#and then also thinking about the battling the sword fighting the wrestling each other onto the ground

[prodigaldaughteralice]

tonight I’m thinking about how in practically every one of ND’s drawings of Ambrosius and Ballister as young knights/squires, they’re absolutely all over each other. Arms around shoulders, head in lap, Ambrosius jumping onto Ballister’s back or looking over his shoulder at a desk by plastering himself to him. Hands in hair and on waists.

and then thinking about how strange it must be to go from having that all the time to being completely alone

[cinderflower]

Royal Bastards for the WIP game!

This is actually one of my original works that I've been working on sporadically for a few years! I used to have the first few chapters posted on AO3 but hid it in an unrevealed collection until I can figure out the direction I want to go with it next.

It's a dark fantasy story that's focuses on a small fractured continent with different kingdoms and factions that have varying views on the usage of magic and how it plays into each culture. The main kingdom is an isolationist kingdom with the belief of only using magic for healing and dedicating all their healers (Stitchers) to pair with their warriors to keep them alive mid battle. This means a lot of desensitized warriors who don't know how to fight without thinking they're invincible but also means they're seen as kind of boogeyman to fighters from other kingdoms who don't have Stitchers nearly as skilled and aren't used to seeing enemies get healed mid-battle - especially since their isolationist tendencies led to it being believed to be tall tales instead of reality.

It follows the two main characters - a prince and princess (twins bc it's me) named Ottilia and Augustus - as they flee from an assassination attempt and go to find refuge w their actual father (hence, royal bastards) who is the leader of a rundown mercenary company in the neighboring kingdom, while they regroup to try and reclaim their kingdom. And while they are the main characters and are intended to be somewhat sympathetic, they're not what I would call 'good people' by any stretch of the imagination. Their hobby growing up mainly involved hiring assassin guilds to try and almost-but-not-quite murder one another.

A snippet of a spar btwn the twins from the first chapter:

She was almost too slow as she let go of the grip of her own sword, forced to keep it steady with just her one hand while acting on instinct to raise her now free hand up to block the dagger. Blood poured forth, running down her wrist as the blade was stopped, missing the intended mark of her neck and instead embedding in the center of her palm. Gritting her teeth and hissing in pain, Ottilia staggered forward, pushing her hand down the remainder of the blade with a pained and angered shout until her fingers were able to curl around the dagger's guard. Augustus's eyes widened and he let the dagger go, rushing to step back as he realized his mistake, but Ottilia wasn't about to let him go so easily. She stalked toward him, not allowing him to place any distance between them as she dropped her longsword to the ground and ripped off her helmet. When she was close enough she kicked again with all the force she could muster, this time actually hitting his knee with an audible crack. Augustus collapsed to the ground with a muffled grunt as his leg caved in beneath him. He held his sword up defensively as she moved to descend on him. But it did not deter her, metal biting into her side all while she used her free hand to pull the dagger free. She sank down onto one knee, pressing it harshly into her brother's sternum as she used her bloodied hand to rip his own helmet off, revealing his face. He had not yet given up, determination still etched across his features along with the wild look in his eye from the thrill of the spar as he let go of his sword and moved to grab her wrists instead to try and wrestle her off of him. But she had managed to get too much leverage on him, able to keep him pinned in place as she began to lower the dagger towards his throat. He did everything he could to hold her at bay, letting go of her wrist to wrap his other hand around the blade that was now almost close enough to his throat to piece it. It was now his blood that coated the dagger as he tightened his grip to stop its momentum. It would all be over if she used her other hand to hit the pommel and force it that final distance into his flesh, but she refrained, instead reaching around to grip his hair, yanking his head backwards to expose more of his throat, the blood from the dagger flowing down to the expanse of skin. "That's enough," Marcellus finally called out. "The round goes to Ottilia." Ottilia grinned down at him as she pulled away and Augustus grinned back at her. "I should have known you wouldn't fall for the dagger trick." "Only because I was half expecting it. You should have gone a few rounds without using it first so that I would have lowered my guard and forgotten about it. Is that what you and Marcellus were practicing?" she asked, dropping the dagger and pulling the arming sword from her side. Moving back to her feet, she offered him a hand up after discarding all the blades to the ground.

WIP game post

[waitimcomingtoo]

Whatever A Spider Can

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Synopsis: Toms confidence is shaken when Harrison kills a spider for you

Masterlist

“AHHH!”

Your scream rang through the house as you hopped up on the kitchen table.

“What’s wrong?” Tom ran into the room with his fists up in a karate stance.

“Spider!” You pointed frantically to the spider that was crawling across the kitchen tiles. There were various spatulas and whisks on the floor that you had thrown at the spider in an attempt to kill it. When that didn’t work, up on the table you went.

“tHeRe’s A sPiDer?” Tom squeaked and backed up against the wall.

“Yes! Kill it!” You held your fists up to your face and shook nervously.

“What do you want me to do? Sacrifice myself?” He asked in exasperation.

“Well I’m not killing it!” You shouted back.

“Neither am I!” He exclaimed, flinching when it moved again.

“You’re Spider-Man. It’s your job.” You whined at him.

“That’s exactly why I can’t kill it. That’s treason!” He stamped his foot to stand his ground.

“It’s just a spider!” You protested. “He won’t be mad.”

“HE’S MY BLOOD.” Tom bellowed with a stamp of his foot.

“Ah! It moved its FUCKING MOVING KILL IT NOW!” Your screaming escalated as the spider moved towards you.

“I’m not going near it.” Tom scooted behind the table and flung his body over the couch. He peered at you over the top of the couch to see if you were okay.

“It’s gonna get me. Oh my God, it’s licking its lips.” You gulped and backed up even further on the table before shooting and angry look at Tom. “You’re just gonna leave me? To die?”

“I’m sorry, baby.” He said apologetically. “I’ll always remember you.”

You were about to scold him some more when Harrison walked into the kitchen.

“Harrison, thank God.” You breathed in relief. “I need you.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He smirked and leaned on the table to give you his attention.

“Can you kill that spider?” You pointed to it and bounced up and down on your toes.

“This one?” He asked and easily stepped on the spider. “All done.”

You broke into a smile as relief washed over you.

“You just saved my life.” You said graciously as you held your clasped hands over your heart. You walked to the end of the table where he was and made grabby hands at him.

“I got you, girly.” Harrison laughed and scooped you up bridal style and carried you off the table. Tom watched as he carefully set you down on the ground, clenching the blanket tightly when you threw your arms around him. Everything about the scene was bothering him. From the way Harrison’s arms held your body close to his to the way you wrapped your arms around his neck, something didn’t sit right with him.

“Thanks for saving me.” You smiled in appreciation and squeezed his arm. Tom perked up from the couch and stared at you two interacting.

And he didn’t like it.

~

“Are you ready for bed?” You leaned against the doorframe of the home gym and yawned.

“Almost.” Tom grunted as he pumped his weights. “Just 100 more reps.”

“100?” You scrunched your face in confusion. “What are you training for? Sozin’s comet?”

“I can’t laugh at your pop culture references right now, baby.” He shook his head as he pumped harder. “Daddy’s gotta train.”

“Daddy better never refer to himself as daddy again.” You said sternly. You watched his face closely for any sign of something bothering him. It wasn’t like him to train so late at night, and definitely not this heavily.

“Feel the burn. Then feel it some more.” He grunted as he pumped the weights. “Baby, do you think you can crack some eggs into a glass so I can drink it?”

“Calm down, Rocky.” You laughed nervously as you watched the sweat roll down his forehead. “What’s going on with you?”

“I’m just working out so I can be big and strong. You need a big strong man to protect you.” He said matter of factly and you squinted your eyes.

“No, I can’t say I do.” You gave him a tight smile. He stopped pumping for a moment to look at you.

“Sorry, not like that. I know you can protect yourself.” He said sincerely. “I mean from things like burglars and pirates and spiders.”

“Well I do deal with those on a daily basis.” You said sarcastically. “And you’re already big and strong.”

“But I need to be bigger and stronger.” He punctuated his words by aggressively pumping the weight.

“Why?” You questioned.

“To protect you.” He said like it was obvious. You were growing frustrated and just wanted to go to sleep.

“From what?” You whined. “Really, Tom, what’s going on?”

He got off the bench and got on the mat to do push-ups.

“I can protect you from anything.” He said as he added in claps.

“I know you can, baby.” You assured him. “Who says you can’t?”

“The spider in the kitchen today.” He put one arm behind his back to push himself even more.

“He said that?” You played along.

“Yes. And then he called me a little bitch boy.” Tom said sheepishly.

“Ah, I see.” It finally clicked. “Is this because Harrison killed the spider?”

Tom rolled on his back and started to do crunches.

“I just want you to know that you can count on me to protect you from things that scare you. I didn’t do that today. Harrison did.” He said one word every time he crunched up.

“Just because Harrison killed the spider doenst mean you’re any less of a man.” You told him with a kinder tone now that you knew his feelings were hurt.

“But you needed me and I didn’t help you.” He said as his crunches got more aggressive.

“It was just a spider, Tom. It wasn’t actually going to kill me.” You pointed out.

“It could have.” He insisted. “I think it had a knife.”

“Well I’m safe now.” You held your arms out so he could see that you were perfectly fine. “Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s my job to keep you safe.” He stated. “Not Harrison’s.”

“How about this?” You knelt down beside him and put a hand on his back to stop his movements. “Next time there’s a knife wielding spider in the house, you can have dibs on killing it.”

“You mean it?” He smiled softly.

“I do.” You cupped his chin and kissed him. “Can we please go to bed now?”

“Okay. And let that be a warning to any spiders listening.” He said loudly as he looked at the corners of the room.

“Ooo. I think you really scared them.” You teased him before leading him to bed.

~

Three days later, Toms chance at redemption presented itself.

“Ah! Spider!” You shrieked when you saw a spinous black spider crawled across the living room wall.

“I GOT IT!” Tom ran into the room as quickly as he could.

“Tom! You can’t kill it with a pair of scissors!” You tried to hold him back when you saw the weapon in his hand.

“Not with that attitude.” He said as he tried to throw the scissors at the wall. You held him back and loudly bickered as you tried to stop him.

“What is all the noise -ARE THOSE MY CRAFTING SCISSORS?” Tuwaine yelled as he entered the room to see what all the noise was about. He immediately went to Tom and tried to wrestle the scissors out of his hands.

“I have to kill the spider! I have to avenge my lady!” Tom protested as he held on tightly to the scissors.

“White boy, you better chill.” Tuwaine warned, grasping onto the scissors and pulling ad hard as he could. You backed away, knowing there was no way this could end well.

“As soon as this quarantine ends, I am leaving you all and never coming back.” You mumbled as Harry walked into the room. He stood next to you and folded his arms as he watched the scene in front of him.

“What’s all this?” He asked you.

“Toms trying to kill a spider with Tuwaine’s scissors.” You said simply.

“His crafting scissors?” Hardy gasped at Tom’s audacity. “He’s completely lost it.”

“I tried to tell him.” You shrugged as the boys continued to fight. Harrison heard the commotion from upstairs and went to see what was wrong.

“What’s with all the yel-“

“GET OUT.” Tom bellowed as he pointed the scissors at Harrison like a sword. Harrison held up his hands to surrender and backed out of the room.

“What do we do? Do we just let them kill each other?” Harry whispered to you.

“I think I know how it solve this.” You nodded at Harry and walked over to the bickering boys. You squeezed in between them and slammed your hand on the spider, watching it anticlimactically fall to the floor. Tom and Tuwaine fell silent as they watched the spider corpse fall.

“You just killed the spider.” Tom said as he stared blankly at the spider on the ground.

“I know.”

“With your bare hand.” Tuwaine laughed.

“I know.”

“Why?” Tom looked around you in betrayal. “And how?”

“Because I don’t need anyone to protect me.” You stated. “Also because Tuwaine was two seconds away from stabbing Tom with his crafting scissors.”

“And you would’ve been lucky if I had.” Tuwaine dramatically snatched the scissors for Tom, snipped them twice, and left the room.

“You said I had dibs.” Tom whined and flopped down on the couch.

“That was before this became a crazy pride thing. Killing a spider does not determine your manliness.” You reminded him as you took a seat next to him. He stared at the floor as you gently rubbed comforting circles on his back.

“You two are such a weird couple.” Harry mumbled.

“But I needed the spider to redeem myself.” He told you.

“No you don’t!” You protested as you took his face between your hands. “If you’re not a man before you kill the spider then you won’t be a man after.”

“But I want to be the kind of man that can kill spiders for you.” He pouted.

“The only type of man you need to be is my man.” You smiled sweetly at him and stroked his face.

“No one else finds this conversation ridiculous?” Harry looked back at Tuwaine, who was cleaning his scissors in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, baby. It just shook my confidence.” Tom sighed and looked down. “Every time the anniversary of the lip sync battle comes around, I get a whole slew of hate comments questioning my masculinity. I usually ignore it, but after Harrison killed the spider when I couldn’t, I felt like they were right.” He admitted and you install felt bad for teasing him.

“Being able to put on fishnets and dance your ass off to make the most iconic lip sync battle of all time is the most masculine thing you can do.” You assured him. “Think of all the little boys who love to dance who can do it proudly now because they saw Spider-Man doing it.”

Tom perked up and smiled at you.

“I didn’t think of that.” He realized.

“That’s because I have to do the thinking for the both of us, baby.” You patted his cheek and hoped he didn’t realize that was an insult.

“What a plot twist.” Harrison commented as he cake beside Harry. “I didn’t expect there to be a deeper meaning.”

“I just thought he was a pussy.” Harry shrugged and mumbled under his breath.

“Right? Who can’t kill a spider?” Harrison scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Not me. I’d kill it in a second.” Harry stated with a confident nod.

“Thanks for getting my confidence back.” Tom thanked you. “I love you.”

“I love you more.” You pulled him into a hug and rested your head on his shoulder.

“What did we just watch?” Harrison shook his head.

“Couldn’t tell you.” Harry sighed. Tuwaine joined the boys in watching you and Tom until he noticed something moving on the wall.

“Hold on mates, there’s a spider right above you.”

“WHAT THE FU-“ Harry and Harrison completely spazzed out and ran in opposite directions as Tuwaine stood there laughing.

“And that’s for messing with my scissors.”

Tag List 🏷

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[dreamofthe-wild]

pouring out a cold one for your homie

Fandom: Linked Universe Words: 1,176 Characters: Twilight & Warriors, (Wild mentioned) Warnings: Mentions of blood and injury and use of alcohol

If Twilight had a rupee for every time the group somehow got split up after a battle, he’d probably have enough to buy the potions he currently desperately needed. It wasn’t the first time he found himself up shit’s creek without a paddle, but it’s the first time he’s been responsible for the safety and wellbeing of another person while being completely out of medical supplies. Not even a proper bandage was left in his bag. His spare tunic would only last for so long before it would need to be replaced, and they hadn’t been able to wash their clothing in anything other than wild rivers or lakes in who knows how long.

“I got nuthin’,” he sighs as he tosses his bag against the wall of the small outcropping they squatted in, “ya got anythin’?” 

“Not that I know of, you can check,” Warriors answers weakly from his spot on the hard ground. He waves his free hand in the general direction of his bag, that was also tossed haphazardly against the wall. His other hand presses Twilight’s tunic, now more red than green, against a deep cut along his collarbone. Twilight bites his lip as he leans over to grab the bag.

“How’re ya holdin’ up?” He asks while he digs through the captain’s bag. He knows the answer, but keeping Warriors busy would hopefully help him stay awake longer. 

“How do you think?” Warriors snarks back, but there’s no bite to it. 

“He looks like shit.” Twilight observes. A glistening sheen of sweat dots Warriors’s hairline, and his every breath is noticeable in the way he takes short small inhales to not jostle the wound any further. He looked like he hadn’t slept well in days, and dark bags formed under his eyes like fresh bruises.

Twilight’s hand touches a glass bottle near the bottom of the captain’s bag. He almost cries out in relief, but when he pulls it out it’s a bottle of scotch whiskey. Pretty good quality too, actually. Being a captain had its perks, it seems.

“You sending me off with a party?” Warriors jokes half-heartedly. 

Twilight sets the bottle aside and digs his arm back into the bag, an idea forming in his mind. He likes to pretend he doesn't know how, but Twilight had seen Warriors take a needle and thread to his scarf on more than one occasion. A long piece of cloth would not still be in one piece on a battlefield otherwise. He finds the small sewing kit hidden amongst other supplies and, to his luck, a roll of clean gauze. He pops off the lid of the whiskey and holds it out towards the captain.

“Yer gon’ want some o’ this,” he says. 

Warriors is not a dumb person, at this point he knows exactly what Twilight was planning on doing. He knocks back the bottle and takes a few swigs, enough to make his cheeks warm. Twilight scoots forward on his knees as he’s drinking, mentally preparing himself. 

“A waste of good scotch.” Warriors comments, taking one more big gulp. It burns his throat in the way only alcohol does, he can feel it all the way down to his stomach. Cheeks red and feeling tipsy, he pushes the bottle into Twilight’s open palm, “hurry up and get this over with.”

Twilight uses a bit of the alcohol to disinfect the biggest needle he could find in the kit, and gently peels off the soiled fabric. He’s about to pour the rest onto the wound, when Warriors stops him. 

“Wait, give me your belt.”

Twilight feels stupid for not thinking of that. He pulls off the leather strap that holds his scabbard in place and lets Warriors bite down on it. 

“Okay, count of three.” Twilight says, and Warriors shuts his eyes tight in preparation. 

“One.”

“Two.” He dumps the alcohol on Warriors’s chest early. The scream his friend lets out is muffled by the belt, but the pained wail that follows breaks his heart. 

“I know, I know.” He tries to soothe as he sets to work.

It takes longer than he would’ve liked, and his needlework is not as steady as a seamstress’s, but soon enough he’s wrapping it tight with the bandages he found in Warriors’s pack. Warriors himself passed out half an hour into the procedure, and Twilight is honestly surprised he even lasted that long. The sun is beginning to set outside of their alcove by the time he’s done cleaning up. 

He lightly slaps Warriors’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, “oi, wake up.” The tapping rouses him and he blinks slowly in the dim light. Twilight gently tugs the strap out of his mouth and pats his arm. 

“Yer all patched up now, Cap’n, let’s get some water in ya and ya can go back ta sleep, aight?”

Warriors just nods weakly and lets Twilight help him hold the water pouch to his lips. The water is lukewarm, but feels like heaven to his abused throat.

“Slowly.”

Warriors takes a few sips before Twilight pulls it away and sets it aside to grab Warriors's blanket out of his bag. 

“You rest up, now. I’ll keep watch tonight.” 

He leans over Warriors to lightly tuck the corners of the fabric under him to keep it in place. He’s about to stand when a hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

“Wait.” 

Twilight looks up at Warriors’s piercing blue eyes. The captain’s mouth upturns in a small smile when they lock gazes.

“Thanks, Twi.”

Twilight responds with his own smile and a nod. Warriors releases his grip and pulls the blanket up to his chin.

“Don't stay up too late,” he says, although he knows Twilight will be up until the morning doves cry and the crickets sleep. 

“Goodnight, Wars.” 

Twilight keeps diligent watch through the night, ignoring the deep yawns and the weary drooping of his eyelids. He sits against the opening of the cave with his sword nearby, watching the world around him wake with the sun. Rabbits chase each other through the underbrush; birds swoop down and peck at exposed soil, hoping for a juicy worm for breakfast.

He peeks back at Warriors sleeping soundly behind him, watches the slow rise and fall of his chest. He always looked so peaceful when he slept. His intense eyes, under furrowed brows, that scrutinized every battlefield was no longer present. He looked as young as he really was; and wasn't that a kicker, how young they all were. How half of them had started their journey when he was still drawing in the dirt with sticks and wrestling in the mud. 

He sighs openly into the crisp, cool air, pulling the edges of his pelt tighter over his shoulders to fight off the shiver running down his spine. 

“Warriors will be fine,” he tells himself. And when a familiar shout sounds through the trees, and the bright blue of the champion’s tunic makes its way into the clearing, he knows it to be true.

[mst3kproject]

The Giant of Marathon

For some reason, probably because I've seen them all so many times, I thought I'd already done all four Film Crew episodes.  Evidently this is not true.  Here's one, and if you haven't seen it... wow, Mr. Honcho was not exaggerating about the thousands of sweaty men.

Philippides of Athens is the greatest athlete there is, having won the entire Olympics. With the games over, he returns to his day job as commander of the Athenian city guard.  Followers of Hippias the exiled tyrant are plotting to take control of the city with help from the invading Persians, and they try to seduce Philippides to their cause by offering him wine, women, and homoerotic wrestling (it was ancient Greece, after all).  Philippides refuses to be seduced, and sets off to secure the help of Athens' old enemy Sparta in opposing the Persians.  His mission is a success, but upon his return a spy tells him that the Persians are planning a sneak attack on the harbour of Piraeus.  Can even Philippides get there in time to deliver the warning?

I don't actually know if it were possible to win the entire Olympics in ancient Greece.  I know there were several events and at least one of them involved reciting poetry.  The Battle of Marathon was in 490 BC and a table on Wikipedia suggests that there could have been up to twelve different sports, but some of them were only for children.

The Giant of Marathon touts itself as a tale of epic battles, daring deeds, and political machinations.  I'll get back to the epic battles and daring deeds, but what stands in for the political machinations is mostly a bunch of people pining.  Unimpressive villain Theocritus is pining for the beautiful Andromeda, whose father has promised her to him but she thinks he's a dick.  She's pining for Philippides, who is also pining for her but thinks she's one of Hippias' followers, so refuses to speak to her.  Meanwhile Theocritus' concubine Charis is also pining for Philippides because he's the only man who ever refused to fuck her, I think.

These relationships are important to the plot, too.  Andromeda's love for Philippides is one of the reasons her father refuses to join the traitors, and when Theocritus realizes he cannot have her, he ties her to the prow of his ship to force Philippides to watch her die.  Charis' crush on Philippides leads her to her death, as she is executed for spying.  Yet none of it is ever developed beyond 'these two pretty people saw each other and now they want to bone'.  Philippides declares his love for Andromeda after a single five-minute interaction.  Charis has seen Philippides twice, and both times it went badly, when she decides to betray Theocritus.

Why do the writers hang such important plot points on the 'love' between people who have barely spoken to each other?  I can't decide if it's because they're lazy, or because they're hacks, and I lean towards a combination of the two.  There is absolutely no subtlety to the writing in The Giant of Marathon at all.  Everything is told, not shown.  We know that Theocritus and Creusus are traitors because they talk about it, in dialogue that's clearly written for the audience, not as anything that sounds like a natural conversation. We know that Charis and Andromeda are both in love with Philippides because they say so.  The only thing we're really shown is that Andromeda hates Theocritus, which comes through in her body language (though we are also very much told), so props to actress Mylène Demongeot for that much.

The movie doesn't care about any of this character stuff, anyway.  It just wants to get straight to those epic battle scenes, and it's very obvious how much work and time went into those as opposed to everything else.  The battles are lengthy and elaborate, full of impressive stunts and props and miniatures being destroyed all over the place.  We get to see Persian chariots run down Greek infantry, and while I'm pretty sure this would have been orchestrated so the stuntmen didn't get hurt, I'm not nearly so confident about the unfortunate horses (and neither was Bill).  There are ships in flames and injured men screaming as they fall overboard.  There are even some pretty good deaths, like the guy who was hit in the eye with an arrow.  The desperate last stand of the city guard against the entire Persian fleet, with the Spartans arriving just in time to save the day, is very tense indeed.

I get the impression that this is what somebody really wanted to put on screen, and they did a decent job of it, but pretty much the entire rest of what ought to be the story is just an accessory to the fighting stuff.  It's as if the film-makers wanted so badly for their fight sequences to be epic that they forgot what makes epic-ness – which is the characters and their stake in the events. We don't know any of these people, none of them have anything we might call a personality trait, and so we don't care.

The focus on how epic it all is makes I seem a little strange that the battle ends on a shot of dead Persian guys floating in the water. You'd think they'd want to end with something that more decisively shows the Athenian victory, maybe the men cheering as the Persian ships turn around and flee.  Or perhaps some kind of victory celebration, which could mirror the celebration of Philippides winning the Olympics in the opening and call back to the scene where Philippides asks the goddess Athena to protect her city.

Instead, we cut to a shot of Philippides and Andromeda walking across the farmland together.  This feels a little too sudden, and is also a poor fit with the rest of the movie.  The only time we've seen Philippides on his farm is when he's gotten disgusted with the politics of Athens and returned to the countryside to sulk.  If the farm is supposed to be a place where he's happy and at peace, the movie never establishes it.

So that's political machinations and epic battle sequences, let's talk about some daring deeds.

Unlike the Hercules and Maciste movies we've seen in the past, The Giant of Marathon wants to be grounded in real-life history.  This means that while the script does reference gods and mythical heroes, none of them ever appear and there is no hint of them working behind the scenes to bring events about.  Likewise, Philippides is not a demigod, so we avoid several of the tropes associated with the genre.  Nothing important ever happens (or fails to happen) because the hero was asleep, and he never bends prison bars or drinks a love potion – although a love potion is mentioned, as if to draw attention to this.

This doesn't leave Philippides a whole lot of scope for daring deeds, and when they try the results are a little lackluster.  His main feat is, of course, running all the way from Marathon to Athens (the proverbial forty-two kilometres) to let them know of the impending attack, but while this ought to be the highlight of the movie it's shot in terrible day-for-night and we have nothing to suggest how far this is... I think the writers just assumed everybody knows the length of a marathon.  If we'd seen the army tired from making the march earlier, we would have a better sense of it being a long and tiring journey even at a walk or with horses, and it would seem that much more formidable as a distance for one man to cover before sunrise.  Of course, showing us these things is apparently beyond the scope of The Giant of Marathon's writers, but you'd think they could at least have a character say something like, “it's twenty-six miles!  He'll never make it!”

His other major daring deed is when he pushes giant boulders down a hill onto the attacking Persians.  This is kind of weird because Philippides is not Hercules or Maciste.  He's good at track and field, but we haven't seen any evidence of him having godlike strength, and this is a universe where gods don't seem to do much anyway, so it comes out of nowhere.  The rocks are huge – there are similarly-sized ones at the park near my house and I know one guy couldn't move them no matter how buff he might be.  Did somebody just forget that they weren't making a Hercules movie?

Between the battles and the various plot twists, The Giant of Marathon could have been a pretty fun sword-and-sandal movie, but it's like a tower without a foundation.  The fights have nothing to hold them up, so we just can't get into it. Also, what the Underworld happened to Hippias? We see him once, chatting with the king of Persia, and then he vanishes and the movie decides weaselly little Theocritus is the big bad instead. I'm sorry, but if you've got a character with a name as cool as 'Hippias the Tyrant', you really can't just drop him like that.

The Best Brains liked to complain about the tinyness of the costumes in these movies but honestly, nothing here is as off-putting as actual ancient Greek sports would have been to the modern viewer.  When I was in university I TA'd for a course called Introduction to Greco-Roman Civilization. It was an adventure in several ways – the students were mostly dumb freshmen who spent the lectures playing Farmville, and the professor didn't give a shit because she'd just been denied tenure.  I don't know how much anybody learned in that class, but I'm sure they all recall how, after the professor told us that Greek athletes stripped naked and covered themselves in olive oil before wrestling, somebody raised a hand and asked if they removed their body hair.  The professor cheerfully told him that they did not, so next time we see a Greek vase we ought to remember that these guys were much sweatier, oilier, and hairier than terra cotta can possibly convey.

