#anyway lemme know what you think!

[noornight]

Long distance besties. This definitely happened after the third movie (source: trust me bro)

Based on this

[royaltea000]

Qitian dasheng and other outfit concept sketches

[ineedmyknightcommander]

Fic: Brilliant Things

While Rook is trapped in the Fade prison, Johanna and Emmrich are forced to help each other overcome their own regrets. DRAGON AGE | EMMRICH & JOHANNA; EMMROOK | WORDS: 4,553 | RATED: G

(AO3 LINK)

It’s pathetic, really. Volkarin has always been a soft touch, but this snivelling is something else.

Despite her own prodigious knowledge of anatomy and the undead, Johanna had not known the human body capable of making such a hideous racket prior to the events of these past few days. Corpses do not weep, and even if they did, she hardly cares. 

The worst part isn’t even that she’s reduced to mere ornamentation in the already ostentatious study of one of Nevarra’s greatest necromancers, forced to watch him burn a hole in the floorboards with each anguished thump, thump, thump of his feet as he teeters at the edge of a nervous breakdown borne by the weight of his own misplaced compassion. No, this part was inevitable. Volkarin had always been destined to crack one day—she just wished she could have been the one to cause it.   

No, the absolute worst part, worse than having been denied the opportunity to gloat over her lifelong rival, is that despite the circumstances, the lovelorn fool’s dedication to his Watcher duties have been thorough to a fault. Johanna has of course tested the wards binding her soul to her remains multiple times; she’d been trying to escape before this most recent escalation in their circumstances, it would be downright idiotic not to try when facing down the end of the world as they know it. Especially while her only hope at salvation rubs his red-rimmed eyes and mutters inconsolably under his breath, unwilling to accept that it is in fact his infernal meddling which has doomed them all.  

It’s simple, really: if Volkarin had just stayed out of her way, left her alone, Johanna would still have her beautiful bone construct—the culmination of her life’s work—with which she would’ve had the power to raise an army of undead to defeat this so-called god, this Elgar’nan. 

But Volkarin had possessed the sheer nerve to outplay her at the most inopportune moment. Although she’s ordinarily capable of giving credit where it’s due, she cannot respect the lack of long-term strategy. Of all moments to finally locate his own backbone!  Volkarin had always been like that, though. Capable of surpassing his own self-imposed limitations given the correct impetus. What else could one expect from such a hot-headed, idealistic man as he. Ugh. And couple that all that with a new paramour, a bright-eyed young thing surely twenty years his junior, it’s no wonder Volkarin’s been distracted (but not distracted enough) of late. 

What needs to be done now is plainly obvious to Johanna, or indeed, anyone with half a functioning brain. For whatever reason, everyone in this crackpot team of would-be heroes that Volkarin has somehow gotten himself mixed up in relies on Rook, even though Johanna’s not sure what the impudent whelp brings to the team, other than a tendency to meddle which rivals even Volkarin’s. And as the group’s resident expert on the Fade, Volkarin is the most well-placed to tear a hole in reality itself to locate his misplaced lover. Even Johanna can see that would make for a most romantic story indeed, and she doesn’t even read that sort of dreck.

But it’s clear to Johanna that Volkarin is functioning at perhaps one-tenth of his usual operating capacity, compromised as he is by needless sentimentality. Of course, the type of man who would sacrifice not only his lifelong dream—immortality itself!— for a mere wisp, of all things, would struggle without the guidance of a more indomitable hand.

And in Rook’s absence, the task falls to Johanna. Unfortunately. Here she’d hoped her days of solving Emmrich Volkarin’s problems for him were over, but no matter. Unlike Volkarin, Johanna Hezenkoss does not shy away from necessary evils. 

As always, she chooses her words carefully, delicately balancing dramatic effect and efficiency.

“You know this is entirely your fault, don’t you?” 

Volkarin stops dead in his tracks as though she’d just punched him. The respite from his infernal pacing is most pleasant indeed, and she’s elated by the knowledge she can still instil such a reaction in him even while bereft of limbs.

Expression jumping from shock to outrage and then, most curiously, to acceptance, Volkarin raises two fingers to rub at his temples, quietly answering, “I know.” 

Johanna’s mandibles clench tightly and it is only with some difficulty that she manages to relax them. For Volkarin to admit his failings so readily, the situation must be worse than she had feared. “And what do you have to say for yourself?” she asks instead. The last thing she needs him to know is that she’s worried. 

Volkarin averts his gaze as he hunches into himself. She remembers the stance well from his days as a young child at the Necropolis. “I should have confessed the truth to Rook while I had the chance,” he admits in the most mournful, pitiful tone that makes even Johanna feel sorry for him as much as it makes her want to vomit, if she were still capable of such a thing. 

While it’s not quite the answer she’d hoped for—then again, Volkarin would never debase himself by offering her a proper apology for everything he’d put her through—it’s one Johanna can work with nonetheless.  Doing her best approximation of a tongue-clicking noise, she replies, “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on that argument you had with your paramour.” 

As planned, the words bait him back into action with a sputter. Back straightening and fingers curling into the palms of his ungloved and unadorned hands, he snaps, “Still hung up on—” before cutting himself off and pinching the bridge of his nose as he breathes deeply to regulate his emotions, the same exercises they’d been taught as apprentices. Johanna had never cared much for them. 

The next words that come out of Volkarin’s mouth throw her for a loop. “Have you ever been in love, Johanna?”

One of the downsides of no longer having muscles or tendons is the inability to answer questions through exaggerated facial expressions alone. As much as it pains her to lend legitimacy to this line of inquiry, there’s a frightening intensity in his eyes suggestive of a commitment to this topic of conversation. She suspects he won’t accept a total deflection, or worse, that such an attempt might set off his moping again.

That still doesn’t mean it’s any of his blasted business. The time to be asking these types of questions was thirty years ago, not now. “I’m familiar with the concept,” she says acridly, hoping it’s enough to satisfy his curiosity before swiftly adding, “Not that I see how it’s of any relevance.”

Of course, Volkarin simply can’t leave it there. Instead, his lips purse, the look he now fixes Johanna with one of mixed pity and disappointment.

Infuriating man, to think such condescension could possibly affect her!

“Then you would know what it feels like,” he continues quietly, “to leave such matters unresolved with no resolution.”

Of course he would turn it around on her: a most pathetic and transparent attempt to make this an exercise in ‘practicing empathy’ instead of learning to properly communicate himself. She deftly avoids the obvious trap, cutting to the chase instead.

“You’re an idiot,” she states cleanly, simply. There’s a lack of malice in her words that surprises even her.

Volkarin must sense it too, because even though his body visibly tenses at the accusation, his reaction is short-lived. Instead, he allows his shoulders to slump—terrible posture, really—before running a hand through his tousled hair, the action accentuating the dark circles beneath his eyes. Finally, he sighs, a little huff of intermingled acceptance and defeat. Pinching the bridge of his nose once more, he answers, “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain yourself, Johanna.”

