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bibliocratic · 4 years ago

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a tale as old prompt: stories / wish pairing: aceMartin / aceJon (with a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it aroSasha)

A long time ago, stories made tell of a beast, living solitary and woodland-bound at the heart of the great forest. In the days before in the first age of the king, strange Powers beset the land and its people with all manner of terrors unnameable with the human tongue, and those afflicted were both revered and shunned in kind. This beast bore the aspect of a man, agreeable in face if not in manner, and was possessed of dark powers of knowing gifted to him by an unkindly denizen of the planes unseen. Rumour would have you believe that the beast had been a warlock, cursed through the rot of his allegiances, or a monk from some lowly church whose worshipful songs had summoned others listening from the clutch of the deep, or even a scribe in name and nature, a misbegotten soul who had read the wrong scrolls by the wrong candlelight. The truth of who he was before is little of our concern.

It was said, that those who ventured into the most unhallowed, shadow-snarled parts of the forest to retrieve him were never to be seen again, but tongues are free and mouths are wagging, and it is as likely that most feared the power of the beast too much to ever enter his domain.

There was, at that time, another young man, bestowed the name of Martin. The world in its wisdom had gifted Martin a kind heart easily bruised like the skin of apples, and strong shoulders as the oxen have with which to bear the weight of his small and heavy world. He lived for twenty-four summers with his mother, in a thatch-roofed farm on the edge of the great forest, and his days were the to-ing and fro-ing of a labouring life.

His mother had taken to her sickbed years afore, and while doctors and soothsayers and cunning men had hawked glistening potions and sweet-smelling pastes that they swore could cure all manner of ills, she had only worsened as time wore steadily on. Winter was approaching, the winding drop and stripping of leaves promising a long season of hard earth compacted with snow, and Martin worried his mother would not survive until spring.

He had heard, of course, about the beast of the Black Woods. The reputation laid before him, spoken of gravely with clucking tongues and shaking heads, of a silver-tongued sorcerer in league with spirits of the air and deep, who could summon forth the answer to any question in return for payment. The reckoning varied on the teller, and fanciful notions of first-borns and blood-tithes and betrothals abounded.

But the trees outside the forest had shed their clothes to bareness, and the welcoming touch of speckling frost had begun to settle upon the ground, and Martin’s mother grew weaker, developing a cough that rattled in her rickety lungs. And so, Martin of the Black Woods packed a small knapsack and ventured upon the winding pathways of the forest to seek out the beast who lived there.

The forest was not forbidding to his mind, though the knotted roots sewed themselves thick and wily through the undergrowth, disrupting the pathway. The branched canopy of trees which had sprouted from saplings in eras long lost from memory stretched tall and wide, forcing the sunlight to submit to gloom. There was the tremulous warble of birds as he walked, the shush of far-off water, and Martin chose to think upon these, rather than his fear of the task at hand.

He walked for hours, although he had no comforting vision of the sun to mark his time. Resting for a moment, he set himself at the base of a sturdy oak to gather himself, taking a sip from his waterskin. He closed his eyes but for a moment, lulled by the birdsong and the faint tune of the water, and when he opened them, the beast was there.

Eyes thronged unnaturally about his head as one would wear a coronet of fireflies. The beast was simple in garb, kept neatly, and all about his skin sprouted more pupils that mixed and intermingled as oil and water.

“You are far from the path, pilgrim,” the beast said.

Martin said nothing, his throat too bound in terror at the beast’s appearance, and the beast made a noise of annoyance, and his coronet of eyes spluttered out like water thrown on a campfire.

“I have no time for the lost of this world,” he said.

Martin was sore afraid, but he forced himself to stand, to look into the eyes of the beast for fear of offending so mighty a sorcerer, focusing on the pupils on his face that gleamed out like polished glass.

“If you please, Lord. I have come in search of you.”

“What do you seek that would have you search out my haunts and hollows?” the beast replied. “I have long grown bored of those who track me down to demand riches or wealth in abundance, those who desire power and might and lack the will or judgement to bring such things about by their own hand.”

“If you please, Lord,” Martin said. “A sickness has long ailed my mother, and I wish to see her cured.”

The beast considered this, and the awful visage of his form folded back into him begrudgingly, for the young man’s request had a tenor of honesty.

“There is no discount for your honour, however touching I’m sure it is,” the beast responded dismissively. “You know the price I ask.”

Martin considered the many stories told of what payment would be demanded of him, and fearing to cause the beast to anger by confessing his ignorance, replied instead:

“I would have you name it, Lord.”

The beast huffed, and rolled his eyes and said:

“Do not call me Lord. I possess no titles and desire none.”

Martin asked haltingly what name he would prefer.

“Watcher is my name and occupation. I am a devourer, my hungers bountiful and unceasing. My price, Martin of the Black Woods, is to taste a story told true from your lips. Should it satisfy, I will grant you what you ask.”

“What story should I speak of?” Martin asked. And then the beast turned every eye upon his trembling form, and bid him, in a voice sturdy as moonrise, insistent as drowning, crackling like leaf-fall, to tell of his first heartbreak.

And so Martin did as he was bidden, helpless as his tale spilt like water from his mouth, a breathless recount of first love and rejection, sacrificed to the eyes that feasted upon all the shadows his memory cast upon his soul. When he was finished, for the tale was woefully short in its particulars by merit of its simplicity, Martin attempted to bring himself up to full height and wipe away the tears that had begun to drip down the round of his cheeks, awaiting the judgement of the beast who stood expressionless before him.

Finally, the beast spoke, his words suddenly rusted with tiredness: “There is a flower. White as dawn-touched feathers. The roots are fragile and take poorly to most earth, yet it grows in a clearing in these woods not far from here. Pick a handful and return to your homestead. The roots you must boil. When the water cools, she should drink this for three nights, though the flavour is bitter. Her food, you should season with the crushed petals as you would salt. Then her sickness will be cured.”

The beast pointed a long finger to guide his direction and bade him safe passage, and then he was gone, and Martin was left with the stain of tears fresh on his face, his mind warring between fear and wonderment.

He did as the beast had told. And the cough that had taken up lodging in his mother’s lungs diminished apace until she breathed clean and clear for the first time in years.

For those three nights, and for many nights after, Martin dreamt of the beast. His striking eyes waxing and waning in the skin of his face. His restless gait and glowering manner. His demeanour proclaiming a strange kind of lonely, and within Martin blossomed a kinship for this soul, whose life was bordered by the edges of the forest, who had taken Martin’s story from his back as though a yoke for a little while.

It was not long before Martin returned to the great forest. Settling himself down at the foot of that elder oak, bowed regally by the press of the wind, and waiting.

The beast did not look pleased to see him return.

“These are for my thanks,” Martin said quickly, and from his knapsack brought out a clay jar of honey from his own hives.

“I thank you then. For your kindness,” the beast said after a while, and his speech was the awkward and stilting gait of a new-born foal when he continued: “Your mother? Is she better?”

“Her cough has left her,” Martin confessed. “Though she is still afflicted with a malediction of the bones that the winter brings on fiercely.”

“You know my price,” the beast said, and Martin nodded, and when the beast’s many eyes gazed upon him like a flaying and demanded the story of his greatest grief, squatting ruinous at the tender heart of him, Martin poured it forth without resentment.

“You should pick more flowers,” the beast advised. He had bought out a folded cloth from his pocket, promising that it was clean, and offered it to soak up Martin’s tears which trickled plentiful down his face when his payment had been satisfied. Martin took it with a wary hand, but it was an offering sincerely made and as such, gratefully received. “They are known as cat’s tongues in common parlance. They nestle in thickets amidst blackberries, and their petals are long and red and they will score your hands should you attempt to pluck them. They grow half a day’s walk from here. They should be ground into a paste, and administered at dusk, rubbed over the limb like a salve.”

Again, the beast soon disappeared amidst the branches of the great forest. And Martin followed the missive delivered to him, the cloth tucked away in his pocket, and picked the flowers known as cat’s tongues, which scratched and tore up the skin of his hands in his mission.

Martin served his mother dutifully night after night. Her legs grew stronger, and she could walk around the small farmstead with the gait of a maiden threescore years younger. And once a week, once his chores were done and the livestock attended to, Martin packed his bag with offerings for the strange beast of the forest who so occupied his dreams and waking moments, to thank him for his pains. To request another medicine, to see his mother whole and well.

The beast requested tales of hurt and shame and loss and grief, and Martin had many of those to offer upon his altar. After a drawn-out tale of miserable indignities, Martin was left shivering and swaying as a ship with storm-tossed rigging, his legs ill-equipped to carry him hence. After a pause, the beast had snapped at him to sit down, to take nourishment before continuing his quest.

Martin did as he was told, sensing no malice in the beast’s tone. Opening his bag, he offered the beast some of his bread and cheese. The beast blinked with all his eyes before cautiously agreeing, and their silence as they ate was companionable.

As time passed, the beast asked for different tales; those of quiet joy, warmth and comfort. Martin had fewer of those, but he delivered what was asked of him, and the beast rewarded his pains with the knowledge of where more flowers and berries and herbs were to be found. Gradually the beast tarried longer, as if unwilling to immediately depart, and they often broke bread and shared water under the soft shadow of the great forest.

When the touch of winter had passed into a chill spring, Martin visited the beast once more. He had crafted a woollen blanket from the fleece of one of his sheep, spun it on the wheel in the candlelight while his mother slept.

“For my thanks,” he said, like he always did, his face flushed the colour of strawberries, and the beast held the gift carefully in his hands to feel the weight and warmth of it. His voice was unsteady when he declared Martin was too kind to present him such a gift.

“How may I help your mother today?” the beast asked quietly.

Martin was silent for a long while before he spoke.

“My mother has no sickness of the body remaining,” he replied. “Her pains have been taken from her through your patient instruction. It is only a sickness of the heart, rooted as ivy in her. She sees in my face the ghost of my father’s follies, and her manner has long hardened towards me.”

The beast appeared sorrowful.

“This, I have no cure for,” he said.

“I would not ask one of you.”

“What would you have of me then?”

Martin did not look upon the beast as he stammered and stuttered that if the beast wished, Martin would have his company, to sit under the branches of the great oak. That they might share a small meal, speak without transaction, that Martin might ask questions of the beast if that would be deemed permissible.

The beast smiled, the gesture foreign to his face. It would take a long time before he was to realise that love, unbeknownst to him, had begun to seed in the soil of his heart left to fallow.

For months, Martin visited the beast of the forest, to break bread and share small tales not fed to any god, but kept as keepsakes within the memories of the other.

One day, it came about that a band of soldiers travelled through town, passing through to reach the port a few day’s south. They roamed in search of able-bodied souls to swell their number, and Martin was not unknown to the villagers, to whom he sold the produce from their farm and involved himself in the passage of their lives. And so, to his door came a man as tall and broad as a barn door. His handshake was a frost-bitten chill of a winter’s eve without candlelight, and he introduced himself as Peter Lukas.

Peter Lukas gazed upon Martin with eyes the colour of fog, and offered him an apprenticeship, serving upon his ship that laid wait in dock not two days travel. He spoke with feigned sincerity on how valuable Martin would be to his crew, how honoured such a title was, but while Martin did not trust his over-sharp smile nor his fool’s gold promises, it was true that the farm was suffering. His mother, while hale, was too old to work in the fields as she once had, and the money Peter Lukas promised was enough to keep her comfortable.

It was enough for a good dowry, Lukas chuckled, as if the idea was cause for merriment, should Martin wish to marry. Enough for a home, should he wish to settle down. Martin’s lot was a poor one, and would consign any beloved to gruelling hard-work all the days of their life. And surely, Peter Lukas chided, Martin would want to provide for those he loved, not damn them to a thankless life easily washed away by an errant storm or an ill-tempered season.

Peter Lukas cast himself in the manner of a liar, but his mouth spoke the truth well enough.

That evening, Martin visited the beast of the woods and told him he would be leaving. With the soldiers, and Peter Lukas, to make what fortune he could while his body was unbroken by time and labour.

The beast was angered and afraid. He had heard tell of Peter Lukas, who served a god much like his own, and in his heart flourished a fear of Martin’s fate, lost to the fog and sea. He snapped and goaded and snarled, tempestuous and terrified, but Martin had set his mind to it, and finally the beast relented. Beckoning Martin to follow him, he lead the young man deeper into the woods, his corona of eyes a light by which to see by, eventually arriving at a clearing and the cottage where the beast made his home.

The beast’s cottage was comely, ringed with warmth from the hearth, the brickwork soaked with heat. Martin perused the laden piles of manuscripts and scrolls that tiered from floor to the low ceiling, and he wondered what knowledge they spoke of, for no one had ever taught Martin his letters. The beast searched impatiently through disordered piles before he brought forth objects that shimmered in the glow of the firelight.

“I would make three requests of you,” the beast asked. “Though I have little right to.”

Martin bade him name them.

The first, was to accept the unusual treasures he had gathered in his arms. The beast gave Martin a compass, well-used by time, the glass splintered like a lightening bolt through the centre of its face, and told him to keep it upon his person, that he may not lose sight of land, for the hand would ever point homeward. Next, he gifted him a mirror, plain and foxed in the corner with black speckles.

“So you will never be lonely. Its twin is in my possession, and whatever is spoken in yours will be heard in mine. Alas, the charm is old and warped, and I have not the skill to mend it, for the same does not bare out in the reverse.

“What should I say to it?”

“I would have you whisper into the mirror,” the beast said after a moment’s thought, and his gestures were as the flight of anxious birds and his eyes for once did not meet Martin’s gaze as he spoke. “On nights becalmed and troubled, when you are heartsick. The domain Peter Lukas presides over is peaceful, in its own way, a place to soothe and numb and forget. But I beg of you, speak to the mirror and remember every blistering, joyous, terrible moment of being alive, and what you have endured to call yourself such. So that I know you breathe still, that I have not lost you to the fog.”

The second gift the beast bestowed was the knowledge of his name, long unspoken and unheard even to the ears of the beast. And Martin tasted the word Jonathan on his lips, and knew the knowing of it would warm him even on the coldest of nights.

“The final request is my gravest charge,” the beast said, and he stood before Martin, studying him with every one of his eyes, and touched his hand against Martin’s chest to feel the fragile motion of his heartbeat.

“Name it.”

“Come back to me,” he asked, and Martin’s eyes prickled with tears as he gave his solemn word.

Martin gifted him the last of his honey, and another garment spun in candlelight and dyed with woad and weld so its colour was that of the beast’s eyes.

The beast watched him leave, standing at the threshold of his cottage long after his eyes could not see him.

Martin’s lot was arduous, though he quickly rose through the ranks under the tutelage of Peter Lukas. He saved diligently every penny of his earnings, with a mind to build a home in the woodland, to buy a modest ring of silver, to deck himself in clothes worthy of a man like the beast and ask him for his hand. When it was his turn on lookout, he’d take the mirror up to the crow’s nest and speak gently into the glass as he sat curled under a bedrock of stars. His compass was ever in his pocket.

But the way of the Forsaken is a cunning one, the fog insidious in its beckoning. Martin struggled to recall the gift he had been given, and one day found the sea had taken it as payment for his continued service, and he was struck with a terror that he would forget the beast of the forest, and so he spoke the beast’s true name upon waking, upon sleeping, as a chant when the fog settled in low and their voyage was becalmed and there seemed nothing but emptiness from horizon to horizon. And in this way, he persisted, no matter how much of him the fog laid claim to.

It was many years before Martin returned to shore. Salt ingrained in his skin, a scattering of white to his hair like chicken seed. His apprenticeship served. The ship came to port far from his homestead, and he would have wandered lost if not for the compass which bore Martin true and back to the little village and his farm on the outskirts of the Black Woods.

It had been a long time since he had dreamt of the beast. And his return ate up his time and attention, amidst the newly made demands of his mother, grown more distant with age.

He had been returned some three months before he packed his knapsack and ventured along pathways his feet had never forgotten how to tread.

He waited patiently by the hollow all day. A jar of honey in his knapsack, and only one more story in his mouth. The beast did not appear, even as the day slid into night. He did not appear the next day, not the next, nor the next, but Martin made his faithful pilgrimage regardless.

He was rewarded for his pains on the sixth day. The beast appeared wreathed in eyes like a holly garland, his expression hard and hurt. His body had been struck and ill-used by time and events Martin had not been privy to, and he ached, to see him the bearer of so many scars.

“What would you will of me, Martin?” he asked, and his tongue was sharp to hide an anxious heart.

“I kept my promise,” Martin said, but the beast’s face did not soften at this, for he had endured years of silence, mourned and tried to forget the young man who had gifted him honey and blankets and promised to speak to him, even across the vast of the sea.

“I am glad to see it. I ask again. What would you will of me?”

“My mother would have me wed.”

The beast paused, before continuing with a sadness loosening the bricks of his heart.

“I see. Your apprenticeship has not left you a poor man, it was to be expected. And would you ask me for the finest silks, the cleverest bride or the prettiest groom or the gentlest spouse, the happiest matrimony in the kingdom?”

Martin did not flinch at the beast’s tone.

“My mother engaged me in a match while I was away,” he replied. “And although my betrothed is clever and dashing and would make me a happy man, I hold no love in my heart for her, nor she I. Her heart does not take to ardour as others do, though she cherishes my happiness and would be a steadfast companion. And I have never been mindful of passions of the sort expected from a husband.”

“It is not in my power to make people love,” the beast spoke harshly. “Nor is it to offer solutions to things that do not need fixing. The mechanisms of your heart are your own, as valued as any other, and I would not alter them.”

“That is not what I would ask,” Martin said. He approached the beast with open hands and an open face. “I ask only to tell you a story. The only one I have left to give you.”

Martin walked forward, and his eyes were not the grey the beast had feared but the blue of skies sighted through the canopy of the great forest. His hand, worn and calloused by his labours, reached out, and touched the chest of the beast to feel the rise and fall of his breathing.

“It is the story of my love,” he said, “for the soul who lives at the centre of the woods, blessed with the sight of a thousand eyes. Who gifted me his company, for a short time, and his name, which I have carried as a talisman to ward off all manner of evil. Of how I came to love him, and crafted gifts declaring my devotions when my tongue could not, and how my affections were not diminished by neither time nor tide. The man who whom I spoke my dreams and fears and hopes, even when I did not have the mirror though which he could hear me. Of the future I would hope for us, should my affections be returned. Of the life I do not dare to dream we could have, if only I knew he felt in kind.”

The beast took Martin’s hand and cradled it in a gentle grip.

“Such a request has a high price,” he said.

“Name it, Jonathan,” Martin said, and the beast’s face bloomed with a smile that lit up every one of his staring eyes.

“I would have the years of your life, Martin of the Black Woods,” the beast said. “I would have them to cherish and guard and hoard and share. And in return I would love you with all I have within me capable of such a task, and hope you found mind me worthy of the same.”

And so Martin embraced the beast, and swore to adore him all the years of his life. What further words and declarations they recounted to each other were not recorded. Years later, tales told of two beasts in the guises of men, who held court in their home at the centre of the forest. One, granted gifts of knowing, who would ask a story as the price for his learning. The second, a white-haired man untouched by time, who would find those lost upon the winding pathways of the forest and kindly escort them out, only to slip away amidst the trees like mist when his task was done.

But stories make tell of many things, and the truth of this tale is known only to the leaves and the trees of the Black Woods.

#aspecarchives #tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #fic #sorry Sasha #you got barely a cameo #folks need to know that first drafts of this had more Sasha and aceTim #because I adore them both and might write more for them tomorrow

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evolutionsvoid · 4 years ago

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It is a time of joy and reverence, when those who are chosen hear the call of the rivers. When our kind embarks on the greatest of pilgrimages, and returns to the waters that saw our birth. Many others find our ceremony grim, and question our worship of such a thing. How can a ritual that ends in death be inspiring? How can one see those who die and feel anything but loss? It is because they do not see what we do. They do not understand what are lives create, and what our bodies provide for the world. This is not a pilgrimage of death, it is one of life and prosperity. Those who are chosen are bringing forth the next generation, and are returning to the waters to keep all alive and thriving. What greater feat could be done? If we are to die, then let it be for our children and the world that they will inherit. When that season comes, there is excitement and wonder in the water. All who have grown in age and wisdom will be eager to see if they will be amongst those who are chosen. The call does not come for everyone, there are some who have been chosen the first year after they have grown, while other elders have waited for over a decade for their turn. There is no telling who will hear the beckoning of the river, but when it happens, everyone will see their glory. Those called by the place of our birth will begin to change, their bodies preparing for the great pilgrimage. The crimson mark is a sign of holiness, and those who wear its badge are ready for the duty that comes with it. In the passing weeks, all those who are chosen will transform. We who did not receive the beckoning shall aid them, for that is our role in this year's pilgrimage. We will guide them to the waters where the salt ends, and where the life-giving river pours its heart. Those who are not chosen may not enter these pristine waters, it is not our place and we would not survive this terrible blasphemy. Those who have been chosen and changed may cross that boundary, and once they do, there is no turning back. With their bodies prepared and their hearts readied, they will dive into the river's embrace and begin the great journey. What it must be, to forge those waters. To fight against the powerful current and climb the weeping cliffs. To be fin-to-fin with your brethren, pushing forth to fulfill your duty and return to the waters of our birth. It is a journey we all hope to make, and one we shall only make once. It is not one of leisure, as there are many obstacles and dangers to be found. Beasts of the earth know of our pilgrimage, and they crave the flesh of the holy. Claw and teeth may seek to claim us, while the turbulent waters seek to test and resist us. Of those who go on this pilgrimage, not all shall reach that holy place. The beasts may take them, or the treacherous currents may break their bodies. Those who fall during this journey shall not be shunned, they will be celebrated. Their sacrifice ensures that more of us shall survive, and that the pilgrimage will be complete. We all know that this journey is not for us as individuals, but for our kind as a whole. All is for our future and the waters that shall carry them. After the endless struggle, those who survived will emerge into the spawning grounds, where the first and final ceremony of our kind shall be performed. It is a celebration, of the chosen, the journey and the generations that shall come after. The waters will be churned in euphoria, and the last dance shall be performed. What little remains after the taxing journey will be spent here, in these reverent moments of passion. The nests will be formed, the eggs will be released and our lives shall be at an end. When all is done and the pilgrimage comes to a close, we will die. Our exhausted bodies will fall to slumber, and our minds shall fade as we give our lives to the holy waters. But what they see as they sink into darkness, is something that we can only dream of: life, pure and plenty. The eggs of our children, the continuation of our kind, all ensured by their great sacrifice. Their bodies shall return to the river, and nourish the waters that give us all life. The nursery is built from all who come before them, and there is no greater blessing than to join our ancestors in this cause. In time, the eggs shall hatch and the young shall thrive. They will grow in the life waters that flowed from their parents, preparing to join all the others who wait for them. When they are strong, they shall be carried by the rivers to great sea, right into the arms of the waiting community. We will all wait at this boundary, excited to welcome the new generation as they pour from the river. They will join us and they will learn. It is a blessed cycle, where we shall teach them and prepare them, so that they are ready for when we have gone on our own pilgrimages. They will become the new elders and caretakers, and they shall receive the generations that come from our sacrifice. This great journey is ordained for all of our kind, and it is a duty we are all honored to complete. We listen to the will of the waters, and we ensure that the world will remain pure and pristine for our children long after we have faded. There is joy in this honor, but there has been some fear. We cannot know what truth there is to these tales, but the stories have haunted us for quite some time. All we can know is from the shaken words of our young, swimming out of the blessed river into our arms. What is seen by those who make the pilgrimage is lost with them, so we can only know from those arriving children. They speak of twisted things that lurked in the waters, of great swollen beasts that lay agonized upon the shores. No earthly creature could compare in terror, as some speak of these brutes bringing down even the horrible, grizzled behemoths. They live in agony and rage, lashing out at everything around them. The young can only flee when faced with one of these monstrosities, and some do not escape its wrath. All we can do is comfort the children and pretend that these are mere stories. Once they have left the holy river, they will never return until they are chosen. What nightmares lurk within its depths shall remain there, so we can tell the young that have no need to fear now. Us adults, however, will still be afraid. Though these warped beasts are trapped in the pristine waters, never to enter our world of salt, it is not their physical power that terrifies us. What we fear is what births them, why they even exist. Our lives are meant to be given to the waters, so that our kind may live on. Our death is ordained, but what if we are not given that mercy? The tales of rotted crimson, bulging backs and twisted snouts are impossible to ignore. Symbols of prosperity and holiness corrupted into something vile and twisted. We do not know what they are, but we know what they were, and it terrifies us. What becomes of our future, when the past clings on? What happens to our souls, when our bodies refuse to die? ---------------------------------------------- “Undying Brute” Salmon go through some weird changes, but what if it didn't stop?

#salmon #fish #sockeye salmon #mermaid #mermay #mermay2021 #monster #creature #art #drawing #body horror

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literatureandmonsters · 4 years ago

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Monsters and Self-Acceptance: Twilight

Twilight and the subsequent books follow 17-year-old Bella Swan and her romance with Edward Cullen, a vampire. Much of the books’ conflict stems from the danger Edward’s vampirism puts Bella in. This is also where much of Edward’s self-hatred stems from. Over the course of the series, however, we see this self-loathing diminish as Edward realizes he is worthy of the love Bella shows him.

Throughout the books Edward often professes hatred at what he is. Part of this self-loathing is related to his beliefs on morality. As Edward’s father explains, Edward “doesn’t believe there is an afterlife for our kind… he thinks we’ve lost our souls” (73). He does not believe a vampire, a creature as monstrous as he, could possibly have a soul, and even if he did have one, the human lives he took in his earliest years as a vampire would damn him regardless.

