up—ready to be there for Chromedome.

Old hurts inevitably rise to the surface. They fight. They laugh. They fight again. Chromedome kicks Prowl out a few times.

But Prowl keeps coming back.

Eventually, Chromedome’s condition declines to the point where he’s nearly catatonic, and can’t tell the difference between reality, his personal memories, and acquired memories. Prowl can no longer leave CD alone.

Prowl does his best to keep Chromedome comfortable. He ends up confessing the majority of his crimes to Chromedome, since CD can’t tell the difference between reality and memory anymore.

One night, during a final moment of lucidity, Chromedome types up a note to Prowl while he’s asleep.

The next morning, Prowl wakes up and finds the note on a datapad under Chromedome’s lifeless hand:

“Nice stories, asshole.

You were my favorite person to hate all these years.

Good luck.”

Prowl saves the note. He personally oversees the removal of CD’s body and registers the death. Chromedome is buried next to Rewind. There’s no funeral; just Prowl saying his goodbyes.

The only way anyone else from CD’s past finds out about his passing is by doing a search on Cybertron’s death record database or by visiting Rewind’s grave. After the shock wears off, they wonder what happened and how he spent his last days.

Prowl tells no one. He takes the secret to his grave.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

Chromedome Tumbler once looked up to Pharma.

In fact, judging from the fact that Tumbler wasn’t bothered by Prowl’s arrogance, bluntness, and know-it-all attitude, I’m going to say that, at the time, he got along with Pharma better than anyone else (besides Ratchet). After all, JRo made it a point to show Pharma addressing him by name at least once.

Happy to have someone who did more than tolerate his presence out of politeness, Pharma would take the time to listen to Tumbler. Amongst other things, Tumbler would talk about the latest developments in mnemosurgery. Trepan certainly wasn’t going to share any of that.

Tumbler discovered that if someone gained Pharma’s respect or fondness, the doc was weirdly good at giving advice, or at least saying things that could be translated to helpful advice. In fact, Pharma was the one to give Tumbler the final push needed to leave the New Institute.

While recovering from his run-in with Overlord, in a moment of vulnerability, Tumbler confessed to Pharma that his spark was no longer in his work at the New Institute, and that he was considering quitting and starting over.

Always one to follow his own passion to the point of obsession, Pharma didn’t hesitate to tell Tumbler he should go through with it (1) if he had a practical plan to transition to something else, and (2) if it was what he really wanted.

After all, the war was only beginning, and they’d all need to find things to give them reasons to hold on…

#wasn’t planning on going this far for Chromedome since I don’t think about him a lot #but once I got started I couldn’t stop #had to dig into my own memories of dying people for this one #thanks anon for making me think about a character I don’t think of often /genuine #headcanons with nova

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rosanna-writer · 2 years ago

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we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (13/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~3.5k

Everyone gets a much-needed breather.

Read on AO3 or you can find the thirteenth chapter below the readmore.

ch. 1 - 10 | ch. 11 - she underestimated just who she was stealing from | ch. 12 - no amount of freedom gets you clean | ch. 13 - stay stay stay

I stepped into the dining room just in time to see Rhys land on the balcony. Though he didn't stumble or fall, the motion wasn't nearly as graceful as I'd come to expect after weeks of watching Cassian and Azriel do the same thing. He was out of practice, and the wince on his face told me he'd had the same thought.

When he came closer, I realized Rhys looked disheveled. Or at least, as close to disheveled as he ever seemed to get, which is to say he looked only very slightly less than immaculate. He hadn't changed out of his clothes from yesterday, which were now faintly wrinkled, and a stray lock of hair fell against his forehead, making my fingers itch to brush it back into place. Mother above—he must not have slept at all.

At the sight of me, Rhys stopped in his tracks, as if he hadn't expected me to be there. I watched his gaze rake down my body, and I didn't need to hear his thoughts to know what he was thinking, seeing me through his own eyes in something other than a tunic from Spring or the clothes I'd been forced into Under the Mountain. "Night Court attire suits you," he said softly.

"All things considered, it would be strange if it didn't," I said, a small smile tugging at my lips, "but thank you, though."

He indicated for me to sit, and food appeared with a wave of his hand. I recognized the look on his face, the same one I'd seen when he'd pushed me to eat that soup in my cell Under the Mountain, as if he was prepared to feed me himself if it came down to it. Today, though, I didn't need to be told twice, just scarfed down what was in front of me without really tasting it. I was too focused on eating for the silence to feel oppressive or awkward. The whole time, Rhys watched me intently, even as he poured his own tea.

"Why did you leave?" he said eventually.

My hand tightened involuntarily around the handle of my teacup, though I was relieved we were getting straight to the point. I took a moment to choose my words carefully, then said, "It seemed presumptuous to stay."

"If it was something I—"

"You haven't done anything wrong. Really."

"You climbed ten thousand steps yesterday."

I stared down into my half-full cup of tea, unsure how to tell him that climbing those stairs had still been easier than asking someone else to do something small for me—my absolute terror at the thought of being a burden or seeming entitled ran too deep for words. "I just...thought you'd want space, now that you can finally have it," I said, hoping he'd understand.

Rhys ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Not from you."

We weren't sitting very far from each other, but I pushed my chair closer to his anyway—just those few inches between us had suddenly become unbearable. Food forgotten, I pressed my face to his shoulder and felt better when I did. "I think I needed to hear you say that," I whispered as he wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

"Feyre, you're under no obligation to stay here," he said, a change in his voice making me suspect this was a prepared speech, "and of course I'll take you back across the Wall if that's what you want. I know you didn't understand what was happening when you accepted the bond. That said, as far as I'm concerned, the townhouse is yours, too. And even if it wasn't, I thought after everything you were at least comfortable enough to stay in my guest room for a night."

It did seem ridiculous when he put it that way. If I could have buried my face any deeper in his shoulder, I would have. "I was just trying to do right by you."

"And I want to do the same for you. Apparently it's not nearly as simple as it sounds." He leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of my head.

