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yuyuntianyu · 4 years ago

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[2HA analysis blog] To love you is torment but leave you I cannot

I wanted to write this (hopefully not-too-long) blog to give 2HA fandom a different perspective of the events in the past timeline. I noticed that there are many little things that could not be carried over to the English language. These little things can give more explanations to our characters’ actions so I hope sharing this would help the novel make more sense. This blog focuses on Taxian-jun and Chu Fei.

Warning: Spoilers ! ! ! Taxian-jun and Chu Fei are their own trigger warnings ! ! !

Despite the novel having 350 chapters, we really know little about what happened between Taxian-jun and Chu Fei besides the abuse and mistreatment and that little is relayed to us by the Most Unreliable Narrator of the Cultivation World - Mo Ran Mo Weiyu. If we only take Mo Ran for his words then a lot of his and Chu Wanning’s decisions told later on would seem irrational and almost silly. So let’s dive deep in the past so we can understand how the great cultivator Beidou Xian-zun could raise such a dumb husky since the events in the past would explain the more irrational decisions made by both main characters.

Given Mo Ran’s narrator is about as reliable as his character in the first 120 chapters, we have to look at other more subtle clues and some of them are due to cultural and linguistic differences.

1. I used to like you a lot

At his coronation day, Taxian-jun stated that he once greatly looked up to Chu Wanning and that he used to love and respect him dearly. Maybe I am reading into this too much but this is my theory: The flower could erase the memory itself but cannot erase the feelings associated with the memory. He had his memories of the good deeds Chu Wanning did for him erased but still remembered that he used to love and respect him. It doesn’t make sense unless it is indeed that the flower could not erase its host’s feelings. So throughout the novel, Mo Ran’s complicated emotions are complicated possibly because he could not remember how he came to have these feelings. Similarly, Hua Binan could mess with the undead Taxian-jun’s memory to a great extent but could not erase his obsession with Chu Wanning.

2. I gave you a new title

Chu Fei. 楚妃. In the Imperial Chinese harem hierarchy, “Fei” means consort and not concubine (嬪 “Pín"). Consorts were highly respected positions in the palace weidling much political power and were only seconds to the Empress Consort. Another major difference is a consort would be married to the emperor while a concubine would not. So if Taxian-jun had truly wanted to only humiliate Chu Wanning and keep him for the carnal pleasures (I am intentionally ignoring his breeding kink completely), he would keep him as a concubine but he gave Chu Wanning the Consort title and hid him from the world. At this point, Taxian-jun had almost lost Chu Wanning once and had spent a lot of effort to bring him back from the verge of death after hearing Chu Wanning’s apology so his anger might have softened a bit. Also, given that Chu Wanning is a man, having a legitimate offspring ( (I am still intentionally ignoring Mo Ran's breeding kink completely) is not an issue so although this is not clearly stated, I believe Taxian-jun wanted to force a relationship and somewhat proper marriage on Chu Wanning. Another hint of this is in an Extra chapter where Taxian-jun tried to get Chu Wanning a birthday gift. He recalled that in his past timeline, he had wanted Chu Wanning to give him something on his birthday as well and that he had wanted Chu Wanning’s heart.

3. Shizun likes to write letters and poems

On Book 3 Chapter 247, Chu Wanning sat down and wrote a few unsent letters to the people he used to know. He also wrote a few lines of poetry. In the first few lines taken from different literature works, he expressed his sense of helplessness and his wish to remain untainted despite the circumstances. The more important two lines are from a poem written by a real poet named Fàn Chéngdà ( 范成大) who lived in the 12th century Southern-Song dynasty. The two lines read:

“May I be like the stars, may you* be as the moon. Night after night, may we shine together side by side.” **

*In the original work, the character used instead of you is “jun” 君 (as in 踏仙君 Taxian-jun). 君 could mean king, emperor, lord, or gentleman ** This is my rough translation - I haven’t found an English version of this poem

These two lines are commonly used in romantic novels as a way to express one’s unchanging love and loyalty to another person despite the circumstances. He compared himself as the stars and wanted to remain by Taxian-jun whom he viewed as the moon. Chu Wanning wrote this to express his willingness to stay but he would never voice this out loud. In the next timeline, he did the same thing by quietly loving and caring for Mo Ran 1.0 despite the mistreatment and was content with never expressing his feelings vocally. Mo Ran was rather uneducated and thus could not fully comprehend these two lines and misunderstood that Chu Wanning was missing Xue Meng.

4. You are all I have left

In chapter 252, after Chu Wanning returned to The Red Lotus Pavilion, he found Taxian-jun already waiting for him. Taxian-jun told Chu Wanning about a dream he had and said:

“I am afraid I don’t resent you… I want to resent you… Otherwise, I…” “In the end, it’s just you and I”.

This is not the first time he expressed that Chu Wanning was all he had left or they only had each other. I believe that at this point, Taxian-jun might have somewhat believed Chu Wanning and recognized that his memories were missing. His words and behaviors seemed a lot more gentle and he mentioned they did have periods of time where their marriage was easier. I believe it was after this point. He told us about the numerous times he attempted to spoil his consort or expressed his affection through gifts, a trip outside the palace, goods, jewels, and even teaching Chu Wanning how to cook or personally taking care of Chu Wanning when he was sick. At one point, Taxian-jun expressed his wish for a more peaceful marriage with Chu Wanning through his breeding kink by saying that if they had children, perhaps they would be more civil towards each other.