A larger part of his self-loathing is rooted in the danger he poses to Bella. As a vampire, he thirsts for her blood, and his presence in her life brings other dangerous vampires to her, but he cannot bear to leave her. He tells Bella, “I infuriate myself. The way I can’t seem to keep from putting you in danger. My very existence puts you at risk. Sometimes I truly hate myself. I should be stronger... I love you. It’s a poor excuse for what I’m doing, but it’s still true” (641). He believes someone braver than he would simply leave Bella to keep her safe, and loathes himself for refusing to do so.

In one of the most memorable scenes of the series, the meadow scene, Edward explains to Bella exactly the danger he poses to her, but Bella declares, “I would rather die than stay away from you” (487). To this, Edward muses, “and so the lion fell in love with the lamb… what a sick, masochistic lion.”

Tracy L. Bealer, in Bringing Light to Twilight: Perspectives on a Pop Culture Phenomenon, describes how this line reflects Edward’s self-hatred and the journey he takes to unlearn it. She remarks that the “depth and power of [Edward’s] self-loathing… derive from a profound hatred of himself stemming from his dangerous body” (120). She goes on to say,

“by calling himself a ‘sick, masochistic lion,’ Edward reveals… that he understands himself to be wicked and contaminated because his vampirism renders his body inherently predatory. However, his second defining term, “masochistic,” is both insightful and misapplied. It is not his masochistic desire to expose himself to the temptation Bella embodies that causes Edward’s torment… this masochism is actually his salvation. He has convinced himself that his transformation into a vampire has cost him his soul, and he has internalized this perceived loss by identifying himself as a “monster” doomed to destroy Bella” (120).

This speaks to the role Bella’s love has in Edward’s journey of unlearning his self-hatred. He sees his relationship with her as “masochistic” because of the danger he poses to her (though Bella adamantly says multiple times she does not care), but it is this relationship that is actually his “salvation.”

At the beginning of the story, he cannot comprehend how a monster like him could be deserving of Bella’s love, and often expresses this confusion to her. In one early scene in Twilight, Bella proclaims, “I’m absolutely ordinary” and Edward tells her, “You don’t see yourself very clearly, you know” (375). Later, when Edward asks Bella how she can bear to be with such a monster, Bella tells him same thing: “Do you remember when you told me that I didn’t see myself very clearly? You obviously have the same blindness” (861). While Edward does not understand how Bella can love him, she does not understand how he cannot love himself.

At almost every facet of Edward’s self-hatred, Bella disagrees. She does not view him as monstrous or doomed as he does. In fact, she believes the opposite. Bella says Edward is “more angel than man” (49). It is clear in the beginning of the story that Edward does not share Bella’s high opinion of himself, despite her insistence; however, by the final book, Breaking Dawn, Edward has come to terms with being a vampire and embraces living forever with Bella. In this book, Edward is forced to change Bella to save her life, and she becomes a vampire. When she is transformed into a vampire, the monster that he has always been, Edward still loves her just as he did when she was human. He tells her, “I am completely amazed” (733) about her beauty and retained humanity. In her, he is able to see the beauty that she had spoken so high of, and he revels in the fact that being vampires will allow them to spend eternity together. Finally, his fate does not seem so monstrous, and the love Bella showed him becomes love he shows himself as well.

Both stories discussed here lay a roadmap for young readers to forgo the self-loathing they may feel at certain aspects of themselves. Reader can to find love and adoration for characters who have yet to find love for themselves, and in watching these characters find ways to accept shunned and monstrous parts of themselves, they can be encouraged to embark on their own journeys of banishing self-hared.

Perhaps this is why there are so many memorable stories of monsters being transformed by love and self-acceptance, such as the recent The Shape of Water and the enduring Beauty and the Beast. Regarding this last story, psychologist John Gressel P.h.D., says the story encourages us to “find the beauty in the beasts in our lives.” He tells readers to

“Think of some part of you or your life that you don't like, can't accept, wish were otherwise… some aspect of yourself or your circumstances that has you feeling trapped, that you hate, that you want to go away or to escape from. According to this tale… you must learn to love this very thing you currently hate... Until you do, you are trapped in this prison cell of not accepting yourself or your life as it is. It is only through this kind of self acceptance, genuine and complete, that… we can unite with this previously unacceptable feature of our lives and live happily ever after. This is when that which we despise is transformed into something beautiful.”

In Beauty and the Beast, the Beast is literally transformed by earning Belle’s true love. As Gressel points out, Beauty and the Beast – and Twilight I would argue –encourage the reader to “learn to love [the] very thing you currently hate.” Monster stories geared towards young people, whether in classics from the 1800s or in modern Young Adult novels, are a great opportunity to warn young readers of the dangers of self-hatred and the power of loving and accepting yourself.

In Twilight, Bella helps show Edward that he is not a monster, and that being a vampire could have the benefit of allowing them to be together forever. This radical love causes Edward to… In The Dream Thieves, Ronan’s self-hatred is literally a threat against his life. His dreams are filled with monsters that hate him as much as he hates himself, and he has to contend with these monsters when he brings them into his waking life. After accepting his sexuality, his monsters – and his self-hatred – are transformed similarly to how Gressel describes the meaning of monster stories happening when something “we despise is transformed into something beautiful.”

#twilight #monsters #monster theory #young adult #edward cullen #bella swan #literary analysis #the twilight saga #breaking dawn #new moon #eclipse #midnight sun

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ontowanderlust · 4 years ago

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Solace., n.

She couldn't seem to take her gaze off him. She couldn't help it.

After all, who would ever know that behind the majestic brown wolf, there lies a beautiful man they call the grand duke?

She would've never thought it was this easy to break, this illness they've been talking about which piqued her interest.

An illness that turns a person into a mindless beast- slowly but gradually which is odd, thinking about it now. An illness that could be cured by a simple kiss? Absurd. An illness where hours upon its breakage makes the person go back to its beast form? Ridiculous.

Hence why, in the rare moment of clarity of the now human, Grand Duke Gavin has accompanied her in the vast library in her quest to find more information about this illness- curse, she's more inclined to think.

"You've been staring at me for quite some time now, my lady," the grand duke's voice brought her out of her musing, making her meet his amused gaze. "Is there something bothering you or do you perhaps have something you wish to say?"

Heat crept onto her ears as she stared him down, her hands abandoning the pages she had been clutching earlier on, the muted sound of flipping pages filling the silence in between.

"... you are a very lonely person," she surmised, thinking back to their encounters in both his beastly and human form.

This loneliness, she had gathered from what she had heard about his life before being turned into a beast. Oh to be shunned by your own family and vassals just for an illness who no one knew when will manifest.

It didn't get any better the moment he turned into a beast. Not one bit.

"What a coincidence," he blinked, placing his head on his overturned palm, his elbow resting atop of the table whilst his eyes never lost the amused glint and yet observing him, she could see hints of curiosity lacing beneath the amusement, his eyes studying her intently. "That's how you seem in my eyes." he whispered as if it was a secret shared between them.

A secret shared between two strange souls who found solace in each other.

"Then it would seem we are quite a pair, are we not, my husband?"

After a few weeks of frustrated writing, I finally wrote a decent piece surrounding this quote that I took from a line from a manhwa. (Lady and the Beast)

I’ve been binging too many manhwas to my liking and I told myself, let’s freaking write an au about a manhwa one of these days! And so I did but only because I fell in love with the dialogue between this female lead and the male lead.

Anyway... one can never have too many AUs amirite?

Send in some prompts!

MLQC Dictionary; Masterlist

#mlqc #mlqc dictionary #mlqc dictionary prompts #mlqc gavin #mlqc haku #mlqc bai qi #mr. love queen’s choice #mr. love dream date #mr love queen’s choice #mr love dream date #mldd #koi to producer #love x evol #evol x love #love and producer #gavin's birthmonth prompt #gavin's birthweek prompt day 5

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plumoh · 4 years ago

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[NatsuYuu] along the seams of shadows

Rating: G

Word count: 2079

Summary: Natsume Reiko is a pitiful and lonely human.

Note: AO3 link. A look at Reiko through Madara’s eyes.

Madara’s ears twitch when the tree branch starts creaking and the leaves fall down in a whirlwind of irritating pests. He’s two seconds away from threatening whoever is disturbing his nap when laughter reaches him—a plain, boisterous laughter that leans towards mockery instead of pure joy.

“You really are just a cat, Madara!” the voice says, as close to his face as ever. “Napping on a nice patch of grass, under the sunlight?”

Madara cracks one eye open. The sun is still high in the sky and the breeze that ruffles his fur is a pleasant addition, accompanying his solitary nap far away from noisy and ridiculous small fry. But he can never escape the unpredictability of an annoying, weak human.

“If you say another word you will become my afternoon snack,” Madara warns.

The laughter becomes louder, and in the sunlight that makes shadows bigger, pale hair shines brightly while unnatural eyes glimmer with an even more vivid color.

“I’d like to see you try, you big lump of fluff.”

Natsume Reiko smells like mischief, power and loneliness.

***

This forest isn’t big enough to swallow all the rumors that float around. There is no god protecting it and spreading rules to abide by, which means that everyone is free to do as they like, much to Madara’s displeasure. He’s a magnificent beast with strength that rivals that of a god, capable of destroying entire areas of nature and banishing youkais, but people here treat him like he’s the latest entertainment, to be jeered at by everyone and nobody.

He is not a simple creature that lazes around, and he definitely is not a human child’s pet.

“You should have eaten her long ago if you’re so irritated by these rumors,” Hinoe tells him, looking far too too smug for someone who is, without a doubt, clinging the most to that girl.

“It requires too much effort,” Madara growls, flicking his tail impatiently. “Reiko probably doesn’t taste good anyway. I don’t like my prey jumping and running around, it’s exhausting to look at.”

“You are the most boring beast I know.”

Madara rolls his eyes, turning his head away. “That’s a bold accusation when Misuzu is right here.”

“Misuzu is funny, at least. You, on the other hand, are boring.”

Hinoe draws from her pipe and exhales noisily, chuckling when some of the smoke gets into Madara’s eyes. Madara groans and rises on his paws, lifting a cloud of dust and dirt along with him, and a few little plant youkais scamper off deeper into the forest with squeaks. Madara watches them flee for their lives, feeling vindicated.

“I am a respected and intimidating beast, that’s what I am,” he huffs.

“Yeah, a beast that still refuses to play a game with me because he’s scared.”

Hinoe bursts out laughing while Madara tries his hardest not to simply snap and leave. Reiko jumps down from a tree (why is she always climbing trees?) and lands onto Madara’s back, her lips curled into a grin that could have been fueled by the sun’s spite, bold but burning.

Sometimes, Madara finds himself unable to make sense out of this girl appearing and disappearing from his life like a tornado.

“I told you I don’t have time to waste on your ridiculous games,” Madara says.

Reiko tilts her head, never ceasing to be the arrogant and confident person she poses as whenever she makes her words sharp and cutting.

“Hinoe is right, you are boring,” she snickers.

Madara’s tail hits the ground in annoyance, and he shows the barest hint of his teeth.

“Don’t you have human things to do, instead of bothering me during my peaceful rest?”

Reiko shrugs, sliding off Madara. She smooths over her skirt and passes a hand through her hair, as if they’ve never seen her in a dishevelled state or covered in mud after an encounter with rambunctious youkais. She stays silent, her smile frozen, but her eyes are blazing with a quiet, raging fire that sends chills down Madara’s spine. She’s only a young girl, inexperienced and foolish, running around and upsetting the natural order of things in this forest—but behind all this brashness, Madara senses something deeply unsettling.

“Human things aren’t as interesting as coming here and hearing you grouch like an old man,” Reiko answers. “Hinoe, you said you wanted to show me a new curse.”

Madara ignores the way Hinoe coos at Reiko like she is the most precious creature she’s ever seen, and observes. Reiko is someone they shouldn’t mess with, that is for certain; Madara doesn’t quite know yet why he cannot shake off the feeling she’s wrapping them around her finger.

***

Madara being Reiko’s pet becomes more of a joke than a real fact believed by everyone, and ultimately it doesn’t change anything in the way Madara’s strength is perceived. The others make fun of him for letting her live in spite of the influence she has on his image as the greatest beast of the forest, but for the time being he’s one of the very few who didn’t get his name down in the stupid book, so there.

There has been some turmoil and unrest in the neighborhood, lately. A vicious youkai destroying everything standing in its way, threatening small fry for information and leaving behind trails of blood that scare the weakest of them. Madara doesn’t feel particularly concerned about this kind of rampage, which happens a lot more often than people would believe. It’s best to let it pass and not get involved in this youkai’s affairs.

That is what he would have done, were he alone. In times like these, Madara remembers why he chose to live in solitude and not surrounded by other beings who have the survival instincts of insignificant bugs.

“The destroyed trees fall down and block some roads in the forest,” Reiko grumbles, tapping her foot. “People can’t circulate anymore, and cleaning that mess up will take many weeks.”

Madara sighs, glancing at the area of destruction. The claw marks on the trunks indicate that whoever they’re going to go up against might rival Madara in size, while the pace at which the forest is being attacked tells them it’s also nimble on its feet. Not an ideal situation, then.

“Why do you care about that?” Madara asks, turning back his head to look at her. “You don’t like the people of this town, and they don’t wander in the forest as frequently as you do.”

Sometimes, imperceptibly, Madara catches a flicker of pain in Reiko’s eyes at the mere mention of her own desires. It’s not a physical pain, nor is it a pain associated with the events she’s currently dealing with—it comes from within, deep from her soul and emerging in her gaze for one second. She hides it well. She carries this pain everywhere she goes, but she hides it well.

Madara never comments on it. He watches her school the features of her face back into ones she’s crafted over the years, all mischieviousness and no nonsense. Reiko grins and acts like the royal princess she has become in this tiny pocket of otherworldly space she is the only one to trespass into.

“I don’t like seeing people do whatever they want, like they’re owning this place,” she declares, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “The smaller youkais have been pestering me to do something about it. And it’s destroying my napping spots, too. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to have your favorite tree cut down either.”

She’s an odd girl and a mystery Madara doesn’t pretend to understand. She’s confidence and contradiction and selfishness all at once, making it impossible to untangle the knots of her emotions—she uses words and rash actions to cover it up, like a nice tapestry concealing the damage done by a kid’s tantrum.

There is kindness in her selfishness, Madara thinks. Reiko obeys no one’s rules, and she makes up her own for her silly games, but her heart isn’t as corrupted as it may seem. And for this lost human shunned by everyone, doing small services unseen by her peers, Madara only feels pity.

He huffs, and takes off to find the troublesome youkai, whose name will end up tied to a piece of paper.

***

“That book of yours is useless if you’re not using its intended purpose.”

“Its intended purpose is to show off and to instill fear in my enemies.”

“You don’t have natural enemies, foolish girl, you’re creating them yourself.”

Reiko tips her head backwards and laughs, a sound carrying over the wind and echoing against the stone walls. She looks at Madara like he’s the one who has said idiotic things.

“It’s preemptive,” she says. “I’ve never felt that powerful before inventing the book.”

“The words that come out of your mouth are incomprehensible to me,” Madara grunts. “Humans are so unnecessarily complicated and confusing.”

“Don’t talk like you know how humans behave. You’ve barely had any contact with them.”

“And this is exactly why I find them annoying.”

Reiko smiles. She has her legs plunged into the cold but clear water of the lake, on this summer day that feels both too hot and too humid. Madara himself is lying down, head pillowed on his front legs and enjoying the slow pace of his day. He warned Reiko that playful and impish youkais would steal her shoes, that she had carelessly thrown in the grass, but she shrugged and didn’t find it particularly upsetting.

How strange, and how perplexing, to encounter someone who doesn’t adhere to any of the world concepts Madara knows. Reiko doesn’t belong to the realm of ordinary humans, and she has no knowledge of the exorcist community; she is an entity dancing on the blurred hinge of these worlds.

“I don’t need to use the power of their names, since I’ll never see them again,” Reiko finally says. “It’s only awkward if I happen to meet one of them and can’t remember who they are.”

“So you admit this book is useless to you,” Madara snorts. “Give it to me, then.”

Reiko scoops up water between her hands, and flicks it at Madara’s eyes. Madara wrinkles his nose and staggers back, glaring at Reiko’s self-satisfied expression.

“You’re a nuisance,” he tells her.

“And you’re not fun,” Reiko replies. “It’s my Book of Friends, so you don’t get to steal it from me. Attaching a name to a face makes it easier to call them friends.”

A pitiful human, truly.

“...They’re not your friends,” Madara says.

Reiko’s shrug feels measured. She gets out of the water, doesn’t bother drying her feet before retrieving her shoes (that are still where she left them) and putting them on. Madara’s eyes follow her movements, choosing to remain where he is.

“Maybe not,” Reiko concedes, her back turned on Madara. “I wouldn’t want to, anyway. But they gave me their names. Names are important, right?”

Natsume Reiko barges into their life without prompting and wrecks havoc on everything they know. She rips away their routine and replaces it with unpredictable events, summoned by her presence alone in these lands. She moves like nothing ties her down anywhere, but she’s restless. The tightness around her shoulders makes her small and fragile, when her entire attitude seems to prove she is none of that.

Madara doesn’t understand her. Her words and her actions are hard to parse, and he’s not sure she understands herself sometimes. She is simply grander than life itself.

“I hope you’ll play a game with me one day, Madara.” Reiko doesn’t fully face him but a small smile pulls up her lips. “You can’t run away from me forever!”

“Hmpf. I’m not interested in these childish games.”

“You’ll change your mind eventually!”

Reiko waves her hand and disappears in the forest, probably heading back to the home of her caretakers. Madara actually doesn’t know if she does live with them—she could have taken up residence in one of the old shrines with how often she visits them, for all he knows.

Madara curls up and closes his eyes. The Book of Friends, she’s called it. Such an innocent name for what is probably the most dangerous weapon against youkais—and it is simply used by a sentimental girl as a personal reassurance she is not alone.

Natsume Reiko already has friends. She just chooses not to see it.

#natsuyuu #natsume yuujinchou #natsume reiko #nyanko sensei #madara #rattles the bars of my cage i want to know what their relationship was like!!#i love the idea of sensei finding reiko interesting but also feeling sad for her #please @ midorikawa i need answers

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tomesandsuch · 4 years ago

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The Long Way

How many times have you found yourself swept into this pointless game?

How many times have you made such attempts to eke out some manner of victory from this doomed cycle? Worse than attempting such a hollow victory is claiming such when it was never truly won to begin with.

His hands traced along the haft of the polearm, a smooth, deep-green length of lacquered wood. Its blade curved into a shape like a witch's crooked fingertip, ending in a thin point. When the dim lamplight hit it, the reflection of that meager flame wobbled across the surface, curving back and forth in serpentine arcs. Dull, faded patterns, etched in shallow crevasses of the weapon's surface.

Slowly, insidiously, I have seen your reason eroded. To you, the changes are too gradual to notice. From your perspective, this ebbing is natural.

His lips stretch into a thin frown, and fingers cross where his arm meets his shoulders.

They didn't leave any marks of true consequence, this you must understand. You were never at risk. How much value can one life carry if it is offered up at every opportunity, taken at none? Yet still, you remember those old squabbles. To you, it was a miracle that those coils did not ensnare you for good, but in the eyes of those who were at the center, it was never in doubt that your presence was temporary. Your interest in their troubles only as deep as finding another foe, another thing to be slain.

Once the final blow was struck, did you find yourself dealing with the aftermath? Did you care to linger? To lend your assistance towards matters far more complicated? Or did you depart, satisfied with the breadth of your role? It is customary, after all. The drifter departs only once the work is done, and even if it is not, the final result is hardly of any consequence to one who has long since moved on. One who has exercised the luxury of banishing it from his mind.

In the end, the victims of those troubles, those they had bound and tormented, were left to salvage themselves whilst you sauntered away with another trophy. Do you even remember them? Can you remember their names? Can you remember any of it?

When the man breathed, the swell of his lungs was long and deliberate. His shoulders tensed, rolling back and stretching beside his head. He loosened his buckle and pulled the cluttered tool belt from his waist. Halfway past where it met his hips, there was a small scabbard of leather in a comparatively pristine condition, save for the shallow horizontal gashes that ringed its side. Its blade was hidden by the leather sheath itself, but the pommel was of a vibrant green gem, the handle carved of smooth wood, the hilt detailed and exquisite, even the small parts of it that peeked out past the comparatively shabby sheath.

A fine weapon for a fine contribution. Did you believe, all that time ago, when you tried and failed to end the would-be corsair king, that such things would spiral into what they did? That you would find yourself in the midst of a war that you tried and failed to avert? There you fought, there you spit iron and water with the rest of them in the midst of your very own failure.

It was a true unwillingness to understand the world around you. The dread Queen and the throngs of broken things she’d left in her wake, acts so wicked that the living barked and clawed at each other to reach some manner of closure from them long after she had returned to the darkness.

Did bringing the terrors of her late reign to an end ever interest you? You could only ever see the most tangible of those ripples, those that only went so far as producing another sword arm possessed by ill will. Another adversary, another trial. For them, it seemed like the culmination of all their misery, one final piece of their history to spar over until the end came. Do you remember why they fought? Do you remember what it was that compelled them to let their corpses pass into the boundless sea?

The man sat on the edge of the rock, a finger prying itself between his eyepatch and the curve of his brow, placing the garment down next to the lantern that shone a dim light in the shadow of the stone barrier at his back. At times, he would simply stare into the lantern’s base, watching how the shifting flame created a ring of moving shadows at the bottom. When the light wasn’t enough, he would close his eyes and lean back against the rocks, taking in the way that the wind-chilled stone made his back stiffen, how the sensation banished lingering, unclear thoughts from his mind. At the very least, it steadied him somewhat.

Now you stand here. Worn, wasted away. Your body, your mind appear stronger, but the time has taken its toll. I have seen it in your resolve, how it has faded, replaced by ire and desperation in equal measure.

As your resolve fades, so too do your circumstances change, becoming all the more muddled, unfortunate.

There are few who would try to contend that the Master of the Coils was anything less than a worthy foe that deserved the end he was given. The Black Captain was a more complicated issue in of himself, but at the same time his fate was preordained. Now, here at the ends of the world, who is it that you truly wish to raise your hand against? You fight on the behalf of one you hate to destroy those whom only ever wronged you in passing. It is plain to see. Your arms cannot reach, and they grasp for the nearest to what they seek in lieu of it. You cannot reach a satisfactory end with the willful shunning of true understanding. These tales of heroes and devils banish themselves from your mind the moment your part is done.

Can you remember any of it? Can you remember why you are here?

I can't remember it all. But I remember enough.

I remember a great winged beast with a man's visage at its heart. The face of a man so twisted by hatred for the one he once loved that he cast his heart away and became a demon.

I remember the face of a long-dead warrior whose heart began to beat once more. How his heart drew him across nations in pursuit of what he'd been promised in life, and how eventually he returned to his grave having never found what he sought. Did he deserve that? It's one thing to die, but utter defeat is something else entirely.

I remember that wicked one whose heart troubled the living long after her demise. How it drove lost souls to a place long-abandoned and nearly swallowed them up. How her will persisted long after her body ceased to be and troubled the living until those islands returned to the sea.

Now I stand here, and after all this, I can see the path’s end in sight.

Out there, drifting, I see another heart, a small spark of light against the formless dark. I see faces around it, hands that cling to it. They’ve taken the long way. They’ve fought, wept, clawed and suffered through a thousand trials to be right here, at this moment, in this place. Whether or not there ever was another path for them, there’s no stopping what happens next. Even now, I feel the crooked limbs of old men pushing these gears along. To me? It's unmistakable, sickening familiarity.

The longer I look at them, the less I see. Their faces shift and their features fade. Soon they become simple shapes in my vision. “An imperfect understanding is bound to crumble with time.” Eventually, I see nothing. Empty forms, devoid of will, devoid of feature. The path continues all the same. I only have so much time.

#FFXIVHeartless #Gwannes Oskwell #uhhhhhhhhhhhhh

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ships-n-giggles · 5 years ago

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Futile Souls: Good Omens Platonic Crowley/Reader

Summary: He saves you. And you chase him through several lifetimes trying to thank him. Platonic, no romance, written because Crowley loves kids

____

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing (and publishing!) reader-insert fanfiction, and I got inspiration from a chapter of Little Pet Shop of Horrors, a Good Omen’s AU regarding Crowley sneaking kids onto the Ark (if the author would message me so I can credit, I would appreciate it!) and other reincarnation stories. These are all based on meetings he has with Aziraphale throughout history, and taking into context the problems that went on during this. This is not a condemnation of certain cultures, religions or peoples, but rather an observation of how it could have affected kids.

If anyone thinks the level of effort Crowley goes to in protecting kids is not accurate with the book or show, that that’s up to you. This is a personal view of what I think Crowley would do in situations where innocent kids will get hurt or killed. I also used the closest thing I could think of to the original names of Jesus and others, though I’m certain I may have inaccuracies. If there are any experts who can point them out for me, I’d appreciate knowing my mixups, though I don’t think I’ll be editing. (ie, no beta read, we die like men)

Also please note that I’m not doing romantic shipping because I personally view Crowley and Aziraphale as agender, asexual beings in reference to what Neil Gaiman has come out to say about them, being a demon and an angel and all. If you like romantic shipping, please write your own or support other readers!

I don’t own Good Omens, because if I did there would be real dinosaurs and I would be living in a castle by the sea, so don’t sue please.

The first time, it was raining very hard.

