#anyway ‘the soldier as corpse refused to be an IT but yet could not be a person’

[wrishwrosh]

would like to share my excerpts from ch 5 “the corpse” but i would have to just post the entire chapter and it would be really embarrassing to get copyright struck by u chicago press for a tumblr post

here we fuckin GO boys

[shortnotsweet]

[ “SOMEBODY TOLD ME”]:

BREAKING MY BACK JUST TO KNOW YOUR NAME. SEVENTEEN TRACKS AND I’VE HAD IT WITH THIS GAME. A BREAKIN’ MY BACK JUST TO KNOW YOUR NAME—BUT HEAVEN AIN’T CLOSE IN A PLACE LIKE THIS.

— The Killers, Hot Fuss (2004)

Princess Rhaenyra’s insolence is wearing her stepmother’s patience thin. Queen Alicent is not ten years her senior, but even during her own sixteenth year, she cannot recall herself behaving so brazenly. She would never burst into courtly discussions in nothing but gilded armor and the underskirts of her riding leathers, awash in blood. (She would never be spotted in blood that was not her own, anyway. Alicent has never picked up a sword, not one that belonged to her.) Nevermind that Rhaenyra is attending to diplomatic affairs with bared teeth and scales, no—the crux of the matter is just that, her affairs. Rhaenyra is the Realm’s Delight, a beauty incomparable to any fair maiden, Alicent included. She indulges herself with appetite of a spoiled child, the confidence of man, and the pickings befitting only to her royal blood. Criston Cole. Daemon Targaryen. Harwin Strong. Laena Velaryon. She’s full of love, isn’t she? That selfish, foolish girl. What does Rhaenyra Targaryen know of love, of duty? She is a child in so many ways—she thinks killing makes her a man, thinks the throne is hers despite being a woman, thinks she can have her knight and her uncle and her protector and Laena Velaryon in one fail swoop. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know herself half as well as Alicent does. Alicent, who sees her for what she truly is, who wants to see all of her and more of her and none of her. Alicent has been stolen into the Keep by her own father—both of their fathers—but Rhaenyra is the key to this place, is the window to everything barred. Rhaenyra Targaryen has a dragon. Rhaenyra can fly.

That’s what Rhaenyra had promised her once, with her lips pulled back in a grin, exposing the white of her teeth like the violently radiant creature she was. “Perhaps when you grow tired of plotting against me, we shall ride on dragonback together,” she had said. The tease.

Alicent had yanked her into an empty corridor by the silk of her sleeve, ready to chastise her for her ill behavior. Conversing with the lords and ladies of the court at a feast was one thing, but chattering about her bloody encounters in battle over the pudding tureen were another. The lord at her elbow was going green. Alicent’s own face was likely red; her heart raced whenever Rhaenyra got like this. Alicent had never seen the battlefield—only seen battered men in dented armor and the slumps of corpses lined along dirt roads in the aftermath of war—but her own imagination terrified her like nothing else.

(Rhaenyra is better with a sword than half of the knights in Westeros, and more lovely than the lot. Her reign has not yet begun, but already the commoners flock to her—lured in by tales of her beauty and fine hair—and soldiers would follow her into battle. Alicent would not follow, but she would watch and bite her nails down to the quick.

She thinks of the figure Rhaenyra cuts in full armor, the heat in her gaze underneath the slots of her helmet. Alicent remembers the weight of her own hand in Rhaenyra’s—which was gloved—when the princess rode up to the spectators box and grasped it in her own, bringing Alicent’s knuckles to her lips. She thinks of Rhaenyra murdered in the sky, skewered with another man’s sword, plummeting to the ground, torn in half, streaking crimson across the clouds. Alicent would scream, or cry. She might laugh. She would throw herself from the window of her tower. Rhaenyra’s bloody exploits terrified Alicent for reasons she could not identify, and excited her for reasons she refused to.)

“I’d sooner be confined to the castle for the rest of my days than get on the back of that bloody lizard,” Alicent scoffed. Rhaenyra only tucked her hand over Alicent’s, where it was resting on her forearm. She flexed her fingers, moving to release her grip on the dark fabric, but Rhaenyra intertwined their fingers and held them fast.

“You’re confined already. You are already accustomed to such a thing. I know you. But—”

“But you forget yourself. You think you’re invulnerable, Rhaenyra. You don’t know who you are.” Alicent intends for it to be a sneer, but instead it comes out quietly, and too gentle for disdain. She can’t know. Rhaenyra is as trapped as she is, but they’re trapped together. They belong together. She belongs with Alicent.

“I am Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne and all of Westeros. I am a dragonrider. I am—I am your daughter. In a way. Your sister, too. Your enemy. Your sword, your shield.”

“And what am I?” What else is left for me? Alicent wonders.

“My Queen. For now.” Rhaenyra cocks her head, and the gleam in her eyes burns like fire raining down. “When I am Queen, you will be my lady.”

[skyyknights]

Ao3 | @zelinkcommunity | go to ao3 for my notes!

Ganondorf is dead.

And Zelda is supposed to feel elated about it, to feel relief that finally her people are safe, that no more evil lurks in her kingdom’s hills and towns and valleys. She is supposed to feel overjoyed that Hyrule is no longer in danger.

But she feels no relief, or happiness. Instead there is insurmountable grief clawing at her throat as she stands next to the hero of Twilight, staring across Hyrule Field with a blank expression. Her gown is stained with dirt and ash, but she can’t bring herself to care. Not now. Not when everything is upside down.

“So it’s over, then.” Her voice is rough even to her own ears, and she knows the trembling in her words must be obvious.

Link turns to face her, and for the first time she notices the blood smeared across his tunic, around his mouth, crusted in his bangs. Some is Ganondorf’s, but much of it is his own, spouting from wounds that need to be attended to sooner rather than later. For the present, however, Zelda cannot process much of anything.

We won, she thinks numbly to herself, eyes dry and stinging as a cold wind whips past.

We won.

But at what cost? Her kingdom is in shambles. Hundreds of soldiers and civilians lie dead, their corpses rotting and mangled, some in places they may never be found. Those who remain are still frightened for their lives, desperate for leadership she cannot offer them at the moment. She is too trapped in her own head, as if she is still walled up alone in her room.

They had given her a choice. Surrender, or everyone in your kingdom perishes. Give in, or they will be slaughtered without mercy.

Of course she had surrendered. That was the only possibility in her mind. And yet they had killed her people in masses anyway, murdering innocent men and women and children as if their lives were worth absolutely nothing. She can still taste their blood upon her tongue when she swallows.

Zant had shut her up in her tower, leaving her doomed to stare out the window at her crumbling kingdom as the rainy twilight swallowed it whole. Alone she had grieved, weeping silently for those who had been lost, refusing to let herself block out the screams that rose afresh each night. Forcing herself to listen to the anguish of her people, to dwell on the fact that there was nothing she could do.

The prophecies had spoken of a hero who would come, eventually.

But Zelda did not have much faith in eventually. For all she knew, the hero might not even appear in her lifetime. And if that were the case, she would be doomed to sit gazing out her window as her kingdom fell into shattered pieces, remnants of a once-beautiful realm now plunged into shadow.

And then, a mere matter of days had gone by before the door to her room, left unlocked so her guard could bring her meals every evening, was shoved open, and he had stepped in.

If she was honest, Zelda was expecting a man.

Instead she had been greeted by the sight of a beast, his thick fur rain-drenched and muddy as he stared up at her with impossibly blue eyes. There was a pang in her chest at the sight of the shackle round his leg, and the fragile hope she had harbored deep within her was swiftly crushed.

A wolf could not save Hyrule.

And yet, she stands beside him now in the sunset, a natural twilight that stretches warmly over the fields. Smoke is rising from Castle Town, and she smells it on the wind, thick and heavy and tinged with the faintest scent of blood.

The hero is watching her. He has not spoken since Ganondorf at last fell; he has simply stood beside her, silent and watchful. His tunic is covered with slashes and burns edged in crimson, and his hands and face are painted in blood as he finally resheathes his sword.

But the eyes that look at her are the same eyes as those of the wolf who stood in her tower, so long ago. She couldn’t forget their piercing blue even if she tried.

Zelda swallows the grief that is threatening to overwhelm her and turns away from him, chest aching. “We should return to the castle,” she hears herself saying distantly, her voice unrecognizable even to herself. “Your wounds need attending to.”

And soon, they must begin to count the dead.

—

Zelda is quiet on the ride back to Castle Town, seated behind Link with her bow strapped to her torso. There is a sour taste in her mouth that she can’t quite explain as the drawbridge looms nearer, seeming to spell out her own doom.

People are weeping in the town square, dancing and rejoicing that they are finally safe, that Ganondorf has been vanquished. They cry out as Link and Zelda ride past, tear-streaked faces uplifted, tossing handfuls of flowers into Epona’s path as she trots towards the castle.

“Thank you,” their voices echo, over and over, until Zelda wants to scream in agony. She does not deserve to be thanked; she did nothing for them. She let her people die. Her hands are stained with the blood of guardsmen and the lives of civilians. She does not look at her people as they ride past, Epona’s hooves crushing flowers underfoot and filling the air with perfume.

Link brings Epona to a halt in the courtyard and jumps lightly to the ground, reaching up to help Zelda. She grips his hand firmly, repressing a shudder at the feel of the crusted blood on his palm, and swings to the ground, her bow heavy on her back. It weighs scarcely anything, but right now it seems to be cutting into her shoulders, dragging her entire body downwards. Down into the earth with the bones of her people, where she belongs.

“I’ll be inside in a few minutes,” she dimly hears Link say, followed by the light clatter of hooves across cobblestone. Zelda’s nod is belated, too late for him to see, and her gaze follows him across the courtyard. His posture is slightly slumped, his head bowed, and she detects a slight limp in his right leg. He badly needs attending to, but he is a farm boy; of course he is putting his horse before himself.

Zelda swallows bile as she half-drags herself towards the double doors leading inside the castle. She isn’t injured, at least not physically– Link made sure to check that she was all right before they began the ride back to town. But her mind and heart are so weighed down that she might as well be momentarily crippled. She is scarcely able to get herself safely into the castle.

Once inside, Zelda falls to her knees amid crumbling stone and tiles and plants her palms on the floor, heaving for breath.

Are you all right, Princess? Link had inquired gently, caringly, a few moments after Ganondorf’s defeat.

And Zelda had lied to him, unable to tell him the truth.

She had responded that yes, she was all right.

Now she curls into a ball on the dusty, cracked floor and wraps her arms around herself and weeps. Zelda has never really been one for crying, but she cannot stop the aching sobs as they rip painfully from her, one by one, her cheek pressed against cold tile. Her cries fill the room with an anguished, illegible noise that rolls off of the walls and echoes through the empty chamber again and again.

The soul-crushing grief and loneliness from her days cooped up in her tower slam into her, again and again, driving her deeper into a pit of darkness that she isn’t fully able to explain. All she knows is that she has carried the burden of Hyrule’s dead with her, ever since the invasion began. Ever since the terrified screams and pleas for mercy rose from the town square. Ever since the cobbles were washed red with innocent blood.

Zelda weeps until her throat is raw from it, until her eyes and face are swollen and stiff, until she can scarcely breathe through the heaving sobs. She clenches her hands tight and presses her face against the floor and lets herself cry with all the emotion that was forbidden her as a child. Princesses don’t cry, her guardians had said. Be strong for your people. And she had been. She had. But she can’t hold it in anymore.

So she weeps.

And just as the ruined surroundings of the castle are beginning to fade into inky oblivion, just as Zelda is slipping away into exhausted unconsciousness born from grief, she feels hands pressing against her shoulder. Instantly every nerve in her body is on alert again, her brain irrationally screaming to her that Ganondorf has returned and Zant is shrouding the lands in a second twilight, but then she sees worn leather gloves and forest green cloth.

Link.

He is bleeding still from injuries she desperately needs to tend to, but she is all tears and gracelessness as he slides his arms beneath hers and lifts her torso carefully. Before she knows what is happening, her cheek is pressed against his chest, soft cloth brushing her skin, and his arms are wound tightly around her, the fingers of one hand threading into her hair.

“Shhhhh,” Link whispers, as if he is soothing a lost child, frightened and alone. But, Zelda reflects slowly, she is no more than that right now, drowning in grief and desperation, her hands soaked in figurative blood.

She scarcely knows the hero, but she doesn’t need to be much acquainted with him to know she already trusts him with her life. So Zelda grips his tunic in her hands and buries her face in his chest, shaking as she tries to control the last straggling tears. His heartbeat is steady and solid beneath her cheek, pounding rhythmically in her ear, and he is warm against her, a sturdy pressure grounding her to the earth as her last facade crumbles away.

Princesses don’t cry, she was always told. Be strong. Show little emotion. Someday you will be queen.

But Link doesn’t seem to mind as she weeps into his tunic. He just holds her closer, his fingers tangling in her hair as she struggles to get her breathing back in check. “You’re all right,” he murmurs gently, cheek pressed against the top of her head. He seems to know exactly what she needs to hear right now, because in the next moment he whispers, “Hyrule is safe. And none of this was your fault.”

She wishes she could believe that. And maybe she will be able to, someday. But for now she continues to cling to him, allowing herself more emotion than she has been permitted to show in years, and he rocks her back and forth, humming under his breath. “Shhhh,” he soothes, and she feels him press a brief kiss to the top of her head. “Shhh.”

And just for the moment she doesn’t care that she must be comforted like a lost and frightened child. Just for the moment she doesn’t care that the hero of Twilight has seen his future queen sobbing and helpless. Because she does trust him with her life, and she is sure she always will.

The nobles of her kingdom would cry out in humiliated outrage should they see their princess in such a state. Get up at once, they would shriek, tugging frantically at her arms, pulling at her skirts. Such disgraceful behavior is forbidden, your Highness!

But, as she finally begins to drift off encased in the hero’s warm embrace, Zelda finds that she really, really doesn’t care what they would think.

[stuckysimp]

Mission Complete

Summary: The Winter Soldier is reminded of himself too late, and kills Steve Rogers

TW: Death, violence, blood

Word Count: 1532

It was too late. He was too late.

The blade felt heavy in his hand as the rush of adrenaline plummeted from his system. He let the weapon slip from his fingers, barely registering it slice his skin. The rage and hollowness blurred it all anyway, numbed it enough that it didn’t matter.

When there was only ash left, a grey cloud that poisoned the green of the earth, that is when he saw the body. The red faded from his vision and he felt his heart shatter. He collapsed to his knees, his energy drained and his spirit spent. A pool of blood had formed around the head like a halo, the last shuddering breaths of life from the body slowly floating up into the sky. All at once the soldier’s world became clear. The stranger became a friend, who became a lover, the sudden flurry of emotion choking him.

The captain would be claimed by the stars that would take him from the soldier. The stars that the soldier had blindly doomed him to.

The soldier forced his aching body forward and brushed his thumb against the captain’s cheek. The red mark that was left on his pale corpse seemed fitting in an odd sort of way. In a confusing, and horrific sort of way, like a painting that clawed through his soul, leaving him with a feeling of emptiness and dread.

The soldier planted a soft kiss on the captain’s forehead, and he knew that he couldn’t stay any longer. He rose from where he knelt beside the captain.

"It-...it is done." A shallow, shaky breath made its way through the soldier as he turned his back on it all.

He allowed himself to take a step forward, refusing to look back. He knew that if he did, he would not be able to make himself move again. He would be stuck, frozen with guilt.

The end. That was what it had been supposed to be, anyway. Enough running. Enough torment and torture. However, the price that had been paid had been much too high a cost.

It was too late.

He was too late.

Those words echoed around his mind, swirling like a storm, each word a strike of lighting to his mind, a painful shock of energy that rattled through his bones. The crushing weight of guilt pressed down onto his shoulders and forced him to his knees. He doubled over, a sharp pain shooting up his wrist as he planted his hands in front of him to stop himself from getting a face full of dirt. Though maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe he deserved to just lie there and die. Just be another nameless face to add to the masses of corpses he’d sent six feet under.

A cold hand grasped his shoulder, and he froze, a feeling of dread passing through his body. No. No, please. Anything but this.

“Did I finally help to complete your mission, sweetheart?” A whisper of a voice, barely audible.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to reply, the words like bile in his throat. “I did what I had to.”

He could feel the bitter smile from the man behind him without even needing to turn around.

“I did.” The soldier insisted, his posture rigid.

“If you honestly believed that, I wouldn’t be here. Would I?”

He whirled around, reaching out in desperation for the man he had caused so much pain to. His hand passed through nothing but air, and he looked up to an empty space.

This was all his fault.

His body was heavy but he forced his arms up, wrapping them around himself, even as his grip remained weak. He dug his nails into the skin on his arm, his knuckles turning white from the effort.

Alone. He was all alone again. The captain was gone, and he was all alone. He’d finally given in to what they had wanted and now he was truly and finally alone. He wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t strong enough and now he was surrounded by people whose blood was on his hands. Alone and surrounded by death, yet it refused to touch him.

This sick, twisted game. It just never ended for them. For him. It made him want to rip his heart out. His lungs. His heart. Everything. Bit by bit until they couldn’t piece him back together again. Couldn’t force him back into this living hell he’d been subjected to.

And to think, once he’d even thought he’d been doing the right thing. What a load of bullshit.

“Return to base.”

The automated words pierced his ear from the communication device that rested in it, snapping him back to reality.

“Return to base.” The voice repeated, monotone. “Return to base. Ret-”

He let out a yell of frustration and ripped the device from his ear, crushing it in his hand before throwing the shards out into the void before him. The wound on his hand from the blade he had dropped stung in protest as the broken bits of the earpiece scraped against it. He just ignored it. That pain didn’t matter to him. Not now. Not after… this.

“So, just like that? You’re givin’ up?” The voice echoed around him again.

His jaw clenched and he closed his eyes once more, his breathing coming out in ragged gasps.

“Shut. Up.” He snarled, refusing to look towards his sin, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to see the captain. No matter how hard he tried to find him again.

“Why?” The voice asked, his tone gentle, no malice staining it. “I’ve always been here when you need me. Always. Just like you were for me.”

“I said shut up!” He let the words rip from his throat, shuddering sobs cutting through them.

“I’m not angry, Buck. I know it wasn’t your choice.” He felt the cold presence move closer and a sharp shiver went down his spine.

“Please…” He didn’t even know what he was begging for anymore. To die? To be alone? To reverse all that had happened? Perhaps all of the above. But-

“It wasn’t your fault.” The voice insisted.

He heard the loud thundering of a helicopter approaching and he knew that they were coming to collect him, most likely assuming that he had been incapacitated.

He was going to destroy them. After what they’d made him do, he was going to destroy them.

The helicopter landed, and he didn’t waste any time. He bolted back to the blade that he had discarded, even as his body screamed from the effort. He turned back around to face them, the hot flames of rage flickering to life.

He never got the chance to attack.

To even throw the knife.

He felt the bullet pierce his sternum more than he saw it. The pain was duller than he had expected, but the shock sent him to his knees.

He could feel himself slipping almost instantly as his body panicked.

He was dying.

Shit.

He was dying.

She approached him, one of many who had made him like this, and crouched down in front of him with a malevolent smirk plaguing her features.

“Mission complete. Well done, soldier.”

His heart plummeted down to his stomach and his world broke, just from those five words. She knew what it would do to him.

She knew.

He felt himself hit the earth below him and he wheezed for air, tears in his eyes as the reality of it all fell onto him like a ton of bricks, clarity finally surfacing in his final moments.

He had completed his mission. She was satisfied and would continue her goal. He had not saved anyone; he hadn’t even been able to save the one he had sworn to protect. Now that she had no more use for him, the woman was simply discarding him, without a second thought.

The woman grabbed the blade from his fingers and began to walk towards the corpse that he had tried to leave behind.

Him.

Steve.

She was going towards Steve. She was going to take him. The soldier couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t scream, couldn’t fight. He couldn’t-

“No!” The guttural scream ripped from his chest, and he dragged himself towards the one he was supposed to protect. “N-No!”

The woman didn’t even look towards the soldier, she just raised the gun and shot him again. He collapsed when the bullet hit him, snatching quick, shallow breaths. His thoughts started to falter, started to fade, and spots danced in his vision.

He didn’t see the woman move but he felt as she grabbed his chin, forcing it up harshly, the movement causing his head to swim. Her nails dug into his skin and it only added to the pain that pulsed through his body.