Now she’s really concerned, and even more adamant about not admitting it. Esteemed Professor Volkarin, inviting her to lecture? She’d never thought she’d see the day. Preening nonetheless, she doesn’t bother to disguise the elation from her voice as she points out the obvious. “Your paramour is trapped physically in the Fade, correct?”

Volkarin blinks; it’s too difficult for Johanna to distinguish whether he’s simply concentrating or staving off a fresh wave of tears, so she doesn’t bother.

“Correct,” he answers, fingers rubbing at his chin now, itching at the three-day-old growth which is a sight bewildering to even Johanna.

She does her best to continue ignoring the absurdity of it all as she continues.  “And my understanding is that you are indeed Professor Volkarin of the Mourn Watch, one of Thedas’s leading experts on the properties of said Fade, are you not?”

The masseter muscle in Volkarin’s jaw twitches. “I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

“You always did lack a certain vision,” she says with a sigh which could be described as downright nostalgic. “I simply ask, what would happen were the situation reversed? If you were the one trapped in the Fade?”

Volkarin’s face softens, lips twisted into a smile so besotted it sickens her. “Rook would stop at nothing less than breaking into the Fade barehanded.” Johanna watches him expectantly as his eyes widen in realisation and he mutters, “Oh. Oh dear.”

It would, of course, be too much to hope for him to actually admit that she had a point, that she was in fact, entirely correct as always.  “You always did give up far too easily,” she admonishes instead. “I’m frankly astonished you ever got anything done without me.”

Not only does he have to the gall to ignore her reprimand, he even adds to her immense displeasure by resuming his infernal pacing. There he goes, thump, thump, thump against the floorboards again. All take and no give, just as always.

A newfound wave of frustration pulses through Johanna’s consciousness and she’s hardly a patient person to begin with. “You know, when I told you this situation was entirely your fault, I wasn’t talking about the missteps you’ve made in your pathetic love life.” There’s a new vigour—an urgency—to his steps when he finally deigns to face her. His hands together with frenetic energy. “Johanna, this is hardly the time. There’s so much to set in motion—”

No. Absolutely not.

She refuses to be overlooked again.

Shouting over him, she demands to be heard. “YOU. RUINED. EVERYTHING.”

But Volkarin still won’t be diverted and waves a hand as though before himself as though to dismiss her accusations. What’s downright infuriating is the confirmation that this infatuation with some youth he’s known for less than six months means more to him than all the years they’d spent working together. He pulls books off their shelves with alarming velocity, muttering titles under his breath that Johanna can’t quite decipher.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Johanna tries again. “If only there was more at stake than locating your lost paramour,” she hedges.

Volkarin continues to ignore her, but she can see his hands shake.

She makes another attempt, but this time she doesn’t even bother to disguise any lingering traces of bitterness evident in her voice. Not that she had been holding back on purpose, of course. It’s simply a most peculiar situation in which they find themselves. “If only you had an old friend with practical experience in creating receptive Fade eddies.”

A sharp intake of breath. Aha! A reaction! He doesn’t look at her yet. “What do you suggest?”

She’s not going to let him off that easily. “I don’t know. I didn’t realise you were seeking my opinion on the matter.”

“Johanna.” He finally turns from the bookshelf, pushing back unruly locks of hair from his forehead. “I could not have expressed myself any more clearly.” “Only because I had to do nearly all the work of leading you there!” she snaps back in return. Despite her gnawing frustration, there’s comfort in the familiarity of their conflict, the back-and-forth, the diametric oppositions of their world views.

Johanna will never, ever admit it aloud, but she has missed him. Not that it means she wants to spend the rest of his life trapped in his study, mind you.

But still, better this than death, better this than the cowardice Volkarin had embraced with open arms. For all that the good professor harps on about morality, of propriety, of decorum, of kindness, the real difference between them is that Volkarin is little more than a persnickety academic, but Johanna is the true innovator. An inventor. Her experiments speak for themselves. Yes, her aptitude for the more experiential aspects of their art had resulted in her current predicament, but failure is only ever a temporary setback, so long as the fundamental nature of existence remains intact.

And right now, that can't be relied upon. Elgar’nan had changed the trajectory of the moon itself! Even Johanna balks at such audacity.

It's only then that she realises Volkarin has been silent too long, which is entirely suspicious for a man who so adores the sound of his own voice. But at least he isn’t snivelling again. No, instead his forehead is furrowed deep in thought, fingers scratching at his chin once more.

“Careful,” she warns.

Volkarin blinks, his attention snapping back to her. “What is it?”

“You’ll hurt yourself, thinking that hard about it.”

Strangely, he begins to smile. Maddening man! “I suppose it would be too much to hope for you to simply help me out of mere goodwill.”

Something about his tone and his expression manages to get under her skin even though she no longer has any. “Obviously. You know me better than that.”

“But you are considering offering lending your knowledge to our cause due to the mutually-aligned nature of our interests.” “I would’ve used less words,” she answers in agreement. He holds up an index finger as though about to lecture, but it��s evident in his posture that he’s barely able to restrain himself from pacing again. That he does manage to do so is a point in his favour, for now. “You’ve certainly made clear your opinion on my relationship with Rook.” When she opens her mouth to interject, he raises the other fingers on his hand, and despite herself, Johanna falls silent and allows him to continue. “Which brings me to the realisation your motive was to provide a distraction from my grief so I could recalibrate and continue on the necessary work that must be done in Rook’s … absence.”

While she’s glad to hear Volkarin’s voice tremble as he dances around the topic of the void Rook has left in his otherwise obviously miserable life, the fact that it even does so still rankles her. Even more frustrating is Volkarin ascribing emotions and feelings to her that she does not possess, as though he’s some sort of Chantry sister instead of a powerful necromancer.  “I just wanted to stop the racket,” she snaps.   

“Be that as it may, I couldn’t help but notice your choice of topic.” He sighs again, an exhalation of air that’s heavier than any of the noises she’s heard him make throughout their entire conversation. His shoulders slump. It makes her wish she could slap him with a ruler.

“For what it’s worth,” he continues, “I am sorry. Sorry lichdom failed you. Sorry you were unable to reach out to me. I amespecially sorry you felt the need to conquer the capital in order to attract my attention.” When he lifts his gaze to look at her properly, she is surprised to find his eyes glittering with a mischief that makes her feel thirty years younger. “Forgive me, but I am unaccustomed to receiving overtures of friendship disguised as attempted acts of war.” 

She has told herself many times over the years that she has always hated him. She wants to continue hating him the same way she has survived these last decades in his absence. But in this moment, something within her breaks. Perhaps it’s the way they’re hovering on the precipice of the end of the world, or maybe it’s even the way Volkarin’s eyes resemble a baby labrador’s. 

As it turns out, even she is not entirely immune to the proximity of Emmrich Volkarin’s moral fortitude. Everything according to the Mourn Watch’s plan, no doubt. Oh, she’s not an idiot: she knows why it’s his office in which she has been assigned to complete this part of her penance, even if Volkarin pretends they’re still figuring out the details. All these years of exile but still trapped by the consequences of oaths she had made when she had been much younger and more naïve.  