We were in this together too, I realized. The list of decisions to make and things to figure out that had to wait until we'd gotten out from Under the Mountain was miles long, but it belonged to both of us. And one of the few things I knew for sure was that Rhys had proven himself to be an excellent teammate.

We'd be alright. Eventually.

"Finish eating," he added, gently nudging me off him. "It's been weeks since you've had a proper meal."

I picked up the fork again and cast a significant look at the plate of eggs he'd only picked at. Once he took a bite, I said, "For what it's worth, I don't want to go back across the Wall, at least not permanently. I want to see for myself that my family is safe, but there's nothing left for me there."

I didn't trust that Tamlin had kept his word regarding my family. And even if he had, he might change his mind now that he knew I had a connection to Rhys. I needed to see with my own two eyes that they weren't starving—or fix it myself if they were.

"Then we'll go today," Rhys said, as if that settled it.

I blinked in surprise—I didn't want to wait very long to check on my family, but it wasn't that urgent. If Azriel's shadows confirmed that there was no bad news, I could give it a few days. And Rhys didn't have to come with me, either.

"We don't have to. I don't want to pull you from Velaris when you've only just gotten back."

"I wouldn't begrudge you a reunion with you family after having one with mine last night," he said. It sounded reasonable enough, but there was a slight note of hesitation in his voice that made me suspect there was more to it than that. I just gave him a look until he continued, "There's quite a lot of work to do after the balance of power shifted and our…performance yesterday. The rest of the Inner Circle is handling it to spare me having to work so soon after returning. And...I don't know how to be around them just yet."

I nodded, considering that. After fifty years trapped in the city, the Cauldron only knew how much business there was to handle in the rest of the Night Court—and the size of the pile of correspondence that had surely arrived from the rest of Prythian. But that last admission that he was avoiding something…I suspected Rhys was rarely that candid, even with me. I didn't take that show of trust lightly.

"Did something with them not go well last night?" I said, as gently as I could manage.

"Nothing like that," Rhys said slowly, clearly weighing his words, "but last night we were all so relieved we didn't really talk. We're all furious with each other, and I'm not looking forward to facing it."

If he wanted a buffer, I'd be that buffer. But I wouldn't let him run himself ragged, either.

"We'll go to the mortal lands another day, when you don't look dead on your feet," I said. In truth, I needed the time, too. I'd barely wrapped my head around everything that had happened since Tamlin had dragged me to Prythian, and I needed a better handle on it before I faced my father and sisters. And Cauldron—did Rhys expect me to introduce him? He started to say something, but I cut him off before he had the chance to. "We don't get along. It's…complicated."

"Contrary to popular belief, I do try to stay out of your head. I don't even know how many siblings you have."

So I told him. And he told me more about his own family, as if we were two normal people who hadn't just been through an ordeal. It was strange to finally be sitting together in the Night Court and just…talking. Until then, so many of our conversations had been strategizing. I liked this better.

When both our plates were clear, I stood up and stretched. Though everything had improved greatly with some sleep and food, I'd never been so sore in my entire life. Rhys didn't seem to be faring much better. "Let's get you back to the townhouse so you can sleep," I said.

His face darkened. "I'm not sure I can."

"You're going to collapse if you don't." A human would, at least. Perhaps there was some faerie healing magic that could fix sleep deprivation, but I doubted it. I could offer one thing to help, so I added, a bit more softly, "Try falling asleep on me. My scent helps, doesn't it?"

"You don't have to do that," he said quickly. Almost reflexively.

I stepped closer, taking both of his hands in mine. "Now that I've eaten, I'm taken care of. It's your turn. We'll get back to the townhouse, and I promise once you're asleep I'll stay so you don't wake up alone." He started to say something else, but I cut him off with a kiss. Brief, casual, almost chaste—the sort of thing that had been impossible Under the Mountain.

Rhys's hands tightened around mine. "My wings…I can't— I barely made it up here. I'm not strong enough to carry someone down, not anymore."

The memory of that faerie missing wings and bleeding out in Tamlin's manor flashed in my mind. That could have been Rhys if we'd made a single misstep. The thought was nearly enough to make me retch, but I forced myself to smile instead of making him feel worse. "Then another day we'll see if you have the smoothest landings to go with the biggest wingspan."

Rhys looked like he might have spat out his tea if he'd still been drinking it. I let my smile widen into a grin and tugged him towards the stairs.

Making my way back down to the street was infinitely more pleasant than climbing up, and if I was being honest, I'd attribute that to the company that I had this time around. As we walked, Rhys told me about the time he and his brothers had gotten dizzy and vomited on the way down, back when his father had been High Lord and they'd been something closer to carefree. And though I wouldn't admit it to him, knowing he'd once made a fool of himself on these very stairs made me feel better about being stupid enough to run off the night before.

In the townhouse, we collapsed onto the sofa in wordless agreement that it wasn't worth taking any more steps just to make it to a bedroom. I curled up against the arm of the sofa, and Rhys was too exhausted to protest when I nudged his head to my lap and covered him with the blanket I found draped over a nearby armchair. He hid his wings to keep them out of the way as he laid down.

I stroked Rhys's hair until he finally drifted off. It didn't take long—no surprise considering how little sleep he'd gotten in the past two days. I'd never seen him this at peace before, though. It made him look far younger than his five hundred years.

While Rhys slept, I tried to convince myself that I could trust the calm in Velaris was real. I didn't feel real, and maybe after I'd learned the sense of contentment I'd thought I'd found in Spring had all been a lie, I'd always meet tranquility with suspicion. But at least for now, there was truly nothing more important to do than ensure my mate finally rested.

The sound of familiar, shuffling footsteps down the hall told me that perhaps making sure Rhys slept undisturbed was easier said than done. After weeks in the House of Wind, I knew the sound of Azriel trying not to move so silently he inadvertently snuck up on me.

"He just got to sleep," I said, voice low but still loud enough that keen faerie hearing would pick it up, "so if you're here to talk to him, it had better be urgent. Come back later if it's not."

Perhaps it was a bit aggressive of me, but the mating bond was probably making me protective. At least I hadn't snarled. When Azriel appeared in the doorway, a thick stack of papers in hand, the ghost of a smile on his face told me he wasn't offended in the slightest.