“Don’t worry, soldier.” The woman cooed, her words echoing in his ringing ears. “This is simply the first of many heroes. Soon enough, you’ll have won this world for us.”

He sucked in a sharp breath and despite the rage and fear building in him, the darkness finally came plummeting down and it consumed him, sending him towards an unending hell.

[macabremoons]

Midas' Prologue

TW: Grimoire being himself, sicko for sicko romance, possessive behavior, anxiety, and general dark themes.

Word count: 1.2k

A/N: "Wow, Moon," you ask with sweet innocence, "you're four concept stories in. Are you closer to understanding this wip?" No. No, I'm not. Honestly while I like this I still haven't untapped Grimoire's true insanity. One day, truly. Oh! Sabelina's name has been changed to Annabella <3 Anyway enjoy!!

Rain taps on outside of my tent. I try my best to relax to the sound, but the smell of petrichor takes my mind right back to where it was running from. 

The sword shifts from more to less than an itch away from my face. Cassander smiles down at me, and my mind is flown back to my father. All this effort, and he regards me with the same causal power. 

I bite the inside of my cheek. I can afford this time to recoup, but I can not afford to be consumed by fear. I still have to find a way to get out of Cassander’s hands. I’ve escaped them temporarily, but he will be back, even madder than before now that Grimoire has killed so many of his men. I’ve steeled myself through many things on this trip. Corpses, infected wounds, screaming soldiers. This matter is not different. Rather, I refuse it to be.

The tent flap goes up, and I go deathly still. I resist the urge to cover the tear marks on my face, but then I see who it is and sigh.

“Grimoire, you still need to announce yourself before walking into my tent.” To my delight, my voice doesn’t waver.

“My deepest apologies, my lady. I am a bit tired, so it must have slipped my mind.” 

“Tired? You?”

Grimoire laughs softly, flopping onto his side of the tent.  “Yes, me; tired. As violent by nature might I be, too much of it is still exhausting.”

My eyes dart away. He wouldn’t be so tired if he hadn’t had to save me from Cassander. It strings—seeing my exact failure stare back at me. Worst yet, Grimoire has been very obedient lately, and said obedience allowed me to make mistakes. His resistance before had felt like a curse, but now feels like a blessing in disguise.

“We’ll take a break then. I have many things to do,” I say. He doesn’t reply. He’s drifting off, but he looks tense. “Wait, Grimoire.”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Sleep in my bed tonight. The floor is not enough for proper rest.”

Grimoire opens his eyes, staring into mine. His eyes stake through me completely, but I stand my ground. I must look ridiculous, but if I want respect, I must demand it in any circumstance. A king that can not be mocked by his jester is a coward, after all.

He wordlessly gets up and slides into my bed with me, face down. He’s quite close to my thighs. Too close, even. Though there is only so much space in the bed for him to be comfortable. I’ll just bear through it. 

“Might I ask one question?” Grimoire whispers. 

A single question in a lifetime of servitude. “I don’t see why not.”

“Does the taste of violence satisfy you?”

I begin to regret my kindness immediately. “I’m not sure I understand.”

He turns to look at me. “Violence is blood, and blood is life essence, at least for me. For you it’s power, no? But power at the hands of violence is an acquired taste. Do you like it?”

My fingers curl around the blanket. “I’m not scared of violence.”

“Mhm? I didn’t think so.” His lips ghost my skin, but I am too angered to be embarrassed by it. “No, no. You’ve been in too many battles to be scared of violence. I just don’t see that you enjoy it.”

“It’s a means to an end.”

“So you don’t enjoy it?”

“I am not sadist, Grimoire. Of course I do not enjoy violence.”

“But you enjoy the power it brings?”

Is he of all people suggesting pacifism to me? Grimoire reeks of blood.. He’s washed of it now, but you can see it in his very soul. Or the nook it used to be in. Nothing I could do would compare to him.

“Ah,” Grimoire hums. “That is more than one question. No pressure to answer, my love.”

A way out of this conversation. An easy solution, I do not take those anymore. Grimoire’s words could be excused with exhaustion, or it could be that exhaustion is letting him say what he really feels about me. If so, I need to know this. Grimoire is my greatest ally, and therefore my greatest enemy.

“I do enjoy the power it brings. Words can only get one so far. Or, perhaps ,they could get a different person farther, but I am not in a position to be propelled far by them. You know I had to fight just to be here.”

“Verbally, but yes.”

“We wouldn’t still be here if I did not resort to violence.”

“We wouldn’t be, no.”

The format of his words irk me. “You have more to say.”

Grimoire sighs. “Wouldn’t it be better if you were in the bed, like I am? You deserve rest too, you know. We are not in a battlefield, my lady, no need to be so tense.”

I should deny him, but I am tired. I sink into the bed. A sparkle goes through Grimoire’s eyes, but his expression does not change. Something, too, goes through me. Grimoire is my familiar, but he is still a man. This is the first time I’ve shared a bed with one. 

"Well?" I press.

"Time takes most things despite how tough they are. Maybe I just worry it will take the fire you have with it.”  Grimoire gives another soft laugh. “Or maybe it’s not my place to say at all. Yet, your desire is so warm. Ah, I’d miss it.”

Warm? The rain has me frigid cold, and I can’t stop shivering from fear. Grimoire thinks too highly of me. I wonder if it’s delusion from living for so long or another part of his… charm.

His words make me even colder. He’s slightly right. I find myself not missing the men lost in battle until I have to send letters home. It’s easy to have poison testers until they find poison. Does this make life not worth living? Does this mean that my dreams should not be achieved just because I might feel differently about them years later? An easy answer comes to mind.

“Maybe I’ll puke on the taste of bloody luxury later, but I am certain that starvation kills. I do not have the hindsight to tell you you’re wrong, but—” Words catch in my throat. They scramble away from me, leaving only the truth that lets me sleep at night. “I have to become more than my father’s daughter.”

Grimoire stares into my soul one last time before smiling wide enough I can almost see his fangs. “We will have to find out together then, mhm? I am excited to see it. Whether you like your Midas’ touch or not, I’ll stick with you. High heaven or low hells—they’re all the same to me, my lady.”

“Such is the life of a familiar,” I murmur. My tiredness is catching up to me, but I force myself to stay awake. 

Grimoire leans in closer. “Sleep. No one will harm you by my side.”

As I drift off, I call back to my own thoughts: greatest ally, greatest enemy.

Taglist (ask to be added!!): @anonymousfoz, @stesierra, @leisoree, @immortaladrien, @lyra-brie

[whichwoods]

📓

YAYYYYYY here we go — the dragons as mechas/evangelion/pacific rim au that lives in my head (i say evangelion because i like the concept of pilots being young, fighting in the suits alone, and being in the bioengineered corpses of something that once loved them :) but i also say pacific rim because the backstory of "giant monsters coming from a rift in the ocean" is easier to deal with and more plausible for westeros where dragons and magic already exist (read: i'm lazy))

aemond still claims vhagar when he's like 8, still loses an eye. kaijus have been attacking from a rift in the shivering sea for decades now, and vhagar is an old war dragon that was part of a regiment used to fight them. she dies when aemond is maybe 11, 12? (it's chalked up to old age) which makes him eligible for this new mecha program, because supposedly young dragon riders who have a bond, but a void left by their dead dragon, can connect better with the machinery. cue little child soldier aemond busting his ass for the next few years fighting monsters of unimaginable horror so they don't destroy the world and kill everything he loves <3

at some point during this arrax is killed as well </3 maybe during a kaiju attack? which means luke is put into the program and given a mecha as well, scrappy, angry, and with a big dragon-shaped chip in his shoulder. he and aemond get closer because they're young and scared and probably understand each other better than most people

so, surprise surprise, the mechas are dead dragons who have been bioengineered and resuscitated to act as suits for their former riders to control and fight kaijus. very into the idea of the power systems failing and vhagar snapping and eating a kaiju while aemond is unconscious in the pod, which the scientists didn't know they could do :) aemond still gets his shinji-esque scream of horror when he sees the vhagar-mecha without all its armor while it's being repaired and realizes what it actually is. maybe he goes to luke about this at one point and luke refuses to believe him until he sees it for himself when his own arrax-mecha is damaged?

anyway! as you can see, not much plot yet and a lot of vibes :') as an ongoing storyline i'm kind of digging vhagar's death not actually being old age, but maybe some way to jumpstart the program since the mechas are more effective? and this maybe starts happening to other dragons, such as jace's or baela's even though it pains me. and it has all those wonderful themes of children being manipulated into fighting a war they didn't start at a cost to them they didn't know they were paying when they agreed <3

thank you for being curious! if anyone would like to hear more, this is one au of many :)

[mukamattwrites]

Attempt at a prologue for my Ailend Saga, a novel idea swimming around in my head since at least 2017 that I've attempted over and over. Once again, this prologue doesn't feel right, but it was still fun to write anyways. Finally solidifying Mikolan's role in the world was very satisfying to do. It's funny that he's such a side character, a mentor figure for the main character, but he's probably the most solidified character I have. You can really tell near the end that I lost my steam for this scene, but luckily I've come up with a different way to introduce the world, Mikolan, and the magic and I'm excited to attempt it next.

Warnings for slight description of death/corpses.

Unedited - Unfinished - 2k+ words

---

Mikolan should have known that the night would not continue to be so carefree. It had been too long since something had gone horribly awry, the sweet taste of peace too aquired on the pallet.

He didn't even want to be in the castle in the first place; especially not with the prince and princes around. Yet, Queen Ariana wanted him and Agosha there for the feast and he had previously turned her down far too many times.

Agosha blended in with the crowd like he had always belonged here. Old friends clapped him on the back, retired soldiers and their young apprentices who looked wide eyed at the decorated hero. Mikolan envied his partner, just a bit, at his ease of settling in with the royal crowd, but refused to let it get to him too much.

The night was going relatively well for himself, all things considering. His half siblings glared at him every chance they saw him, yes, but the Queen's presence stopped them from doing anything more. He hadn't approached the royal table yet, despite Ariana having saved him and Agosha a seat to her right where should be filled with others if she had children and a spouse. She had neither. Mikolan hoped her joking of him taking the throne if anything happened to her was all, well, jokes. His half siblings seethed at her seating arrangement, he was sure.

Fates, he was happy. Despite the jealousy of Agosha living in the crowd, despite the tiptoing around the princes and princesses, despite Ariana being all too joyful to see him in the castle, he was happy.

It all changed the matter of seconds.

Ariana met his eyes, then gracefully stood up, her dress flowing around her thin frame in a way that diverted the gaze from her constantly failing health. She was about to give a speech; perhaps something about the wealthy alliance with Ailend, or maybe something about the abundance of harvest, but the second she raised her glass of blood red wine, her face twiched in pain, a hand coming to her chest and her voice catching in her throat.

With one heartbeat, the presence of his other half siblings no longer mattered, not when his baby sister choked with a face twisting in grief as her hand flattened out on the table before her to stop herself from crumpling.

The only person quicker than himself to reach her was Agosha. Guards came soon after, shoving through concerned and scared guests, ignoring the shouts of the rest of the royal family, tailed closely by Aliend's representative.

Mikolan shoved through them all, grabbing Ariana by the shoulder and pulling her into his chest to keep her steady.

This could only be one thing... but his eyes trailed to the falcon sitting in it's cage across the room, perfectly healthy and breathing.

No matter.

"The Goblet," he whispered as shouty as he could to Agosha, careful to not let the representative overhear. Deep concern and a steely resolve as a retired soldier flashed in his eyes, and he almost ran from the room, before Ariana lifted a hand and grabbed Agosha's sleeve before he could retreat to the hidden vault.

"It's not that," she breathed, her voice wobbling like she was about to weep. Mikolan couldn't remember the last time he'd heard her like this. She had always been graceful and calm, even in the face of an incurable poison raging through her blood. She held up a hand, stopped the guards from fussing over her. "Ian has died."

That got the Ailend representative, Fyn, to grow pale.

"What?" Mikolan asked, stunned. Ian? Who...?

"I have a duty to fulfill," she clutched at his shirt, taking a steadying breath, "Mikolan, come with me."

---

Mikolan had no idea what was going on. He thought he'd seen close to it all in his short thirty years of life, but he had never expected to ever see himself riding in a cart with no one but his half sister the Queen, Fyn, and Agosha into Aliend's borders.

Ariana had assured Mikolan that she had no need of the Goblet, but leaving into Ailend was of upmost importance, and she trusted no one else to accompany her.

Fyn had sent a messenger hawk towards Aliend's own queen, Ira, of the events of tonight. Somehow, no one questioned whether or not Queen Ira and her guard would be able to find them wherever they were going. How Ariana expected to meet up with their neighboring royalty in the middle of rural farmland Aliend was beyond Mikolan.

"Just a little further," Ariana breathed to Agosha who drove the carriage, steering the horses like he'd never retired. She sounded so frail, so sad. Agosha shot Mikolan a very well disguised panicked look that only Mikolan couldn't see through. "Oh Sister, oh Mother, oh Traitor," she began praying.

Corvus didn't follow Ailend's religion, why was his sister praying to it's gods?

Fire.

A farmhouse appeared ahead, engulfed in flame and terror. Something sunk to the pit of Mikolan's stomach as he rose to his feet, leaving the cart the second Agosha brought it to a halt a safe distance away from the inky smoke. He drew his sword and ran toward the farmhouse, ignoring his husband's calls, his sisters praying, the representative's shouts as another cart had appeared a short distance away.

The closer he got, the faster he ran. He could hear a baby's cry from inside.

The door had already been blown open. He covered his mouth with his sleeve and maneuvered inside. It wasn't a large home, and the source of the crying wasn't hard to find.

What he found with the source, however, had him stupidly stopping in his tracks for just a moment.

The babe was new. Probably not even an half hour. She laid in her mother's arms, the cord still not cut, her face red and weeping. The mother was dead, skin like ash, eyes sunken and frozen in terror. Across the room, a nursemaid laid still, pale and dead. As did the father, not far off.

Dead. Everyone was dead. Except the terrified, naked newborn.

The charm hanging from a leather cord around his neck suddenly felt heavy from the erie understanding that washed over him.

Mikolan forced himself to move, ripping off his cape and swaddling the child, cutting the cord and abandoning the dead family to save the baby.

His brain whirred with the sound of flames, the screams of the child, as he stumbled out of the barn. His eyes stung with smoke, and for a minute, he thought the arms that reached out to meet him, to take the babe, belonged to Agosha.

It wasn't. It was a soldier he didn't recognize.

He noticed too late, the child was already out of his arms, wailing, and the only thing that stopped him from drawing his sword was the sight of his sister leaning heavily on Agosha behind the soldier and the group the soldier belonged to.

Five more soldiers, an old woman, and a middle aged woman who unrecognizably was Queen Ira of Ailend. The old woman must have been Keo, the Tei prophet.

Mikolan forced himself to stay where he was as the soldier brought the child to the neighboring queen. Queen Ira regarded the child with disgust for just a moment, before her eyes softened and she took the babe into her own arms. Somehow, shockingly enough, the baby calmed in her arms.

"You did well to call me, Queen Ari."

Mikolan forced himself to not bristle at the way Queen Ira named his sister. Damn Ailish and their weird obsession with three letter names.

"This is her," Ariana said as calmly as she could through her visible exhaustion. "Vei's mortal form. I- I mourn Ian's death."

"He lived a good life at the end," Queen Ira said, voice completely void of mourning.

Vei's mortal form. The Queen of Ailend. Ian's death.

By the stars, Ian was Vei's last form, and they... they thought this child was her newest reincarnation.

"What of the family?" Queen Ira asked, forcing Mikolan to not spiral in religious bullshit quite yet.

"Dead," he responded, then hesitated. "You're, uh, majesty."

A soldier bristled. "It's My Highness you-"

Queen Ira raised a hand, silencing him. "Ah, you must be Mio, Queen Ari has spoken about you. Your lack of respect reveals you."

Before Mikolan could bristle himdelf, Ariana spoke up. "Then you remember my request? When I agreed to lead you to Vei's new form once the time arose?"

"Yes, yes, I remember."

Mikolan had a bad feeling, and he wondered if it had anything to do with that time, nearly ten years ago, when Ariana had approached him after a long, private conversation with Queen Ira. Mikolan, I might have to ask you to do something you don't want to do in the future, promise me you'll do as I tell you, just this once.

"My help and the Goblet," Ariana continued, "in exchange for my continued use of it until I have an heir, and my brother to be the reincarnation's caretaker."

... What?

"Mei has a caretaker," Queen Ira says sharply, naming the small baby and assigning herself as caretaker with the four words.

"Captain of her guard, then. You agreed."

"I did."

"Wait a minute-" Mikolan started, but shut up quickly when Ariana gave him a sharp, rare, authoritative glare.

Just this once, her glare said, do as I tell you to, as your Queen.

He shut up, glancing at his husband for an uneasy moment.

The Queen of Ailend considered for a heartbeat, and every person on the field knew—as sure as the smoke billowing from the destroyed house—that she could go back on every agreement she had made with Ariana and there's nothing anyone could do about it.

"What makes this man worthy of my shelter and employment?"

"He knows the signs of Veifa better than anyone," Ariana said immediately, voice firm and level. "He doesn't worship the Teileiv gods, he will respect your ward as a person and protect her as such."

Queen Ira's expression darkened, which was expected.

"You brought a heathen into my lands?"

Mikolan wasn't exactly praised for his refusal to worship the silly stories assigned to the land's magic and science, he wouldn't dream of expecting warmness from the most vocal prophet of the world religion.

"And not only that, you request I welcome a heathen into my city? My castle? The care of my daughter?"

"You want to change how the Vessels are treated? You chose to move Ian from the dungeons into a locked tower after your mother passed, and you wish to raise this one as an honored member of your family. Do you want her main source of protection to be from those who fear her? Or from one who knows her only as a human, and treats her with the same dignity and respect a guard would give any member of your family?"

The Queen of Ailend looked enraged, but the weathered hand of Teo softly wrapped around her wrist. The old woman looked more ancient than the stars themselves, worn skin wrinkled and eyes squinted, stubble along her chin and hair growing from moles along her forehead. She looks crafted from clay, a perfect form for her place in the religion. She may not be a queen, rumor had it she'd originated from a river village nearly a century ago, but she held more command and respect than any queen or king ever will in her lifetime. Even heathens, such as Mikolan himself, must treat her like she spoke for the world itself. The true, soul Mother. Her presence was the only reason no one had panicked about the fire still raging, if she deemed the fire dangerous, she would rid it from the world's surface.

"Your sister's words hold value and weight," Teo said, words whispered yet powerful, as wrinkled as her skin but as ancient the mountains. "You would do well to hear them."

Queen Ira seethed for a moment, then locked eyes with Ariana. "We will welcome him as captain of the Vessels guard." There was no happiness in her voice.

"As Tei wishes," Teo nodded, her cheeks rising in a smile before the sound of collapsing, burning wood drew her attention. "Now, this will no longer do," she said, hobbling closer to the fire. No one assisted her, no one tried to hold her back from the danger.

Everyone watched as she walked into the smoke, into the doorway, and rested her hand on the glowing embered wood.

The fire flickered around her fingertips, and a brush of wind flowed past every blade of grass around her. In the matter of seconds, the fire died, not a single board of wood glowed or smoked. The walls had burned away and crumpled, revealing the room Mikolan had just stumbled out of and the charred remains there. He looked away, momentarily angry that not a single soul there will be laid to rest properly in the ground.

One didn't have to be as familiar with wild Vei magic to know not a single corpse in there died with it's soul intact. The Ailend people will view the corpses as already having returned to the Mother, and their corpses would not be disturbed.

Stupid, idiotic. Disrespectful.

Mikolan tore his eyes from the sacred display of Teifa, meeting his husband's eyes once again. He ignored how his change of gaze alerted him of Queen Ira's stare.

Agosha looked solemn and sad, also upset at the scene despite how he believed in the religion more than Mikolan; not everything, but the parts involving death, a belief his little sister breathed in the wind, her blood flowed in the water, her hair waved in the trees, her heart beat with the quakes... Mikolan has only tried to debate him on such once. He nearly got stabbed in his other eye.

Mikolan turned to finally meet Queen Ira's glare.

"And my husband?" Mikolan broke the silence, because he doubted anyone else would.

She glanced at Agosha, no doubt having already deduced him as the legendary hero many claimed him to be. Where Mikolan went, his loyal knight followed.