The realisation should really disgust her but she finds herself devoid of her usual anger and envy, bitterness and rage. She realises, too late, what it is that has broken inside her: the dam that had kept any other most inconvenient emotions at bay.  

A wave of vulnerability crashes over her and she is powerless to stop it. Her next words slip out of her before she’s even had time to think.

“You abandoned me.” Once spoken aloud, she wishes for nothing more than the ability to take the words back, if only to stop Volkarin staring at her like she’s just kicked him. The flame of hatred she holds for him at her core begins to flicker back to life.  

“Johanna, I….”

“Don’t you dare apologise to me!” she screams. Maker, she’d throttle him if she could. Discrete emotions become increasingly difficult to identify, she only knows that she’s been knocked off course and discombobulated despite only trying to help for once. She feels seven years old again, lost and scared in the chambers of the Grand Necropolis, hating all these stuffy mages and their prim propriety, hating the newfound knowledge that such arcane energies filled her veins as well. The only friendly face a shy boy not much older than herself, and she’d helped him out of his shell with her façade of fearlessness.

And in turn, she had watched as he had become one of them.

“You don’t understand,” she hisses. She chances a look directly at his eyes again. He’s patient. Waiting. Despite it all, he wants to understand. Damn him.  

But whether Johanna is capable of letting herself be understood is shakier ground, part of a vast expanse of uncharted territory that lies between them.

Putting it as bluntly as she can, she simply states, “Your parents died. Your parents loved you.”

Volkarin steeples his hands together, comprehension dawning on his features despite what continues to be left unsaid between them. “Ah. I—you never did tell me how you came to live at the Grand Necropolis.”

She scoffs. “What was there to tell? It’s only the same tale from all over Thedas. Parents have child. Parents don’t want a child with magic. Pah!” A surge of resentment swells within her. Why is she talking about this? Why is she talking about this with him? She hasn’t so much as thought about this in years. It hardly matters now. Just look at everything she’s achieved! She’s fifty-one years young and she’s going to live forever.

The thoughtful expression has returned to Volkarin’s face, and she’s grateful to find herself capable of hating it again. “You told me you were born near Perendale.” Why does he even remember that? Regretting ever telling him anything about herself, she answers, “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Next he was going to be asking her whether she had ever been in love again. Why did he always insist on meddling in matters that didn’t concern him!

“That’s no insignificant distance to travel, especially with a young child in tow.”

“As though you’re an expert on travelling with young children,” she answers hotly, before recalling that pet skeleton of his. The way he doted on it, Johanna would be unsurprised to discover that Volkarin had indeed mistaken it for a real boy.  Very magnanimously, she decides against saying this part aloud.

She just wishes Volkarin would let the topic drop. In the past, she’d always retreated whenever he had threatened to dismantle her walls and bluster with his disaffecting sincerity and dogged determination.

But now, she is at his mercy. And she knows—better than anyone—that despite his spotty track record at seeing through his commitments, Volkarin is nothing if not thorough.  He’s an indecisive man, not a slothful one.

“I simply believe most parents do their best with the resources available to them.” He scratches at the side of his nose. “Most people do, in fact. Even if we cannot, at times, predict the consequences of our actions.” At this, he fixes her with a downright professorial stare.

“I am grateful I wasn’t snatched up by templars,” she begrudgingly admits. “I could have been sent to Kirkwall.”

The corner of Volkarin’s lips twitch. “Perish the thought. I do profess my gratitude that the Mourn Watch was able to take me into their care.”

It’s only when Johanna remains silent that Volkarin appears to realise his mistake. “Ah. Of course. They never did truly appreciate you.”

Volkarin’s words sound downright strange to her until she’s able to identify the anomaly: the phrasing is hers, not his. She continues to say nothing, entirely too suspicious of where he’s beginning to go with this. “And although I wouldn’t, as you said, dare apologise to you, I do want you to know I am aware that it was wrong of me not to speak in your defense when it came to the growing number of censures that had been amassed against you, even though your experiments benefitted my research. If I could redo that time in our lives again, I would have severed our partnership earlier and provided you a proper explanation of my decisions. “I suppose I assumed you would come around to my position on the matter. But I dare say you thought the same as well.” She watches the smooth column of his throat as he swallows nervously. “There was so much I was willing to overlook until I thought the price too high to pay. Naturally, recent events and conversations have elucidated to me that we have vastly different thresholds for such matters.” To say she is stunned is an understatement: that she has allowed him to prattle for this long without interruption is testimony to this fact. But it is even more stunning that to receive a proper explanation for the events that have haunted her for decades from the most conflict-avoidant man she has ever known. Other partnerships are unlikely to be repaired by an admission that they should have separated sooner, but nothing had ever been what one would call normal when it came to the two of them.

As much as it displeases her to admit it, Johanna is certain that Volkarin’s capacity to deliver his soliloquy was driven by Rook’s influence. What other force in this world but love would be strong enough to push a man like Volkarin to the brink of foolhardy bravery?

And while the thought is still annoying, it doesn’t sting as much as it once had.  

Thus, it is with nostalgia and not bitterness that she remarks, “We could have done brilliant things together, Emmrich.”

Her use of his first name does not go unnoticed. How could it? His eyebrows raise so high they nearly disappear into his receded hairline. “You haven’t called me that in over thirty years,” he protests.

“And it’ll be thirty more until I use it again,” she insists in return. “Just tell me the truth. Was there ever a moment in time when you appreciated the power and potential at our fingertips? That you thought we could have been the ones to rule this world?”

He averts his gaze. Grinds his teeth. “Yes,” he finally admits. “I saw it. But it would have never been worth the cost.” Johanna scoffs. “There’s always some crackpot trying to take over the world. It might as well have been us. We had the best chance of it. Both of us liches, our knowledge combined, my brilliance counterbalanced with your compassion… There was a reason I kept a bleeding heart like you as a partner for so many years. But I underestimated your sentimentality.” She wouldn’t be making that mistake again, that was for certain. Just look at the situation it had landed her in! She would simply have to figure out how to best wield it to her purposes while she remained trapped here. If Volkarin thought she wasn’t going to continue using every tool at her disposal to facilitate her great escape, then he was sorely mistaken.

“Yes,” Volkarin answers softly, crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he gazes at her with discomfiting fondness. “I dare say you did. Just as I am guilty at times of underestimating your brilliance.” He swivels on the spot and Johanna is afraid he’s going to resume his pacing but the walk he has in mind for now is mercifully short, only over to the bowl on his desk where he’s deposited the majority of his grave gold.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, hating how urgent her voice sounds to her own consciousness. She always hates it when he behaves erratically.

“I was under the impression we had work to do, my dear.”

“Absolutely not.” Surely it hadn’t been so long he’d forgotten her utter loathing of pet names.

He laughs, then, long and rich. It is a definite improvement on the snivelling. “Force of habit. Won’t happen again,” he promises. “First things first. I do believe you had some knowledge to impart on the practical applications of receptive Fade eddies?”