Edit: I really wanted to go about this blog without having to refer to their particular taste in bed

5. Are you still mad?

This is a smaller detail but in the original text and the Vietnamese official translation, the way they talked to each other had a bit more of the “husband-wife” dynamic. Especially Chu Wanning ( l┐(︶▽︶)┌ ), the comment section said he sounded like when your wife is mad that you didn’t take out the trash but still says: “I’m not mad” and Taxian-jun, the husband, would come around and ask “Are you still mad at me?” after every fight.

6. I did not think you would really leave me.

On Chapter 99, Mo Ran recalled the fight between him and Chu Wanning after an assassination attempt. In order to convince Mo Ran to not go to Taxue Palace, Chu Wanning said:

“If you destroy Taxue palace, if you kill Xue Meng, I will die before you”.

Now the line “I will die before you” in my language is less of a suicidal ideation but more of a threat. It's used when a person already knows that they are important to the other person and is using their own death as a threat to make the other person do something. This line is thrown around a lot during heated arguments between people close to each other but they almost never mean it. (Even my mom said it numerous times before T_T . I personally think it’s manipulative). Therefore, it is understandable Taxian-jun did not take this line seriously and replied almost mockingly. After all, they had been married for almost a decade at that point, Taxian-jun probably felt somewhat comfortable that Chu Wanning would not do anything reckless. He could not foresee that Chu Wanning meant what he said and actually followed through with his words. I believe that if Taxian-jun had known that Chu Wanning was serious, Taxian-jun would not have gone to Taxue Palace. 7. Don't leave me, ok?

Then Chu Wanning died and Mo Ran spent two years alone. In those two years, we know he basically went insane because of grief, talked to a corpse everyday, and deep fried his Empress Consort. But strangely enough, Mo Ran 1.0 did not immediately mention this after being reborn although it was the main reason he committed suicide. And at that point, it had been well over a decade since Shi Mei faked his death in the past timeline, yet Mo Ran 1.0 seemed to still hold a lot of resentment towards Chu Wanning. Also, he said he could accept Shi Mei’s death but would never accept Chu Wanning’s. So honestly, it did not make sense to me the first time I read the novel and I believed Mo Ran resented Chu Wanning for a different reason.

The answer was first hinted at in chapter 9 when Mo Ran scolded the sleeping Chu Wanning. He called Chu Wanning a donkey hoof (lol) and this is actually an idiom to scold someone who is disloyal and unfaithful in love. The puzzles came together when the undead Taxian-jun showed up and immediately went after Chu Wanning (and not Shi Mei). He believed Chu Wanning used his death to hurt him and was angry at Chu Wanning for leaving him. This is the resentment Mo Ran 1.0 carried over to the next timeline. He hated Chu Wanning for abandoning him. This is solidified in chapter 262 by the undead Taxian-jun pleading to Chu Wanning:

“Don’t betray me” “Don’t leave me the second time. The first time you left, I could choose death as a relief. This time, even death is not an option any more… I won’t be able to bear it…”

So there it is! I hope this blog brings some new information and feel free to discuss! Let me know if you have any questions for me ＼(￣▽￣)／

Disclaimer: Plenty of this is my conclusion drawn from the already ambiguous original text and various translations. Unless Meatbun says it, it’s not canon. I am looking at the novel in three different languages so I might have made some mistakes. Pls forgive. Also, I am not making excuses for Mo Ran 0.5’s actions nor am I justifying the abuse in any way. Chu Wanning never said Mo Ran 0.5 was innocent of these crimes nor will I.

#2ha #the husky and his white cat shizun #chu wanning #mo ran #mo weiyu #ranwan #taxian jun #chu fei #erha #husky is dumb but husky tried his best

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dhwty-writes · 4 years ago

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hi! I have a prompt, if you like: what if Geralt hangs up mistletoe to get Jaskier to kiss him? :)

ELLIE, what a galaxy brained concept! It’s so silly and the gay panic is rampant in this one, my friends. The Kaer Morons being a bumbling pack of idiots and Geralt ridiculously pining after Jaskier? Coming right up!

Summary: Geralt is in love with Jaskier. In order to finally get him to admit his feelings, he devises a ten step plan with Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir.

Warnings: NONE, this is tooth-rotting fluff

Read on AO3

There was a conspiracy of the highest order brewing in the Continent involving no less than four witchers, their horses, a goat, and an unsuspecting bard. It is known under many names, including, but not limited to, Operation Home Sweet Home, Gods Save us from your Fucking Pining, and Get Vesemir's Blessing (and Mission Let's Get Geralt Laid, but that was from Lambert and therefore stupid).

They had laid out the Conspiracy in a set of carefully calculated steps last winter with the help of Vesemir's Wise Words and truly copious amounts of alcohol. Once he saw the whole list sober, Geralt had nearly chucked it into the fireplace out of mortification. Good thing Eskel and Lambert had been nearby to wrestle the slip of paper out of his hands.

Only after the creation of at least half a dozen copies was he trusted with it again. He frowned down at the sheet. It was simple, really. A simple ten-step-plan. He could do that.

Step One: Stop fucking staring out of windows and sighing longingly. (Shut up, Lambert.) Get back on the Path and find Jaskier.

Now, at least that was easy enough. Not for the first time since their acquaintance they had agreed upon a meeting place to come find each other as soon as the snows would allow it. Most of the years Geralt would arrive a little late; because even if they chose a spot closer to Kaer Morhen than Oxenfurt, the Killer was usually impassable for a long time.

A few years they had been lucky and could set out relatively early in spring. Geralt hadn't felt lucky at all, sitting in a lonely tavern corner day in, day out, waiting for a familiar bright-coloured bard to fill his life with light again. He had felt terrified, most of all.