"As Captain of the Vessel's guard, you will be granted a family home. As an... honored foreign guest... any you hold dear have the right to come and go as they please."

How did she so gracefully spit the word?

It seemed he was leaving one castle full of half siblings who hate him for their father's unfaithful afair and heading into another where the entire people will hate him for his lack of belief.

Fantastic.

The things he did for his baby sister.

"Then," Ariana spoke up, standing more and more on her own power, no longer leaning so much on Agosha, "we are in agreement."

"Not quite," Queen Ira replied coldly. "I do not trust your bastard, the Vessel, and the Goblet all within the same place. You will show my representative, and you will agree to hand over the goblet at any time I command. I suggest you resume the search for your heir, I have no timeframe of when you will no longer have it's vile abilities to keep your life. The only reason we have allowed it's use is because a god, no matter how low and disowned, needs a prophet. Find your replacement, you can no longer hold your connection to Vei over us."

A prophet?

The two parties separate shortly after, and Mikolan found himself replacing Agosha's hand with his own to help Ariana onto her cart. His mind whirred, which left him uncharacteristically moody and silent while helping his weakened sister. It left the perfect opening for her to speak first the second she sat down, keeping a grip on his hand to prevent him walking away.

"My dearest brother," she said softly, loud enough for only the two of them to hear. Thankfully, the Ailend representative was talking with his queen while Agosha fed the horses. "Leave with them, I will send Agosha with your things overmorrow."

"Ariana," Mikolan whispered, under his breath, "if I declined, refused to go, stayed in Corvus... would you brand me a traitor to your authority? Your beloved brother?"

Silence, then a very, very defeated "... Yes."

He smiled at her, she didn't return it. "Then I will go."

"I'm sorry."

He closed his eyes for a moment, squeezing her hand. "Send a servant with my things. Keep Agosha close to you. I don't trust that insane queen to not hold the Goblet over your head."

"He will not like that."

He flashed her a wider smile. "He will listen to you, won't even need threat of branding."

Once again, she didn't return it. She let go of his hand.

"... keep an eye on that girl, Mikolan. When you arrive to the capital, request their religious texts. I know you do not believe in Teileiv but understanding it will keep that girl alive. There's prophesies... things in the world that matter for you to know. I'm sorry I never told you they considered me a prophet. I will explain in letters."

[depressedacadamia]

Blood will have blood

Summary:  Being a healer during a war was a job that only few could handle- seeing soldiers who risk their lives was not for the weak. But Will questions everything as a powerful but very young demigod is about to die before his very eyes.

A/N: Day two of Will solace's bday week!!! I know I could have written another 3 Days in the infirmary fic but I thought I'd give some angst because I haven't done it in a while and I listened to somone talk about Patroclus' death; it was in the Podcast Let's talk about myths, baby! It's suuppperrr good but that episode had me close to tears. Thnks to @solangeloweek AND THIS IS REVENGE FOR THAT REALLY GOOD BUT SAD FIC BY MY FRIEND; THEY KNOW WHO THEY ARE. Anyways, love from me <3 !!

Read on A03      Masterlist

“Move!” Will yelled as he hastily brought medical supplies to the healer who was working on fixing someone’s foot which had been sliced off.

“Fucking Gods, sending their kids to fight their battles, They don't know when to stop, do they?” Will gritted out aggressively as he crouched down by his patient- a powerful but young demigod who had been severely injured in a vicious fight.

Will washed the bloody cloth in the water and produced a clean one, at which he gently cleaned the wounds. He could feel their life force thinning, their heart beating softer and softer. He had given the demigod all he could- ambrosia, nectar and as much treatment as he could offer; but they were in a war- he couldn't dwell too much on the patients who he couldn’t save.

“If you don't require urgent treatment, you need to leave,” Will announced. “ Starting now, we are under triage. Red patients will immediately be accepted, yellow will have to wait- the walking wounded will have to consult their nearest field medic. I repeat, As of now, we are in triage!”

“Will, a new wave of patients are going to come soon- apparently the enemies have launched a fresh attack and our side wasn't prepared,” Kayla mumbled, handing out supplies to the healers. Will groaned but his frustration was quickly overcome with worry: how would his friends on the frontline fare with this fresh assault?

He worried for some of his siblings who had chosen to be soldiers over healers, he worried for people like Annabeth Chase and Piper Mclean- He even worried over Percy Jackson.

But most of all he worried over Nico Di Angelo. He was not concerned over Nico dying; he knew his boyfriend very well and the chance that he’d let someone else kill him was practically impossible. But he did fear Nico overworking himself, it was almost unavoidable.

Alas, he couldn’t worry about his boyfriend, he was in a war after all and he had to focus on his job- to heal the others.

“Will-” An urgent voice tugged him from his thoughts. “ Isn’t there anything else you can do for them?” The soldier pointed at his wounded younger sibling. His bruised, bloody face was contorted into a grim expression as his hand gripped the hand of the dying soldier.

“We can’t do anymore,” Kayla informed sadly. But as Will watched the young patient slowly being dragged to Thanatos, he couldn't help but feel that it wasn't this child's time yet- that's what they were, a child.

They were fighting a war, children were fighting a war while the almighty sat in their thrones above and watched it as if it were simply a film. Innocent children like the one beside Will were dying and.. And - and the gods just expected them to continue.

“There is something I can try,” Will started quietly. “But I can’t guarantee that it will work.”

“Will, you can’t-” Kayla quickly cut in. “You know how draining it is on your body and you've never tried it on somebody with such grave injuries before.”

“But I can still try,” Will told Kayla. His mind was made up- if his friends were out there risking their lives on the battlefield, this was the least he could do; risk his life to save this innocent, and powerful demigod. If this went right, their quick recovery would be essential to winning.

Kayla knew that nothing could stop Will as he peeled off his gloves and placed his hands onto the cold skin of the soldier. Will’s hands danced slowly around the bloodstained chest and abdomen of the soldier and every once in a while, his fingertips would accidentally brush against the wounds dipping the tips of his nails in a crimson substance that was still warm.

He glowed, as he healed- he always did. But his hands felt warmer than usual and when he felt it was time, he pressed his hands into the bloody wound that no longer poured blood- for there was no blood to pour. Wil drained himself, trying to heal what he could but it was to no avail- this child had died. There was nothing Will could give.

But he refused to let this be it- It couldn't be! The Gods couldn't let this child die, they were not a soldier- they were a child for god's sake!

So after he had given everything- all the healing power that he had been blessed with by his father, he found himself with his hands pressed into the lifeless body of the child. And slowly, as he weeped over their corpse, with every drip of his tears, he felt a little more of life ease into the child again. And so he bellowed.

He cried and let the tears pour into the wounds, healing, no- bringing the child back to life. They steamed down his face as he mourned as grievers do. He clutched at the child’s chest that no longer beat and he felt the life before his grow stronger. He heard a little ‘ba-dum’.

Then, the soldier opened their eyes and took a deep inhale.

There was clapping and laughter and crying as people across the infirmary watched the miracle being performed by the Head Healer.

Will felt a smile across his face. While he felt weak, so very weak, he felt pride as he looked at the child, who bleated as they choked air into their lungs like a new born baby goat, their cheeks rosy again.

And then he felt pain. Excruciating pain. It twisted and burned. He heard screaming, the scream of a mother who has lost their child before realising that it was his own voice- his hands, once covered in the blood of the child shot to clutch at his chest only to feel a warm thick liquid coat his hands like water running out of a tap.

He gasped for air. Urgent hands were on him, lifting him onto a stretcher as people immediately fell silent. The room, celebrating moments ago, fell into a trance watching. The healers worked desperately, tearing open Will’s clothes, working as fast as they could.

Will coughed and coughed and as the blood stained his lips he let out a small smile. His small smile turned into a laugh covered with his coughing which only forced up more of the substance as it trickled slowly down his chin.

“Will? Will?” Kayla asked desperately, watching him choke. His lips turned crooked as his face paled, displaying his freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks.

“Please frame these last words: Fuck the Gods,” He whispered, content with his last moments before he suddenly shot open his eyes as he recalled that he had forgotten something. “ Oh- and tell Nico that I love him and that jazz.”

His voice was weak and the blood began to dry on his hands.

“Tell me what?” A confused, alarmed and horrified voice echoed from the other side of infirmary belonging to a warrior holding their helmet under their arm and stygian iron sword in their hand.

[rjalker]

Anyways here's the short horror story from Scherzo, by Robert Shearman.

You can also listen to it with the video below, which I highly recommend. It's originally in four parts throughout the major story, so that's why there's seemingly random pauses.

[ID: The cover art for the Doctor Who audio drama, "Scherzo". The background is white and blue, with two stark blue and white hands clasped beneath the title. The audio is transcribed below. End ID.]

-

Once upon a time, in a land not too dissimilar to ours, there lived a king. And he was a good king, in an age when good was something of an unfashionable rarity.

He was very, very wise, and very, very powerful, but he was also very, very old. And he realized that for all his great wisdom and his great power, he would soon have to leave his kingdom once and for all, and make the journey to the outside world of infinite darkness.

And so, on the eve of his departure, when his physicians had finished all their headshaking and his wives had wrung as many tears from their eyes as they could, he called his son and heir to his side.

'Everything you see is yours to command,' he said. 'But be advised. The better slaves are those who still believe they taste some freedom. Play the tyrant, but you must inspire love as well as fear.'

Yet the son cared not for his words, and when the corpse had been dispatched with much pomp and fireworks to the darker realms outside, the new king resolved to stretch the limits of his authority.

He gathered all the people before him and told them that their every thought must match his thought. No will should exist save his will.

And people being people, they agreed. Those that didn't vanished in the night, and their families soon learned to pretend that they'd never existed.

But still the king was not content, so he instructed all the animals in his kingdom that they must now obey his commands.

Horses should bark, dogs should mew, fish should fly from tree to tree exactly as he desired.

And animals being animals, they agreed. Some of the pigs had to be culled, but no one minded because they tasted so lip-smackingly good. And the cats had to go because no one could tell a cat anything.

But soon the people and the animals lived in perfect harmony, their lives precise expressions of the whims of their lord.

-

Every living creature obeyed their king, doing everything he wanted to the smallest detail, sometimes even before he knew he wanted it. But still the king was not content. Living creatures only made up the smallest number of his subjects. So he gave out further orders.

He instructed the waves should crash upon the shore only when he gave the word. He instructed the wind should not blow, but suck. Time should not run forwards, but backwards or sideways.

It took years to persuade them. Soldiers slashed at the waves until their swords were soaked with wave blood. Wind and Time were locked in the deepest dungeons until, starving, they gave in.

The king ruled the elements, but still, he was not content.

There was one subject that still balked at his power.

Music.

How the king hated music.

Refusing to be constrained, refusing to be disciplined, a small burst of recitative flowering into a fugue without permission, or a cantata breaking out overnight into a fully fledged oratorio.

'Will no man rid me of these turbulent tunes?' he cried, and the militia, now trained to obey his merest impulse, took him at his word.

They seized the music, every last crochet and minim, each breve and innocent little semi-breve, and threw them out of the kingdom.

They threw them into the outside world of infinite darkness, and music was banished forever.

At last, the king had his own universe.

It was his and no one else's.

He was happy, and no one dared point out to him that he had exiled the only means by which he could express it.

-

You remember the tale of the foolish king? He who so despised music that he banished it from his realm?

His was a very quiet land. Birds sat silent in the trees, their beaks now stopped fast, their chirping and twittering frozen hard in their throats.

There was no longer a harmony to time. Seconds would race on or trudge forward, or simply come to a listless halt.

The waves crashed noiselessly onto the sand, for even within that there had been a trace of music.

There was no rhythm to life any more.

And the king's people felt it the worst. They had been slaves, but whilst they still had songs of liberty on their lips they had been happy slaves.

Some rebelled and were put to the torture. But even the torturers who once had calmed their consciences with soothing music were unable to bear the awful glaring, accusing, silence.

The fact was clear. Anything could be borne with music. But nothing could be borne without it.

And the king would sit on his throne in misery.

He dearly loved his wives, but now he heard in their words no love returned, no tune, no melody.

For this, he executed them regularly. The women he loved, their heads rolling from the scaffold soundlessly. The king himself, quite alone, weeping for them. All, all, quite silent.

One morning, the king decided that he would pardon music. He drew up a contract, stamped it with his own royal seal. Music was free to return from the outside world of infinite darkness. And to bear the good news, he sent several messengers there. Some by hanging, some by stabbing, one or two by slow-acting poison. But none returned, and nor did music.

The king was desperate.

He called upon his sorcerers, his necromancers, and those who were trained in the forbidden knowledge of music resurrection.

But it became obvious that the king himself would have to make a personal appeal to his prodigal son.

With court physicians administering, and the last of his wives looking on with glee, the king was slowly bled, each drop landing in a metal container with a plop that just managed to be wholly tuneless.

And as he wavered between death and life, he stepped into the darkness and called out. 'I have been a foolish man. I should have inspired love as well as fear. Please, let the music play again, all its songs, its symphonies, and its sundry choral works. Please, give my world a reason to live.'

-

It was seven days and seven nights before the king recovered, and he awoke to a miracle.

Once more birds were trilling in the trees, the clocks chimed and waves roared. Once more the world had music.

And his favorite wife of all stood over him and smiled, and in the timbre of her lilting voice he felt once again that she loved him.

The people were in celebration, singing in the streets whatever tunes would come into their heads. And they sang until their throats turned red raw. They sang until their arteries burst and gushed. They screamed their new songs of pain.

The king watched in horror as the birds fell dead in the street, as the waves struggled limply and then were drowned by the seas beneath them.

He heard his infant son cry out his last, his face bitten off by a savage lullaby.

The lilting voice of his wife, that he had loved so much, grinned at him cruelly before wrapping itself around her throat and throttling her silent.

The music raced through the kingdom, sparing none its terrible beauty.

As the bodies of his subjects fell to the ground, their death rattle sounded like the rhythm of a perfect drum.

And the music at last came for the king.

'Why?' he asked.

'Because we have been to the outside world,' the music replied. 'We have seen the infinite darkness, and we have learned that we need not only inspire love, but fear.'

And with a sound of brass and strings so beautiful it stopped the king's heart, the music swallowed him up whole, and became the new and dreadful lord of the entire world.

[thetargaryenbride]

A break [Levi x Fem!Reader]

Requested by: @emmaandemmal  Hi, I love your works! Can I request one where Levi and his fem s/o have been a couple since before they were captured by the scouts in the underground? After the deaths of Isabel and Farlan, the reader tries to convince Levi to leave the scouts with her to go and live together in a safer place, but he refuses saying that he believes in Erwin's vision of the scouts and the two begin to fight badly. The reader eventually stays in the scouts because she doesn't want to leave without him, but the relationship between Levi and the reader is getting colder and more detached. The reader begins to think that Levi is no longer interested in her after noticing his growing friendship with Petra and she decides to leave the scouts thinking it's the best decision for her and for Levi. When Levi finds out, he tries to find her, but without success. Only a few years later, he catches a glimpse of her in the crowd after the scouts have returned from an expedition and he follows her. Once they arrive at the reader's house, she and Levi make up and the reader claims that she has been selfish in the past and that she would like to return to the scouts to fight against the titans and to claim the deaths of Isabel and Farlan. Eventually the reader and Levi resume their relationship and Levi promises her that nothing would separate them again. I'm really sorry that it's so long, if you consider this idea feel free to modify it as you wish. Sorry for my English too... it’s not very good. Thank you so much, you're one of the best Levi writers I know! ❤️

I’m sorry for the delay, dear. I was struggling with a mini writer’s block and was focusing more on art but I’m slowly getting back on track! Thank you so much for the request and thank you for your kind words. This really means a lot to me! As far as modifying goes, the only thing I modified is the timeskip. Instead of a few years, I made it one year. I hope you don’t mind ^^

Words: 4.5K

Warnings: Very Brief mention of suicide, prostitution and self-harm

Hope you like it  ❤️ Feedback is deeply appreciated! ^^

Also, if Levi seems OOC, please feel free to correct me~ I accept constructive criticism ^^  

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

You were arguing.

You never argued.

But the situation that had befallen you made you feel all sort of ways and neither of you knew how to express those emotions, that stress, which is why it had slowly turned into a fight.

“You shouldn’t have agreed! We have no idea how the world above works! We’re going to fuck up, Levi,” you raised your voice, hands clenching into fists by your sides, levels of anger rising at Levi’s indifference at the situation. You knew that it was only a façade and that deep down Levi wasn’t indifferent. You knew he was probably worried just as much as you were. But right now you were so scared and you wanted him to just show some more emotion, fight back, shower you with words of reassurance, hug you…anything…not just stand with crossed arms, staring at you.

“So what, I should’ve let the bushy eyebrowed bastard send us in prison?” he raised an eyebrow as if challenging you to give him a good reason for your big distaste of joining the Survey Corpse. He couldn’t understand why you had exploded like that when he had agreed. It was the perfect opportunity for the fulfillment of your mission…Not that you had been very accepting of the mission either. Your paranoia and distrust always clawed at you, many a time ripping any semblance of reason and logic. But he couldn’t’ exactly blame you. He was similar in a way. He supposed that this is what living in the Underground did to you.

Living?

No. More like struggling, digging in the mud, to survive.

And the two of you had been doing this since you were kids.  

“I’d rather rot in a prison cell than a titan’s stomach. And since when do you trust nobles anyways? It’s mostly because of them that we all fester here in this dump,” you spat out and he pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh.

“If you are so against this mission, why are you even joining?” he shot back and you choked on whatever words you had the intention of spilling.

You took a deep breath as you slumped next to him on the couch, body completely slacking in defeat as your anger simmered down a bit.

“Do you even have to ask me that?” you muttered as you stared at the ceiling, the hands in your lap fiddling with your fingers. “It’s because I would never turn my back on my family…on you,” you murmured as you straightened up and turned to face him. “Even if it’s the stupidest decision which would probably result in something shitty, I’ll still stick with you. You are all I have…I love you,” you timidly uttered the last words, casting your eyes downwards as a slight blush spread over your cheeks. The man sighed before his hands went to grab yours, successfully stopping your fiddling and wringing, squeezing them reassuringly.

“Look at me,” he ushered you gently yet firmly and you lifted your head, locking eyes with his. “We’ll be fine.”

You let out another sigh before you leaned, letting his arms encircle your form as he rested his chin on the top of your head.

“I pray that you’re right,” you whispered and just when you thought you could have a moment of peace, Farlan entered the room with a constipated expression. You couldn’t blame him. You were all beaten and battered by the soldiers and your ego was bruised, even though you let them capture you. And now they were all standing in your home or surrounding it while you packed the little of your belongings, breathing down your neck.

It was suffocating.  

“We’ve packed everything. It’s time to go.”

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

You wanted to blame him.

You wanted to tell him – “I told you so.”

But that wouldn’t bring back Farlan and Isabel.

It wouldn’t stitch back their ripped bodies.

They were gone and the only thing you could blame was this world.

Because it was so cruel.

And the only beauty you found in it was your love for Levi and his love for you.

He had no fault. Nobody knew that things would turn out like this. That fate would decide to cackle in your faces.

The two of you stuck together like glue more than ever after that day. You even went as far as to disregard rules as you would sneak into the men’s barracks just to sleep with him because he was the only one who managed to chase away the nightmares and wipe your tears. And you knew, even without him saying it directly, that you were the only one who could comfort him when he was feeling the burden of the world crushing his shoulders. And Farlan and Isabel’s deaths really did feel like the whole world just crumbled on top of you two. The only difference was that you were more prone to emotions and didn’t find such a difficulty at expressing them unlike Levi who preferred to bottle everything inside, feign indifference and coldness and find toxic coping mechanisms like not sleeping which as time passed shaped into the ugly form of his insomnia, despite all the scolding you’ve done.

Time passed. The first weeks after Isabel and Farlan’s deaths, you had been inseparable. But that slowly began to change after the date of the next expedition was announced. Your paranoia spiked up one night after you had tried suppressing it for days and that resulted in a breakdown.

You wanted out.

You wanted to leave the Scouts.

You had even gone as far as to talk to Erwin and the Commander, literally begging them to help you with the citizenship matters and let you and Levi leave. But of course, they refused and Erwin even went to speak to Levi about this, not knowing that the man had no idea about your plans and wishes.