[thickenmyblood]

I’ll confess my sins. When I skipped the first chapters of Capri I got stuck on Laurent’s description as spoiled and similar to overripe fruit. So i was like ah. Royal Dudley Dursley with a blonde curly wig. Sounds about right. I finally saw some fan art and was like??? Who is this anemic Victorian vampire legolas persona?? Honestly tho in an alternate universe where Auguste doesn’t die and Laurent still dislikes sports but enjoys Veres sweet meats and his metabolism is only the slightest bit slower Laurent is absolutely getting chubby. And Damen. Smh he manages to be shadiest bitch while also being appreciating. Would he insult an overweight courtier who never touched a sword? Absolutely. Would he respect a meaty sumo ringer able to throw Damen around like a rag doll? Absolutely. He seems to appreciate multiple types of bodies just fine (muscled gladiators, frail slaves, sturdy vaskian women) so I feel like he’d also appreciate curvier partners as long as they. Well know how to use their body yk. Oh and what about chubby jokaste? We don’t know enough about akielon beauty standards at all. Sure slaves are probably mostly slender and frail to add to the submissive aesthetic (tho I do remember damens fixation on his female slaves big boobs, dude is far from subtle as always). But if it’s Ancient Greek inspired beauty standards jokaste most definitely rocks some tummy rolls. Either that or she’s got super toned abs from the Pilates classes she visits with the other trophy concubines. and akielon man are properly ripped but is it king-Leonidas-washboard-abs ripped?? Or more chunky functional muscle mass ripped? Perhaps akielon noble women are even trained like Spartan women and egeria was the one with the washboard abs. Also there absolutely was a time in Vere where the chubbier the pet = the wealthier it’s owner. Im so so sorry for rambling but your post got me t h i n k i n g

This is not only hilarious but also one of the best takes I’ve ever read. There is so much to unpack here that I truly don’t know where to start.

You mentioned Dudley, whose weight and fat (derogatory) tendencies are accentuated throughout the entire Harry Potter saga. I think—and this is my personal belief, it is not something anyone else has to agree with—that part of what makes Laurent interesting and redeemable to many readers has to do with the fact that he’s beautiful*. I don’t think many people would be willing to admit that, but Laurent’s pretty privilege as a fictional character is similar to Draco Malfoy’s (in fanon) or other morally grey villains/characters’. Ugly characters are harder to forgive, for some reason.

This got me thinking that had Pacat written Laurent as canonically fat, there would be a lot of stuff going on in Damen’s head that I don’t think we’d be able to excuse as easily as we excuse other (quite horrible) thoughts of his. But also, like I mentioned above, I think Laurent would have a harder time proving to some readers that he’s not Dudley, that he’s not just a stereotype of selfishness and greed and other things fatness is associated with (like childishness or an inability to take accountability for one’s actions). This would happen not because he’s fat, but rather because we see the world through Damen’s eyes. And Damen is. . . Quite opinionated.

You mentioned Damen would be judgmental of someone’s weight based on their ability to fight. So, like you pointed out, he’d make fun of a useless in battle courtier but not of a Sumo wrestler. I think in Book 1 Damen would make fun of anything and everyone, but I do understand where you’re coming from with that statement. It makes me wonder what Damen would think of people with a mobility/physical disability. Or even with learning difficulties. Or just about anyone that, according to him, doesn’t contribute to society. If you can’t be a warrior or a bed slave, and if you’re not in a condition to be a peasant and plow fields, and if you don’t have royal blood in your veins. . . I have a hard time picturing Damen being sympathetic.

Chubby Jokaste. . . I think I’ve always thought of her as a muscled woman, given the fact that Laurent can pose as her in Book 3. There’s been a lot of discourse lately on whether Laurent is muscled or a twigly twink, which I will not get into because I. . . do not know enough about gender and/or gender expression to add anything to any argument. I am also not a gay man, so I don’t know what could be considered offensive. I am also very stupid. I also do not know what the word 'twink' means anymore.

Your ask has made me think a lot about many things I’m usually not interested in. I think it would be interesting to see a chubby Laurent who still knows how to fight, who trains, who does things other than eat and hate. Canon Laurent is slender, and yet he never manages to beat Damen in combat, so I don’t think his ability to fight would suffer much from gaining some pounds. It would be interesting to see chubby Jokaste too, even though I don’t particularly enjoy the parallels between her and Laurent in canon. It would also be interesting to see. . . different types of bodies. You mentioned the Vaskian ladies, which I like a lot, but I don’t think I’ve read or come across any fics that focus on them. I think Vannes’ pet is also described as muscular and big, but I’m afraid I don’t remember the quote and I don’t own the books, so I can’t be sure.

What I liked the most was the ending of your ask, where you went on to add little worldbuilding details. Like I said yesterday, I wish canon was more detailed so we could maybe have something to hold onto when we make certain claims. It’s hard to say which parts of Damen’s thought process are entirely his (as a prince with a lot of privilege) and which ones have to do with his culture. Pacat has pointed out some to us, like the fact that Akielons don’t enjoy certain “spectacles” of the body, like pet rings or public sex, but they do enjoy staring at bodies when they’re wrestling or performing physical activities unrelated to sex. Other things remain little mysteries, in my opinion. Do all bed slaves have the same body type? Do women wrestle? How does marriage work in Akielos? What is everyone else’s opinion on fat people? I’m sure not everyone is like Damen, who we speculate cares about having a healthy body so he can fight and. . . stuff.

I am not saying Damen is the only character who, in the historic period where Captive Prince is set, would have fatphobic thoughts. If Damen was fat, Laurent would be the first one to use that against him, especially in Book 1. I just think Damen fits the fatphobic mold better because he’s described as this hypermasculine character, very into war (I think the blurb of the book calls him a warrior prince?) and manly things. Which is not to say war is inherently manly. Which is not to say Laurent isn’t manly. Which is not to say. . . whatever.

Captive Prince is a fantasy trilogy, set in. . . the past. Concepts such as fatphobia or toxic masculinity are not exactly applicable, but I think it’s fun to explore Damen’s character through his flaws. Laurent has a lot of flaws, but Damen’s are sometimes confused with virtues. In my opinion, they’re at their best when they’re being disgustingly horrible to each other.

I’m sorry for writing you a 90 paragraph response.

* He's almost universally beautiful in the Captive Prince world. Damen finds him pretty, and Torveld, and Jord (we've read that 'cute' quote where he describes Laurent at 15 to Aimeric). Not saying fat = ugly. I'm saying it seems like the 'hegemonic' body type for pretty is Laurent's, otherwise. . . why would everyone he comes in contact with comment on his pretty looks?

[lala-ladybug]

Healing Hands: Chapter 8

You brush your teeth. now BOOM orange juice. That’s life.

Jasonette Sword Art Online AU

Read here on AO3

Chapter 8: Adrien Elizabeth Agreste, we do not have "plenty of time"

Tag list: @iloontjeboontje​ First | Previous | Next

Marinette was tired. Sure, she didn’t have to be class president, worry about akumas, or study for the baccalauréat, but she was more tired than she’d ever been in Paris. She’d been running herself ragged with training day after day for weeks, waking up earlier and going to bed later than everyone else.

Even her Order was starting to worry about her.

“Hey Mari, let’s go shopping! I’ve heard there’s a really posh fabric district on level 8.” Chloe wheedled as Kagami poured them both a cup of morning tea. The blonde had a sharp look in her eye that meant it was more serious than just a shopping trip, but Marinette wouldn’t budge.

“Sorry Chlo, I want to level-grind so I can prep for tomorrow,” Marinette shrugged and grimaced at her friend. She hadn’t picked up a needle in months, chances were slim to none that she’d start now. And tomorrow was too important to skip training.

Adrien came in from the garden and traded glances with Chloe. He sat down next to Marinette and said softly, “You really don’t have to overwork yourself this much, you know.” He gestured to the four of them and Luka, who sat plucking at his lute. “We’re all here right alongside you, and we always will be.”

Marinette forced a smile. “I know,” she replied. And she did, really. But it was still so hard to let herself relax, even for a moment. She felt more burdened here than as Ladybug. At least back home all they had to do was wait for the next akuma attack. In here, every second not actively spent fighting in the dungeons or leveling up was another second lost in the real world. Another life lost, too.

The newspaper had daily progress updates and blurbs about quests, but every month it also put out a death toll. There were so many names. A good month only had a few dozen. Marinette always read them all, whispered their names to herself as a reminder to keep fighting.

“I should be heading out,” she gulped down her tea and rose from the table. Ignoring the worried faces of her friends, she packed a bag and shouldered a full quiver of arrows. She waved without turning to look behind her and left through the door to the stables.

The roan stallion, playfully named “Rouge” by Nino, had taken a liking to her, so that was the one she saddled up and mounted. They rode into town, where Marinette touched the teleportation obelisk and directed their destination to the thirteenth floor.

She shielded her eyes against the bright sun. The heat rolled off the clay buildings in shimmering waves, carrying with it the scent of spices from a nearby market. In the distance, she could see rolling hills of sand stretching on for miles. This floor was the highest that was open, but the dungeon wasn’t scheduled to be beaten until the next day.

Despite their best efforts to defeat each level by themselves, the Order quickly found that other guilds fought right alongside them. They were much more competent than the Parisians had given them credit for, for various reasons. The game cultivated a cutthroat culture where limited resources served as selfish motivations for players to do as they pleased. Some groups wanted to help, just like them. Others wouldn’t think twice about abandoning allies to save their own skins. Above all, no one wanted to be left behind, not after the fiasco of the first level. And of course, everyone wanted to go home.

When she wasn’t talking strategy with the other guilds, Marinette trained hard to increase her level. She was nearly at level 20, and wanted to be at her absolute best for the dungeon battle. She’d read in the paper that morning that there were scorpion monsters lurking out beyond the limits of the villages. They would be perfect practice.

She spurred Rouge onward down the stone road that wound through the dunes. They’d barely made it out of sight of the village before, sure enough, waist-high black scorpions started tailing them. Rouge tossed his head as he trotted along, sensing something was amiss.

Marinette nudged him into a gallop, which he gladly obliged to get as far away from the threat as possible. But a glance over her shoulder revealed that the monsters were doggedly following. Their pace sped up enough that she could hear the clacking from their many legs scraping over the stones of the road.

Twisting in the saddle, Marinette fired at their pursuers. Her archery skills were her favorite thing to practice. The ranged attacks and versatility were similar to her yo-yo, and moving targets only made it that much more of a challenge.

Her arrows hit their marks, and she didn’t have to turn her head to see the congratulatory loot windows popping up in front of her to confirm it.

More scorpions approached from the sides, which made it even easier to pick them off. Rouge seemed to be enjoying the exercise, never flagging as they bolted across the level. Fending off enemies left and right, dodging fast-paced obstacles, feeling the wind rushing in her hair....

It was the closest she had come to feeling like Ladybug since the game began.

She fell into a rhythm that allowed her mind to wander to Tikki. How was she holding up? Had she found another holder? She would probably need one.... The Order hadn’t talked about it, but they all knew that Hawkmoth likely wasn’t taking it easy on a city devastated by so many deaths and disappearances.

Marinette frowned and swallowed against the lump in her throat. All of the Miraculous holders were here and there was no one left to distribute new ones. She felt so stupidly careless to have left Paris completely undefended.

The next arrow that found its mark sank deeply enough to reward her with a level-up.

Eventually, they reached another village. They stopped for water and some lunch, then kept going onward. By the time the sun was setting, Marinette had reached level 20 and was well on her way to achieving level 21. She felt more ready now, the physical activity having calmed her nerves somewhat.

She and Rouge teleported back to the house just in time for Alix, Kim, and Max to serve dinner. Marinette raised a questioning eyebrow at Luka. She could’ve sworn they’d taken their turn to cook dinner just a few nights ago. Her friend just sighed and mouthed, “Lila.”

Ah, of course.

Lila did deign to come downstairs, allegedly from the girls’ bedroom where she had to take a nap because her vertigo was acting up. Which it only did when there was something she didn’t want to do.

Marinette was the first to serve herself. She piled some of the food from the kitchen onto her plate and took a seat next to Alya. Her best friend was chatting with Adrien and Max about the game plan for the boss fight tomorrow. Listening in to get the context for the conversation, Marinette took a bite of the potatoes.

It was bland.

Terribly, awfully bland.

She hid her face as politely as she could, then stood to retrieve spices from the cupboards in the kitchen. She applied them liberally to her own plate and then to the rest of the serving platters before anyone else could try them.

Upon rejoining her friends at the table, she heard Adrien and Kagami once again shut down Alya’s pleading to join them in the fight. Of their guild of classmates and friends, the Order comprised the only members they’d allowed to fight in the dungeons. Marinette knew her civilian friends were more than capable, hell she’d trusted many of them with a Miraculous at some point or another, but the chance of them getting hurt and dying in the game was too great to take risks.

“What if we just stayed with the support teams? I don’t want to get in anyone’s way, but if there’s something I can do to help I want to do it!” Alya protested.

Kagami shook her head sharply. “Absolutely not. Even the support teams have sustained damage in prior fights. You should leave it to us.”

Lila sat down smoothly on Alya’s other side. “What makes you five so much more competent? Everyone knows how clumsy Marinette is.” She waved a casual hand.

“Well, Kagami and I fence together, and....” Adrien started explaining but trailed off.

“Chloe has been bringing me and Luka to her self-defense classes back home,” Marinette blurted out. She internally cringed at the questioning looks Chloe and Luka gave her. “There’s so many akumas near us at home, we thought it might be a good idea.”

Oh Kwami, she hated lying to her friends. But she couldn’t put them in the line of fire. If something happened to one of them, she’d never be able to forgive herself.

Luckily, it seemed like they’d bought her half-truth.

“Really?” Lila raised her eyebrows.

Well, most of them had.

“I hope that’s really the reason and it’s not just because you guys are hoarding all the loot you get from beating the dungeons,” she sniffed, leaning forward slightly to look directly at Marinette.

Marinette’s stomach dropped. To even think that they could be so greedy and manipulative....

“Oh come on, there’s no way our friends would ever do something like that.” Alya gently put her arm around Marinette. “My bestie is our Everyday Ladybug, and I’m sure she’s going to do her best to help get us out of here.”

Nino and the others spoke up about their support for Marinette and her Order, but she tuned them out. As grateful as she was for her friend’s support, Marinette couldn’t help but feel even more overwhelmed. Being called their “Everyday Ladybug” only served as a reminder of how much they all depended on her.

She finished her meal and quietly thanked Alix and Max (Kim was busy arm-wrestling Adrien). While washing her dishes, she felt herself nodding off. Rouge still needed to be brushed after their long ride, so she shook herself awake and trudged to the stables to do that.

Luka and Chloe were waiting there for her, to her surprise. Luka was already working to brush Rouge’s coat, and Chloe wordlessly took Marinette by the shoulders and firmly guided her upstairs to their room.

“Hey, wh--” Marinette tried to ask before Chloe shooed her up to their loft beds.

Chloe followed her up and said, “You need to rest,” then began tucking her friend in.

Marinette made an effort to protest, but the quilted covers invited her to give in to her heavy eyelids. So she let her friend fuss over the sheets and straighten the duvet.

She hardly remembered whispering her thanks before falling asleep.

* * *

The next morning, Marinette woke from a dreamless sleep. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so long, or so well. She yawned and stretched with a groan, blinking blearily at the large circular window in front of her.

The window spanned nearly the height of the two stories in the girls’ room. It cast shafts of swirling dust, gilded in the morning sun, across the beds on the floor below. She and Chloe had thought at first that they’d drawn the short end of the stick when Lila had insisted they be the ones to take the loft (the extra climbing would be awful on her knees, you know how it is), but in her grogginess Marinette took a moment to appreciate it.

From her vantage point, she could see clearly out into the front of their yard. The hills of their spread-out neighborhood sloped downward to reveal the mountains in the distance beyond the limits of the main town.

As she watched, small songbirds flitted between the apple trees lining the path. She could hear their soft chirping in the distance, as well at the hum of the beehive that had been growing in their eaves.

Today was an important day, she knew that much, but why...?

Oh no.

A glance at the clock embedded in her player menu revealed that she’d overslept. She was late.

She threw the blankets off and quickly dressed, hopping in place to tug on her boots. She slid down the ladder and rounded the corner of the landing on the stairs, terrified she’d missed her team leaving to fight the boss.

Adrien’s bubbling laughter followed by Luka’s soft chuckle told her otherwise. She breathed a sigh of relief and slowed her pace down the rest of the stairs. Thank Kwami.

In the kitchen, Adrien was holding a yellow hairbrush high above Chloe’s reach while she pouted and jumped to try to grab it. Kagami shook her head while Luka snuck up behind them and plucked the brush out of Adrien’s hand.

Chloe huffed at Adrien when Luka handed it back to her. She began brushing out her already-perfect hair, chastising him. “You know this is my travel brush. I’ll need it for after the boss fight! Kwami knows how utterly ridiculous it will look after that.”

Kagami noticed Marinette's arrival and sidled up to her, hands clasped behind her back. “Can’t imagine why she was ever Queen Bee,” she said drily. Marinette put a hand to her mouth to hide her smile. Kagami’s practical sense of humor had only grown the longer her friends had “corrupted” her, as Adrien liked to claim.

“Melody!” Luka smiled warmly, greeting her with a wave. Adrien and Chloe stopped their play fighting to look at her. They crossed the room in an instant, Adrien’s hands placed lightly on her shoulders and Chloe grasping her hands. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Better than I have in a while, thank you Chlo,” Marinette smiled at her friends.

Adrien glanced over her head to check the clock in the kitchen. “We still have plenty of time, why don’t you have some breakfast.”

“Adrien Elizabeth Agreste, we do not have ‘plenty of time,’” Marinette retorted. “I’ll take some food to go.”

Lila, sitting with Alya on the couches nearby, gave them a questioning glance. Alya quickly explained, “His middle name obviously isn’t actually Elizabeth, but it’s way funnier to pretend that it is,” before hopping up to give Marinette a quick hug.

“Be safe,” she whispered into her hair, holding her tightly for a few seconds. Marinette gave her a tight-lipped smile as they parted, then caught the apple that Kagami tossed her.

They opted to leave the horses, in case some other players tried to steal them while they were busy with the boss fight. The five friends walked to the teleport kiosk in town.

Marinette felt tense and nervous, but couldn’t help relaxing in the presence of her carefree friends. They all joked and made horrible puns (thank you Adrien) the whole way to the thirteenth floor.

Surprisingly, they didn’t run into any other guilds along the winding, cobbled roads of the thirteenth floor. They must have already been gathered at the dungeon since they were approaching the designated meeting time. Marinette hoped they would wait.

The entrance was an ornately carved archway framing a spiral staircase. The steps led into the depths below the shifting dunes. There were lit sconces every so often, affixed to cavities in the curved walls. The steps were made of glass, but the overlapping flights of stairs didn’t clue them in to how deep the passage went.

A hot draft blew up and scattered the sand at their feet. With a glance to her team, Marinette led the way down.

Their boots had little grip on the glass steps, and they had to grip both walls to try to avoid falling. Adrien cracked one too many jokes about it being a “slippery situation” and earned himself a hearty slap on the back that sent him reaching the next landing a little sooner than he would’ve hoped.

Marinette only paid half-attention to their antics, devoting most of her brain power to going over the plan. Pamphlets in NPC shops said that this boss had ranged area attacks, which wouldn’t mean much until they saw what exactly it could do. She hoped that the extra upgrades she’d given to their armor would protect them from whatever projectiles that could possibly entail.

While her small squad would lead the assault, archers would back them up and hopefully be able to counteract the boss’s ranged attacks. Healers were on deck, of course, and there were plenty of defensive lines with shielding capabilities.

More and more guilds were joining the front lines as the people started to band together. Meetings were no longer the exclusive events they once were, and the plans of when and where to attack were placed in the paper. That meant they’d have some wild cards. Marinette frowned as she considered where they would fit in.

She sighed. Again, they probably wouldn’t know until they were in the thick of the fighting. A glance upward revealed that they could no longer see the daylight warping through the glass steps above them. It couldn’t be that much farther, though it was odd that the air around them was getting hotter, not colder, the farther they went.

Adrien cocked his head and he gestured for the others to quiet down. The five of them had retained some of the attributes lent to them by years of consistent miraculous use, and his hearing was better than most of theirs. They proceeded carefully.

Marinette began to hear it too, a low murmur that sounded like....

Players, dozens of them, were waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

They were scattered about the long, tall antechamber with golden walls that glimmered in the soft torchlight. Arches, like the one at the entrance far up above, supported the ceiling. Three-meter tall pillars displayed vases and other beautiful decor. There was an open doorway at the opposite end of the room, but they couldn’t see anything beyond it but darkness.

The gentle pressure of a hand at her back told her Adrien was standing by her side. She made eye contact with one of the other familiar guild leaders and made her way over to him and his team.

“Hey Danny, are we the last to arrive?” She greeted her American friend. He ran a hand through his cropped dark hair and his icy blue eyes met hers. “Hey Mari. Nah, we’re still waiting on Crimson Dragon.”

His raven-haired friend Sam shook her head. “They’re always late,” she muttered.

Next to her, their other friend (Tucker, if she recalled correctly) shrugged. “But you gotta admit, they always deliver!”

Marinette had to agree with him there. Thanks to the programming in the system, everyone in the game spoke and understood the same language. That meant that the Miracle Workers had wound up working with both Ghostbusters, Danny’s guild, and Crimson Dragon on several occasions even though they both spoke English as their native tongue. She had to admit she was impressed with how well they did. Unorthodox as they were....

“‘Sup party animals!?” A loud voice echoed down the stairwell. The whole room of players turned to look at the small figure sliding to a halt, boots squeaking against the floor. He tossed the hood of a bright red cloak back and threw up finger guns. “Miss me?”

Next to Marinette, Chloe scoffed in a way that said she most definitely did not. Jake was... quite the eccentric character. The rest of his guild, two very embarrassed-looking girls and a tall boy, descended the stairs as well to join their leader.

“About damn time!” Someone spoke up from the back. Jake’s head whipped around and his eyes flashed. Beside her, Danny winced at his hotheadedness. Before anything worse could happen, Marinette gave Luka a meaningful look.

He gave a sharp, loud whistle that drew everyone’s attention to them.

“Listen up people! We all know the plan. Is everyone ready?” Marinette raised her voice to reach the whole chamber. The atmosphere shifted to a laser focus, and she saw grim nods as people drew their weapons and potions.

A glance to Adrien confirmed that it was time. “Let’s go.”

She and her Order led everyone through the great doorway, and into the unknown.

The boss’s room was an enormous, golden circle lined with torches that flickered to life as soon as she stepped onto the glass floor. She could barely see the far wall of the round chamber. Levels of glass flooring circled up to the dome high above their heads, carved into the walls. A few alcoves dotted the walls, but other than that there was hardly any cover to be found, which was concerning.

A whispering noise thrummed through the chamber, made louder by the acoustics of the massive room. Marinette held up a hand to halt the movement of everyone behind her. She listened intently for the sound to happen again.

It didn’t take long, and it was getting louder now. She jerked her head to Adrien and Kagami, who started silently directing groups to assume their stations. While they moved, Marinette cast her eyes around the chamber. Where was the boss?

A loud hissing sound seemed to come from the floor, and then--

Shattered glass erupted from the floor at the center of the chamber. A colossal golden snake with red eyes reared up and bared its fangs at them. This had to be it. Marinette yelled, “Scatter!” and they all ran for it.

It struck right where she had been standing only moments before. Her boots slipped on the glass as she scrambled to gain purchase and hoist herself up onto the nearest alcove. She managed to do it just in time, the boss snapping at her heels.

She raised her shield and distantly heard Kagami shout for the archers to take aim and fire. A volley of arrows fell on the great beast, and Marinette twisted sideways and crouched to take cover under her shield. Loud hissing meant at least some of them had found their target, and to their credit only a few missed and bounced off of her shield.

“Hey, you big ugly worm! I bet you’re all hot air with nothing to show, huh?” Adrien was bravely doing what he did best. Distracting the villain so that Marinette could come up with a plan. She risked a peek from over her shield to watch the snake whip around to face Adrien, who stood a few levels up on the opposite side of the chamber.

It leaned backwards only to shoot forward a few feet, opening its mouth wide. Screams echoed from the people it faced. Oh Kwami, what was that?

Marinette bolted to her feet and raced up the sloping pathway, trying to get a better angle. She stopped and her eyes widened once she could finally see what was happening.

A cone of air coming from the maw of that thing shimmered with heat. She looked in horror to see that Adrien was shielding himself and the civilians around him as best he could, but those he couldn’t reach shouted in pain as their armor began to melt off. The glass around them started to sag and they screamed louder as the floor bent beneath them.

A blur of motion jumped onto the head of the snake from high above. That was Chloe’s signature move, and sure enough it was her. She landed hard enough to knock the boss’s head down to the ground, its body collapsing probably from sheer surprise.

Or maybe it needed a cooldown time? Shit, this wasn’t good. They knew nothing. They were underprepared and overwhelmed.

Mariniette coughed as sand fell from the faraway ceiling at the impact the beast had made when it fell. Below her, Chloe was hacking away at the monster’s face with her flail. It gave no warning before snatching its head back to knock her off her feet and coiling its tail around her. Marinette cried out wordlessly as her friend was trapped in a matter of moments.

She was still squirming when the monster bared its fangs and let loose another breath of boiling air directly onto her.

Marinette could only watch as Chloe's golden armor heated to a bright red and began to melt, her friend still squirming to get out. A desperate cry fell from the blonde’s lips as the hot metal touched her skin, and still the snake kept going.

She flashed a look to their party’s health bars and saw Chloe’s dropping fast. Too fast. Marinette grabbed a specialized arrow and drew back her bow. When she let it loose, the arrow exploded into goopy foam. She’d aimed perfectly, and the snake’s closed mouth was soon covered in the quickly hardening substance.

She pushed off from the wall and jumped. There was a moment when she was suspended in the air where time seemed to slow down. She saw the snake loosen its hold on Chloe and writhe in confusion. She heard the deafening cries from the wounded, and her name on Adrien’s lips. From the corner of her eye, a glint of metal flashed and she felt a split-second of coldness.

Then the moment was over, and she was tumbling onto the snake’s sinewy form and hoisting Chloe up. She half-carried her as she bounded away from the monster. She could see it shaking its head in her peripheral vision. But that wasn’t important right now.

Luka was waiting for her in the antechamber, out of the boss’s reach. He and several other healers already had potions at the ready. Marinette didn’t wait to see how many it would take to save her friend. She ignored Luka’s shouts and ran back into the monster’s room.

* * *

Well, Jason had finally convinced his stupid brothers to fight on the front lines. But the fact that they expected him to fight with them? Laughable.

When they made it to the dungeon, he had left them in the dust, or sand as it were. He was scouting up onto the higher levels of the paths that led up to the top of the dome when it happened.

Some girl was caught in the hold of the boss, a snake with apparently really fucking bad breath. He tensed as it blew a torrent of hot air right on her, but before anyone could move an arrow flew out and hit the beast smack in the mouth, releasing some foaming substance as it did.

Movement on his level caught his eye a few feet away. Jason stilled and observed as best he could without moving.

Some creep was wielding a metallic blowgun, aiming it dead ahead at the--

No, not at the boss. At the person who’d just fired the arrow, the person who had just jumped into the air and left themselves wide open.