Your father remarked that such a mighty rain in the desert was surely a promise from above that there would be more fertile lands. More water for barely, wheat, to bake bread and brew beer. You wish you knew what your mother would have thought of it all. But she had been dead seven years, and your father had already married a third time. And your stepmother did not bother to tell you anything. More often than not, she pretended you were not there.

“It’s raining too much.” Your friends remarked, the third day in. “We should ask if we can get on that big boat out beyond the village.”

The local madman, your father called him.

A ship of great proportions, but with no sail or rudder. It seemed less a boat and more of a glorified tub to float in the ocean….except the sea was miles and miles away and would not hasten to him, surely. But there had been remarkable things. A week ago, he let out a great shout for all of the beasts and creatures of the world to come unto him. And they had. Two by two, pair by pair. You saw animals you had no name for. Great big cats with stripes that barely licked their chops in your direction, even as you ducked behind your father, but rather padded along patiently towards the ship. Animals bigger than a house, with a tail at both ends! Even mice were scampering to join the ferry.

The rain drowns the crops, and starts billowing over into your house. Your stepmother, irritated, pregnant, and tired of the soggy state of things, chases you out while your father snores in their bed.

“Hurry! Look!” The children shout at you to join them on top of a big rock. The water is flowing more heavily now, and covers your feet and make your sandals heavy. “It’s the ocean!”

Sure enough, it is the ocean. The adults scoff that it was just the nearby river, but strange fish splash out from it. It looks too big to be a river. And too muddy.

The stranger comes.

“Come.” He hushes you all, a group of twelve children, who are curious at his red hair and yellow eyes. You give a last glance at your house. Your stepmother will not mind if you are gone long. And father will not notice. And this stranger is not like the other adults who are impatient and sometimes lash out when a child is too noisy. He hangs back from view, and watches things as they happen. “Hurry up. There’s not much time left.”

The water around the ark is up to your waist, though it only comes to the stranger’s knees as you wade to the base of the boat. Shem has pulled up the gangplank. He shouts angrily at the people of the village, for shunning their God. For sin. For the corruption of their existence.

The stranger casts one frustrated look of desperation to the skies, grabs a plank and pops it open. You’re all in awe and surprise. The planks are made of tough oak, and the stranger didn’t even use a hammer.

“Get in, you lot. Quick, quick, before we’re noticed.”

But you are all very afraid now. The rain comes down harder, the wind whipping it as you all hold your clothes together tightly, cowering in the coming storm. You jump at the sound of crackling thunder, and look up as lightning bursts in the sky.

You know that much more than the ocean has come to greet you.

So you lead the way, and climb aboard.

The other children, hesitantly at first, follow. And finally the stranger climbs in, putting the plank back where it was and banging the nails back in the other way with his own fist.

All thirteen of you huddle together in the dark hull, and begin to hear things. First it was just heavy rushes of water, splashing the ship. Then it gives a great lurch, and you can feel it floating. There is noise and commotion outside, hearing men slosh around and yelling instructions to slow the flow. Then you hear them urging the others to climb the rooftops of their homes. Then the screaming.

The stranger lets the children cling to him as the storm rages outside. You are right under his arm, hugging his waist and trembling. You all were the children who were awake. But there were many other children in the village. And some had not even been born.

You think you hear your father crying out to the heavens before it is swallowed up by a wave of water and let out a gasp. Without hesitation, the stranger moves one of his hands to your head, soothing you. Your father rarely touched you save to express his frustration or to move you aside.

You wonder if this was a man sent by God.

Peeking up, the stranger’s gaze is intently on a shadow in the hull of the ship, what would lead to the animal pens above. It is tense, fearful, waiting. Hoping. Wishing that you all are not caught.

A long time ago, a black snake slipped into your house and scared your first stepmother to bits, and was chased out by your father. It occurs to you that his eyes are precisely that same kind.

The storm rages, and you are all lulled to sleep.

“Here. Look outside.”

All of you have been wafting in and out of sleep, anxious waiting in the dark, and eating whatever the stranger procures when he briefly departs into the darkness to find some food. It is very little, a couple of raw vegetables or a loaf of bread to share, washed down with fresh water. And you have no idea how long you all have been afloat. Sometimes the rocking of the ship makes you sick. Sometimes it just makes you tired.

When the stranger beckons you all to the plank you had crawled in from, you realize the ship is very, very still.

He pops it open, and there is an amazing sight outside.

A bridge in the sky, with every beautiful color you have ever known and some you have only heard about. A bright white bird with a laurel in its toes soars across the sky, and the sun is shining. There is a lot of water still. And a lot of mud. But it is receding.

“That’s a promise.” The stranger says. “That this won’t happen again.”

But clearly he does not trust this sign from God.

The stranger is careful. He waits until the animals disperse and waits even longer for Shem and his family to set forth with their wives, children and livestock, to claim what is left. When there is nothing but fresh new silence, he leads you all along. “The sun won’t set on you here.” He says as he takes you to the edge of a new sea. His long arm points to a mountain far, far away. “Keep walking. When you reach that mountain, you’ll find a new home. Don’t tell them where you came from. Don’t let them know how you got here.” He looks down and you gaze up at him. “And for hell’s sake don’t let this be the end of you.”

You want to ask him to come along, but the other children have begun to walk, and….after a long wait, you hurry to catch up.

The twelve of you never forget his face. But you had no name to recall him by. So the others begin to forget him for real.

Canaan is fertile, fine land. Shem and his family must have roamed elsewhere. But there are good people here, surprised to find so many lost children wandering around. The high priest of Canaan divines that this was the work of God that you came here, and one by one, you are interred into new homes. You do not form real familial relations with your foster family at first. But a shy cousin is taken with you, and in time, you make your own.

You used to remember the stranger with the other lost children. But soon they stop talking about it. And when you ask, they frown, and tell you they were born here.

Your last breath is drawn upon the birth of your second child. When you see the black cloak your heart leaps with joy…the stranger has come back.

But you feel very cold to realize this is another stranger.

“Yes.” He agrees. “Very much a stranger.”

Your mother in law is wailing alongside the baby, but your body is cold and lifeless. There is grief in the air, but the question has been hanging on for some time now. “Who is he?” You ask. “What is his name?”

“You are dead. You will never see him again.”

“I could.” You said in a small voice. “I might. The sun is reborn every day. The moon waxes and wanes. I could come back too.”

“Would you? Would you relive this life? To know his name?”

“…I didn’t even say thank you. I wouldn’t have lived this long if he hadn’t.”

There is a long silence, and you see the world shrouded in darkness…pinpricked with dying lights that flash brightly before fading away. “Exactly this way. Every time.” Death agrees. “You will be born in time to see him. You will marry and have two children. And you will live only thirty two years before you start all over again.” The promise sounds like a dark omen, as if you should be afraid of such an arrangement. “Until you can express your gratitude, that will be your cycle.”

“That is enough for me.” You whisper, and feel your face and name become less familiar. “Until I can say thank you.”

You do not close your eyes. You don’t have the form to do so anymore.

_______

The next time, it is in Palestine. Galilee.

Your father and stepmother are worrying again, over the state of Roman affairs. It should have mattered less to them, being Jews, but their king in Rome had a lot to say about Jews being Jewish. Even as she soothes your future sibling, resting in her tummy, your stepmother says a lot of prayers, urging God to avert the Roman gaze away from you when you go out to play.

Most Roman legionaries don’t care about the multitude of children that run amok in the streets, and you and your friends play with hoops, ball games, and sometimes draw in the dirt or with charcoal on the walls. Sometimes they chuckle and remark on their own children in Rome, being minded by their mothers, sisters, and wives. You wonder why they don’t stay in Rome with their families like they should, but when you think on it, staring at them, they bark in Latin and make you run.

Your friend is a neighbor, who sings brightly. She is singing a hymn about Abraham in the yard, weaving alone, when you hear her stop and her mother screams. Your father tries to keep you from looking, but you climb to your bed in the loft and peer out.

A legionnaire is wiping the blood off his gladius, and your friend is dead, stabbed in the throat and bleeding heavily into the street. Her mother is wailing and screaming in horror, bent over her body and her tears flowing into the street. The legionnaire scolds her for letting her daughter be so crass in public and gives her a hard kick.

Your father grabs a cudgel from the wall. Your stepmother sees and grows pale, shutting the door behind him and fastening it shut.

Many other fathers do the same, and the riot that breaks out is so loud that you have to cover your ears and hide in the pantry with the door locked. You scream when the walls crumble in the kitchen, and your stepmother praying for mercy when a someone cuts her off. The door is forced open and you’re dragged out.

You choke at the sight of a street, wrecked from the fighting, with more Jews lying in pieces and Romans gathering up the inhabitants and shoving them along. They’re taking you to the coliseum.

Some Jews who worship openly, or even privately, get dragged in there and never come out. Your father used to say it was because the Romans wanted to look strong, and thus they put charges on people who had no power and punished them for their innocence. It occurs to you that among the beat up rioters, weeping mothers, and confused elderly, you are the only child in the group. You’re all forced into a dark, dry holding cell, packed together like jars of dried fish. An old woman sees you and hurries to sit you on her lap to prevent you from being crushed by the crowd.

And you’re all forced to wait.

You’re asleep when you’re forced awake by the sound of snarling. Something big. Something hungry.

The cell is half empty when you awaken. The old woman is shivering with fright. You are too. Then, a whisper passes through, and the woman urges you to move to a shadowed corner of the cell. “Come, come quickly.” The urge you, and as you are pushed forth, you see a small opening where a few bricks are removed. It’s too big for the rest, but you squeeze through with a few helpful pushes from the others, and land in the hot sand outside.

A man shaded under black linen with vibrant red hair and yellow eyes is waiting on the other side.

“Go. Run.” He urges, grabbing you by the wrist. Pulled along, the two of you race out of sight, even as cheers erupt from the coliseum. He pushes you up a ladder and over rooftops, and finally through a small door in the walls of the city. He squints into the distance, and sees a group moving forward. “C’mon, it’s not too late.” He points. “That there is a group following a man named Yeshua. That man will keep you safe from harm.” He squares you by the shoulders, bending over to look at you deep in the eye. “Do not let this place be your end. Now run.”

Something inside you tells you that you ought to wait, to say something else. But he gives you a good shove and you start running. By the time you catch up enough to look back, there is no more sight of your rescuer. He has vanished into a dot on the horizon, with the walls of Galilee behind him.

You push forward to find this man the others reverently call the son of God.

At first you hide behind the crowds when he stops by an oasis to drink. He speaks very gently to everyone, yet loud enough for the others in the back to hear as he speaks. You find yourself listening very intently, until he sees you hiding in the crowd and smiles softly.

He looks after you until a husband and wife come forward, admitting they had lost their baby and wished to take you in as their own. They have heard Yeshua’s message. They live by it. You cannot remember a family that loved you more, except perhaps the parents you have lost. You are married in another city to a friend of theirs. He is solemn and quiet, but he has soft hands and a sweet smile he keeps just for you.

After you are married, you grieve to find Yeshua has been murdered.

But when you and your husband make the pilgrimage to his tomb to pay your respects, your eyes are awash in tears to see him standing before you at the inn, smiling softly, with puncture wounds on his wrists. “My child.” He says gently, and you embrace. He has not forgotten you after all this time.

When you return home to give birth to your firstborn, they tell you he has returned to Heaven. He was here long enough to at least say goodbye. When you become pregnant a second time, you feel as though you are watching your life trickle away like grains of sand in an hourglass.

Yellow eyes. Red hair.

You don’t know his name but you want to find him.

You ask all over the town, hobbling even as the weight of your child bears down on you. But the last that was ever seen, even in Galilee, was of that man watching when they put Yeshua to the cross. Still you search, until your husband bodily carries you to an inn in the next town over. You heave and choke on your breath in a spare room at the hostel.

Regret tinges your last moments.

_____

Again you are born. This time as a slave in Rome.

Your mother cooks for Domitus Britannicus Hesperodus. A wealthy Senator with the ear of the Emperor, married twice. Your mother could not say no to him when he forced her to lay with him, and in time you were born. He didn’t seem to care that you were his flesh and blood, and neither did his children who ordered you around, mimicking their patriarch.

You think it extraordinary how slaves can get in trouble so often. As a child you often hung close to your mother, helping her bake bread and grill fish by the hot stove. But you hear stories of slaves who break furniture and pottery, dawdle on their errands, or speak impertinently to the master. You hear this from the children, who warn you that if you act out of line they will run right to your master and tell him to whip you soundly. Maybe you would even lose a hand. There is already one servant missing a hand when he deigned to steal your master’s bread, who clumsily hauls wood for the fireplaces and stokes the hearth.

When you are asked to serve the table, you realize it is the masters who decide if a slave is impertinent, clumsy, spiteful or lazy.

You don’t remember doing anything wrong. You serve the dishes, pour the wine, and remember what your mother says about keeping your eyes to the ground and staying quiet. The master has several friends over, senators dining lazily and debating philosophy. When your gaze is drawn up to a dove cooing in the window, you miss the first call for wine. The second call is a shattering cup that nearly hits you.

“Lazy!” Your master rears up like a lion about to pounce. You’re terrified as he grabs you by the arm. “Are you deaf? Now the cup is broken!” He piles on the blame and pulls back his hand. And in your panic you bite down on his arm.

You hear him yowl as you run away, dropping the wine jar and spilling it all over the floor as you make haste for the garden. You near trample his youngest son, who bawls when he drops his toy into the pond. You squash the flowers in the yard before leaping up to grab the edge of the wall, scrambling to get over and feeling the breeze of a whip at your heel as you climb up and over…making a run into the night. Late night revelers whoop as you run, and a few prostitutes cheer and make inappropriate gestures as you dart through them, running as your pursuers pour from the house and start to make chase.

Domitus has gotten astride his chariot, yelling at the street-goers to get out of his way as he rumbles down the street, catching up.

“Oi! You!”

You scream as you are grabbed and pulled into a narrow alley, vanishing from sight. A hand claps over your mouth and shushes you. “Hush, shshshsh,” The stranger quiets you like a hissing snake, putting a finger to his mouth. “Keep your mouth shut and you might get away.”

His hair is short, curled, and as bright red as burnished copper. You cannot see his eyes for the dark spectacles on his face, but he has dark, dyed toga, and a golden laurel around his head. He looks around and gestures you to follow. “This way, be quick about it.” The idea of your master in his chariot with a cracking whip demolishes any idea of mistrust and you cling to his toga as you follow him along.

You hasten to a different district, where there are more Germans, Greeks, and Britons mulling about than Romans. He speaks in an unfamiliar language to a group of men in wool cloaks, who eye you very curiously. You hide behind the stranger, but he eventually pulls you aside.

“Right. Stay calm now.” He says quietly. “My friends over here are going to a different place called Gaul. You ever been there?” You shake your head. “Speak any Gaulish at all?” Again, you shake your head, and he tuts. “Pity. But you’ll get the hang of it. Ol’ Tiberius here speaks Latin, he’ll teach you.” He jerks his head at a very big fellow with a strange pewter knot that looks like a snake on his cloak. “Now, I want you to go with them and get as far away from here as you can. Your old master’s gotten himself all worked up, and it’s not worth your life if he catches you, believe me.”

You must have looked afraid because he strokes your head and pulls something from his pocket. A gold coin so old it has since lost all of its features. “Here. If you’re worried about them, you can hop off anytime you like and buy yourself a trade. Keep that close and don’t lose it.” He drops it in your hand and closes it shut.

“But you’ve got a lot more life to live than anyone else here, so keep going.”

It’s enough encouragement to nod your head and to climb into a wagon with the Gauls. But as it begins to rattle off, you realize something and stand up, shouting over the edge.

“Wait!” You yell. “What’s your name?!”

But the stranger only waves and turns back into the crowd, swallowed up by a sea of strangers.

You find your new husband in Gaul by the time you arrive. He’s big and burly and laughs out loud, but cradles you like a little bird and awes over your smaller feet and hands. You learn Gaulish, and learn to enjoy the quiet of the moors and the flowers of the new land. You like the village you come to make your home, and cry when your firstborn child enters this world.

Your second child dies, and you sob to see its corpse exit you as you leave this world.

_______

You had an idyllic childhood the next time. Right until you turned thirteen.

With every pound on the door, you wince, unable to eat the meal your nurse has put before you. The household knights look impressive with their armor, tunics and swords, but they shiver as the Red Knight demands your submission outside the castle.

The Red Knight had learned of you after the death of his fifth bride…another fine young lady of another castle. He rode up to your home, demanded your father show himself, and when he did he challenged him to a duel for your hand and killed him before he could accept or object. With his many squires, fellow renegades and cutthroats making camp around the castle, bullying the locals, you had sensibly shut the gates and barred all entry. There was enough food to last a short siege, what you hoped would be a short one anyway as you wrote a letter to the Kingdom of Essex and the Knights of the Table Round. The letter was put on a hawk to be delivered, and shot down before it could reach the castle.

With no more hawks, and food growing short, the Red Knight laughed that he would starve you out sooner or later.

You pick at your pottage and fish and feel very cold at the idea of marrying him. He had eyes for every young maiden in the area, and no sooner did he wed them did he condemn them to sad, lonely deaths in their bedrooms….chained to the wall some said.

“No one can stand against the Red Knight and live.” One of your knights shuddered at the thought. “He will have us, one way or another.” And with no way of requesting a champion it seemed that would be the end of you.

The Black Knight strolled into the village by surprise, and outdid several of the Red Knight’s squires when they tried to beat him out of his armor. You feared he was just another thug until he made a request at the gate, the Red Knight begrudgingly with him.

“Hello!” He shouts, until you appear at the parapet. “Are you the lady of Willshire Castle?”

“I am.” You call back.

“Right.” He gives a short bow. “I am the Black Knight of Wessex, come to represent you in a duel of arms against the Red Knight of Barborough.”

“This time my lady-“ The Red Knight interrupts. “-you will give your solemn vow. To whomever achieves victory over the other, you will dedicate your hand in marriage. Do you swear before God to do this?”

The Black Knight’s expression is impossible to see, but he looks at the Red Knight with what you can guess is a look of exasperation as he throws up his hands in annoyance at the suggestion. “Er. Yeah. Marriage.” He agrees half-heartedly.

You have nothing to lose. Your household knights and servants will be slaughtered wholesale if you do not accept. And no one else has stood up the Red Knight before. “I vow before God and this community.” You swear. “That to the victor of this duel I will dedicate my hand in holy matrimony.”

The Black Knight wriggles in place uncomfortably. And you’re confused. Wasn’t that what he was here for?

The Red Knight draws his sword and bows dramatically. “I shall dedicate his death to you my love!” He swears viciously, making your blood run cold. “And when I win we will be wed at once! You! Squire!” He barks at one of his cronies. “Go and fetch a priest if we’ve still got one, this won’t take long!”

And to the shock and awe of all…it really doesn’t.

The mystery knight struggles to remove his sword from the Red Knight’s back, his opponent’s face still frozen in shock at the rapid end to the duel. By some form of magic, or curse, it was as if the Red Knight’s sword had turned to butter, slipping from his hands, and leaving the Black Knight free to give him a quick thrust to the chest. Finally the Black Knight wrenches the sword from the armor, groaning at the mess. “Urgh.” He fishes out a black handkerchief and wipes it off, sheathing it.

You suppose a promise is a promise, and order the gates to be opened.

Escorted by the household knights, who eye him with suspicion, you are suddenly very self conscious. Your father had plans for you to marry at a better age. Thirteen he said, was far too young to wed. You were still too delicate for marriage, to immature. Was this knight no better than the last?

The squire rushes back with a priest, who yells in shock at the sight of the infamous knight now dead, the prize delivering itself to his enemy. “Y-you! You’re some kind of demon!”

“You’ve got that right.” The Black Knight declared, hopping astride his horse and bringing it around. “I am the Black Knight of Wessex. Lord of the Darklands that will never be claimed!” His horse swung its mane, and he moved to dodge it. “And to meet with me is to meet…your Death!”

You’re scared as he offers you his hand. A promise is a promise. Your word before God and all others.

But you feel safe as you are pulled onto the horse, the knight nearly missing the priest as he speeds away from the castle, racing down the road. You hold on as the horse jounces the both of you until it slows, and you stop for the night.

“Here.” He helps you down, and starts a fire, sitting on a log to take a drink from a wineskin. “Take a rest, we’ll camp for the night before we ride to Wessex.” He passes you the wine, and moreover, shares a hunk of ham, cheese and bread from his saddlebag. You expect him to take what he has won as the Red Knight would, but instead he grumbles over the tent and the fire and struggles out of his armor to rest.

His hair is the devil’s own red, and his eyes are like a viper, yellow and serpentine. But he does not do anything to you without asking, and even then it is only to offer you something to eat, something to drink, and a warm blanket to rest in.

“Don’t you want to marry me?” You asked on the ride to Wessex. It’s very foggy, and the sun is barely making headway through the clouds.

“What am I going to do married?” He asks, a little irritable. He does not seem to like riding by horse, especially in plate armor. “Besides, you’re just a little girl. Don’t have time to babysit little girls, I’ve got fear to ferment and trouble to start elsewhere.”

When you ask why he bothered to help, he claimed there was a fly buzzing in his armor and he couldn’t hear you. He gives you no reason as to why he would bother until a castle comes into view farther away and he helps you off. “See that castle?” He points. “That’s the eastern hold of King Arthur. Rules these parts.” He lifts up his visor to squint. “There’s a knight of the Table Round that lives there, friend of mine. Ask for Sir Aziraphale and he’ll give you a hand.”

“Why?”

“He’s a knight of King Arthur, that’s what he does.” He says, as if it were obvious.

“Who should I say sent me?” You ask.

It looks like he doesn’t want to answer. “You already know. The Black Knight.”

“But what is your name?”

He turns his horse around, and you think you are going to be parting with an answer.

“Crowley.”

And that is how you learn his name, muttered under his breath and with a visor muffling his words before he takes off into the fog, disappearing quickly.

You end up having to wait for Sir Aziraphale, and accept the hospitality of another knight. That knight watches over you from the time you are thirteen to the time you are thirty two….only later he does so as your husband. He leaves to fight the war against King Arthur’s bastard son and never returns.

Your firstborn sobs at your bedside as your second child, both now fatherless, is brought into this world. You want to comfort him but can’t find the strength or the words. And when your breath fails you, you grieve to have left your children orphans in this world.

___

Time marches on. When the plague claims your home, you are forced to leave it after the doctors set it ablaze to prevent the spread of disease. You were supposed to be a part of the conflagration, but you are slippery and snuck out the back window when they thought they had locked you in.

London is an enormous cesspool of rich and poor, with more rats than citizens, and enough hidey-holes and spaces to make do in if you were crafty enough. You’re one of an army of pickpockets, and often you flatter passersby asking for directions sweetly while your hands craftily nick them of their belongings. You privately dream of an apprenticeship somewhere, with a sound roof and a master who was even tempered and would overlook an urchin such as yourself. But you don’t have that kind of wealth. None of the working class really do.

So you fill your pockets with coppers and stolen bread and the occasional raisin pie if you employ the aid of a few friends to badger the baker.

You attempted to pick the wrong pocket one afternoon and got caught.

“Let go!” You cried, wrist snatched by a tall gentlemen with dark hose, a velvet doublet and long red curls. He gives a frown down his long nose and dark spectacles and pulls you along. “Well don’t go pretending you didn’t earn it. You’re a pickpocket, own up to it.” He chides, leading you along. You protest noisily, but his grip does not threaten to snap your arm, but is rather firm and insistent, like when your father caught you sneaking apples from the orchard and urged you to come with him to apologize to the neighbor.

He takes you to a huge theater which stops your shouting if only to look up in amazement. It’s the Globe Theater, of all places. A place you would never be allowed and which you only dreamed of entering to see the plays and maybe even catch the good Queen Bess when she came to pay respects to the great playwright-

“Oi William!”

The gentlemen looses his grip and moves it quickly to your shoulder. The theater is empty, but there is a clear rehearsal on stage, people in flowy robes bickering over the lines while a painted backdrop of a misty forest is being lowered into place. “Sir Crowley-“ He looks a bit harried, and shockingly normal for a man people claimed had God’s inspiration for his great work. “-come to see the rehearsal? We’re still not near ready yet-“

“Oh I understand that.” Sir Crowley responds. “But I just remembered you were looking for a proper person to play the role of Pan, and I think I found them.”

Your jaw drops.

Shakespeare looks you over with insightful gaze and checks your look. “Hmm…whimsically impish even. Do you speak very well?”

“That’s just practice is all.” Sir Crowley insists. “Besides you really don’t have much time before the play is due do you?”

“No I suppose not. Giles!” He shouts, summoning a tired looking assistant. “Get this child washed up and into costume. We’ll go over the lines at once!”

“B-b-but I’ve never b-been on stage before!” You stammer, and Sir Crowley laughs. “Don’t fret. Just say the lines and play your bit. The more you act the more the audience likes it. This is one of the funny ones.”

It occurs to you that you should say thank you. But instead you are whisked off, and Sir Crowley is only ever mentioned in conversation thereafter.

You love the stage. When you dance on as the goat footed Pan and gleefully cause mischief, the audience laughs out loud and cheers when you give your final bow. You love the stage later when you’re old enough to play the dramas. And you love the actor you shared the stage with many, many times, before he carries you off to his family home to make you his wife.

The two of you still watch the plays that come, even after William’s star fades. Your child enjoys it. But when you find out you’re pregnant again, you have a terrible dream.

“I didn’t say thank you.” You sob into your beloved’s arms, feeling full of regret and sorrows. “I should have thanked him.”