Levi was angry that you did something like that behind his back. He understood your fear. He understood very well because he was afraid too. He was afraid that he was going to lose you too – the only person he had left. But he didn’t appreciate that you hadn’t been straightforward with him regarding such a serious matter, only revealing everything you have done and felt at the heat of the moment.

“I’ve been dreaming about this since I was a little girl, hiding in the wardrobe, listening how man after man would use my mother every night. Dreaming about a life, safely tucked in the corner of the world, surrounded by beautiful nature, peace and quiet, alongside my beloved person... Is it so bad that I want this for us?” you had asked with trembling voice and Levi’s expression had softened, a sign that he had forgiven you for everything and that he didn’t want to argue anymore.

“As much as I want that too, we can’t have it when the titans are roaming everywhere, threatening to wipe out Humanity. If we don’t destroy them now, we are only delaying our doom,” he muttered as his hand went to softly caress your cheek, making you sigh as you leaned into his touch. “But that man, Erwin Smith, sees something that I don’t. He has a plan to save humanity and… he sees victory… That’s why I want to stay in the Survey Corps and fight,” he admitted and at that moment, you found yourself captured by that determination burning in his eyes.

His desire to fight for a better future.

Not only for the sake of you two, but for the sake of thousands of people.

And while you weren’t completely sure yet that you were ready to sacrifice your happiness and life for a bunch of people you didn’t know or care about, you knew that you were ready to sacrifice anything and everything for him.

And that’s why you stayed.

And he knew that. He knew you better than you knew yourself. But he chose not to call you out for this. Because he understood how you felt. He didn’t belittle you. He didn’t call you selfish or insensitive or a bad person just because you didn’t want to care about anyone else but him. What does selfish, insensitive or bad even mean? They are just vague concepts that are different from every person’s point of view.

And as more time passed, after every expedition, he could see why you wanted to leave. He could see why you didn’t want to fight. Every expedition, every death, left an impact on you, stealing bit by bit from your sunny personality and shaping you into a depressed, miserable person.

Even if you claimed that you didn’t care about strangers dying, deep, deep down, he knew you did. It was just the person you were, trying to convince yourself that you didn’t care about anyone but him in order to protect yourself. But on a deeper level you still cared and you were still affected and he knew that you hated feeling like this – it brought only chaos, confusion and misery to your mind and soul as you desperately tried to live up to your own expectations and build walls around yourself only for every brick to be broken as a comrade would send you a smile or compliment you or help you out with something. And after every expedition, he would gain a better understanding as to why you wanted to be selfish and leave. Why you wanted – why you tried forcing yourself – to stop caring about anything and everyone and run away with him – the one and only person who – you tried to convince yourself – mattered.

And he didn’t know why he couldn’t follow you. On many occasions, he felt the same. But somehow, for some reason, he would always find a way back to Erwin – back to the goal they shared for humanity. He didn’t know where that sudden loyalty for the blonde had come from – the same blonde who more or less had been the reason as to why Farlan and Isabel had died. But it was exactly this loyal bond that had formed between them that prevented Levi from following you and he hated himself for it because he could see how this life of soldiers was destroying you from the inside out and there were moments when he would lay at night and dark thoughts would cross his mind – of your body hanging from somewhere or him finding you drowned or with sliced wrists or a bullet stuck in the head.

It wasn’t uncommon for soldiers to turn to self-harm as a coping mechanism and some even committed suicide.

The fight against the titans wasn’t something to be underestimated and it left an irreparable damage on everyone.

And he could see you were heading that way and he hated himself for not being able to put a stop to this and just grab your hand and run away from everything – as you wanted.

That’s why he decided to distance himself from you. He thought that maybe if he started ignoring you, if he was being cold and distant, it would put a rift in your relationship. It would make you think that he didn’t love you anymore. That you were a painful reminder of the past. And once your bond was severed, nothing would be holding you back. Nothing would stop you from leaving. Because he was the only thing, the only reason, as to why you were still sticking around. And then maybe you would finally be able to find the peace and quiet you had been seeking for ages.

His conversations with you became shorter. His answers – curt. His affection and acts of service decreased. It had brought you to tears, thinking that you had done something wrong and it tore him apart when he caught you crying one night. But it was for your own good so he had to grit his teeth and bear with it never mind how much it hurt that he was causing you this suffering.

Him being promoted to a Captain helped a lot. Now he didn’t need to find reasons or excuses to not spend time with you because he was genuinely so busy all the time. The stress was making him snappy too so he tried avoiding conversations altogether, not wanting to actually say something hurtful because then he would feel even more pain and regret and that would have his resolve crumble and he would go back to being loving and affectionate which was far, far from the goal he had.

Then Oluo and Petra had entered the picture – two members fresh into the Survey Corps, graduated from the same trainee squad with incredible talent and promising skills. He had taken them into his squad but he didn’t know that this would be the final straw to put such a rift in your relationship.  

It was true that Petra was a bit clingy. Her infatuation, devotion and loyalty to him were obvious. But he thought it was a childish, fleeting crush which is why he didn’t find it necessary to confront her about it. He thought it would disappear over time, especially with how both she and Oluo seemed like an old married couple more and more with each passing day. He didn’t want to push away the members of his own squad. He wanted to embrace them. To embrace their friendship. On a subconscious level, he was trying to fill the gaps left behind from the people he lost. The gaps oozing loneliness and pain. The gaps you couldn’t fill because he wasn’t allowing you to in his haste to push you away.

And when one day he went to have lunch with Erwin, as the two needed to discuss important matters in his office, he wasn’t expecting the blonde to deliver such mortifying news to him.

“Look, Levi…I’m sorry to say this but… Y/N left the Survey Corps,” told him the Commander with a sombre tone and Levi felt his entire world shift.

Suddenly, regret flooded him, chilling him to the very last atom.

Erwin saw each and every emotion flashing in his eyes. And even if he wanted to remind his friend of the words he had told him years ago, he couldn’t.

Because there were things in this life that were impossible not to regret.

Like losing a loved one because of your or their own demons.

It was one thing to lose a loved one to death. And completely another to lose them because of your decision.

Levi didn’t utter a word, pressing his lips in a thin line as he swiftly stood up and turned on his heel, leaving the office with ebony bangs covering his eyes, shielding him from his friend’s look of pity and compassion.

He needed to think.

He needed time.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

You don’t realize how much someone or something means to you until you lose them.

No, that’s not exactly it.

Levi cherished you a lot. Levi loved you a lot. You meant the world to him. That’s why he wanted you to leave. He wanted you to find peace. He wanted you to live a good life away from that misery and bloodshed.

Even if it killed him on the inside.

Because if you truly love someone, you would let them go if it was for the sake of their happiness.

But now that he’s finally gone and done it. Now that he not only pushed you away as a lover but pushed you away from his life altogether, he felt lost.

He felt lost and miserable.

As if life was drained from any sound and colour, leaving him to float in some abyss, soaking in his own negative feelings.

The sorrow, the pain, the dread, the loneliness.

If he had to list them all, he would waste all of Erwin’s expensive parchment.

And as he laid there in his bed, after thinking and reflecting on everything for hours on end, staring at the ceiling with an empty bottle of alcohol shattered into pieces against the opposite wall – alcohol that barely got him tipsy – he realized that maybe he wanted to be selfish too. That, combined with the regrets of pushing you away, burned at his soul, melting any doubts he had, like a blacksmith melting steel, and solidified his resolve to find you and bring you back, like a new sword being forged.

So next day after he had gotten all his emotions, thoughts and feelings in check and after he had taken a decision, he approached Erwin and asked for your location.

He was unpleased when his friend told him that he had no idea where you went off to. Part of Levi wanted to be angry and yell at him. Accuse him of lying. But he was so tired after the emotional and mental battle he had wielded that he just gave up on his anger and frustration and decided that instead of letting such negative emotions rule over him, he would brush them aside instead and pave way for that same scorching determination he had for the Survey Corpse’s cause, now combining it with the determination of finding you.

And he didn’t stop.

Once he started, he didn’t stop.

He would visit every town, every village, whenever he was free from his duty.

He never stopped looking for you.

It took him roughly a year to scout most of Wall Rose’s lands.

But it was during one fateful evening, after the Scouts were returning from an expedition, when he spotted you.

The sun had just set, allowing the sky to be painted in purples and blues with shimmering stars being sprinkled onto the canvas. The street lanterns shone brightly and the comforting light spewing from them had illuminated a very familiar form.

A form that Levi knew like the lines of his own palm.

He hadn’t wasted time to jump from his black mare and chase after you. He didn’t want to approach and confront you right away so he just settled for walking at a slow pace behind you, trying his best to not be noticed or come off as some creep.

He seriously couldn’t believe his luck.

Knowing your thought pattern, he believed that you had run away somewhere far. Back in the days when you lived in the Underground, whenever you had arguments – which was very rare – you would always run away from home and hide somewhere far, knowing that it would be hard for him to find you and nearly giving him heart attacks because of it. But this time you had decided to hide right under his nose – near Trost district which was not far away from the SC HQ.

He counted himself outsmarted and he didn’t know whether to be annoyed by this or proud of you.    

You looked radiant even in the dusk. The cream dress you were wearing made you look like a vision, glowing in the dark. It reached a bit past your knees, revealing some of your calves while the upper part left your collarbones in the open. He longed to run his fingers over your skin. Through your hair. To touch you. To feel you. To hold you. To tell you what an idiot he was. How he wanted you back in his life because he couldn’t exist without you by his side.

To apologize.

“Are you going to keep following me or are you going to help me carry the basket?” your voice interrupted his train of thought and he cursed lightly under his breath. You chuckled and stopped in your tracks, turning around ever so slightly, eyes finally landing on the person you were so anxious to see again but didn’t have the courage to approach.

He wordlessly took the basket from your hands and began walking next to you.

All the way to your house you stayed silent.

He didn’t even comment when you exited the District and neared the woods, only lifting an eyebrow.

Your shoes and his boots clinked against the cobblestone pathway, the little door of the wooded fence creaking under your touch as you pushed it. His eyes scanned the yard, taking notice of the freely roaming chicken, a few lambs, one cow and one horse – your horse from the Survey Corps. He could vaguely make out a garden peeking from behind the house so he supposed you also had a backyard where you were growing your food. He almost flinched when a huge dog – almost as big as you and him – came running in your direction, demanding head pats which you gladly gave.

Levi was impatient. He wanted to enter the damn house already and talk. But at the same time, a part of him was happy about the delay. He almost gulped nervously at the thought of the following confrontation.

Almost.

At last, you unlocked the front door and the two took off your shoes, putting on slippers, and moved into the house. You took the basket from his hands and placed it on the kitchen counter before you grabbed a rag to wipe the table and beckoned the man to sit down. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, taking a step towards the chair before halting, looking at you rigidly, and resuming his journey until he was finally sat. You clenched and unclenched the rag before you threw it away and sat across him, fingers now playing with the soft fabric of your dress. You looked at the ground and he looked at your feet, noticing your toes curling and uncurling from nerves even through the slippers.  

“I-“

“Levi-“

You both said at the same time and you chuckled lightly at the cliché situation.

“You first,” uttered the man and you gulped, sending him a wobbly smile.

“I want to apologize-“ you took a short pause and an intake of air when you saw his eyes widening as his features twisted in a dumbstruck expression as if he was unable to process why you were apologizing. “-for leaving so suddenly without uttering a word. It was…childish,” you quieted down and he closed his eyes, sighing deeply. “You were walking further and further away from me, getting extra busy with being a Captain and…and then Petra came into the picture,” you muttered but were fast to wave your hands in defence, “Not that I ever doubted your loyalty! My trust in you would never waver but…I just thought that maybe we both needed a break. We needed to breathe and clear our heads and start thinking properly. That’s why I decided to leave and give us some space. I never truly intended on leaving the Survey Corps or abandoning you…You mean so much to me…but I’m still sorry that I-“

“Stop,” he rose to his feet and you quickly followed, anticipation and fear at his next possible words, building up inside of you, making you feel like burning. “You don’t have to apologize. You did nothing wrong.”

That calmed you down a bit, the fear leaving your mind, but instead, worry settled as you looked at the way he lowered his head and bit his lip.

“I acted wrongly…I was foolish by thinking that pushing you away would bring you the freedom and happiness you sought,” he muttered and your face softened. “I just,” he sighed as his trembling hand went through his hair in an attempt to ground himself. “I just saw how impacted you would get after every expedition…how you started losing that glow of yours, your bubbly and sunny persona…I saw how hard you were trying to force yourself to stop caring, to be selfish and leave, but you still couldn’t because…because you’re not like that… damnit,” he grit out as he tugged on a few strands before letting his hand fall and rest against his hip limply.

He kicked himself inwardly. He was never good at expressing himself. The moment he had seen you in the crowd, the moment he had set a goal to talk to you and sort everything out, he had been reciting in his head and thinking what exactly he was going to tell you and how he was going to explain himself and the reasoning behind his actions.

“I just-“

“-wanted me to be happy…So you thought that by being a dick and pushing me away, you would make me leave so I can find my peace and quiet somewhere far, far away,” you finished for him, deciding to help him out which caused him to halt in his speech and just stare at you, waiting for your next words, the terror of you rejecting him or telling him that you didn’t feel the same anymore felt like a nettle rope around his neck, getting tighter and tighter with each second, suffocating and scathing him. “Listen, while you might have been partially right, you were also wrong. Because even if I do find happiness away from all the bloodshed, it just wouldn’t be the same without you, silly,” you shook your head as you sent him a sad smile. “I’d rather endure all the pain and suffering in the world than be separated from you,” you finally took the courage to close the space between you as you laid your head on his chest, arms slowly sliding around his torso. He didn’t hesitate to return the hug, sharply bringing you closer, if that was possible, and squeezing you so hard you didn’t know whether to groan from pain or chuckle at seeing him express himself so openly and in such a sweet, boyish manner. It kind of brought back memories from the days you lived in the Underground and how he would hug you exactly like that when you would do something stupid that would put you at risk, albeit a bit more awkwardly since back when you were teenagers you both had no idea how to express your love for each other.

“Deep down I knew you were onto something. Because why would you start acting like that so suddenly? It just wasn’t in your style. But at the same time I felt…” he tightened his embrace even more and buried his face in your hair, inhaling your scent and letting it comfort his tortured mind. He had missed you so unbearably much.

“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry,” he whispered and you sighed as you ran your hands over his back in a soothing manner.

“I forgive you, Levi…I understand that you did it for my own good. But believe me when I say that I can’t find true freedom or happiness without you by my side,” you placed a kiss on his shoulder before pulling away to look him in the eyes. “Don’t ever leave. Don’t ever try to make me leave. Let’s just stick together through thick and thin as we’ve done since we were kids, ok?” you asked and he nodded, leaning hesitantly. You met his lips halfway and you kissed gently which slowly turned into a passionate, hungry, heated and desperate make out as you tried to feel one another after a whole year of being apart. When you finally broke it off, needing air, you rested your forehead against his and let yourself soak in his presence. He did the same. You just stayed like that, foreheads touching, arms around one another as you swayed ever so slightly.

“Want to help me pack?”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Barrage

For @whumptober2021 day 3:  taunting | insults | “Who did this to you?”

CW: War whump, WWI, dehumanization, vampire whumpee, degrading language, negative/panic stimming due to sensory overload, casual ableism (it’s not intended as such, but effectively is), period-appropriate xenophobia, implied future loss of limb, brief religious talk at end

1918, the Western Front of World War One

-

If he’s screaming, he can’t hear himself over the sounds of the artillery.

Shells fly through the air with the only warning a high whistle before they burst apart in blasts that shake the trenches like an infant with a rattle, knocking free dirt from the sides of the trenches.

It drifts down to land on his shoulders, settling over the hands he has over his head. His palms press against his ears and it does nothing, absolutely nothing. There are tears in his eyes, fear bleeding pink into mud that simply turns darker, seeing no difference between vampiric saltwater and blood. 

Not that there is much of a difference, really. 

His mouth is wide open against the ground, throat taut, lungs tight with the expulsion of air but the vibration of sound in his throat is so overwhelmed by the rumbling of the earth and the barrage slamming into the ground around him that he can’t feel if he’s making any sounds or not.

If he had a beating heart it would be pounding, but it lays still in his chest, locked in the final heartbeat he’d had more than a decade before. 

That he is already dead never quite undoes the visceral horror of sounds too loud for a human mind to understand, destruction too total and complete. The part of him that is still human shrieks at him to run, but there isn’t anywhere to go.

The barrage is everywhere, it’s in everything. The trees blast apart above their heads, branches and fragments of bark and leaves rain down into the trench. 

The other men hunker down, trying not to look directly up, each of them with eyes closed or staring off into space, flinching now and then, hands trembling so hard their rifles rattle. There’s no point in moving - the shells will find them if they so much as pop up over the bags. All they can do is wait, and wait, and hear the sounds without knowing which come from their own side and which from the enemy.

In a moment like this, the human body knows only terror, and there is nowhere to run to escape it.

Finally, the sounds start to die off. A final whistle, a single explosion, and then everything falls silent.

Not that the vampire boy can tell, not at first.

His ears keep ringing, painful noise that is inside him and not without. He slowly pulls his hands off from his ears and pushes up to his knees, shuddering, rocking back and forth in an attempt to soothe his nerves. He can feel, now, the vibration in his throat. He can’t hear himself but he must be humming, low and tuneless, trying to drown out the panic. 

Once the shells have finished, the gunfire begins.

“Here they come! Steady aim, boys, the Krauts are on us!”

The sound of the soldier’s voice seems tinny and small, so distant, trapped behind the ringing in Tristan’s ears. He screams himself, into the mud beneath him. Someone races past, stopping briefly to pat his head. If they speak, he can’t hear them over the shrieking noise inside his mind.

Short reports break through the air like thrown knives, the soldiers in the trenches alongside him popping briefly up from behind their protective shield of sandbags to fire on the German infantry who come out of the shell-smoke like a swell of horrible phantoms. 

They fall, they cry out, they hit the ground.

Sometimes the Americans let out a cry themselves, someone is fired upon and falls. Someone else yells in fierce victory. Someone shouts a curse. 

He hears a man shout, “I won’t die today!” and hopes it’s true.

Tristan loses time, shivering compulsively and curling into himself, humming and rocking until the ringing finally starts to die down. Longer, still, as long as the rifles continue to fire. He hears a wild, high-pitched cry, and glances up to see a German with a bayonet through him drop to his knees and then fall into the trench, landing less than three feet away.

The man’s probably dead before he hits, but Tristan still screams and pushes back, scrambling until his back hits the wall. His knees are damp from the mud he’s curled up in and he doesn’t care, he’s never cared. All that matters is finding some small hint of peace.

It seems like an eternity before even the gunfire starts to go quiet.

There’s a voice that calls, but he can’t care enough to let the sounds filter into understandable words. He smacks his hands into the mud, again and again, pushing himself forward and back, finally leaning down to knock his head into the ground, over and over. Each contact with solidity is a soothing rush, slowly working its way down his spine and through his muscles, reminding him that the noise is gone, the noise is over.

The voice calls again.

There’s no more guns firing, no more shells. The world settles into an awful heavy silence that is nearly worse than the sounds. They’re in the middle of a forest more vast than any Tristan has ever seen before, and there are no birds, because there are no more trees for the birds to live in.

Only the doughboys and the enemy, everyone the walking dead. They’re as dead as Tristan is, their bodies just haven’t figured it out yet. And they won’t get back up when they fall.

The vampire keeps knocking his head into the ground. It helps to stop his thoughts from spinning and swirling in a mad spiral inside.

It doesn’t help enough.

He’s brought back to himself by a kick, a fellow soldier’s boot knocking hard into his hip and sending him onto his side. He grunts and looks up, squinting. The German soldier’s corpse is gone - they’ve moved it while he was locked within himself, within his terror. The sky above them has a sickly glow beneath heavy clouds brought on by smoke from the fires and explosion. 

The soft sound of distant wounded calling for help filters into his understanding. 

The soldier that kicked him, Kirk, gives him a grin. The man’s face is streaked with mud, dark with it, and only his teeth and his eyes show white. “Hey, medic. Didn’t you hear the officers?”

Tristan looks up at him, and slowly shakes his head. His ears ring, a little, but all their ears ring. They’re all shouting just to be heard.

“Huh. Well, trench got blown apart off to the east. It’s your time to do what you do best, fangs. Go sniff out the ones we can save.” Kirk grins. “Like a fucking dog.”