"I was hoping I'd find both of you here. This report is for you, too," he said, dropping it on the side table.

My brows shot up, but I made no move to pick the papers up. "Why me too?" I said, hoping his answer would save me from having to explain for the second time that day that I couldn't read.

"Intelligence reports regarding your family," he said, and my heart nearly stopped. Cauldron, I knew Azriel was an excellent spymaster, but I hadn't realized he could work this quickly. The mixture of surprise and worry must have shown on my face because he added, "They're fine. Your father's business turned around miraculously, which was Tamlin's doing. They're safe, and we've put measures in place to ensure they remain that way."

"Thank you," I said, and he nodded.

Perhaps, though, I shouldn't have been surprised. After the show Rhys and I had put on Under the Mountain, it made sense that there would be interest in where I'd come from—and all seven High Lords knew my surname. I kept forgetting about my title, but Azriel and the others probably had a vested interest in keeping the family of the Lady of the Night Court safe as well.

"Did Nuala and Cerridwen make it out alright?" I said.

"Yes. Spending time with their family as we speak."

That was a relief—I'd been so focused on getting Rhys out before he killed anyone else that I hadn't considered that we'd left the twins to fend for themselves. It seemed like such an oversight now, and I felt a stab of guilt.

After a moment, I added, "And how bad are the rumors?"

I could've sworn Azriel's lips quirked up. "They're calling you Cursebreaker. And Faebiter, but that one doesn't seem to be catching on nearly as well."

It wasn't a real answer, but I wasn't sure I wanted to press for one if Azriel was being evasive for some reason. There would be time to deal with all of that when Rhys woke up, and I wasn't sure I wanted this fragile-seeming peace to be broken just yet. So I just said, "In my defense, I did warn Rhys, and I didn't break the skin."

That, at least, got a chuckle out of Azriel, even if he still looked grave. His gaze flicked from Rhys's sleeping form, then back to me. "Will I see you at dinner tonight, Feyre?"

The question seemed innocent enough, but it was an obvious attempt to wring information out of me. I suppose I shouldn't have expected any less from Azriel. The rest of Rhys's Inner Circle must have seen Rhys panic when I left, and even though they were busy, I was sure they were also wondering exactly where things stood between the two of us.

"Of course," I said, not really willing to reveal that I hadn't known anything about dinner plans at all.

"Good."

Another curt nod, and Azriel turned to go. There was probably still plenty he had to take care of, but I said, "Az?"

"Yes?" he said, turning back around.

"Are you going to be in the training ring tomorrow morning?"

"Of course."

"When I threw that bone-spear at Amarantha, I missed," I said, not bothering to explain. By now, I was sure he'd heard the whole story. "It looked dramatic, but the throw was short of where I was aiming. Will you help me make sure that doesn't happen again?"

The look Azriel gave me was the closest he ever got to fond, nothing more than a slight softening around the eyes. If I hadn't already spent time around him, I would have missed it. "We'll keep going until you never miss a throw again."

He meant it, and in some ways it was a relief to hear. On some level, I knew it was impossible, but there was a part of me that hoped if I just trained hard enough, I'd never be vulnerable again.

If the day came, I'd be ready to pull us out from Under the Mountain a second time.

"Then I'll see you bright and early. Thanks."

Before Azriel left, he cocked his head at me and added, "I missed Rhys, but I hope you know I missed you too, Feyre."

He was gone before I had a chance to respond. I turned my attention back to the steady rise and fall of Rhys's chest. It wasn't an exaggeration to say that I could spend hours just watching him breathe, another effect of the mating bond. Under the Mountain, I'd never gotten a chance to see him at ease this way; now, I realized that if entire world burned around us, I wouldn't mind in the slightest as long as he was this peaceful.

I still hadn't plumbed the depths of all this feeling.

I wouldn't dare risk him waking up alone, so I sat like until the sun started to sink towards the horizon, still turning this newfound sense of safety over in my mind. It felt like it might disappear if I didn't savor it. My heart raced, even though I was doing nothing more than sitting still.

It felt all too soon when Rhys began to stir. The sound he made in the back of his throat was soft and decidedly un-High-Lord-like. As he turned his head towards me, his nose grazed the strip of exposed skin between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my pants. The sharp intake of breath as he scented me made the hem of my top flutter.

"Feyre?" he said, voice rough. "You're still here."

"I'm not going anywhere," I said. While I'd been sitting there, I'd come to a decision almost without realizing it. There had never been a question in my mind about staying in the Night Court, but if Rhys didn't want space, I didn't either. The farthest I ever wanted him to be from me was down the hall. I'd stay in this house, even though it didn't feel like mine.

He sat up, and I ran my thumb along the mark the waistband of my pants had left on his cheek, then brushed his hair back into place. With a sigh, he leaned into my hand. "Your scent was in my dreams before I even met you. For a moment, I thought this might be a dream again."

My heart squeezed. If I had anything to say about it, it would be real the next time and all the rest.

"We made it out," I said, managing to sound reassuring when I was still letting that fact sink in, too.

He nodded, throat bobbing, and caught my hand in his, brushing his thumb over the tattoo. Even though he'd known about it, a look of awe spread across his face at the sight of it close up. The bond went tight in my chest again.

The last time he'd given me that look had been when he'd dropped to his knees before me on Calanmai.

I wasn't sure either one of us was breathing. But the moment broke, and he gently slid my hand out of his and stood up, eyes darting around the room as he straightened his tunic. He unfurled his wings again, posture straightening. Not quite a mask, but the High Lord was back. "I have to debrief with the Inner Circle this evening, and you should be present for that," he said

"Is it at all related to the dinner plans Azriel mentioned while you were asleep?" I said, shooting him a look as I stood up, too.

"Ideally no, but it will be a working dinner if necessary."

That made sense, as much as I wasn't looking forward to dealing with the rest of the world—or watching Rhys dive headfirst back into his duties as High Lord. But we couldn't put it off forever. I nodded, bracing myself to ask my next question.