“Getting ahead of yourself as always, Volkarin,” she says by way of reprimand. “You need a bath. I don’t have olfactory glands and even I can tell that you reek. And a shave.”

He rubs his hand against his chin again, eyes widening as though surprised to find it covered by hair. “Ah! Yes. Thank you.”

“Completely and utterly useless.” This time, she’s disgusted by the tenderness in her own voice. Oh, no, this won’t do at all. “While you’re at it,” she adds, determined to get their shared task back on track, “get the elf girl and your skeleton boy. We’ll need to replace the stolen dagger in order to kill a god. And I don’t know about you, but ancient elven gadgets are hardly my area of expertise.”

“Of course, I’ll speak with Bellara.” His brow furrows. “But why do you want Manfred?”

“Because I don’t have arms, you idiot.” It really does make building things more difficult. And she won’t even be able to inadvertently kill the wisp this time due to the aforementioned lack of limbs. It’ll work perfectly, really.

“Consider it done.”

Not having much other choice in the matter, Johanna watches as Volkarin gathers his bathing supplies and heads towards the door.

It is on the threshold that he pauses and looks back at her, his hazel eyes bright with fiery determination. “I’ve always appreciated you, Johanna Hezenkoss. Let us continue doing brilliant things together.”

And then he is gone, door to his study closing gently shut behind him.

[niccolites]

green cliffs: - lessons in mortality. chapter one

highlander!soap x fem!reader. cw attempted sexual assault. read on ao3 here

On the same patch of land that you once took your first step, you are dragged out of your home by your hair.

There are things of little consequence: the blinding beam of the sun, how its heat doesn't reach you, snatched up by the snapping wind. The peeling paint of your broken fence, the pitchfork that has been abandoned in a bale of hay instead of with the rest of the tools in the barn.

You focus on this, the bite of the cold on your cheeks instead of the nails that are digging into your scalp. Easier to try and distance yourself from the fear that is gaping in your stomach, instead wondering if it was you or your brother who left that pitchfork out like that. You decide that it must have been your brother, he had been the one in the rush to get to the river to catch the ‘better’ fish this morning.

There are three strange men around you. You don’t know any of their names. You had seen them in the distance, the stark red of their coats along a distant hill, barely even a day prior. Your village had seemed to suck in a breath, air stilling with their approach. Now, the wind howls, the noisy exhale after that tense beat.

Trouble, your brother had warned you. Told you to stay in the house as much as you could. Tend the crops, feed the animals and keep your eyes down. He would go out, speak with your neighbours to get information on who these men were and what they wanted.

And you had done what you were told, had darted across to the barn, to the coop. Like a horse jumping at the sight of a snake before it even coils to snap.

It didn’t matter anyway. A spooked horse gathers more attention than a calm one. Your brother is sitting by still waters somewhere else, and you are here, gritting your teeth at the sting of your hair being ripped out by clumsy fingers.

Seemingly bored of dragging you, you are shoved to the ground, collapsing in a pile of skirts in the dirt. The men guffaw at you. They’ve clearly been drinking, the stench of whiskey is foul, and one of them still holds a bottle of it. Swings it around and you feel some of it catch the end of your dress. The laughs have a bitter edge to it. They’re angry, you realise, a new spike of fear shooting up your spine. You have just met these men, but they are treating you like you have wronged them in the past. Here to exact their revenge.

Soldiers, likely. One of them is still holding their bayonet, the other with a pistol slung around their waist. You don’t know how high-ranking these soldiers are, you don’t know if that would make a difference in how they are going to treat you. Worse, likely. Not even a month past and one of your neighbours had been strung up to the post, back bloodied with a whip until he collapsed. The punishment for not welcoming God’s own into your home, apparently.

Usually the English presence in your village is more official. A battalion, passing through and making sure that everyone is minding their own. There had been another Jacobite uprising, somewhere to the west of your village. Scottish men gathering to try and overthrow King George, reinstate the Catholic Stuarts. It had failed, but English law recently had become a lot more permanent, tangible in light of this rebellion.

These may be soldiers on your land, but they were operating as men. English law placed to the side, it’s overseeing eye shut for just long enough for what they were planning for you.

You are pulled up, arms yanked behind your back. Held in place by the first soldier while the other two prowl around your home.

“You know, I'm sick of you stuck-up cunts,” the first soldier hisses in your ear. There’s a twist in the muscle of your shoulder which makes you whimper. “You'd bend over for your sheep before you would us. I bet you have as well.” You can see his dark hair in the corner of your eye, smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Oh, come on, Grahams,” the second interjects, reaching over to catch your chin in his clammy hand. “She looks like a good girl. I bet you haven’t even been touched. Am I right?” His thumb pushes on your lower lip, his own mouth parting beneath the heavy curl of his pale moustache. Salivating, the way a rabid dog does before you put it down.

You stay silent. Feel his skin on yours, how he pulls your lip down. The parting of where you were and where he drags you down. Feel that ugly gap of space, an inch but it feels like a mile.

“Alone in that house?” the third asks, not even sparing you a glance. He’s pouring his drink over the edge of your field, just outside the second fence. The border between your yard and the crop you and your brother had laid down, scarcely a few weeks before. The third soldier has small eyes, and a pig nose, turns to give you a horrible, hating look. “Bet she’s had the entire village between her legs,” he sneers.

The first soldier distracts you, breath polluting you as he huffs a laugh. Tightens his arms around the lock of yours and ignores you as you grunt in pain. "Well, I’m sure that she wouldn’t mind the King’s own men from taking what they are owed, yes?”

The third man, apparently done with talking, throws the rest of his bottle over your fence and strikes a match. The catch of fire always surprises you. The match is suspended in the air for a flicker of a moment before it connects to the pool of liquor. A blink, and the fire roars, summoned into life and it eats all of the crop that you and your brother had laid on that once tilled field.

The memory of you and your brother, on your hands and knees as you planted that crop. The acceptance of exhaustion that comes with physical activity when you know it must be done and so you do it. Body connected to mind, an idea and then the yield.

Impossible to reconcile what had taken hours to do, lit up within a second. The fire branches across everything, almost licking the third soldier himself. Everything swallowed up, a horrible demon, brought by these men, a senseless cruelty that you can barely comprehend.

You howl, a wounded animal sound, lunging forward and then yanked back immediately. Everything is separate, suffocated by sensation. There is only the connection between the fire and your eyes, the conclusion that your brother is going to have to bow in that dirt again.

You shriek again, when you are stopped from preventing this, arms protesting in the twist that the first soldier forces them into. Told to stop your squealing. The second soldier steps back into your eye-line and grins down at you. Yellow teeth, dark eyes. Another demon on your land, seeking retribution in something that you have not even committed.

His mouth moves, but you barely hear it, blood rushing in your ears. Your face is hot, molten with tears. Brain and body disconnected. The socket of your shoulder is boiling, every yank pulling a tense groan from between your clenched teeth. You know that you are going to hurt yourself if you keep struggling, or maybe one of these men are going to hurt you. But you keep pulling, huffing with fruitless effort.