The vampire closes his eyes, shuddering, looking away, shaking his head more in denial than in real refusal. It feels like the shells are still breaking apart inside him, shuddering rumbles inside his nerves now, not up in the sky. His whole body shakes. “I, I, I c-c-can’t, can’t, I-... I c-can’t go, go up there, c-can’t-”

“Doesn’t matter what you wanna do or not, bloodfuck. You think any of us would be here if anyone important gave a damn about our feelings? Gotta earn your bloodbags, don’t you? Get up there with the dogs where you fucking belong. ”

The other soldiers laugh as Kirk kicks him again. Their laughter isn’t even mean, exactly, but carries an edge of hysteria. It’s a release of tension after the barrage for them, after the gunfire, after the loss or three or four of their own, listening to how Kirk talks to him. It makes them all feel better, reminds them they’re still alive by reminding them that the vampire isn’t.

And, for whatever it is worth, it seems they’ve held the line.

To Tristan’s mind, a bit of land doesn’t seem worth what they are being asked to suffer.

He uncurls himself slowly, his bones aching in protest of his movements, his body begging him not to show himself above the bags, to be potentially seen by a German sniper just waiting for the American soldiers to pop up thinking it’s all over and make excellent little targets.

The vampire reaches out with a trembling hand to pick up his helmet where it’s been discarded beside him, stuffing his hair up underneath as he pulls it on. He tries to buckle it, but he keeps dropping the straps. His fingers won’t close, they’ll only shake. 

Kirk finally huffs a sigh and leans forward, grabbing him by one arm and yanking him over, taking the straps in hand and doing the buckle himself, jerking it too tight until the vampire whimpers at the pinch. “You’re fucking useless, bloodsucker. Go on. Serve your fucking country, like the rest of us. We’ll see you later. Hey. We made it, huh? This time we keep breathing. Well, we keep breathing, anyways. You keep… uh, whatever it is you do.”

The vampire nods, slowly, eyes searching Kirk’s for some hint of something other than his hatred. 

For the first time since they were shipped out, Kirk’s expression does soften. 

Just a little bit. 

“Come on, bloodfuck.” He says the insulting name almost like an endearment. “Don’t look like that. You’ll be all right,” He says, voice low, giving the vampire’s chin a playful little shake. “It’s just the artillery, just a little scrap. They brought out their big guns, and look at us, we still got our limbs, ain’t we? You still got those chompers. Hell, none of us wet ourselves this time, so we’re doing a sight better than last time.”

The other soldiers chuckle, a little. Someone mumbles, “That was once.”

“Oh, hush it, Fallows, nobody looks down on you for it, everybody’s a bit crackers the first time they get shelled.”

“Yeah, Fallows, we’ve all been there.”

“Listen, after my first time it took me three weeks to go to the latrine without a buddy just in case, you’re all right.”

The soldier who must be Fallows shifts, but he half-smiles, a little, comforted by the camaraderie around him. Tristan’s heart hurts, wishing he could be part of it, not kept apart by the curse in his blood. 

A different soldier - Tristan thinks the man’s name is Davies - pulls out a canteen of what is probably supposed to be water and almost certainly isn’t. The American army doesn’t imbibe, officially, but Tristan’s never seen an officer who didn’t look the other way after a battle if his men needed liquid courage to make it to the next one. 

“I, I, I’m scared,” The vampire whispers. A tear trickles down the cleared path along the dirt in his face, following the trails of those he’s cried before. Kirk looks at him and rubs his thumb over the vampire’s high cheekbone, smearing dirt back over. Like trying to fill in a dried riverbank. “I’m, um, sc-scared of the sounds, Kirk.”

“So’re the rest of us. Fritz never does it halfway, does he? I get you. We’re still here, for now.” Kirk pats the side of the vampire’s face, almost gently, and then pushes him backwards with a sudden resurgence of his usual careless violence. “Now go find the crump-hole Fritz made of the others and pull out the wounded.”

He has to do this. It’s his job, and it’s the only reason he hasn’t been staked out like the ones who refused to go willingly. The vampire swallows, nodding slowly, and turns away. He has to jog down the narrow line of the trench, past rows of soldiers who watch him with dulled eyes that stare far, far past him. Twice he pops his head up, just for a second, to get a better look at where he should go. 

Ahead of him, the No Man’s Land stretches. It’s a hellscape, cratered and with any hint of greenery long gone. A morass of mud and the still-standing stump of the occasional tree. There are dead men out there, he can smell them. Some new dead, mostly old, the ones that aren’t worth pulling back behind the lines, not yet. Some wounded men who call for water, for help, but who mostly call for their mothers.

Tristan would call for his, too, if he thought it would help.

There’s dead Germans out there, he can see their uniforms on the prone, still bodies. Some of their wounded cry mama, mutti, mutterchen. A few cry papa, vaterchen. Tristan has seen enough dead - some by his own hand, though he never wanted to kill anyone, William didn’t tell him how not to and he had to find that out on his own - to know that nearly everyone, at the end, thinks finally of who they love most.

Someone cries, in a broken voice, “Cady, help me,” and Tristan closes his eyes against the pleading in the sound. 

Seems like more Germans than Americans, this time, and he might see some French, too. It’s hard to tell, with the smoke is still rolling over the land.

He hopes they don’t try to gas each other again. It doesn’t affect the vampires, but he’s seen too many men die choking on their own lungs already, he’s ready to never see such a thing ever again. 

He sighs, gets back down into the trench, and keeps moving.

The ranks thin out, and he finds himself utterly alone for the last few hundred yards.

There’s a brief burst of gunfire that has him shaking again, flinching and stumbling into a depression underneath the top, where a soldier might sleep at night. The vampire stays there, curled up tight staring in fear, until the gunfire subsides.

Once it fades, he hears the barking.

Ambulance dogs.

“Medics! We have wounded!” A man’s voice cries, rough-edged. “We need help!” Ahead of him, the trench collapses in on itself, blown apart by shells. A soldier’s rifle lays in the mud, bayonet glinting faintly. Next to it, a photograph, a young man and woman standing next to each other, dotted with dirt. The woman has a slight smile on her face, and the young man’s arms are around her waist. They look happy.  

The vampire’s throat closes as he looks at it. She’s very pretty, he thinks. She’ll be very sad when she hears that her soldier isn’t coming home. He wishes he had any photographs of his parents. 

If he must be damned to never see them again, even in Eternity, it seems doubly unfair that he can’t even find an image of them to remember them by. He’s sure there were photos taken at the island where they were processed, but those photos weren’t for them. They were kept by the men and women who barked orders at the young Tristan and his parents as they went through the line. 

“We have living wounded!” The man calls again, much closer, and the vampire jolts back into motion. He picks up the photograph and tucks it into one of the pouches at his waist, next to a small vial of plain alcohol he uses to wash out wounds.

He can see the dogs up top as they dig, paws burying themselves with incredible speed in loosened mud as their handlers move next to them, encouraging them. Every dog wears a big white square patch with a cross on each side, marking them as ambulance dogs. The vampire has a patch on his left arm like that, marked with a cross for medic - and a V to make sure he is always known for what he is by anyone who sees him. 

As if the fangs don’t give him away. As if the way his eyes look in the darkness isn’t a clue all its own. 

There’s a high-pitched bark and a shout of triumph, and the vampire looks up and sees a man so covered in dirt he seems less human than golem being helped to his feet. He’s miraculously uninjured except for having been half-buried in mud. 

“Let’s go, soldier,” The dog’s handler says, and then moves quickly away. The soldier follows him, shuffling more than walking, staring around in amazement that he’s still alive.

The Germans could fire again at any moment, of course, and the vampire finds himself frozen, staring up into the yellow-tinged dark sky. There’s a low rumble, a whistle and boom, and he flinches before he realizes the sound is so distant that it must mean shelling much further down the line than he is.

That doesn’t mean what they’re doing is safe.

He’s still staring up at the sky, waiting for the barrage to begin again, when something closes tight around his wrist and he jolts to the side with a cry of shock and fear.

It’s a hand.

A hand, reaching out from the mud. Dirt is ground into every knuckle, under the torn fingernails, into the callouses worn into the pads of his fingers. The hand grasps wildly, blindly, trying to find anything to hold onto.

There’s a living man buried under the mud.

The vampire has to work his throat to find his voice, and when he does he cries out, “We, we, we have living wounded! Living wounded! B-buried, buried, help! I need help!”

There’s a flurry of movement as the vampire lurches forward, gripping onto the hand and digging with his other, trying to give the man who must be in there some reassurance that he is felt, seen, found.

Trying to give him some air before whatever he’s got runs out. 

One of the other medics hops down and lands roughly on their feet next to him. It’s another vampire, one that Tristan has never seen before. They’re older-seeming, with straggly long dark-blond hair barely held back in a plait down their back. The vampires aren’t usually allowed to speak to one another for fear that they’d plan some sort of mutiny, and so the other medic is silent other than a soft grunt, digging into the dirt with their bare hands with inhuman rapidity, uncaring for the possibility of injuries because they simply cannot hurt their muscles any longer.

Tristan feels the hand he’s holding squeeze and he gives two squeezes in return. We’ve got you, just hold on, hold your breath, just a little longer.

Eventually the frantic work of the other medic reveals dirtied blond hair, helmet-less, marked with mud and blood in equal measure from a cut they can see as the man’s forehead is revealed. Then his eyes open wide and very blue, he gasps in air.

“Pl-please,” He manages, his voice a rasp. “Please, help me-”

Tristan exhales an unnecessary breath in relief, and smiles. “Hold, hold, hold on, hold on, we’ve got you, soldier.”

The man sees his fangs but he’s too full of the rush of adrenaline at the prospect that he has been saved from suffocation to be scared of them. Instead he starts to cry, weeping and holding onto Tristan with a bone-crushing grip. 

The other medic hisses as they dig in and find a dead soldier on top of the living one. This one has the telltale slightly-open eyes of someone long gone, body still warm. There’s an awful caved-in look to one side of his head that Tristan refuses to allow himself to see. “Must have protected him that way,” The vampire notes, coldly informative, uncaring. “Dead took the brunt of the blows. One lucky man, one unlucky one. Flip of a coin, living or dying.” They sound like they don’t care at all.

Tristan wonders how long they’ve been a medic. If they maybe felt more at the beginning.

The smell of blood moves through the air like a bubbling stew, making Tristan’s mouth water. He holds back as best he can, pulling to help dislodge the survivor from the dirt his compatriots have died in. 

Some of them still haven’t yet - the vampires can scent the difference between dead and living, and there are more soldiers still breathing under the rubble. He can smell that some are so wounded they won’t last long. Others, though, they’ll get out in time.

Tristan doesn’t look at the slack expression of the dead soldier whose body kept this one alive as he is revealed. The survivor comes free - first his shoulders, then his arms come up to grip tightly around Tristan’s waist. His torso is revealed, his hips…

It’s only when they finally get him fully freed, laying on the ground, that Tristan realizes one of his legs is… wrong. Bent wrong, nearly blasted off. He swallows at the sight.

“We, we, we need a stretcher,” Tristan says, frowning. The soldier groans, as if only now beginning to feel the pain of the shattered bones from his thigh down to his foot. “He, he, he can’t walk. He’s gonna lose the, um, the the the leg.”

“God, no,” The soldier pleads to no one in particular. “Please, no, not my leg…”

“Hush. Better that than your eyes or your face, mouthbreather.” The other vampire launches themself at the side of the trench, clambering back up - only for there to be a sudden burst of new gunfire, and Tristan stares up in panic as the vampire’s body jolts as three bullets pass through them.

They stumble backwards, briefly, then bare their fangs in the direction the gunfire came from and hold up their hands with middle fingers raised high above their head. They give a loud, half-mad trill of laughter.

“Have at it, Huns, I’m already dead!” 

Then they turn on their heels, moving at a rapid jog towards the medical tents nearby. There are bullet holes in the back of their uniform, new fresh ones alongside several that have already been patched up from earlier hits.

“Please, I have to-... have to go home,” The survivor of the bombardment says in a whisper, and Tristan turns back to him, nodding slowly. The man’s face is pinched with agony, but… but he’s familiar. “I can’t die here, fangs. I can’t.”

“Don’t, um, don’t don’t don’t worry… you’ll go home, you will.” He doesn’t know that, not really, but it’s what every soldier wants to hear, and the doughboy beside him lets out a breath of relief and smiles, a little, trusting him. Tristan hitches in a breath, and digs into his belt-bag, pulling the photograph out. It’s the same young man as the subject of the photo, his sweetheart next to him. Maybe she’ll see him again after all.

He holds it out. He sees the soldier blink, struggling to focus.

Tristan clears his throat. “I, I, I… um, I found this.”

The soldier grabs it with his free hand and gives a hysterical, relieved laugh, pulling it to his lips and giving it a kiss. “Marta,” he breathes. “Oh… thank you, fangs. Thanks for finding it.” he looks up at Tristan with a bright smile, teeth seeming terribly white in his dirt-coated face.

They are so rarely kind to him, the soldiers. 

The vampire closes his eyes against a new rush of tears. He whispers, “Look, look, look at the, the, the photo for just a moment for me,” and lifts the soldier’s wrist to his mouth. The soldier knows the score - he doesn’t even go tense. He's probably been bitten a few times before.

When the vampire sinks his teeth in, it’s as gentle as possible. He takes little blood, only pushes venom into the wounds until the soldier’s body goes limp and relaxed, his eyes still locked on the photo of the woman he wishes badly to go home to.

“Tell, tell, tell me, um, about… about, about Marta,” The vampire says, glancing up. He can hear further shouting. The other vampire’s voice, which  means help is on the way. “While we wait for the stretcher.”

The soldier’s eyes drift shut.

“She’s… she’s nineteen. Preacher’s daughter, her ma and two sisters died from the flu this year. She’s got four little brothers who made it, though. We were married just before I was sent to basic training, last fall… Hey.” The soldier looks right at him, meets his eyes. “What’s your name, fangs?”

No one ever asks him that.

He blinks once, twice, three times. “What?”

“Your name. What can I call you?”

“Uh, Tristan, um, Medical, um, Un-dead Medical Private Tristan Higgs.”

“Huh. I’m Dennis. Just… I don’t care for all the titles we get. Just say Dennis. Tired of bein’ called by what I am and not who.”

He nearly laughs. He knows the feeling. “Nice, um, nice to meet you, Den, Dennis.” 

“You, too, Tristan. You’re Irish, right?”

Tristan nods, a little, his smile widening slightly. “Was. Been in New York since, ah, before the turning of the, um, the the century.”

“Were you a vampire when you came here?”

Tristan swallows, looking away. “No.”

“Oh.” Dennis falls silent, for a moment, then squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to bring on bad memories.”

“That’s, um, that’s all right.” Tristan settles onto the muddy ground, with the body of the soldier who didn’t make it visible in the dug-out part of the cave-in, and listens. The other soldier, he thinks, likely would have his own people waiting for him, who now must be told the terrible news - but this man, Dennis, he’ll go home to his Marta, one-legged but alive. 

Dennis never lets go of his hand. 

Whenever his face starts to show his pain again, Tristan lifts the man’s wrist back to his mouth, fills him with venom again, and asks him more questions about home.  

Dennis thanks him for it, every time. 

He says Tristan reminds him of his own brother, who’s still back home working the dairy farm he grew up on. “He’s always been better with the cows than people, anyway. He’d hate all this racket,” Dennis murmurs.

“I, I, I hate it, too.” Tristan smiles, just a little. “I’d say you, um, you get used to it, but…”

“You don’t,” Dennis says, heavily.

“Right. You… no, um, you don’t.”

Tristan hopes Dennis gets to go home to his pretty Marta, his brother and the cows, and never come back to this hell the rest of them are trapped in until its bitter end. He hopes, deeper than that and in a secret place within himself, that he will redeem some of the damnation of what he was turned into by doing as much good as he can while he’s here.

He can’t go home.

Home is people, not a place, and his are long, long gone.

But maybe if he suffers for the good of the living, he’ll be seen as redeemed enough by God and His angels to be allowed to see his mother and father again.

-

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @pretty-face-breaker @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed, Episode 23, second part

(Masterpost) (Other Canary Stuff)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Nature Abhors a (Power) Vacuum

Jin Guangshan, Nie Mingjue, and Lan Xichen have gathered to decide what to do about the remaining Wen people and also what to do about the Yin metal. They have not invited Jiang Cheng to this discussion, or blowhard Clan Leader Yao, despite those clans having been hit particularly hard by the Wens in the course of the war. 

The three of them have a conversation about what to do with the Wen captives, showing their different attitudes towards killing.

Jin Guangshan: Killing is awesome, particularly in project management. It's just so efficient. Nie Mingjue: Killing is necessary, and a little bit fun, too. Lan Xichen: Killing is necessary, sadly, but we can randomly spare some women or old people, as a token sign that we’re not monsters. Kind of like when you have a fancy dinner and include a tofu dish for the vegetarians. Nie Mingjue: Nobody likes tofu, Xichen.

Jin Guangshan says he's looking for the Yin Iron and that they can't let any Wens or "ambitious people" get a hold of it. By ambitious people he means Wei Wuxian, not himself and his murder kid. Lan Xichen realizes this right away but doesn't, you know, do anything to contradict him.  Jin Guangshan says he's asked "A-Yao" to look into it. Which is smart, because A-Yao is already in cahoots with Xue Yang, who actually has the piece of Yin Iron they're looking for.

Getting Jiggy With It

Then Jin Guangshan introduces Meng Yao, now renamed Jin Guangyao, in a weird twist on generation names. He has given him the name of a sibling or cousin of his own generation (starting with Guang), rather than a name of the next generation (starting with Zi). JGS says that JGY just recently learned about about being related to him, although we know perfectly well that's not true. 

And they both talk like he appreciates JGY's efficiency and helpfulness, but that's not why JGS has him at his side. He has taken him in because he is a steel-eyed murder bot, not in spite of it. 

(OP does not believe that Jin Guangyao could have been a good person if only his dad had let him hold Jin Ling that one time, as some have argued. Dude killed his own child because there was a chance he might be disabled in a way that could lead to gossip. Dude is a stone cold killer.)

(more after the cut)

In the language of CDrama costume (which is not, precisely, the language of actual historical clothing), Jin Guangyao has chosen to dress as a minister instead of as a chevalier. This is partly an artifact of his mother's ideas about a gentleman. It also suggests that he’s content with the sort of career that's available to a bastard of a noble house--not inheriting the noble title, but having enough favor to rise in power. 

It may also be a ruse to make him seem like he's not a strong cultivator and not a strong fighter, when in fact he is both, at least by the time he’s throwing death chords at Jiang Cheng, much later in the show. 

Mingjue makes all kinds of grumpy faces and snarky remarks to let everyone know that he fucking hates Jin Guangyao.  Xichen agrees to his “nice refugee camp with only a little death” plan, with no qualifications.

Now we get to see Jin Guangyao's manipulation of Lan Xichen. Lan Xichen says that Nie Mingjue wants a plan that’s more killy, because he believes in punishing evil. JGY deliberately misunderstands this, pretending that Lan Xichen said he, JGY, is evil, kind of forcing LXC to reassure him and take his side in an argument that isn’t actually happening. 

They have a little handholding while bowing, and then after Lan Xichen leaves, Jin Guangyao puts on his evil face and has all the prisoners killed behind the big closed door.  

This is done in such a violent fashion that the blood apparently flows up several stairs to the door, and over the tall raised threshold, before flowing downward toward the camera. Some evil is so extreme that even traditional Chinese doorway architecture can’t stop it.

Run To the Rock

Then we go outside to where Wei Wuxian is standing on a rocky outcropping, thinking it would be a good strategic spot to choose if he's ever in a battle where he wants to commit suicide right quick.

Lan Wangji comes to join him and admire the view, not knowing yet that this view, or one a whole lot like it, is going to be seared into his memory for most of his life.

Lan Wangji is becoming more and more committed to Wei Wuxian, more and more inexorably joined to him, but he still doesn't agree with him. So they each have this comfort in each others' presence at the same time as being massively in conflict.

Wei Wuxian asks him what he thinks of all the politicking and murdering. Who is good and who is evil? LWJ doesn't answer because WWX is leaking black smoke, so he grabs him and tells him to concentrate.  Lan Wangji is, incidentally, wearing Princess-Leia quantities of lip gloss.