He didn’t even think, he just tackled the sneaky bastard. In the commotion, they dropped the dart they’d been about to fire and it sank into their own leg.

As Jason watched, it didn’t take long for green tendrils to start appearing under the person’s skin. They clawed at their leg, but the movements grew weaker by the second.

And then they stilled.

Jason’s eyes widened as he watched them dissolve into pixels. As he watched his own name in the upper corner of his vision turn orange, indicating a player-kill.

Well shit. Dick was going to be pissed.

* * *

Marinette felt calm. Her hands had been shaking when she’d handed Chloe off to Luka, but now she felt nothing but a cool, calculating rage. As she stalked back into the chamber, she saw the boss struggling under another wave of arrows fired from all around the chamber.

A glance upward and a once-over of the pathways spiraling up the walls of the chamber confirmed all she needed to formulate a plan.

Marinette drew her knives and flicked her wrists. This monster was going to regret that. She broke into a sprint and slashed around the body of the snake. It was fast for its size, and it tried to keep up. But she was faster.

Arrows rained down around them, sticking out of chinks in the beast’s scales like some twisted sea urchin. The boss worked furiously to try to unstick its jaw, but as cracks appeared in the substance holding its mouth closed Marinette distracted it with a particularly deep slash.

It wasn’t ready, not yet.

“Get back to the antechamber!” She yelled to the other players. Most of them ran, but some-- Danny, Jake, her Order-- hesitated.

“Go!” She egged on the monster to move towards her, away from the door, giving everyone a chance to escape. “I have a plan.”

They reluctantly followed the others as they left her alone in the dungeon. Adrien paused, asking her, “My lady, I help with--”

“Go.” She growled, glaring at him as best she could while battling the serpent. He gritted his teeth and retreated with the others, but stayed within view of the battle.

Good. Now she could put her plan into action.

Marinette sheathed her knives and pulled out her bow, then dashed to the sloping walkway. The snake pursued, seemingly going after an easy target running scared.

When she’d nearly reached the carved alcove, she fired an arrow with a cord attached to it. The cord was a special elastic design that could retract but couldn’t be pulled to be any longer. It landed high above her and anchored itself into the wall with a distant click. Then came the tricky part.

Marinette turned toward the giant snake and ran at it. Its red eyes burned with rage and the cracks deepened in the hardened foam still leashing its mouth. Still holding onto the other end of that cord, she gave it a sharp tug that sent her flying through the air, far above where the monster had expected her to be.

The leap carried her to the opposite side of the circular walls. She neatly landed on the walkway about two stories up from the ground. The snake gave a muffled hiss of fury and set out on the bottommost level, steadily approaching her as it wound around the cavern.

Marinette let the cord go and started running.

She kept an eye on the monster, firing a regular arrow at it every now and then to keep it angry. That didn’t seem to be a problem. What would be a problem is if she timed everything wrong, or if the snake caught up to her, or if the ceiling wouldn’t--

No. There wasn’t time for doubt. She had faith in herself, and she could almost hear Tikki’s little voice cheering her on. She thought of Chloe and pressed on even harder.

The beast got close enough that she could smell the reek of it before she fired another corded arrow and launched herself across the chamber again. She gained even more height, and continued the climb to the top.

This only made the boss angrier, but she could tell that it sensed victory. There was nowhere left to go once she reached the top. Nowhere but down, that is.

A third corded arrow brought her to the uppermost levels, and then it was only a short run before she reached the edge of the dome. She was panting for breath and her legs were aching with the effort of so much running, but she wasn’t done yet.

One steadying breath in. Two.

The serpent had nearly reached her. Marinette could see it rounding the final curve that would bring it to her level. She drew her bow back and aimed it at its mouth, counting it out in her head.

She held until the beast was nearly upon her, then fired. The arrow was tipped in lead, and easily broke through the already-breaking foam. Immediately after, she fired an arrow directly above her. It hit the apex of the structure holding back all the sand above them.

The beast looked up at the mass of sand falling on it and opened its mouth to fire a hot stream of air.

Marinette didn’t stick around to see how it would play out. She fired one final corded arrow to the side where she could see an alcove in the wall. And there she stayed, facing the wall and shielding her face from the sand pouring into the chamber behind her.

Finally, the avalanche slowed and then stopped. Only then did she risk stepping away from the wall and peering down to see if her plan had worked.

The snake was laying on the floor of the chamber below her. Its form was contorted and broken, speared by great spikes of glass that it had created itself. As she watched, it faded into glowing dust, and a screen popped up in front of her displaying her cut of the loot.

She sighed with relief. Then raced back down as fast as she dared on the dusty glass, anxiety twisting in her gut. She had to see if Chloe was okay.

If something happened to her....

Her thoughts turned to the worst as she neared the bottom of the chamber, no matter how she tried to stay positive. Her hands were shaking when she finally made it to the glass floor and, carefully avoiding the glass spikes, picked her way over to the arch leading into the antechamber.

Adrien was waiting there for her. He embraced her and said, “Don’t scare me like that again,” then let her go to see Chloe.

Tears were brimming in her eyes as she saw her friend, still lying prone on the floor with her head on Luka’s lap. She looked up when Marinette came into her view and sat up with a wince.

“Well,” she said. “I made it.”

Marinette burst into sobs at that and collapsed by her friend’s side, hugging her tightly. She heard Luka softly telling her that Chloe had been at 1 HP, but all the healers put everything they could into bringing her health back up.

It only made her cry harder.

And as she held her friend close, she thought to herself how she would do anything to keep this from happening again. How she couldn’t stand to see her friends get hurt anymore. How she had handled the boss on her own.

There was no Maman and Papa, no Tikki, no Order that could help her. She was alone in this fight, and that was how it had to be.

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[op-peccatori]

Upon This Sword | MLQC Gavin

Fandom: Mr Love Queen’s Choice 

Pairing: Knight!Gavin/Queen!Reader

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary: You’ve fought to keep Gavin by your side for a long time. When the time comes to let him go, will you find it in you to let him do the right thing?

Word Count: 6621

Warnings/Tags: fantasy au, royalty au, minor language, mentions of death, congrats you are a queen!!!, extreme cheesiness because I’m a block of cheese for these guys

a/n: yes, this is the result of reading chapter 22. I strongly debated posting this on here but honestly, I had so much fun with it I’ll probably do parts for the other boys too (~˘▾˘)~ this is an unholy union of all the fantasy shows and webtoons I’ve ever consumed.

With the early morning sun just barely making its appearance, the sounds of heavy footsteps thudding against the ground of the courtyard drown out all other sounds in the castle. 

“Keep your heads up, we’ve got a few more laps to go!” 

You’re aware of the eyes boring into your back, knowing there are some trying their best to stay averted, ones still glinting nervously. It hasn’t been long since you started joining the soldiers in their drills instead of working privately, but it seems not all have gotten used to your presence.

You keep your gaze fixed on the one leading the group.

Amber eyes glance back at you for the briefest of moments, a sharp brow cocked your way questioningly. A guileless smile is your only response; you pretend you hadn’t just been studying the way his shoulders flex under the thin layers of his clothing. He continues to run, unfaltering, drenched with sweat; his hair, gathered up tightly, sways with hypnotically, its edges brushing the top of his spine.

You follow, not much better off yourself, with your sleeveless tunic and leather armour clinging to you like second skin but you can’t deny the spring of motivation welling up with the presence of the others around you.

By the time the sun is high in the sky and the stone keep castle is buzzing with life, you’ve switched to sparring.

The clash of steel has heads turning, and the figures clashing keep them turned. The others have paired up, walking away as fast as possible after receiving their instructions, eager to get away from the two of you circling each other like a pair of eager, sweaty hawks. 

You see pursed lips twitch, so subtle if you were anybody else you would’ve missed it, and you’re just barely swift enough to dodge the jab to your side. 

Gavin narrows his eyes at you. 

“You really need to work on your tells,” you tell him seriously, before propelling yourself forward to strike him head-on. He blocks it with a grunt and a tiny roll of his eyes. 

“Not if you’re the only one who catches them,” he mutters, shifting his weight and you slip away, your longsword sliding off his, an impish grin blooming along your mouth.

“It’s only a matter of time before others catch up. Or are you saying you just let your guard down around me?” Your smile is saccharine as you swing your weapon in a high arc; he meets you with a strained laugh, swords meeting with a loud ring. 

“Around you? I’m no fool,” he says before you both stop horsing around and charge in with a flurry of attacks, striking hard and fast. You keep him in your line of sight, focused on every minute movement from him. From the slight bend in his knees to the glistening bead of sweat at the top edge of his upper lip, your senses deeply attuned to him.

29-30 is the current tally—in Gavin’s favour. It’s time to avenge your pride. 

‘I’ve got this.’

“Your majesty!” 

Your sword lands in the mud behind you, the tip of Gavin’s quickly pointed at your heaving chest. The both of you turn in stone-faced unison to see Minor standing behind the fence with his hands clamped over his lips. 

“That doesn’t count,” you say at once and Gavin grins at you, not budging an inch. 

“Shouldn't have gotten distracted. A loss is a loss. Say it.” 

Looking like you’ve eaten the most disgusting fruit in Loveland and trying to school your face into something more dignified, you sigh with no small measure of frustration. 

“I suppose. This victory is yours.” He backs off without another word, rolling his shoulders as he visibly basks in the glow of his unfair win. 

And then you turn to glare at Minor, who winces at the ire in your face. 

“I’m so sorry! It was Anna! I mean, she sent me to inform you that there’s a council meeting in an hour.” 

You see Gavin pause in your peripheral vision; there are a number of reasons why the small council would need to call a meeting, but with the recent tensions with a neighbouring kingdom, Sethia, you wonder if there’s more bad news coming your way. 

A grumble on your lips, you move to yank your sword out of the ground. “This is it for now.” 

You watch, unamused, as Gavin inclines his head deeply. He slicks sweat-slicked bangs back, leaving you momentarily distracted by the sight of his forehead. He smiles that quiet little smile, the one that leaves you smiling back helplessly. “Your Majesty.” 

“See you.” 

You reach up to feel your own damp, and maybe a little muddy hair. An hour. That’s barely enough time to clean up well enough for Anna’s standards and get some food in. 

“Minor, I’m going to need some help.” You could probably get some in if someone else wrestles your hair into compliance. 

“On it, boss. I’ll have someone send up a plate once you’re done cleaning up.” 

From your seat at the head of the table, fingers drumming on the wooden surface without missing a beat, you study each member of your council in grim silence. Not all of them are people appointed by you; some of them you wouldn’t trust with a treasured brick, even if they’ve sworn oaths to you. If it belongs to you, they’d find a way to use it. It makes you uncomfortable, but there’s not much you can do about them.

Sunlight pours in from the wide windows, bathing the room in a soft, bright glow. It would make you sleepy if not for the stress of what’s coming.

“We’ve received reports of increased activity by Sethian soldiers near the borders,” Anna informs you, jogging a stack of papers, face set evenly. She remains the picture of grace, the one guiding presence in your life after the passing of the previous ruler—your father.

You nod at Anna, leaning back in your ornate chair. 

Some council members you would trust with your life—have trusted with your life. She never loses her cool, not in front of you, and it allows you to hold onto the calm a little better.

“How many?” 

“Not big enough to worry, but it’s unusual.” 

“Knowing their king, I’d say it’s enough to worry,” you muse, a sour taste filling your mouth at the thought of the man. There had been an incident involving envoys from the other kingdom. In a suspicious case of misidentification, the small group had been killed. The soldiers involved, your own, had sworn to all the gods above that they had believed them to be enemy spies but could not give an account of who had given them that information, or why they had charged in and killed them without reporting them first.

It left everyone perplexed, but the biggest consequence of that was the Sethian king crying for blood. The soldiers had been stripped of their ranks and handed over for interrogation, but the muddled explanations were not satisfactory for the other ruler. While your kingdom wasn’t small by any means, you still wished to avoid warring with Sethia, what with all the other threats in the lands.

“Ahem.” You look over to see Leto frowning at you. “I agree, Your Majesty. Which makes me wonder if it’s wise to have certain council members here.” 

As one, all of them—except you—shoot speculative glances at the man to your right, seated opposite Anna. Gavin stares back at them unflinchingly, and you draw their attention back to you with a light cough; fighting to keep your hands relaxed, choosing instead to lean in and rest your chin against steepled fingers. 

He’s much older than you. Leto has been on this council since your father’s time, and you can admit he’s good at what he does. As the Minister of Laws, and thus the head of law enforcement he’s done a fantastic job of controlling crime within your lands, especially the capital.

But there has always been something about him that makes you want to recoil and keep him away. Whether it be the barely-hidden mockery in some of the things he says, the contempt clear in his gaze, or the hunger for power barely contained by his respect for the rules. There is also, of course, the biggest source of your aggravation when it comes to the man.

“You think it’s unwise to have our Lord Commander attend a council meeting, Lord Leto?” There’s a note of warning hidden in your silken voice, but the man doesn’t flinch. “One that involves reports of enemy soldiers?” 

“I merely wish to remind you of our Lord Commander’s origins. He is, after all-”

“The man who wins our battles for us and keeps us safe. That is all you should keep in mind when it comes to Lord Gavin.” Your tone had been sharper than intended. Not waiting for a reply, knowing there won’t be one worth listening to, you turn to Gavin. “What do you think?”

How he manages to remain level-headed even in the face of Leto’s ridiculous suspicion is beyond you, but it’s always been one of his more agreeable traits. “It could be a red herring, but we still need to keep an eye of them.”

“Send Eli to the borders, give him fifty men. More if you think it’s necessary. And have someone contact the Mage Tower.” 

“You think the mages will get into it?” Anna asks. “They’ve always remained neutral.”

“And I’d like to keep it that way. Has their head mage been located?” Your father taught you many things when it came to relations with different factions in all the lands. One of them had been to never, ever make an enemy of the mages. 

But if you do, make sure you have people of similar power on your side first. 

“No. His Excellency—Lord Lucien is still missing.” 

“Assign some men to help them, just make sure you pick the ones less likely to be freaked out by mages. Actually, tell Karyu he’s got the mission, but have him give you an accurate list of the men he recruits. Tell him to work with our spymaster.”

“I’ll have a word with her, we need more eyes in Sethia’s capital as well,” Gavin says, wincing at the thought of having to track down the elusive member of their council. She probably already knows what’s going on, but you should still have a word with her about showing up for these meetings.

 “Tell her to come find me.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 

You cast an expectant gaze around the table, ignoring the pointed looks by the old crones you wish could be forced to retire. 

“Are we done, then?” 

“One more thing, ma’am,” Leto leans in with a tight-lipped smile, eyes drifting to the man on your right once more. The determined look in his eyes has your hackles rising at once. “I know you said not to bring it up, but I must, once again, impress upon you the importance of keeping peace with Sethia.” 

“What’s on your mind, Lord Leto?” you ask, trying your level best to keep your discomfort out of your voice. He looks at the members sitting around him before meeting your eyes, straightening his posture a little more. You don’t think it’s necessary; if the man stiffens up any more he might snap something. 

Oh, perhaps he should keep puffing up a little more.

“Keeping his origins in mind, I feel the need to ask if you think they could actually be of help to us.” Gavin seems to be listening intently, much to your secret dismay. “He was born in Sethia, regardless of his current position, and I wonder if, perhaps, we couldn’t arrange a diplomatic visit to arrange a treaty—one led by Lord Gavin, of course.”

‘Oh, you would just love to send him back into the jaws of the wolves, wouldn’t you?’ you think darkly. 

“As you said, my lord, Lord Gavin was born there,” you respond, keeping your tone neutral. “But he has lived here longer than anywhere else; he belongs to our kingdom. To answer your question, no, I do not think it would be wise to send him to treat with them. I doubt they would respond as peacefully as we hope they might.”

Leto looks far from pleased at your answer.

“Now, if there’s nothing else, I believe lunch is ready.” 

You shoot out of your seat, striding off before anybody can stop you, and the clanking of heavy armour tips you off to Gavin’s presence behind you. Closing the heavy door behind you, you grab him by the arm and pull him into an alcove near the door, behind the statue of one of your esteemed ancestors. He doesn’t even protest, long used and resigned to your antics.

With how often you’ve used it, you wonder if one of your predecessors created this space for the very same purpose. 

Gavin stands close behind you, enough that you could lean against him easily if you wished to do so. You very much do, but now is the time for some basic espionage, not acting on your often overwhelming emotions. 

His breath puffs warmly against the nape of your neck as he leans in, no doubt straining his ears. You remember the first time you had done this, a smile curling along your lips when you remember the aghast look on his face at your sneaky ways. 

You hear the door open, Leto’s calls of ‘Your Majesty!’ following. You both stay quiet as some of the other council members approach him. 

“It was a good plan, Lord Leto. But you know she would never agree to send him away.” 

“Hasn’t this gone on long enough? The late king took him in out of the kindness of his heart, treating him like one of our own, but their closeness is simply unacceptable,” Leto mutters, and you can imagine the great scowl on his face with ease. “How is any future husband of hers to accept it?” 

“He’s an important asset to the military. Surely, you cannot disregard his achievements,” one of his friends try to offer. 

“I’m not. I agree that he’s a gifted soldier, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is a foreigner. And yet, she still treats him like her beloved pet.” Their voices fade as they begin to walk down the hallway, but you stay in your little space, trying to breathe through the sudden rage that demands you find Leto and send him on a vacation to the dungeons. 

“It’s not like that,” you whisper, all the doubts you had never quite buried finding their way to the surface once more. Because how you see the two of you differs greatly from how others see you: a fledgeling queen and her foreign knight. 

“I know that. The people who matter know that,” he says into your hair. You exhale forcefully, nodding at his words. Sensing the calming waves of your mind, he continues.

“He’s an asshole, but his plan has some merit,” comes a murmur that threatens to send you hurtling back into a temper. You whirl around, looking at him in disbelief, advancing on him until he’s pressing back into the wall.

Much to your consternation, he remains infuriatingly calm even in the face of you nearly breathing fire at him. 

“Oh, he’s not wrong, you say? Why don’t we fix this, then? His other solution was to marry you off, maybe we should pursue that plan too?” you spit out through gritted teeth, a voice in your head telling you none of this will help but you can’t stop the rapid thrumming of your heart in your veins. Leto has a way of getting under your skin and you’re tired of letting him, but he just makes you so angry.

“It would’ve helped,” Gavin agrees, raising a hand to tuck a lock of your hair behind one ear. “But as I told him, I could never leave your side.”

His smile is softer than all the fabrics you’ve touched in your life and good god this man puts Peggy’s desserts to shame.

“You could.” Your shoulders slump as you recall the furious threats you had made against the councillors wanting to marry Gavin off. “I’d never force you to stay.” 

“No, I couldn’t,” he says firmly, and the anger leaves you in a rushed breath when armour-clad arms wind around your waist, pulling you in. You pretend you can hear the familiar, steady beat of his soft, martyr heart beneath the steel as he tucks your head under his chin. 

“I don’t own you, Gavin,” you repeat, for the umpteenth time. “We’re friends. We’ve known each other since we were ten. Short of committing a massacre, you know I would support whatever decision you make.” 

Friends.

A wary, subdued boy in plain clothes, standing at your father’s side when he returned from war. A ward, he’d declared, from Sethia. Be nice. You remember being baffled at his presence, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You had fallen into slumber near the window, and at the first sound of hooves thundering across the grounds you had sprinted to the hall. 

But who was this little boy looking like a baby bird displaced from its nest? Surely, his parents would come looking for him.

Years went by, and there was no attempt at contact from Gavin’s people. You used to pester him about it, asking if he’d like to send them a letter, but his response was always a little smile and a quick shake of his head. 

“They don’t want me back,” he told you once. “I like you much better anyway.”

That was the day you decided Gavin was one of you. If they wanted him back, they would have to fight you for him. It was risky, to allow him to join the military. It just wasn’t done. Wards were glorified hostages, a way to keep kingdoms in line. 

But Gavin is ours now. He won’t go back.

He still faces contempt from people who believed he was a spy, a man who could tear the country apart. But he remains steadfast at your side through it all, content to shield you and strengthen your soldiers. A warm, reliable presence. Somewhere along the way, he became a big part of what home means to you.

“I never asked you, did I?” you realize, all of a sudden, cheek smushed against unyielding plate, fingers tracing the symbols etched into the metal.

“Ask me what?”

“If you wanted to go back. To Sethia,” you clarify and your heart throbs madly as you wait for him to reply. 

He takes moment to think it through.

“I did when I first came here. Everything was unfamiliar, I didn’t know anyone...it wasn’t home,” he admits, and you pull back slightly, scrutinizing his expression. You feel his breath on your skin, see his mouth so close; you force your eyes back up, grappling with the sudden surge of desire. His proximity flusters you more than he would ever know.

He shifts slightly, his own gaze drifting down your face before he looks up quickly. Feeling a bit too warm, you finish his train of thought in the way you’d hoped it would end.

“But...now everything is familiar and this is home?” You can’t hide the hope in your eyes, and he doesn’t reply for a moment, expression blank. You feel his hands struggling with something behind your back, but just as realisation dawns he’s pinching your cheek hard with a gloveless hand, a laugh shattering his poker face at your immediate disgruntlement. 

“Yes. This is home,” he assures you, warm tones and honeyed eyes leaving you feeling disconcertingly hot. You avert your gaze with haste, your stomach clenching with emotions that still give you sleepless nights, and Gavin releases you only brush his fingers along your jaw and cup your cheek. “Which is why I ask that you let me do whatever I can to help.”

The warmth leaves you in an instant. You slip out of his comforting hold and out of the alcove without another word. “No. Time for lunch!”

You stalk away, breath heavy and fists clenched, oblivious to the man standing at the end of the hallway. Gavin, who slips out behind you, watching you go with a hooded, wistful gaze, turns to look at him. 

“Lord Commander,” Lord Leto greets him, a tiny, knowing smile on his lips. “I believe we have some matters to discuss?”

You’ve already disappeared around the corner, and with a sigh, Gavin follows him.

You’ve loved Gavin for nearly half your life. 

You don’t know when it went from trying to make the quiet, moody boy smile, to the same boy’s smile making your entire day better. You don’t know when you fell in love. It’s carved into you so deeply you wouldn’t know who you’d be without it. You’ve gotten into all sorts of mischief together, but kept each other out of trouble and had each other’s backs no matter what. 

Gavin has devoted his life to protecting you, but you value his safety and happiness just as much. You’ve fought to keep him with you, to make your home his home, and you will continue to do so until your dying breath. It would be him and you, fighting at each other's backs, sneaking food from the kitchens late at night, learning how to sew because you did everything together. 

He was there when your father left you, standing at your back as you beat your sword, and your anguish, against a training dummy. He was there with his clear eyes and no judgment, coaxing you to eat something when it felt like your appetite had deserted you. He helped you breathe.

You had been there for each other after your first kills.

It’s not as if everyone suspects him. The men he fights with admire him deeply, looking to him for guidance and as a role-model. Most civilians have even set their prejudice aside, acknowledging his loyalty, won over by his charismatic demeanour, charming people everywhere he goes, often to your own frustration—mostly because you feel you’re not nearly as likeable, despite Gavin’s assurances. 

But he has a place here. 

“So why are you telling me you’re leaving?” you ask numbly, standing in your chambers, in your nightgown as Gavin tries to get you to put a robe on before giving up and wrapping it around your shoulders. 

It’s been a week since the council meeting, with more reports of Sethian sightings coming in. You had just awoken to Gavin’s knock at your door. He’s not in his armour, dressed comfortably for long travels instead and there’s a distinctly guilty look in his eyes, with a steely resolve sheltering it. There’s a scroll in his hands.

Your heart plummets at the sight.

“If I don’t at least try—it might work, ___,” he says, so earnest it might break you. “Eli will be taking over for me, they’re sending someone else to the borders.”

“Or it might not, and they’ll kill you. And then I’ll kill them.” He sighs, rushes to you, dropping the paper on a table before cradling your pale cheeks and forcing you to meet his gaze. You wonder if you could reach it before him and throw it in the still lit hearth, set it on fire before he can do anything. “No.” 

“Will you force me?” he asks, and a slap to the face would’ve hurt less. He notices how your face crumbles and looks slightly apologetic, but still so damn determined.

“You know I won’t.” He dips his head, pressing his forehead to yours, sweet syrup on his breath and he doesn’t get to do this, not when he’s leaving.

“I know. This is something I need to do. But, listen to me. I will come back to you.” 

“Is it because you want to leave? Did I do something?” you croak, thoughts on the verge of spinning out of your control, and he visibly holds himself back from leaning in. “You’re my family. You know that, don’t you? I don’t care if they’re of the same blood as you, I…” you can’t bring yourself to continue, keeping your eyes locked with his despite the tears springing in them. But he understands.

And so he steps back to unsheathe his sword, sinking to one knee. His sword—one of a pair, forged for the two of you when you both came of age. They’ve never been too far apart either. God, you had been so confident that he’d be with you forever. He holds it pointed down, the tip of it sinking into the thick carpet.

“Listen to me.” His tone is firm in that way he uses when he needs you to focus.

You attempt to quiet your mind, knowing full well your heart is a lost cause, feeling as if the floor is collapsing beneath you.

“ ___. I swear, upon this sword, I will come back to you. Alive.” You stare down at him in conflicted silence. “You’ve protected me for so long. Let me fix this for you. I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t try. And...” 

You clutch the silk of your nightgown anxiously.

“And if I didn’t feel the same way, I would never even think of going back there,” he tells you, a glow settling about him as the sun begins to peek at your parting.

“If they hurt you...” you warn, eyes darting to your own sword out of habit, where it rests near your bedside. He reaches for your hand, brushing his lips across the back of it and keeping them there for a moment. Even with the chaos swirling within your chest, the soft contact sends your nerves tingling.

“I know. It won’t come to that.” He looks up at you, soulful eyes pleading and chipping away at your resolve. “Will you sign the mission?” 

It’s true. You have protected Gavin, kept him close and within reach. This is a moment that will change your lives forever. You could choose to refuse, and not sign off on this. You could keep him safe.

Or you could trust him. 

You sign it in resigned silence.

You could never disrespect him, or do him the injustice of not believing in him when he’s done nothing but support you all this time.

‘You don’t know that they won't hurt you. And I know you know that,’ you think, watching him walk to the door, turning to smile at you one last time. ‘Other people aren’t like you. They’re not good.’

You wave back at him, trying to muster a smile, but the thought that this could be the last time you see him makes it near impossible. “Gavin?” 

He hovers at the threshold, hand resting on the mahogany door frame. Words unspoken hang in the air between you. They’re crawling up your throat, roaring to be let out, but you swallow them like you’ve done for years.

“When you return, there’s something I have to tell you. So...Don’t take too long. I’ll be waiting.” He hesitates, wanting to ask. He leaves with a small nod.

It’s not goodbye. But the pain you feel, a quiet helpless prickling, cannot be reasoned with.

Gavin had come to your home a boy with a chip on his shoulder, and a determination to prove himself. Before you knew it, he became the one man you knew you wanted to spend your life with. 

But even Anna had never been on board with that.

“You could do it. But it would make all our lives very, very difficult.” 

So you had never told him how you feel. You had gathered up your love and willed it to hide within you, but it always showed, threatening to burst at the seams at the most inconvenient times. It showed how you would seek him out the minute you had some free time. How you insisted on learning together, and snuck him sweet cakes whenever he felt low. In how you watched him do the most mundane things as if he was channelling the wind his ancestors were famous for. 