The second soldier reaches down, fingers digging into the collar of your dress. His fingers cold against the hot flush that has spread across your chest. A tear in the cotton cloth that covers most of your clavicle. Another shriek, ripping up your throat and into his face. He barely flinches. You are a cat with its tail caught, it doesn’t matter how sharp your teeth are anymore.

The first soldier with your hair in his teeth. The second with his hands groping down your chest. The third man, kicking your fence to get it to buckle and catch in the flames as well. Paralysis like a fist around the base of your spine. A yell that starts in the bottom of your lungs, builds until you are almost sick with the force of it.

Another yell, one that does not fully register until the soldiers take notice of it.

"What on -" the first soldier starts to say, before the rest is lost in a strangled noise. The second soldier steps out of your vision and you see what is stopping him.

Your father was no soldier, although he had been when he had to be, god rest his soul. He used to tell you about the true highlanders, the real soldiers and the swords that were as broad as they were, and how they would swing them as if they were an extension of their own arm.

It sounded like folklore. Mythology, until you see the swing of that broadsword, splitting the third soldier at the waist like the crack of an egg.

You barely have time to catch sight of the fourth man before you are thrown to the ground again, dirt catching on your palms and digging in.

It feels generous to call it a fight. There is a brief tussle between the new man and the two soldiers that had been holding you prone, before they are brought to heel. Blood seeping into the dirt. Half of the second soldier’s face thuds to the ground, his moustache halved. He stares sightlessly up at the sky, half an expression stuck and immortalised.

You lie in the dirt, watch as your tormentors are silenced, lives ended and left to pool in the soil that you used to dance across when you were younger. It is entirely unfair, the three men that were able to drag you around like a ragdoll, cut into like slabs of cheese.

It’s breathtaking, watching this man save you like it is the easiest thing in the world. He finally stills, the first soldier lying limp on his knees before he is kicked aside. You hysterically wonder if that is what would have been done to you, if these three Englishmen had gotten their way. A passage of time interrupted, snipped like the threads of fate. Time redirected.

You stare up at him, barely able to connect that your arms are your own now, even though you had been wrestling for them to be this entire time.

Your saviour, a bloody mess on his kilt and three dead men around him.

"Thank you," you manage. Voice crackling as you form full words now. The stench of gore is another presence in the yard with you. Thick, you resist the urge to gag as it seems to catch in your teeth as you inhale noisily through your mouth.

The man who saves you is silent, breath heaving out of him. He is massive, with dark hair that is pushed back out of his face. A light beard and red in his kilt. Red everywhere, actually. Staining the white of his cotton shirt beneath the crossover of his kilt, staining his skin. His broadsword is almost the same height as him, almost as wide. Metal catching the sun, glowing red as it drips blood.

It takes the man to stumble back to force you into action. You force yourself up, staggering towards him. You reach the centre of his chest, his breadth suffocating you, encompassing. You catch his bicep to right him, the equivalent of smacking your hand against stone. Now that you are standing chest to chest with him, you realise if he were to fall, you would not be able to catch him.

"Are you alright?" You ask, staring up at him. The blood on his face doesn't seem to be his, for the most part. There is a cut across his brow, leaking a lazy trail of blood down his temple and you almost reach up to touch it without thinking, before you catch yourself.

His eyes are blue. The sky brought down to you.

You almost laugh, delirious. Self-conscious under his rapt gaze. You tilt your head and catch sight of the fire again. As if other sensations had been halted under this man’s gaze, you are brought back to the present with the crackle of fire. You curse under your breath, stepping out of the pull surrounding this man, darting away to get a bucket to extinguish the flames.

You feel the ghost of a hand across your back before you are gone, furiously pumping the handle of the well and tossing the water across to the fire. It takes a few journeys, something that has your hands fumbling as you try to work faster.

The man is there, pulling the bucket away from you even as you try to stop him. He is able to swing the water further, catching more of the flames. His gait is longer than yours, but you notice that he seems to be stumbling as he is putting weight on his right leg.

After you pass him two more full buckets of water, the fire is finally put out. You take stock of the blackened field. All of it razed, deader than the men who are still sinking into the dirt a few feet away from you. You swallow harshly, angry tears pricking at your eyes. It will take a month, longer even, to fix this. You can imagine the devastation on your brother’s face when he sees this. Resist the urge to turn to the corpses and give them a few good kicks.

You want to give into the lump in your throat and cry over this, but the man fills you with purpose. You roughly swipe at your face before you face him, catching him already watching you. “Your leg - is it alright?” You ask, trying to keep the burned field out of sight. Better to focus on what can immediately be fixed.

The man stares at you for a beat too long. Almost as if waiting for you to speak again before he does. "One of the bastards caught me in the leg," he says. His accent is thick, deep in a way that has you flushing. He tilts his leg, lifting his kilt enough for you to see the gash on the back of his calf. The flesh looks torn open, which makes you wince.

"I can patch that up," you offer, grateful at the opportunity to take your mind off of the events of the past hour. You step closer, hands hovering, unsure if he should be walking. "My brother cut his arm on a scythe once, wrist to elbow, and I managed to stitch that up,” you add, even though the man doesn’t seem to care about your past experience with wound tending.

"You the village nurse then?" the man asks, reaching over to drape his arm over your shoulder. There is a moment of his weight pressed into you that almost makes your knees buckle before it is lifted. His hand stays though, warm on your opposite shoulder. He seems to be guiding you into your home more than you are. He is a hot line along your side, hip to hip. The sway as you acclimate to his walk, sturdier on your right leg as if to compensate for his.

“Hardly,” you manage to respond, kicking the door open for him to get inside. “My brother is just clumsy.”

You set him on the chair in your kitchen, bustling around for some cloth and a needle and thread. Your kitchen is like a picture in a book, just how it was when you woke up this morning. Time has not moved here, your mug is still by the sink. Your brother’s boots by the door where he had forgotten them this morning. Life before the fallout, perfectly preserved.

“It’ll look ugly, but it’ll do the job,” you warn, tossing a cushion on the floor to kneel on, gesturing for him to elevate his foot on the other chair.

“I trust you to make my leg as handsome as it was before,” he says, a smile that slips from his mouth when you come back to his side. You kneel down, a wet flannel in your hand that you cover the wound with, wanting to the extent of the damage beneath the aftermath that covers it.

You glance up at him, finding him watching you. Eyes dark now, water before a storm. You give him your name, suddenly realising that you haven't yet. Admonish yourself for being rude.

He breathes it back, like he wants to hold it in his mouth for a moment. “John,” he replies after another pause. “I get called Johnny.”

“Am I allowed to call you Johnny?” You ask, turning back to his leg. You catch sight of his chest stuttering over a breath. You tuck your hair behind your ear, frowning to yourself. You know if your brother were here, then you would not be speaking to this man so casually. That knowledge makes you feel like you are doing something inappropriate. Something to be ‘caught’ doing. Extra dash of sugar before the whip of the belt across your backside.