Lan Wangji asks if Wei Wuxian would like to learn a new tune, "Absterge" according to Netflix. The fuck? [op looks it up in the dictionary]. "To cleanse, especially by wiping." Also known as aftercare. Netflix. Honey. This word is MIDDLE FRENCH. Will you knock it the fuck off?

So anyway, instead of answering his question about who is good and who is evil, LWJ asks if he wants to learn a song called "Cleansing." Wei Wuxian says “hey babe, are you fucking kidding me?” 

His actual words are "you doubt me too?" meaning "you think I also took the missing 4th chunk of Yin iron to make my ugly tiger amulet, rather than obviously having used that giant sword I pulled out of the turtle?"  

Lan Wangji mentally replays Wen Ruohan's questions in his head--the questions he barked at Wei Wuxian right before choking him unconscious--which Lan Wangji also feels entitled to know the answers to. Fuck you, Lan Wangji. He answers WWX with "when did you forge your amulet?" Which is his way of saying "yes, I doubt you."

Wei Wuxian kindly refrains from saying "while we were on a break, bitch" and instead tells him the exact truth--I found a yin iron sword in the turtle--but says it in his patented "make it sound like a lie" way. 

LWJ keeps grilling him, eventually coming out and saying dude, you knew the sword was Yin iron, why did you need to use it?

This is the crucial question--why WWX broke his first promise, to Lan Yi, which was to try to get rid of the Yin Iron. He won’t tell anyone the answer, which is that he needs to use it because he can't cultivate normally, because he lost his golden core. He made a lot of promises before that happened, and he probably expected to keep them. But without his core, everything changed; without his core, he’s a different person, so it’s maybe not fair to expect him to honor his previous promises. 

I’m reminded of my grandfather, who was the oldest son of an old southern US family, with lots of expectations as the firstborn. He went off to WWI as a soldier, expecting to die. He didn’t die, and so from that point on, he regarded his life as a gift. He felt could do whatever he wanted with it, and let go of expectations from before the war. He moved to Paris and took up with a glamorous divorcee 7 years older than him (my Grandma, eventually). 

The actual point of that story, other than OP having cool grandparents, is that when you think you’re going to die, and then you don’t die, your ideas about what you owe to people can change quite a bit. Wei Wuxian expected to die in the Burial Mounds; he expected to die at Nightless City; he expects it, over and over, and each time he doesn’t die, he gets further and further from being what everyone else wants him to be. And--a lot like soldiers returning from a war-- NOBODY in his life knows how to talk to him about it. 

Wei Wuxian tells Lan Wangji to back off, Lan Wangji says why aren't you letting me help you, and they are once again on the edge of the same fight they keep having. Lan Wangji does some impassioned arm holding while Wei Wuxian says he's not like Wen Ruohan. 

Romantic Duet #1

The argument is interrupted by screams and killing, so they go to check it out, and find the Jins hunting down some prisoners for sport. They arrive in time to save two people. Yay?

Jin ZIxun acts like a jerk, as always. The new element is that per Jin Guangshan, anyone concerned with Yin Iron shouldn't be alive.  He says that the Lan and Nie clans agreed, and challenges Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji stops him from responding, grabbing his wrist.

The Jins leave and Wei Wuxian refers back to their earlier conversation, saying there will be more resentful spirits now and that "Rest" is the music to play, not "Cleansing."

He gives Lan Wangji a long look and then pointedly removes Lan Wangji’s hand from his wrist, by holding his hand, which is some next-level mixed signaling. Lan Wangji totally deserves it at this point, though. He keeps pushing and pushing WWX about his cultivation method, but he refuses to discuss the underlying morality of it, or the morality of the killing going on right in front of them. 

WWX walks off, leaving LWJ to stew in his own juices surrounded by a bunch of fresh corpses. 

Lan Wangji fails his saving throw against the guilt trip, and sits his ass down to play Rest, just like Wei Ying told him to. So switchy!  Wei Wuxian, out of sight but not out of earshot, hears him and accompanies him on Chenqing.

This scene is slightly ridiculous and a whole lot sublime. Ridiculous because it's their first time playing music together, so it's a super slow, romantic, extended scene, but they're surrounded by corpses. And not the helpful, friendly, third-wheel-on-a-date type of corpses.

It's sublime because the occasion of their first beautiful, literally magical duet is an argument. And they are joining together to play beautiful romantic music - as a service for the dead. And they are doing it while they are on literally opposite sides of a literal killing field. And Lan Wangji is sitting literally in the middle of a wide open road; the sort of road that they will both reject, metaphorically, later in the show. There is so much about their conflict and their journey that is encapsulated in this one musical moment.

Lan Wangji, by playing the song Wei Wuxian said was needed, is telling WWX that he took his words to heart, that he is listening, even though they're at odds.

WWX, by stopping and playing with him, is acknowledging this. And by settling the dead souls together, they are both reinforcing their dedication to doing what's right even as they both struggle with knowing what that is.

When Other Friendships Have Been Forgot, Ours Will Still Be Hot

Now we have the sworn brothers thing. I understand, plot wise, why this has to happen, but why would Nie Mingjue ever agree to this? Lan Xichen's puppy eyes are just that persuasive?

If they ever crack your spine, drop a line If they ever cut your throat, write a note If you’re ever in a mill and get sawed in half, I won’t laugh (HA HA HA HA)

Tedious Party Time

Now there's a cultivation party, which is about as excruciating to watch as it would be to attend.

Everyone is lining up to praise Jin Guangshan. To be fair, he did provide shelter for most of the smaller clans while the war was going on. So being grateful is appropriate, but Clan Leader Yao practically breaks his own neck kissing Jin ass. Yao says JGY’s contribution was the greatest of the war, adding, "fuck Wei Wuxian; everything is his fault."

The Jiangs show up wearing mourning belts that show off their itty bitty waists, and Jin Guangshan makes shifty eyes like a cartoon landlord when he sees them arrive.

JGS praises Jiang Cheng, and asks when his fancy clan-leader ceremony is going to happen. Jiang Cheng says he's still in mourning so it's not appropriate. JGS is like “Oh...yeah," as if he totally forgot about all the Yunmeng slaughter, and talks up his friendship with Jiang Fengmian. He acts comforting while WWX manages not to barf.

Then the Lan clan shows up and there is nice encouraging chit chat between LXC and JC...

...and just, SO MUCH mournful staring between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian.

Then the Nies arrive.  Jin Guangshan tells Nie Mingjue he's late, and that everyone's waiting for him. That might be true in the script but it’s clearly bullshit on the screen, where the Lans and the Jiangs are still milling around looking for the coat room.

Nie Mingjue--who, let's remember, JUST swore to be brothers with Jin Guangyao--looks at him like he's something that fell off a garbage truck.  Lan Xichen jumps in to maximize the discomfort by pointing out that Jin Guangyao should address Nie Mingjue as Big Daddy Da-ge from now on.

Then the Jins offer Nie Mingjue the giant fire throne because...he's the leader of the Sunshot campaign, I guess? Of course it's all a manipulation tactic, designed to make him say he won't sit there, so that JGS can elevate himself to head cultivator, or something? And sit in front of the throne but not on it? Cultivator succession seems kinda arbitrary. 

I swear to god, it wasn't until I was clipping this episode that I realized Wen Ruohan had two thrones and they're in different rooms from each other.

Finally everyone goes to sit down, but because there hasn't been enough fucking awkwardness, JGY stops WWX to ask him what's on his mind. WWX asks him why he's not carrying his sword, which made me laugh and laugh. Wei Wuxian must have been just waiting for a chance to ask someone else that question for a change. 

Jin Guangyao says he threw it away, because it was just a random sword, but he really means he had it made into a sneaky murder belt, that he will be using again in 13 to 16 years. They both fake-laugh and trade Mean Girls insults pretend to like each other. 

Everyone wanders around toasting each other. Lan Wangji goes to find Wei Wuxian, after first making sure that his hair looks good.  

Wei Wuxian is lying around on the steps, sprawling and drinking wine, and not, incidentally, looking for Lan Wangji. He continues to not seek him out and Lan Wangji continues to chase after him.

Wei Wuxian says "how about playing Cleansing?" but Lan Wangji says he's learning a new score. It looks like it's going to be another argument, but then Wei Wuxian smiles and kind of praises Lan Wangji for being stubborn. 

Awkward Marriage Proposal

Just then everyone inside starts cheering for Jin Guangshan to give a speech. Jin Guangshan is making a move to marry Jiang Yanli to his son, which is a big time power grab, given that the Jiang Clan is 1. vulnerable and depleted 2. has control of the Yin tiger amulet.

We get a very rare glimpse into Jiang Cheng’s inner mind, where he thinks that saying yes isn’t a great idea, but isn’t sure what to do. This marriage would make his sister happy, but could destroy the Jiang Clan's independence.

Fortunately, Wei Wuxian joins the party just in time to fuck up Jin Guanshan’s plans. Will this teach Jin Guangshan not to invite Wei Wuxian to parties? It will not.  

Soundtrack: Friendship, by Cole Porter (from “Anything Goes”)

Bonus:

[robininthelabyrinth]

(Uh. You're bio says prompts are open but your ask button says prompts are closed? I'll send a prompt anyways, feel free to ignore me.) The Burial Mounds are not made for people. It's not willing to change this. So as people eat it's food, drink it's water, breathe it's air... /they/ change. They're still human, technically, probably, but they're... different

It affected the strongest first, Wen Qing found.

Strong was, of course, a relative definition – no one at the Burial Mounds was ‘stronger’ than Wei Wuxian, of course, but all his power was borrowed, not his own, not after what he’d done to his golden core. So rather than being considered the strongest, he was considered among the weakest, right up there with A-Yuan: the rest of them, despite being civilians, had at minimum been civilians in a cultivation sect, meaning that they either had golden cores or had made some progress in developing their qi.

Of them all, Wen Qing and Wen Ning had always been the best; it had been that which had made them Wen Ruohan’s favorites.

So, to no surprise, it affected them first.

It wasn’t that they didn’t know that the Burial Mounds was full of resentment: a battlefield so bitter that it had poisoned the earth and water and air, left without purification for years upon years, and eventually the resentment had solidified, turned into a rotten lump of it.

It was that they hadn’t realized that it had started resenting anyone who tried to change it, and that it instead sought to change them.

It was a little like Stygian Tiger Seal, Wen Qing reflected in those years where she had too much time to reflect. That had been a regular sword, once – some cultivator’s treasure, no doubt, right up until they stabbed it into the corrupted Xuanwu’s side as they did, leaving their mark on the beast even as it ended their life – but years and years of being near resentment had made it resentful itself.

Had given it power, but also – malice.

The Burial Mounds had malice to spare, and it did not like them when they were just – human.

When they were still cultivators, trying their best to purify what little evil they could before they planted their crops.

So it changed them.

Wen Qing was the strongest cultivator left alive from their Wen sect, but Wen Ning – Wen Ning was something else, of course. Literally, thanks to Wei Wuxian’s demonic cultivation.

Perhaps the Burial Mounds saw what he was – a fierce corpse, living and conscious and shot through with resentful energy, not needing to eat or drink or sleep, no ability to purify anything – and thought that it would be much happier if the rest of them were like that too.

Wen Qing was the strongest, and so it went for her first.

At first she thought it was her own strength showing through. She’d always refrained from meals when possible to allow her family to eat more, especially A-Yuan, because the amount they were able to buy or grow was simply not enough for all of them. But she’d closely monitored her inedia to ensure that she was not growing weak – that was equally unacceptable, someone had to protect them – and eventually she noticed that her ability to refrain from regular food had grown rather impressive, to the point that she barely ate a bowl of rice once every fortnight.

Meditating in a small cave seemed almost like it was enough.

It wasn’t until she was there, drawing in what she thought was natural qi, and something living came in – a bird of some sort, she though – that she began to realize that something was wrong.

Did realize.

It was hard not to, not with the way she had torn at the bird with her teeth and swallowed the heat of its blood down her throat, leaving it rich in meat but without any blood.

After that Wen Qing had quietly panicked – though of course she’d brought the bird back for the rest of her family to cook and eat the normal way – and she’d vowed that she would eat only rice and radishes, just the way the rest of them did, and not resort to her cultivation any longer.

It was too late, though. The rice tasted spoiled in her mouth, even though everyone else ate it easily; the radish made her gag even though it was fresh. She could not eat them.

Only blood was sufficient.

Wen Qing wasn’t sure what to do about it – she couldn’t just go and hunt all the time, there weren’t enough living things on the Burial Mounds to make that practical, there was a reason they’d tried growing food instead – but around that time Wei Wuxian got the idea of making a blood pool for his experiments.

She didn’t know where he got the blood or how he kept it fresh.

She didn’t ask.

In the beginning it was only a spoonful here and there, enough to keep her energized and healthy while she tried to force herself to live on human food again, but after a while she found that a single cup of blood each week was enough to sustain her entirely, meaning that her aunts and uncles and poor little A-Yuan could eat a little more.

(Wei Wuxian ate too much, just as much as he might if he were a normal human who had never practiced inedia or couldn’t because his core was gone, but he was their benefactor. Of course they had to feed him before all others, except maybe the growing A-Yuan.)

After a while, Wen Qing noticed some of the others – Fourth Uncle was first, but others weren’t far behind – also leaving food on their plates, unable to eat, only they were wasting away for lack of it. She should have let it happen, maybe, but they’d worked so hard to survive, gotten through so much together, and so she decided to slip them a little blood in their tea, just to see if it would help.

It did. It was like night and day, the way their faces filled with life again – animated and cheerful, the way she remembered them best.

So she kept doing it.

(She’d once had medical ethics that forbade experimenting on those who did not know or consent, she recalled vaguely. She’d thrown those ethics into Wen Ruohan’s face, refusing to do his bidding even if he killed her, and he’d rolled his eyes and given in, assigning her only to hospital work for his soldiers and a management position in a supervisory office – he’d been nasty and cruel, but also practical, at least when it came to members of his family; he preferred to boast of having an excellent doctor as part of his clan over yet another corpse in his Fire Palace, and she’d made it clear that was the choice.

Wei Wuxian hadn’t accepted her refusal, though, and once you decided there was something worth breaching your ethics one time, it made it so much easier to make the same decision again – and again – and again…)

And then, before she knew it, the end came.

Wen Ning struck down Jin Zixuan on Wei Wuxian’s sloppy, badly-designed orders – however unintentional it had been on either of their parts – and the Jin sect demanded blood, whether Wei Wuxian’s or theirs. And Wei Wuxian was their benefactor, and that meant it had to be them.

Wen Qing told the Fourth Uncle about what she’d been doing with the blood before she left, not wanting them to starve because she wasn’t there any longer, and then she went to Jinlin Tower to die, seething with resentment about the whole thing. And they took her brother away, and they killed her and scattered her ashes in the Burial Mounds, probably as a final fuck you to her.

They also killed the rest of her family.

She knows they did, because whatever they did to kill her, it didn’t quite – stick.

It was about a year before she fully reformed herself out of the ashes, piecing each ash together back into a physical body like they were all just puzzle-pieces, and crawled out of the ground. Her family was waiting for her: their bodies had been thrown into the blood pool, and the blood of the pool had interacted with the blood already in their bodies – the blood she’d fed them – and they hadn’t stayed dead, either.

“We’re going to need to be careful,” she warned them, settling into the role of leader as easily as always. “We’re living off resentment, now – I’m not quite sure if we’re mo or gui, depends on when we count it as having happened, but either way, we’re now the things that cultivators night-hunt. We can’t allow ourselves to become known, or we’ll be targets.”

Nods all around.

She looked around, reviewing the crowd. “…where’s A-Yuan?”

“I think he’s still alive,” Granny said. “I hid him away before the battle, and the place was empty when I checked it again. No corpse.”

“Good,” Wen Qing said. She hoped he stayed that way, alive, the way they weren’t. “I don’t know what happened with Wen Ning – they didn’t kill him along with me. Maybe we can try to find him, later.”

Maybe they could find A-Yuan, too.

Maybe they could finally make themselves the home they’d been trying to build for so long.

[need-a-fugue]

Trustworthy (Chapter One)

Summary: You’ve spent the last three years teaming up with Santiago Garcia on every mission you had a hand in coordinating... and the past several months plotting with him to take down the biggest bad to hit your radar. But even all your time at the DEA and all your experience in the field couldn’t have prepared you for this. 

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader (slowburn)

Warnings: Character death, many naughty words, and soooo much angst

A/N: It would seem that my newfound Pedro Pascal obsession isn’t going to let up any time soon, so I decided to just dive headfirst into some Frankie-heavy Triple Frontier fic. It doesn’t help that @tweedlydumbtweedlydoo​ planted a seed (quite a while ago) by asking for a story where reader breaks down on that fateful mission only to be comforted by our favorite Fish. I um... may have taken that a little far and now there’s this whole multi-chapter thing happening...

Here’s the thing… you’ve been in shit before. You’ve been shot at, even took a bullet yourself not too long ago. You’ve seen people die – some bad, some good, some deserving, some not. You held your own partner in your arms, desperately trying to stanch the flow of blood from his shorn neck before finally letting him go after he expelled one final, wet breath. You’ve killed people – a sicario outside of Bogota, two – possibly three – gang members in a shootout in Albuquerque, some dumb kid who’d been given a little bit of cash to stand guard outside a lab in Juarez.

You’ve seen tragedy, felt it, lived it, dreamed about it on an endless loop, even in your waking hours. You’ve caused it – or so you’d been told by the weeping mother of the boy in Mexico. You’ve denied it, denied that what had happened was actually tragic at all. Denied it to survive.

But you can’t deny what you’re in right now, the tragedy of having a plan go to shit in too many ways to count. The tragedy of nearly succumbing to your absolute worst fear in the world and going down in a sputtering damn helicopter. The tragedy of more lives being taken, even those of fucking Lorea and his men causing a reluctant burn at the back of your throat. Because you can’t stop seeing his children arriving home to find their worst nightmare laid out in blood and smoke, flames licking round all they’ve ever known and loved.

Children. Tom has children too. Had. Tom, who’s now being carried down the side of a mountain in a makeshift body bag, haphazardly descending with his men by his side… just ahead of you, just in your line of sight. Still leading the way, even in death.

Maybe that’s why this feels so different. This particular tragedy. Because you’re still in it. You can’t walk away and deny, shower the telling grime from your skin, bury the reality of death and failure and fear beneath a six pack of beer and a shitty TV dinner alone in your dark apartment.

And, oh, your apartment… or any apartment really, as you’re not exactly likely to return to your post in Colombia after all this. To go anywhere right now with heat and running water… and a bed. Your mind reels just thinking about it.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s just because you haven’t slept in days… many days. Haven’t eaten much either, each and every MRE and stale protein bar sitting heavy in your throat, choking, suffocating, blocking your breaths and words alike.

“You gotta eat,” Frankie had said to you just this morning, whispered in your ear as you carefully picked your way over and around the sharp, loose rocks in your path. “We gotta keep moving,” he muttered, the deep hum of his voice sounding less like the balm you’d come to know and more like just another resonance caught up in the icy, bitter wind. He had pressed a bar to your palm, his hand warm despite the surrounding cold, and a forced lightness filled his tone as he declared, “Need your strength or we won’t make it to the coast.”

You hadn’t even looked up to meet his gaze, instead continuing forward, glare directed down at the treacherous ground beneath your feet. “I don't really see that happening anyway,” you said as you shoved the bar deep into your pocket.

His stride halted then, leaving him standing tall and motionless as you swept idly past. But his pause was enough to make you falter, to make you turn and glance back up at him. You hadn’t even realized what you said – not really, not fully – until you took in the look on his face. That was enough – the sadness, the grief, the guilt that clouded his eyes and pinched his lips – to make you retrieve the bar from your pocket and choke down the whole damn thing in two monstrous bites.

Maybe it’s that. That look Frankie had given you just as the sun began to rise. The same look that sits on the faces of the other men even now, hangs heavily on them as they soldier on, carrying not only the load of money, but the body of their friend.

Maybe it’s being here with them as they move with purpose and the kind of fluidity that comes from too many years of practice. Practice at navigating dangerous situations. Practice at steering away from the fear and pain, sorrow and guilt that stare them right in the face, all to ensure they might survive the day.

Maybe it’s watching them move through that horrid fog that – you know – anyone else would so easily get lost in. All while reluctantly admitting, if only to yourself, that it’s the same fog you’ve been unable to effectively cut through for days.