So, this year when he set out to the Path, an already crumpled list clutched tightly in his hand, he was even more on edge than normally. He didn't think he could take Step One failing already, and the mortifying possibility of Jaskier lying dead in a ditch. He might just climb up that mountain again and never come back down.

Luckily, Geralt — and Vesemir — were saved from that miserable fate. When Geralt threw open the tavern door in some backwater Kaedwen town, Jaskier was there already. He was peacocking around in his usual manner, enticing his sparse audience with his captivating presence. When his eyes fell on Geralt, though, his three half-drunk spectators were soon forgotten.

The bard gasped and slung his lute onto his back, vaulting off the stage to come rushing over to him. "You're here!" Geralt stood ready, his arms spread wide to catch Jaskier when he flung himself at him in an overenthusiastic hug. "I missed you." Jaskier slung his legs around Geralt's hips and buried his face against his shoulder, clinging to him as if for dear life.

Geralt held him tight, deeply inhaling the familiar scent, a mix of honey, grapes, and cinnamon. He was used to this by now. He didn't mind. Truth be told, he craved it.

"Hmm," he answered, acutely aware of the stares they were attracting. Geralt decided he didn't care. "I... missed you, too."

"You did?" Jaskier pulled back and beamed at him. Just a week ago he had thought he would kill to see that smile again as soon as possible.

"Hmm," he agreed. Now he knew he knew he would die for it.

Jaskier wriggled in his grasp as a sign he wanted to be put down again. "You certainly know how to sweep a man off his feet, darling," he announced with a cheerful wink. "I don't think you've ever told me you so much as enjoyed my company before, let alone miss it."

"Hmm." Hadn't he? He could've sworn he had.

"None of that, now, let me just grab my bag and we can be on our merry way." Without another word, Jaskier rushed up the stairs in the back of the tavern.

Geralt stood uncomfortably in the door, waiting for him to return and doing his best not to attract too much attention. 'Hurry up, Jaskier,' he thought impatiently.

"Oi!" the bartender shouted. "Yer the witcher? The one of the songs?"

"I am."

The man nodded and threw something at him, humming a very distinct tune. It was a ducat. Geralt pocketed it with a sigh. He hadn't missed that.

He didn't have to wait long before Jaskier came barrelling back down the stairs, a much too large bag Roach would have to carry again in tow. "Well," the bard straightened his crumpled doublet, which, for some reason, now gaped open and showed off the pristine shirt underneath. Geralt tried not to stare, "where are we off to?"

"Toussaint," he answered, holding the tavern door open for him.

"Toussaint!" Jaskier exclaimed excitedly. "I love Toussaint."

"Hmm," Geralt said. 'I know,' Geralt thought, 'that's why we're going.'

With their reunion out of the way, it was time to proceed with the plan:

Step Two: Travel with Jaskier. Be nice to him (no fillingless pies!)! Compliment him! Laugh at his jokes!

That part was significantly more difficult than the first. Not that he lacked compliments for Jaskier, quite on the contrary. They, however, posed not one, but two difficulties.

The first was one of his own making: voicing his thoughts with actual words. In the privacy of his mind he had a myriad of compliments. 'You're beautiful,' passed through his head when he saw Jaskier bathed in the golden light of sunset. 'You smell nice,' after a day at the coast, salt encrusting Jaskier's hair. 'You make me smile', 'You make the loneliness go away', 'You're the best bard I could wish for.' None of them were quite eager to leave his mouth.

When they finally did, it was awkward. They didn't sound at all how he imagined them. "What are you looking at?" Jaskier asked.

"Something on your face," he answered. 'Yeah,' he thought dumbly, 'sunlight.'

Or: "Geralt, are you sniffing me?"

"You smell." He still cursed himself months later for omitting the simple word 'nice'.

After a while he got better at it. He could manage an "I like your voice" without stumbling over it, or a "Your outfit looks nice and smooth." It wasn't an "I love listening to you sing and say my name; you make it sound like something that is worthy of affection" or an "I love that you wear silk as soft as your skin and could spend days caressing it without growing tired of it" yet, but he was getting there.

What came then, once he was able to say a simple nice sentence to his bard, was somehow even worse. Jaskier was clumsy, that was nothing new, but this season it was on a whole different level. Whenever Geralt so much asked him about the song he was working on, the bard stumbled over his own feet; with every smile or laugh he nearly dropped his precious lute.

But nothing beat that time they happened upon a particularly clear and blue lake and Geralt had leaned over to tell Jaskier: "I like it. It reminds me of your eyes. Just as pretty." The poet had nearly plummeted right into it, which would have been very unfortunate indeed, since he hadn't convinced the nymph living in it to migrate yet.

In the end, Jaskier's utter lack of equilibrium sense led to Geralt offering him to ride on Roach. That was much better. Sometimes they rode double, too. He liked those days especially, when he had an excuse to hold his bard close. The days when Jaskier would sigh and lean back into his touch he liked most of them all.

Slowly, they settled into a familiar rhythm. It was awkward at first, but soon they became used to the change of their relationship. And it wasn't as if everything changed. They still bickered and insulted each other, and laughed and told stories. It was just right; Geralt almost didn't notice how summer came to an end.

But it did, and when the first leaves started coasting to the ground it was time for the next step.

Step Three: Ask him where he will spend the next winter.