It became obvious when you reacted to his suitors with clear disdain, and sometimes your sword. It’s not something you have ever been able to contain, not completely. 

It’s been two months. Two numbing months without him, spent pacing restlessly, asking for reports obsessively, waiting for news from the docks. It’s a bitter, hopeful taste on your tongue, a rope wound tight in your chest. 

You have a few regrets. Maybe should’ve told him how you felt. Or begged him not to go. You could’ve met the king in neutral lands. 

You look back down at the report in your hands, something about the fae. But the words seem to keep dancing at the edges of your comprehension, and you feel frustration rise swiftly as it’s prone to do without Gavin here to temper you. It’s unfair to put the responsibility on him, but everything just keeps reminding you that he’s not here.

There’s a series of urgent knocks at the door to your study. 

“Come in,” you call out, placing the document down with no small measure of relief at the prospect of a distraction. Perhaps you should add this to the list of things you hate doing without him: read.

The door flies open to reveal Minor, panting heavily—but smiling widely. Hope blooms anew in your chest and you fight to control it.

“It’s him,” he breathes. “The ship docked nearly an hour ago. Lord Gavin’s back.”

There’s no hiding your anxiety as you watch the gates. 

You had been advised to wait in the throne room, where you accept other visitors, and you had seen fit to ignore that. This isn’t a visitor. 

For a brief second, you wonder if your attire is too casual, before dismissing it; it’s just Gavin. At least you’re in a dress—a plain peasant dress it may be—although Anna doesn’t seem to agree with that sentiment.

A few soldiers had been sent to escort them from the docks, Gavin’s personal horse taken along despite concerns that it could be seen as inappropriate. Why would it be? It’s his horse. 

And when he rides in through the gates, you nearly collapse at the sight of him unharmed. Relief fills you, pushing out every ounce of worry you’ve kept bottled up, and you can finally breathe again. His hair is shorter. He looks a little tired but that’s to be expected with the long journey. When he dismounts, the parting of his heavy cloak gives you a glimpse of his attire. Finely woven clothes—in Sethian colours. Your eyes fall on the foreign insignia stitched at the front of his cloak, that you had overlooked in your all-consuming joy. 

There are four unknown men with him. Soldiers, from the look of them.

You have a feeling, and you don’t know how you feel about it.

Gavin’s eyes fall on you and your heart flutters at the way they light up; he approaches you without hesitation. You can feel the gazes of the people around you, their confusion and unease, disquieted and unsure of what to make of this. 

He bows at the waist, before straightening back up and holding his hand out to you. “Your Majesty.” You notice the approving looks the strangers shoot each other.

You don’t think twice about placing your palm on his. Whatever’s going on, you have him back. “Welcome home.” 

He presses a kiss to the back of your hand, lips curling against your skin. 

Gavin doesn’t seem that different, but you know something has changed. It’s obvious he has something on his mind; he offers a crooked elbow to you and escorts you back in. It shows in how he stands, confident with a secret in his eyes, while you sink down onto your throne. 

“Well?” you demand, and he fights a smile. His entourage bristles slightly, but you hadn’t missed their curious, calculating looks when you had greeted them. 

“There is one thing I should probably begin with.” You wait, breath held against its will in your chest. “My family has accepted me back into their ranks.” 

You wonder if you misheard.

“Elaborate. Please.” 

“My revered father has reinstated me. As a Sethian,” Gavin explains and one of his escorts steps forward. 

“His Royal Highness, Prince Gavin of Sethia, to be precise. Your Majesty,” he added with haste, stepping back with a bow as you resist the urge to start tapping your nail against the gilded plates of your throne. Anna, Leto and Minor stand to one side; the council members look oddly pleased at the announcement, while Minor looks floored.

You had expected and hoped for many outcomes, but for his father to take him back just like that? Batting away the jealousy, frustratingly territorial in nature, you accept this result. Gavin would not look nearly as cheerful if something had gone wrong.

“That’s quite generous of him. It’s good to see the esteemed ruler of Sethia remains as kind as ever.” Very pointedly not rolling your eyes when you see two of the group looking pleased with the praise for their king. You look back at Gavin, silently demanding him to spit it out. He looks pleased as punch and you’re literally at the edge of your seat here.

“Yes, he’s quite benevolent. Unfortunately for me, he already has an heir. My brother has been raised to rule Sethia, despite being younger in age, so that is one position he couldn’t give back to me.” 

“And…” you prompt, leaning forward in your seat.

“And so he sends me with a proposal. An alliance, to keep peace, one contingent on two conditions.” The man to his right steps forward with a little smirk, holding out a document to Gavin but he waves it away. “The first is to join Sethia in the New World alliance.”

You glance at Anna, and only look back once she nods. The look on Leto’s face is, for once, unreadable. 

“And the second?” you ask, clutching the arms of your seat tighter.

“Marriage.”

For a moment, there’s complete silence in the hall, before it’s broken by Minor’s gasp and the sudden chatter that comes from behind the doors to the room. In the midst of the shocked reactions, your eyes remain fixed on Gavin’s smile.

“We’ll call a meeting,” Anna announces over the voices, when it looks like you’re unable to get a word out. “It’s good to see you, Prince Gavin. While we discuss your proposal, please allow Minor to escort your men to their assigned quarters. Would you prefer your old quarters or…?”

His eyes find you and you rise from your seat, descending from the raised platform with a sudden calm blanketing over you.

“Before that. Anna, I was wondering if I could ask Prince Gavin to accompany me? Just to the gardens, there are some concerns I’d like to discuss with him.”

You take his elbow before he can even offer it, pulling him along without another word. 

Your mind is oddly quiet, as if unable to produce a coherent thought, as you walk, your preferred gazebo soon within sight: the one surrounded by all your favourite flowers. Gavin’s quiet throughout as well, but the moment you’re alone and out of sight he slips his arm from your grip to curl his hand around yours, his skin just warm as you remember it, and something relaxes in your chest.

“Just to be clear, when you say marriage…” you trail off, turning to him when you step into the shade. 

“Well, Sethia found themselves with a prince to spare, and what better way to secure an alliance?” Gavin explains, holding onto your hand. “And, yes, that’s me.”

‘This is too good to be true’, you think and feel a bit faint when he sinks to a knee, no sign of nervousness in the smooth lines of his face. “Are you-?”

He takes a deep breath, reaching for your hand, and it’s just like when he was leaving, but this time he’s here to stay. 

“I should wait, shouldn’t I? To be honest, I don’t think I can. I’m sorry about that. But we’ve waited so long. And these two months apart have been ones I never wish to repeat in my lifetime. Even though I’ve known it for a long time, I don’t think us not being together is an option. It’s awful, it’s what I imagine foul magic is like.”

He smiles up at you, a little wobbly and so very soft. Your eyes feel wet and damn it, you had wanted to propose first.

“I love you, ___. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. And I know we’ve both known for a long time, but...there’s no longer anything that can separate us.*” He takes a deep breath, and another. “I came up with a lot of things I wanted to say but I can’t seem to recall what they were. And the ring is in my trunk. I’m sorry for springing this on you.” 

You study him, his quiet frustration at not being able to recall his no doubt carefully chosen words and the way his hand flexes around yours.

You sink to your knees, hands weaving through his hair and tugging him close to finally, without the need to hide, crush your mouth to his, nearly falling into him at the taste of him on your tongue. His arms wrap around you, holding you to him, his cheeks just as wet as yours. 

You kiss and kiss to your heart’s content, because even though the council will insist on discussing it— 

“Yes, I will marry you,” you whisper against his lips. A part of you worries your heart might burst with how desperately it’s pounding. It feels unreal, but you think kissing him will help. “I hated it without you too. I love you so much. And I agree, I suspect dark magic is quite similar in nature.” 

He listens to your rushed words carefully, nodding along. 

“We’ll ask the court mage, once the tower finally gives us one.”

Us. 

You grin at him, primal satisfaction rushing through you at his hazy eyes and swollen mouth. “I can’t believe we’re going to do this.”

He kisses you again, breathless with a giddy sort of joy. “I’m going to be your husband.” 

“I’m going to be your wife.” Your grin mirrors his, ridiculously wide and your knees are starting to hurt, but it feels like, in this one moment, everything is going right and you get to have the one thing you’ve wanted, properly. 

“Glad you let me go?” He sits back, crossing his legs and pulling you onto his lap. After aeons of very carefully just keeping yourself off him, you can’t get over how right this feels, of your bodies pressed close and hands touching freely. 

His smile looks a touch smug.

“...I suppose. This victory is yours.” You can’t feign displeasure over it when you can feel his lips on your hair, your forehead, and you can tilt your head back to let him slot his eager mouth over yours.

His response is a breathy laugh against your flushed skin.

“No, it’s ours.” 

It’s time to plan a wedding.

Welcome to the finish line! Thank you for reading ♡

(MLQC masterlist)

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Last Dragon | The Witcher & Game of Thrones

Chapter 8 | Melancholy and Dreams 

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Word Count: 4,633

Note: Click here to read the previous chapters ♡          

💕 Shout out to my Beta: @thisbreakableheaven​ , I always say it, but I’m going to say it again, thanks for listening to all my plot rambling as I try and piece together all my strange plot / chapter ideas! 💕

Silence. Somewhere between dreams and reality, Visenya stirs awake. There’s no crackling fire, birds singing, or steady breathing; it’s dead silent and the air is stale. The room seems colder than last night. It’s not the type of cold that can be staved away with a roaring fire while bundling into a pile of blankets, but the kind that follows a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. And reaching one of her hands out confirms it, the other side of the bed is ice cold, almost as if no one ever occupied it. For a moment she convinces herself last night was a fever dream, a hallucination born from the flesh eating wound she sustained from the wraith, But the ache in her bones and the small love bites wrapping around her body contradict that brief thought.  

She slowly opens her eyes, the crust of sleep that coats her lashes causing them to stick together uncomfortably. Drowsily, Visenya sits up, running her hand over her face, rubbing away any traces of last night. The hairs on her body stand straight up upon feeling the cold air, her breast band the only barrier between air and skin. A deep sigh leaves her mouth as she mentally attempts to piece together her surroundings, everything past foolishing running into the night in a haze, fact and fiction blurring together until it is so intertwined she’d have to spend decades untangling them.                                                             

Looking around the small room there’s no trace of Geralt ever having been here, despite this originally being his room. Not a thing is out of place, besides her discarded armor that lies on the floor from when she haphazardly wrestled it off. While unsurprised, a wave of sadness hits her, a small sliver of her had been hopeful he would stay, even if only for a few minutes. But that feeling quickly gets shoved away, if there’s anything she learned from what happened to Robb when he married Talisa and what she’s seen time and time again, is that love is the death of duty. So like all her other feelings, she tucks it into a small locked box to be forgotten.

“My loveliest and fairest Jane, please consider this your wake up call!” Jaskier exclaims from the other side of the door, knocking obnoxiously as he does. An annoyed groan escapes her mouth, the beginnings of a headache forming. Visenya blindly reaches behind her, grabbing onto the first pillow she touches. With more force than necessary, she throws it, sending the pillow soaring through the air, until it hits the door with a soft thud before falling to the ground.

“Shut up Jaskier,” Visenya yells in a hoarse voice, stretching her arms in front of her as she yawns. The door clicks as it opens and once again as it shuts. There’s a soft patter as Jaskier steps into the room, his footsteps so light he’s almost gliding. Despite being untrained - as far as she knows - Jaskier manages to be lighter on his feet than Visenya could ever dream, something he makes sure to always remind her of. 

“Oh good, you’re awake and wearing clothes...sort of,” Jaskier says, seemingly unbothered by her less than friendly greeting. He’s wearing another one of his overly frivolous outfits - this one a combination of purple and a soft blue - that clearly defines him as a bard. No one else would dare to wear something so ostentatious in a backwater town. He pulls up his sleeves and grabs the chest piece of her armor.

“Now up up up! We have a day of traveling and adventure to start.” Jaskier says, tossing her discarded tunic towards the bed. It hits her in the face as she angrily groans at him, vision still disoriented from sleep. “Quit your groans and moans of protest my dear. Maybe if you didn’t stay up all night with our riveting hero you wouldn’t be so tired.” 

“Do you ever shut up or is that a myth?” Visenya asks, slowly standing from the bed. Her back cracks as she stretches. Her hips are sore from Geralt’s death grip from the night before, a glaring reminder of what transpired between them and just as she thought, discolored bruises in the shape of fingers mar her skin. Jaskier exaggerates an offended gasp, opening and closing his mouth three times like a fish before responding to Visenya. 

“You need to eat some food, missy!” he says, wagging a finger in her direction. He attempts to use a stern tone, but the merry glint in his blue eyes gives away his playful intentions. She throws her tunic over her torso, not bothering with the ties. 

“Have you always had those injuries or are they new? Nevermind, I won’t ask because I don’t want to lose my head.” Jaskier answers his own question, moving towards the door to leave the room, his tone too bright and his footsteps too peppy for her liking. “Get ready to leave and I shall return with a feast for you my lady,” and with that, Jaskier shuts the door behind him. The force of it causes the wall to shake for a moment but quickly stops, taking all noise with him and leaving Visenya in silence. 

With the door shut and the bard gone, Visenya quietly sighs. She lifts up the shirt inspecting the bandages. To no one’s surprise, Geralt expertly wrapped the bandages so they wouldn’t unravel while sleeping and...other activities. They’re slightly discolored but not oozing pus and blood. Carefully in an attempt to not disturb the wound, she unravels the bandages, exposing the semi-fresh cuts to the cool air. Two human-like claw marks drag across different parts of her abdomen. They’re raw and painful to the touch but appear to be healing fine. They’d need to be cleaned before redressing them, but that’s something to focus on after eating. 

She expertly laces her shirt up and begins attempting to sort out her hair. It’s a tangled mess that resembles a mangy wild animal, something that would’ve caused Sansa to faint from shock if she ever saw. The strips of leather she used to tie it back yesterday are tangled with her knotty hair, making it difficult and painful to pull them apart. A grunt that’s a mixture with pain and frustration is released through her nose, similar to a bull getting read to charge. When Visenya is nearly ready to give up, the door clicks twice, once as it opens and again as it closes. 

“Here we go. Some meat, eggs, and potatoes. Oh, and a fresh cup of ale.” Jaskier practically sings, setting the food on a small table in the corner. Upon seeing Visenya attempting to sort out her hair, he rolls his eyes. “Oh, quit that, you’ll tear out all your hair. Let me.” Jaskier glides across the room, swatting away her hands as he pushes her into a chair. With expert hands and minimal pain, he begins weaving the ties out of her hair and brushing out the knots with his fingers. 

“I’m not a child,” Visenya mutters, her face flushed with embarrassment at not being able to manage her own hair. 

“Oh no, of course not! You’re a big, mean, angry lady with a large sword,” Jaskier teases, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “But you’re a big, mean, angry lady with a large sword who’d be bald without me.” 

“I’d defend myself, but considering the state of my hair when we met I don’t think I can in good conscience,” she replies. A small smile forms on her face, the tingling sensation rippling through her body as he plays with her hair. It brings a sense of peace and serenity that’s been void from her life for so long; taking her back to being four, sitting between her mother’s legs as she braided Visenya’s hair, telling her fantastical tales. But also because, despite her best efforts, at some point between their first meeting and today, Jaskier wormed his way into her heart, like a parasite that you grow fond of. He chuckles quietly, a bemused expression on his face. 

“What? What’s so funny?” Visenya asks, unable to put any of her usual bite in her words. She attempts to turn her head to face Jaskier, but he simply swats her head with one of his hands before forcing her head forward with an iron tight grip his soft and uncalloused hands shouldn’t have. 

“You’re much cheerier this morning. Maybe you should spend more time with Geralt...if you know what I mean,” Jaskier says, suggestively wagging his eyebrows at Visenya, mirth filling his eyes. Visenya snorts at his answer, unable to stop her eyes from rolling.

“We didn’t have sex,” Her voice is even and deadpan, not wanting to inflect too much emotion, lest he use that as ammo against her. 

“Sex, trading battle stories, or braiding each other’s hair while gossiping about boys - it doesn’t matter to me! I think this is the longest conversation we’ve had without you threatening me.” Jaskier continues. By this point, he’s managed to unravel all of her unruly hair and began the task of braiding it. 

“I’d pay good gold to see Geralt let someone braid his hair while gossiping about boys,” Visenya says, playing with the ends of the ties on her tunic. Jaskier replies with a snort, twisting another section of her hair into a braid. 

“He seems pretty relaxed with you, maybe try that out the next time we come across our dashing Witcher. He might just let you, free of charge.” 

“If, Jaskier, if we see Geralt again.” Visenya says, already knowing the direction he’s steering the conversation. 

“Oh please, you may be good in a fight, but you really are naive in social settings aren’t you, Jane?” Jaskier teases. And before she can turn around and hit him so hard he’ll be feeling it for days, he pulls the braid he’s weaving incredibly tight, the force pulling her head back. “Oops, my finger slipped.” 

“Whatever,” she mutters, a scowl on her features, both from annoyance and the pounding pain in her head. 

“Now don’t get all grumpy with me, missy. If there’s one thing I can say without a doubt, is that both you and Geralt are incredibly complicated people, who seem to be very comfortable around each other. It’s only natural things might progress further,” Jaskier continues, taking care to be extra gentle with her hair, lightly running the tips of his nails through her scalp, soothing the headache he created. 

“And what do you possibly know about me?” 

“I know that something terrible has happened to you, something that left you angry and bruised, figuratively and literally. But I also know you care more than you let on, that much is obvious with how you handled Filavandrel.” 

Visenya snorts, rolling her eyes in the process, staring up at the ceiling before gazing directly in front of her, seeing but not really at the same time. 

“Geralt did most of the heavy lifting,” she mutters.

“Oh sure, of course our mighty Witcher did with his reverse psychology, Kill me, I am ready,” he lowers his voice significantly, attempting to mimic Geralt’s own growly one. “--but the Jane you want everyone to see wouldn’t have empathised with the elves. The Jane you want everyone to see would’ve at least threatened to beat a few of them before we had to drag you out.” 

Silence falls over them, the only sound in the room Jaskier’s soft humming as he finishes braiding her hair. Her mind is in overdrive, unsure of how to handle Jaskier’s observations that are too accurate for her comfort. And when he steps back, waving his hands in the general direction of her hair as he exclaims that his master piece is finished, she reaches her hand up to feel the style. He braided multiple strands of hair into small braids that come together into one large braid that falls down her back. Practical and stylish, Sansa would’ve approved.

“There we are. Now eat up and prepare your best scowl!” Jaskier says, taking a step away from Visenya and motioning towards the food with a ta-da hand gesture. She moves towards the table, the frown on her face slowly fading away as her vision grows clearer. 

 “Might want to stock up on more hair dye, by the way. Your natural hair color is showing,” Jaskier nonchalantly says, perching like a bird on the edge of the bed. Visenya stops in her tracks, hands immediately touching her head while she looks at Jaskier, panic clearly painted on her face.

“What are you --” She begins to say, but Jaskier cuts her off.

“You didn’t think a refined man such as myself wouldn’t notice that your hair isn’t naturally that way, thank the gods,” Jaskier says. Visenya levels a glare towards him, trying to push down the anxiety bubbling inside her. In response, Jaskier simply throws his hands up. “I’m just saying, your hair texture isn’t the best.” 

“Whatever,” she says, sitting down at the table to begin eating. 

The duo is silent while Visenya eats until Jaskier breaks it when the light reflects something that causes it to glint in the corner of his eye. He stands up from the end of the bed and goes over to a side table. 

“Well well well. Looks like our favorite Witcher left behind a token of his love,” Jaskier says, his tone similar to a smug child saying I told you so. Visenya turns to look at Jaskier, a sharp insult on the tip of her tongue. She racks her mind trying to figure out what he could be talking about. But of all the things that run through her mind, what she sees isn’t what she expected.

Renfri’s broach.

                                               o0o0o0o0o

“Have you ever been in love Jane?” Jaskier asks, breaking the silence that envelops the duo. It’s their second night of travel, and with the nearest inn being two days away from their current location, they’ve taken to camping off to the side of the main road. Visenya had found a small clearing in the heavily wooded terrain, the thick foliage surrounding the camp heavily obscuring them from anyone passing by. The radius of the camp was tiny, only large enough for the two of them to comfortably fit their belongings and light a fire. 

Visenya sits on her bedroll, leisurely reclining against the tree behind her while mindlessly chewing on the rabbit meat she’d hunted earlier. Her leather armor lies discarded beside her, leaving her in a light undershirt and a pair of trousers, the cool air feeling refreshing against her warm body. Jaskier is huddled near the fire he started when they first set camp, getting as close as possible without being burnt. Visenya’s eyes lazily move towards Jaskier, whose gaze is already firmly locked on her. A muffled sigh escapes her mouth as she looks directly at a tree on the other side of camp. For a moment she considers lying or telling him to fuck off. 

But unconsciously her thoughts wander back to Winterfell. To all the quiet nights she would sit with Jon in the Godswood. The towering trees surrounding them would block them off from the outside world, allowing them to just...be, creating a world with just the two of them. Even if only for a few stolen moments, they were just Jon and Visenya, not a bastard and an exiled princess. Neither of them would dare to speak, afraid that if they did the bubble would burst and this delusion they’ve created would come crashing down. In the sanctity of the Godswood, the reality that they’d never have more than unspoken words and an eventual goodbye was avoided. Sitting under vivid red leaves that fell around them and swirled in the biting cold, everything seemed simple. Even though they both knew it wasn’t and never would be. 

She’d smile at him so warmly that sometimes Jon fully believed it could melt all the snow in the North with a glance and he'd wield a small grin that made Visenya’s heart race. There’d be a crinkle at the corner of his eyes that reminded her of a mischievous boy that snuck into the kitchen to steal pastries with her. And the grim mask Jon often wore whenever in Winterfell would slip away while the ghosts that followed Visenya would melt like snow in summer until she couldn’t remember their names. Their hands would lie on the ground, just a hair away from each other. When either of them were feeling brave, their fingers would delicately brush against the others. Her purple eyes would trace the curves of his face while he would do the same, albeit subtler than her. 

Her mind retraces all the times they stood in sunlit rooms, filled to the brim with people who chatted between one another, never fully looking at Visenya and Jon, like they were illusions created from the reflection of the sun. They’d steal glances at each other when no one would see, their smiles speaking a secret language only they knew. Her eyes would meet his and she’d see colors that she's never seen with anyone else. The world always felt boring and grey without Jon, being with him showed her colors she never knew existed. And sometimes Robb would be in the room, noticing their glances, but he'd say nothing, feigning ignorance if it was ever brought up. Because he knew their fate as well as they did. 

“Yeah, I guess,” she responds after a few moments of silence. Her lips curve upwards unknowingly as she gets lost in her melancholy. Jaskier carefully watches her, a solemn expression on his face. He memorizes the look on her face, the tilt of her lips and the stars in her eyes. 

“What happened?” he asks, curiosity clawing at his mind. In the year they’d been traveling together he was so sure he’s seen all sides of her, and yet it seems not. 

Her lips pull downwards into a frown, and like the brightest star in the sky burning out, her eyes dim until they’re dull and lifeless. It’s not the same cold indifference he’s always seen in them or the teasing glint that sneaks past her cold exterior against her better judgment. It’s sadder, like her life has been nothing but a tragedy disguised as a fairytale. And maybe it has been.

She remembers trying to fight for it - declaring that she didn’t care about his status. Her father - as foolish as he was - abandoned his duties for love; Robert Baratheon started a war for a woman! Why should Visenya accept their fate lying down? She’d beg him to just run away with her, but he never agreed, just like Visenya knew he wouldn’t. But there were some days, in the quietest moments of the night, when the moon was at its highest and the stars were all but gone, where she swore he nearly cracked, almost let her have her way. But he didn’t, his fear that he’d never be able to give Visenya what he felt she deserved holding him back. But she’d fight anyways, stubbornly gripping onto him so tightly only for it to slip between her fingers anyways, like water falling through the cracks. Because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t change their ending that was written in the stars long before she even met him. Chasing him was like chasing shadows in a blackened room. And she knew-- gods she knew how it had to end, but that knowledge didn’t lessen the sting he left behind. Jon was the only thing she’d ever wanted since she could remember wanting anything. 

  Her gaze moves over to Jaskier, whose eyes are still firmly locked on her. She tightens her lips into a thin line, but there’s a slight quiver in the corners of her mouth. For the first time, Jaskier wonders how old she truly is. Her golden eyes in an eternal glare, with ivory skin turned steel, she holds none of the childlike nativity she should have. But with the warm glow of the fire reflecting off her face, she doesn't look like a hardened warrior. She’s just a child playing pretend, wearing her mother’s shoes while trying to wield her father’s sword that’s too heavy to lift properly. She’s just a kid, only a few years into adulthood. 

“Nothing,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. Jaskier's ears strain to hear the whisper over the wildlife ambient noises. She shifts her eyes away from him as she focuses on the flickering fire. 

She remembers watching Jon ride away on his horse with his Uncle Benjen. Hidden away from prying eyes in the ramparts she watched him leave her behind. The memory is so vivid she can nearly taste the salty tears that fell from her eyes. A hollow feeling in her chest as he did. How desperately she wanted to lash out and scream, to run to the stables and take a horse to chase him down - demand that he give her a proper goodbye. She didn’t want to just let him go, allow him to leave her with all the grace of the princess she should’ve been. Because despite what people may whisper behind closed doors or cupped palms that cover their mouths, she loved him, she really did. And a part of her was determined to fight for it, convinced that maybe it would be enough to make him stay. But she did nothing, her pride rearing its ugly head, unwilling to let herself make a fool of herself for the sake of a man that was always just out of reach. 

“He went his way and I went mine.” 

“Do you miss him, still love him?” Jaskier asks. 

The question brings her pause. Does she miss Jon? Without a doubt, yes. But does she still love him, if she ever did to begin with? She’s not too sure. He still lingers in the back of her mind, but grows fainter and fainter with each passing day and new adventure. Yet, some nights when she’s haunted by the what-ifs, the memories hanging around like smoke in a burning room, she’s convinced she did love him, if only for a moment in time. But who could really know, especially now that they’re worlds away.   

“I- I don’t know,” she says, her voice hoarse and croaky, like she just screamed for ten minutes straight. Jaskier opens his mouth, unable to stop the questions from spilling out of his mouth, but Visenya cuts him off. The tremble of her lips grows harder to conceal each passing moment, Westeros beginning to drown her with all the tragedy that haunts it. Her previously dull and boring eyes begin to glisten, but not with stars or warmth, but with tears. The perfectly curated facade of disinterest she wears like a mask begins to crack; pride being the only thing keeping her together. 

“We should go to sleep, early day of traveling tomorrow and all,” she says, the emotionless tone of her voice back, and as if it never broke, Visenya places the mask back on. Without awaiting a reply from Jaskier she shimmies between the bedroll and lies down. She closes her eyes, willing sleep to come sooner rather than later. She hears Jaskier quietly sigh before he begins rustling around, settling himself in his bedroll to get some sleep as well.

Despite herself, she thinks of home one last time.

How conflicted she was, angry at the world and angry at herself for how happy she was with the Starks. 

Until Robert Baratheon came and whisked them into the game of thrones. 