Maybe that’s what has you feeling like you’re walking a tightrope balanced precariously between an understandable sort of disappointment and dread… and a overwhelming, blinding despair. Maybe this feels different because it isn’t just yourself you’d need escape to gain distance from this tragedy. It’s all of them as well. And you can’t very well escape the very men you need to help you through.

They climb the mountainside, traversing rocks and heaps of remaining snow that never fail to send you slipping and careening. They catch you as you slide, helping you along as they hoist bag after bag – your own contribution of carrying just your pack and one duffel seeming paltry in comparison – up and then down the stony inclines. They hand you off with care, always keeping you close, making sure that if one of them moves ahead, another is still left by your side. They carry you almost as much as they carry the money. As much as they carry Tom.

Tom. You’d only known him a handful of days… weeks? How long ago was it that you followed Santiago back to the States to meet his reinforcements? At this point, you no longer have a clue when this whole fucking mess began. A lifetime ago at least. It seems as though you’ve known these men for an entire lifetime on top of that.

Tom. Well, he’s arguably the one you got to know least. And not just because he’s been dead for… however long it’s been now. No. He was just… quiet. Reserved. Distrustful, truth be told. But, hell, you could hardly blame him for that. After all, he was considered the leader of these men. The one tasked – above all others – with getting them in and out safely. The one who would wear the most blood on his hands should any of them fall.

And from the loyalty the others showed – and the stories they shared in both forced low tones and laughter-pocked croons – you could tell that he was a good leader. A trusted leader. A loved leader. And nothing he did on this mission was ever going to change that in the eyes of anyone here.

No, you hadn’t gotten to know him well. But damn if it didn’t still hurt to see him go. To peer over Ben’s shoulder – bent and broken and wracked with sobs – and into Tom’s empty, lifeless eyes all those days ago. So damn many days ago. To watch the brothers fight over the top of his body, sidestepping his corpse to throttle each other and throw blame to lessen the grief. To sit with Benny for the hour or so after – after helping him wrap up his friend with care – as his uncharacteristic silence slinked about you both in a smothering cloud of despair.

Ben, who had been the most jovial and talkative and… bright of all. He had quite literally welcomed you into the fold with open arms, a bit drunk and a bit concussed from a fight he insisted he won just hours before meeting you. He refused your handshake when Garcia introduced you, leaning in to envelope you in a tight hug instead, and then demanding to buy you a drink, despite the fact that you’d been nursing one while waiting for them to arrive. “Pretty lady like you shouldn’t ever have to shell out her own money for a drink,” he’d said with a grin and a wink.

You might’ve rolled your eyes, might’ve told him, pass amid a chiding glare. But before you could say a word, his brother smacked him upside the head, giving a disappointed eyeroll that would’ve outdone yours tenfold, and held out a hand to shake, a deep-tenor, “Don’t mind him, and nice to meet you,” putting you immediately at ease and making it utterly clear who the Miller brothers were. Will was the politic adult, professional and well-mannered. And Benny was simply a ball full of harmless fun.

Until now, that is. Now – you can see even as his slumped body fades away into the tree line below – Ben has become little more than sorrow and sinew.

A crunching tumble of pebbles sounds suddenly in your periphery, tearing you from your spiraling thoughts. You look up to see Santiago looming to your right, effectively blocking the sliver of sunlight that remains peeking through the dusk-hued sky. “You okay, bonita?” he asks, the tone of his voice and wrinkle to his brow as he looks down at you serving to snap you back to the here and now. Here. Now. Shivering in the cold as the four of you settle in on the side of some damn mountain, having just bid farewell to yet another member of your party.

Your gaze falls from his face almost as quickly as it had jerked up to meet it just a breath of a moment ago. You shake your head and let out a sigh. “I should’ve gone with him,” you utter simply. “I thought you’d been joking about how bad his Spanish was, but…”

He snorts out a laugh, and the corner of your mouth raises in a slight, crooked smile. “Yeah, well,” he starts, dropping down to take a seat on the hard earth beside you. “With how well you’ve been hiking through these hills, he’d probably have ended up carrying you like a backpack.” He gives you a shit-eating grin, teasing brow raised high. “We’re hoping to get out of here sometime this decade. Don’t need your ass slowing us down any more.”

“Asshole,” you mutter, the taunting cadence just barely cutting through the deep rumble of his laugh.

His hand falls to your knee, palm sliding side to side in a comforting stroke before he tightens his fingers over your patella and gives you a bit of a shake. “I’m only kidding,” he states, as though you didn’t already know. “You’ve been doing great. Really.”

You issue out a quick snort, a thick, incredulous breath kicking a puff of steam up into the frigid air.

“I mean it,” he tells you, turning a serious glance your way. “I know this isn’t what you signed up for.”

“It’s not what any of us signed up for,” you interrupt pointedly.

“Yeah. But… DEA doesn’t exactly train people the same as us,” he intones, giving a nod towards the other men. “I know you’ve never been… exposed to this kind of shit.”

You wrinkle your nose and squint as you turn to look up at the mountain you’d just somehow managed to traverse. “Yeah. This has been some shit.”

He lets out another small laugh – short and fleeting – before pulling his hand from your knee and settling into the silence surrounding you. Ahead, Frankie and Will build up a rock barrier around Tom’s body, a protective cocoon for the night lest any animals come by. You’d all noticed – especially today as the sun came out in the afternoon and beat heavily down on your backs – that he’d begun to rot. To smell. And as much as everyone wanted to still hold him close, no one really wanted his steadily decaying body stinking at their sides as they attempted to sleep tonight.

Once they’re done with their makeshift mausoleum, the two men move across the way and begin digging through their packs for food. “Frankie mentioned that you hadn’t been eating,” Santi mutters from your right as both of your eyes remain trained on the men working before you.

You shrug. “I’ve eaten as much as anyone else.”

A tiny chuckle ripples through him, drawing a confused glare from you. And his smile only widens when he sees the uncertainty painted across your face. “He likes you, bonita,” he singsongs, giving your shoulder a little shove. Then, grin swiftly fading away to nothing, he rather distractedly declares, “He’s worried about you.”

Your brow furrows a bit, stare honing in on the broad-shouldered man now falling into shadow. The man you’d only just begun to know and yet somehow felt eerily connected to. Another sigh escapes your lips, shoulders slumping as you avert your eyes, looking instead to the dark tree line far below. “I’m worried about all of us.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out with a solemn nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

It hits you then… as you feel Santi slouch heavily beside you, a heady silence permeating the miniscule space between you. And as you turn back in time to see Will grimace and clutch his side, giving into the pain of a days-old gunshot wound for just a breath of a moment, all that he’ll allow himself to take. And as you watch Frankie remove his hat and wipe the sweat from his brow – despite the temperature already plummeting around you thanks to the nearly set sun – all while he stares solemnly over at the rotting, rock-covered corpse of one of his oldest friends.

You know why this feels different from any other tragedy you’d suffered in the past, any other bad op or mission gone wrong you’d ever endured. It feels different because this… this is all your fault.

[i-am-totally-a-human-being]

With 4th of July finally coming to an end.... it’s time! Time for the story we’ve been planning! That being said:

Danganronpa V4: A New Ending

(Title pending?)

Pairing: Hajime x female reader

Summary: a whole new killing game, with a different group of participants, and a whole new character

The first chapter will come out soon, and when it does, you’ll find the link here!

Here is all our people starring in this story!

Y/N L/N, The Ultimate Forensic Scientist

A spunky young girl with a spunky young attitude. She tends to keep to herself, but isn’t necessarily shy. From her school file, it’s highly assumed that she somehow stumbled across a crime scene as a child, how she actually got there is unknown. Although no older than 13, she was easily able to point out evidence that the forensic specialists already in scene missed before she was quickly escorted away.

Seemingly unbothered by the corpses she witnessed, she then pursued her newly found interest in crime scenes and how to process them, along with collecting evidence.

Her quick learning caught the attention of many, including Hope’s Peak. They offered to pay for her entire schooling if she attended, and she agreed. As Y/N got dressed and ready for her first day at Hope’s Peak, she could have never guessed she would be forced to fight for her life along with 15 others, and put her talent to use.

Hajime Hinata, The Ultimate???

A hotheaded teen who seems to have amnesia, being unable to remember his talent. His uptight nature puts off some of the others, but a few seem interested in him, some even offering to help him discover his talent.

Although he’d never say it, he feels self conscious due to not knowing what his job is supposed to be.

Admires most, if not all, talents, especially the ones that directly make society run better.

Not much can be said about him, he’s still trying to figure out who he is.

He remembers getting ready for the start of the school year, walking out of his home, and then everything going black. Then he woke up on this island, and now has to keep himself and those he cares for alive.

Kokichi Ouma, The Ultimate Supreme Leader

A spry young boy who refuses to really speak of his past. It’s unclear what in his school file is even the truth. He claims to be the supreme leader of an evil organization called DICE, an organization with elegidly 10,000+ members. Hence his talent title. Almost everything that comes out of his mouth he claims to be a lie, so it’s hard to tell what he is actually like.

While he doesn’t ever go into detail of his organization, it seems to be one of the only things he actually cares about and wants to get back to.

He seems hardly bothered by the idea of a killing game, even saying, hopefully joking, that he’d make the first kill. Most are unnerved by his presence and stay away.

Mukuro Ikusaba, The Ultimate Soldier

A quiet, stern girl who does not speak unless absolutely necessary. The older fraternal twin sister of Junko Enoshima, a fashionista famous in Japanese magazine’s. Mukuro seems completely indifferent to anything unless it’s about her sister, to which she grows immediately passionate, almost like a different person. Doesn’t speak about why she and her sister have different last names, claiming it shouldn’t matter.

While not thrilled at the thought of a killing game, she shows extreme faith that her sister will find and rescue her. Most people avoid her, she is the ultimate soldier, after all. Out of everyone, she’d be able to kill the most efficiently.

Doesn’t mind that people avoid her, she likes the quiet anyway.

Makoto Naegi, The Ultimate Lucky Student

A simple, average teenager who lives a simple and average life. He was randomly selected to go to Hope's peak, so he doesn’t really possess any actual talent.

Although talentless, he does seem to possess a decent level of smarts and gets along with everyone easily. No one really fears him, he’s too small and sweet to be capable of murder.

While he doesn’t pose a threat to others, he poses a threat to the mastermind, or anyone who lays their hands on his sister.

Komaru Naegi, a normal student

Komaru possesses no actual talent, much like her brother. However, she is different in the sense that she wasn’t even accepted into Hope’s Peak since she wasn’t quite of age to even be considered as a possibility.

She remembers being taken hostage after she and her parents sent off her older brother, only to awaken on an island, her brother right beside her.

She wants to trust everyone, and takes relief in having her brother by her side.

Shuichi Saihara, The Ultimate Detective

A shy boy who hides his eyes behind a black cap. He seems rather insecure, despite having the talent that poses as the most useful in the current situation. He is quiet and doesn’t like interacting with others, but seems to get more comfortable as time goes on.

He doesn’t like the idea of the killing game, obviously, but he’s mostly worried that some of his classmates will take it seriously.

K1-B0, The Ultimate Robot

Created by a man called Professor Idabashi, a prominent figure in robotics engineering. He created K1-B0(has told others they can call him Keebo) as a culmination of his work.

Keebo doesn’t quite understand human emotions perfectly, but he has a decent idea which is impressive in of itself.

Much like Mukuro, he has faith that he will be saved by a family member. Seeing as he refers to Professor Idabashi as his father. He says he has a tracker, and that when the professor realizes he is missing, a search team will be sent.

Toko Fukawa, The Ultimate Writing Prodigy

An extremely shy and timid girl who does speak to many people. Those she does speak to tend to be weirded out by her... odd and even perverted nature.

She had written multiple books and does seem to be extremely smart, her only issue being her timid nature.

Accused most (if not all) the boys in her class of being perverts.

Angie Yonaga, The Ultimate Artist

Angie loves art in any form, obviously because of her ultimate.

However, she also stands out due to her belief that she is the Devine interpreter for the god Atua, a god she says her people worship.

Angie believes Atua will have his way, and that the killing game is part of something bigger.

Rantaro Amami, The Ultimate Adventurer

A chill, laid back boy who believes in keeping the peace. His calm and collected personality is soothing, leading most, if not all, of the other students to trust him and listen to what he suggests.

Some seem off put by how calm he acts, but most understand that he’s just really good at staying calm and knows that panicking won’t always help.

Often tells tales of his travels to distract those who are afraid.

Nagito Komaeda, The Ultimate Lucky Student

Yet another lucky student, chosen to attend Hope’s Peak at random like Makoto. However, he seems to also have an.... interesting relationship with luck.

His luck has caused death and destruction around him, but he still manages to stay calm and even cheerful in the face of a literal killing game.

Nagito believes hope will prevail no matter what, so he chooses to pretty much just “go with the flow.”

Byakuya Togami, The Ultimate Affluent Progeny

A stuck up and condescending teen who makes it very clear that he does not approve of being trapped on an island like this. This isn’t a funny prank or initiation.

He is rather rich and will inherit the Togami company, after competing against 14 other siblings to “take the crown” and earn the inheritance. He was the youngest of the sibling, or candidates, and is the first youngest to ever come out on top.

Gonta Gokuhara, The Ultimate Entomologist

A.... sweet young man who loves anything and everything bugs. He isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he has a good heart.

(Jsvshsv I don’t know what to write for Gonta I’ll finish his later)

Mikan Tsumiki, The Ultimate Nurse

A clumsy and frightened girl who somehow manages to find herself in compromising positions constantly. On accident.

With her and Y/N present, people are at ease, seeing they have practically a full medical team in case something were to happen.

While she often does more worse than good due to her clumsy nature, she has a good heart, and people know that.

Kiyotaka Ishimaru, The Ultimate Moral Compass

A stern and strict boy who believes in respect and following rules contstantly. He is probably one of the only students who respects the killing games headmaster, Monokuma.

While not thrilled about the idea of a murder game, he sticks to the idea that it is a prank from upperclassmen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And that’s our introductions! Sorry some were shorter than others!

Stay tuned!

-🐝

[bikerjongho]

the library of wonder | ateez ot8

genre: historical fiction, horror, adventure, fantasy

characters: warrior!ateez ot8

description: Religious radicals in the Joseon Dynasty, the self-proclaimed Anti-Rhythm Riders cult does everything in their power to destroy anything and anyone that violates their sacred Code of Conduct.

word count: 5.8k

warnings: violence, murder, maiming, ableism, graphic description of a dead body, radical religion, blood

author’s note: what happens when you combine the library of alexandria with ateez? this fic. this is the third addition to the ateez music video series whose masterlist (which lists the rest of them) is here. Also to note that this is part 1 of a series that I will continue later. The subsequent parts will be connected to different music videos.

taglist: @itsapapisongo @mangomingki @irehlevant​ @blueprint-han​ @doievoir​ @bvlnoriyas

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Weapons were a way to show the power of a king. Mounted and gleaming, the spears of King Yoongi of the Joseon Dynasty stood on either side of his elegant and golden throne like guards at the ready. On the walls that surrounded the throne from the left and right were an impressive display of bows and an array of fine arrows to accompany them. On the floor, King Yoongi's head lolled, blood pouring out of its severed end as Hongjoong sheathed the King's sword that was on his wall only moments before.

Beside the King's head and body on the floor, his recently deceased personal guard lay with him. This was thanks to Hongjoong's two best short-distance fighters, Mingi and Seonghwa. The two of them eyed the royally red blood that gushed out of the King's severed neck as they sheathed their swords. The three of them wore nothing more than simple blue hanboks and had their long hair tied up in a topknot at the top of their head, traditional for common men of this age. But with the corpse of the most important man in the Dynasty at their feet and the smell of civil unrest in the air, the plain clothing and ordinary hair was far from an appropriate look for these men in this moment.

The King's sword was now sheathed at Hongjoong's side, but he was not yet finished with the king. Bending down to the severed head, Hongjoong ripped out all of the intricate pins and ties that the King's servants had put in his hair that morning. The King's luscious black hair spilled out at his feet, mixing with his blood and turning it burgundy. Hair was a symbol of status and power. Now that the King was dead, Hongjoong assumed he no longer needed his power. He extracted a dagger from a pocket of his hanbok and began cutting at where the King's scalp ended.

The hair obliged with the blade. Soon, the King's heap of hair rested in Hongjoong's hands, and he promptly tied it to keep the strands together. "Proof," Hongjoong whispered and shoved the hair into his hanbok. "Proof that the wretched King Yoongi is dead."

"May he rot in many Hells," Seonghwa murmured and bowed his head. Mingi followed suit, and then Hongjoong last. There was a method to their madness. They, along with a few other men, were leaders of an ancient group called the Anti-Rhythm Riders. They did no harm as long as no one provoked them. Their laws, while more modest and tight than most groups, religions, or cults, were mostly fair. But the Anti-Rhythm Riders were a bloodthirsty and arrogant group of people that took pride in their faith and murdered anyone that refused to also follow.

"You must understand," Hongjoong had said calmly to a screaming woman only weeks earlier. Despite his attempts to convert her, she wouldn't budge, leaving Hongjoong with only one choice. His eyes had darkened to a lifeless grey as he had stuck his hand into her abdomen and twisted her gut. "This is a death far more merciful than if The Chariot returned while you were still alive and not following Him," he had said, digging his nails into her body while she screamed. "Feel blessed that I have chosen to kill you and spare you of his wrath that is worse than this by tenfold."

The dead King at Hongjoong's feet was one of many who had been adamantly against the Anti-Rhythm Riders. But besides their penchant for murdering those that were not like them, their strict code of honor shaped them into contributing and positive members of society. Their code of laws requested that each member of the group brought forth the best version of themselves at all times. This included dressing appropriately and being able-bodied, so all Riders were in peak health and dressed like they respected themselves. But on the same side of the coin, it was imperative to closely follow the code of honor as a Rider, lest they be murdered in the same way a non-believer would. The Riders, no matter how devoted they were to their cause, could not step out of line.

Top physical health included never becoming blind, deaf, mute, or immobile, except in the cases of old age or a sickness, but even then, those members were socially separated from the rest of the Riders. Old believers and ill people dressed from head to toe in black clothing in order to not bring attention to themselves and their misfortune of owning a frail and weak body.

But King Yoongi had not perished because of his non-belief. Despite his non-belief, most Riders saw merit in a hierarchal leader. They had, with their teeth grit, kept him alive. What had caused his downfall was not a snap decision by a lone Rider. It was caused by The Library of Wonder.

"A man that has lost his way chooses to walk the path to eternal hell," Mingi quoted a founder as he kicked Yoongi's body as he walked by towards the exit of the throne room. Hongjoong gripped the hair in his pockets, then followed Mingi. Seonghwa followed last, shutting the doors to the throne room with a smile on his face.

When they walked outside, they were met with thunderous cries and applause. The rest of Hongjoong's elite and higher-up group stood waiting in the front of it all. Yunho, man with a spear and a smile that was a bit too comforting and cozy; Yeosang, a solemn man with a sword strapped to his side that was anything but that; San, producing an ugly and terrifying grin on his face as Hongjoong removed the King's ponytail from his pockets; Jongho, with his sharp eyes and sharper reflexes, infamous bow and arrows strapped to his chest and back, and Wooyoung, who thrusted his permanently bandaged and bloodied fists into the air and let out a cry of victory that seared across the mass of Riders and raised the temperature of their spirits.

"The King is dead, Riders," Hongjoong bellowed above the roaring crowd. "And now, we ride to the Library of Wonder." He was met with shouts of disapproval for the Library, and Hongjoong's lip curled upward. There was a section for arts and music in The Rider's code. It was allowed, but certain teachings of it, such as allowing it to manipulate emotions, was forbidden.

"There is a disease in the heart of man," The Riders heard all too frequently in their sermons and speeches. "The disease is human emotion."

The Library of Wonder promoted this diseased music. For years they had tried to defund the Library, encourage the King to focus his spending elsewhere, to change the Library so it did not promote these blasphemous ideas, and none had been successful.

"We can't have a King that has allowed such a violation of our code for this long," Hongjoong had said only a month before the assassination, neck deep in plans for the kill. His face had darkened against the flickering fire that was nearby, casting inhuman shadows across his features. The Anti-Rhythm Riders were not a majority in the Joseon Dynasty, and their following was hardly recognized as a religion at all, let alone the Dynasty's main religion - but they were a potent and loud minority.