"If someone's coming here from the House of Wind, then would they be able to bring my things?"

"You'll find them in the room across the hall from mine," he said with a flick of his wrist. Magic, then. Rhys had said it just a hair too quickly and matter-of-factly, though. Not quite pointed, but he hadn't even given me the opportunity to broach the topic of sharing a bedroom. In some ways, it was a relief not to have that conversation, even if we already had shared a bed once. Another scar from Under the Mountain, most likely. I wouldn't push.

He headed upstairs to wash up and change, and I took a deep breath, hoping to steady myself for news of whatever chaos was happening in the rest of Prythian. I had a sinking feeling I was at the center of it.

#feysand #feyre archeron #we said hello and your eyes look like coming home

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sephirthoughts · 7 months ago

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The Ghost of Shinra Manor

Chapter 3 of this

summary: It's been two years-ish since the events of Dirge of Cerberus. Cloud visits his hometown, and investigates a rumor of a ghost, haunting Shinra Manor. If you're surprised by who it turns out to be, you are beyond my power to save, comrade.

tags: g-g-g-ghosts!!! sefikura, sephiroth x cloud, sane!sephiroth (sort of), post advent children, post dirge of cerberus, canon timeline, delusions, intermitten amnesia, low drama, enemies to…whatever the hell they have going on

warnings: references to death, PTSD, child abuse, etc. all of hojo's greatest hits, mention of animal death in the context of ethical subsistence hunting/fishing, canon-typical violence, technical nudity but i didn't describe anything so you'd have to imagine it yourself which is not on me, pervert

rating: teen and up [BE ADVISED: THIS RATING WILL CHANGE]

Part 3: Regression

Cloud was not in a good mood, this morning. Firstly, it was dim and grey outside, and heavy cloud cover portended foul weather, which in the Nibel region meant freezing storms. Secondly, he had slept unusually well, last night, but his sleep was troubled by vivid dreams, of people and places he’d never seen, and so he woke fatigued, rather than rested.

Unlike most dreams, which faded and became indistinct, the moment you were awake, the chaotic and disjointed scenes remained etched clearly into his mind, as if they were real memories. This, of course, was because they were. He’d had enough other peoples’ memories stuffed into his head, to know the difference, and he did not appreciate it.

Thirdly, and arguably most importantly, he had awakened from these dreams, to find that the giant, silver-haired ghost he’d brought home last night, had undergone a deeply unnerving change.

Namely, he’d transformed into a tooth-meltingly adorable boy, of about ten years old, with huge, blue-green eyes, shoulder length silver hair, and a barely visible dusting of fairy-kiss freckles across his button nose.

Cloud’s old shirt now hung nearly to the four-and-a-half foot-tall child’s knees, and the sweatpants had to be forgone altogether, since they kept falling off and he kept tripping endearingly over them. He was now wearing a pair of Cloud’s boxer shorts as a stopgap solution.

When asked why he’d changed, the boy couldn’t understand what Cloud meant and began to cry, so Cloud gave up interrogating him, for now. All he could think was that this must be some sort of punishment from the goddess, because it was frankly sickening to want to pinch your arch-enemy’s precious little cheeks so badly.

“Cloud?” the sweetly childish voice said, while Cloud was standing at the stove, frying some of the fish he’d caught yesterday, for breakfast.

“Hm.”

“Did someone send you, to find me? Is that why you came to take me from the manor?”

“No,” Cloud answered gruffly. “I went in there looking for monsters and found you, by chance.”

Miniroth’s face fell. “Oh. But then, how did you know my name?”

“Recognized you from recruitment ads.” Cloud scooped a fried fish onto a plate, and set the plate on the table in front of the world’s cutest Sephiroth bobblehead. “Who would’ve sent me to find you, anyway? Do you even know anyone?”

“I hoped, maybe…” the boy trailed off and his hand strayed reflexively to his chest. Then his expression changed and he jumped to his feet, patting his collarbone area frantically. “My locket! It’s gone!”

Cloud frowned. “What?”

“My locket! My locket!” he repeated, near hysterics. “I have to go back there! I have to find it!”

“Ok, calm down,” Cloud attempted. “I never saw you wearing a locket. Are you sure you had it?”

Sephpod-nano was not listening. “Her picture is in it! I can’t lose it! I have to get it back!”

“Hold it right there!” Cloud said, in the ‘dad voice’ he used with Marlene and Denzel (and Yuffie and Barrett and Cid), as the child made for the door. “You can’t go back to the manor, without me, and I’m not going anywhere till after breakfast, so chill out.”

“But I—”

“No buts. Sit your ass back down.”

The boy wavered, then dragged himself back to the table and sat sullenly, with his arms crossed on his chest. The image was…pretty hilarious, actually. A minifigure version of the legendary silver soldier, in an oversized Gold Saucer t-shirt, sulking like a child whose parent wouldn’t let him go out to play. It was improving Cloud’s mood, quite a bit.

“If you dropped it in the manor, it’ll still be there when we’re done eating,” he said, as he sat down with his own plate of fish. “It’s not going anywhere.”

Chibiroth brightened a little. “You’ll take me there, after breakfast?”

“Yep.”

“Promise. Promise you will.”

Cloud rolled his eyes. “Fine. I promise.”

“Thank you,” the boy said earnestly. “I’m sorry for acting like a baby. It’s only that, the locket has the only picture of my mother. She died right after I was born, and it’s all I have left of her.”

Cloud’s eyebrows went up. It had never once occurred to him that Sephiroth had parents. But of course he did. He must. Even if he was artificially conceived, the human DNA had to come from somewhere, and he’d have to be carried by a surrogate. No way did that dead thing in the mako tank give birth to a baby.

“How did you get the picture?” he asked. “Did Hojo give it to you?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Uh. Lucky guess. Come on, eat.”

Sephiroth reached for his fork, but his fingers slipped through it. He tried again, several more times, to no avail. Seemingly exhausted by the effort, his hand fell into his lap, and his shoulders slumped. “I—I can’t. I apologize.”

Cloud looked confused. “Apologize?”