                                              o0o0o0o0o

The woman moves into what appears to have once been a magnificent throne room. However, it’s now been turned into ruins, a dull comparison to the shining gem it used to be. The vaulted ceilings lie in a pile of rubble littering the ground, exposing the sky that’s thick with ash. It falls from the sky, covering the floor in a similar fashion to the thick snow that coated the North. Pieces of it delicately land in the woman’s shining silver hair, creating a sort of crown on her head. A diadem of fire and calamity, naming her Queen of the Ashes. Her purple eyes focus solely on the throne ahead of her which was still relatively untouched by the fire that destroyed the rest of the city, leaving it a prize for the madness she succumbed to. But it wasn’t madness -- not to her. 

In a trance, she moves towards it. The soft patter of her heels clicking against the stone floor echoes in the room. Her heartbeat aligns with her breathing, growing quicker and unsteady the closer she gets to the throne. 

Her throne. 

The only thing she ever wanted.

Halfway across the throne room, something reflecting out of the corner of her eye captures her attention. Her movements halt, turning her body to face the source of the distraction. It’s the remnants of a stained glass mosaic lying smashed on the ground. Slivers of the glass cover the floor, surrounding a piece of the artwork that still stood intact, tall and proud and almost defiant. It’s jagged and uneven, the original art it depicted indiscernible. She moves towards it, eyes locked on her own reflection that becomes clearer the closer she gets. The crunch of glass beneath her boots causes an unpleasant sound, but her eyes refuse to leave her image to try and avoid any glass. 

Within a moment she stands before the glass. Her reflection is distorted and discolored due to its design, but her face is clear as day. Soft purple eyes stare back at her, hiding the storm brewing inside them. The soft curves of her face are replaced with harsh lines and the mischievous smirk that always pulled on her lips is instead in a tight line, but the most distressing thing is her eyes. They go from a soft purple to a fiery amber - similar to the flames that consumed the city around her. They’re bitter and cruel, unlike the warmth they held in years past. 

With a harsh gasp, she physically recoils from the reflection and immediately turns away from the glass. With her mindset on the throne once more, she moves towards it again, her pace faster than it had been previously. For some reason, the change she’d seen unsettled her more than she’d care to admit. Finally, she crosses to the other side of the room, standing mere inches away from the throne, and with an air of reverence, she walks up the steps leading to the dais that it rests on. Carefully, she reaches a pale hand out to touch it, desperate to know this is real and not a delusion the darkest parts of her mind created. Only a centimeter from grasping the left arm of the throne, a large shadow flies ahead. The woman looks up, watching the dangerously beautiful creature proudly flying above the ruins. Its large form blocks out any sunlight that manages to peek through the ash. Its vivid golden scales are a stark contrast to the shades of grey the city had been swallowed in. A terrifying screech escapes its mouth as it beats its massive bat-like wings, the force of it disrupting the settled ash on the ground.

“Visenya.” a distorted voice calls out. The woman’s eyes flit around the room, attempting to discern the source of the voice.

“Visenya!” it calls again, sounding more frantic than before.

“Visenya!” 

With a harsh gasp of air, her eyes snap open.

                                             o0o0o0o0o

Tags: If you’re name is crossed out, it means Tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you.

@sunlithours |  @1967-chevy-impala-called-roscoe |  @kholl101 |  @c-a-v-a-l-r-y |  @aknerdchick |  @stuckupstucky | @historicallydysfunctional | @ayamenimthiriel |  

[multifandom-onigiri]

Content Warning (?): Death mention

(Putting some sort of warning in case someone doesn’t want to read that their comfort character gets stabbed)

I do not have everything set in stone and I might never come back to this again but dark choco x milk (human?) reincarnation au where milk and dark choco both get similar nightmares from a timeline where Milk Cookie finds out that Dark Choco got originally cursed by the Strawberry Jam sword so during the next battle with Dark Choco after he finds out, he attempts to take the sword away from Dark Choco, but Dark Choco refuses to give it up, resulting in them wrestling over the sword. Things go awry when Milk accidentally stabs Dark Choco in the chest. Milk starts to REALLY panic and is going to heal him, but Dark Choco grabs his healing staff and smashes it on the ground. Dark Choco is very adamant about accepting his death because he thinks at this point, he’s too far gone and it’s the last heroic/just thing he can do. Milk just fails and fails to heal him with his broken healing staff and has to watch Dark Choco take his last breath. Each time the nightmares end when Dark Choco dies.

That’s the main gist of it but here’s other stuff my brain has come up with so far:

Milk and Dark Choco began experiencing them starting around age 17-18. The nightmares started off really blurry, unclear, and pretty vague, but it’s gotten clearer as they grow older. They also jump in quality once Milk and Dark Choco start attending the same college and they end up meeting each other.

Milk and Dark Choco were childhood friends for about a year or two until Dark Choco had to move. Both of them eventually ended up forgetting about their childhood friendship to some degree. Milk liked Dark Choco a lot when he was friends with him so he at least remembers Dark Choco as the “childhood friend that he really liked”. Dark Choco doesn’t remember at all.

In that timeline, Milk actually ends up getting corrupted to some degree because well. He touched the sword and held onto it maybe a bit longer than he should have, especially when he was watching Dark Choco die. He doesn’t end up falling under its influence because the rest of the guild team helps him fight the sword’s power. Regardless, Milk isn’t really quite the same again.

On hindsight while writing this, I didn’t think up of a good explanation of why Purple Yam, Mala Sauce, and Dinosour couldn’t just. Knock the sword out somehow while Milk distracts Dark Choco. Oh well I’m going to slightly ignore that for now until I can think of something.

This has been on my mind for about 2 days. Wanted to draw out the nightmare sequence as a comic but I do not know if I could do that.

[kyra-bane]

the old guard - kinktober day 2 - dream a little dream (of us)

rating: explicit

pairing: joe/nicky; andy/quynh (background)

extra tags: angst and fluff; 5+1 things; hand jobs; intercrural sex

word count: 3885

read on ao3 or keep reading below

Dream a Little Dream (Of Us)

Andromache of Scythia

Yusuf has been travelling with the Frank for almost a year.

In that time, they have formed a fragile truce, learnt enough of each other’s languages that they can communicate, and have managed not to kill each other for, now, a little over a month.

All in all, things are going better than they were when he woke up on the battlefield, a sword still half impaled in his chest, but there is a long way to go.

This constant living, it worries the Frank – Nicolò, he ground out one of those first few days; not that Yusuf ever uses his name – but that only proves to annoy Yusuf further because he does not wish to admit to his own doubts, does not wish to share any other quality with this man.

They are travelling still, crossing through grassland, and they have settled into a routine; despite Yusuf’s dislike of him, the Frank builds a fire each night and they lay out their bed rolls on opposite sides and, Yusuf has to admit, on the occasions they have been attacked, he has always been first to his feet, cutting down enemies before Yusuf even has his scimitar in a tight grip.

The Frank mutters something tonight, as he settles down to sleep. He never turns his back, so Yusuf rolls onto his, staring up at the canopy of stars above. It is not often that he falls into despair, now, but tonight he does: Will he have to travel with this ungrateful Frank forever? Will there be a day, someday, when the sight of him does not make Yusuf’s stomach twist unpleasantly, does not remind him of the stink of blood and bodies and a battle that cannot, will not, be justified?

Will they be the only two, at the end of time? The thought makes his chest ache. To live a life so closely tied to a person he can barely tolerate – maybe time will cool his temper, soothe some of the hurt and, maybe, one day he might feel forgiveness – but for now, he cannot.

He falls into a fitful sleep, the dream at once alien and all too familiar. He has had similar dreams this past year, where he has felt as though he has seen someone he should know. Yet he has never quite seen them; they are always just out of reach.

Tonight, he finally does.

She is tall, the woman, with long hair that cascades down her back as she swings around, the axe in her hands taking down one man, then another. Blood splatters across her face and she never slows; she fights in a way that Yusuf has seen in very few men – and never in a woman.

The image changes and she is at a feast, laughing with the men, a woman kneeling by her side who looks up at her as though she hung the very stars themselves, and when there is a lull in the conversation, this dark-haired stranger kisses her admirer, to the appreciative laughter of the men.

One more change; she is riding, alone, but she meets another rider on an outcrop – another woman whose face Yusuf cannot quite make out, only the sight of her feels familiar to him, also. They speak a language Yusuf has never heard, in low, warm tones, and maybe he will not be alone at the end of the world, after all.

Yusuf startles awake to find the Frank already sitting up, stoking the dying embers of the fire. He has dark circles under his eyes, Yusuf notices, and he wonders why he did not notice before.

“Did you see her?” the Frank asks, in halting Arabic.

“Yes,” Yusuf answers, in the Frank’s language, because despite the fact that they have spent a year travelling through lands where the Frank should have had more practice, Yusuf clearly has more of a talent for it.

“What did you see?”

“She was fighting. Feasting. Meeting a friend.”

“Ah,” the Frank says. He looks sad.

No.

He looks as though he has seen something terrible.

“What did you see?” Yusuf asks and he is sitting up, now, leaning closer without meaning to.

“Her death,” the Frank says. “I dream of it every night.”

Yusuf does not know what to say to that. He knows the Frank is always awake before him, but if he dreams of that every time he closes his eyes, then he really must be getting precious little sleep.

Against all his wishes, the first seeds of sympathy begin to sprout.

“I am glad you do not,” the Frank says, almost a whisper, and Yusuf frowns.

“Sleep, Nicolò,” Yusuf replies. “I will still be here, when you wake.”

***

Quynh

It is not long after his first dream of the two women meeting that Yusuf dreams of the second woman properly. She is smaller than the first, built slighter, but he sees the way she moves, fast like a viper, and decides that he cannot wait to meet her.

His and Nicolò’s relationship has improved these last few months; Yusuf calls him by his name now, most of the time, and Nicolò seems more inclined to share information about himself.

It helps that he seems, at heart, to be inescapably kind and small demonstrations of that gradually chip away at the cage Yusuf has built around his heart; he still does not feel as though he will offer Nicolò forgiveness – if it were even his to offer – but knowing Nicolò as he does now, he thinks he will not ask.

They fight before sleeping, most nights, training bouts and scuffles, because of course they can die, but Yusuf would still rather avoid it, wherever possible. He spent his youth fighting with other boys, too, wrestling, and he understands what can happen when there are two bodies in close contact, regardless of feelings, but the first time he pins Nicolò and feels him hard against his thigh, he is awash with a sudden jolt of want, and Nicolò scrambles away quickly and does not talk to him for two days.

So, most of the time it is combat training, with a bout of wrestling when Yusuf is feeling daring and there has been time enough in between for Nicolò to have forgotten about what inevitably happens.

They still sleep across from each other, either side of the fire, and Yusuf faces Nicolò too, before he falls asleep.

The dream he tumbles into captures him immediately. He sees the first woman, the warrior with her axe, but she is not the focus. The other woman has her pushed back into their bed rolls – they are on the move, like he and Nicolò – and is kissing down her throat, over her breasts. Neither of them seems to be in a hurry, both in tune with one another; the warrior parts her legs and the woman smiles against her skin, buries her face there.

Yusuf wakes, breathing hard, straining his leggings, and Nicolò is staring across at him, his eyes dark and glittering in the night.

Yusuf is suddenly, acutely aware of what he could do. He could round the fire, crawl over Nicolò and he is sure Nicolò would give him anything he wanted. He could roll over and go back to sleep and they could both pretend this never happened.

He lets out a shaky breath and smiles. It does not appear to dissuade Nicolò any.

“Did you dream of them?” Yusuf asks.

Nicolò nods. “They are…” He trails off, shakes his head, sighs, and finally says, in the saddest voice Yusuf has ever heard, “They are in love.”

The hurt of it curls in behind Yusuf’s heart, in that small, special place he has had no reason to acknowledge – and still, consciously, does not.

“They are,” he says, blood cooling. “I hope we will have a chance to meet them soon.”

Nicolò nods, although he seems less enthusiastic. “As do I.”

***

Lykon

Yusuf’s dream of Lykon is, of course, very different to the ones he first had of Andromache and Quynh.

It has taken them, in the end, a very long time to find each other. So long that, despite the dreams, Yusuf has all but given up.

He and Nicolò have become friends, more than friends, although it is all still very new and he knows one misstep may just destroy the fragile love blossoming between them. He knows this even though Nicolò insists it is love, whispers the words against Yusuf’s skin over and over as he learns how to take him apart.

Then they find Andromache, Quynh, and everything they know, about themselves and each other, is suddenly thrown into a very sharp contrast.

Andromache reveals the truth: they can die, and stay dead.

She says it when they are all drinking around the fire, a few weeks into their time together. Quynh has her head resting in Andromache’s lap; she has been no less affectionate just because they have two other people with them now, though Yusuf supposes that if he saw what she and Andromache were doing, she has certainly seen what he and Nicolò have been up to.

“Lykon and I were together for a couple of thousand years,” Andromache says and she takes a long pull of the jug before passing it to Quynh, who drinks while keeping one of her hands on Andromache’s thigh. “He went down in battle. Until then, I thought we would live forever.”

“He was injured?” Nicolò asks, leaning forwards, and there is something almost frantic in his gaze.

“Yes,” Quynh says because Andromache’s eyes are shining, though Yusuf doubts they will see her shed a tear. “He simply… stopped healing. Did not get up again.”

“So we do die, in the end,” Yusuf says. “There is an end, after all.”

“You sound so excited by it,” Nicolò says, his expression drawn and Yusuf shakes his head.

“Not at all, habibi,” he replies, because he may not be certain about the strength of their love but he knows it can survive this. “I simply am glad to know it, for sure.”

They turn in early that night, Andromache and Quynh on one side of the fire, Yusuf and Nicolò on the other. Quynh is tucked tight against Andromache, wrapped around her tightly, and Yusuf presses along Nicolò’s back, sighing only when Nicolò’s breathing evens out into sleep.

He follows not long after and, when his dream begins, he knows it is not real. He has had too many that are, for that, and since, he has dreamt of Nicolò, of his life left behind, of current and past fears.

Tonight, he dreams of Lykon.

He does not know the man’s face, of course, but he sees Andromache, and Quynh, and the man – the figment his mind has invented – fights with them, ever as fierce, ever as powerful, until, suddenly, he does not.

He crumples when the spear hits him, falls, and the others are screaming and Yusuf is scared, in the way a person only is when they are dreaming, because he wants to help but he cannot–

He wakes to the sound of Nicolò’s voice and buries his face in his love’s chest. Nicolò rubs his back, holds him tightly, and when Yusuf realises it was only a dream, he lifts his head.

“I saw him,” he murmurs. “Did I wake the others?”

“No,” Nicolò says. “You saw who?”

“Lykon. Not Lykon, of course, but a man I believed to be. I saw him die, Nicolò…”

He fears it because he saw not only Lykon, but Nicolò too, and he realises he cannot stand the thought of them being apart for even a second – at least, in terms of their death.

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says and he kisses away Yusuf’s tears, brushes his lips over his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. “Yusuf, cuore mio, I am here. Wherever we go, we go together.”

“Promise me,” Yusuf says, because he needs the reassurance here, in the dark.

Nicolò, to his credit, does not hesitate. “I promise,” he says and Yusuf kisses him because he does truly love this man, enough to believe that he will do everything in his power to either cling to life until Yusuf can join him, or to follow on right after.

“I love you,” Yusuf says and Nicolò breathes a sigh against his skin.

“And I you.”

***

Sébastien “Booker” Le Livre

Yusuf has had many names, by now. He is currently going by Joseph, he and Nicolò – now Nicholas – and Andromache – Andrea – are in Europe and it has been several centuries since they lost Quynh.

Andromache is not over it – she will never be over it – but they have managed to coax her back into doing what good they can, what with the world still turning and wars raging everywhere.

They are in the Austrian Empire, sharing one small room between the three of them, and the night that Sébastien dies, they all wake at once.

Nicolò is the first to get his wits about him, although Andromache looks, simply, sad.

“What did you see?” Nicolò asks.

“He appears older than me,” Yusuf says. He is already digging around in his things, trying to find a sketchbook. He has an image swimming in his mind; a strong jaw and sad eyes – he thinks the man is French, fighting in this bloody war he believes to be endless.

He will believe it even more, now.

“We should find him,” Nicolò says and Yusuf draws, coaxing details from Andromache she clearly does not want to give.

He knows why. The prospect of a new member to their unnatural club has them thinking of the member still missing, the one they cannot be certain is still alive.

Yusuf sucks in a breath and snaps the end of his pencil.

“What is it?” Andromache asks. Nicolò turns to face him.

“He will dream of us,” Yusuf says. “Do you believe he will dream of her?”

Andromache swallows, her lips trembling; they have seen her cry, now, and much more besides – she raged at them when they finally convinced her there was nothing more to be done. Yusuf still doubts he will ever set eyes on Quynh again.

“We must find him,” she says and Yusuf agrees.

Except, a few days later, he dreams of something new. A woman, blonde hair falling in soft curls around her face; children, who look upon their newest brother wish pure adoration.

“He has gone back to them,” he says into the crook of Nicolò’s neck one morning, and Nicolò hums in agreement. He left behind nothing, he has told Yusuf, when he headed out for the crusades. Yusuf had a wife but no children, and back then, it would have taken him months to return; and with all the doubt and fear he had around his new ability, it was not something he had even considered.

Sometimes, he does regret it. Sometimes, he thinks Nicolò had more at home than he lets on, but has chosen to forget about it to ease the pain.

“We must leave him be,” Yusuf says when they enter the Kingdom of France. “Speak to him, maybe, but then leave him to do as he chooses.”

Andromache is angry; she thinks this is her only chance to retrieve Quynh and Yusuf does not doubt he would react in much the same way, should he ever find himself in her position.

“When they discover what he is…”

“It is his choice to make,” Nicolò replies, ever so softly. “He will have been dreaming of us and we should find him so that he knows he is not alone, but… Yusuf is right. If he wishes to have more time with his family, then who are we to take that from him.”

He does not say Quynh has been down there for centuries, if she is still alive; she can wait a little longer, but they both know Andromache still hears it.

They meet Sébastien weeks later. They find out Quynh still lives. They leave him with his family.

When he eventually joins them, years later, Yusuf thinks he carries more pain than Yusuf has ever felt and Yusuf decides to do his best to do right by their newest brother.

***

Nile

“She needs us,” Nicky says, and Joe sees the moment Andy gives in.

“I’ll handle the retrieval.”

It is better that way, Joe thinks. After everything that has just happened, he wants to keep Nicky close – and two of them would be spotted. Booker seems to almost argue with Andy, for a moment, but Joe thinks little of it. He is just scared, unsure; he has had his own dreams, of course, but has never been on this side of them.

They make it to France and Joe dreams of her again, of Nile, sees flashes of her marine friends, of the man who sliced her throat. He is already fascinated by her, Nicky too, though Nicky does not speak of it.

“Do you think it is a good idea, Andy going to fetch her?” Booker asks when they reach the safe house.

Nicky shrugs, goes off to drop their stuff in the only bedroom.

“Why would it not be?” Joe asks.

Booker shrugs. “She’s so young,” he says. “So beautiful. Do we really need to drag her in now?”

Joe is half-tempted to tease Booker a little, because he has never expressed that he believes anyone beautiful – not ever – but he lets the desire fade.

“Things are different now, Book,” Joe replies quietly. “She is in the military. We might be dragging her into our danger, but she is in danger there, too – people saw her die, and now she is fine. It only takes one more mishap to reveal her true nature, and then she will have no one who can keep her safe.”

Booker hums. He will not meet Joe’s eyes; he looks terribly sad.

“I hope you are right,” he says and Joe laughs, claps him on the shoulder.

“We will all be fine, Book. Come, let us get things ready here. The game is on tonight, you know.”

Booker rolls his eyes at that. “Yeah, yeah,” he says and his amusement washes away almost all the melancholy in his eyes. “I know.”

***

Yusuf “Joe” ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani, called al-Tayyib

Nicky, sometimes, is sad he never had a chance to meet Joe through his dreams.

He wonders what that would have been like, if another had killed him on the battlefield, and Nicky had spent the years getting to know him through flashes of images, of feelings.

Still, sometimes he dreams of Joe anyway.

Like tonight. They have their own room, for once, Andy and Nile bunked up in the other, and when Nicky closes his eyes, he falls into the dream headfirst.

It’s Joe, everywhere, his hair cropped shorter like it was once in Damascus, and he bites his way down Nicky’s chest, stopping every so often to throw him a bright grin. It is one of those dreams that Nicky cannot control; Joe has moved, suddenly, to take Nicky’s cock in his mouth, fingers slick and teasing at his rim; then his fingers are sliding deep and there is no need for adjustment, no discomfort, because Nicky is ready for him, skin hot and prickling and he needs him…

He wakes with a start, a moan caught in the back of his throat. He feels hot all over, his cock tenting his boxers and he eyes the clock with no little distaste.

He fell asleep two hours ago, by the looks of things, which means his idea of waking Joe is terribly inconsiderate.

One touch will probably be enough to get him off, though leaving the bed might wake Joe as well, and Nicky would never lie to him about this – so then Joe would ask why Nicky had not woken him and Nicky does not want to get into their recurring low-stakes argument that Joe is not getting as much sleep as he should at the moment, what with all their worry about Andy and Nile and Booker…

He turns his face into the pillow and bites down – and promptly starts when a hand, not his hand, slides below the waistband of his boxers.

Joe scrapes his teeth over the back of Nicky’s neck, takes him in a sure, familiar grip, and Nicky is so keyed up that it only takes a handful of strokes before he comes, gasping into the darkness around them.

Joe chuckles when he’s done, moving his hand to grip Nicky’s hip as he presses open-mouthed kisses to the back of his neck.

“When did you wake, hayati?” Nicky grumbles.

He feels Joe’s smile against his skin; Joe rolls his hips and he feels his hardness, too.

“Hmm, I think some time in the middle of your dream,” he murmurs. “I thought you might spend before waking, in truth.”

Nicky wriggles back against him and Joe starts to roll his hips in a slow, steady rhythm. There’s a little more moving around as they both push down their underwear and then Nicky lifts his leg, Joe’s cock sliding between his thighs.

It’s slick and messy and Nicky reaches back to grab Joe’s hip even as Joe wraps an arm around Nicky’s chest, tight as a band.

“I dreamt of you,” Nicky says. “Of Damascus, when you had me on that bed for a day, made me come over and over again just on your fingers…”

Joe moans against his skin, gives him a full-body shudder, but he’s still moving. Nicky touches the head of his cock, when it pushes between his thighs and Joe moans again.

“We could try that again, sometime,” Nicky says. “Whenever we go back to Malta. Except, I want to do it to you, this time.”

Joe chuckles. He’s breathing hard and Nicky knows, from that alone, that he is close.

“You have far more patience than me, my love,” Joe says. His voice comes out strangled. He’s beginning to lose his rhythm, chasing his orgasm, and Nicky turns the idea over in his mind.

“I bet I could keep you on the edge for hours,” he says, lets his accent thicken a little because he knows Joe likes it. Sure enough, he moans. “Either that or really test our limits – I bet I could make you come ten times or more.”

“Nicky,”  Joe says and Nicky never tires of hearing his name – any of his names – being said that way.

“Are you close?” Nicky asks, even though he knows. “Do you enjoy it, using me like this? Maybe we could try this one day – you could tie me up and use me however you liked and–”

Joe moans and holds Nicky tight as he comes, burying his face in the back of Nicky’s neck. They remain that way for a while, until they’re breathing in sync again.

Nicky cleans the mess from his thighs with his boxers and then turns, tangling his legs with Joe’s.

“Love you, babe,” Joe murmurs, sleepy and sated and happy. Nothing else can reach either of them in this moment and Nicky kisses him softly.

“Love you, too.”

[lilfellasblog]

My observations and a few theories after watching Putting Others First - SVS Redux Ep for the second time. Spoilers below the cut!

-Besides the Frogger poster, the only other posters on the GameStore building are space-themed.

-The Pokemon battle-style scenes are from Ruby and Sapphire gen, or 3rd gen. Roman is Ruby, I would imagine Patton is Sapphire.

-Logan already knows he's not wanted. He didn't want "to be invasive". BABIE. 

-"Thank you Thomas. As I-" "Oh! Guess I won't be wrestling a hot dog away from Logan!" Logan's FACE I LOVE HIM 

- Goddamn Patton has a tough job. HONEY IT'S OKAY I KNOW YOU'RE TRYING

-IN THE MARIO THING. THOMAS HAS 8 LIVES. 8 SIDES. ~Also 80085 heh. ~TIME = LIMITED, the LIMITED is purple, so Virgil methinks.

-Patton has such a weight on his shoulders. He puts so much pressure on himself to be absolutely perfect in every way, and he still has trouble with the idea that thought = morality.

-Logan's LowDown during the "You shouldn't do good things because they make you feel good, you should do them because you want to do the right thing," Logan's avatar starts out happy, and then becomes surprised when no one reads it. Logan put effort and labor into that fact.

-During the train scenario in the upper left hand corner, Thomas switches between Denial and Anxiety for a moment before going to morality ~Thomas' HP is also 100, but his PP or power points are at 0.

-Post-Trolley scene, 2 things. 1, notecards! 2, DAMN Thomas looks good in his Princey outfit.

-OKAY so for after Logan's text box gets cut in half by Roman's sword, Logan 1) doesn't seem miffed, 2) transforms into Nietzsche, and 3) the "Skip Ahead" button is yellow and black. I think this is where Deceit came into play. ~It was originally Logan, maybe when Patton his the skip ahead button and Logan got pulled by the hook is when Deceit came into play.

-Thomas' vest is so dark it looks almost black/ monotone, but it's a very subtle black and navy blue plaid pattern. Not sure what that means.

-In the Street Fighter game sequence, Thomas still has 8 lives, and his score is 07734, which is the classic calculator HELLO. ~And once again, the amount of time left is represented in purple

-The post Street Fighter Logan's LowDown, Logan uses air quotes. I just feel like that's important. ~Thomas is also scared of hypoxia in a very Virgil way, so he's still around.

-In the Frogger thing when Patton hulks out, he repeats what Roman says about needing someone to visualize. He's so lost, he's looking for any direction to grab onto, and that's the only thing all three of them have agreed on. ~In this trolley scene with Lee and Mary Lee vs Leslie Odom Jr, Thomas' HP is now down to 98 and we don't see his PP level.

-DECEIT IS HOLDING A HOOK, IN THE SCENE WITH THE FROG WHEREE HE REVEALS HIMSELF. THE HOOK THAT TOOK LOGAN. HE FORCIBLY REMOVED LOGAN.

-The picture that Logan just doesn't quite get is in the Frogger scene.

-Just noticed that Patton's background is pure white. Showcasing Patton's purist ideology. Definitely relevant here, and the difference between Patton's background and everyone else's is striking.

-Janus swears twice when Logan pops up. I think the first one is "sh*t", and I'm not sure what the second one is.

-Logan's avatar is looking up at Patton when he has his hand over his heart. Logicality shippers and angst writers, go nuts.

-"One last time" "Not that any of you care, but I am unharmed." "I will do you all a favor and spare you my company." Duck out? Logan angst for sure. Logan angst arc?

-Tense synthetic chords when Roman's asking how much selfishness is enough. It turns into video game fight music.

-Vulnerability from Janus in an effort to win over Roman, which doesn't work in the moment.