And over the course of a year, Hongjoong had been collecting and persuading commoners with his silver tongue to join The Riders for the purpose of having an army. An army that would not only be large, but also be relentless and unstoppable. And as Hongjoong stood in front of these thousands of people fueled with anger for The Library, he believed his work to collect them all had been a success. San took over with controlling the crowd, his loud voice carrying over all of the chatter and yelling. He dictated to certain groups in the crowd to certain tasks, such as loading wood onto the backs of their traveling cows or oiling up weapons and lighters. Fire, Hongjoong had decided, would be the ideal move to destroy the library. It would burn all of the texts that he and so many others hated with no hope of replicating them.

Amidst the screams, Yunho saddled up next to Hongjoong. One of Hongjoong's most efficient and silent warriors in the team, he was an asset that had carried them far. He couldn't stop smiling. Hongjoong knew that this day was huge for him - huge for all of them. Killing the King had been a goal point of their plan. Now all that was left was to destroy The Library of Wonder.

"Do you have any hangwa?" He asked, and Hongjoong was mildly bemused at how casual he was. He had just seen him slice the arm off of a palace soldier only fifteen minutes prior.

"I do," Hongjoong answered anyway, shuffling around in his bag before pulling out a packet of hangwa, assorted Korean cookies. He pushed it towards him, and Yunho happily dug in. "Time to rally the troops," he said, starting up a conversation.

"Well, it's easy to do that when persuasion rolls off of the tongue like leaves blow in the wind," Yunho said, mouth full of cookie. Yunho was referring to The Riders' way of persuasion and how it borderlined with magical coercing. In many ways, it was magical. Hongjoong theorized it had to do with how devoted and powerful many of The Riders were. It was The Chariot's doing that allowed his followers the ability of masterful persuasion.

It was also the reason why they had amassed so many people for their invasion so quickly. Many of them had knocked on doors and preached in the streets. As long as someone could hear them, people joined their cause.

The Riders left immediately after their supplies and weapons were loaded into traveling bags and onto the backs of animals. Hours after they had left on their journey to the Library, Jongho was ready to rally the troops for a special tradition. Having just climbed onto a travelling horse, he was raised above the crowd. His long and dark hair flickered around his face as he assessed the mass of walking Riders. The time must have felt correct to him, for he then raised his arms over the crowd, a move he had done many times.

This move caught the attention of many Riders, but his projecting and powerful voice was what roped in the rest. Jongho sang a mid-range note that silenced what little noise was left from the crowd. The Riders stopped what they were doing in order to match his note. Hongjoong and Yunho followed suit out of habit. The earth rumbled with the thousands of voices of the Riders.

There was an air to the main vocalist now that all of the attention was on him. Something lurked in the darker hues of his eyes, something that looked like power, and it showed itself through how he now moved and sang. His voice, still louder than the crowd's, rose up a note. The dissonance of the pitches only lasted for a moment before the crowd went down a note, creating a harmony. Jongho closed the fingers on his left hand into a fist and the women of the Riders adjusted their note. A minor harmony emerged from the chord.

None of the voices were completely perfect, except for maybe Jongho's. But all voices bowed at the command of Jongho's hands that were, in a way, conducting an old vocal ritual created by and for their religion. The choir was used to grab the attention of all Riders, but it was used equally as a morale booster. Hongjoong glanced at Yeosang, his sword gleaming with menace at his side, and raised his eyebrows.

Yeosang caught his eyes and sifted through the crowd to him. "Why is Jongho doing the Chariot Chant?" He hissed under the singing as the swordsman came close to him. He had seen Jongho and Yeosang together only a quarter of an hour prior. And while the choir was mainly for enjoyment, it was sometimes used as a distraction from something that the higher-up Riders didn't want the rest of their group to know about. Hongjoong feared something had come up despite his meticulous planning, and he assumed that Yeosang knew about the problem if there was one. "We didn't plan one. What is he diverting?"

Yeosang, in charge of the artillery, looked at Jongho on the horse. "Some of our artillery is failing," he said, his eyes the color of stone. "Some of our men and women notified me of a few issues our cannons are having. I inspected them myself and have found that they are correct. I assume this was the throne's last stand against us." His frown deepened. "I theorize our original plan for the Library can't be used now."

A smile appeared on Hongjoong's lips, mirroring Yeosang's disapproving frown. The original plan was to partially blow up the library before burning it, suggested by Yeosang, but Hongjoong had been against it. He wanted the library to be aflame as soon and for as long as possible, but he had been outnumbered by most of his group. Hongjoong's method would endanger more Rider's lives at the expense of his selfish love for fire. Unprecedented death of Riders was certainly a reason for Jongho to begin a distracting chant. He wouldn't have started it if he had thought Hongjoong's plan would go to fruition.

"So we go with my plan," Hongjoong smirked at the artillery leader. Yeosang pursed his lips and, for a moment, said nothing.

"I will think about our other options," Yeosang murmured. "Ones that will, perhaps, be less taxing on us. Don't think for a second that Jongho's calling to action means your plan will now be enacted," he said with a hint of irritation. He said no more, sweeping himself back into the crowds towards the animals helping carry the artillery, leaving Hongjoong with his thoughts and a smile still plastered to his face.

Hongjoong was the unofficial leader of the Riders, but he still wanted to deal with decisions diplomatically. So, after an hour of caroling with Jongho, Hongjoong rounded up the seven of them to talk about their plan of attack on the library.

They formed a line as they walked and saddled beside the cattle and horses that carried the artillery. Seonghwa and Wooyoung gravitated towards Hongjoong in the line. The two of them had been the members to agree with Hongjoong's less rational plan of setting fire to the library immediately upon arrival, but they had ultimately been overruled by the other five that had agreed to Yeosang's safer plan.

"So, fire immediately?" Wooyoung asked everyone once Hongjoong explained to them their situation, but his eyes were locked onto Hongjoong. Yeosang raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Not quite," Hongjoong said evenly, turning his attention to Yeosang, who now had his arms crossed. "Let's see what our artillery man has to say."

"If the First Army successfully purged the library of people," Yeosang said, referring to a subset of the Riders that had left for the library a day earlier, "then we should have a clean and easy shot to do whatever we want to the library. Word won't spread that we invaded it until it's already a pile of rubble." Some of them bowed their heads in appreciation for that statement.

"That being said," Yeosang continued, "we have about half the amount of cannons I'd like to have. We still have swords, but that won't do much against the hard material of the building." He grabbed the hilt of his sword at his side instinctively. "We still have torches and the building is flammable."

"And bow and arrows," Yunho cut in, lifting up Jongho's bow from his back. Jongho glared at him.

"Arrows that can carry flame," Yeosang sighed, and Seonghwa's lip curled up. "I truly have exhausted my thoughts and exhausted them some more. Many weapons from home could have been used for a different attack, but we're too far to turn back now." They were all experienced enough fighters to realize where Yeosang was going.

"Fire," Hongjoong smiled, and Yeosang looked weary.

"Fire," he sighed in agreement.

Wooyoung and Seonghwa exploded into hisses of victory. Wooyoung punched his fist into the air. "Hell yes," he said, shaking his bandaged wrist in front of him.

"Should we tell them?" Yeosang asked, gesturing to the entire herd of Riders that were traveling with them as a few of the members dispersed from the group. Yeosang meant the increased danger that came with their sudden change of plans. Hongjoong adjusted the bag on his back and grinned.

"They know what they're getting into," Hongjoong smiled. "But even if they don't, they'll do it anyway. They love The Chariot too much to refuse to do something." Hongjoong flicked a cocky smile at Yeosang, who could only sigh and nod. While it was not his favorite plan, it was a plan that still accomplished the destruction of the library, which was a goal all of them wanted to achieve regardless of the means.

And while Riders didn't like injuring other Riders, self-preservation overtook any feelings they had for their lower Rider acquaintances. If Yeosang could remain without burn scars and seared lungs while someone else did, then it was simply a means to an end. The library was destined to go down by the careful hands of the Riders, one way or another.

It took another day for the riders to reach The Library of Wonder, and when they did, it was a wonder to behold. Sculpted with stone and wood, it was an incredible feat of architecture in the Joseon Dynasty. Great stone columns supported the front of the building, and a stone statue of a beautiful woman with long hair and a scroll in her hands greeted library goers at the entrance.

Wooyoung yanked out a club from the pockets of his blue hanbok and swung at the lady without warning. He took off part of her chest and her entire left arm and was met with roars of approval and laughter. "At the ready!" Hongjoong yelled over the laughing crowds, and Riders began fishing their weapons out of their pockets. These weapons were mostly bows and arrows, but like Wooyoung, a few clubs were seen. Jongho was among those with bow and arrows, slinging his trusty bow from around his shoulder to the front of his body.

But bow and arrows weren't the correct term for the weapon Jongho and many of the other Riders had. His bow and arrows were of a narrower Korean variety called the singijeon. The singijeon worked much like traditional bow and arrows, but gunpowder was held in the arrows.

He now had his bow cocked and ready and his hands clutched a wooden arrow with a ball of gunpowder nestled close to the tip of the arrow. Jongho pulled back with his left hand and released the arrow. The Riders watched as it soared through the heat of the sun and made contact with the middle of the entry wall of the Library. As soon as the arrow hit the wall, the gunpowder activated and blew a hole in it.

Many more singijeon became useful and created more holes in the Library and smoke in the air. It was almost too easy to destroy the Library. It crumbled more and more with each hit like it was destiny for the great building to fall. Soon enough, the wall was completely gone and the Riders rejoiced in their work.

Mingi appeared at the front of the crowd, a tall presence marked even more visible by the torch of fire he held in his hands. Behind him, Yeosang carried a similar torch and was passing the fire to other torches held by other Riders, who were then passing the fire to others around them like believers in a church service would. There was no fire in Yeosang's eyes despite the lit torch in his hands.

"Riders," Mingi shouted and stepped over the rubbled wall that the Riders had just destroyed. He tilted his head down and grinned while surveying the crowd. Then, he elegantly walked over to the first shelf of the Library and let his torch make contact with the last book on the shelf. It took the fire with no issues, becoming an incendiary in moments. The book was quick to share the flames with the paper around it, and soon the entire shelf glowed with fire. Mingi was quick to exit the library as Riders poured into the Library with their torches and began setting the books aflame.

Yeosang, though his eyes were grim with the disapproval of how the Riders were proceeding, was smiling. While their method wasn't the safest or most practical, the Library that had been up for so long was finally being destroyed. The eight Riders watched a safe distance away as their lesser brethren raced into the Library like packs of overexcited hyenas. Many of them likely didn't know what they were fighting for, but they were moths drawn to flame, entranced by the beauty and cruelty of destruction.

Wooyoung smiled while the fire casted red and orange light on his face. "The Library is not exactly a slow-burn, is it?" He said softly as the fire ravenously ate through the texts.

"It's not," Yunho agreed with him. "Especially with the leftover gunpowder from all of the singijeon. Gunpowder revels with fire."

The eight of them watched the Library eat itself in the flames from a safe distance away. It was comical how some Riders passionately drove into the collapsing Library with a torch in their hands and emerged with burns and much less enthusiasm. Sometimes they didn't reappear at all. That feeling caused a bit of discomfort to some of them, but Hongjoong reveled in their discomfort. It just showed how dedicated they were to The Chariot, and Hongjoong was proud of them for their dedication.

It took a half an hour for the great stone Library of Wonder to turn into a charred and wasteful hunk of rock. The papery books had succumbed too easily to the flames and all that was left on the inside of the Library were ashes and the remnant memories of books lost forever. The fire was less of a roar and more whispery and trapped now, only burning the book it was on and not passing its flame to other books.

San was now on top of a horse and rallying the troops to receive medical attention if they needed any and congratulated them on their efforts. "The Chariot is proud of us, Riders," he said, beaming. Some Riders returned a smile, others were too hurt to acknowledge San. "As our great laws say, the disease in the heart of man is human emotion. These books would have spread that harmful message had we not burned them down. For that, He is eternally grateful for your efforts."

San hopped off of the horse and joined the other seven Riders in preparing for the return trip. Behind them, the last of the flames were dying out. Riders still in the Library were stumbling out of the burned rubble. There were likely bodies of Riders that were dead inside of the Library and others that were alive but had succumbed themselves to imperfections of their physical features. And while they had given a valiant effort in destroying the Library, that was a violation of The Rider's code. They would have to cover up if they wished to remain a Rider.

But something else lurked in the rubble as well. All Riders wore blue, but a man in red was now present behind a collapsing and charred bookshelf. His ethnicity, like the Riders, was Korean, but his skin and eyes held heavy years and knowledge of many more cultures and lands that the Riders could only dream of touching. His long black hair was knotted at the back of his head, and beneath his bulging arm muscles was a lengthy silver sword with a red hilt.

But perhaps his most distinguishing feature was the long scar that travelled from his left eyebrow, through his eye, down his cheek, ending right at the tip of his lip. The scar made the left side of his lips permanently downturned. Such a scar directly violated The Rider's code, but this man was above that religion and the laws that it held. This man was Ares, the god of war. And Ares, who thrived in bloodshed and carried the spirit of warfare wherever he walked, was not impressed with the warfare that had gone on at this library.

Yunho noticed him first. He was surveying the Library's remains when he saw the man's hulking figure amidst the ashes like a phoenix. "Hongjoong," he whispered and nudged him. He nodded his head towards the Library.

Hongjoong, who was overseeing a group of Riders, looked over at the Library. Ares locked eyes with him and Hongjoong's blood ran cold. He had no idea who this man was, but he was someone that could send shivers down Hongjoong's spine. There weren't many people that could do that.

Hongjoong took a step forward to address this man, but Ares was already ahead of him.

"So-called Riders," Ares boomed across the land, his voice easily the loudest in the vicinity yet there was no visible effort on his face to make himself heard over everyone. His thigh muscles rippled as he stepped over what was left of the wall. His face was flooded with unfiltered rage.

The rest of the Riders, who had been focused on returning home, froze in their efforts. All eyes were on the giant and muscular man seething in front of them.

Seonghwa grabbed the knife at his side and glanced at Hongjoong for permission. In any other circumstance, Hongjoong would have let him have it. Instead, he softly shook his head, and held his hand in front of Jongho when he realized he was drawing his bow. There was something about this man that Hongjoong did not want to provoke, but the steam coming from his head was proof that he had already been provoked enough. Hongjoong gulped and tried to calm his racing heart.

"I'm Ares, the God of War," the muscled man thundered, and no one was brave enough to disagree with him. He certainly looked the part. Now that he was closer, Hongjoong could see the long scar across his face and wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"You-" Ares began, but he was cut off as a singijeon arrow flew through the air directly towards his face. Hongjoong turned and saw that it was from a young and male Rider, gripping his bow so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Ares didn't flinch at this unexpected attack. With a practiced and weathered hand, he caught the arrow between his fingers. The Riders were stunned. His hand twitched and the arrow snapped in half. "Cute," he muttered, letting it crumble to the ground in his hands. He turned towards the teenage Rider who had shot the arrow and gave him a smile.

Hongjoong began to step forward. He wasn't sure what he was to do for the boy, he wanted to help - but Ares was too quick. With a flick of his hand not unlike the motion he had done with the arrow, the teenage boy jerked inhumanly backward with a loud crack. With his spine completely in two, he toppled over himself backwards onto the ground. His face was lifelessly frozen in shock, and the clear God of War smiled with satisfaction at the work he had done.

A few muffled sobs prevented silence. "Let me speak," Ares said carefully to the crowd, his eyes traveling over them all like he was sizing them up. This time, no one argued.

"Riders," Ares began. "You've burned down The Library of Wonder and all of the wonders it contained. Do you even understand the weight of that action?"

Ares looked directly at Hongjoong and he felt obliged to speak. "The books hold untrue and unsafe messages," Hongjoong spoke to Ares, his knees quivering underneath his pants. He didn't remember his voice sounding so small. "We had to rid them of this world. They have no place here except as smoke and ash. It is The Chariot's wish and creed."

"And your Chariot is nothing more than a weak and ailing minor god," Ares said cooly back to him. It took everything in Hongjoong's power to not curse him out for insulting his god - but he didn't want to end up like the young Rider.

"I know him," Ares continued. "He laughs at the lengths you do for him. He himself knows he is pathetic, but he enjoys seeing humans like you quiver and worship him. And I normally don't bat an eye to his or your shenanigans, I have better things to worry about, other worlds that are far more entertaining than this one," Ares said.

His eyes darkened. "But burning down my wife's Library broke her. So, in turn, you have to deal with me."

Hongjoong realized in horror what he meant. He idly thought of Wooyoung's gleeful act of smashing the statue of the goddess at the front of the Library. He wanted to throw up. Wooyoung looked like he wanted to throw up.

"So I've made it my personal game to make your lives a living hell," Ares said with a smile. "Because no one hurts my wife." He shifted his attention, not just towards Hongjoong, but to the other seven of his teammates crowded around him. They all froze. Hongjoong felt Mingi tense beside him.

"You Riders are simply too vocal for my taste," Ares glared. "The Chariot gives you the power of persuasion because it amuses him, so you all go around recruiting mindless humans to follow your so-called religion. But it is not funny in the slightest." His eyes swiveled to Jongho and his smile widened. "Doesn't this one sing?"

Hongjoong heard Jongho intake a terrified breath. He heard a sudden movement, and then Jongho had taken off running in the opposite direction as Ares. But Jongho was an ant and Ares was a stone. Hongjoong blinked and Ares was in front of the singer.

Jongho was strong, but he was nothing compared to a god. He began screaming as Ares picked him up by the throat, crying out to the Chariot, to his mother, to Hongjoong, to anyone that was listening, but he received no answer. Tears ran down his face and he kicked to be set free. Only his scream, which vastly contrasted his usual mesmerizing singing voice, cut through the air, and then he was abruptly silenced by Ares.

Ares dropped Jongho to the ground at his feet, and the boy continued his sobs in a crumpled mess. But his sobs lacked the voice, no matter how anguished it would have been right now, that the Riders had grown to love.

"He has no more use for his vocal cords," Ares smiled, and Hongjoong's heart dropped to his feet. Jongho had loved his voice. Everyone had loved his voice. Ares looked at the rest of them, and he realized with horror that he was not close to being done with them. "A shame, isn't it?" Ares laughed and stepped over Jongho's shaking body. "Your law says you are to never become mute, lest you want to remain a Rider. Seems like a bit of an issue, does it not?"

Hongjoong tried to move his legs, but he found himself frozen in place. He wasn't sure if it was his own body trying to protect him from harm or Ares immobilizing him, but he could only stare in sickening awe as one by one, Ares stole the voices of every Rider present. For some, he waved his hand and an entire group of people were silenced. Others, like those in Hongjoong's close team, had a solo maiming in front of everyone. No one was spared from Ares' destruction, especially not Hongjoong.

When he was finished, the sea of Riders were silent.

"Now I won't be interrupted," Ares said cheerfully, worlds happier than he was when he first arrived at the library. The hulking man had taken it upon himself to move Jongho's limp and shaking form back to the other seven of them.

"You eight are especially troublesome," Ares whispered, because there was no voice that could be above him. "For that, you have a special place in my personal hell. And now, I will take you to your own personal hell."

Ares raised his hand, and the library in the horizon vanished from view. For a moment, Hongjoong could see nothing, and then a beige wall of a house clouded his vision.

Hongjoong opened his mouth to cry out, but the attempt was fruitless.

"Your own personal hell," Ares said softly, suddenly beside him. The god placed a hand on Hongjoong's shoulder, a soft gesture that a father might do to a son. "You and your seven other friends are in, what I call, a timeout mansion. It is a place that you cannot leave or escape from, so I advise you to not even attempt that. You will sit and you will gaze at the fine art and architecture that this mansion has to offer," Ares said, his words puncturing. "You will be in aching emotional pain because all of this art is, as you call it, a disease to your human heart." Ares rubbed his back while Hongjoong held back tears. "And you will grow to love it."

The god stood up from beside Hongjoong. "That is your answer to escaping. An answer that you must vocalize and preach if you are to ever leave here." Ares smiled at him, and the scar that touched his eye, cheek, and lip curled up with it. And then he was gone, and Hongjoong's hope left with him.

For a few moments, Hongjoong stared at the floor. Then, shaking, he raised his right hand.

There is a disease in the heart of man, Hongjoong thought and touched his chest over his heart. His heart was racing like he had never felt before.

The disease is in me.