“Refusing to eat what one is given is ungrateful and ill-mannered behavior, unbefitting a SOLDIER,” the boy said stiffly, as if by rote.

“Look, I can see you can’t pick up the fork,” Cloud reasoned. “It’s not like you’re refusing on purpose. So don’t apologize.”

“Why can’t I pick it up?” Sephiroth asked mournfully, looking down at his translucent fingers. “What’s wrong with me?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Cloud answered, technically truthfully.

He swallowed a few unenthusiastic bites of his fish, but he was in no mood to eat, now, with sad-baby Sephiroth sitting there all dejected, staring at his tiny ghost hands. He didn’t even look up, when Cloud took their plates away.

It occurred to him, as he pulled on his own boots, that the child was barefoot. There was no way in the ten hells any of his shoes would fit the industrial-sized Sephiroth, but on this travel-sized version they’d even be a little too big. Any of his jackets would do, as well.

The problem was pants. Walking him through the woods last night had been a huge pain in the ass, and it’d be ten times worse with him tiny and bare-legged.

He’d rather not take the road through the Nibelheim outskirts, and risk Sephiroth being seen, so he guessed there was no better way than to just carry him. Other than going into town to buy clothes for a ghost, which would happen over his cold, dead body.

“Hey kid, come here,” he said. “Try on these shoes.”

“I’m not a kid,” Sampleroth informed him, as he came to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Oh yeah?” Cloud smirked. “What are you?”

“I’m a weapon. That’s what the professor always says.”

“Tch. Hojo is a piece of shit. Forget everything he told you. Leg.”

He stuck out his skinny leg, so Cloud could pull a thick, wool sock onto his foot, which reached up to his knee. “What’s shit?”

“Shit comes out the back, when you go to the toilet.”

Microth’s eyes went wide, and he covered his mouth with both hands, to stifle a laugh.

Cloud’s heart felt sour. This child’s warm, spontaneous giggle was so different from that mirthless, psychotic braying, when the adult Sephiroth was laughing at him for crying over Aerith.

At that thought, a surge of black, bitter rage welled up in his throat. At the same time, that icy pain stabbed through his chest, again. He avoided eye contact with the child and concentrated on tightly lacing the work boots he’d found, so they wouldn’t fall off.

“Alright, how’s that?” Cloud looked up, to find the boy unsuccessfully fighting back tears. “What’s wrong? The boots hurt?”

“I’m s—sorry,” Babyroth sniffled. “I didn’t mean to laugh. Please don’t be mad.”

“Huh? Why would I get mad about you laughing?”

“Everyone does,” the boy said miserably. “Hojo slaps me if I laugh.”

Son of a bitch. “Look, I wasn’t mad at you. I was…thinking of something else. So, no more crying, ok?”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, hastily dashing the tears away, as they rolled down his cheeks.

Cloud felt a headache coming on. “For fuck’s sake. He slapped you for crying, too?”

The silver head bobbed faintly up and down.

“Listen, you don’t have to worry about Hojo anymore, ok? He’s dead. He’ll never hit you again.”

The pink rimmed eyes looked tentatively up at him, through long, wet eyelashes. “He is?”

“Dead as a doornail. That’s what he gets for being a piece of shit who’d slap a kid for laughing or crying. Shiva’s tits.”

“What’s a doornail?”

“No idea.”

“What’s tits?”

“Rough slang for breasts. Uh. Don’t say it to women.��

When they stepped outside, the frigid atmosphere was still and heavy, unlike yesterday’s windiness, and the dark-grey storm clouds were lower and closer. Cloud knew that meant they’d be ass-deep in snow before sunset. Better not waste time. Putting his sword in a storage materia, he squatted down and lifted the child onto his back, like a backpack.

“Hang on tight,” he said.

WIth that, he took off at a full sprint, using his hyper-tuned senses to avoid trees and boulders and low-branches, and to leap deftly over fallen trees and other obstacles. That cut the two-mile walk to Shinra Manor down to less than five minutes.

“You’re so fast,” Sephiroth breathed, when he put him down, outside the gates.

“Were you scared?”

He shook his head decidedly. “I’m not scared of anything, when I’m with you.”

The innocence and earnestness of that statement hit Cloud like a kick to the gut. He turned away to conceal any emotion his face might betray, and summoned his sword again, which he slapped onto its holster.

“Let’s go find your locket.”

The locket was a pretext, of course. The real reason he wanted to come back, was to search for any kind of clue, which may help explain Sephiroth’s presence. He just didn’t know what the hell he was looking for. Before they went inside, he got out his phone and sent a text.

Strife: hey what do you know about ghosts

He didn’t expect an immediate response, so he stuffed his phone back in his pocket. He gave a start, when he felt the child’s ice-cold hand grab hold of his. Cloud looked down at him.

“I—I’m not scared,” Sephiroth said quickly. “It’s so we don’t get separated.”

Suppressing a smile, Cloud grunted his acknowledgement, and the two entered the manor’s sepulchral doorway hand-in-hand.

“Where would it be?”

“My room. I don’t think I’d leave it somewhere else.”

Cloud lifted Sephiroth in one arm and leapt up to the second-story landing. “Which one is yours?”

“Only the scientists are allowed to stay up here. My room is in the sub-basement.”

Cloud had an ominous premonition, but he kept it to himself, and the pair headed for the basement passage.

The crypt wasn’t pitch black this time, because the torch sconces Cloud lit yesterday were still burning. They weren’t special torches, it’s just that firaga spells burned mystical energy, so they were hard to put out. A skilled enough caster could make a torch out of a wet rock, if they wanted.

Past the ransacked library, through the Galian beast fight room, Sephiroth led Cloud to a narrow passage, full of steel doors. At the end, there was what looked like an industrial lift. Unfortunately, the manor hadn’t had power since the reactor shut down.

Cloud pried open the steel gates, which gave way with a lot of metallic groaning and shrieking, and peered down, then up. “The lift car is below us. We can just go down the cable.”