In nine months, it will be his turn to cry into your arms. But you will not be alive to hold him.

_________

You were engaged for four months before your betrothed met the guillotine.

You were young, but you were an aristocrat. Engagements at eleven were very normal, and it had been the case for your mother. They assumed that a choice marriage to a duke would fix the issue of safety as their lives were threatened, angry letters from the townsfolk threatening their lives if they did not surrender their wealth and grain to the Republic of France.

Your husband-to-be was thirty and swaggered out to fight them. He instead was betrayed by his men, arrested and executed.

Your parents avoided the spectacle of the guillotine. The duke had been an embodiment of the hated aristocracy and was a symbol to be crushed, over and over with many other dukes and even the king.

But sitting in the Bastille, dressed in white and trying to pray in silence, your prayers were constantly interrupted by the swing of the blade. You would not die today, nor tomorrow. But soon. Your guard promised you that whenever he brought food and water.

In the fortress you heard the sobs and cries of others, older, and younger than you. They said the Dauphin of France was caged here with his siblings, his own mother separated from him. Perhaps a baby boy was too little to execute via guillotine, but you were tall enough and had a pretty, snowy neck, as the executioner told you.

A new guard arrived without food. And strange glasses.

“Put this on. Quick.” He tossed you a parcel. Pulling it apart, it was a peasant dress and bonnet, and he turned from you to permit you some privacy and to peer out through the bars of the door. From under his hat, you see a flash of red hair. “Hurry it up, we haven’t got long.”

You’re nervous, but you change clothes, and fumble with the bonnet. When he notices, he fixes it, tying it securely under your chin and tucking the sparse hairs in. “Alright. This way.”

He slinks through the halls of the fortress like a snake, holding you back when the soldiers march past. Finally, he arrives at a dead end. You fear this is all a trap when he pulls a lever hidden in the candelabra on the wall and reveals a secret door. The passage is full of children in peasant clothes, but with soft hands that suggest they were just like you.

“Hurry. In you go.”

There are thirteen of you when he closes the wall. A small boy whimpers and you pull him to you to comfort him, removing his hat to pet his golden curls. His blue eyes remind you of a portrait in Versailles….the Dauphin?

You all gasp when the guard arrives with another, but the voice that comes from his companion is as British as his own. Unlike the first, this one is decidedly more nervous and softer, adjusting his hat constantly to cover his silvery hair. “The dummies will fool them I’m sure of it.” The second one says quickly, shushing and ushering you all down the dark stairs. “As realistic as I could make them.”

“Sure you won’t get in trouble?” Your hero replies wryly, and there must be a private joke.

“Shush. Not in front of the children.”

The secret stairway exits to the canal, and you wobble as you exit onto a boat. The foppish guard smiles at his charges and sails off in one. But your guard is very solemn as he instructs you all to sit down and be quiet. The sound of the execution above is distant, but you can tell when it happens because a roar erupts every time the blade falls down.

“Don’t listen to it.” He tells you, catching your gaze. “Understand? Don’t try to remember it.” He paddles the oars, keeping an eye out for guards. “You will be shocked how easy it is not to remember.”

You know his name. But it escapes you nonetheless, as if it were someone else’s memory. It occurs to you that you should say something when a loud shout comes from above and the sound of gunfire rains down.

It either a miracle that none of you are shot, or the fact that the boat was forcefully overturned to catch the bullets and dump you all into the Seine. By the time you flop to shore with the others, shivering and wet, the guards are befuddled and without weapons, and your two rescuers are gone.

You have to lie to the husband you meet when you flee to the Pyrenees, even though he begs to know your heritage…and you teach him how to bake cake and watch as he grows more jolly and plump every year. But you have bad dreams more often than not. The joyous welcome of your first child and your own bakery does not stop them. Your husband wakes you with a gentle hand and cradles you to calm you down.

But when you die on the birthing bed, you know deep inside you have failed again.

______

When your life starts again, you are sure you are going to die at only seven years old.

Influenza was hell for the poor. Your father worked for fourteen hours a day at the linen factory, and your mother washed laundry and kept mind of you and the skinny apartment you all shared in the smoggy district of London. Most times you ate sausages that never really tasted like pork or beef, and the sooty boys that sweep chimneys say that sometimes they have to mix in rats or cats when there isn’t enough to fill a sausage. You aren’t sure if that’s what makes you sick.

But you cough weakly as your mother carries you on her back, going from doctor to doctor, asking for help. With not enough to even cover the medicine, all of them close the door in her face. She is brought to tears as she hurries, carrying you along. You wish your father was here. But he was chained to that factory, stuck doing terrible labors all day and likely did not know you were sick yet.

It is very dark when your mother gives up at last, sobbing and holding onto you as she sits on a stoop in front of an empty house. The three of you barely had enough pence to pay rent and buy food. The paltry few coins your mother had for a doctor would not cover the costs. It wouldn’t even cover a funeral.

“Up. Come on.”

You think the person in front of you is death itself, all dark, mysterious and impatiently beckoning you. When you realize he is talking to your mother, and that she is answering, you have a hazy wondering if it wasn’t your time yet. She’s speaking too fast for you to understand, with your head all awhirl with the fever, and he answer simply enough and opens a door to a carriage.

Its very dark inside and you fall asleep.

You feel better by the time you wake up, in a softer bed, with a warm stove lit and the smell of brewed tea leaves. A gentle looking nurse is reading at the foot of your bed and brightens to see you wake up. “There you are dearie. Come now, let’s take your medicine and have a bite to eat, there’s a pet.”

You go through the motions, swallowing down the bitter syrup, but eating a soup far better than your mother can afford, with fresh, soft bread and washing it down with warm milk. Your memory catches up and your hurry to ask what happened.

“Master Crowley instructed us to keep an eye on you.” The nurse simpers. “He’s been talking with some friends and fixed up a nice living arrangement for you, isn’t that lovely?”

When you feel better, you are allowed to ask for him. But when they ask for Crowley to come, he delivers some excuse and apologizes through a letter instead.

“But…” You whimper to the nurse who delivers the message. “I have to. I have to say thank you.”

“Oh there, there-“ She hushes, gathering you in her arms. She is so soft and pillowy, you sink right into the embrace. “-don’t fret. You’ll see him again one day, you just wait and see.”

You do just that. You wait. You ask as often as you can. You study at the hospital and become a nurse and you wait. When the nurse tries for the last time to find him, she learns he has disappeared quite entirely, and you break down into tears.

The years are softened with a change in the environment. You fall in love. And better yet, your husband can love you back. You save him when he is stricken with a putrefied leg wound, and he saves you when your regrets haunt you in your sleep. There is a full bottle of valerian in your dresser to smother your dreams, but they are so intense that it only muffles them like a pillow trying to drown them out.

This was the briefest yet. Your dreams cry out, and your little boy toddles from his room to comfort you when you cry. Why? Why can’t you just tell him?

The depression hits later in life, though your husband bravely tries to keep your spirits up. “I hope you live happy.” You tell him on the birthing bed for your second son. “No regrets.”

“No regrets.” He promises. Of course he doesn’t know.

You do.

_______

When your turn comes again, you think yourself as far less child and more of an adult. At fifteen you were a lot more educated than your younger siblings, though your stepmother protested that you were too young to get involved in the war effort. But you are determinedly single-minded, and in time you are recruited as a spy for the British Government. You supposed that with the state of the war, they were willing to take all sorts of risks.

You looked innocent enough. A young lady, going to classes and attending school was a pretense to go to libraries and smuggle out valuable books. You worked in tandem with the fellow spies, decoding what you can of German wanted lists. Many of them were listed to be destroyed, per the Fuhrer’s intent to eradicate all literature that spat in the face of his dictatorship, but many more were to be stolen for their value. Your proudest moment was when you swapped the Book of Saint Columba from the British Archive…switching it for a well-made fake.

That moment nearly killed you.

The bible was mingled in your book bag, and you made a beeline for your designated safehouse. A group of spies pretending to be your family were waiting, and the book would be hidden until the war ended for its own safety.

When you saw a pair of men stalking you from a corner, you sought to lose then in the broken rubble of the streets. You did not see the second pair, who cornered you with a gun. “Hands up.” One said sharply, his German accent thick and cold. You swallow hard and obey. “Walk.”

You are marched through dark streets, sometimes encouraged along when you realize you are returning to the safehouse. You try to disguise your terror as everyone there is lined up against the wall of the backyard, hands on their heads. “These people, they are familiar to you?”

You shake your head a little too quickly, and a bullet is put through your fake brother. He crumples to the ground, and the gun is moved onto the next. “No? Are you sure?” They shoot your fake mother, and she gasps, clinging to life and bleeding against the wall. But another round of shots and she too falls dead. “Come, come my dear, all you have to do is tell us where the books are.”

One by one you shake your head. Soon there are no more spies against the wall and the gun is up against your chin. You can feel it’s still hot, burning a mark right above your throat. “Last chance kilenes madchen-“ The gunman asks patiently. “-I don’t have to shoot you. I can do far worse things.”

Close your eyes and think of England. It was a joke that had been passed along by your friends when you were little and had to do things you didn’t want to. Taking cod liver oil to prevent the measles, eating your carrots even though you hated carrots, or enduring the dull lectures of history from your dreary teacher. Your mother used to say it when you complained of some unappealing task.

Close your eyes and think of England.

You do just that, and await a gunshot to the brain or being dragged off and defiled as all the nightmare stories from Germany say they do. You close your eyes and think of your real family, your real home.

You are very patient until you realize nothing has happened.

When you open your eyes, a dapper man in black sunglasses is standing around a bunch of unconscious Nazis, wiping off his hands. “You really, really, really ought to be less conspicuous next time.” He scolded. “If word got out that silly bible got into Nazi hands, I can think of someone who might smite you for losing it.”

You panic briefly, scrambling for your bag. But you sigh in relief. The Book of Columba is still there.

“Alright. Bomb’s gonna drop in about five minutes, it’ll take care of this mess.” He gestures you to follow. “Come along, I’ve got another place you can drop that off.”

The shelter he takes her to is full of English children, much younger than you. You’re a little offended when he calls you “little girl” and laughs when you defend you were fifteen, as if that changed anything. But when the bombs started falling, making the ground shake, he gives a reassuring half-hug to a few of the kids before leading you all outside after it subsides.

The safehouse is a bookstore. Hide a tree in a forest indeed.

“Oh! Oh you’ve saved it!” The book clerk is clearly thrilled when you uncover the sacred bible, running his hands over the protective cover. “Bless you dear, you’ve done a real miracle tonight.”

“She’s done? I suppose taking out half a dozen Nazi spies is just a doddle!” The dapper stranger snaps.

“Crowley I didn’t mean that kind of miracle-“ The bookkeeper hushes him. “-come inside quick. I’ll alert the authorities.”

You all sit inside the shop while he accesses a machine hidden behind a shelf, tapping out a message in Morse code. Crowley sits in a chair, lounging and drinking heavily from a bottle of wine and scowls when you look at him too long. It’s time to say it.

But when you try to, he stands up and hushes you. “None of that. It’s been a long night.” He polishes off the bottle and saunters out. “Take care of this one for me, will you angel?”

The door closes and you start crying. There is no time for the clerk to ask what’s wrong before you run out to try and catch him. Circling the block, shouting his name. Knowing you still might have a chance.

There is no answer.

The war eventually ends, and your service to British Intelligence turns into a simple desk job. Sometimes you pass by that old bookshop, remembering that night, remembering how close you were to saying thank you. You have a medal of commendation, congratulating you, and they even let you keep the identical copy of Columba’s book. You meet a man much like you, except his regrets were made on the battlefield, with friends he’d failed to bring back home with him, and people he thought hadn’t needed to die at all. And in a grief that can be explained, it helps you along with the grief that has no name, buried deep within you.

When you are pregnant a second time, you take the copy of the bible to the bookshop. You scribble a note on the cover, but leave no name. The person it is left for after all, may have another name the next time. But urgency tells you that next time might be the last. You’re seven months pregnant, and the clock is ticking down.

You don’t let the bookkeeper see you as you leave it in the mailbox, wrapped in brown paper. Tell him to wait next time. You leave within the book. Tell him I haven’t said thank you yet.

When you feel your water break, you say goodbye to your confused husband and son. You don’t fight it as your second child forces his way into this world. You accept the void and close your eyes…impatient for what you already know is to come.

One more time.

____

At the eve of New Years for 1970, you try to get in trouble.

You’re only thirteen. Your mother dismisses it as rebelliousness and grounds you to your room. But when you find yourself wandering around town after dark, she gets concerned when you can’t give a reason why you’re looking for trouble. You describe it as a deep urge, a built in response. You know something will happen if you’re in danger. You just don’t know what it is.

She puts you through therapy, and the psychiatrist is very understanding.

“More supernatural than cognitive.” She says, writing it down after you’ve talked of your recent lapse. You had run away from home and were doing runs around Soho, scarcely avoiding traffic. “Something that can’t be explained.” She puts her hand on yours and smiles. “But we need to try and slow it down. Make it safe. Your mother loves you and doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

She doesn’t mention your father since you’re not sure he has an opinion about you at all. He’s been gone since before you were born, but you can’t help but view him as a mere facilitation of your existence. He has no real importance. He’s only there to make sure you go through the motions by existing.

Your psychiatrist offers some sleep aids to try and urge an early bedtime rather than running off into the night. Most times it works. But when you turn sixteen, you spit it into the toilet instead and sneak out.

And you can feel something different in the air. It’s almost electric. The lights in Soho are somehow brighter, the cars are faster, and the streets are more empty than usual. Something is trying to happen.

So you encourage it, and try stepping out into the busy street.

Every part of you sings with relief when someone pulls you back.

“Idiot.”

The arm is secure on your shoulders, making sure you’re secure as the car that almost hit you honks angrily and speeds off. But the rest of the world seems to be waiting on its heels for what is to happen next. You have to make sure it’s still what you’re waiting for.

Red hair. Dark glasses.

“Thank you.”

___________

Crowley didn’t freeze time. But it stopped anyway.

At his feet, the girl. She wasn’t run over, but as soon as she said those two words, it was as if she had her strings cut from an invisible puppeteer, and now laid as cold and dead as she would have been if he had not reached out.

“Our arrangement has been concluded.”

It is far more frightening than the Archangels or Satan. It is Death, in his black, withered cloak, a wizened skull staring back at the demon while the world ceased to move.

“What arrangement?” Crowley is barely able to say through a dry mouth. This is worse than the worse omen, and moreover it was completely unexpected. Aziraphale had shown him that peculiar book today…he had seen the message. He didn’t understand.

“Not you. The child.” Death’s back shudders and eight shadows stand behind them. Crowley has to squint to see them, but they all look very familiar. A teen spy. A pickpocket from London, a Jew from Galilee. All of them.

Leading up to the scared, wide eyed child from the Flood.

“They said they would return to this life until they could express their gratitude. Their cycle would not end until they had done so.” Death’s voice sounds very pleased, as if having seen a good crop come to fruition. “They would have thirty-two years to live, and a chance to say it when you inevitably stepped in to aid them. If they failed, they would die upon the birth of their second child and start over.”

“Why? Why would you agree to this?” Crowley sweats heavily. For over 5000 years, a single soul was put through the wringer of existence, forced to relive the same dangers. “Since when do you play games with little girl’s souls like this?”

“I am patient.” Death replies. “I come for all souls eventually. And she knew she would see you again. Deep down.”

One of the shadows looks up and seems to recognize him. A tiny wave from a small hand, before Death stretches his wings and the shades evaporate.

“This is wrong.” Crowley states. “She’s a child. She shouldn’t die this way.”

“This is her choice. And now it is over.”

Your shade stands before Death and whispers something.

“Make it quick.” Death replies. “I am patient. But not for long.”

You are little more than vapor, with no real form. Sometimes it shifts into what you once were, but it’s hazy and only retains the shapes most familiar to you. Crowley before you looks grief-stricken. You can sympathize why. He has just met Death, but found himself beset with regret that it was not himself that was being taken away.

“No tears.” You whisper. “I knew I would meet you again someday.”

“Not like this.” Crowley croaks back. “Not when you’re just a girl.”

“I’m old too you know.” You remind him. “I lived a lot.”

“Those don’t count. You don’t even remember.”

“I remember you helped me.” You tell him. “And if I only got to thank you once for all the times you helped me, then I can let go of this world for the next one.”

“Where will you go?”

There’s a pause, and Death’s wings shift with impatience.

“Where we can meet again.”

______

The accident almost gets Crowley in trouble, time restarting with a dead girl at his feet. He escapes, barely, and Aziraphale holds a private memorial in his bookshop with the fake bible and candles. Crowley doesn’t want to drink or do much of anything. So he relies on the angel for the silent assurance. This was the last time.

Her mother would mourn and grieve terribly. But she would not have to put another mother through that kind of grief again.

“It does say something about humanity.” Aziraphale notes, rereading the passage you had written in another life. “They have longer memories than we give them credit for. Even Death can’t stop that.”

It’s not much of a comfort.

Crowley takes the Bentley and drives. And drives. He stops when the road does, at the end of the country where it meets the sea. “It could’ve ended right then and there.” He remembers when the sea came for the children, when Noah closed the Ark. Tearing open the hull just to save a handful of innocent kids. “But I got involved.”

Tiny hands holding onto him like a lifeline, and nothing he could do but pat their head.

He looks up at the stars he has made. Some had passed on, faded away. Their light would shine on Earth for thousands of years, but they had long since gone.

A different light glimmered, a bright yellow. Still so small, but defiantly glimmering in the sky.

Crowley holds his hand up.

“Alpha Centauri.” He removes his glasses. His eyes peer beyond the ozone, beyond the vacuum of space where a star has forgone Heaven and Hell and begun turning serenely. Unbelievable. She even got the color of his eyes right. “Fine.” He smiles, a half chuckle. “One of these days. See you there.”

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #crowley/reader #crowley x reader #good omens crowley #good omens aziraphale #good omens reader insert #good omens imagine #fanfiction

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fanyiyimdzs · 5 years ago

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Mo Dao Zu Shi: Chapter 5

Masterpost

Previous chapter

Only a few days passed before Wei Wuxian realized that he may have made a mistake.

The donkey he had stolen was way too hard to please.

It was only a donkey, but it refused to eat anything other than fresh, tender grass with dewdrops hanging from the leaves, and shunned any blades which showed the slightest hint of yellow. When they passed by a farmhouse, Wei Wuxian stole a few stalks of wheat to feed it, but it only chewed a couple of times before—“pfeih!”—it launched them back out, its spit louder and more resonant than any human’s. Not only would it barely eat, it also refused to move, and if Wei Wuxian tried to make it, it would throw a fit, jumping and kicking at him with its hind legs. His life suffered several close calls. What’s more, its braying was agony to the ear.

It had no redeeming qualities as either a mount or a pet!

Wei Wuxian couldn’t help but think fondly of his sword. It was most likely hanging on the wall of some grand clan now, exhibited by the chief as a trophy of war.

Dragging the donkey with him come life or death, he ran a few lengths of road toward a large field belonging to some nearby village. The glaring sun beat down from above, and he sought shelter under a big scholar tree on the embankment between the rice paddies. The thick shade beneath the verdant leaves was dark and cool, and there was an old well where the villagers had placed a bucket and a ladle so that passers-by could quench their thirst. Once the donkey had run here, it absolutely refused to budge. Thus, Wei Wuxian jumped off, slapped its venerable hindquarters and said, “You sure must be a magnificent, prosperous being. You’re even fussier than me.”

The donkey sneezed at him.

While Wei Wuxian passed the time a hundred different ways, a group of people trekked in his direction along the crisscrossing paths in the distance.

They wore bamboo baskets on their backs, linen shirts, and straw shoes; they had the rustic, earthy appearance of rural villagers from head to toe . Among them was an almost delicate and pretty young woman with a round face, who had perhaps walked under the harsh sun for too long and wanted to sit in the shade and drink some water. But when she saw the donkey tied to the tree, braying and stomping discontently, and the wild-haired lunatic with red and white pigment smeared all over his face sitting next to it, she became frightened and wouldn’t approach.

Wei Wuxian had always considered himself protective and caring of women, so seeing her state, he moved to create space for her and went to bother the donkey. Only once the travellers saw he was harmless did they relax and come near. Each and every one of their faces were bright red and drenched in sweat, some fanning themselves and some fetching themselves water. The young woman sat by the well, and, seemingly knowing Wei Wuxian had intentionally made room for her, gave him a tiny smile.

Among the group was a man holding a compass, who gazed out into the distance. He then looked back down, bewildered. “We’re almost at the foot of Dafan Mountain. Why isn’t the needle moving?”

The compass he was using was no ordinary compass; its markings were different, and its needle didn’t point north. It wasn’t a compass of the cardinal directions, but an “evil wind compass”, used to locate fierce, malignant spirits. Wei Wuxian knew then the people he had met were a family of poor, unaffiliated cultivators. Outside of the illustrious, moneyed houses of cultivation, who spent their spare time contemplating the poetry of white snows and sunny spring days, there were also quite a few of these kinds of small, unrefined, closed-off, and self-taught families. Perhaps they had rushed from the village to beg for shelter from a big house that they had some relation to. Or perhaps they were out on a night-hunt.

The middle aged leader waved everyone toward the well for water and simultaneously said, “Your compass is probably broken, once we get back I’ll get you a new one. We’re less than five kilometers from Dafan Mountain, so we can’t rest for long. We’ve suffered the winds and the dust the whole journey—if we relax here, the people behind will pass us, and all our effort’ll be wasted.”

Indeed, they had come to night-hunt. Many cultivators, fond of literary pursuits, called roaming the four corners of the land, exorcising evil spirits “roving hunts,” and since their prey typically came out at night, the hunts also became known as “night-hunts.” Though there were many houses of cultivation, only a few became truly famous. If their ancestors had not accumulated prestige and prosperity, ordinary houses could only earn respect and reputation through their own achievements, and climb the hierarchy of the cultivation world by their own sweat. Only by seizing a brutal monster or calamity-bringing spirit would their names start to have weight.

Seizing evil things was what Wei Wuxian was best at, but the few days he’d been running around on the road breaking into graves, he had found only minor ghosts. He still lacked a ghost that could help him trample his opponents, so he decided he would also go to Dafan Mountain1 and try his luck. If he found a useful one, he would catch and deploy it.

The cultivators had now rested enough and were preparing to take off. Before they left, the round-faced young woman took a half-green, half-red apple from the basket on her back and passed it to Wei Wuxian. “This is for you.”

Wei Wuxian reached out to receive it with a big smile on his face, but the donkey raised its head, bared its teeth, and bit at the pro-offered fruit. He hastily grabbed hold of it. But when good fortune came, so did clever ideas; seeing the donkey endlessly salivating over the little apple, Wei Wuxian picked up a tree branch and a fishing line, tied the apple to the branch, and hung the apple in front of the donkey’s head. The donkey smelled the fragrant scent of the apple, and lusting after its sweet flesh, chased the fruit that was always just a little out of reach. Head raised and charging ahead, the animal ran faster than any colt Wei Wuxian had ever seen, leaving clouds of dust trailing behind it.

The donkey didn’t stop running, and thus they made it to Dafan Mountain before nightfall. Wei Wuxian only figured out how to write the mountain’s name when he reached its base. From far away, it looked exactly like a venerable, open-hearted, squat Buddha—thus it was Dafan Mountain, and the small village at the foot of the mountain was therefore called Fojiao Village.2

The number of cultivators who had gathered far exceeded Wei Wuxian’s expectations. It was a mixed crowd, like a lake where both dragons and schools of tiny fish swam. The cultivators wore a dizzying, blinding array of colours and resembled a parade of restless flowers as they walked up and down the street. But for some unknown reason, everyone had a nervous expression on their face. They couldn’t even spare the attention to laugh at Wei Wuxian’s ridiculous face.

In the center of the main road, a crowd of cultivators gathered, speaking solemnly. They seemed to be arguing and spoke loudly enough for Wei Wuxian to hear them from a distance. At first the discussion was calm, but it grew more and more agitated as it progressed:

“I don’t think this place ever had any soul-eating beasts or ghasts in the first place. That’s obviously why no one’s compass needle has moved.”

“But if there really is nothing, how could seven of those villagers have lost their souls? They couldn’t have all come down with the same bizarre disease, could they? I’ve never heard of such a disease!”

“Just because the compasses aren’t pointing to anything, does that necessarily mean nothing’s here? They can only point in a general direction. They’re not that accurate, so they can’t be completely trusted. It’s possible there’s something around here that can interfere with the needle.”

“Don’t you remember who invented these compasses? I’ve never heard of anything disturbing the direction the needle points.”

“What exactly do you mean by that? Why are you asking such weird questions? Of course I remember evil wind compasses were invented by Wei Ying, but just because he invented something, doesn’t mean it’s gorgeous and perfect. Aren’t people allowed to question him?”

“I didn’t say you weren’t allowed to question him, or that his things were gorgeous and perfect. There’s no need to spew mud everywhere, your highness!”

They began to argue in a different direction, and Wei Wuxian rode his donkey past them, laughing merrily. Even though so many years had passed, his ability to whip cultivators into verbal duels and tongue clashes had not diminished. “Once you hear the name ‘Wei,’ you’re forced to fight”—so the saying went. If there was a vote on who possessed the most extensive and long-lived fame among all cultivators, who could win against him?

In all fairness, the cultivator who had questioned him wasn’t wrong. The evil wind compasses in use were only the first edition, and indeed left something to be desired when it came to accuracy. Originally, Wei Wuxian had worked to improve them, but who told people to destroy his home before he was done? So he had no option but to inconvenience everyone and continue to force the inaccurate, first edition compass on them.