-Okay, so Roman asks Thomas if he's his hero, which clearly is what's been getting him through all of this. Thomas says so emphatically. Roman turns to Deceit, who nods sadly and in defeat. Saying that Thomas is lying to himself? Or that he's not lying, so Thomas' not siding with Roman is an even worse "betrayal"? Not 100% sure how to interpret that, it could go a few ways. ~Roman is upset because he gave up everything because 1) Thomas is supposed to be good and perfect, 2) Deceit is evil and he had to go against that, and 3) all of a sudden, the metrics for what's supposed to be happening and what priorities are have changed drastically, so Roman's sacrifice may not have needed to happen. He sacrificed for reasons that aren't relevant anymore.

-After Roman sinks down, Patton's right side is facing us almost exclusively, mirroring Janus' human side, and also "right" can be synonymous with "correct thing to do ethically."

-Janus makes an effort when he sees he's upset Patton.

-When Patton's talking about being younger, the music changes to a simple, high-pitched piano tune.

-"Fractionally fiendish fibber" 1) Janus is like, "Ye that's me :D", and 2) that sounds like something Roman would come up with.

-Patton trusts Janus to take care of Thomas.

-"Hehnarg" "You're just stuck with a snake boy!" Janus you bean.

-Thomas is playing Kingdom Hearts at the end, which Roman said he liked playing. Interesting. What does this mean? Things aren't smoothed out surely, that's not how these eps work.

-Two halves of Thomas' morality standing next to each other, like the two halves of his Creativity were? 

[thepandapopo]

Absolute Truths

This idea wormed its way into my head and for the life of me I couldn’t get it out.

This oneshot is a little longer than the stuff I usually write (a whopping 8539 words), but I loved every minute of it. I tried editing it to the best of my ability, but honestly I suck at that. No beta, we die like Glenn. #SorryNotSorry #TooSoon ?

Please note this is non canon. The time frame for this is sometime after the Battle of Gronder post time skip and it is a mash up of the GD and BL routes (ie. Dimitri joins Claude and is no longer crazy; Rodrigue still dies. RIP).

Cross posted to ao3.

Pairing: Sylvain x Felix

Warnings: mentions of child abuse and PTSD

Synopsis:

When Felix and Sylvain get hit with a dark magic spell that reverts them back to children, the Resistance Army gets a deeper look into their bond and learn 5 absolute truths that form the foundation of their relationship.

OR

5 undeniable facts of Sylvain and Felix’s relationship.

Word Count: 8539

“Felix!”

Fuck. Sylvain loses sight of him for only a minute but that is all the enemy needs to overwhelm the already bombarded swordmaster.

Pulling the reigns sharply to the left, the Paladin charges across the battlefield, skewering any unfortunate enemies that dare block his way, the lance of ruin glowing like a beacon of fury despite the thick coating of blood on it. The air is heavy with the smell of smoke and dark magic, making it hard to breathe and blurring the red head’s vision. Regardless, Sylvain presses on; determined to get to his best friend in time before the group of mages over the hill finish casting… whatever ominous looking spell they are aiming at Felix.

“Sylvain, get out of here!” Felix shouts angrily, not even pausing his fighting to face the sight of Bella charging her way through the throng with her master astride her.

Shit. Felix cuts down another enemy.

It is never ending. No matter how many falls to his blade, another two enemies take their place. Felix isn’t stupid �� he can see the group of mages prepping a dark magic spell in the distance, which makes him even angrier when he spots Sylvain riding to his aid.

Like hell he’ll give his childhood friend another reason to toss himself into harms way. Felix isn’t weak. He doesn’t need protection. And he sure as hell doesn’t want Sylvain to be the one who gets hurt trying to fix his mistakes just because he got a little too cocky and split from the rest of his battalion.

“Fuck.” Felix grunts and pushes his sword hard to disengage the thief that has him in a sword lock. He doesn’t bother to see if he is being pursued and dashes towards Sylvain who is now dismounting a short distance away, Lance of Ruin making quick work of anyone who strays too close for comfort.

Sylvain was undoubtedly within hit range of the spell now. If that idiot insists on being his usual self-sacrificing self, then the least Felix can do is use his own body to shield the older man and take the brunt of the damage.

The tell-tale crackle of magic behind him sets the hair on his nape standing.

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.

He isn’t going to make it. Damn Sylvain for being so slow – this is exactly why he keeps telling him to take his training more seriously-!

“Fe!”

The last thing he knows before succumbing to the darkness is a hard chest plate knocking the wind out of him and warm, strong arms that remind him of summers spent with a heart lighter than air.

----

1.       Sylvain always has, and always will protect Felix until the day he dies.

Leonie is one of two on the first shift of babysitting duty.

Undeniably, the orange haired paladin would be the first to admit that she wasn’t the greatest with kids, however there is only so much the tiny, and thankfully unconscious, Fraldarius boy can do given his current predicament.

No one really knows what happened after the enemy spell envelops Felix and Sylvain, the larger of the two curled protectively around his companion as they fall. No one even knows what the spell is.

But what they do know is that now, instead of a regular sized Felix Hugo Fraldarius and Sylvain Jose Gautier, they have a chubby cheeked blue haired cherub and an unfairly-cute-even-as-a-child ginger.

It is in the middle of bemoaning her poor luck at drawing straws when the mini-Felix begins to stir and she feels panic clawing its way up her throat.

“Ngghh…” small, unscarred hands balled into fist come up to rub at bleary amber eyes before they widen almost comically as they take in his surroundings.

“Uhh… hey.” His gaze snaps towards Leonie and she can feel her terror rising with mini Felix’s hysteria, clearly evident by the shiny glaze beginning to cloud his eyes and the fat crocodile tears gathering at the edges of his almond eyes.

“It’s okay, Felix. It’s just me.” She reaches out a hand tentatively in a placating gesture, but quickly withdraws back as young Felix lets out a squeak and scurries as far back into the corner of the bed as he can get, taking his older self’s wool Fraldarius crest blanket with him, as if it could shield him.

“Wh-wh-who are you?” The poor thing is absolutely terrified and damn it, Leonie wants to comfort him, but she is equally as distressed here and this is exactly why she didn’t want to babysit.

“It’s me, Leonie. You don’t… you don’t recognize me?”

It comes out sounding more like a statement than a question.

It’s so painfully obvious that little Felix has no idea who she is.

Which means he doesn’t have his memories.

Which means they are down two of their best generals.

Which means they are well and truly fucked.

So, Leonie does the only thing she can logically think to do.

“Come on,” She says, rising from her bedside chair and reaching for his arm. “We need to go tell Linheartd that the situation is much worse than we had originally thought.” But as soon as her hand wraps around his forearm, Felix screams.

“Oh shi-! Felix! Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you!”

If anything, this just seems to have the opposite effect and the wails increase to near piercing.

Leonie thinks it may be a trick of her mind, and probably her ears because holy crap does little Felix have a set of lungs on him, but she is pretty sure that Felix is screaming out a name.

Specifically, a name belonging to a certain red head that is, the last time she checked anyways, unconscious two doors down from his room and currently being watched over by Caspar.

“Fe!” The door bursts open and suddenly there is chaos.

Was being watched over by Caspar, Leonie amends in her mind.

“Get back here!” The blue haired warrior lunges and swipes his arm out trying to catch mini Sylvain who is slipperier than a fish in water, using his short height to duck between legs and launch himself onto the bed.

“Leave Fe alone!” Honey brown eyes that are so very familiar yet also so different, are glaring holes into Leonie and Caspar, proudly defiant and blazing with determination. Short arms stuffed into the smallest adult shirt they could find on short notice stretch out protectively, completely shielding Felix from sight.

“S-Sylvain,” comes the little sob from behind him and the older boy spares a second to throw a comforting smile behind him. “Don’t worry, Fe. I’ll protect you.” And Goddess, he sounds so genuine and earnest that it makes Leonie wonder what happened to cause their Sylvain to hide behind fake laughs and charming lilts of the tongue.

“Sorry, Leonie.” Caspar is gasping for air like he has just run a marathon. “I tried to keep him in his room but as soon as he heard Felix screaming, he was out faster than I could blink.”

“Ugh. Just go get Ingrid and the Professor.”

----

2.       Sylvain hates himself and his crest, but Felix likes him in spite of it.

A day later finds Ingrid watching over the five year old Felix (“What?! He’s five? But he’s so tiny.” “Don’t let him hear you say that or he’ll cry again.”) and seven year old Sylvain.

“Just stay in this area, okay?” She calls out over the din of raucous laughter echoing throughout the courtyard. “I don’t want you two wandering off and getting into trouble.”

The play wrestling pauses for a brief moment and little Sylvain sticks out a tongue at her.

“We don’t get into trouble! You’re just a party pooper!”

“Yeah! Party pooper!”

Shoving down the urge to smack her childhood friends into the next moon, Ingrid settles for watching with pursed lips as Felix dissolves into giggles, Sylvain’s grabby hands finding purchase in his sides and tickling him relentlessly. The look of such carefree happiness on their faces makes her heart clench and eyes sting.

If Ingrid is being completely honest… she misses this.

She remembers what it was like not carrying around a broken heart for a man buried six feet under, his remains not even whole enough to bring home. Back when she could play wrestle with Fe, Sylvie, and Dima in the dirt and then go to Glenn to kiss her knee better when one of them inevitably accidentally activated their crest and used too much strength, resulting in tears and scrapes and bruises.

It doesn’t do her any good to dwell on the past.

The dead should be left to rest, and the living should move on.

For an emotionally constipated guy, Felix is dead on with his philosophy.

Though she has long come to terms with her betrothed’s death, the small sliver of envy she has for her two oldest friends still lingers in the deepest, darkest recesses of her heart.

They’re lucky that they still have each other, even though they spend half the time bickering and denying their feelings.

“Is that the Gautier boy?”

Two monastery staff members stop beneath the path archway and look with undisguised admiration.

“So handsome at such a young age!”

“And I hear he’s incredibly charming too.”

Ingrid knows that Sylvain and hear them. He has always been keen of hearing, especially when it involves others gossiping about himself, for better or for worse.

Felix takes advantage of Sylvain’s distraction to get the upper hand and rolls on top, completely oblivious to the onlookers.

“If I were his mother, I would have secured him a betrothed as soon as he was tested for a crest.”

A hum of agreement. “Yes. His family is blessed with good looks so it would not be hard to secure an advantageous match. The Gautier line will likely continue on stronger than ever with such a prized heir.”

“Sylvain? Why did you stop?”

Felix is all wide eyes and adorable pouty cheeks, staring confusedly down at his best friend underneath him who has gone strangely silent with a strangled expression.

“Don’t you have duties to attend to?”

The two gossipmongers snap to attention at Ingrid’s sharp tone, her expression clearly telling them to get the hell out of here or risk facing her wrath.

With rushed replies of “yes, sorry miss!” and “our apologies”, they scurry off down the pathway and disappear around the corner.

But unfortunately, the damage is already done.

“Sylvain? What’s wrong? Why are you sad?”

Gently, the older boy extricates himself from Felix’s death grip of a grapple and stands up with his eyes cast downwards. “Sorry, Fe. I… I don’t want to play anymore.”

“What? What do you mean? Where are you going?”

“I’m tired. I want to go back to our room.”

It only takes one look at Sylvain’s expression before Felix is latching his fists into the fabric of Sylvain’s pants with a scowl on his face.

“You’re lying to me. Why are you lying?”

“I’m not lying, Fe! I don’t want to play anymore.”

“We’re best friends aren’t we?”

“Well, yeah, of course we are.”

“Best friends don’t lie to each other.”

Ingrid has patiently watched the exchange between Felix and Sylvain to this very moment, hoping that they can sort out this argument without her intervening like she always did as a child, but through years of experience, she can sense that one of them is about to snap and she would very much like to avoid that.

“You know the only reason we’re best friends is because our parents are friends and we both have crests.”

There it is.

It’s absolutely heart breaking how Sylvain has already learned to self destruct at the tender age of seven. If Miklan were still alive, Ingrid would skewer him a thousand times over for instilling the mantra of ‘you’re not worthy of love’ into Sylvain’s head.

“Hey guys, do you wanna go-“

“You’re a stupid head if that’s what you think.” Felix’s interruption shocks her. His usually bright amber eyes are fixed in a watery glare leveled at the boy opposite him. Right now, Ingrid may as well be invisible for all Felix cares.

“What?”

“You’re a stupid head!”

Sylvain looks absolutely affronted.

“No, I’m not!”

“Yeah, you are!” a few tears have managed to slip beyond the barrier and trail down Felix’s cheeks. “I don’t care that our parents know each other. And I don’t care about any stupid crests.”

Felix marches up to Sylvain with all the anger he can muster in his five year old glory and reaches up to smoosh his cheeks together. “I’d still pick you to be my best friend in the whole wide world because you’re funny and nice and I’m always happier with you than Ingrid or Dima.”

Sylvain can only stand there with his lips parted in round ‘o’ from his cheeks being pushed together and a dazed look in his eye. Felix takes this as a sign to continue his little tirade.

“And I know you’re smart so you should stop being such a stupid head because I don’t care what you think. You’re my best friend and I’ll always pick you over any stupid crest.”

“Fe…”

She recognizes that tone. Ingrid looks away then because she fears that if she doesn’t, the part of her heart that belongs to Glenn might just twist its way into her throat and choke her with envy.

Sylvain is giving Felix that look that she has seen many times throughout their lives whenever she watches her two friends from afar. It’s one that everyone, except for Felix, has seen a million times and knows that to Sylvain, the world around him has fallen away except for one person.

“You’re my best friend, Sylvain. So, don’t lie to me.”

For the first time since the gossipers appeared, Sylvain lets a smile slip through.

“Okay. I promise.”

Felix eyes him warily and searches for any hint of a lie in Sylvain’s expression. Once satisfied, he loops his own pinky around the one outstretched to him.

“Good. Now let’s go play Knights and Bandits!”

Perhaps it is because Felix is always looking ahead that he never sees how Sylvain looks at him like he was the one who hung the stars and moon in his dark sky, illuminating his life with happiness and love.

----

3.       Felix feels so much and Sylvain is the only one who understands him even without words.

A collective sigh echoes throughout the monastery when they find out that mini Felix and mini Sylvain aren’t too picky with their food.

Granted, even as a child, Felix shows a proclivity towards eating meat; but with a little friendly jostling from his best friend, even the youngest Fraldarius son can be convinced to eat his brussel sprouts.

Which is exactly why Claude is so baffled when Felix starts to protest eating during mealtimes.

“What do you mean he won’t eat?”

He’s well aware that he probably sounds like an idiot, if the exasperated look Lorenz is giving him is anything to go by; but they haven’t had any trouble before so it makes absolutely no sense that Felix would start being picky now.

“It’s exactly as I said,” Lorenz frowns. “We were all simply sitting together enjoying a meal, when Felix stopped eating and refused to finish his dinner. I’ve been told this is now the third occurrence in a row that his has happened.”

“Was he full?” Byleth pauses from looking through some supply requests to chime into their conversation. Although she has not outright said anything, Claude knows his love well enough to tell that she is stressed about their current predicament. Felix throwing a silent protest against food is just one more thing to add to her pile of worries that she doesn’t need.

“Don’t worry, Teach,” Claude winks and flashes his signature grin. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. You just worry about securing our supplies for the next moon, yeah?” His chair lets out a deafening screech as it drags across the floor, drowning out any protests their former professor may have and providing Claude the distraction he needs to usher Lorenz out of the room with him.

“Claude, are you sure you know what you are doing?” The doubt rolling off Lorenz would have offended a lesser man, but Claude has spent his life being the underdog and he lets the words bounce harmlessly off him. “Felix is not an enemy to be outsmarted. He is simply a child who only adheres to emotion.”

“I am aware of that, yes.”

“Then why do you look as though you are about to hatch a scheme?”

Because he is.

And although Felix is not an ‘enemy’, per say, doesn’t mean that Claude can’t use his usual tactics of watching and observing his opponent until he has hatched a plot to take them down. Hence, leading to Claude’s current position tucked away in the far corner of the mess hall during the following breakfast.

Even on his off days, Claude is always watching and learning. He knows the favourite foods of all his fellow comrades in arms and he also knows whom everyone’s preferred companion is.

There is very little that escapes his notice, and the Resistance Army leader is confident that he will have a plan by sundown at the very least.

It is a little past 8am when the two children sleepily trudge their way into the dining hall with Bernadetta, their ward for the day, close behind them.

Nothing seems particularly strange or odd when they join the line to retrieve their meal; and nothing remarkable happens either when Bernie leads them to the only empty table left in the middle of the hall.

“Good morning, Bernadetta!” Raphael greets cheerily and shuffles his mountain of food over to join the trio at their table. “Good morning, Felix, Sylvain!”

The little ones mumble back a greeting, but their voices are lost in the din of the morning meal chatter.

So far, so good. Felix is still eating his porridge (albeit with an adorable frown on his face) and talking animatedly about goddess knows what with Sylvain, who occasionally turns to answer a question from the adults.

“Oh, good morning, Bernadetta, Felix, Sylvain!”

Slowly but surely, the table begins to fill as their friends meander into the building in search of food to start their day. Greetings are exchanged and unsurprisingly, Felix and Sylvain garner a lot of attention due to their current forms. Sylvain, ever the chatterbox that he is, fields most of the questions; Whether it is because he is being considerate of his quieter friend or if he simply relishes in the attention is debatable, but Claude cannot help but notice how his eyes constantly dart back towards Felix who grows increasingly frustrated.

“Oh, you’re just too adorable!” Annette’s squeal of delight reaches even Claude’s remote corner and he assumes that the wince he sees from Felix is due to the sheer volume of the orange haired mage. Sylvain, the current object of attention, just flashes her his prize winning smile; his dimples making him look even more endearing than he already is.

The adults gathered around the children don’t even notice that Felix has stopped eating. Nor do they see Sylvain quietly reach below the table to grab Felix’s smaller hand in what looks to be a gesture of comfort.

In fact, it takes another five minutes of cooing and fawning before Raphael, of all people, notices that Felix is now glaring with teary eyes at his bowl of half eaten porridge.

“What’s wrong, little buddy? Not feeling well?”

Immediately the attention shifts to him and the effects are just as disastrous as Claude predicts.

“I’m not hungry.” Some of the porridge finds its way onto the table as Felix pushes his bowl away with such ferocity, Claude is half surprised it doesn’t completely tip over.

“What do you mean you’re not hungry?” Annette frowns. “This is the fourth time you’ve left a meal unfinished. Are you not feeling well? Do you need to go see Mercedes?”

“No. I don’t wanna eat anymore.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay, Felix? We just want to make sure you’re not getting sick.”

“I’m fine.”

It’s a big fat lie and anyone with half a brain can hear the distress and frustration in the blue haired boy’s voice. One lone tear manages to squeeze its way out of Felix’s water logged eyes and that’s all it takes for the table to burst into a flurry.

Claude almost feels bad for Felix as the adults descend on him like a pack of vultures, all of them crowding him and trying to coax the reason for his distress out of him. The Almyran prince has half a mind to go over and rescue his friend in arms from a situation that is probably in his top ten worst fears, but before he can even get out of his seat, Sylvain is already bounding out of his chair with a teary Felix in tow.

Sylvain shouts something about ‘Knights and Bandits’ and they’re out the southern doors before Bernadetta can even process what has happened.

Felix’s half eaten bowl of porridge sits on the table completely forgotten.

----

At lunch, Claude decides to test a hypothesis.

He asks Mercedes and Hilda to sit with the kids at lunch and pay special attention to Felix.

To everyone else, he gives them strict orders to leave their table alone.

Satisfied with how his experiment is set up, Claude finally seats himself back in his observatory spot with his own lunch sitting in front of him.

He’s not expecting amazing results. In fact, he’s not expecting his first hypothesis to be a success at all, but he wants to try it none the less because there is always the possibility that mini Felix fundamentally operates much differently than the Felix that he is used to.

What he doesn’t expect is for Felix to immediately shut down the minute Hilda tries to engage him in some conversation about the games him and Sylvain play in the courtyard.

Today’s lunch special is Daphnel Stew and Claude has it on good authority that it is a favourite of Felix’s (technically Dimitri is a reliable source, right? They were childhood friends after all).

Sylvain tries his best to jump into the conversation and pull some of the attention to himself, but Hilda is every bit as smooth of a talker as Claude is; deftly maneuvering the conversation back to Felix no matter what Sylvain does.

This time, it is Felix that reaches for Sylvain’s hand under the table.

Except instead of just holding Sylvain’s hand, Felix starts to pull at it every time Mercedes or Hilda asks him a question, as if pleading for his friend to save him.

At least Claude could now say for sure that Felix is not, and never was, a fan of being the center of attention.

When the first afternoon bell tolls signaling the end of lunch, Felix’s stew remains uneaten and untouched. On the way out of the hall, Claude looks the other way and pretends not to notice when Sylvain steals an apple from the pantry.

His experiment doesn’t exactly succeed, but he cannot write it off as a failure either. The information gathered from his two observation sessions is plentiful and a solution is forming within his mind even as he makes his way up to the war room to meet Byleth for their afternoon strategy session.

By the time he pushes open the door to his usual haunt, Claude is absolutely certain of two truths.

One, that Sylvain knows Felix better than anyone could ever hope to compare, and two, Felix Fraldarius is incredibly lucky to have an attentive best friend like Sylvain because stars above, does he suck with using his words.

----

When the hour before dinner time rolls around, Claude makes sure to talk to everyone he passes by and give them the order that no one is to approach Felix and Sylvain’s tables at mealtimes anymore. He tells them to pass the word around and it doesn’t take long before the entire monastery is in the know of their Leader’s command.

“Care for company?” Byleth smiles and sets her tray down beside his own without waiting for a reply.

Claude does a quick survey of the area to make sure no one is looking before leaning in to land a quick peck on Byleth’s cheek. Joy flutters in his stomach at her rising blush and he merely laughs and winks at her stuttered protests.

“Check it out,” Claude quickly changes the subject and nods his head over to where Bernadetta sits exhausted with a now cheerful Felix and Sylvain. The latter nodding enthusiastically to their conversation with the occasional laugh and both of their plates near devoid of food.

A tiny rush of pride swells when he sees the relived expression on Byleth’s face.

“Told ya I’d take care of it.”

Underneath the table, he flips his palm facing upward so that he can intertwine his fingers with her searching ones.

“Yes, you did.” The unspoken thanks lingers in the air between them, louder than the constant buzz of activity in the room.

For the first time in a while, the former professor looks more at ease. And Claude, being the shit stirrer that he is, cannot help but toss a little fuel into the fire.

“So… who do you think will wear white at the wedding? Between the two of them, I think Felix is the better choice.”

“What?!”

----

4.       Felix has an unwavering faith and belief in Sylvain that he’s not afraid to stubbornly stand by to the bitter end.

“Annie, are you sure this is a good idea?”

If Mercedes is concerned, then Lysithea is absolutely certain that no, this is most definitely not a good idea.

They are at the part of the training grounds where the various magic users can come to practice and hone their spells. The ground is singed with charred marks from stray thunder and fire spells, the black streaks contrasting starkly with the pale stone underneath. To the side, there is also a sand pit where mages can practice some more destructive flame based spells.

“I’m just a little curious, is all!” Annette whispers back. “I know Sylvain is really good with magic even though he never uses it. He was the one who helped me understand that magic formula that I was stuck on for a week, after all. I was thinking maybe he might show an aptitude for Reason as a child.”

“That’s fine and all; but I’m not really sure how safe it is to teach a child how to conjure a fire spell. That just seems like a recipe for disaster.”

The orange hair mage cannot help but look slightly put out by Lysithea’s comment.

Yes, maybe it wasn’t the safest idea ever… but Annette just really wants to find out the extent of Sylvain’s inherent abilities. Even after she makes him promise to take his training more seriously, she still feels like he is holding back on her when they are paired together.

“What kinda magic are you gonna show us?” Felix is eager and bouncing on his toes. The House Fraldarius specializes in swordplay, not magic, so this is a treat for him and he can barely contain his excitement.

“Oh well, I was thinking we could start off with a basic fire spell!”

“Oooh, fire!”

Annette really hopes that Felix doesn’t have a penchant for pyrotechnics.

As much of a bad idea as this is, Lysithea can’t exactly bring herself to leave them in case something goes terribly wrong. She is the strongest, most advanced Gremory the Resistance Army has; with her around, she’s confident that the worst that could happen would be some singed eyebrows and possibly an impromptu need for a haircut. But even that is an outcome that she is hoping to avoid.

Once the target is set up, Sylvain and Felix eagerly make their way over to the sidelines to watch Annette demonstrate a basic fire spell.

It’s nothing special really. Even the older Felix and Sylvain could probably cast it without much problem, but to their younger versions, the small ball of fire is so grand and spectacular that it warrants oo’s and ah’s and enthusiastic applause.

“Wow! That is so cool! Isn’t that so cool, Sylvain?”

Felix is pulling on Sylvain’s sleeve and the older boy nods emphatically with admiration shining in his eyes.

“Do you think you could do it too?”

Lysithea is startled to hear the question Felix asks Sylvain. Of course, Annette was already planning to ask the Gautier boy to attempt the spell, but that was out of curiosity.

From the shining look on Felix’s face, Lysithea knows that he is asking because in his mind, there is nothing that his smart, talented best friend in the whole wide world cannot do.

“Magic is difficult to learn and takes time. It can take years for some to learn just the basics.” She cuts in before Sylvain can answer.

She doesn’t want Felix to unwittingly trap him with an unrealistic expectation that he cannot meet and she figures it is better to disappoint him now rather than allow the red head to try and then feel guilty when he disappoints his friend.

“Sylvain is smart. I bet Sylvain could do it!”

Felix is pouting in that way that they are all quickly learning means ‘I’m right and you can’t convince me otherwise’.

“I’m sure Sylvain is very smart!” Mercedes agrees and gives the boys her best placating smile. “But I’m not so sure that a person could learn how to cast a Fire spell in one day! Why, it took Annie and I at least a week of practicing before we could do it!”

“Yep, I remember I almost burned my eyebrows off the first time I tried! But I can teach you the basics maybe and then we can bring you here again next time to practice?”

The urge to verbally reprimand the warlock for her relentless pursuit to satisfy her own curiosity rises and Lysithea has to physically clutch her biceps to stop herself from bursting.

Fine. If they were so eager to set themselves down this path, then so be it.

“Yeah!” Felix is literally vibrating with excitement and Sylvain looks nervous but determined to not let his admirer down.

Heaving a sigh, Lysithea moves to settle next to Mercedes who sends her an apologetic smile.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

----

Unsurprisingly, Felix does not do so well with learning the basics.

The diagrams and symbols are a little too much on the side of complex and it becomes apparent rather quickly that there is a reason the Fraldarius men carve through the battlefield with swords instead of magic.

“Aw, it’s okay Fe! You’re still the best with a sword anyways. You don’t need magic!” Sylvain ruffles his hair and smiles. “You’ll always beat me at swordplay.”

The small admission is enough to cheer Felix up and after a bit more nudging from the older boy, he runs off to play around with the wooden practice swords they have on the other side of the training room while Annette and Sylvain continue to work on creating basic magic circles.

It’s only after the third hour and Mercedes has long left to attend to various chores that Lysithea turns to watch Felix go through rather crude sword forms instead.

“You need to spread your feet farther apart.” Using her own foot, she nudges Felix’s left heel to the side to widen his stance. “Try striking again now.”

The wooden sword wobbles a bit in its trajectory, but the swing is undoubtedly much better than before. The sheer delight that lights up in Felix’s eyes almost makes Lysithea laugh out loud because she recognizes it as the same gleam she sees in the older Felix’s eyes when he executes a particularly hard maneuver.