The boy nodded dutifully, and climbed onto Cloud’s back again. Once he was secure, Cloud leapt casually into the pitch black elevator shaft, caught the cable one-handed, and slid down, to land lightly on the roof of the lift car. It was a simple matter to open the emergency hatch and drop down, then pry open the steel gates on the bottom floor.

The darkness this far down was so heavy, that even Cloud felt uneasy. The stale, dank air was saturated with the smell of rust and rot. And…something else. Old blood. Death. And monsters. Not lot of them, though. The stronger ones must’ve eaten the weaker ones, long ago. Most of those had probably starved to death.

“What’s down here?” he asked.

“Specimen containment.” Sephiroth’s small voice sounded even smaller and thinner in the oppressive stillness.

Cloud lit up a firaga spell and peered about. The hallway branched three ways, and all three were lined with huge, heavy, steel doors, like the ones in Shinra Tower’s Science and Research Division.

Sephiroth pointed to the left hallway. “There.”

“Shit,” Cloud muttered.

Unfortunately, that was the side that was completely blocked by fallen rubble. Cloud could see from here that there were no gaps to squeeze through, and trying to clear it would be suicidal. Any disturbance could cause another collapse, and bury them under thousands of tons of rock.

“What is it?” Sephiroth asked, while Cloud was staring at the rubble, considering what to do.

“Trying to figure out how to get in there.”

“I know the passcode.”

“What good does that do us, when the whole area is caved in?”

Sephiroth looked down the hall, then up at Cloud, with a frown. “What are you talking about?”

“Sephiroth, is there something wrong with your eyes? Can you not see that the hallway is blocked?”

“No. Well…yes. I think something’s wrong. A lot of things look blurry and grey, and bright light hurts. But I can see perfectly well, in here. Maybe it’s your eyes.” Cloud just looked at him, clearly disbelieving, so the boy pulled him by the hand. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

“Hey, stop, you’re gonna knock your head against—” Cloud stopped short, as the boy walked straight through the wall of collapsed rock and masonry. He was still tugging Cloud along, but Cloud’s knuckles were stopped by the solid stone and Sephiroth’s fingers slipped out of his.

“Damn it. Sephiroth! Sephiroth, come back! I can’t get through!”

Just then, there was a slight shift in the air. The soft hiss of some kind of hide, sliding against stone. The nauseating stench of death rose around him, like a thick fog. The corners of Cloud’s mouth curled imperceptibly upward, as he reached back and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword.

The intruder emitted a low growl, that sounded as if it came up from the bowels of hell. A snarl and a leap. Ten tons of muscle and bone erupted out of the inky darkness, to collide with the swing of heavy-bladed greatsword.

The titanic beast was knocked sideways, crashing into a stone wall, scattering debris all around. Mad with hunger and undeterred, it clambered to its feet, shook its head, and sprang again, with a roar of fury at the tiny creature that had dared to cause it pain.

This time it caught the blade in its mighty fangs and clamped down tight. With a swing of its head, it flung the creature in an arc, to pulverize its impudent bones against the wall. The little thing struck the wall…with its booted feet. And began to push back.

The beast snarled and snorted, slavering around the blade between its fangs, but it was in a conundrum, now. It couldn’t loosen its hold on the blade without the small creature cleaving its jaw in two. It shook its head hard, trying to dislodge the thing from the blade, but it just held on.

The beast had no choice but to give up the blade. With a half spin, it used the momentum of its body to fling both sword and wielder away down the hall. The small creature landed in a crouch, sliding backward, the blade digging a furrow in the stone floor, as it skidded to a halt.

The beast gave a snarl of wrath, foaming at the maw, and charged desperately, to meet its foe. The tiny creature shot forward like a bullet. Like lightning. Like nothing the hellish beast had ever seen, in its life of miserable captivity, forced to fight other beasts and little monsters like this one, for survival.

A flash of blinding, blue light clove the darkness asunder.

All at once, the boundless sky opened before the eyes of the beast. It stood not in a stinking, rot-filled hole in the earth, but sweet, green grass, looking out upon vast meadows and snow-capped mountains.

It threw back its horned head and drank deep of the clean air. Its warped and mutilated body was whole and hale again. It felt young and strong and full of life, as it had not in many years.

Then it heard a call. Hardly daring to hope, it turned. There was its pack, running free under the sky. Leaping and racing to meet it, were its mate and cubs, who had lived in chains and died in torment, at the hands of those two-legged monsters. The roars of joyous reunion shook the heavens.

In the stifling darkness of that basement hallway, the behemoth’s massive head thudded to the stone floor, cleanly severed. Its body wavered for a split second, and then collapsed, a fallen mountain of hideously scarred and mutated muscle and hide and bone.

Cloud closed his eyes and held his blade upright in honorable salute. Hopefully, this tortured creature found its peace, at the end.

When he opened them, he blinked and squinted in the suddenly bright (compared to the pitch dark) illumination. There were wall lamps, all along the hallways, which seemed to have mysteriously powered on.

He looked down, confused. The behemoth’s carcass was nowhere to be seen. Not even a drop of blood remained. Behind him, the formerly rubble-blocked hallway was perfectly sound and clear, without a bit of gravel out of place. What the hell was going on, here?

There was a noise, around the corner. Footsteps and voices echoing up the hall. They were coming this way, but it was far too late to find a place to hide. Having no choice, he stood his ground, sword at the ready. Two white-coated scientists turned the corner, looking over a chart and discussing something.

They walked right past Cloud, like he wasn’t there. So, it was like the last memory. They couldn't see him, because he wasn't really in this time and place. He was only an observer.

Sheathing his sword, he followed the scientists down the hall, in the direction Sephiroth had gone. There were small observation windows in each door. Cloud peered in each one, as he passed.

Monsters, all of them. Twisted and mutated to varying degrees. Some were stitched together from parts of other monsters. Some were chillingly humanoid.

The scientists had stopped before one of the doors. They were looking in at the specimen in the room and chatting idly about interesting experimental results. Cloud heard one of them say ‘Subject S’ and his stomach turned. The little boy. Child Sephiroth. That was his room.

Cloud pushed the two men put of the way and he peered in the small window, as they stood there and kept talking, as if nothing had happened.