It was probably the most mortifying thing he had to say to Jaskier yet. They were sat at a campfire one early autumn evening, Geralt trying to look busy cleaning his sword and Jaskier preoccupied with his lute. Once he finally worked up the courage to ask, he stumbled over his words like a school boy; he even blushed, for fuck's sake! It was embarrassing.

Luckily, Jaskier didn't seem to notice, too busy tuning his lute. "Why, in Oxenfurt, of course. Why do you ask, Geralt?" he answered nonchalantly as if Geralt wasn't just leading the most daunting conversation of his entire life.

'Fucking great,' he thought. Now it was time for Step Three.5: Ask Jaskier to come home with you, you fucking idiot.

"Hm," he said.

Jaskier laughed. "Talkative as always I see." He smiled at him brightly and turned back to his lute. "Alright then. Keep your secrets."

"Hmm." This wasn't getting any easier. "Jaskier."

"Yes, dear?"

His heart fluttered with the pet name, so much that Geralt nearly bit his tongue off in the process of trying to voice his question: "Would you like to stay with me?"

The lute gave a dissonant twang that made both of them wince. "Excuse me, what?" Jaskier stammered, his voice much higher than normally.

"Hmm. I just thought..." He frowned. 'Shit.' He couldn't do it. He just couldn't. This had been doomed from the beginning. "Forget it, it's stupid."

"No, no, not at all!" Jaskier scrambled to his feet and hurried over to Geralt's side. "Where would we be staying? I suppose you could come to Oxenfurt with me, but it could get a bit crammed and-"

"Kaer Morhen," Geralt stated simply.

"Kaer Mo- oh!" His eyes lit up. "Why, yes, Geralt, I would love to stay with you."

And that was the end of that. They didn't talk about it anymore the whole evening as Geralt did his damnedest to forget the conversation had ever happened. But when he laid awake in the night, Jaskier huddled close to him — it was getting rather cold, after all — he couldn't stop his mind from whirling, excitement mixing with immobilising terror. Jaskier would come to Kaer Morhen with him. They would stay together the whole winter. And Jaskier would meet his family.

With a sigh he turned over, cautiously throwing an arm over Jaskier's waist and holding him like the precious thing he was. The smile that spread on Geralt's face when his bard snuggled even closer, outshone the morning sun creeping over the horizon.

The following days and weeks, Jaskier was buzzing with the same excited energy that Geralt held within. It cost him every ounce of self-control not to turn Roach around and head for Kaer Morhen right away. But it was still early in the autumn, at least a moon's turn before it was time to go home, so they busied themselves with taking contracts and performing for sub-par audiences.

It was alright. He needed the money, after all, if he wanted to cross off Step Four: Bring Jaskier back to Kaer Morhen in its entirety, including the note: Buy him some nice and warm clothes on the way - Vesemir

It was good advice, Geralt knew, as most of Vesemir's advice was. Jaskier might have travelled with a witcher for the better part of his life, but he was still only human. And winters were very cold in the northern Kaedwen mountains.

So, on Geralt's annual stop in Ard Carraigh, he took Jaskier to get him equipped with soft woollen sweaters and stockings, as well as a pair of sturdy boots, ignoring the bard's protests of how 'ugly' they were.

"You'll thank me when you've still got all your toes after this winter," he grumbled as he strapped Jaskier's bag to Roach's saddle.

After that, nothing much exciting followed. There were still a few villages and hamlets along the way to Kaer Morhen but the least of them had so much as a tavern. The ones with a real audience of Jaskier were fewer still.

Geralt couldn't say he didn't enjoy it. Quite the opposite, he loved listening to Jaskier in the privacy of their camp or — if they were lucky — the barn where they could stay the night. He loved knowing that Jaskier sang only for him. And most of all he loved the vibrant smiles he got along the way, and the tiny ones, too, etched on his face even when he curled up against the witcher at night.

During the days, Jaskier finally had to stop riding on Roach; the path was simply getting too dangerous. The way up to Kaer Morhen had never been easy, not even when there had been two dozen witchers and twice as many students living there, but since the attack they hadn't tended to it anymore. The Witcher's Trail was no easy one for humans — and it wasn't meant to be.

Jaskier, to his credit, didn't comment much on it, most of the time too exhausted or admiring to run his mouth about the difficulty of getting to Geralt's home. He was almost a bit worried, anxious even, if Jaskier's reaction to seeing the ancient ruin would just be the same kind of silent admiration.

Evidently, there had been no need. They rounded the last corner and, finally, Kaer Morhen was looming up above them. As soon as his eyes fell on it, Jaskier gasped and ran ahead. He had, apparently, forgotten about his aching limbs he had complained about just that morning. "Is that it?" he asked excitedly. "Geralt, is this it?"

"No, it's another crumbling fortress in the Kaedwen mountains," he deadpanned.

"You're mean," Jaskier accused him and turned back around to the keep. "For months I've dreamt of this moment and what do you do? You mock me, truly a horrible habit, that- oh, gods, Geralt, it's so beautiful!"

"Hmm," he answered, watching Jaskier intently. The childish glee on his face, the snowflakes dancing around him and melting in his hair. "I guess so."

"Can we go inside?"

Another barbed comment was already on the tip of his tongue, but Geralt guessed that he shouldn't ruin the moment. Not if Jaskier was so happy. "We can. Come on."

They were still a good distance away when the gates creaked open and three bulking figures stepped outside. "You're early," he accused Eskel and Lambert once they caught up to them. They weren't supposed to be there. They were messing up Step Five: Meet the family. (Lambert Eskel Lambert Vesemir first.)

"And you're impolite," Vesemir grumbled. "I taught you better, Geralt."