In any case, most things that eat flesh and chew bone were low level, such as walking corpses. Only refined, elegant, high level beasts and vicious ghosts could eat and digest souls. To consume seven in one go—no wonder there were so many houses gathered here. This prey was no small matter—it was only natural that the compasses made a few errors.

Holding the reins tightly, Wei Wuxian leapt from the donkey’s back, grabbed the apple, and held it in front of the donkey. “One bite, just one bite. Hey! You almost bit off my hand.”

He took two bites of the other side of the apple and shoved it back into the donkey’s mouth. While he reflected on how he had been reduced to sharing an apple with a donkey, someone collided with him from behind. He turned and saw a young woman who, even though she had walked straight into him, seemed to find him beneath her notice. Her eyes were dull and lifeless, her lips were molded into a slight smile, and she refused to tear her gaze away from a certain direction.

Wei Wuxian followed her line of sight into the distance, where a solemn black mountain top lay—Dafan Mountain.

Suddenly without warning, the young woman began dancing.

The dance was wild and violent, as though channeling a beast baring its fangs and brandishing its claws. Wei Wuxian watched the young woman with bright interest, but another woman lifted her skirt and ran towards them, threw her arms around the dancing girl and cried, “Ah-yan, let’s go home! Let’s go home!”

With all her strength, Ah-yen threw the woman off and continued, smile still plastered on her face, as though animated by some kind of hair-raising obsession. The older woman had no option but to chase the girl all over the street, wailing, tears dripping down her face. To the side, a street peddler said, “Hell’s bells, Blacksmith Zheng’s Ah-yan’s run out again.”

“I feel sorry for her mother. Ah-yan, Ah-yan’s husband, and her own husband, not a single one’s in good shape...”

Wei Wuxian strolled around the village, eavesdropping, collecting bits and pieces of idle chatter from the people he walked by, and pieced together the strange sequence of events that had unfolded.

On Dafan Mountain, there was an old graveyard housing the people of Fojiao Village’s ancestral graves, where the villagers would also bury and raise grave markers for unnamed corpses on occasion. One evening several months ago, when thunder rolled and the sky flashed with lightning, the wind and the rain pounded down upon the area, scouring the mountain the entire night. A patch of earth atop Dafan Mountain collapsed, triggering a landslide—this patch of earth happened to be the exact patch on which the graveyard was located. Thus many old graves were destroyed and others were exposed to the elements. Lightning struck, blasting and blackening both the coffins and the bodies inside.

After this episode, the people of Fojiao Village became extremely uneasy, prayed for blessings, and then rebuilt the old burial mound, believing that this would settle the matter. But who knew from that point onwards, Fojiao Village would suffer so many cases of lost souls?

The first victim was a lazy bum who was poor as a rat and spent most of his days loafing about. Because he enjoyed going up the mountain and catching birds to pass time, he just so happened to be stuck on Dafan Mountain the night of the landslide. Though scared half to death, he was blessed with good fortune—nothing happened to him, at least on that night. But strange things began to occur only a few days after he returned. He suddenly found a wife and was married with much fanfare, sparing no waving banners or beating drums, claiming he would live a life of merit and virtue and pass his days with this promise in mind.

The night of the wedding, he drank himself blind, fell into bed, and didn’t get up. When his new wife called his name, he didn’t react, and only when she pushed him over did she discover that her groom’s eyes were blank and lifeless and his body was as cold as ice. Aside from the fact that he was still breathing, there was little that distinguished him from a corpse. He ate nothing, drank nothing, and continued on in this state for many days before finally being peacefully buried. The poor bride became a widow despite barely having been married.

The second was Ah-yan from the family of Blacksmith Zheng. The young woman had just been betrothed, but only a day after, her fiancé was bitten to death by wolves while hunting on the mountain. After she found out, the same fate befell her as befell the lazy bum. Happily, however, her disease somehow cured itself after a period of time. Yet from that point onward, she began to suffer from lunacy. She went outside every day to dance for people, smiling the entire time.

The third was Ah-yan’s father, Blacksmith Zheng. To date, there had been seven victims in total.

Wei Wuxian mulled over the matter and determined it was most likely the work of a soul eating ghast, rather than a soul eating beast.

Though the difference between their names was only one word, they were entirely disparate beings. Ghasts were a type of ghost, but soul eating beasts were a type of fae. According to Wei Wuxian, the sequence of events was most likely this: the landslide demolished old graves and lightning split open coffins, releasing a long dormant ghast from among the bodies. If this was the case, the state of the coffins and presence of any seal traces upon them should suffice for confirmation. But the Fojiao Villagers must have already long re-buried the burnt coffins elsewhere, and reinterred the bodies—there would be very few vestiges of the ghast's resting place.

In order to climb the mountain, Wei Wuxian took the sloping road from the village. He hopped on his donkey and slowly ascended. After traveling a while, he encountered some people wearing dark expressions climbing down.

These people had cuts and scrapes on their faces, and seemed to be talking to each other all at once. The sky was dusky, and they all jumped in fright as they ran face-to-face into someone made-up like a hanged ghost riding atop a donkey. They shouted angry words at him, circled around, and continued down the slope at rapid clip. Looking back on them, Wei Wuxian wondered whether they had been defeated by their intended prey and were now returning from their night-hunt empty-handed. He pondered a little more, slapped his donkey’s hindquarters, and the two clambered up briskly.

He had left at the perfectly wrong time and missed the group’s grumbling.

“I’ve never met anyone so unreasonable!”

“He’s the head of such a big house, why does he have to come here and compete with us for a single soul eating ghast? He must have killed plenty when he was young!”

“But what can we do? We can hardly do anything about him being a Clan Chief. Whichever house you offend, you must not offend House Jiang. Whoever you offend, you must not offend Jiang Cheng. There’s nothing to do except pack our bags, accept our fate, and go!”

________________

Translation notes:

1 Wei Wuxian, having only heard the name of the mountain, mistakes 大梵山 (lit. “Big Buddha Mountain”) for the homophonous 大饭山 (lit. “Big Meal Mountain” or “Big Rice Mountain”).

2 Fojiao means “Buddha foot.”

Next chapter

Masterpost

#MDZS #mdzs translation #wei wuxian #wwx

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afy2018 · 5 years ago

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You’re a Queen (Revision) Chapter 1

Waverly awoke in her cold narrow chambers- only the bare minimum for Purgatory- to the sound of Stephani Jones, her Lady’s Maid, gently calling to her from the fireplace as she sparked it to life. Her mistress dismissed her to the doorway as she began her day. Waverly wished she could just dismiss her completely as the days preceding the anniversary of her father’s passing were always difficult no matter how many years had gone by, and only exacerbated by her sister’s desertion of her rightful place in their fief.

Once she tore off her nightgown, Waverly pulled out her black and silver dress she had imported from Holland with the box of British brass brooches and faux pearl jewels that were to adorn her clothes. The routine of her base skirt and gown proved to take less time than normal as Waverly summoned Stephani to help her with the rest of her dress and hair before the clock struck eight.

She went through her usual regimen which ended with her going down to dine with her Aunt but was quickly intervened by their butler, Percival Crofte, with a salt-crusted letter. Waverly plucked it from his hands and ripped it open, quickly skimming the words before handing it back to him as she changed course to the main chambers to meet her impending guest.

Her heart pounded in her chest and she began to break out in a light sweat from her layers and nerves. Her finely dressed doormen opened the grand room as she approached them. She entered the hollow chambers, her clicking shoes echoing through the entire room as the servants and noblemen silently watched her. Once she situated herself in her simple throne, Waverly nodded to Nedley, a greying man who was as loyal as a dog but just as opinionated as her aunt, to let in her old friend.

The doors across from her opened to a lone figure standing in the archway where her servants once stood. The young ruler sat back in her chair and watched as the visitor tentatively approached her. Once she was only a few feet away, Waverly took in the view of her guest that she no longer recognized. She looked over the features she once cherished so many years ago that disappeared in the now shockingly masculine attire she wore.

Waverly stood on the platform that raised her chair above the stone floor and began her descent towards her. After a few moments of staring at her, she dismissed her guards and noblemen alike to talk with her long lost friend. As the hallway’s doors closed, Waverly walked straight up to her guest, watching as she flinched at her speed, and punched her shoulder.

“WHERE have you been?” she hissed at her. Before she could answer, Waverly quickly pulled her into a tight embrace, “Welcome home, Wynonna.”

She felt tentative arms wrap around her as her sister loosely hugged her back and tucked her bare lips against her beaded shoulder. Waverly let her go and gazed upon her rugged appearance. From what she could see, her sister had dawned gentlemen’s attire with road worn boots wrapped in a fine cloth to cover their grime. Although her vest was plain in color and pattern, the cloak she had draped around her shoulders was deep emerald with a border of gold stitching that made her seem nobler than her rank allowed. She had a sword sheathed to her hip and dark leather gloves that were untouched by the weather.

“You are alive,” Waverly gasped. “You never wrote… well?”

Wynonna only nodded in response before finding her voice for the first time in the archaic castle, “Do you remember the stories Father used to tell us about the homestead? He talked about how this place wasn’t meant to house the noble or royal. It was originally a place for people to pass through when they were heading to and from the Phantom River Palace. It had not been until the fifteenth century that the Good Lord Earp established Purgatory as a fief,” she rested on her heels and continued, “I am only doing what Father always told us and explored the world. I have seen things and people I would have never thought existed had I not just gone out into the world. My dear sister, I have lived and-”

“And I have been here,” her sister interrupted.

“Yes, you have. I do not plan on staying any longer. I was just passing. I’m glad you got my note, I’d hate to catch you by surprise.”

“Yes, this morning, actually.”

“Mm, I sent it three weeks ago, shame it took that long,” Wynonna turned on her heels and began out of the main hallway and to her next journey.

Waverly chased after her older sister through the old hallways of their once-prosperous fief. The banners and coat of arms that were once lit by the chandeliers and candelabras for evening parties now hung against the decrepit walls of their home. They continued further down the palace hallways as the younger woman tried to get her sister’s attention. She jogged a bit before tugging on her thick cloak.

“Please, you need to stay here. Your absence has left our home in complete disarray!” Waverly berated her, her tone biting into her sister’s conscious. “Take responsibility for one thing at least once in your life!”

Wynonna stopped in her tracks and turned around to face her, only cocking her head to the side as she tried to hold back her rage. Carefully, she spat, “God, do you know what I had to go through after… after everything? You think your life was hard running this place with everyone caring for you, preparing you and holding your hand along the way? I was shunned, no one wanted me after Father croaked, not even you. You all thought I was a demon, a witch, some sort of… I don’t know, so come back when everyone hates you, then you can act like your life’s been hard.” She stood back from her sister, waiting for any response she knew would have to be coaxed out of her.

Waverly couldn’t look up at her, knowing that any mention of her memories would trigger something not only in her sister but within herself to flee. She also knew that torn look Wynonna got in her eyes of betrayal, and it killed her to remind her about their trauma-even though it was her fault. The older woman only watched her sister, huffing the air from her lungs in annoyance. She tore off her gloves, collecting them in her left hand as she placed the other one on her sister’s shoulder. Looking into her large eyes, Wynonna quickly pulled her in for a quick embrace, getting stuck as Waverly clung onto her. She sighed out a shuddering breath and kissed her forehead before her sister finally let go.

“I’m sorry,” Waverly apologized.

“No, you’re ri[ght]-” she almost comforted.

“Excuse me, Madam,” their advisor Nedley interrupted. “Sir Dolls is here to see you.”

Wynonna pulled her gloves on again and rested her hand on the hilt of her sword, nodding to the greying man, “Bring him to the main chambers, I’ll address him soon,” she commanded.

The voice she took on surprised her, after all of her travelings and escaping, she had thought that the tone would be lost to the nomadic gangs and foreign oceans, but it seemed to just be waiting at the edge of the Purgatory woods. She only cleared her throat as he went to their guest and turned to face her sister again.

“When did you stop wearing dresses?” Waverly asked as she looked upon her sister’s masculine fashion.

“When I set fire to them and bought a more efficient wardrobe. What have you been doing while I was gone?”

“I have been running our fief ever since Aunt Augustine approved it for me.”

Wynonna only shook her head, turning to watch as their advisor finally disappeared behind the door. “Do you know who Sir Dolls is.”

“A knight from our Duke’s Army. He was sent three fortnights ago.”

She shrugged and placed both hands on the hilt of her sword. “Is he attractive?”

“Seriously?”

“What, might I not dream of my knight in shining armor?”

“Ugh, I will leave you to your meeting with him,” Waverly said dismissing her sister’s comment.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“I’m off, Purgatory is your responsibility now, go visit Aunt Augustine in the dining room,” she nodded as she backed away from her.

“Yay, so much fun,” Wynonna sarcastically remarked. “I just hope I get unlimited access to the armory.”

She smiled at her and left her sister to her own affairs as she walked to shock yet another family member. After Waverly changed into her riding kit, she went to the stables, looking for her blood bay mare. Her horse was a young and spry beast that could have kept up with Wynonna’s wild spirit had she been paired with the older sister rather than her. She quickly had her saddled up and set off for her own time alone in the forest.

Waverly sped through the stables and out of the castle gates. Her destination was whatever she could find and as she followed the path from her home and through the glades, Waverly broke off to the barely beaten path that led to a stream. She felt the change of air as the trees burned their scent in her nose and throat. The only sound she heard was the huffing breaths her mare let out before she began to settle and slow down through the trees to avoid the low branches and roots. Waverly heard the sound of scampering critters and fearful does sprint to safety. She began to notice the distinct sound of water running through the pebbles, splashing and spilling onto the large rocks.

She dismounted at the water’s edge and went to a petrified oak that had fallen three years earlier. Waverly sat on it and listened as the low stream of crystal clear water rushed below her. It was a peaceful sound that numbed her ears and thoughts from everything else in the world. She felt a calming air rush over her body and begin to relax her muscles. The silence echoed in her head and vibrated through her soul as she lost herself in the pattern the water made on its surface as the stream rushed and trickled over the beautiful river worn rocks.

The only thing that broke her trance was a soft rustling as a horse came galloping through the trail somewhere nearby. She heard the horse’s hooves rapidly near her until they finally stumbled to a stop. Waverly slipped back into the low stream and glared up at the young rider. She gritted her teeth as the owner of the blue dun quickly dismounted. They were clad in silver armor that clanked and flexed with ease as they went to help the royal back up.

“You have some nerve scaring me,” Waverly muttered as she was helped up.

The knight took off their helmet, revealing a kind face of the young soldier in her padded cream colored coif. “I apologize, ma’am, but have you seen a man in red running around here recently?”

“No,” Waverly assured her, surprised at how gently the knight spoke to her.

“Hm, I’m almost sure I saw him running through here not too long ago.” Seemingly giving up and pulling her attention to the woman before her, she untied her coif and tucked it inside of her helmet. The young knight revealed her bright red hair that was tied back in a loose bun. With the loud clanking of her armor, she placed her hand over her heart and introduced, “I am Dame Nicole Haught of the Duke’s Royal Army. Again, I dearly apologize for frightening you.”

Waverly waved away her apology and went to her mare, “It’s fine. I am Lady Waverly Earp of Purgatory.”

The young knight sank to her knees, her hand still over her heart, “Lady Earp, I’m so sorry, a thousand apologies, M’Lady. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Oh my,” she chuckled, “Please stand, I’m not that important I only rule over a fief, or I once did.”

Nicole pushed on her knee to stand up and brushed off her armor. “Well, seeing that I’ve lost the thief I-”

“What is a Duke’s knight doing here chasing a lowly thief?” the lady interrupted as she walked back to her.

“Hm, yes that is a fair question,” Haught laughed to herself. “Serving his people as always. Say, is there a tavern nearby? I seem to have been turned around a bit and feel the need to relax before I get back to my duties.”

“Oh, well, there is a pub near the Purgatory castle actually, it is on the outskirts but… I’m babbling aren’t I, yes I am,” she chuckled as Haught pulled on the coif again, hiding her fiery red hair.

“No, no, babble on,” she joyfully responded.

Waverly blushed a little at her endearing words and looked down at the stream again. “I was planning on going back to the castle. You can follow me if you would like.”

“That would be wonderful, your highness,” she sincerely nodded before pulling her helmet on again.

“Perfect, then we should be off.”

They smiled at each other and mounted their beasts. Haught flicked the face of her helmet down and slid onto her horse. As she waited for the lady to mount her mare, she asked, “You said that you used to rule over the fief, who is it now?”

“My sister, back from her journeys.”

“So, what does that mean for you, Madam?” Nicole inquired.

“Ah, well, that means that I can explore my home and the beautiful terrain it has been blessed with,” she smiled as she gestured to the forest. “Well, when I’m not being interrupted by knights.” Noticing the way she tensed up, Waverly quickly added, “All meant in jest.”

They raced back to the castle through the dense trees and shrubberies before breaking through the glades to the dirt road to Purgatory. Nicole caught up to the speedy royal, smiling at her behind the metal helmet. As she studied her through the narrow slots of her mask, the young knight soon found her eyes more than curiously wandering Waverly’s figure as she expertly rode her mare. They slowed down once they cleared the glade, seeing the fortress and castle in the distance with the shops and houses that smattered the exterior of Purgatory. Waverly slowed her horse to a trot, wanting to talk to the knight as they neared her home.

“So where do you hail from?” she asked.

“I’m from Phantom River. I was sent here to aid the fiefs around this territory with any ruffians.”

“Really? We actually have another knight from the Lionheart King Carlo, Sir Dolls.”

“I have never met him, but there are many soldiers in the Duke and King’s armies. He might be apart of his royal highness’ personal armies. I’m just a guard.”

“Duke Carlo has more than one army?”

“No, but his brother has special forces who watch over him and are by his side every day, there is a section whose duty is to watch the people he deems important and then he and the Duke have my people who help keep order amongst the fiefs and towns.”

“How interesting. So you were sent here, why?” she tried again, trying to squeeze out as much information from her as possible.

“Well the fiefs of Purgatory, Derelict, and Haven are to be mine and another knight’s territory but to be completely honest, I was glad when I was assigned to this territory because I have always wanted to meet you.”

“Me?” Waverly laughed in disbelief.

“Yes, I have heard of your bravery in fighting off our Neighbors to the North. You saved the Duke’s most important road and his soldiers. You are seen as a legend… M’Lady,” she formally added.

“Oh, um, thank you. How long will you be staying?”

“I have been here for almost a month but I only have a week left on my contract.”

“Only that long? I insist that you stay longer, seeing that you are a part of the Duke’s Army, you are a special guest to us.”

“Oh, thank you, M’Lady,” Nicole responded, dipping her head.

“Please, this is the least I can do for a knight, truly,” she assured her. “Do you have anything else before we move you here?”

“Nothing that isn’t strapped to my steed,” Haught noted as she patted the back of her horse.

Little conversation transpired between them as they finished their journey to the local tavern. It was a centuries-old beaten shack that had been passed down between generations of local Purgatory citizens. The current owner, “Shorty” Seanan, was a trustworthy old man with the heart of an explorer but the knowledge of any other citizen there. He had always been able to learn from those who passed through the bar about the outside world that he dreamed of seeing. In turn, he would inform Waverly of the people he met and the stories they shared with him. It always made her pine for the adventures she dreamed her sister had. They were only dreams though as to the entire town of Purgatory, Waverly was the stable child, the one who survived her sister’s insanity.

The two women hitched their horses and walked into the busy bar. At the moment, there seemed to only be locals in their usual spots with Seanan watching his latest patrons walk into his business. He beckoned the Lady over and handed her a cup of ale.

“Good morning, Waverly,” he politely greeted. Haught noted his grand smile that broke through the thick grey and white beard. “How goes it?”

“Mm, I was feeling low until I met this lost puppy in the woods,” she joked gesturing to Haught. “Perchance, have you seen a man in red tear through town?”

“No one that seemed suspicious,” he shrugged. “Would you like anything to drink, lass?”

“Would you happen to have any lägers?”

“I do,” he proudly nodded, pouring her a stein full. He shooed away her money, “No need to pay madam, you are a friend of Waverly.”

“Thank you, I never caught your name.”

“Seanan, but friends just call me Shorty.”

“Shorty Seanan, I am Dame Nicole Haught of the Duke’s Royal Army.”

“A Royal Knight in this area. Well well well, welcome to Purgatory,” he nodded.

Waverly found a spot by the window where they could talk and drink. She found Nicole curiously regarding her and the patrons of the tavern.

“Do you have a question for me?” she asked her.

“I just have never heard anyone address a noble so casually. People never addressed a noble like that back home.”

“Well, that is not how we do it here. You will find that we are much more independent than where you are from,” Waverly explained. “I just wanted to let you know before we got to the castle.”

“How did your family gain power? You’re not related to royal blood, are you?”

“At first no, but my mother was a Gibson of the Lavelle-Obere family.”

“Really, so do you ever visit them in Lyon?”

“I have never met any of them. I barely remember my mother.”

“Did she pass away when you were young?” Nicole asked, catching Shorty’s protective eye. “I should not pry, nevermind.”

“The Earps have really been the only ruling family here with a few suitors from other wealthy families here and there. We Earps stick together despite the distance.”

“Is that your motto?”

“No, but it should be,” she smirked with a quick swig from her cup. “But enough about me. How did you become a knight, what’s your backstory?”

Nicole chuckled and shrugged, “I hail from the Kingdom of Ireland, the O’Haught family, specifically, from the Shannon Basin. But, uh, Shannon could never hold me still so I was sent to the academy out here to hopefully put some sense into me.”

“Did it work?” Waverly asked.

“I haven’t the faintest clue,” she flirted in her Irish accent, “did it?”

“Cheeky, I think Purgatory already has you under her spell.”

“Mm,” she chuckled, “I think the citizens have helped a great deal.”

Waverly cleared her throat as she stared at the empty cup in front of her. “I should introduce you in Court if you are going to be a guest here, that is.”

“I do not want to be a bother, really.”

“No, I insist. We will be glad to have a guest. It has been a long while since the castle had visitors.”

“If you insist-“

“I do. Now, it is,” Waverly paused as she looked up at a clock, “only a quarter past four so I would assume everyone is still in the castle…Well, I would assume so. We might want to go soon, I’m not too sure what my tribe’s up to as of recent events.”

“You mean your sister’s return?”

“Yes, exactly,” she confirmed as she stood up, pulling on her black pelisse and leaving money on the table for her old friend.

Nicole followed her to their horses, watching as her hostess effortlessly pulled herself onto her mare and waited for her to join her. She followed suit and then went down the street a few strides behind as she was trained until Waverly slowed down to match her pace. Nicole continued to watch her, silently regarding the farms and shops that they passed.

“For a noble, you wear a fair amount of black, seeing that these aren’t your colors.”

“Only today,” she cryptically informed her. “I’m surprised the Duke allows his knights to wear their family’s cloaks,” she asked back.

Nicole nodded, “My own personal touch.” She took a moment to fix the silver fox shaped hooks to her black green and purple plaid garment. “It is not a cloak, by the way. This is a traditional piece called a brat. Being the Child Ruler Lady Earp, have you ever traveled outside of Purgatory?”

Waverly sighed, trying to hide her eyes as they neared the stables, “No, I haven’t. Between lessons and watching my Uncle rule over my future affairs, I did not have time to explore. What about you? How long have you been a bonafide knight?”

“Seven years,” she proudly stated. “Seven years and I still forgot to give you this.” Nicole reached back into her saddlebag to produce a letter with a gold wax seal imprinted with the Carlo family emblem. “My contract with the Duke's official signature.”

“Keep it for now. So, a month and I have never even heard of you.”

“I should have been more vigilant but Derelict was more of a handful than I thought.”

“Ah, yes. They must either think you are an angel or hate you to send you to Derelict.”

“I like to think I’m an angel.”

“Your hubris would say otherwise.”

“Only when I’m beguiled by a pretty lady,” she tested.

“Try not to forget yourself, Haught.”

“I apologize, M’Lady,” she quickly corrected.

“But I’m glad I have that power over you,” Waverly teased.

From behind her helmet, Nicole gawked at her audacious flirting, only recomposing herself when they arrived at the stables, dismounting and unsaddling their horses. Waverly brushed out her mare’s mane with care while Nicole watched and smiled at the royal woman’s tenderness. Waverly then switched out the mane brush and began brushing out her mare’s coat. Nicole gave her blue dun stallion a sugar cube while she waited on the side. Waverly smiled as she peeked over her horse at the knight before she put away the brushes.

“I have never seen noble care for her own horse,” Nicole noted as she walked towards Waverly.

“I pride myself in caring for those I depend on,” she replied starting towards the castle.

“And what is your trusted steed’s name?”

“Ignis. What about your stallion?”

“Lex.”

“Law in Latin?”

Nicole shrugged and smiled, “He was given to me when I was far enough along in my training.” She took a moment and smiled, “You know Latin?”

“Yes. If I cannot travel, then I should at least keep myself educated.”

“Intriguing, a very learned noble. Most of the others I have met are pompous people who know no more than those they preside over.”

“Glad I’ve made a lasting impression on you,” Waverly flirted, her back to the knight once more as she took a few short cuts out of the stables. They walked into the castle through a side door for the servants where they found a maid making her way to Waverly. “Please prepare Dame Haught’s room. Preferably a guest room in the west wing. Her belongings are on her horse in the stables.”