Sephiroth’s ten-year-old version was sitting on what appeared to be an oblong metal crate, looking despondently at the floor. His feet were bare and his skinny body was draped in a thin, grey hospital gown.

“Sephiroth!” Cloud said, banging on the door.

The boy looked up quickly. Seeing Cloud, his expression turned ecstatic, and he leapt up and ran to the door. “Cloud! Cloud! You came for me!”

“Shut the fuck up in there!” one of the scientists said, smacking the door with his open palm. They both laughed, like it was hilarious to startle and bully a captive child. Cloud wanted to tear their throats out, but he ignored them.

“How do I get you out?”

“Keycard. They took away my passcode privileges.”

He looked down at the door, and saw the number pad and keycard slider. The two scientists each had a badge with their picture and a microchip, clipped to their coats. Cloud plucked one off and slid it in the reader. After a second, the light flashed green and he heard a bolt click. He pushed the door open.

Sephiroth’s little arms were flung around him as the boy’s tiny body struck his midsection with enough force to knock the wind out of him. “You’re here, just like you promised! I knew you’d come!”

Cloud gently pried the child off him and knelt, to get a better look at him. There were dark circles under his eyes, and long, pink lines across his face. Fresh wounds in the process of healing. His arms were covered in more pink lines, plus ugly, purple-black bruises. There was blood under his fingernails.

“What happened?”

“Fight.”

“Why are you in this specimen paddock?”

“This is my room.”

Cloud looked around the bare, ugly, six by six cell, worse than the cells in a Shinra prison, and felt his fury boiling up like magma. He took a long breath, then spoke slowly and calmly, to keep it under control. “How can this be your room? There is no bed, no toilet, and nowhere to sit, except this metal crate.”

“This is my bed,” Sephiroth said, looking away, like he was embarrassed. “They give me a blanket at night. Usually.”

Cloud did not have the fortitude to unpack that ‘usually’ without unleashing mass destruction, so he moved past it for now. “Did you find your locket?”

Sephiroth shook his head, tears starting in his eyes. “I can’t find it. Last time I was here, I was wearing it already.”

“You’ve had this memory before?”

“Mn.”

“What happens next?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“You can tell me. Whatever it is, I’ll protect, you I promise.”

Sephiroth’s eyes flickered to the door, then away. “I don’t want you to see.”

One of the scientists had gone away, so only the other one was left. At that moment, he came into the room, looking only at Sephiroth, as if Cloud wasn’t there at all.

“Exam time, Sephiroth,” he said, in a bland, inoffensive voice.

Sephiroth was ash white and shaking, but his eyes were fierce and hard, pupils dilated to narrow slits, in the blue-green irises.

“I had my exam already,” he said icily.

“This is a different kind of exam.” The man smiled as he shut the door behind him. “I just need to check a few things, today, to make sure you’re developing normally.”

Cloud saw fucking red. “Sephiroth…did he—”

“He tried,” the little demon said, low and toneless.

The man sat on the metal crate. “Come over here. I don’t bite.”

“No,” the boy snapped, in his unintimidating little voice.

“Come now, Sephiroth. You know what happens, if you don’t cooperate with medical personnel, right?”

Cloud watched in horror, as Sephiroth hung his head, and went to stand before the man.

“I didn’t know,” Sephiroth said to Cloud. “I didn’t know to have my guard up, for this kind of thing. But I learned.”

Cloud’s sword was already out, but just as the man tried to lift Sephiroth’s gown, the boy leapt on him, with an inhuman howl. The much bigger man fell to the floor, clutching his torn throat, as crimson blood gushed and spurted all over the stone.

Sephiroth fell upon his supine body, growling and clawing him with his bare hands. He died gurgling pathetically, while the feral wolf cub literally tore him open and disemboweled him.

Sephiroth, bathed in blood, wild-eyed and white teeth bared, looked up at Cloud and burst into tears. “I didn’t want you to see! I—I didn’t want you to know how bad I am!”

There was a commotion, outside the door. It seemed the man had triggered some kind of emergency system. Alarms blared and red lights flashed. Booted footsteps thundered down the hall. A trooper kicked the door open. There were ten of them, with stun batons and black riot gear. For a ten-year-old child.

Cloud picked up the sobbing, blood-soaked boy and swung his sword one-handed, blowing the soldiers away like chaff.

“You’re not bad,” he said, in Sephiroth's ear. “Do you hear me? I’m proud of you, for what you did. I’m so proud of you, for defending yourself. That disgusting filth…he deserved a far worse death than that.”

Sephiroth wrapped his bruised and bloodied arms around Cloud’s neck and buried his face in his shoulder, as Cloud carried him out of that room, stepping over the bodies of guards.

“Does the memory end here?”

“No. The guards beat me with those shock batons till I black out, then I wake up from it. But you killed them all.”

Cloud cursed under his breath (at the guards having beaten a small child unconscious, not at his having killed them all, with which he had no moral qualms, whatsoever).

“Why is it that people can’t see or hear me, but I can affect things?”

“I don’t know.”

Just then, another troop of guards came storming up, but they ran right past Sephiroth and Cloud, like they didn’t see them.

“Seems like they can’t see you either, if you diverge from the memory’s path.”

As they stepped into the T-intersection of the hallways, the world suddenly went inky-black. The boy gave a little whimper, clinging even more tightly to Cloud.

“It’s ok. I think we woke up,” Cloud said, and summoned his firaga spell again.

Sure enough, they were back in the dank, disused basement, as it had been before the memory sucked him in. No time had even passed, evidenced by the dead beast's body, which was just beginning to dissolve into sparks of green, to be accepted back into the lifestream.

“What happened?” Sephiroth gasped, looking around wide-eyed. “The hallway…it’s all blocked off with rocks! Is that a behemoth?!”

“It attacked me after you went through the wall,” Cloud explained, as he set him on his feet. “It was suffering. Probably starving. I ended things as quickly as possible.”

Sephiroth lowered his head contritely. “I’m sorry I ran off. I got so eager to find my locket, but it wasn’t there.”