“Why aren’t you watching Sylvain and Annie?”

For a five year old, Felix is incredibly perceptive.

Rather than lie to him, Lysithea opts for honesty because she is sure that’s what older Felix would have wanted.

“I don’t think he’ll succeed.”

Felix frowns. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. I know how hard it is to learn magic. I’m sure Sylvain is very intelligent, but it takes a lot of hard work to use Reason.”

“Sylvain can do it. I know he can.”

She sighs and turns a baleful eye down at Felix. “You’re a stubborn one aren’t you.”

“Glenn said that to me too when he didn’t believe me that I could stay up all night waiting for Sylvain.”

“And did you prove him wrong?”

Felix turns to full face her, expression full of gravity.

“Yup.” The dead seriousness of his tone looses Lysithea’s first laugh of the day and she cannot help but be drawn towards this little boy, the same way she was drawn to his older self.

Deigning not to continue a lost conversation, the cake loving Gremory opts to turn back and watch the progress that the other two have made, leaving Felix muttering to himself about his steadfast belief in his best friend.

----

“Alright, let’s see what you’ve got!”

The sun is setting and it is nearly time for dinner by the time Sylvain and Annette break away from Magic and Sorcery: Vol 1. to actually put some practice to the theory they have spent all day studying.

“Now, don’t be too disappointed if you can’t get it.” Annette says while moving out of the way. “You did just learn the basics and it takes a lot of practice!”

Lysithea has not moved from her perch from a nearby bench. She’s still extremely skeptical that Sylvain will manage to do very much at all. Yes, it is true that he had a budding talent for Reason during their academy days, but Sylvain hardly ever applied himself to any of his studies. The professor had to literally force him to attend one on one magic lessons with her before his aptitude for spells finally emerged.

Although, she muses, this younger Sylvain seems to be more enthusiastic to participate in things he was interested in. Even now, the scrunched up look of concentration on his face is indication enough that the Sylvain Lysithea is used to is a much different creature than the one before her currently.

House Ordelia does not really have any established trade routes with the Gautier territory, but the Ordelia heir has heard enough to know that the current Margrave is an arrogant, crest-obsessed prick.

It doesn’t take a prodigy to connect the dots and surmise that Sylvain’s carefree attitude and refusal to apply himself to anything is a product of his father’s suffocating expectations.

Fuck Margrave Gautier.

Maybe Lysithea does want Sylvain to prove her wrong and succeed; then at least he can go back home and light his father’s breeches on fire.

She’s only slightly disappointed when her expectations prove correct and the best Sylvain can conjure is one tiny flicker from a lone flame in his hand. However, it is still much more than she thought Sylvain would be able to do and for that, she is genuinely impressed.

Annette is also very much awestruck with Sylvain’s quick learning and happily informs the boy of this all the way to the dining hall. Sylvain is uncharacteristically quiet as he listens to the older mage praise him, but he is not yet skilled enough in the art of hiding behind a mask and the slight downward tilt of his lips does not go unnoticed.

“You really did an amazing job learning so much in such a short time, Sylvain! Don’t be too disappointed that you couldn’t do it.”

Sylvain gives a weak smile in return, but it is Felix who ultimately responds; one hand clasped tightly in the Gautier’s and the other one balled into a fist.

“Sylvain can do it. Just watch.”

----

Dinner passes without much fanfare and the boys are eventually tucked in for the night. Claude and Byleth have long decided that a full-time night chaperone is no longer necessary; although occasionally, one of their friends will peek into the room in the dead of night before they retire, but very rarely do they find anything wrong that requires their attention. A week has already passed with no incident, so there should be no need to exhaust their soldiers by keeping them up at night.

Except this time, when Petra nudges the door to their room open – being extremely careful not to open it too fast lest the hinges squeak – she does not see any sign of Felix or Sylvain anywhere.

It is the dead of night, but Garreg Mach Monastery blazes alive with a flurry of panic at the toll of the emergency bell.

“You’re absolutely sure no one saw them leave their room?”

Seteth slams his palms on the table and interrogates the night shift guards; his brows furrowed and mind racing a mile a minute.

If the enemy has somehow managed to sneak into Garreg Mach and kidnap the children, then they are well and truly fucked. They may have to abandon their home base or at the very least do an extensive investigation of their current ranks and re-evaluate their current passive defense.

“There were no signs that a struggle was happening.” Petra voices from her place around the war table. “I am having confidence that they left with willingness.”

“Goddess, please keep them safe.” The situation leaves a bad taste in Flayn’s mouth; it is much too reminiscent of when she was kidnapped and although it has been years since the incident, the memories still plague her.

Byleth’s voice leaves no room for discussion, “everyone split up and search the grounds. Most of our facilities are locked up at night so that should help limit the number of places we need to search.”

Everyone dashes out of the room with their orders and branch off at the second floor corridor. Those once belonging to the Black Eagle house comb through the main hall while the former Blue Lion students check all surrounding independent buildings; the Golden Deer fanning out to cover the outdoor grounds of the monastery.

An hour passes. Then another. And another.

Soon it is 3 in the morning and the panic is truly beginning to set in, giving rise to an unsettling fear clawing its way up from the depths of the night.

“Dimitri, Dedue! Have you found anything?” Ingrid pants and skids to a halt just below the stairs to the Sauna; the rest of her Blue Lion classmates run up to join her and debrief their findings.

“Nothing,” Dedue’s tone is flat as usual but his strangled expression is enough to betray his underlying worry. “We have searched all the open buildings and the grounds. There is no sign of them at all.”

Annette is near tears now and Mercedes places a hand on her shoulder, offering her silent support even while she herself is fiddling with her shawl, an attempt to keep her mind occupied before it spirals.

“It’s not like them to run away,” Ashe frowns. “Did anything happen today? Were they acting weird at all?”

“Not really. All we did was practice magic at the training grounds.”

Mercedes frowns. “Perhaps they left something there and went back to retrieve it?”

“The training grounds should be locked at 11PM. No one should be able to get in or out until sunrise.” Dimitri shakes his head.

“Well then we’re clearly running out of ideas here!” Ingrid throws up her hands in frustration and rakes them through her hair which is on the verge of looking like a bird’s nest. “We’ve checked the dining hall and the greenhouse but –“

“Your Majesty.” Dedue’s raised voice cuts Ingrid short and they look over to see the doors to the training grounds swing open slowly with a slight push of the man’s hands. “The doors were not locked as we thought.”

It takes only a heartbeat for them to scramble through the large wooden doors and down the hallway, their rushed footsteps echoing like thunder in the stone corridor.

“Oh Goddess. I smell smoke. Does anyone else smell smoke?” If her heartbeat accelerates any more, Annette is pretty sure she will have a heart attack.

“It’s coming from over there!” Their King leads the charge towards the magical training arena where the smell of smoke is the thickest.

When they burst into the open area, they are prepared for the worst. Weapons are drawn and hands raised with spells on the tips of tongues, but the sight they are greeted with is enough to shock them into stasis.

There in the middle of the sandpit, hunched over and panting hard, albeit with a brilliant grin on his face, is Sylvain. The practice dummy a few feet in front of him is alit with flames, illuminating the room with an orange glow, casting shadows along the stone walls that flicker like a live audience.

And off to the side bundled up in a woolen teal blanket that they all recognize, is a tired, but extremely proud looking Felix Fraldarius staring directly at the newcomers.

“I told you he could do it!”

----

5.       Sylvain has given Felix all the pieces of his fragile, fractured heart, even if he isn’t aware he possesses it.

Although once his greatest secret, Ignatz no longer hides his passion for art from his fellow Resistance Army members.

It’s not uncommon these days for people to find him at random places in the monastery with his art supplies sketching away at preserving a moment in time on blank paper forevermore.

Today, he is sitting on a bench next to a large oak tree, just a stone’s throw away from the main grounds. Beneath the shade and tucked between two large roots lie Sylvain and Felix, both completely tuckered out from their earlier attempts at climbing the towering tree. Sylvain is starfished on the ground with his arms stretched wide; to his left, Felix lays curled away from him with his head pillowed on the outstretched limb.

Sylvain and Felix have been the talk of the monastery for the past week and it is pretty obvious why. It’s not every day that you see two high ranking generals revert back to their child forms. Especially the most notorious bother-me-and-I’ll-bite-your-head-off and if-it-breathes-I’ll-flirt-with-it Generals to boot.

Of course, stories of their shenanigans and troublemaking usually fill the daily meal conversations, but there is one topic that floats above all else; the one that makes the maids in the kitchen giggle and even the burliest of knights crack a smile:

It is clear that even from a young age, Sylvain Jose Gautier and Felix Hugo Fraldarius are absolutely smitten with each other.

The two are inseparable and Ignatz is pretty sure that even a blind man would be able to see the absolute trust and unspoken devotion they have towards each other.

Ignatz has spent the day watching Felix and Sylvain, not just because it’s his turn to babysit, but also because he is fascinated with their bond. He had once thought that the Goddess was the most beautiful thing in the world, but the rawness and purity of their relationship fills him with more piety and awe than any portrait or statue of Sothis ever did.

It is like they are two parts of a well-oiled machine. Where one gives way, the other will step in to fill the gap; whenever Sylvain’s insecurities flare up, Felix is always there to chase the demons away with clumsy words and a physical display of affection, using his own body to ground his best friend and keep him close. Likewise, whenever tears well up in the youngest Fraldarius’ eyes (which is unfortunately quite often), Sylvain is there to wipe away the salty tracks and light up Felix’s heart with a smile warmer and brighter than sunshine.

Ignatz’s original plans were to draw the oak tree and the beautiful meadow of primrose flowers, but it seems that there will be a last minute change in muse.

Taking up his piece of charcoal, he begins the outline of what he thinks will be his fondest work to date.

Ignatz doesn’t know how long he spends sitting on that bench hunched over his sketchbook in silence with only the occasional birdsong floating through the silence. It’s so calm and peaceful that he doesn’t even notice that Sylvain has begun to stir until he looks up to find one of his subjects in a different position.

Leonie had warned him that Sylvain has a tendency towards nightmares. She had discovered that unfortunate fact in the first three days when each time she tip-toed into their room to check up on them, she found Sylvain wide awake with wild terror in his eyes and a sleepy Felix clinging to him comfortingly.

Strangely enough, Sylvain also does not startle awake from his nightmares. Instead, he slowly rouses himself as if from a deep sleep and if it weren’t for the glaze of lingering fear in his eyes, none would be able to tell that he had just woken up from a night terror.

That same glazed look is now flickering rapidly around him as if searching for the shadow of a monster that exists only within his mind.

“Sylvain…?”

Wild brown eyes finally settle on steady molten amber ones.

“Fe.”

“It’s okay, Sylvain. I’m here...”

Felix yawns and shuffles around until he is half wrapped around Sylvain with his left hand settling over Sylvain’s pounding heart.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you…” Small hands curl around the material of Sylvain’s shirt in a death grip. Felix’s loyalty and protectiveness so painfully evident even when the boy himself is half asleep. He manages to cling to the realm of the conscious for a little while longer, until the rapid thump thump thump of Sylvain’s heart slows to a steady lulling rhythm, pulling Felix back down under the veil of sleep.

Ignatz has silently watched this entire exchange and to be honest, he’s not really sure that Sylvain or Felix even remember that he is here with them. He cannot bring himself to make his presence known, so he continues to watch and observe.

He watches as the fear that was once in Sylvain’s eyes slowly recede again, the monsters inside his head vanquished in the company of his best friend. It only takes one more glance at the boy cuddled up to him with a hand protectively hovered over his heart to melt away the chains that bind him to the expectations of the people around him.

Here under this oak tree in a field of blooming young love, there is no crest or Miklan or nobility. There is only Felix and Sylvain.

Sylvain holds onto that truth as he wraps his free arm around the younger boy, tucking him more securely under his chin, letting the cool summer breeze lull him back to a dreamless sleep.

Ignatz pulls out a new page and starts a fresh outline. It takes him a little longer than anticipated to finish his drawing, but he figures it’s not such a bad thing since he likes this new version much better.

Later, as he trails after the now energetic boys back towards the monastery, Ignatz tucks his newest masterpiece securely under his arm, being very careful not to smudge the drawing or crease the paper.

After all, Claude did mention something about a wedding and Ignatz thinks that his drawing will make a fine gift.

----

Bonus: They’re just two idiots in love.

“Go away. Can’t you see I’m trying to enjoy my meal?”

“Aww, don’t be like that, Felix! You know, the younger you was much cuter. Definitely less prickly, too.” Dorothea pokes his cheek and snatches her hand away before Felix can stab it with his steak knife.

It’s been roughly a week since Felix and Sylvain have returned to their normal sizes, the dark magic having run its course and fizzling out without so much as a final spark. To the rest of the Army, this is a joyous occasion as it means that two of their best generals are now back to normal and can command them again. But to the last class of the academy… it is bittersweet.

Of course, they want their friends to return to normal. But that also means that Felix will go back to hissing and spitting with all the fury of a spooked cat and Sylvain will go back to seducing any individual that makes eye contact with him for longer than half a second.

“Better do as he says, Thea. Felix’s looking extra grumpy today and we wouldn’t want you to lose a pretty little finger.” Sylvain winks at her as he sets down his own meal and settles in the seat across from the swordsman.

The opera singer snorts, “right back to the flirting as usual. Save your hollow words for some other girl.”

“Ouch. Give a guy a break! I just recovered from a dark magic spell after all. Doesn’t that warrant some pity?”

“The only pity is that you immediately lost all your innocent and cute appeal when you reverted back to your regular body.”

Felix scowls at them, “if you insist on continuing your flirting, I’ll just eat my meal elsewhere.” He moves to stand but Sylvain is quicker and grabs his wrist, preventing him from moving.

“I’m sorry. I’ll stop. Just stay, okay? Please? For me, Fe?”

Sylvain is looking at Felix with that expression which he knows he cannot resist and Dorothea takes this opportunity to slip away while the two engage in a silent conversation with only their eyes.

“Fine.”

Their meal continues with little fanfare and easy conversation. Around them, their old classmates are scattered in their own little groups and if they notice, none of them mentions anything about how everyone seems to avoid sitting at Felix and Sylvain’s table.

Easy conversation flows into dessert, or more specifically: Felix wordlessly giving Sylvain his peach sorbet and Sylvain beaming a rare genuine smile and promising to join him at the training grounds first thing tomorrow morning.

The sun is slowly dipping below the horizon when Sylvain and Felix gather up their dishes. On their way out of the dining hall, Ignatz stops them with a heartfelt congratulations and a bundled up package that looks suspiciously like one of his works.

“Congratulations? For what?” Artfully tousled red hair shifts as Sylvain tilts his head in confusion and reluctantly accepts the gift.

“O-oh, well Claude just said…”

Dread rises up from the pit of Felix’s stomach. “What did that schemer say this time?”

“…He said that you two were getting married.”

“What?!”

[naussensei]

Hephaestion

From: King of Conquerors: The Rise of a King

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17737967?view_full_work=true

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13203982/1/King-of-Conquerors-The-Rise-of-a-King

Chapter 12: Hephaestion

348 BC

The temple of Dionysus was the most lively and popular of Pella. Offerings abounding at the feet of the joyous god, brought by the numerous believers that came to thank him each day.

Everyday, except this one.

On the other side of the city, fallen soldiers were being mourned. The streets of Pella were dead quiet. Only a few merchants, servants, and a casual orphan roamed silently the alley by the temple.

The silence was suddenly disrupted by a little boy who came rushing down the street, followed by royal guards, holding onto the small bag he was carrying. The boy went into the temple to hide from the soldiers. He passed by the statue of the god and sat in the garden, finding a safe spot to admire the goods he had just looted.

“Finally!” he said to himself, opening the bag to admire the tasty looking bun he had stolen. But just before he could take a bite, his attention was drawn to somewhere else.

Another boy sat in front of the statue of Dionysus. Thoughtful, in silence.

Is he one of the orphans? The boy wondered.

He stared at his bread with guilt for a moment. Then put it back in the bag and walked towards the boy.

“Hello”, he said, but the boy did not seem to hear him. He walked a little closer, and as he did, he recognized his golden locks of hair from somewhere.

Isn’t that the kid who almost broke my nose the other day? He noticed, slightly surprised. I’ll teach him a lesson!

He walked towards him with determination.

“Hey!” He called again, standing in front of him.

The blonde did not reply.

“I said…Hello”

They boy bent over to take a better look at the blonde’s face. His eyes looked dull and his face absent-minded.

“Are you deaf or something?” He asked, genuinely curious.

“Just go away…”, the blonde finally spoke, turning his back at him.

The boy was speechless for a moment, wondering what he had done wrong to deserve such impolite treatment. He resisted the urge to insult him, and figured it must have been something else that was troubling the young boy. He noticed his face was dirty and his clothes, although of high quality, were reduced to rags. He carried no belongings, expect for a thick, old book.

The boy stood there and observed the blonde in silence as he turned the pages of the book.

“Woah!” The boy pointed at the book, suddenly excited.

“What?” Asked the blonde, without looking away from his book.

“T-that is… Are you a fan of the Iliad too?”

The blonde looked up, his eyes recovering their color for a brief second.

“H-Have you read it?” The blonde asked, shy

“Have I read it?” Repeated the other one, scoffing. “I don’t know anyone in Macedon who has not!”

The blonde looked at him with disapproval.

“That’s only because you don’t know anybody who can’t read, you highborn jerk”

The boy gasped, offended.

“L-look who is talking! You know how to read too!” He pointed out.

“My father taught me”. He fixed his eyes on the book again. “He also taught me to interact with all kinds of people. Unlike other nobles… No human life is worth more than another. We are all mortal in the end, only the gods are above us all.”

“A wise man he must be”, he nodded, fascinated by his wise words.

“Was…”, corrected him the blonde.

The boy gulped, speechless.

“His body is being incinerated right now… among all the other soldiers”, he continued.

“I am sorry…”

“It doesn’t matter now”, he said, bitterly. His hands shaking on his book. “He decided to fight. It’s his fault…”

“Hey,” said the boy in a sweet voice, “it’s OK to be upset…he was your father after all”.

“I’m not sad!” The blonde’s voice suddenly raised. “I am angry because all my friends have been left alone, and I will be forced to live in the palace. Why do I get to live there while they starve in the streets? Why can’t the other orphans have a home too?!”

The boy looked at him, eyes wide opened. He sighed, feeling deeply sorry for him and all the other orphans.

He sat next to him and offered him a piece of bread.

The blonde snatched it out of his hands and shoved it into his mouth.

The boy gave him a warm smile.

“It’s alright”, he said, “You don’t have to feel guilty because you have a better fortune than the rest. That is not up to us but only to the gods. You are just another boy who has lost his father, no different than any other child out there. You are allowed to feel sad. You can-”

He turned to him. The blonde suddenly started sobbing.

The boy, surprised, handed him over his own share of bread he had left.

The blonde took it, chewing and shedding tears in silence at the same time, in some sort of catharsis. As he swallowed, he realized he hadn’t eaten anything the whole day, noticing also his dirty clothes and hands, feeling suddenly miserable.

When he finished eating, he suddenly broke into tears, screaming, covering his face with his hands in shame.

The other boy patted him on the back. He had never heard anyone cry like that, a pain so deep it seemed like it burst out all at a time.

They sat there like that for some time.

“I wonder if he has met the great heroes from the past…”. The boy said after a while, looking up at the clouds. “Do you think one day I will be able to join them?”

“Them?” Asked the blonde, wiping his last tears.

“Your father I mean… and Achilles, and all the great warriors up there”

The blonde looked up, taking a deep breath.

“We’ll only know if we get there”, he said. Then took a deep breath and got on his feet.

He offered the boy his hand.

“I’m Hephaestion”, he said.

The other one took his hand.

“Alexandros”, he said as he got up.

“Huh?!” Hephaestion looked at him, surprised, “Alexandros as in…  prince Alexandros?”

“Yes, why are you so surprised?” He asked, amused.

“I don’t know, I thought you were a warrior.” He stared at the boy’s slim body, disappointed.

“I am a warrior…” he said, annoyed.

“Wait…” Hephaestion examined him closely, noticing his ginger hair. “Aren’t you that kid I beat up the other day during training?”

“I-I don’t know what you are talking about”, he lied.

“Yeah you are right, it can’t be. That one was a warrior…” He said, slightly confused.

“I AM A WARRIOR!”

“You certainly don’t look like one”

“Appearances can deceive you! You cannot judge only with your eyes”, the prince stood tall, proud of his own words.

“Then how about I judge you with my fists?” Hephaestion said with a smirk.

Alexandros grinned at him, and Hephaestion knew his challenge was accepted.

They wrestled for a few minutes, both taking the advantage at different moments. They kept wrestling until they were both beaten by exhaustion. None of them able to win.

They lied on the floor, panting.

“You are not bad, for a nobleman”, said Alexandros

“And you are not so awful, for a prince”, joked Hephaestion

They both chuckled

“You’ll see, tomorrow I’ll beat you”, said the prince with confidence

“We’ll see…”

From the next day on, the two boys met at the temple everyday. Each day at the same time, for 3 weeks, before everything changed for them.

“Wake up prince, don’t let your guard down!” Said Hephaestion that day when he found Alexandros relaxing under the shade of a tree, jumping over him.

Alexandros, smaller yet more agile, easily turned him over, pinning him down to the ground.

“Not today,” he said, “I want to show you something”

He helped Hephaestion up and guided him into a small room.

“What are we doing?”

“Shh, this is my secret place” Alexandros said, walking out of the room and into a small corridor that lead to the garden.

“Secret place for what?” He asked as he followed him.

“Look”, Alexandros pointed at a mosaic mural on the wall. The silhouette of two great warriors crossing their swords shone in gold under a bright sun. By their side, other warriors fought in the middle of an epic battle scene revived in the mural.

“Woah! Are those-!?”

“Achilles and Hektor. And look, there is Paris too… and Patroclus”, he pointed at the hero standing next to Achilles.

“How did you find this place?”

“This is were I come read and eat whenever I steal something from the kitchen”

“You are a prince, why do you have to steal food?”

“My mom won’t let me have any food until I finish my training” He said, pouting

“Oh, so that’s why I barely ever saw you before in the training grounds…”

“So…” the prince changed the subject. “I wanted to let you know that you will be moving in with us tomorrow”

“W-what? You mean with your family?” he asked, his faced showed concern

“You don’t want to live with us in the palace?”

“No-no, it’s just… I was expecting to live with the servants, or… somewhere more fit for me, I don’t know…”

“Well, I’m sorry that we don’t meet your standards”, he said sarcastically.

“Don’t get me wrong. I am happy.”

Alexandros sighed.

“My father, king Philip, he knew your father. He told me he was a great warrior. Naturally, as his son, you are welcome in the palace”.

Hephaestion smiled, his eyes suddenly became glassy.

“Thank you”

“A-anyway…!” said Alexandros, hastily. He did not want to see him cry again. “Since tomorrow, we will also be training together in the palace everyday with general Attalus”

Alexandros paused and turned to him, seeking a reaction.

“Which means… we no longer have to come here to spar”

Hephaestion looked at him, puzzled.

“So…” he paused and coughed, “I, uh…  I just wanted to show you this. As a parting gift”

“Parting?”

“I mean, to say goodbye to you as my rival. Since we are on the same team now”, said the prince as he walked away, leaving Hephaestion confused. “I’ll see you around”

“Wait, Alexandros. What’s that supposed to mean?” He said as he followed him. “Alexandros!”

After that day Alexandros continued going to his secret place, as always. Book in hand, carrying a bag with his precious stolen buns, he sat in the garden by the mural and waited. Waited all morning, at the same time for the next couple of days, but Hephaestion never came as he expected.

“I knew it”, Alexandros said, tossing the bread far away. “He’s not my real friend!”

He crouched against the wall and hid his face into his knees.

Nobody would want to be friends with a prince…

Painful memories flashed through his mind. He recalled the time when he used to sneak out the palace to play with other children. Until the war changed everything.

“It is your fault that our fathers and brothers are dead!”

“It is your father’s war they are fighting!”

“We don’t want to see you anymore!”

“Go back to your palace, prince!”

A familiar feeling of loneliness hit him like a spear though his chest. He closed his eyes and cried to sleep.

“Alexandros”

A voice called him.

“Alexandros, wake up”

The prince opened his eyes, Hephaestion was kneeling in front of him.

“What are you doing here, you are missing training”

Alexandros yawned, stretching his arms and legs.

“Let’s go, your mom is angry, she is looking for you”

“I don’t care”, the prince said, getting up with trouble. His legs had gone numbed.

Hephaestion helped him up.

“Go away”, protested the prince.

Hephaestion grabbed him, regardless, and carried him over his shoulders.

“Hey put me down!” he said, helpless. “What I do or not is none of your business! Why do you care!?”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble. You are my friend”

Hephaestion felt how Alexandros suddenly stopped struggling, and a tear drop landed on his cheek.

“You dumb prince”, he said, putting him down.

Hephaestion wiped Alexandros’ tears. He held his hand and they walked together back into the palace.

-

The next day, Alexandros skipped training again. This time Olympias spoke directly to Hepheastion.

“Boy”, the queen called him over when he was training.

Hepheastion looked around, hesitant.

“Yes, you. Come, child”

Hephaestion slowly walked toward her, slightly embarrassed by all the eyes suddenly on him.

“I saw you walking with my son, the prince, into the place yesterday. Do you know where he hides?”

A drop of cold sweat ran down Hephaestion’s spine.

“No, your highness”, he lied.

The cunning woman saw through his lie.

“If you happen to see my son, could you pass him a message?”

The boy nodded hastily

“Tell him that if I find out he has been skipping his duties, or if he has taken food without my permission, there will be punishment”

“Yes, your highness”

The queen turned around.

“Oh, and also tell him I said that anyone who is found with him, or helping him escape from his duties, they will be punished with him”.

The boy gulped. He waited for the queen to leave and excused himself to go to the bathroom, then headed to the temple of Dionysus.

When he walked into the garden, he found Alexandros relaxing on the grass, a leg crossed over his knee, hands behind his head.

Hephaestion sighed.

“Again with this, Alexandros”

He pretended to be asleep.

“Hey, you can trick your mom but not me. I know you are awake”

He came closer and attempted to poke him with his lance.

Alexandros reacted on time, grabbing his lance and throwing him in the air. Hephaestion grabbed onto the lance and pushed it into the ground between Alexandros legs.

“That’s a good start!”, he said, grinning and getting up and ready to fight.

“What are you doing! Your mom in angry! Now she is going to yell at me too! You are getting us both into trouble!”

“But it’s no fun over there”, he said, pouting, “Nobody can actually handle a fight. No one…except maybe you”

“I’ll fight you in the palace, come on let’s go”. He said, pulling his arm.

“I’ll go only if you beat me”, he said, clinging onto an olive tree with his other arm.

“Fine!” He said, letting go of his arm and getting ready to fight.

“If I win, you will have to come here with me whenever I come, and do everything I say!”

“That will never happen!”

But it happened.

The temple became the boys’ place hangout. At first, Hephaestion came to take Alexandros back to the training grounds, scared of getting scold by Olympias and Attalus. But Alexandros always found a different adventure to go on every time, and Hephaestion couldn’t resist. Hephaestion managed to negotiate with the stubborn prince, agreeing he would go with him anywhere, but only after finishing their training. Every now and then, they would both sneak out to eat in secret, or read and share their passion for the Iliad.