The maid nodded and went to prepare the guest room as Waverly left to make a meeting for Nicole, letting her follow her in silence through the open corridors until they came upon the grand doors to the main chambers. She walked in, seeing her sister sitting on the throne with their Aunt behind her as Sir Dolls knelt down in the center of the room. He had been explaining his reason for his assignment in their fief and his confusion of not being informed of Wynonna’s return. Waverly stood in the back, watching her sister ogle the knight as he mindlessly recited his speech to her. She curtsied to him as he walked up to stand next to the older Earp sister.

“Wynonna, Dame Nicole Haught of the Duke’s Public Army has arrived to watch over our fief.”

Waverly sat in the chair next to her sister, Sir Dolls dipping his head to the younger woman. Nicole walked to the center of the room and produced the letter she had tried handing to Waverly earlier, holding it out for Dolls to retrieve. He tore it open and read it aloud:

“‘For Lady Earp of Purgatory. I have been informed that you are lacking the proper number of law enforcement in your area. I have sent over one of my finest Dames to aide in replenishing your forces. I hope she is of use to you. ~Duke J.C.’” Dolls regarded the letter for a moment, his eyes darting to Nicole for a moment before turning to his mistress. “It is official, the Duke’s stamp is on this.” Dolls confirmed handing the paper to Wynonna. “What is your decision?”

“Well, keep her. I would not want to anger Carlo so early. Go get clean and you can discuss your placement with Nedley.”

“Thank you, your highnesses,” Nicole bowed, standing up as she was whisked away to her chambers.

In a brief moment, she caught Waverly’s eyes, winking at her, while the blonde maid led her out of the room. She followed her to the small room that would become her personal chambers for the duration of her stay in Purgatory. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it was better than the farmhouse she was staying in Derelict. As she pondered on her new home, Nicole wrote a letter to be sent to the old mayor of her change in lodging and mission- something she was more than glad to do. In her brief time in Derelict, she had already chased around over twenty thieves, helped behead five murderers and hang nineteen other criminals. In the Shannon Basin- and even in Phantom River- there wasn’t as much crime to worry about. On more than one occasion, Nicole had to lock up her horse and belongings in order to protect them from any thieves. Crime seemed to come in waves with a few days being quiet with the usual bickering amongst the locals to major crimes and brawls which ended in major injury or death.

Nicole sat back in a cheap chair in the corner. Hearing it creak loudly under her weight, she instantly sat back up, looking down at the old wooden seat with the worn and dusty velvet cushion which now had an impression of her rear. She closed her eyes and moved the chair to the open window, feeling it loosely shake in her hands. Nicole restlessly huffed as she sat back in the chair, now feeling it shake under her. It really wasn’t the worst situation she was in, but she expected Purgatory to be at least a bit nicer. She couldn’t completely remember how it looked when she was last here, but when she was eleven she had followed her parents to this casual town with its charismatic rulers. In her time alone, the young knight reflected back on her old memories as she regarded the beautiful mountain range that guarded the small town within the valley below.

Waverly escaped the main hall after their guest’s departure but was swiftly as she left the room, her sister joined her in the hallway with her old mischievous smile. She stood in her tracks even as her sister tugged her towards the stables.

“Whatever you have in mind is going to have to wait until tomorrow,” she evenly told her.

“Not even an adventure?” Wynonna playfully whined.

“Not tonight, it is too early for you to get into trouble and skimp out on your duties.”

“You mean like you did this afternoon?”

“Yes,” she proudly admitted, “But I was not getting into trouble. How are you acclimating to power?”

“It is pretty nice, but I’m surprised I have not been confronted by any old flames from town.”

“I think once all of them know that you are here, every one of your past mistakes will come creeping out of the woodwork, I can assure you of that.”

Wynonna comically threw up her hands and asked, “Well what do you do for fun around here?”

“I’m almost sure that what I find fun, you will think is boring as can be,” Waverly submissively stated. “I do know that there is a plentiful stash of booze in the basement from our old parties.”

“Mm, and you would not happen to have to key?”

“Our key master has them all, but I know that Uncle Curtis had one in his office, you remember where that is, right?”

“Yeah,” she nodded heading down the hallway. “Aren’t you gonna join me?”

“No, I’m going to check on our guests.”

“Hm, okay. Want me to bring anything from my plunders?”

“Mm… no, thank you.”

Waverly left her sister to her own devices as she meandered through the open corridors of her home. It wasn’t anything grand but it was the only place Waverly really knew. Kept behind closed doors and inside the basin that entrapped Purgatory, she rarely ever made it past the forest and mountain passages to explore before being called back home. The only place she had visited outside of the fief was the grand palace in Phantom River which housed the Duke of their fiefdom. It was a grand manor with Gothic architecture that was popular at the time it had been constructed with grand windows that flooded the large rooms with light for any occasion that was hosted there including one for herself. The party held thereafter she aided the King’s Army through Purgatory while fighting off their Nordic foes was a grand affair with the Duke’s extended family, even his own brother attended to celebrate her achievement.

Once she entered the North Wing, Waverly quietly rapped on the wooden door to Dolls’ room. He answered instantly, still clad in his tabard and trousers, but his belt sitting on the bedside table. Standing closer to him, Waverly noted his gentle features. She had never seen someone that looked like him in person. His skin was so perfectly dark with little to no imperfections. He was a very kind spirit with a polite demeanor and proper grammar Waverly thought not quite possible for knights. Dolls bowed and kept his distance as he was taught, the untouchable guardian for Purgatory he had been assigned to be.

Waverly returned to the West Wing, attending to Nicole before retiring to her own quarters until supper. In the long corridor of rooms, the young Lady went to her guest’s chamber, rapping on her door and patiently waiting for her to open it. Nicole stood before her in a very different outfit. She had ditched her heavy armor and chainmail for a long green and white jerkin that buckled in the middle and up fairly high on her neck. She stood before her with her hands behind her back in attention while she waited to be addressed.

“How are your lodgings?”

“Not too bad especially with the view of the mountains,” she gestured to the window. “Thank you for being so kind as to let me stay here.”

“I’m glad you are enjoying your room,” Waverly smiled.

“How are you, M’Lady?”

“I’m quite well, actually. I’m, uh, glad our paths crossed,” she confided in her. “There has been a lot happening, but I know that you will do great things to help us and Nedley. I do hope you do not feel too cramped here.”

Nicole waved her hand, “I think I’ll fare perfectly well while I’m here and at this point, I’m glad I’m somewhere else. Would you like to come in?”

“Sure.”

Nicole took the other chair from the desk and placed it by the old velvet one by the window. “I’m actually quite glad you came by. I wanted to apologize again for overstepping my boundaries. I hope I did not offend you, M’Lady.” Waverly sat in the chair, lounging in the creaking chair as she listened to her. “I hope my mistake has not set us back.”

��I’m sure it hasn’t,” she assured her. “Tell me a bit more about yourself. If you are going to stay here, I would like to know at least a bit about my guest.” Waverly relaxed into the chair as she regarded the graceful mountain range. “For instance, why do you cover up your accent?”

“I try to sound less conspicuous when I’m not home. You Brits haven’t always been the kindest to my people, so I just try to blend in.”

“So why do you not fake it around me?”

“I guess I just trusted that you would not judge me based on where I grew up.”

“Mm, you are right, I try not to judge based solely on appearances,” Waverly shyly agreed. “Now, tell me, you do a fair amount of traveling, where have you been?”

“Ah, many places,” she began, placing her hands on her knees and standing before her hostess. “I have been all over the Fief and England.”

“Have you been to London?”

“Only for a short while when I was young. Duke Carlo sent me and a few others out there to shadow Royal Guards and Constables before we were sent back to implement their policies.”

“Sounds amazing,” Waverly smiled, “How was the city?”

“Cramped, in all honesty, and we were stationed in the Royal Barracks alongside the other Guards. The city was dark and there were people everywhere, shoulder to shoulder, no matter the time of day,” she chuckled. “It was a fun way to explore the city.”

“So did you drink your way through London?”

“No, not entirely, but I did gamble my way through Wembley.”

“Oh my.”

“Well, I learned that I don’t have great luck, but I at least got the chance to immerse myself in the city while I was there.”

“How much money did you lose?”

“More than I’m willing to admit,” she laughed. “With your sister in power, you might actually have time to explore outside of Purgatory.”

“Maybe, but I would not mind a guide to take me on my adventure. Where else have you been?”

“One of the first places I was stationed was Leeds back in 1619. It was a fairly quiet town when I was last there. Not much to do but the people were kind, so I was able to make some connections while I was there.”

“With whom?”

“Some of the cloth traders, but I ended up spending the most time with the Pressman family and their tribe in Harewood.” Nicole took a moment to watch her hostess’ reaction, smiling as she elicited a longing gaze from her. “I’m sure they would love the company of such an intriguing person like yourself.”

“Oh, I think you might have mistaken me with someone else, I am not that interesting,” she dismissed. “But I would love to travel to Leeds someday. Anywhere else you have been?”

“Only random deployments around England and Scotland. I never got the chance to ask you, but what have you always dreamed of doing?”

“I… nothing interesting, I just want to explore the world.”

“You must have read something in your books. Something that sparked your desires more than anything else?” Nicole meandered around the room as she waited for her to respond. She spent the silence gazing at the old novels on the shelf, dust resting upon them undisturbed for years. She plucked out a fictional book from the highest shelf. “Have you read the books in here?”

“No, especially not those ones,” she joked.

“Ah, yes. I can see why not,” she noted as she looked at the surprisingly clean book in her hands. “Hm, but not this one. It’s not in English, do you know what this says?” she asked handing Waverly the dark maroon book.

She brushed her thumb over the silver lettering pressed into the cover as she read it out loud, “Phaedrus, it’s a dialogue piece from ancient Greece.”

“A dialogue, of what?”

“Of persuasion, death, and… humanity,” she explained.

“Interesting never heard of it.” Nicole flipped through the book, stopping fairly early on as a few words caught her eye. “Humanity, what do you consider a topic of humanity?” she asked, folding down the corner of the page.

“Well, um… I-” Waverly cut herself off as Nicole walked to the balcony, “I consider it… what are you doing?”

“I think I hear someone,” she whispered as she looked over the edge. “Dolls and your sister are talking down there.”

“Where?” she asked as she joined Nicole by the wall.

“I think they’re bickering.”

“Why?” she wondered as she peered over the edge.

Nicole pulled her from the edge as Wynonna looked up at them. “Hm… I’m not quite sure.” They silently tried to listen in to the conversation, failing as they only heard the inflections in their voices as the two argued below. Nicole clasped her hands nervously against her chest and turned to face her hostess. “I wonder if supper’s ready.”

Waverly escaped from the dining hall to her chambers where she began to undress. She slipped into her light nightgown and scanned her library for any books she wanted to read again, but knew that she would have to go back to Nicole’s chambers to find her favorites. Her head sank as she rolled out the small kinks in her neck, pressing her hand to her back to hopefully relieve some of the pain from her corset. After her usual routine, she watched the setting sun from her bed and shielded her eyes from the rays that reflected off of her vanity. She blew out the remaining candles by her bed and slid under the covers, feeling the warm pan of coals underneath her protect her from the cold nights.

A sudden knock broke her lucid mid-slumber. Using the remaining light from just between the Cloody Pass, Waverly walked to the door, opening it to spot Nicole in her brat and jerkin, her sword strapped to her hip.

“Dame Haught, what are you doing here?”

“Dolls sent me to watch over you.”

“Why?”

“Something he and Wynonna spoke about,” she explained, “What we thought was their disagreement.”

“Well, you can tell them both that I am perfectly capable of watching over myself, I have gotten by just as well without her for the past seven years, thank you, madam.”

“I understand, but I-”

Waverly waved her hand to silence her before placing it on Nicole’s shoulder, “Try not to worry yourself, I will talk with Wynonna about this.” Nicole quickly nodded and stepped out of her way as she awaited her next order. “Go back to your room, if I lose I will retrieve you.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Waverly began her trek through the ever dimming castle to the old Southern Wing where she and her sisters once played and created trouble. She silently passed by their old playroom and the chamber their Governess lived in. Beyond that were their rooms that had been refurbished by Aunt Augustine only a year after the disappearance of her elder nieces. Waverly couldn’t stand this wing, nor the Eastern side where her parents’ and Aunt’s rooms were, and spent her time avoiding the hallways as often as she could in the cramped fiefdom. She sighed as she locked eyes with Wynonna’s door before finally knocking on it, only a moment passing before her sister opened it.

“I have no need for your protection, I have gotten by just well without it. I know your gesture was out of love, but I find it rude to use a guard to protect me from night terrors.”

“Night terrors? I-”

“I sent her back to her room-” Wynonna only rolled her eyes and pulled her into her room. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to protect you and this town from… Them.”

“You will have to be more specific,” she huffed, regarding the room she was in.

“The Revenants, I saw them on my way, er, their banners. They were making their way back over Lover’s Pass like last time.”

“Last time? You mean the last time when…-”

“When everything went to hell, yes,” she confirmed, her eyes worriedly glancing at her sister then down at her own necklace. “Just like last time,”

“We are not prepared to fend them off again, there are far too many of them and I doubt the Guerilla tactics you learned from your hiatus will be of use.”

“We need to prepare then. You remember how to spar?”

“Of course I do. I had nothing better to do with my time.”

“I know you don’t want a guard, but will you humor me and keep each other safe? I have Dolls with Aunt Augustine, so you aren’t alone in being watched over.”

“What about you?”

“No one knows I’m here except for us and the servants.”

“What about when they do find out, because they will, Robert will.”

“Well, if I die then I die and I guess you’ll have another go as the ruler.”

“Don’t joke about that, Wynonna,” she huffed, “I’ll let her guard my room, just… if you go after them bring us along.”

Waverly stepped out of the unfamiliar room and started towards her own chambers before her sister could protest. She took the same route back to Nicole’s room this time and knocked on her door, not wanting to spend any more time awake as the night finally settled in the valley. Nicole stood before her with her hair down and only in her black trousers and white button-up, having removed her outer clothes for her own slumber. Waverly took a step so she stood under the doorway.

“Did you win?”

“I’m only humoring my sister. May I come in?”

“Wouldn’t you rather stay in your room, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I’m far too tired to care,” she huffed, finding her spot on the love seat by the fireplace.

“Please, take my bed, I’ll stay by the fire,” Nicole offered. “It’s the least I could do for you.”

“No, I’d rather stay by the warm fire tonight.”

“I insist, please, sleep in my bed, your maid placed a bed warmer underneath so I would not freeze,” Nicole almost commanded. She stood and neared her hostess, placing her hands in the same spot her belt would have been. “My duty is to protect those who inhabit Purgatory, and that includes you.”

“And they say yours is a dying breed,” she joked defeatedly as she went to Nicole’s bed. “At least find your spot in here once the fire dies.”

Nicole closed her eyes and shook her head, “I’ll have to decline your offer, M’Lady, thank you.”

#Wynonna Earp #waverly earp #nicole haught #fanfic #sfw #sfw fanfic #lgbt #bisexual #lesbian #queer content #queer #renaissance au #knights #royalty #wlw #femslash #femslash fanfic

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hiraeth-wayfarer · 5 years ago

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Hiraeth Creature #1065 - Bramble Fleece

"When it comes to stories of wild folk and those living on the fringes of a now non-existent society, those who dominated salacious rumours and taboo folklore were often the ancient witch covens and the litches from whom they took inspiration from. While these fears were rightly deserved at the time, one group who kept their reputation clear were druids, known primarily for wandering the wilds, tending flowers, singing with spirits, and doing knightly deeds for villages. While druids are known for their benevolent actions and help bridging the gap between folk and nature, some druids do have speckled practices and rituals— not as obvious or as grandiose as the former witch covens, but still somewhat dubious, and not embraced by a majority. One of these was an odd costume known as a “Bramble Fleece” or a “Sylvan Shroud”. For many generations, Druids have been seeking a way to reverse the affliction of sylvan werebeasts. A self-perpetuating curse, one persona malformed by a sylvan werebeast can then spread the curse to another. While believed to be unfeasible, druids kept werebeasts caged away to study and those who proved to be too dangerous to chain eventually were turned into Bramble Fleece. Bramble Fleece are macabre garments, made of leaves sown together by magic, fastened with parts of a sylvan werebeast, intended to be worn.

The reason for such ghoulish regalia was for infiltration— Bramble Fleece fools most sylvan werebeasts into believing the wearer is one of them, and druids would wear these cloaks to pass into werebeast haunts to observe them, to move about freely in their territories, or simply to sneak by them safely. Bramble Fleece has aided the druids in scouting and routing many werebeast packs, as well as allowed them to recover relics lost in werebeast hunting grounds. It takes a strong-willed person to wear a Bramble Fleece, and not simply for the obvious reasons. Druids often meditate while under the garb before wandering out with the intentions of wearing it. The mind of the werebeast is still attached to the Bramble Fleece, and one must acknowledge them if they wish to wear their hide. If one tries to shut out the lingering beast instead of letting it settle, then it will become enraged and start scratching and slamming at the doors of one’s subconscious. As nightmarish as it may sound, it is possible for the werebeast to take over the cloak and consume them wearer, regaining a semblance of self while the other souls is lost inside. Though werebeasts are nimble, their wooden limbs give them an odd gait as they walk or crawl about, so Bramble Fleece were made intentionally awkward to move in to help replicate the stilted walk of a sylvan werebeast, but if the wearer can suddenly burst off into the shadows or can leap great distances, you’re most likely staring down what is essentially now a full werebeast. More sinister than the crafting of Bramble Fleece is the rumoured Bramble Husk— armour made from sylvan werebeasts, said to be worn by fearsome druids turned berserkers. These warriors let part of their mind be ruled by the werebeast, and in turn are said to feel no pain and can perform supernatural feats. They are shunned by other druids and those who respect the balance of nature, and often end up making pacts with hungry ghosts and malevolent spirits."

#hiraeth #fantasy #fantasy creature #fantasy world #world building #deep realm

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kiara-carrera · 5 years ago

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mere monstrosity

pairing: sweet pea x brooke holliday warnings: mentions of blood and gore, minor character death word count: 4,890 author’s note: for the southside archive’s weekly au ‘werewolf’. very loosely based off the 2011 red riding hood movie, as well as that one episode of tw set in france. but like, very barely. like the aesthetic is there, not much more. also reggie exudes some major gaston energy, but that’s unrelated. a part two to this will come eventually if i can find enough inspo and if people like it enough!

read on ao3 or continue on under the cut!

Everyone in the village of Riverdale has heard the tales.

The story of the wolves and the man. A story — the telling of a nightmare, really — of men who could transform in the light of the moon. Stories of beastly creatures that walk silently and discreetly among them in the daylight, but who become something entirely different at night.

Some say it’s only under the light of the full moon, some believe it to be at will. The ones said to bend a will are always more terrifying because there’s an added element of surprise, no planning that can be done. But all the same, the stories are always tales of horror, never heartwarming. Stories of unearthly creatures never are. It’s always about the beast murdering and hunting and then being hunted right back. Man is always made to be the victor, vanquishing the beast back to the hell it came from.

They go by many names, every iteration having a different title. Shapeshifter. Lycanthrope. Wolf-man. Beasts. Half breeds. But most of the storytellers in Riverdale had taken to calling them one thing and one thing only: monsters.

Each and every tale, while following different paths, all have the same patterns when you looked past the gory details and frightening endings. A man, a wolf, a moon. The darkest of nights come to bring the darkest of creatures. A man and a wolf, one and the same. Flesh by day, fur by night. The sharpest teeth imaginable, maw slick with the blood of its victim. Claws as pointed as blades, a way to rip through chest cavities to the beating hearts of the pure and for leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. A man, a wolf, a murderer.

Some perceive these creatures to be the work of the Devil, embedding demonic entities into poor, unfortunate souls. Other believe it to be the work of witchcraft, curses placed upon those who made enemies of the old crones. Most just see it for what they think all tales like these are — fiction.

Because everything can be fiction until it happens, right?

That’s what the people of Riverdale used to believe. Their land has always always been peaceful. Quiet. Safe. Nothing bad ever happens in the village situated along the river and the thick groves of trees known as Fox Forest. Children are free to roam the forests without fear of danger. Nights hang over the village, the sky inky black canvases dotted with crystalline stars, and all they are followed by is the rise of the sun. The night doesn’t bring fear, no more than the day does.

And then the deaths began.

The first victim that death claims is none other than Jason Blossom, the son of an affluent family. The Blossoms have lived in the northern part of Riverdale for years, the stories detailing that it’s their ancestors who settled the village to begin with. But while Great Grandfather Blossom achieved a memory linked with the settlement, his descendant finds a legacy enriched with darkness.

Jason came into the world with his twin sister and had left alone, found at the banks of the river, just outside the tree line. His chest had been torn open, face mangled and body nearly unrecognizable. He was in pieces when they found him, or so the rumor goes. His heart was missing and a trail of blood scattered off in tracks amongst the once virgin snow.

Tracks that suspiciously resembled wolf tracks. Tracks that resemble the paws of a wolf that trail off into the snow, less thick with Blossom blood the further they lead away from the body. Tracks that, eventually, morph into footprints.

Human footprints.

Fiction and reality seem to blur when this detail comes to light. And yet, all the same, fiction and reality seem to be separated in the minds of the villagers.

The village was sent up into an uproar with the death of the Blossom boy, villagers crying out about the animal attack that had to have taken place. For it had to be an animal, nothing more and nothing less. That’s how it always starts with these stories. A man, a wolf, a moon, a death. Animal attack. That’s what they’ll always call it. The superstitious will try to make the people see past the obvious answer that an animal is the cause, but no one ever believes them.

Because again, everything is fictional until it’s not.

The authority of the village puts out a search for an animal that supposedly took Jason’s life. They round up a few of the strongest boys in the village, the ones not too sickly and frail to hunt the beast. The sons of the families Mantle, Mason, and Clayton enter the woods with nothing but a vague idea of what they’re hunting and a belly full of fire and revenge at the thought of their fallen comrade. It takes two days, a group situated in the thick of the forest with weapons before they return dragging the carcass of a wolf as if it’s some sort of prize.

Weeks go by. Jason is buried. He’s buried in the cemetery that’s behind the Church, Father Solomon blessing his spirit to find peace. His sister, a pretty redhead named Cheryl, seems to be eternally on the verge of going off the deep end, dressed in long black dresses every time she’s seen out in village. Cheryl’s probably the first who feeds into the hysteria, not believing the elders and village leaders for a minute when her brother’s death is regarded as an accident.

She doesn’t say the words, but people can tell what she’s thinking most days. On good days, she’ll be silent in her suffering. On the bad days, her curls have sprigs of monkshood — wolfsbane — woven into them, toxically beautiful plants obtained from her mother’s garden. No one asks her why wolfsbane — they know. She believes the old wives tales, the horror stories. People call Cheryl crazy and parents warn their children to avoid her.

She’s not crazy. She’s not. They just don’t have reason to believe otherwise yet.

And then death claims another. Dilton Doiley, a scrawny boy at the top of his class at the local schoolhouse, is found deeper in the forest, hundreds of feet from where Jason was found. The scene is almost identical to when they found Jason. Chest ripped open, covered in blood, left to rot amongst the rows of maples. Wolf tracks. Human tracks. One and the same. A man, a wolf, a death. He’s buried and it’s like repeating the same brutal history.

Except … except Dilton’s death comes far more unexpected than Jason’s did. Jason was thought to be a freak accident. But Dilton’s passing slaps the village in the face, for they believed they vanquished the beast. Suddenly, the carcass that Reginald Mantle toted into the village’s center is nothing more than a mere animal killed in vain. Suddenly, another mother has lost her son.

His mother’s already used to grief, losing her husband years prior, but it’s her son that seems to do her in. She spirals and suddenly Cheryl’s not the grieving madwoman of the village anymore. Old Mrs. Doiley will scream her suspicions at anyone who will listen. She theorizes and points fingers, shunning people she believes responsible and demanding justice for her son. The elders of the village, ones whose ancestry stems from the wicked village across the river whisper how it reminds them of the stories of witch trials that once occurred many, many years ago.

She points fingers and she wails most days and it’s become commonplace in the village for her to do so. The only one who doesn’t seem to watch her with ridicule or fear is Cheryl. The village now has two firm believers in the stories that the elders used to tell to scare the children into obeying their parents. Two believers and a village of people clinging onto a reality that unravels more and more as the snow falls over the land.

The longer the winter rages on, the longer the list of victims become. The bodies pile up, the time between deaths ranging anywhere from weeks to mere hours between corpses being found. Corpses that were once people now just become names and little wooden crosses embedded above graves. They become stories to their friends and families. They become warnings to little kids, proof that you cannot go out safely anymore. And eventually, they just become afterthoughts.

Ben Button, a tall and gangly blonde who was a little odd, but meant well. Little knew him, so little mourn him. The few friends he did have will raise a glass to him and then try to move on.

Midge Klump, an angelic beauty who’s death seemed to rock the village to its core. Her passing sees a lengthy farewell, a long drawn out day of sobs to accompany rivers of tears.

A drifter named Kurtz, who had been once accused of robbing the apothecary and offering strange elixirs to adolescents. His death is almost rejoiced, although done in secret. He receives a burial as a means of disposing the body. There is no funeral, there is no grave marker, there is no one to remember him.

Joseph Svenson, who had once been regarded as the village degenerate. He lost his family when he was younger and never married, so there’s no one present when he’s buried.

By this point, the village is in shambles. No one goes out after dark. No one steps near or beyond the tree line of Fox Forest if they can help it, no longer believing the deity they once prayed to in order to keep them safe. For if the gods could create such a monster, how could they be trusted with prayers?