“Maybe we can still find it. Is there anywhere else you may have left it, or dropped it?”

“I—I don’t know,” Sephiroth said, quickly growing distressed. “I can’t remember.”

“Calm down and think carefully. Where is the last place you saw it?”

Sephiroth’s brows furrowed in thought. Just as they did, Cloud stumbled and his firaga spell winked out, as the entire floor bucked and tilted under their feet.

“What the hell is happening now!”

He grabbed for Sephiroth, who had been right beside him, but his hand closed on nothing. Suddenly he found himself blinking around, in the grey light of a tumultuous outdoor scene.

A beach. Waves roared and crashed on the shore, and the stormy sea was glowing a sickly green. The ground was shuddering and quaking, as huge fissures opened everywhere, emanating that same green light. It was that island, from those bizarre dreams he had, last night. This must be another memory.

He heard voices and turned, just in time to see a big, blonde man throw a silver-haired boy to the ground. Sephiroth. He was older, now, but not by much. Just a young teenager. Who was this jackass pushing him around?

“Sephiroth!” Cloud shouted, as the boy got to his feet.

Sephiroth turned his head, to look in Cloud’s direction. The man grabbed him and threw him to the ground again. He was bellowing about something, but Cloud couldn’t understand what he was saying, over the thundrous cacophony of the waves and earthquakes.

He dashed toward them. Sephiroth reached for something near his feet. The man kicked it. Cloud watched in slow-motion, as a little silver glint went tumbling through the air, bounced off a rocky crag, and vanished into the massive rent in the earth.

Cold realization shot through him. It was the locket. Cloud told Sephiroth to think about the last time he saw it, and this was the last time he saw it.

The only picture of his mother. The only thing he had, to prove he was a human being, with a person who had cared for him. And that man had thrown the boy to the ground and kicked that irreplaceable treasure into a fissure.

Cloud’s simmering rage exploded, and his brilliant blue sword-light went arcing toward the man, cutting a deep gash in the rocky ground as it went. The teenaged Sephiroth didn’t even see it. He was staring dazedly after the locket, which had been swallowed into the bowels of the earth.

The sword light split the blonde man down the middle, cutting the vision apart, causing it to whirl away and vanish, just like the first one had, yesterday.

Sephiroth was on the floor, sitting halfway up, still gazing away into the pitch darkness, after the locket. Cloud knelt by him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Sephiroth.”

The boy turned his head to look up at him. It was no longer the child, though, it was the teenaged Sephiroth, from that last memory.

“Cloud,” said his deeper, but still youthful voice. “Am I...dead?”

“Yes. You are,” Cloud answered, as gently as possible.

“Then why…” His voice wavered and he swallowed hard. “Why didn’t I find my mother?”

Cloud cleared his own throat, against the sudden, aching tightness in it. “I don’t know.”

“I always thought, if they’d just let me die, then I’d finally be with my mother. But it’s not like that, at all.”

A tear rolled down the boy's white cheek. He curled into himself, letting his shaggy, chin-length hair hang over his face. His body was translucent again, and his voice was becoming more fuzzy and indistinct, like a fading radio signal. At the same time, that pain in Cloud’s chest returned with a vengeance, a needle of ice stabbing through his heart.

“I’m alone, in the dark. I’m always hungry. I’m always cold. I’m always afraid. I feel like…I did something terrible. Something to make me deserve this. But I can’t remember what it was. I can’t remember anything I want to, and I can’t escape from the memories I don’t want, when they come. And I can’t leave this house. No matter how hard I try, I can never find my way out.”

“But you did,” Cloud said through his teeth, clenched against the pain, which was worsening by the second. “You came to my cabin, last night.”

“I did. I did, because…you helped me. You showed me the way.” Sephiroth looked up, then gave a start, seeing Cloud clutching his chest. “Cloud, what’s wrong! What’s happening, are you hurt?”

Unable to speak or breathe or even think, Cloud pitched forward. But the instant before his skull struck the stone floor, he felt himself buoyed back up. Something had caught him, and was lifting him to his feet.

The pain in his chest melted away into soothing warmth. He felt fabric on his face and smelled his own laundry soap, along with something else, underlying it. A faint, aromatic scent, that reminded him of petrichor.

Teenaged Sephiroth was holding him tightly, against his chest. His lean, sinewy body felt solid and real. Rather than being ice cold, it was actually a little above the ambient room temperature. Which still wasn’t all that warm, considering they were in an uninsulated basement in Nibelheim, but it wasn’t so corpselike, as usual.

Coming abruptly back to himself, Cloud twisted out of his grasp and backed away a step. “Thanks.”

“Does it hurt, here?” Sephiroth asked, laying a hand on his own heart.

“Yeah,” Cloud admitted. “It stopped, but when it hurts, that’s where it is.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What the hell are you sorry, for? It has nothing to do with you.”

Sephiroth lowered his head and looked wounded. Cloud found he had to suppress a sudden urge to apologize for snapping at him. What was wrong with him? Why was he so concerned with Sephiroth’s deranged ghost’s feelings?

“Why are you older, now?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sephiroth said helplessly.

“You can’t tell? You’re almost as tall as me. A few minutes ago, you barely came up to my chest.”

“I can’t. I guess, you always seem the same, to me.”

“How do I seem?”

“You’re…Cloud. You’re warm and bright, like morning sun. And you’re so strong. Stronger than anything in the world. Being near you makes me feel safe. Like nothing can hurt me, when you’re there. But…you don’t feel safe. You're in pain. There's so much rage. So much hatred, in you. I think…I think you hate me.”

“You’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“You’re not the one I hate.” Cloud held his hand out. “Take my hand and don’t let go. Let’s not lose each other again.”

THE AUTHOR HAS SOMETHING TO SAY

next chap

ao3

#sefikura #sephiroth x cloud #sephiroth #cloud strife #enemies to lovers #enemies to something at least #hurt/comfort #ff7 #final fantasy 7 #ffvii #dirge of cerberus #post dirge #canon timeline #final fantasy vii #young sephiroth #miniroth #tw: child abuse #tw: childhood trauma

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