"Hmm," he answered and the silence that followed might've been awkward if not for Jaskier.

Thanks to him there was no silence at all, to be precise. "You must be Vesemir; Geralt told me so much about you. Dare I say, Master Witcher, I am honoured and humbled by the invitation, and am looking forward to my stay. The name's Jaskier and I am at your service," he concluded and bowed with a flourish.

The three witchers gaped at him in surprise and Geralt couldn't help but grin. No overly detailed stories by him could've possibly prepared them for... well, Jaskier. "What," Lambert muttered quietly, "the fuck?"

"Now, that's just rude," Jaskier said as he straightened himself, "don't you think? Geralt, your brother is being rude to me."

It was all he could do not to laugh freely. Instead he shrugged and said: "Told you he's the rude one."

"Oh, you're Lambert!" The bard grinned widely and stretched out his hand. "Nice to finally meet you."

Lambert huffed in surprise and shook the offered hand. "Tell you what, bard, I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended."

"Offended," Geralt mumbled just as Eskel said: "Flattered."

Jaskier smiled widely and wickedly. "Both."

Lambert opened his mouth, presumably to return a rude comment, but Jaskier's attention was diverted by Eskel, who gave him a thorough once-over and then nodded. "Welcome to Kaer Morhen, bard."

"Thank you, uh, Eskel?" he hazarded a guess.

A smile tugged on the unscarred corner of his mouth. "That's right."

"Dinner's in an hour," Vesemir cut in. "Maybe you could show our guest to his room, Geralt?"

Right. With the meeting out of the way it was time for Step Six: Show him to his room (Make sure it has some nice fur rugs - Vesemir) (Shag him on the rug - Lambert) (Offer to stay with him if he's cold - Eskel). Both of those additions seemed equally daunting to him.

But before he could even think of an excuse as to why he couldn't do that right now, Roach's reins were ripped from his hands and they were being pushed towards the keep.

"Well, they're certainly eager to get rid of you, considering they haven't seen you for a year," Jaskier quipped once they were inside the keep proper.

"That's not- hmm." 'Fuck.' He had almost betrayed himself. "They'll be different after dinner," he promised. "Besides, you know they can hear you."

"So?" He huffed a laugh. "I know they're just like you; all bark and no bite."

He was about to deny that claim but Lambert's offended howl that reached him from the courtyard quickly changed his mind. That definitely was worth the jab at his own ego. "Come on," he urged, smiling, "no need to continue playing the jester for them any further."

"Why, is there any issue with providing entertainment for a living?" Jaskier teased.

"Only if it's at the expense of me."

He sighed dramatically. "That I know, my dear. That I know."

"Jaskier?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up, I'm trying to give you a tour of the keep."

"You are? Oh, I wouldn't have noticed." Geralt shot him a dirty look. Jaskier snickered maliciously, the bastard. "Oh, yeah, yep. Shutting up. Go ahead, Sir Witcher, show me your magnificent home."

From anyone else it might've been mockery. It might've been mockery from Jaskier, too, if not for the sound of absolute awe in his voice as he took in their surroundings.

Geralt could hardly blame him. It might've been a long time since he had arrived at Kaer Morhen, but he still remembered how dumbstruck he had been at the sheer immensity of the place that should become since home.

It had lost its mysticism since then, but seeing Jaskier's childlike wonder as he led him through the kitchens and great hall made him remember. He showed him the library, too, as well as the stairs down to the hot springs that he must never, ever confuse with those that led to the laboratories.

He closed with the rooms the various witchers claimed as their own: "That's Lambert's room down the hall, don't go there, he's a prick; Vesemir is a few floors below us, claims he's too old for our squabbles; that's mine, and that one's Eskel's, ask him if you need something and I'm not there, not Lambert, he's an arsehole-"

"Geralt," Jaskier said soothingly and put a hand on his arm, "you're rambling."

"Am I?" he asked confused. "Don't think so."

"There's no need to be nervous, dear. I won't abandon you; you're stuck with me for the winter."

"I'm not nervous," Geralt insisted, his fingers twitching nervously.

"Right," Jaskier took his hand away, evidently not very convinced. "I'm sorry for interrupting you, then."

"Don't be," he mumbled, not quite able to tear his gaze from Jaskier's gentle smile.

"Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"Do I-" He started fidgeting with his lute strap. "Do I have a room, too? I mean, not that I mind sharing with you, that's not the issue at all- gods, I sound stupid-"

His eyes still trained on Jaskier, he reached behind him and opened the door. "There."

"That's my room?" he asked without turning around to look inside.

"That's yours," Geralt confirmed. He had prepared it last winter already. Just in case.

As soon as the words had left his mouth, the poet whirled around and rushed into the sparsely furnished room. He looked very much... out of place. The realisation hit him like a slap in the face; but apparently the visual of Jaskier and his bright purple doublet in the grey empty walls of Kaer Morhen was what it took for him to realise how little they were reconcilable.

For the first time in his life he felt self-conscious for his home. "'S not much," Geralt mumbled.

"It's wonderful." Jaskier beamed, carefully inspecting the bed and the rug, peering out the window and into the chest. "Might get a bit cold, though."

He grumbled something he knew to be unintelligible to humans into his beard.

"What was that, love?"

"You could always stay with me," he spoke up. "Y'know. We've shared before."

"That we have! You might find that before long you will be forced to let me take you up on your generous offer."

"Hmm," Geralt answered and left him to it, in order to complete Step Six.5: No, let him arrive first, you idiot! There would be no 'being forced' of any kind, but he wasn't quite ready to admit that to Jaskier, yet.