Father Solomon, bless his heart, tries to instill faith in the villagers, to keep their connections to their god strong in these troubling times. Some turn to religion, as people in chaos always do, but the deaths continue anyways. There is no god that can save them now.

Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third begins his conspiracy novel for the sake of having something to do. He sits in the dark corners of the local pub, fingers stained black from his inkwell, surrounded by stacks of filled pages. No one knows if he’s truly a believer or if he’s just looking for a story to tell, but there isn’t a single person who questions why he insists on documenting this part of Riverdale’s twisted existence. He spends most of his time at the pub or down in the southern area of the village, his home, discussing the old tales with elders like Thomas Topaz.

No one calls him crazy. And no one calls Cheryl crazy anymore or even little Old Mrs. Doiley. In Riverdale, no one’s crazy anymore.

They’re just afraid.

Everyone’s afraid and the madness seeps into the village easily and it’s clear as day on everyone’s face. No one knows what to believe, no one knows where to put their faith, and everyone goes to sleep at night surrounded by unease. Some try to act like everything’s normal, like the village suddenly has a wolf problem. As if there’s something in the water making them crazed.

Most try to live their lives, but it’s hard. There are children to think about. Livelihoods. Some wonder if the village will make it to spring or if…whatever’s hunting them will pick them off one by one before silver snows can melt into flower buds and greenery.

Brooke Holliday just tries to keep living, day by day. She gets up and ties back her hair and puts on her dresses and tries to pretend that her village hasn’t fallen into a rut of hysteria. She doesn’t voice her opinions on the death and no one bothers to ask.

There’s something…different in the way Brooke operates under all of this chaos. She goes about her days, not feeding into the fear that people have but also not discounting how they’re feeling. Somewhere, embedded deep within the pages of Forsythe’s novel, there’s a mention as to how the blonde carries herself throughout this. More than a footnote, shorter than a chapter. He watches her carefully, never too long to dive deeper into what’s different about her during these dark times, but enough to notice. She’s different, calm but on edge at the same time…almost as if she knows more than she lets on.

He chalks this up to the fact that she hears everything. Not because she’s a good listener, but because she’s employed under old man Tate at the local pub, the same one where she can see her friend add another twenty pages to his manuscript over the course of days, not knowing she’s mentioned among his pages. The same pub where she hears family men bemoan about keeping their wives and children safe. The same one where she can hear some boasting arrogantly that they’d take down the beast one-handed if they came across it.

Reginald Mantle, the same Mantle who took the life of the wrong animal, falls into that last category. He’s always been a bit of a loose cannon. Devilishly handsome, well built, and from a respected family from the northern part of the village, he’s the kind of good stock that Brooke assumes she’s expected to be interested in. Even more so now that’s he’s begun to spout his tales of would-be heroics. Frankly, she just thinks he’s full of it.

Tonight is no different as she brings him and his companions another round of steins filled to the brim with amber liquid. Mantle’s been here for over an hour, prattling on to anyone who will listen. His dimwitted companions hang onto his every word and the few girls in the village who are of age and not in a courtship seem to flock to wherever the dark-haired man goes.

“Wherever this beast is,” Reginald begins to boast, a smug expression on his face as not one, but two — deeply misguided, Brooke assumes — maidens fawn over him. “I will find him and his head will have a place above my fireplace. A story to tell my grandchildren.”

Brooke tries her hardest not to roll her eyes. She figures that he got lucky during the last outing into the woods. Try that again and he’d probably ended up maimed or worse. She sets down the drinks, before wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist.

“You’d do well not to go in the forest looking for a fight you could potentially lose, Reginald,” Brooke quips. “Wouldn’t want that pretty little face of yours to be ruined.”

The two women dangling off Reginald’s arms glare up at Brooke, while most of his companions burst into laughter at the anger blooming on their friend’s face. He wears the kind of expression he dons when he expects his opponent to back down, bow out. But Brooke’s known him since childhood and frankly, she’s never been one to be afraid of the self-proclaimed Mantle the Magnificent.

“Laugh all you want,” he sneers at her. She wants to interject that his friends are actually the ones laughing, but she bites her tongue. “But it will be an entirely different story, Miss Holliday, when that beast comes for you next and you need a rescue.”

Rescue? From him? She’d sooner want to be the wolf’s next meal. “You mistake for a damsel and that’s your first mistake, Reginald,” she tells him, before drifting away to another table that needs drinks.

Brooke keeps her head high, not caring that she can most definitely hear the sneers that Mantle throws her way under his breath. She pays little mind to the opinions of oafs like him. Once upon a time, Reginald had been tolerable. But over the course of this bloody winter, things in Riverdale have changed.

She figures it’s only natural for something like this to change people. In a way, it makes sense. Once deaths like this occur, with so much superstitious lore filling the blank spaces in between, it’s only natural that people’s true colors would spill out over the page. Reginald’s always felt that he had something to prove. It only makes sense he’d choose now to be the time to do it.

The doors to the pub burst open, winter winds whipping through the bar easily, flakes of fresh snow drifting in as well. Everyone’s eyes seem to fall on the group slipping in out of the cold and Brooke can feel her heart pick up as she sees who’s made themselves known.

It’s a group of men, the ages of them ranging from young to old, who hail from the southernmost tips of the village. For years, even before the hysteria that started with Jason Blossom’s death, the southern villagers have always been detested by the northern residents. No one’s exactly sure why it happened this way, but it’s always been the unspoken way of the land.

At the schoolhouse, the rooms were divided. At the church, they sat in different rows. The children were warned against playing together once they started to reach certain ages and most young companionships faded out by certain ages. Northern men are taught to turn their noses up to southern women. Northern maidens were always warned against the men of the south. Crossing over lines like that would be blasphemous to most and it’s gotten to the point where there’s a clear divide in the village. But old man Tate’s pub has always been common ground between the north and south and that’s where the trouble for Brooke always seemed to begin.

Trouble, all six foot three of it, that had just walked into the bar.

His name is Nathan, but he’s known amongst his friends by the nickname of Sweet Pea. His hands rub together feverishly, trying to bring quick warmth to the near frozen digits. He trails behind his friends, but he moves slowly, eyes scanning the bar until he lands on the blonde barmaid. And almost as she couldn’t help it, her eyes lock with his.

Brooke swallows thickly as she watches him from across the bar, hand still gripping the drink she had brought to the table beside her. Her heart feels like it’s running a race alongside the fastest horses and she knows her cheeks are warming with a blush as a ghost of a smile carves across his lips. An almost imperceptible nod is thrown her way before he licks his lips.

Almost instinctively, she’s pulled into a daydream, hidden memories playing out in her mind for her almost tauntingly. She can still feel his hands gripping her hips through the layers of her dress, can feel the way his lips slot against hers as if they were made to be together. Her hands in his hair, his rucking up her skirt. Whispered sweet nothings, hush filthy phrases in her ear. Kisses down her collarbone, devilish lips sucking purples and reds into her milky skin. Dark corners, the back room of the bar after closing, the shed behind her house, anywhere that no one’s likely to intrude upon.

Him, all of him, just for her. For all the moments they share, she is his and he is hers and nothing can take that away from her until it’s over. Her mind is a filthy place as she watches him cross the bar and slip in beside Forsythe and his other companion, sweat-slick nights of passion playing over and over again until she’s certain her grip on the beer stein will shatter the glass.

Her blush darkens by the second as she finally turns away from his gaze, knowing he’s most likely chuckling to himself as she makes her way back behind the counter where some men sit. She’s fighting a growing grin that wants to cover her lips, the same grin she has any time he’s near. Her memories dance across her mind, taunting and teasing when she feels a familiar heat pulsing inside of her at the thought of them. Under the layers of her skirt, her thighs press together a little tighter.

It’s sinful, what they have. Countless nights together, nothing between them but skin and sweat and heat. Sinful. Forbidden. It’s secret, what they have. She’s expected to marry someone from the northern edge of the village and he’s expected to stay away from her. If anyone were to find out that they were together, that he had deflowered her…Brooke doesn’t even want to know the consequences of that.

So, what they have is secret. Forbidden. Sinful. Delicious. Heart racing. Love. Brooke loves him and Nathan loves her and one day they’ll be together. One day, they’ll leave this all behind. That’s her fantasy. That’s her dream. That’s their future. But for now, it’s late-night trysts and hushed confessions of love in the darkest of corners. For them, that’s perfect. It’s perfect.

But like all love stories, soon it will be threatened. Compromised.

For there’s a secret that they share that’s far more dangerous than sex and love. A secret about him, his friends, one he entrusted her with the day he declared her love. One that frightened her, but not because she was afraid of him. Because she was afraid for him. Afraid for what this hysteria meant for him.

A man, a wolf, a moon. This is how it starts. Man hails from a pack with a long lineage of shifting. Man and pack do not hunt humans, do not threaten the ways of nature, merely only serving to protect. Protect against the feral ones, the packless, the murderers. Man falls in love with a beautiful girl. Full moons come and go, murders start. This is the end of all things for them.

The end begins now.

The doors burst open to the bar again, but this time, there is no joyful laughter or hands rubbed together to gain back warmth. There’s only gargled shouts, crimson blood dripping on the hardwood floor that tracks in from the snow. There’s only Archibald Andrews clutching his chest tightly, blood seeping through his fingers. There’s only Andrews calling for help through a mouthful of blood with horror in his eyes.

“Andrews!”

The shout comes from Reginald, who’s up in an instant and sprinting to his side. His friends follow closely behind and soon the redheaded Andrews man is being lowered to the ground as everyone’s sent into a panic. It’s almost nightfall, that much can be gleaned from the still open door. Nightfall. Monsters always come out at nightfall.

Brooke moves across the bar in a flurry, carrying multiple rags behind the counter. She’s on her knees beside Archibald within seconds, shoving his hands out of the way and pressing the clean rags against his wound. It’s large, covering the left side of his chest, in the shape of claw marks. Her heart drops at that, but she tries to focus on anything else while someone sprints out of the bar and down the road towards the village healer’s home.

Staunch the blood flow, staunch the blood flow, she tells herself. He can be bandaged later. Her hands are shaking as she presses down even harder.

She seems to be the only one focused on the blood.

“Who did this?” Reginald snaps at Archibald, eyes alight with fury. “What happened?”

Brooke’s eyes narrow in a glare as she turns her head up to look at him while still pressing down on the blood flow. Her hands are stained crimson and so is her dress, but all she can think about is how insensitive Mantle’s being. “Reginald, he—”

Archibald murmurs something then. The crowd huddled around them falls silent, every set of eyes flickering down the boy who might not make it through the night.

“Arch?” Brooke mumbles, his childhood nickname falling off her lips. “What…what did you say?”

This time, he murmurs louder. His voice is hoarse and his eyes are fighting to stay open, but he looks directly at her when he says it. “M…Monster. Men turning to w…wolves…back to men…”

And there it is. The big grand reveal. Brooke feels her heart stop at that moment. They say the truth will set you free, but all she can feel in that moment is the crushing fear that stems from this coming out. Wolves and man, one and the same. Wolves and man, responsible for the many murders that have haunted their village over the course of a frigid winter. Jason, Dilton, Ben, Midge, Kurtz, Svenson. All fell to the hand — claw — of the beast, the shapeshifter, the werewolf.

The monster.

She can hear every story the elders have ever told, can see the wolfsbane woven in the Blossom girl’s hair, can feel the grief that radiates off of Old Mrs. Doiley. For everyone in Riverdale has heard the tales.

Including Reginald Mantle.

Fury licks across his features, dark eyes almost turning black in rage as Andrews’ confession sinks in for him. Monster. It’s the only echoing in his mind as anger burns through him. A monster, in his village, killing his friends and people.

“I knew it!” he sneers, getting to his feet faster than Brooke was aware anyone could move. His foot kicks out, sending a chair sailing across the room. “I knew the second that Blossom died it wasn’t just some ordinary wolf. There’s some fucked up creature running around our village killing people!”

It’s a bold claim he’s making, Brooke notes, saying that he knew. He was one of the ones who went into Fox Forest after Jason died looking for a wolf, an ordinary wolf. But Reginald, he always has to appear ten steps ahead because he has something to prove.

“This ends now,” he thunders, hand tossing out to gesture at where Archibald’s barely clinging to life. “These monsters already killed enough of us and tonight they tried to take Andrews too. But I say no more. No more death. No more monsters!”

He’s met with a round of cheers, mostly from older northern men and his friends. No one notices the way that the table of men who just entered the bar not too long before Archie say nothing. Forsythe watches with cold, calculating eyes. Nathan watches with a blank expression, arms crossed. But that’s overpowered by the way of the ones following Reginald’s lead.

Anger seems to flare through the bar like a stroke of lightning, men angrily scowling and clenching their fists. Archibald’s blood flow seems to be slowing down a bit and it’s that fact that lets Brooke focus more on what’s happening around her. With so few words, Reginald has seemed to instill fury into those around her. A domino effect of anger, fear of the creature turning into the need to destroy what’s different.

“What should we do?” Mason asks, narrowed eyes turning to Reginald. Other’s follow suit, people looking to Mantle as if his word is law.

For a moment, Mantle says nothing, deep in thought. And then all at once, it seems to come to him. His eyes narrow. Clambering up onto a table, raising his fist in the air, Reginald shouts. “I say we kill the beast!"

He’s met by more cheers. A mob seems to be forming, for there is a beast on the loose. In some sense, it only makes sense for the wolf to be hunted. It’s caused chaos and strife and pain and grief and it needs to end. This winter cannot go on with so much red staining the white snow. People will not be able to live if they are afraid.

Fear is a powerful thing. It makes people do stupid things or it can make them do horrible things. Riverdale is a village that’s filled with so much fear. So what stupid or horrible thing will they do with it?

Brooke has an idea of how it will go, thoughts fueled by everything she’s ever known from stories. The tales always go the same way, follow the same structures and patterns. The death comes first, it always comes first. But then the full moon rises again and the people, they’re ready now. Ready to face their fears and the monsters. The beast is discovered. The beast is killed. But what happens when there’s more than one wolf and only one is a monster? What then becomes of the wolf who does nothing more than protect his loved ones?

Across the bar, through crowds of angry men, Brooke’s eyes lock with Sweet Pea’s. This time, there’s no sexual charged daydreams. There’s only fear.

Fear for him. It blossoms in her chest, sprouting from the seedlings of fear she carried for him every day. It’s sad to say, but it’s almost as if Brooke’s been waiting for this to happen.

For this is how it starts. A man, a wolf, a moon. A list of murders not at his hand or his pack, but ones that will surely be placed upon them if they’re discovered.

A man, a wolf, a moon. The woman who loves him and a village full of men who wish to destroy him.

#weekly discord au #werewolf!sweet pea #sweet pea x oc #sweet pea fic #brooke holliday x sweet pea #sweetbrooke #tw blood #tw character death #riverdale fic #riverdale au #amanda's moodboards #my edits #amanda's fics

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strongheartmaid · 5 years ago

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Tale as old as time [teaser section]

AN: well, not so much as a teaser as part of the “we’re finally in Greece after spending an ungodly amount of time in southern England trying to figure our next step (that and unpacking who’s who and who’s dating who)” plot. Very much in progress as I’m constantly adding or reworking sections because I’m fussy with my writing. And yes, there is a reference to a particular Disney cartoon involving hockey-playing ducks. (Because, I like murdering canon like that)

“Everyone in one piece?" Lise called out to the girls as they finally found themselves in Sanctuary. The travel there had been brutal - Hera's Cosmos had altered it just enough that it had been sheer torture just trying to get in. Various calls of confirmation settled her nerves, but only just managed to do so. She still had to fight down the queasy, uneasy feeling of the wrongness that had settled into this holy place. (It was currently making Death Queen Island feel like a charming little vacation spot - of course, she planned on *never* saying that within Ikki's presence. That was something that would have the others wondering if she had a bit of a death wish). Alala glanced about before spying what she thought was a Saint in the distance, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "So, think Hera's been watching Isle of Lost Souls again?" she asked, turning her gaze to Ciri, a look of something swimming in their depths as she thought about what she would love to do to Hera. "Isle of.." Ciri started, her voice trailing off as she tried to recall why that movie title sounded so damn familiar. She promptly shot a stink eye at Alala once she recalled the movie in question - not one of her favorites. "Really? And if you must name the movie, it was Island of Lost Souls, Alala." "Are we really discussing horror classics from the nineteen thirties right now?" Eira asked as she peered around, trying to find something to get her bearings so she could go find the Temple of the Golden Ram. (And here she groaned - she really hated the cutesy names the temples of the Golden Saints had. What was wrong with just a simple "Temple of Aries" or "Temple of Virgo"? But no, Athena had to have titles like "Temple of the Virgin" and "Temple of the Golden Crab".) "I'll take the old horror classics over the more modern blood, sex and gore trite crap," Ciri answered. "I'll take horror tropes for two hundred, Alex," she teased Lise, knowing the other's fondness for that particular trivia show - and she knew enough not to even try to play against her when they were watching it. If Lise knew the category, she'd answer every question on the board. "This trope is commonly used by the cast to their complete detriment because bad things tend to happen to the heroes when they do this," Lise said absently, trying to send a pulse of her Cosmos to alert her lover, her soulmate to her being there. "What is splitting up?" Ciri asked, earning a slight but strained chuckle from the rest of the girls. "Please tell me you really aren't suggesting that we do just that," Rhosyn opined. She paused a moment when she saw Ciri's face and let out wearied and fully exasperated sigh at that. "You are," she said as she pinched the bridge of her nose, a pained expression crossing her features. Why was she getting the feeling that this was going to be a bad move to end all bad moves? "Quickest way to find the boys," Ciri said. "Send a pulse of Cosmos out to let us know once you found them," she continued. "Sounds like a viable plan." "A viable plan would be sticking together because we have no idea what the temperament of the Saints would be right now," Althaia countered, trying to act as a voice of reason - even if she knew she probably wouldn't be entirely successful at doing so. "I mean, for pity's sake, Shiryū's probably a dragon if Hera used their Cloths as the basis for her curse. Which means some of them are probably generic beasties because they don't have a specified animal, like Saga and Kanon for example." "Actually," Lise said, slanting her gaze towards Althaia, a thoughtful expression crossing her features, "because Kanon did a stint as the Sea Dragon Mariner, and since Saga is the Golden Saint of Gemini, ergo twins, so it's possible that it impacted the curse in such a way so that both twins are probably cursed to be sea dragons. But, this is just a guess, mind you." "Okay," Ciri said, holding up her hand in the shape of a t, capturing everyone's attention. "Before we go much further, let's try and figure out what we're looking at. If we go with the aforementioned theory that the curse pulls on their Cloths, that means Hyōga's a swan, Mū's a ram, Saga and Kanon are probably sea dragons if we go with Persephone's theory, Aphrodite's a fish and titans know what the curse has done to Shun." She slanted a Look at Eira. "Don't you even dare to start humming any music from Swan Lake." Eira just smiled, her pale emerald eyes twinkling with sheer mischief. "Nope, I was going to hum the theme from that one Disney cartoon Hyōga got me hooked on." Ciri gave her a flat stare as she quickly recalled which cartoon that had been. "Those were *ducks*," she said slowly, not quite believing that she was even having this particular conversation. "Ducks, Eira, quack quack, not honk." "Anthropomorphic alien ducks that played hockey and fought alien lizards," Eira said, chuckling. "Oh, to have been a fly on that wall during the pitch for that series." "Getting back on track," Lise said, crossing her arms over her chest, glancing between the small group. "As much as I hate the idea of splitting up to look for the boys, Ciri did raise a good point. We can cover more ground if we split up. There's six of us and twelve temples, that means we cover two temples a piece." She took a small steadying breath. "All right, Eira, you'll take the temples for Aries and Taurus. Rhosyn, you'll take the temples for Pisces and Aquarius. Althaia, you'll take the temples for Sagittarius and Capricorn. Alala, you'll take the temples for Gemini and Cancer. Ciri, you'll take the temples for Libra and Scorpio. I'll take the temples for Leo and Virgo. Sound good?" The girls silently looked amongst each other and as one nodded. "Good luck and Godspeed," Lise said as she began the slow trek to where the temple of the Holy Lion or whatever the hell of a fancy title Athena gave it was - after this, she was never going to complain about her husband's realm again, at least that didn't require her to climb a gods be damned mountain! Leo came before Virgo in the zodiac so she was hopefully bound to run into the Gold saint, Aiolia, first. A minor wince crossed her features as she realized that meant he was probably half lion and half man due to the nature of Hera's curse. Well, hopefully more man than lion but her luck was never that good.. Of course, she just had to jinx herself as a raging cosmos was fast approaching. She barely had time to call on her sacred cloth in defense before it was upon her. She raised her staff in a defensive pose, barely keeping the being from landing on her before it leapt backwards, landing in a crouch, looking all the world to be getting ready to pounce again. She took a steadying breath, keeping her staff grasped tightly in her hands, her knuckles turning bone-white with the strength of her grip. She swallowed harshly as she studied the being before her - both lion and man in some unholy mixture. Well, at least she had found one of Athena's eighty-eight Saints, or rather one found her in this case. "Leo Aiolia," she said, her voice calm and steady despite herself, "stand down." The beast cocked his head as he stared at her before he slowly settled down. "You're not Hera," he said, his voice rough, raspy. "I'm not sure if I should be insulted at being thought of as my aunt," Lise muttered under her breath. "No, not Hera. Lise DeAvaon," she said, "or Persephone. I'll answer to either." She shrugged slightly, her eyes watching him to see what he would do next. She sent a small pulse of Cosmos to Ciri, alerting her to the fact that she found one of the Saints but not to come just yet. She needed more information before she'd drag the other girls to her location. "You came by yourself?" Aiolia asked, tilting his head in the other direction. "No, I'm not that insane to think I could handle however many Saints that have been afflicted by Hera's curse on my own. There's five others with me," she said, giving a small huff. "Which others?" Aiolia asked, still studying her - unused to seeing Athena's sister in her Holy Cloth, or rather, unused to seeing Athena's sister period. It was rare that she ever ventured into public like this, preferring to operate behind the scenes - which was probably one reason that Shun (or Hades, whichever, it was still hard to wrap his brain around that little fact - some year, he was going to have to have Mu sit down and explain it to him in terms that he could clearly understand) adored her. "Oh for the love of grandmother Rhea," she groaned softly. "My older sister Artemis, Rhosyn, Eira, Alala and Althaia." Aiolia gave her the flattest look he could manage given his new facial structure. "Eira. You brought Eira with you." "Well, she is Mū's girlfriend, which is something we still wonder how the bloody hell happened," Lise answered with a mild shrug. "And she's bonded so she felt his Cosmos change so you really think she wouldn't be coming?" Aiolia just stared at her. "Woman," he began slowly. "Think about her sense of humor for a moment. Now, look at me. Need I say anything else." Lise blinked a moment, her mind running over what he just said and what she knew about Eira. "Oh no," she groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I am so, so sorry, Aiolia." He reached over and patted her head. "I'm surprised she hasn't already started with the jokes." "Well.." Lise said, her voice trailing off for a moment. "She did threaten to hum the theme to the Mighty Ducks cartoon." "The what?" Aiolia blinked, confusion in his gaze. "You never watched Disney cartoons?" Lise answered, arching an eyebrow ever so slightly. Aiolia blinked a moment, trying to wrap his brain around what Lise was getting at and immediately groaned when he remembered catching an episode when he was visiting Hyōga during one of the rare quiet moments before another Holy War would begin. "Hyōga's a fucking swan. He go honk not quack." "Wow, that is frighteningly similar to what Arty said," Lise said, amusement lacing her words. Aiolia cast his gaze heavenward. "Lovely," he said. "So, moving on. The girls all right?" he asked, tensing a moment as he felt something approach. "As all right as one can get when your bonded one is currently appearing to be a petting zoo person," Lise answered, her pale gaze drifting about, trying to figure out where the new pulse of Cosmos was coming from. "I make no promises of not swatting at Eira if she makes one Lion King joke," Aiolia said, stepping slightly in front of Lise in an attempt to protect the young goddess from the impending threat - he couldn't quite get a good read on the Cosmos with his condition fouling things up. "What about Kimba, the white lion then?" she asked innocently, batting pale blue eyes. "We do not talk about Kimba," he snarked. He let out a minor relieved sigh when he saw who it was. "Well hello, lunch," he said, his voice full of innocent teasing. Aphrodite merely raised one hand and then one finger in response to the teasing. He peered around Aiolia to spot the young goddess that was being hidden behind him. "That's not Athena." "Her younger sister, which you should have remembered," Lise huffed, sticking her tongue out at the Pisces saint. "I only helped hook you up with Rhosyn. She's here by the way." Aphrodite was grateful that his changed appearance meant she couldn't tell how badly he paled at that pronouncement. "Here? As in here in Greece or as in she's actually in Sanctuary?" "Well, she's supposed to be checking out whatever fancy name 'Thena gave the temples of Pieces and Aquarius," she said, shrugging slightly. "And I know, I know, I already got lectured from Aiolia about bringing Eira with me." Aphrodite felt his left eye twitch. "That woman is a menace to one's sanity." "That woman's dating Mū, and she's worried about him." "I still want to know how the hell that happened," Aphrodite muttered. He had always thought Mū was married to his job as both Gold Saint to Athena and as the Cloth Blacksmith - but well, that theory had been all shot to hell when he accidentally (well, maybe not so accidentally - he had planned on dragging Mū with him and the others to lunch) entered Mū's temple and found him with Eira. There was not enough alcohol in the world to have dealt with those scarring mental images. "You and just about everyone else," Lise said, idly shrugging. "But that's neither here nor there at the moment." Aphrodite's expression softened as best it could and he made his way over, placing a hand on the young mortal goddess's shoulder. "Truth now, how you holding up?" he asked gently, concern welling up for the young woman. Lise swallowed harshly, the tears finally streaking down her cheeks as she finally broke - something she hadn't been allowing herself to do because she knew she had to be strong for the others. "Barely." Aiolia glanced at Aphrodite and the two shared a silent conversation, ending with Aiolia nodding and sending a small burst of his Cosmos towards where he knew a particular Bronze was hiding.