“Absolutely, angel. Well, dependent on the work you make of my leg,” he adds, tone musing. He seems amused by you, mouth smiling even as his eyes stay that dark colour. Trouble, your brother had described the soldiers. You aren’t so certain he wouldn’t describe Johnny in the same way.

You resolve yourself to your work. It’s not a bad gash, when most of the blood is wiped away. One of the soldiers must’ve stabbed it in, and then pulled it to the side, splitting the flesh. You wonder how he was able to stand on it, nevermind help you with the fire. You murmur a warning before you stab the needle in, threading the wound closed. A thin layer of poultice along the loose white cloth you have, an attempt to prevent any swelling before you wrap this around the wound. Tie the ends. The beginning of a thank you for what Johnny has done for you. His blood stains your hands, sticky into the crevices of your palms.

You squeeze the red out of the flannel and stand, roles reversed. He looks up at you, gaze reverent in a way that makes you faintly embarrassed. “The cut on your brow doesn't seem as bad,” you murmur, half-excusing yourself. You’re not doing anything untoward, but you feel the need to pre-emptively explain yourself. 

You wipe the blood on his face away, other hand hovering uncertainly, before you cup his chin. Hold him in place as you clean him up. It's something that you think would be normal, but feels outrageously intimate with how hot his gaze is on your face. Swallow and watch as his eyes drop to observe your throat move.

You avoid his eye, difficult when you can see that flash of blue darting around. You feel swallowed up by it. His attention feels like the sun has finally reached you, reaching through the wind to land on your skin. Scalding where his eyes land. You’re suddenly aware of the rip in your bodice, how it looks like you are bending over to show him the view down your chest. You snap up straight when you realise that he is looking.

You’re being ridiculous, you decide. This is the man who saved you from those horrible soldiers. A fate worse than death, most likely. Raped, murdered and burned most likely.

The cut on Johnny’s brow as stopped bleeding. “I think you’ll live,” you pronounce, voice falling flat at the end.

Another gap of quiet. Standing over a man who saved you, his blood on your hands. Three dead men in your yard. The burned crops, that smell wafting in, ruin and death.

“You live here alone?” He asks, accent catching on the ‘o’ sounds.

“No, my brother…he's away, fishing,” you explain.

Johnny barely seems to hear you, hand on your wrist. Thumb on your pulse, like he's listening to more than your words. “There may be more soldiers,” he says, gaze dragging away from you to the window. Darting back again as if he can barely stand to not be looking at you. “We have to go.”

You stammer, something in your spine locking at the idea of leaving your home. “I can't, no, this is my home - my brother - Ian - he’ll be -”

Johnny stands, a wall of muscle in front of you. The size of him silencing you. “There are English men dead on your land,” Johnny tells you, fierce suddenly. The snap of teeth. “Now, they may not believe that a sweet thing like you could do this, but they’ll make an example of you anyway.” His words blow the air out of your lungs, a shudder in the shape of a breath. You think about what he’s saying. You, on that post with your back whipped until everyone can see beneath your skin. Saved from the lawless and delivered to the law, the punishment eerily similar.

You shiver, fear worming through you. The scowl on his face smooths out, and he reaches up and cups your face. Sticky with gore, you can feel the print of hands left on your cheeks. “We have to go,” he repeats, firm. The full force of his will is something to bow to.

Your shoulder twinges, familiar with that sensation of being caught and forced into position. You twist your mouth, that ignored lump in your throat making itself known again. You blink up at Johnny, blood in the light beard across his face. The blood of the men who hurt you. Offering to save you. Again.

Your saviour is a stranger in your kitchen, and when you murmur your assent, he smiles like a wolf.

[dysfunctionalcreature]

so in my opinion personally for an aftg omegaverse au, Andrew is an alpha, whose scent is like leather, cigarette smoke, and asphalt. Kevin is an omega, whose scent is like green apple and mint candy with a hint of brand new plastic. Jean is an omega, whose scent is like ocean, musty dusty blankets, and a hint of unspecified pastry. And Neil is a beta (and I know betas are often thought of as boring but I truly don't mean it that way, it just fits him imo, like he "doesn't swing" so idk what else he would be), so I don't have a clear scent in mind for him because I don't think beta's usually have very notable scents, but if he has one at all it's definitely spicy like cinnamon with maybe a hint of wood smoke

[arson-09]

What if i learned how to make tiktoks and instagram reels purely to spread the pro tamlin agenda?? like i dont need another activity BUT-

[ghostorbz]

Sorry

[ganondoodle]

i dont know if anyone from not here is awake but .... yesterday i had the idea to perhaps bind the champions 2.0 abilities to the inventory/weapons

(totk rewrite "botw2")

so, for example, yunobos would be tied to a permanent two handed weapon (his signature weapon for example) in your inventory that doesnt break and doesnt need repairing (considering my craft and repair system otherwise) but instead needs recharging to recast the ability somwhat like when the master sword looses its power, but instead it just deals the base or reduced weapons damage (perhaps using the ability function via the throwing mechanic, like the MS swordbeams? or a different way to control it when using that speciffic weapon)

teba/tulins would be either a magic bow or arrow that similarly doesnt break/run out (unsure whether arrow or bow is better)

sidons water shield + heal would be tied to a shield

rijus would be tied to the hookshot, when aiming it thered be a button prompt to switch to send the lightning instead, thought to tie it to this bc i wanted it to be aimable similar to the hookshot and combining them saves you from making yet another aiming system and menu

the idea was that i could also use the tie to a weapon as an explanation for how they give it to you without repeating botw but worse (since in botw they are ghosts of the dead and a spirit knowing how to give an abilitiy tied to their spirit to you is more sensical than your childhood friend that didnt even have an ability at all even after a hundred years time last game suddendly not only mastering one but also somehow knowing how to give it to you within .. 5?) the explanation being that the weapon has been charged with their magic over the course of using it for so long or doing so during the dungeon

(like in yunos case, he was the only one that actually had the ability in botw, he always used a .. stone breaker weapon thing, and he gifts it to you at the end; teba/tulin would discover charging their arrows with magic during it and give you the bow at the end (perhaps them having to pull on the same bow to shoot it during a miniboss fight in the dungeon makes it charged with it); sidon would use your shield to channel his magic in a way to make it useful for you and since hes still new to using it, perhaps he gives you the permanent one at the start of the dungeon bc its the one hes been practising it with and at the end gifts it to you since its charged with it (if you leave the dungeon before beating it hed want it back sicne .. its his practice tool); riju charges your shiekah arm with lighting, like overcharging a device just before it breaks, perhaps discovered accidentally during her dungeon ? so we have a variety and not all work the same ... and overcharging bricks your arm for a short time lol)

the possible downside of this is the menuing, but you dont really have to use all of them all the time (maybe longer cooldown but more powerful anyway just like in botw- also each permanent weapon would be the first in the row) and .. anythign is better than those god awful sage ghost controls of canon totk imo lol

other idea would be that its NOT tied to a specific weapon, but just to the category in general, so when you got a shield out you get an extra button prompt to activate sidons ability (very similar to botws system but giving you the control of activating it or not) BUT that has the issue of lacking the explanation on how they give it to you and the downside of not having anything permanent, and while i like my reworked weapon system, also givign players a permanent thing even if not very powerful sounds kinda right to mitigate those complaints without destroying the system outright

[wall-eye]

Let me back it up to the start of the climb

[arom-antix]

Happy birthday to the man, the myth, the legend, trophy husband of Yuuri Katsuki, Viktor Nikiforov!