Despite their apparent incompatibility Jaskier settled into the routine of Kaer Morhen disturbingly quickly. Though 'settle into' wasn't quite the right choice of words. More like 'tear it down and build it anew, but with lyrics, laughter, and luminosity'.

The evening of their arrival was truly mortifying, the worst mix of embarrassing stories of Geralt's childhood and very inappropriate questions directed at Jaskier. Geralt had spent the whole dinner frozen in shock and awe at the masterful display of the bard's craftsmanship.

After an hour of vicious cross-examination, the three witchers had finally backed off. And as Vesemir had retreated to his rooms, Lambert had brought up the alcohol. It hall had spiralled out of Geralt's control after that.

Within the hour Lambert and Jaskier were japing and jabbing at each other as if they were lifelong friends and not acquaintances since a few hours. It took his bard three days to have Vesemir completely wrapped around his finger, intently listening to his droning lectures about basically everything. And not even a fortnight into their stay, he found Jaskier and Eskel in the library, talking with hushed voices. He quickly retreated but not before he heard Jaskier telling his brother how beautiful he was, scars or no scars, and Eskel sniveled quietly.

A month since their arrival saw them trapped into the castle by the heavy snowfalls. Unfortunately, that didn't stop Vesemir from drilling them mercilessly.

They were an hour into their morning routine when they all perked at the sound of soft footsteps passing through the hall. "Jaskier," Geralt said softly.

The bard was bundled up in several quilts, his face barely visible beneath the mess of his hair and the blankets. Still his face lit up with the brightest smile when he saw them. "Mornin', lads," he croaked, "lookin' good, keep it up." He gave them a tired thumbs-up and shuffled off to the kitchen, where Vesemir would provide him with a hot breakfast with a side of 'most-boring-information-on-this-earth'. It was their own morning routine of sorts, and the three of them knew it wouldn't be long before they were discussing the 'merits of the iambic pentameter in 10th century love poetry' or some shit.

"Fuck," Lambert cursed once they knew Jaskier to be out of earshot, "I really can't blame you, Geralt. Too much time with him and I start gawking like a love-sick idiot, too."

"Hmm," Geralt agreed. Jaskier definitely had that effect.

"Jealous, wolf?" Eskel inquired with a knowing smile.

"No," he answered earnestly. If anything, he loved Jaskier more for it. His family wasn't easy to deal with, he knew. But his bard didn't care. He had so much affection to give, even for witchers. 'Especially for witchers.' He closed his eyes with a happy smile.

"Y'know, there's still a couple of steps left on our list," Eskel informed him casually.

Geralt's eyes snapped open as his heart sped up. 'Fuck.' The plan. "Hmm."

"Just fucking get it over with," Lambert yearned. "Your pining isn't any less obnoxious just because he's here."

"If anything, it's gotten worse," Eskel agreed.

"So?" he snapped. He had put it off, that was true. Had waited for the snow, he told himself, but now the snow was here and-

"So, we'll distract him this afternoon," Eskel interrupted his spiralling thoughts.

"And you pull your head outta your arse and fucking follow through," Lambert added.

"Fine," he ground out. "We do that." Not before he kicked both their arses during their training, though, for being such utter dicks.

Before long, however, the inevitable happened. Morning passed over to noon, and, true to their words, Lambert and Eskel whisked Jaskier away after lunch. They left Geralt behind in the hall with a branch in his hands and nothing left to do but complete Step Seven: Hang up a mistletoe.

"Fuck," he muttered. Nearly one year had passed since they had come up with their conspiracy. One year to gather his courage, one year to come up with a plan, one year to at least think about where to fucking put it. "Fuck," he said again, for good measure.

He looked around. Looked to the rafters. Looked at the mistletoe. "Fuck it," he declared and tucked it away to scale up to the rafters.

He was already up there, dangling from one of the beams when he remembered that he had nothing to secure it with besides the silky ribbon that would never fit around it. He scowled darkly. He sure as hell wouldn't climb down and up again. Without further ado he pulled his dagger from his belt and drove it deep into the wood, pinning the mistletoe by the ribbon.

He climbed down again, making sure that it was visible from the ground. 'Perfect,' he decreed. With the mistletoe in place, it was now time for Step Eight: Have Lambert and Eskel inform Jaskier of the mistletoe and a strategically placed Geralt.

He spun around to go and alert his brothers, when he heard a cheerful voice behind him: "Geralt! There you are, you mean witcher, I was wondering where you were hiding. You know, it is not nice to leave your, uh- bedmate all alone and freezing in the morning, and- oh." There was a thoughtful pause. "Now would you look at that."

Geralt heaved a long sigh. He dreaded turning around, for he had a very distinct feeling he knew already what he would see. And fuck, he was not ready for that step. For some stupid reason, he still did turned around.

Jaskier stood in the middle of the hall, squinting up at the ceiling. "Are my eyes deceiving me — and they might be, mind you, my eyes are not as good as a witcher's — or is that a mistletoe I spy up there."

He cursed internally. He knew he should've hung it lower. "Hmm," he answered, his heart beating in his throat. Why was his heart beating in his throat? It wasn't supposed to do that. His voice was surprisingly calm when he said: "Seems like it."

"Oh no!" he moaned woefully. "Quick, Geralt, come here and lift the curse!"

"Curse?" he inquired bemusedly as his feet moved without his volition. "What curse, Jaskier?"

The bard gasped. "Don't you know? When someone passes beneath a mistletoe, they are frozen to the spot until the curse is broken."