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amos-depulso · 5 years ago

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CHARACTER NAME:

Amos Diggory

FACECLAIM CHOICE:

Rome Flynn

AGE & BIRTHDATE:

19, January 12, 1959

GENDER AND PRONOUNS:

Male, He/him

SEXUALITY:

Bisexual

HOGWARTS HOUSE:

Hufflepuff. He wasn’t really surprised that he was sorted into the Helga’s House since a majority of his family was sorted there as well. Although he felt that he shared little with his other relatives, there’s something about growing up in a farm that taught all of them the value of hardwork.

The Diggory family is also a proud one. Loyal to one another, they make great friends and allies. The only difference with Amos was that his loyalty wasn’t innately to his family. His loyalty belonged to those whom he chose to be his family. He’s loyal to those who need him.

PERSONALITY TRAITS:

POSITIVE:

- Protective Amos has never witnessed another person getting bullied with the bully getting away with it. While his mother would rather have him first go to a person of authority like a prefect or a professor, the young Amos knew that if he did, it might already be too late. The damage will be done. And the bullied, in fear that something like that might happen again or worse, wouldn’t stand up for themselves. The cycle will continue. No, if there was something that Amos can do for another, he would gladly do it. He made a lot of enemies this way but he didn’t care. Someone needed to stand up against bullies, especially blood supremacists. At the end of the day, he will be proof for these supremacists that blood purity doesn’t matter, especially if a half-blood like him can knock them of their high horse.

- Painstaking No one describes Amos as a brilliant wizard, but his hardworking nature is almost unrivaled. Some spells just don’t come naturally to the Hufflepuff wizard, but he’d be damned if he doesn’t put his work into it. His mother has always told him that hard work beats talent. And true enough, his hard work would pay off. If he put in the time and effort, he can astound some his professors once and a while, pulling off spells with the mastery of someone who has done the spell hundreds of times.

- Loyal Amos is a friend that wizards would want to be on their side. Although he might not be the best at articulating his feelings or showing signs of affection, he would certainly make up for it in actions and deeds. He would fiercely protect his friends in the face of adversity.

NEGATIVE:

- Provacateur Sometimes the best way to win a fight was to get the opponent to move first and reveal their hand. You use their rage against them and watch them trip. Years of standing up against snobby cousins and Hogwarts bullies had taught him this. Although he might not be the tallest or even biggest kid, he was definitely lean with all the exercise he gets in the farm by doing hard work, making other people think twice about butting heads with him. He also made sure that he has a couple of charms and jinxes up his sleeve, to ensure that he wasn’t all bark.

- Unemotional With Amos being raised only by his mom, people often assumed that he would be more in touch with his feelings compared to most people. However, that isn’t the case. Although his mom taught him how to be kind to others and how to stand up for the less fortunate, she wasn’t the best example at sharing her feelings. She never talked about his Amos’ father, no matter how many times he asked. He never even got to know his name, since his parents were never married and he kept his mother’s last name. His mother would always say that it’s too hard to talk about before immediately changing the topic. What Amos learned from his mother was how to translate feelings into work.

- Self-righteous Growing up surrounded by people who he knew where horrible people, his perception of what’s right and wrong was formed early. He knew that people looking down on others, especially because of something that the down-trodden couldn’t control was bad. He knew that standing up for them is right. This however, causes him to see the world in black and white where people who were awful are always in the wrong and people like him who stand up for others are always in the right, no matter how far he might go sometimes.

- Tactless Along with his inability to properly express his feelings, often times he also has difficulty reading the emotions of other people. His honesty paired with his self-righteousness has caused him to say things bluntly, even if has the best intentions at heart. He would never purposefully pull another person down. However, he knows that there are just some things other people needed to hear, friend or foe alike. If his friends needed constructive criticism, he’d rather be the one to give it, believing that at least he could lessen the blow somehow.

WHAT IS THE TRUE STORY

Has always been a kind soul with a tough exterior, due to his blood status.

Was raised by his mother and her family, as his Muggle father left them.

Growing up on a Puffskein farm has made him fall in love with Magical Creatures.

Enjoys taunting pureblood supremacists a little too much.

A hard worker, but most of all, a very loyal friend.

BIOGRAPHY:

Amos never knew anything about his father other than the fact that he was a muggle. From what he had gathered, he figured out that his parents were never married when they had him. That explained the fact that his mother, Bethesda, kept her maiden name.

A disgrace in the noble line of Diggorys, he would hear his unlikable relatives whisper amongst each other. Even though he grew up with her mother’s family, Amos felt shunned by the only relatives he knew off. Through the years, he watched his cousins earn more praises and showered with better presents from his grandparents and numerous aunts and uncles.

Holidays were hard. But he learned to endure the worst of family gatherings. He’d cope by looking forward to how he his mom would sneak off for a little trip after dinner, and spend the entire next day together. Those to Amos, were the real holidays and made the silent judging looks he had to endure worth it.

Though he didn’t find a family with people whom he shared his blood, he found one with the people who worked in their farm. Those who worked in their family’s Puffskein farm practically helped Bethesda in raising him. As a child, he’d watch the workers take care of poffles of puffskein. By the age of four, he was already helping them with the most basic of tasks such as cleaning their cages and feeding them.

Now at the age of eighteen, whenever he would come back to the farm, he would always be greeted by the farm’s workers with a warm hug, a slap in the back, and a pair of gloves and boots so that he could start working right away. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The people at the farm respected him because he saw them as equals and treated them as so. He’d always be the first to defend them when one of the workers got in trouble. He would even occasionally take the fall for one or two mistakes that wasn’t his just to save the real culprits from trouble.

With the war brewing, Amos grew restless. He knows that it wouldn’t take long before he was targetted as half-blood or worse, his mother for siring one. The apathy of his relatives who were pureblooded only frustrated him further. He was hearing whispers of an Order forming inside the school itself, meant to protect the innocent targetted by Death Eaters, followers of a Dark Wizard who sounded to him came straight from the tales of horror he was told as a child.

Before his sixth year started, he made plans to seek out members of the Order to join them when his mother caught wind of his plans. Distraught and worried for her child, she made him promise to stay far from the war, knowing that if she ever lost him, she would be destroyed. She pleaded with him, telling him that no parent should ever get to bury their own child. Reluctantly, he agreed.

Now that trouble and chaos have erupted in Hogwarts, Amos begrudgingly watches from the side as it all unfolds. He might have been prohibited against joining the war, but that doesn’t mean he can’t knock the pedestals of a couple of blood supremacists. It’s his duty as a prefect, anyway. Even if that means he’ll be in the crosshairs of the most dangerous students in school.

WHAT ARE YOUR RELATIONSHIPS

FRANK LONGBOTTOM: Tutored by, very close friend of.

GRETA CATCHLOVE: Best friend, is a positive influence on him.

LUDO BAGMAN: Thinks Ludo is a mess, isn’t afraid to tell him.

RODOLPHUS LESTRANGE: Strong dislike, was attacked by once.

ISOBEL CLEMONTE: Small crush on, but also often bickers with.

ANYTHING ELSE:

One of the earliest gifts he received from his mother was a toy Quidditch broom. Amos fell in love with it instantly, even if the broom only floated up to three feet in the air. As soon as he was old enough, his mother got him a proper broom. Flying around became his favorite past time. Whenever he wasn’t working in the Puffskein farm, those who knew him best would know that he’d just be somewhere nearby on his broom.

It wasn’t long after he got his broom was he enamored with Quidditch. He began following the Quidditch World Cup. Even if he couldn’t go to matches that much, he loved staying by the radio and listening to the announcer describe what’s happening in the game. He would also always check the newspapers the next day and save clippings of the players in action.

Growing up in a Puffskein farm, Amos always had an affinity for Magical Creatures, Beasts in particular. Unlike Beings or Spirits, Amos saw Beasts as innocent creatures whose only desires were to survive and protect their own. He believes that Beasts needed protection. Being an insider in an industry that breeds Magical Creatures, he knows all too well how Magical Creatures can be taken advantage of by wizards just for profit. He envisions himself in the far future leaving the farm and fighting for the regulation of Beast farms all over the country.

#bio #// guess who took almost four hours writing this instead of working skjafhjhsg

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raendown · 6 years ago

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@letliv3 You will take it and you will like it because this is your fault.

Pairing: MadaraKakashi Word count: 3745 Summary: In which Obito helped found the village, Madara was a member of Team Minato, and Kakashi gets lost down a few different paths in his life.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI in the blog header!

Building Our Own

Kakashi was pretty sure he didn’t like Madara. Pretty sure. There were times when it was really difficult to stay inside his shell and hate the world because watching Madara – barely taller than himself yet filled with enough attitude for the whole village – face off against the taller, brighter, unsuspecting Minato-sensei was always the highlight of his week. Knowing the two of them had so much in common did not mean Kakashi wanted to make friends with the other boy. He didn’t need friends to become the greatest ninja this world had ever seen and restore his family’s honor.

Anyway that Gai idiot followed him around too much already. His non-existent friend quota had been filled, thank you very much.

It was still kind of hard to ignore Madara. The boy refused to not be seen but he wasn’t obnoxious about it. There was just something magnetic about his competence even at such a young age, the confidence in every move he made, even the spiky stupid mess of his hair. Most of the Uchiha that Kakashi met had beautiful smooth hair but Madara seemed to have skipped that gene; his hair stuck straight out from his head in stiff spikes reminiscent of Kakashi’s own locks. Yet another thing they had in common and could have commiserated about together – if he had time for stupid things like friendship. Which he did not.

Much to their sensei’s despair, Madara didn’t seem all that upset that one of his teammates refused to bond with him. The majority of his concentration went to edging a few words about his precious baby brother in to every single conversation ever. None of them had ever met Izuna but after less than a month of being a team they all could have probably picked him out of a crowd and recited at least ten different points of trivia about him off the tops of their heads.

And that right there was the one thing that truly set them apart, the one bit that stopped Kakashi from allowing himself to at least like the boy, even if only from afar. Where Kakashi had lost everyone he ever loved Madara still had someone, even if it was just a useless little brother. He still had someone to care about, someone precious, and besides that he had a clan that treated him like absolute royalty. Apparently Madara was a direct descendant of the great Uchiha Obito, founder of their village and betrayer of the Shodaime Hokage. Kakashi didn’t really see why he got to be venerated for being related to a traitor when others were shunned for the same thing but the one time he had tried to question it Minato-sensei had hushed him and Kakashi felt his heart grow a little bit smaller.

So Kakashi stayed small and quiet and spent the hours he wasn’t training with his team training in private instead. He would grow bigger, stronger, and someday he would be the one to show Madara his back. He would be the one that others watched from afar.

He would restore the honor his father had lost. Only then would his life be worth something.

“Your father’s honor is not your own.”

Madara’s words left him reeling, adrift and unsteady where he had always felt solid logic underneath his feet. Kakashi waited for the world to stop spinning before baring his teeth behind the mask that hid them.

“What would you know about it?” he snarled. Madara scoffed.

“I’m descended from the biggest traitor this village has ever seen but does my clan care about that? No. They care that I inherited his strength. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘innocent until proven guilty’ before?”

“At least you have a clan! Don’t talk like you know me!”

“Of course I know you, dumb ass.” Everything Madara said was always said with confidence, as though it was an absolute immutable truth. It made refuting him very difficult sometimes because the way he spoke made Kakashi want to believe.

He resisted because clearly no one else should have a say in his situation not when they weren’t the ones living it.

“I will restore my father’s honor!” he began. He got no farther in to his rant before Madara rolled his eyes and interrupted.

“There’s nothing to restore, he’s dead. We build our own honor. And you have plenty of that even if you’re an asshole. Take the stick out of your ass and wake up. You’re Kakashi, not Sakumo. You can’t fix his mistake any more than I can. He didn’t even make one!”

“He – what?”

Kakashi sat, stunned, and listened to the entire fifteen minutes of Madara’s rant about how true dishonor was in abandoning your comrades and how the entire concept of their village itself had been founded on the desire to protect one’s comrades. Apparently the history books left out quite a bit of information about Uchiha Obito’s life before he abandoned Konoha; Kakashi never knew it was him that had named their fledgling settlement or him that had come up with the idea in the first place as a way to protect his own precious ones.

All through the boy’s impassioned speech he remained silent, soaking in every word like a message from on high, and when Madara finally stopped to pant angrily, kicking at a nearby tree stump, he cleared his throat with more awkwardness than should have fit in to his twelve year old body.

“We should find Rin,” he murmured. It was the best he could do for an apology. Madara narrowed his eyes, probably trying to determine whether or not he meant that, then nodded decisively.

“Good to see you got your head out of your ass. Damn right we go find her. No more of this ‘the mission is more important’ bullshit, alright?”

“Yeah…”

“So what are we waiting for? Aren’t you supposed to be mission leader? Lead on, jōnin-taichou!”

Amazed that his teammate still trusted him to do so when he had only just a few minutes ago suggested abandoning Rin to her fate, Kakashi nodded and closed his eyes to think. “My summons will be able to follow her trail more easily than we can.”

Kannabi Bridge went on to become the mission famous as a long-awaited turning point in the war, the incident that finally gave them a clear advantage to end things in Konoha’s favor. For the ones who carried it out, however, it was memorable for a different reason. The mission to Kannabi Bridge was the day they finally – finally – became a true unit, the day Madara brushed that chip off of Kakashi’s shoulder and offered the hand of friendship instead.

It also became the day Kakashi would look back on and realize he was completely and utterly screwed.

Of course he would fall in love with his best friend. Of fucking course.

ANBU suited him a little bit too well but that was fine. Everything was fine as long as he had Madara there with him, eagle mask covering his face and endless black hair spilling around it like a cloud of death. He wondered why they bothered with the masks sometimes. Both of them were entirely too identifiable by their hair alone so really all the masks did was add a bit of extra dramatic flair.

Shaking his head, Kakashi forced his attention back to the task at hand, pushing just a little more speed out of his tired legs. The two of them had run countless missions together since becoming true comrades, both in the name of Team Minato and as the perfectly matched pair they were now in ANBU, but never had they run a mission this important before. It was only the second time Rin had been captured and already it was starting to feel like a pattern. He wondered which idiot had been the one to decide this time that she was the weak link in their band of comrades. Rin was many things but she was not weak.

As evidenced by the carnage that came in to view when they finally found her. More than half of the bodies that lay dead around her were decorated with perfectly normal wounds, their flesh opened by blades and the extra clean sort of cut that could only come from her weaponized medical jutsu. The rest had been mauled as though by a hungry beast – and a beast she looked, right then.

Her pretty brown eyes glowing red and her entire body bubbling with a sickly green cloak of pure poisonous chakra, it was hard to tell whether or not she recognized them at first. A low growl rumbled across the space between them and the two young men shared a look before hastily removing their masks.

“It’s fine now,” Madara attempted a soothing voice. “They’re dead.”

“Don’t,” she warning when he tried to take a step towards her.

“It’s just me, it’s just Madara.”

“Shut up! I know who you are, dummy!” The growl in her words cracked and hiked to a whine that Kakashi recognized all too well. He’d raised eight dogs on his own; he knew what a wounded animal sounded like. “I can’t go back with you. Not like this.”

Unfortunately neither of them had been born with an ounce of tact. Kakashi snorted. “Can and will. Haven’t you heard the rumors, Rin-chan? We’ve had a beast living with us the whole time and I’ve never seen Kushina-nee bite anyone’s head off yet. Well, not literally. She’s scary but she’s not out for blood no matter what the monster trapped inside her wants. She can help you.”

It was a terrible thing to see in a friend, that broken light of hope too small to be believed in. Kakashi inched forward, saddened when she flinched away but determined to reach her, and when her bubbling chakra burned his skin he refused to show any sign of pain.

“Come home. If we can survive Madara for this long then we can survive you. He’s more of an animal than anyone.”

His friend’s offended screech broke the tension and Rin’s startled laugh was a balm on all their souls, just enough of a positive emotion to push the beast in her belly down. The effort left her exhausted but Kakashi caught her and Madara took point to protect them both as they turned for home, wearing a pout still but it was a very cute pout so Kakashi only teased him a little bit. It was good to be together.

“That’s a big fox.”

“Your observations are as astute as ever,” Madara’s voice drawled from behind his shoulder.

“We have to fight that big fox? He’s just a big scary dog. I don’t wanna hit a dog, Dara-chan!”

“Stop calling me that!”

Kakashi smiled briefly to see Madara stomp one foot. Fifteen years old and he still hadn’t grown out of the habit. Then he turned his eyes back to the carnage in front of them when Rin touched down at his other side.

“Isobu says that Kurama isn’t acting like himself,” she reported. “Something must be controlling him.”

“Right. Let’s found out who, shall we?” Kakashi narrowed his eyes, all traces of amusement gone from their little trio of death as they all pushed off the Hokage monument they had been perched on to make their assessment. Team Minato, as they still sometimes thought of themselves, were not the first line of defense in any fight. They were the ones who ended the fight.

When they found the man controlling the Kyuubi he was much older than they might have guessed – ancient, in fact. The fact that he could still move the way he did seemed to be due to the fact that one entire half of his body had been reconstructed with an unidentified white substance that reformed and reattached itself when injured, healing faster than they could hurt him. And that wasn’t even the part that made the fight difficult. No, that was the fully formed Sharingan in his one good eye, an abomination that enraged Madara.

It took all three of them to bring him down, one unit moving perfectly in sync. It took Isobu and Susano’o and eight dog summons. It took everything they had but in the end Uchiha Obito lay ancient and exposed at their feet, screaming his impotent rage and crying out revenge against a man who had never truly wronged him.

“Senju Hashirama is dead,” Kakashi muttered in exhaustion, kicking away a severed limb still trying to crawl back to its host. “You should be too. Hold still and let me fix that.”

“He abandoned me! He will pay! The world will pay! I will have what I am owed! The perfect world, don’t you see? We could all live in the perfect world!”

“Something tells me your perfect world would not be like mine.” With his blade raised Kakashi shook his head in pity. “The world owes you nothing. Those who go back on their word like he did are trash, that’s true. But those who abandon their comrades? People like you who break bonds, you’re nothing but scum. Goodnight, Uchiha Obito, I hope you find rest.”

“Poetic,” Madara noted, watching as Kakashi impassively drew a blade through their defeated enemy’s throat.

“Maa, I didn’t mean to be.”

Rin groaned and sat down on the bloody grass. Then she fell over backwards with a sigh of relief. “Well that wasn’t what I wanted to do with my Tuesday,” she said.

“Any chance one of you can sense how Minato-sensei is doing with the Kyuubi? I’m fresh out of chakra.” Very gently, slowly so as not to jostle his sore body, Kakashi lowered himself down to join Rin. Madara snorted at them both.

“Your reserves are pathetic,” he pointed out. “The Kyuubi’s chakra has been split but I can still feel Kushina-nee. It would seem sensei was able to seal the beast in to two places at once. Very interesting.”

Both of the two on the ground made soft noises of curious agreement but investigating would have to wait. Just knowing their precious ones were alive was enough for now. Everything else could be left until after they had recovered the feeling in all of their limbs, possibly until after they had slept for a week. They had gone head to head with a legend today, after all. That definitely deserved a nap.

Madara wandered over to perch next to Kakashi, brushing something out of his hair without seeming to realize he was doing so. As much as he didn’t seem to want to admit it he was just as tired as the other two. Kakashi held his breath and allowed gloved fingers to trace the shape of his jaw.

“You took a lot of stupid chances today,” his friend murmured. Kakashi nodded.

“So did you.”

“Hn. Dumb ass.” His piece spoken, Madara’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body gave in to the exhaustion he’d been trying not to show. Unfortunately when he passed out he flopped down across the other two, who both grunted in surprise and then wriggled in dismay to find themselves trapped, lacking the energy to roll the idiot off of them.

Rin was the first to give up, flopping back down to the grass with a sigh. “You know for a second there I thought he was going to lean down and kiss you.”

Then she laughed as best she could at the redness of Kakashi’s face and the disconnected syllables gurgling out from behind his mask.

Twenty years old was a terrible age all of his friends were at least one year older. Twenty years old meant that all of his friends could drink while they oversaw the chūnin exams here in Suna but all he could do was sip soda and watch. What was the point of such a high drinking age anyway? And who had ever heard of a shinobi being denied a drink? He’s been getting served back home since he reached jōnin at the age of twelve.

Actually that probably wasn’t a high point and Minato-sensei should probably make sure that practice wasn’t still being followed. But his point still stood!

Kakashi felt cheated when his decision to go out with his friends in the hopes of watching them all make fools of themselves ended with sitting in the corner of a dusty Suna club watching over the ladies’ purses while Madara snoozed next to him. He’d really been hoping Madara would get drunk and do something stupid. Or maybe that he would get absolutely blackout drunk and do something completely out of the blue like, say, decide to make out with the comrade who’d been silently in love with him for almost a decade now.

Life was so unfair.

Jerking his elbow in to the other man’s side at least got him the amusing reaction of bleary eyes jerking open and an angry expression. He muttered something too but it was impossible to hear of the thumping music so Kakashi shrugged and shook his head, completely unrepentant. Madara scowled deeper and leaned over to put his lips right next to Kakashi’s ear.

“I said, you’re a dick. I was trying to sleep until we can get the hell out of here.”

Kakashi pushed away the urge to shiver and shouted over the music. “So let’s get out of here.”

Rin and Anko both tried to wheedle them in to staying when Kakashi wound his way through the dance floor to give them back their purses but he skipped free of their reaching hands and hustled back to Madara’s side. Stumbling outside was heaven on his ears, stepping passed the barrier of excessive noise and in to the blessed silence of the desert at night. Both of them groaned with relief and rubbed at their aching heads as they hurried away, ignoring the judging eyes of the club’s bouncers, eager to get back to their hotel rooms and just relax. Neither of them were really the sort to enjoy this stuff anyway. A nice homey bar would have been more their style but it had been Rin who invited them out so it had been her choice of venue.

Madara’s steps were surprisingly steady for someone who had pounded back enough alcohol to fall asleep in that blaring chaos. He wove side to side a bit whenever something interesting caught his eye but for the most part he didn’t seem too dizzy and Kakashi felt cheated all over again that he wasn’t needed to heroically offer his shoulder as support.

“Where are we?” The sudden question made him furrow his brows.

“Uh…Suna?”

“No! I mean I don’t recognize this street.”

Stopping to look around, Kakashi bit his lip. “Huh. You’re right. I think we’re lost.”

“That’s fine. As long as I’m lost with you.” Madara shrugged and continued on while Kakashi’s feet stumbled to a halt, one hand pressed against his chest to sooth his suddenly racing heart.

He glared as best he could and hoped the darkness covered the blush on his face.

“You can’t just…say stuff like that.”

“Oh. Shit. You’re right.” Confusingly, Madara looked embarrassed as well to realize what he’d said, clapping a hand over his mouth and sending a guilty look out the corner of his eyes.

“Wait. I know I’m right but why do you think I’m right?” Kakashi asked.

“Cause I don’t want you to know that I like you!”

“Maa, of course you like me, we’re best friends…”

Now frustrated that he wasn’t being understood, Madara stomped his foot and turned to shake a finger under Kakashi’s nose. “No! I mean like like you! Love like you! Don’t misunderstand me! I swear sometimes you do it on purpose because you know it annoys me and–”

His friend continued to rant but most of it washed over Kakashi, who had of course heard this lecture a hundred times and more. Well, except for the part where Madara was apparently in love with him, that bit was new. And mind-blowing. Life-changing, really. It took a while to sink in that Madara didn’t seem to realize what he had just confessed, either because he was too drunk or because nothing else ever mattered when he’d found something to be irritated by.

Why Kakashi found that cute was a mystery.

He did finally shut up when Kakashi kissed him, though. Actually, to be fair, he did make a few aborted attempts at speaking before finally giving in and kissing back, one hand fisting in the front of Kakashi’s vest to keep him in place. When they slowly pulled apart he licked his lips and fell immediately back in to a scowl.

“The mask, you idiot,” was all he said. Kakashi scrambled to pull it down out of the way.

“You want–?”

Madara’s answer was another kiss. And it turned out he was right, it was definitely better with the mask out of the way.

Someday, when he had eventually recovered his scrambled wits and picked himself up from the puddle of goo he could feel his body melting in to, he would need to say thank you. Not for the kiss, although the kiss was good enough on its own to warrant starting a diary just to describe it and Kakashi very much hoped they could do this again. Preferably every day from now on. But eventually he would need to impress upon Madara how grateful he was to have the other man in his life, how important it was that Madara had never abandoned him even when he was a young child with a terrible weight on his shoulders that he should never have been carrying in the first place.

Eventually he would need to say that he owed everything he was as a person to Madara.

But not now. Right now he pressed forward slowly to bury his fingers in long thick hair and cling to the one person he had been striving for since long before he had ever acknowledged it.

My honor is my own, he thought as they stumbled against the front of a nearby shop, his thoughts going back to a moment between them half a lifetime ago. And I owe my honor to you, who showed me how to believe in it. How to believe in us.

#rae writes #madakaka #madara #kakashi #fanfiction

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