[leviiackrman]

Might as well have the salt before the sweet; so here is Rin's Finished Timeline!

Tag list (ask to be added or removed): @carrionsflower @statichvm @risingsh0t @simonxriley @tommyarashikage @kanos @confidentandgood @unholymilf @florbelles @thedeadthree @shellibisshe @roofgeese @aezyrraeshh @faerune @tekehu @jackiesarch @minaharkers @sergeiravenov @carlosoliveiraa @rosenfey @greenecreek @queennymeria @heroofpenamstan @tethrras @jamessunderlandgf @d-esmond @solasan @bigbywlf @delzinrowe @fenharel @imogenkol

[essektheylyss]

Okay but for real, please download Merlin, the Cornell-based bird-logging app. It is so great. It will tell you about birds in your area. It will make you so insufferable on hikes and outings. It doesn't have any comments section so if this site gets nuked do NOT try to find me there but know that that's where I'm hanging. Having a great time birdwatching. Logging the bluejay that bullies my cats. Helping researchers track where birds are for climate change-related population monitoring. 10/10, highly recommend getting a life and doing some silly birdwatching.

[ennabear]

does anyone know how to get your extended family to stop sending you bible verses or do i just have to ignore it

[justtothesea]

But also, consider, after Penelope confesses that she cast a spell as a child for her soulmate, a man so perfect he couldn't possibly exist and thus she would never die of a broken heart, that Colin, shocked and filled with emotion, says, "Well, I wished for you, too."

🥺

[deus-ex-mona]

up next on chapter 36 of idol sengen… _(:3 」∠)_

[alchemania]

Drowning.

(Emotions are overwhelming, sometimes too hard to traverse alone. Thankfully, she doesn't have to.)

“I'm accusing you of not being the Hydro Archon at all.” 

Those words freeze her where she stands, and whispers fly throughout the courtroom, like vultures searching for a carcass. Wait, no. Nonononono. This could not be happening. No one was supposed to discover her, she had to fulfill the prophecy or everybody would die and all of this would be for nothing and– the glares from all around and the distrust freeze her in her tracks, and Furina can't breathe, breath catching in her throat so hard she chokes. “Wait! Wait!” she cried, shaking her head frantically. “Don't listen to what he's saying! I- I am the Hydro Archon I swear! I'm real! I'M REAL!!” 

She had to be. She could be nothing else, or all was lost, all was for naught. She could not allow that to happen she WOULD NOT allow it to happen. There had to be a way, there must be some way…the water! Yes! She's moving her hands rapidly as she talks now, attempting to get away from the spider's web that entangled her further and further. Put your hand in the water, Furina, they said, and she did, she did, deadly determined to keep up the facade, to live out the role. But that was ultimately what undid her- the water, diluted as it was, would not kill her, but she exhibited the same symptoms as the diver boy- Freminet, was his name (he would be dead soon as well oh god. Oh god. And she knew he had only wanted to help, they all did, but they did not know that in doing so, they'd doomed themselves..) 

“On the charges of impersonating the Hydro Archon, Furina-” 

“No! No!” she screamed, tears flowing like a river. “Stop! STOP!!! You don't understand, none of you understand please Neuvillette LISTEN TO ME -” There was so much pain in his eyes, she noticed, so much turmoil. But he uttered the damning words, regardless. 

“..is guilty.” 

Guilty. 

That verdict stopped her heart, and Furina stumbled back and crumpled into her chair, looking like one dead. At the eleventh hour, she'd stumbled. Five hundred years of lies and guilt all for them, all to save them, down the drain. It was for nothing. SHE was for nothing. What was the point of it all..? 

“All this time, she lied to us?! But why?”

To save you, I had no other choice. But it doesn't matter now, anyway. The flood is going to come.  

All of a sudden, a terrible shaking rocked the entire courthouse, and an otherworldly being, resembling some sort of whale, seemed to swim through the building, sucking in horrified onlookers. People screamed and pushed each other in a mad dash to the exit, and somehow, Furina felt her legs carrying her as well, running outside along with the crowd. Her worst fears were already coming into being - the unforgiving waves were rising higher and higher, and folks were scrambling - to rooftops, to the trees, wherever they could go to get away. Furina watched numbly, being unforgivingly bumped into and shoved aside as her people fled for any hope of safety. 

It was gut wrenching, also seeing humanity shine through in these moments - someone helping an older lady through the streets so she didn't fall, a little boy picking up a frightened cat so it wouldn't be run over and tearing through the streets like the angels themselves guided his footsteps. But it would not be enough. Even so, she ran, splashing up puddles as her heels made contact with the ground again and again and again and again. “Get to higher ground!” Furina screamed, helping a young lady onto a rooftop. “Don't stop moving!”

The hands of disaster would not be held back, though, and as the people climbed higher and higher, some of them began to slip and fall- wives screamed and cried for their husbands, parents for their children, children for their parents, friends for their companions, and she could do nothing but watch it all happen, hopes and dreams dissolving just like her entire nation. “No, no no!!! Please! Stop!” 

“Help us!!” People screamed, and she could not. There was nothing she could do. She was helpless, her hands were tied, and all she could do was watch. Lyney and Lynette held Freminet near to them as the waters rose, heads bowed in solemn acceptance of what was to come, and the boy sobbed, dreading the inevitable.

“It's alright,” Lyney comforted. “It's alright. You're gonna see your mother soon, you'll be together again, and we'll see our parents too- and - and we'll never be apart anymore. It'll all be okay.”

“I don't want to die!” Freminet wailed, and Lynette shook like a leaf, fear taking hold. 

“.. I don't either. But, we'll embrace it hand in hand, okay??”

“Mhm.” 

“I love you guys.”

“I love you too.” 

The waters consumed them soon, and Furina couldn't breathe. They were gone. They were gone. 

The next thing she knows, she's atop the highest building in Fontaine, and the waters lap at her feet, a silent but deadly testimony to all that had happened. She was all alone now…. everyone was dead and it- it was all her fault. Hollowly, Furina looked to the water, sobbing and crumpling to her knees. The water had changed - it was just normal seawater now, and she found herself frantically pawing in it, inconsolable. “Give them back! Give them back to me!!! I'll do anything I swear - I'll take their place, I - please!!! They didn't do anything wrong it's not their fault it's mine! IT'S MINE!!!!!"