"Hmm," he stepped under the mistletoe, too. He should've known Jaskier would make up a story around this. It was just a tradition, for fuck's sake, no curse. Although a curse was certainly more romantic, even he had to admit that. "Must be a rare curse if a witcher's never heard of it."

"The rarest," Jaskier insisted and pointed at his cheek. "It may only be broken with a true love's kiss."

In light of what happened next, let it be known that, in Geralt's defence, he was panicking. Quite thoroughly so. Since the Trials his legs hadn't shaken like that anymore.

He had been promised a pep talk by his brothers before having to confront the situation at hand. And yet they were nowhere to be found and Jaskier was here, evidently expecting him to kiss him.

'Shit. Fuck. Shit fuck.' He was not ready; he was not ready; he was not-

"Geralt?" Jaskier ripped him from his thoughts. "Are you waiting till my nose grows icicles, or what?"

Still, he leaned forward, placing one hand on Jaskier's hip and the other on his shoulder, and pecked him on the cheek.

The cheek. That had not been the plan. That had not been the plan at all. And then, of all things, he heard himself ask: "Can you move again?"

Jaskier blinked, looking just as dumbstruck as Geralt felt. "I- I think so?" he stammered and moved to pull away, blushing furiously.

'Fuck, no,' he remembered thinking. And while he wasn't quite in control of his limbs again, what he did next was probably the single most clever thing he had done in his entire life. Gingerly almost, he tightened his grip on Jaskier. His head tilted to the side, an invitation, an escape.

His bard didn't move. Instead, he said: "Doesn't seem like it."

"Hmm," Geralt answered and leaned in closer. "Difficult curse, seems like. Let me try again."

Before he could even think of changing his mind, Jaskier had his arms looped around Geralt's neck and crushed their lips together. He did his best to reciprocate the kiss, which wasn't easy with fear still gripping his heart tightly, but then Jaskier crowded closer, moulding his body against Geralt's and that was all it took for the tension to seep from his bones and go limb.

It was a weird sensation; being wrapped in Jaskier's arms was so familiar, but he was also kissing Jaskier, which was new- 'Great gods, I am kissing Jaskier, I am kissing Jaskier, I am-'

He pulled back with a triumphant grin, evidently startling his bard. "What?" he asked, very confused.

"I am kissing you," he announced, his grin widening even more.

Jaskier frowned. "That you are, but-"

"I am kissing you," he said again and pecked him on the lips. "And I can keep doing it."

"Oh!" The frown eased away, giving way to the softest of smiles. "That you can, my dear."

So, Geralt did. Again. And again. And again, and again, and again. He didn't know how many times he had kissed Jaskier, how many times Jaskier had kissed him, before he pulled back and blurted: "I love you."

Jaskier stared at him in silent awe, before blushing and cupping his cheeks gently. "That you do, my love," he whispered. "And I love you, too." Softly, he pressed their lips together again.

"You do?" Geralt asked disbelievingly.

Jaskier smirked. "I do. For years and years, I have. I thought you knew."

"Fuck," he muttered. Did that mean... 'I didn't have to do any of this.' He could've just- "I'm an idiot."

"Only sometimes," he allowed, giggling sillily. Geralt was compelled to join in. "Besides, you’re my idiot, and I love you for it." He shifted a little, so he could lean his head comfortably onto Geralt's shoulder despite them being nearly the same height.

"So," Jaskier drawled, curling a strand of Geralt's hair around his finger, "are we just going to keep standing here, or...?"

He scoffed. Of course, they wouldn't. He had a plan, after all. "Fuck." The plan.

Jaskier raised his head. "Is that a curse or an answer?"

"Yes," he answered warily.

It earned him the most beautiful snorting laugh he had ever heard. "What are you cursing at, love?"

"We skipped Step Eight," he admitted, "got right to Step Nine."

"Excuse me, what?"

"Step Nine: Kiss Jaskier." The poet just gawked at him. "I had a list," he explained.

"You had?" Jaskier's eyes lit up and he made grabby hands. "Show me, show me!"

Reluctantly, Geralt handed it over, studying Jaskier's face carefully as he read through it.

"I knew it," Jaskier concluded finally.

"Huh?"

"Oh, come on!" He threw up his hands. "You were acting weird all year round, Geralt! Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but still, weird. It took me about ten minutes to figure out there was some ploy at play." He laughed quietly and waved the paper around. "Though I never would've guessed what was amiss."

"You don't like it."

"On the contrary! It's a wonderful plan," the poet said and pecked him on the lips. "I've got to admit, though, Lambert was right: you should've just fucked me on that rug once we got here."

"Hmmm." Geralt nuzzled against Jaskier's neck, holding him closer when he tried to squirm away from the tickling sensation. "That still an option?"

"Very much so. I believe it has to be one more step before completing your list." He pulled him close and whispered against his lips: "Take me to bed, my love"

And how could Geralt refuse such a request? Especially if it coincided so luckily with Step Ten.

#my writing #the witcher #geraskier #elliestormfound #look i've got an ask #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #eskel #Lambert #vesemir #kaer morhen #kaer morons

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lovelikedestiny · 4 years ago

Text

Happy Birthday @gildingthemoon!!!

I wish you a wonderful day to celebrate and all the best in the world! <3 Today belongs only to you and I hope a lot of people tell you what an incredible human being you are!