The days went by and the boys lived their days without big worries, until Alexander’s sixteenth birthday came.

Hephaestion had been waiting for a long time in the garden. It was already dark when Alexandros came.

“What took you so long?” he asked when the prince walked in.

Alexander walked slowly toward him, looking confused and astonished.

“Everything alright?” asked Hephaestion, suddenly worried.

“Father just left for battle”, he said, sitting by his side. “It has begun”

The blonde stared at him in silence. He knew exactly what he meant.

“He named me king regent…”

“What? That’s-”

“We’ll go into battle soon…Hephaestion”

Hephaestion’s heartbeat rose, exited yet terrified.

Alexandros lied on the grass next to him in silence, gazing at the stars. Hephaestion lied by his side.

It was a bright, clear sky. Orion shone in all its might. Both boys dazzled by the lights.

“Hey, Hephaestion…?”

“Yeah?” Hephaestion turned to him.

“One day I will be King. A real king. And when I am king, I want to see the world”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I like you. And because I trust you”

Hephaestion blushed, speechless.

“Hephaestion, will you follow me into my greatest adventure?”

Hephaestion stretched his hand and held Alexandros’.

“I will follow you until the end of the world”

Alexander turned to him and smiled.

“I have only one condition” Added Hephaestion, suddenly sitting up. “One day, when our lives come to an end. But we will become heroes, together, and our names will become immortal.”

Alexander sat facing him, listening attentively.

“This means… we cannot die in this war with the Athenians. Your father will come back alive and unite this kingdom…and he will watch you as you become a greater king than he could ever be! A conqueror king, one like the world has never seen before!”

Hephaestion could swear he saw Zeus’s thunder sparkling in the prince’s eyes for a moment.

“I, Alexandros, prince of Macedonia, swear that you, Hephaestion, and l will become great heroes. And the people of Macedon… no, the people of the world will tell our legends and sing our songs for generations”

“Just like Achilles and Patroclus?”

“Exactly like them”

They both gazed up at the stars one more time.

“I would be Achilles, though” said Hephaestion, out of the blue.

“No, that would be me”, argued Alexandros

“Why? I’m stronger”

“I’m prince. I win”

“Fine…”, he agreed. “But…hey, wait a minute, nobody sings about Patroclus”

“Well then, we will make sure everyone sings about the great heroes Alexander and Hephaestion”

“Nice try. I’ll show you I would be a better Achilles by beating you”

“You can try” Alexander grinned.

They wrestled roughly, but none of them able to beat the other. Alexander chuckled as he watched Hephaestion break free from him every time, pinning the prince down to the grass.

“I’m beginning to think you enjoy losing against me sometimes, Alexandros”, said Hephaestion, smirking as he held on to Alexandros’ wrists. The prince did not resist, not even one muscle of his body tried to move.

“Maybe I do…”

Alexandros stared at him, intense eyes, a shy yet hungry smile on his lips. His cheeks glowing slightly red.

Hephaestion was stunned by that view for a second. His eyes fixed on the prince’s lips. He let go off his wrists and drew the contour of his mouth with one finger. Alexandros gently grabbed Hephaestion’s face to bring him closer to his. Hephaestion closed his eyes and slightly opened his mouth, feeling the prince’s breath on his lips.

[pocket-luv101]

Across Time || Chapter 7

Fandom: Servamp Ships: KuroMahi (main), LawLicht (side) Characters: Kuro, Mahiru, Hyde, Licht

Summary: Mahiru falls into a well and is taken to a new, fantasy world. He comes across a half-blooded cat demon trapped in a tree. After he frees Kuro, he helps him collect the shards of the sacred jewel. (KuroMahi, InuYasha AU)

Ch.1 || Ch.2 || Ch.3 || Ch.4 || Ch.5 || Ch.6 || (Ch.7) ||

“Do you have a sheath that will match this knife, Sir?” Mahiru asked the merchant and showed him the knife Kuro made for him. He hoped he wouldn’t need to use it but he wanted to keep it close to him. The weapon was a considerate gift from Kuro, after all. The merchant showed him a few sheaths and scabbards. He examined each one until he settled on a simple, black sheath.

Kuro stood behind him and waited for Mahiru to finish speaking with the vendor. He could feel people’s stares stab his back and he flattened his ears as much as he could. Mahiru treated him kindly and he could almost forget that he was half demon. Yet, it was always in the back of his mind and the distrust people showed him reminded him of that.

“Should we buy a scabbard for your tessaiga as well?” He asked Kuro and looked over his shoulder to him. Mahiru noticed his ears and wondered why he appeared so tense. After he paid the merchant, he walked to Kuro. He reached up to lightly pet his ears. “What’s wrong, Kuro? If you’re hungry, we can get something to eat right now. Oh, this is for you.”

“You didn’t need to buy me a scabbard.” Kuro took the gift into his hand.

“This is to thank you for protecting me. Also, it’s dangerous to wear a blade without a sheath. You should use this or you might cut yourself. We can always exchange it if it doesn’t fit.” He insisted but it was his smile that made Kuro accept the scabbard. His sword reverted to a thin blade when he wasn’t fighting and he easily slid into sheath. “It looks like it fits.”

“Thank you.” He said and a small blush appeared on his cheeks. Kuro couldn’t remember the last time he received a gift. He vowed never to use the sword again but the scabbard would help him carry it easier. He tied the sword to his waist and then asked, “Where should we go now? I doubt any of these merchants can sell us a jewel shard.”

“The merchant told me that he heard about a pair of strong demons who can use thunder. They attacked the valley nearby and destroyed most of the landscape. For two demons to do that, they must be using the power of the shards. Let’s head north and see if we can run into them. There are two demons so we’ll have to work together. We should plan how to combine our attacks on the way.”

“I’ll punch them while you hide in a tree with your arrows.” Kuro’s suggestion made Mahiru pout. While they fought the frog prince together, Kuro didn’t know how well they would fare against two demons. He thought it would be better if Mahiru hid while he fought alone. He would worry about him and become distracted if he did join the battle.

“Give me more credit, Kuro. We collected five jewel shards together.” Mahiru reminded him as he swung the pouch around his finger. He tucked it back under his shirt before he returned to where he left his bike leaning against a stall. He gasped when he found a boy sitting on his bike and rummaging through his bag. “Hey! Get out of my bag.”

The boy jumped off his bike but Mahiru saw that he was clutching his knife. He was quick and Mahiru had to use his bike to keep up with him. He also had a wolf tail so he knew that he was a demon. Mahiru yelled for him to stop but that only made him run faster. Kuro ran beside Mahiru and groaned, “Troublesome kid. I know you just bought that sheath but do we have to chase that kid?”

“He took the knife you gave me! When we catch him, I’m going to give him a very long lecture. Run ahead of him so we can corner him.” He ordered but Kuro was too surprised to react for a moment. He didn’t think he would find the knife he gave him so important. “Kuro, hurry before he gets away.”

“You like to order me around a lot.” He was faster than the child and he was easily able to catch him. Kuro grabbed his collar and lifted him off the ground. Mahiru stopped his bike next to them and paused to catch his breath. He stepped off his bike with a huff and held out his hand. With a guilty expression, the boy returned the knife.

Seeing his remorse, Mahiru’s anger disappeared and his expression softened. He carefully placed him on the ground. He knelt on the ground and patted his head. Mahiru lightly lectured him. “It’s not right to steal from others. I’m sure you had your reasons but there should be other options you can try first. Now, what is your name and where are your parents?”

“I’m Takuto Kurumamori of the Wolf Demon Tribe. I got separated from them when our home was attacked.” He told them and Mahiru frowned. “A terrible demon has been chasing my family because he wants the pretty jewels my dad found. Dad says his name is Touma and that he’s a spider demon. If I want to get back to my family and stop Touma, I need that knife to fight.”

“Takuto, do remember what I said earlier? There are other solutions that you should consider first. In this case, you should’ve approached us and told us about your situation. We will be happy to help you back to your family and fight that spider demon. Kuro is very strong so I know he’ll be able to defeat them.” Mahiru told him.

He wasn’t surprised to hear that others were collecting the shards as well. From what Kuro and his uncle told him, many demons would want its power. He wondered how much others had. It would be more difficult to defeat the demon if they had a lot. That was only more reason for them to collect the shards quickly. “Can you tell us where your family might be?”

“You’re good with kids, Mahiru.” Others would be too angry to offer their help after someone stole from them. Yet, Mahiru had a kind heart. Kuro knelt next to him and said: “We’re collecting the shards too so this will be good for all of us. We can defeat that demon and take Touma’s jewel shard. Then, they won’t be able to attack your family.”

“You’re searching for the jewel shards too?” Takuto asked and Mahiru nodded.

“I want to reform the jewel and keep demons from using its power. Let’s go find your dad now. I’m sure he must be worried about you. Lead the way and we’ll follow you.” He held out his hand to him. Mahiru was taken by surprised when he transformed into a large, pink balloon. He fell backwards and tried to wave aside the smoke. “What is this Takuto?”

“I won’t let you take Dad’s jewel shard. We need it more than you humans!” Takuto grabbed the pouch with his jewel shards and dashed away. While Mahiru chased him, Kuro followed them at a languid pace. The boy was a demon but he was still a mere child. He doubted his powers had fully developed so he only had small attacks like the balloon. He thought Mahiru would be able to take back the shards easily.

“Stop, Takuto! What did we just discussed about stealing? Give those shards back.” Mahiru called after him. He didn’t want to fight a child but he had to restrain him. He caught the boy’s wrist and gave him a stern look. Takuto wasn’t intimidated and he created another ball of smoke around him. Mahiru kept a firm grip so he couldn’t escape yet he quickly discovered that he wasn’t trying to.

Kuro stepped through the bushes with the thought that Mahiru had already taken back the shards. He was shocked to discover Mahiru wrestling with himself. He knew demons could take on other’s appearance so he guessed one was Takuto. But which one? One saw him and reached out to him. “Help me, Kuro. Please, get Takuto off me.”

“No, I’m the real Mahiru!” The other insisted. “Kuro, you should know it’s me.”

“Oh, don’t even try that trick, Takuto!” Their argument made Kuro dizzy and he tried to think of how to tell them apart. He thought it would be easy enough to ask them something only Mahiru would know. Before he could speak, Mahiru’s eyes met his. The way he looked at him with determination sparked his memory and Kuro held his hand towards him.

Then, Mahiru said: “I’m sorry, Kuro, but this is the only way. Sit, boy!”

“Mahiru, no!” He wanted to tell him he already knew but it was too late. The bell jingled as it was pulled to the ground. Mahiru walked back to Kuro and knelt next to him. He tenderly stroked his ear as an apology for using the enchantment on him. Kuro groaned, “Can’t deal.”

“I’m sorry, Kuro. I couldn’t think of another way to prove who I am.” He said. He turned to Takuro and lightly lectured him. “Takuto, you should apologize to Kuro as well. You took the shards from us. We went through a lot to collect them.”

Takuto walked to Kuro with his head lowered. He looked guilty and remorseful so Mahiru thought he would apologize. Instead, the boy placed a small, stone statue on Kuro’s palm. The statue grew and pinned his hands to the ground. He slapped a spell tag onto the statue so he wouldn’t be able to lift it. Then, he ran away and Mahiru let out a frustrated breath.

“Again?” He yelled. While he was growing irritated with his behaviour, he reminded himself that Takuto was only a child. He was separated from his family and desperate to return to them. He hoped talking to him again would make him trust them.

“Don’t go, Mahiru! At least peel off the spell tag before you run off!” He called after him yet Mahiru was already gone.

“Dad? Can you hear me? I’m here.” Takuto yelled into the forest but no one answered him. His family had been chased from their cave in the mountain and he tried to find the direction they ran. He held the pouch of jewel shards in his tiny fist. He overheard his father tell Tsurugi that they could grant the wielder power. With the jewel, his family would be safe from the demons chasing them.

The bushes in front of him started to rustle and he walked towards it cautiously. “Dad? I found more jewel shards for our family.”

“Well, what do we have here? It looks like a lost, little wolf.” Takuto stiffened when a man stepped out of the bushes. He didn’t recognize the man yet his glare made a shiver run through him. His appearance was human but Takuto could smell his demon blood. “You have a few shards with you too. Give ‘em to me or else.”

“Step away from that child!” A shout made them pause and they turned towards the voice. Mahiru stood a few feet from then with his arrow drawn. He never took his eyes off the demon as he spoke to Takuto. “Takuto, take the jewel shards and run back to Kuro. I’ll hold him back while you bring him here.”

Takuto stood frozen with fear.

“You think you can defeat us?” The Demon laughed and ignored his threat. He demon reached towards Takuto and Mahiru released his arrow. He managed to graze his arm and that allowed Takuto to scurry to his side. As he raised his second arrow, he noticed that there were two jewel shards embedded in his forehead. He wasn’t expecting to fight a powerful demon and Kuro was waiting by the road.

He decided that it was best to flee and he quickly picked Takuto up. Mahiru tried to run back to where Kuro was but a bolt of lightning blocked his path. The attack was powerful enough to destroy the ground and he stumbled backwards. He hugged Takuto tight so he wouldn’t be hurt as they fell to the ground. Two pairs of feet stopped beside them. “You’re a very foolish human.”

“You two must be the Thunder Twins.” Mahiru remembered the two demons the merchant told him about earlier. Takuto was shaking behind him so Mahiru did his best to appear brave for his sake. He wished Kuro was with him so they could fight together. Even if the demons both had several shards, he was confident that they could defeat them together.

“We don’t want to fight. The only thing you want is the jewel shards so take them. They’re in this bag so go get them.” His mind raced to think of a way to escape. Mahiru took his coin purse and tied it to his arrow. He didn’t aim the arrow at them but shot it into the distance. While the Thunder Brothers were debating if it was a trick, Mahiru took Takuto and fled.

He ran as fast as he could until he found a large rock they could hide behind. He hoped the brothers would pass them without finding them. Mahiru looked down at Takuto and knew that their best option now was for him to defeat them. He didn’t know if he would agree though. “Why didn’t you run back to Kuro when I told you to? If you’re afraid, I understand. But you can trust Kuro to help you.”

“Why would you two want to help me when I took your jewel shards from you?” He whispered back. “You want to take Dad’s shards too! The demon collecting shards have been chasing us for days and they destroyed our home. I won’t let you hurt my family too.”

“There are bad demons gathering the shards but we’re not like them.” Mahiru promised. He could see how much Takuto cared about his family. He only stole from them when they mentioned the jewel shards. “We want to keep bad demons from becoming more powerful. Your family sounds nice and they’re only using it for protection. I feel comfortable allowing you to keep the shards you already have.”

“Really?” His eyes widened. “Can we have your shards too?”

“Kuro and I worked hard to get them so we can’t give them away so easily.” He shook his head. “I would like to meet your parents and speak with them. I just want to see that they’re as kind as think they are. Eventually, we’ll have to reform the jewel though. We have to contain its power for everyone’s safety. I promise, I’ll ask for your family’s shards last.”

“What will you do after you collect all the shards?” He asked. The simple answer was to give the jewel to someone who could protect it and then return to his own time. Yet, Kuro’s face appeared in his mind. They had grown close and Mahiru would miss him. He could only travel through time with the jewel so they wouldn’t be able to see each other again.

He became lost in thought and he didn’t hear someone approach them. Thunder split the boulder behind them and the shock made Mahiru scream. The force pushed them forward but he managed to catch a branch before he hit the ground. The Thunder Brothers surrounded them and he couldn’t think of another way to escape. “You tricked us!”

“It wasn’t hard.” Mahiru retorted. He wanted to keep their focus on him so they wouldn’t hurt Takuto. He gripped the hilt of his knife and waited for an opening. It was difficult since there were two of them. If he attacked one, the other would simply counter it. Takuto was too young to help fight even if he was a demon. The tricks he used earlier weren’t powerful.

“You’ll regret angering us!” The elder brother lifted his spear to attack them and Mahiru instinctively raised his hands to defend himself. Light gathered in his hands and became a solid shield in front of them. He was shocked by the light but it reminded him of the first time he faced the centipede demon. A similar light protected him but he didn’t know what it was or how he summoned it. “What is this?”

“Mahiru!” He heard Kuro’s voice and became distracted for a moment. His shield faltered yet he wasn’t hurt. Kuro jumped between them and punched the demon. Mahiru saw the other brother try to attack Kuro so he stabbed his arm with his knife. He returned to his side and felt his racing heart become calmer. “Are you hurt, Mahiru?”

“I’m fine. Wait, what happened to your forehead?” Mahiru asked worriedly. There was a large mark on his forehead. He wanted to look closer at the mark to make sure he wasn’t hurt. They were in the middle of a fight so he knew it wasn’t the right time.

“I was trying to tell you about the seal but you ran away too fast.” At first, he intended to wait for him to return. But then he heard him scream and desperately escaped the seal. “It was almost impossible to lift the statue unless you peel off the seal. I had to break the statue itself to get free. Since I couldn’t use my hands, I had to use my head. Next time, don’t run off without me. We both end up in troublesome situations when you do.”

“I won’t.” Mahiru promised. “Let’s defeat these two together.”

Mahiru tucked a blanket over a sleeping Takuto later that night. After everything that happened that night, he must’ve been tired. He walked to Kuro who was sitting against the tree. His eyes were closed but he knew that he was still awake. As he sat down, Kuro asked him: “Do you think it’s a good idea to let the wolf tribe keep the shards they already have?”

“Takuto may be brash but he’s a good kid who cares about his family. It’s a sign that he was raised well. I think we can trust them. We will know for sure once we meet them.” Mahiru reasoned. He placed his hand on his cheek and turned his face towards him. “Can I see your forehead? You broke the statue and that must’ve hurt.”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.” He said but Mahiru It was dark so he couldn’t see very well. He leaned closer and gently ran his fingers over his forehead. “Will I survive, Doctor?”

“There isn’t a bump so you’ll make a full recovery.” Mahiru played along and they both laughed softly. He quickly placed his finger over Kuro’s lips when he heard Takuto start to stir. He didn’t want to wake him when he was so tired. Kuro couldn’t help but notice how warm his finger was. “I’m going to sleep but wake me up when it’s my turn to keep watch.”

“Not if I fall asleep first.” Mahiru rolled his eyes. He knew that he was joking so he slipped into his sleeping bag. He crawled onto his side and his eyes fell onto Kuro. He felt comfortable and safe with him sleeping nearby. Briefly, he closed his eyes but then he sensed someone next to him. Opening his eyes, he found Takuto.

“Can I sleep in your nest? I would always sleep next to Dad. But that was only because he needed me to protect him! I can protect you too.” He said. Mahiru realized that this would be his first night away from his father. He could only imagine how lonely he felt. He lifted the blanket and Takuto laid down next to him. “Goodnight, Mahiru.”

“Goodnight.” He said back to him. “You don’t have to worry about protecting me. We have Kuro here to watch over us. The only thing you need to do is get a good night’s rest so you can take us to your family.” He told him and he settled into the sleeping bag. He eventually drifted off to sleep.

Kuro watched over Mahiru. From his even breathing, he knew that he was sleeping deeply. He was also tired and he closed his eyes. He listened to the sounds of the forest for anyone approaching them though. The night was peaceful and he thought of when he was pinned to the tree. He had a fretful sleep throughout the enchantment. Now, he was able to sleep soundly.

He heard someone approach them and he jumped to his feet. Kuro rushed to wake Mahiru but someone tackled him to the ground before he could him. He tried to fight the men but the two held his arms to the ground. In the corner of his eyes, he saw a third man grab Mahiru’s sleeping bag.

The sleeping bag was lifted off the ground and the motion woke Mahiru. He heard Kuro call his name and he frantically looked around him. He tilted his head up and saw a man carrying him away. His sleeping bag made it difficult for him to fight back. Takuto woke as well and held onto his shoulder to not fall.

“Dad? Dad, you found me!” Takuto cheered when he saw who was taking them away.

“Your dad? Tell him to put us down.” Mahiru told him. Yet, Takuto happily scrambled out of the bag and hugged his father. He hanged onto his shoulder while they ran through the forest. He saw Kuro disappear in the night.

[whycraft]

The Three Body Problem: Chapter 8

AO3 | Wattpad | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

A/N: Possible tw for this chapter? The Watcher has some flashbacks to a war (nothing graphic, but they think Grian is one of their old brothers in arms (that’s not the right term but I can’t remember the right one))

The war progressed quite quickly after that. Flags were stolen, lives were lost, and both teams were a bit on edge - but no one was as on edge as Watcher. Frankly, it was giving Grian a bit of a headache.

It was for this reason that he suggested having a final battle; first to his own teammates, then to Team STAR. The war had been dragging on for a while, so everyone was pretty open to the idea.

On the day of the battle, Grian and the Watcher watched as Cub and Scar set up their cameras on the head platform, preparing to report on the battle.

I can’t believe they’re not going to fight, said the Watcher scornfully. Cowards, the both of them.

There’s a lot of people who aren’t fighting. They’re not cowards, they just don’t want to participate.

Cowards.

Grian sighed. Are you ready?

Yes. 

Let’s go, then.

They joined up with the rest of G-Team in their meeting room. Grian gave a quick peptalk, then they talked strategy, then split into smaller teams and began gearing up.

Several communicators beeped at once. It was Cub: [Go!!]

The battle had begun.

Grian and Jevin immediately headed out of their base and towards Team STAR’s. Their task was to distract the archers and the ghast canon while Joe built a bridge over the moat. By that point in time, the moat was deadly - magma blocks and Guardians were scattered every few feet. In order to steal Team STAR’s final flag, G-Team had to be able to make it across the moat.

“I think I’m gonna try to blow a hole in their wall,” said Grian, inching as close as he could and pulling out his TNT.

“I’m going to try to draw their fire over here,” said Jevin. “Stay safe.”

Grian lit off the TNT, but it didn’t cause any substantial damage.

“Oh my gosh,” said Jevin. “Dude, I’ve gotta get out of here, there’s TNT everywhere -”

A ghast ball flew over Grian’s head and landed somewhere behind him. Next thing he knew, he was flying into the air with the sounds of explosions in his ears. He landed close to the water, unharmed save for fall damage.

“I’m guessing that was the TNT you were talking about?” he said, struggling to get the breath back into his chest. “Jevin? You okay?”

“No, man, I need to get some regen. Hang on -” Jevin tossed a regen potion at his feet. “I think we’ve got a successful bridge, by the way.”

The Watcher cheered inside his head, but Grian was too busy watching Doc and Ren. “Are they putting llamas in - I can’t believe my eyes, what are they doing?”

“Grian, we need more gear.”

Grian tore himself away from Doc and Ren’s llama machine. “Right. Quick retreat, then.”

They scampered back to G-Team’s base only to find that the front was overrun by witches. They backtracked to one of Jevin’s potion outposts and took turns pressing the button.

Grian and Jevin’s communicators beeped at the same time. It was ConCorp: [STAR 9, G 5]

We’re running out of lives, we need a new strategy! We need to take initiative!

Wels ran past them, leaping over the hill like some sort of bizarre gazelle.

Watcher took control and grabbed Cleo, who was running in the opposite direction. “Gang up on Wels, gang up on Wels!”

Watcher, you’ve got to warn me before you do that!

“I’ve only got a stone sword!” she said, but chased after Wels alongside Jevin nonetheless.

“It doesn’t matter, keep going,” said the Watcher, aiming his bow and releasing an arrow. Wels dodged it easily. “No, don’t let him - don’t let him get away!”

But Wels was too quick, and made it safely back to Team STAR’s base.

“Oh, he’s gone,” said the Watcher dispiritedly. 

Grian took back control. “I’m going in with an invisibility potion. Jevin, Cleo, distract them.”

Between the invisibility potion and the darkness of night, it was easy to cross the battlefield and then Joe’s bridge unnoticed. He slipped into the labyrinth and closed the door behind him. He didn’t have to worry about phantoms; they’d all been killed by that point.

“Alright,” he said, “let’s do this.”

But that was easier said than done. A labyrinth was a labyrinth, after all, and it was not exactly easy to find one’s way in a labyrinth, much less in a barely-lit one. Each time they were met with a cave or a blank wall instead of a flag room, the Watcher became increasingly angrier.

It’s not in here!

No, wait, I think I see something.

It was the flag! It was in a long, thin room hidden behind iron bars. Grian broke the iron bars without hesitation and rushed towards the flag.

If it hadn’t been for the noise, he probably would have kept running. But there had been a noise. Grian knew a pufferfish when he heard one, and even he knew enough about redstone to realise that he’d probably set off a trap.

At the opposite end of the room, only a few blocks from the flag, there was an explosion. Then another - closer, this time - and another - and another - Grian turned back to go the way he’d come from, but there were explosions coming from that end, too. There was nowhere to go. Grian closed his eyes.

No! We’re going to lose!

We’re going to die!

But just before the explosions were about to reach them, they ceased. Grian cracked one eye open, then the other. Were they safe?

“Of course,” he realised. “They can’t blow up the pufferfish.”

In no time at all, they’d grabbed the flag and made their way to the top of the labyrinth. Unfortunately, they’d spent too long searching for the flag: their invisibility potion had run out.

We’re going to have to run for it, said the Watcher. Don’t stop until we’ve reached the meeting room. Are you ready?

As I’ll ever be. Grian peeked his head out of the door, then darted out of the labyrinth and across the bridge.

Almost immediately, the archers on top of the wall called out and started shooting at him. They jumped down from the wall and started chasing him before he could get out of range.

All the noise got the attention of just about every other Hermit in the battle, and friend and foe alike started following Grian - Team STAR to reclaim their flag, G-Team to protect Grian from Team STAR.

Faster, faster, they’re just behind us!

Watcher, I can’t go any -

Oh, go away! They wrestled control of the body away from Grian and ran faster. There were a few surprised yells from their Team STAR pursuers, who also began to run faster.

The Watcher’s fingers tightened around the flag pole, knuckles white against the wood. Their breathing hitched and stuttered.

Watcher? You good?

No, I’m not good, ∴ᔑℸ ᓵ⍑ᒷ ∷! We’re in the middle of a war!

What’d you call me?

This is no time for jokes! Shut up and cover me!

Watcher, I’m inside your head, I can’t run.

But the Watcher didn’t listen, only ran faster. They were at the back entrance of the G-Team base, and scrambled to press the button and get through the door with the flag in hand. They’d only just made it to the bubblevator when the door opened again and a group of Hermits poured in. The Watcher jumped into the bubblevator and shot upwards.

They’re going to catch me, the Watcher said hysterically. ∴ᔑℸ ᓵ⍑ᒷ ∷, do something!

Watcher, snap out of it!

The rest of the hermits were right on their tail. The bubblevator dragged them past the meeting room and spat them out on the roof of the G-Team base. Their foot caught on the rim of the bubblevator, causing them to crash onto the ground. They let out a low cry, holding the flag close to their chest as they slid a few blocks.

“Grian? Grian? Guys, I think something’s wrong.” It was Joe; the rest of the hermits had arrived.

“Grian?” Ren put a hand on the Watcher’s shoulder, but the Watcher grabbed his wrist in a vice-like grip, causing him to cry out in pain.

They stood up, and through gritted teeth, growled out, “I am not Grian.”

Ren yanked his arm away from the Watcher and backed away towards the other Hermits, who were warily readying their weapons.

“...Grian?” said Mumbo tentatively.

“I am not Grian!” Ignoring the many alarmed shouts, they turned tail and leapt off the roof.