Her reflection changed, and Focalors stared back. Furina yelped, scuttling back like a surprised crab, and sniffled. “Furina. Come here,” she called, and there was no anger in her voice, only sorrow. When the girl approached, the goddess looked ready to weep. “What have you done?” she breathed, horror marring her face.

“I- I didn't mean to, they- they found me out,” she stammered, “I-”

“You were so close,” Focalors mourned. “But it was all for nothing.”

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” Furina wailed, and the goddess sighed. “Please, I'll do anything - I don't care what happens to me -"

“There is nothing more you can do. You failed the task that you were given, and all is lost. I see now it was a mistake to trust in you.”

Furina's pupils shrank about three sizes, and she choked on air, shaking like a leaf. “I'm - a mistake?”

“Yes, Furina. You are a mistake. But it's alright, because I created you, and so the blame falls to me.” 

“I- you - I had to suffer all this time, for nothing,” she wept, anger weaving its way into her veins, “You have no idea what I've been through! You don't - you could never know! It's your fault I had to go through all this! How- how dare you call me a mistake!!” Breaths ragged, Furina splashed the water furiously, again and again and again. “I'm NOT a mistake I'm NOT! TAKE IT BACK! TAKE IT BACK!! You said I was special!! You created me because you wanted me to live the way you couldn't!!! You created me because you BELIEVED in me!! WAS THAT A LIE, FOCALORS?! WAS ANYTHING REAL!?” 

The reflection changed back to herself, and Furina was left alone with no answers. A beat passed, and the girl yanked off her hat and threw it into the water as hard as she could, screeching. Off came her coat, and her gloves, and she hurled them into the waves as well, screaming and crying at the top of her lungs. And Furina cried. She cried for all her people, and for all the pain she'd been shouldering, she cried for the pointlessness of it all, she cried because she was angry, she cried because she was tired, she cried because she was sad. And when she could cry no more, she hollowly stared at the waves, the waves that had doomed so many unfairly to a watery end. If she had just held on a little longer, if she had just kept up the act for a while more…..all would have been well. If she had been stronger, then..maybe..maybe-

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” 

Someone was calling her, and she curled into herself, wrapping her arms around her person.

“Furina,” the voice called again, and she looked up with red rimmed eyes to the heavens, chest heaving. 

“No, not up there. Listen. Wake up. You have to wake up.”

“..what are you talking about..? The prophecy-- it's already come to pass it doesn't matter anymore -"

“Furina.” 

She looked to the water again, and Tetsuya's face replaced her reflection, to her shock. “Wake up,” he commanded. “Wake up!” The image then sprang from the water, stopping her heart from fear as it grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Wake up!!” 

Furina screamed raggedly, nearly tumbling out of bed, and Wanderer was right there, grabbing her face in both his hands. “Hey, hey!! It's alright! It's alright!”

“They're all gone,” the girl wailed, inconsolable, and he stared in bewilderment, face twisting almost comically in confusion.

“..huh?”

“Everyone- I failed, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry please please you have to help me please - there has to be something we can do-” she can barely breathe around her sobs, and Wanderer shakes his head, slowly. 

“No. No you didn't, Furina, listen. It was a dream. You were having a nightmare of what could have been.” 

“Everyone is-” 

“Alive, yes.”

“I'm not- a mistake?”

“....uh, excuse me?” Tetsuya asked after a beat of disbelief, expression darkening like a storm cloud had taken residence. “No…Who the hell told you that?” 

“She- she said -”

“She's wrong, whoever she is,” he interrupted, and Furina sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Furina. I need you to breathe.” He took her hand then and squeezed, frowning. “Come on. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” The girl coughed harshly, sucking in irregular breaths, and after a moment of hesitation, Wanderer took Furina's hand and placed it on top of his stomach, breathing calmly. “Can you follow that?” 

“M- mhm,” she managed, taking in a shaky but steadier breath, and the rise and fall of Tetsuya's abdomen guided her through the motions, slowly steadying. 

“Good, good,” he nodded, as her breathing evened out. “..do you need anything?”

“Can- can you h- hold me?? Please?”

“Ah- alright,” he relented, and Furina leaned on his shoulder, sniffling roughly. “..do you want to talk about it.”

“..no…”

“Okay. Then we'll just sit here.” 

And they did just that, silence only broken by the girl's quiet sobs. 

“..what if everything went wrong??”

“The important thing is that it didn't. What you need to focus on right now is what you're going to do now that everything is over. It wasn't all for nothing.” He glared at her, then, but she could tell his anger was not with her. “And even if everything had gone to hell, you would not have been for nothing. Don't you let anyone tell you otherwise, not even yourself.” 

“..okay..okay. .. Tetsuya?”

“Mm.”

“... I don't think I'm okay.”

He gave a bitter, hearty laugh at that. “I don't think anyone expects you to be, Furina.”

“M’sorry if-”

“If what? You were a bother? You woke me up? If I didn't care, I wouldn't be here,” Tetsuya asserted, holding her closer. “Don't you remember what you said? Emotions are a burden, never the person who carries them. And when you care about people, you carry them too.”

“You remember what I said…?”

“I remember many things. More than I would like to. Important thing is, you're not okay right now, and quite frankly I'm terrible at comfort and all that. But I can promise I can kill whatever gives you hell. I'll be here when you need me, and if you wanna cry, well. To hell with it. After everything you've been through, I think you kinda earned it.” 

“Okay. Thank you…” 

"Mm.” 

“... I wish I could hear her.” 

“What?”

“Focalors. She's not here anymore, but I wish- she could've told me she was proud of me. That I did good. That - I was strong, and. . I did my best.” 

“Well, I'm not her. But I think you did a hell of a job,” Wanderer muttered. “Sometimes you have to be your own closure and accept that the people you need most will not be by your side. I would know. And- if nobody else, you tell yourself.”

“I.. I did good,” Furina whispered, tears falling fast, and Tetsuya nodded, rubbing her shoulder to soothe. “It hurt a lot.”

“It did, but the worst of it is over. And you are going to get better.”

“I'm gonna get better. I'm gonna heal.”

“And you're not gonna put yourself down when you have setbacks.”

“. .I'll try.”

“Sometimes that's all you can do.” 

“Mhm.” She looked up then, eyes misty. “Hey.”

“What.”

“I love you,” Furina smiled wetly, and Tetsuya blinked twice, eyes also a little glossy. 

"..uh huh," he mumbled. "Love you too.”

“..What?????”

“I'm not going to say it again,” he huffed, looking fit to blush, and she squeezed him hard, laughing delightedly. 

“You love me, you love me!!!” 

"Yeah, yeah, you wormed your way into my heart and I can't find it in me to kick you out. Is that you want me to say??"

"Yes," she grinned, and Tetsuya sucked his teeth.

"I'm in your corner. That's the best you're gonna get right now."

She leaned her head back on his shoulder, and Wanderer sighed, looking affectionately weary. "Geez...... I'm getting soft."

"Is that bad?"

"..well. Not as much as I thought it would be."

Sometimes, life was still hell. But at least she had someone to walk through the fire with her now.