I want to gift you with a small, fluffy, happy TOG-oneshot and thank you for being an amazing beta who fights against all errors in my drafts and is delighted by the German sayings I still use unintentionally! I’m very glad to have ‘met’ you! I hope you’ll like the oneshot and you’re grinning like a honey-cake-horse as we say here ;)

*throws a big hug at you* <3

The little things

Under the midnight blue velvet of the night in the empty streets of Malta Joe looks like a celestial being and Nicky feels himself enchanted by his appearance. By his wide, flashing smile, those warm, deep eyes which are surrounded by lovely crinkles and radiate so much emotion that Nicky sometimes has the feeling his heart couldn’t cope with the amount of happiness Joe’s very existence has gifted him with.

When they're out and about and the sun makes Joe's golden skin glow and kisses his silky-soft curls with warm rays, turning his eyes into obsidian and onyx, just so much more precious than all jewelry in the world, Nicky occasionally forgets how to breathe. Of course, after more than 900 years, he knows what his love looks like and knows him better than himself, but that doesn't change the fact that Joe is still beautiful. Beautiful and a constant at his side, who always manages to lead Nicky out of any darkness back into the light.

A cheerful, warm constant that walks by Nicky's side tonight and is the most beautiful thing Nicky has ever seen.

He promptly stumbles over the sidewalk and staggers a few steps before he manages to get hold of himself, hears Joe giggling behind him and has to grin too.

They’re not totally drunk.

The pleasant warmth in his stomach and the feeling of lightness confirm Nicky in his conclusion and he tightens his grip on Joe's hand as the latter helps him regain his balance. They are only slightly drunk, if at all. Drunk? No. Tipsy! That's the word Nicky was looking for. They're tipsy, he states with satisfaction.

"Careful, my heart," Joe says with a chuckle. “We don't want you to fall on your pretty face. It would be a real shame if you’d hurt yourself today. I like the blue shirt.”

"Really?" Nicky asks, lips curled up into a small grin, pulling Joe a little closer, who willingly follows the movement.

"Really," Joe says grinning and lets his eyes slide so clearly over Nicky's appearance that he thinks he can feel Joe's gaze like a delicate touch. “It accentuates your eyes and your shoulders. And those pants…” He flicks Nicky on the ass. "... also emphasize an area of yours that is very close to my heart. I could easily come up with ideas.”

Nicky shudders when Joe looks at him from below through his eyelashes with a look he knows all too well. Heat surges through his veins and he smiles mischievously and nudges Joe's nose. "I hope they are good ideas."

"Hm," Joe hums approvingly and hooks his fingers into the loops of Nicky's belt to pull him closer. "Very good ideas."

It's so easy to tilt his head, angling it just right, and put his lips on Joe’s who has already moved towards his mouth. Flowers of red fire bloom behind Nicky's closed lids, shooting stars of silvery light and suns of golden embers.

He enjoys the passion that surges through his veins, a steady stream that has never stopped flowing since Nicky first kissed those soft lips, which can enthusiastically recite poetry, are twisted in concentration while drawing, can smile so warmly that Nicky's heart glows, showing him how much Joe loves him when they get lost in each other's bodies amid sheets and pillows.

Nicky is convinced that they are doing good in the world. They protect the innocent, they are their shield in battle and their sword when they cannot hold one themselves and he believes in what they are doing. Just as much as he believes in his family, in Joe. But even if they can make a difference in everyday life with their good deeds, there is something essential that should not be overlooked.

The little things.

Like the sultry air that dances around them through the warmth of the day and the dark sky in front of whose midnight blue canvas the moon shines large and silver. Like Joe's elegant artist hands, which he could feel blindly and which lie firmly and securely on his hips and pull him closer to the glowing, muscular body. Like the fruity taste of good wine on Joe's tongue and the salty sweat from dancing on his lips. Like the familiar tickling of his beard on Nicky's chin and the soft texture of his curls, in which Nicky buries his fingers and elicits Joe a rumble, which Nicky catches and tastes in his mouth.

It's those little things that should be cherished.

Distant laughter causes them to break the kiss, and Nicky tries to fight the urge not to pounce on Joe again when he whines softly and tries to hold on to Nicky.

Some time ago it wasn't even possible to hold Joe in public or simply to interlace their fingers. And even if there are still people who make the world more terrible than it could be, Nicky is infinitely grateful that in most countries he is allowed to kiss the other half of his heart. To kiss Joe and laugh and dance and live with him.

As soon as Nicky thinks that, Joe starts humming and grabs Nicky's hands just to rock them gently back and forth. His eyes are soft with tenderness and Nicky can feel his heart cramp from the affection he feels towards Joe.

Even though they have been together for more than nine hundred years and Nicky knows Joe better than himself, there are still new things they learn about each other. New habits that they develop, new preferences that they discover. In moments like these, when it's just the two of them in their own bubble of peace, Nicky finds no doubt about their relationship, their solid bond that binds them invisibly and is as strong as ever.

Of course, he is much older than most people on this planet and accordingly has a lot more experience, but uncertainties still exist. It is not uncommon for Nicky to lose himself in thought because nagging doubts about a decision he has made corrode him from the inside. They make mistakes in their jobs doing good because they are human. Everybody makes mistakes.

Joe is the only thing in Nicky's long life that he never doubted. An indispensable support that gives him security, just like Nicky will always have Joe's back.

Because Joe is his heart and soul.

Too many words to say and too few words to express how Nicky feels about Joe are on his tongue, so Nicky joins Joe's humming before he starts to sing softly.

Nicky has no problem with being the center of attention, but he prefers to disappear into the background and watch everything from there. If you overlook him or he does not attract attention, others tend to underestimate him and his abilities and he has already used this to his advantage several times.

Joe is the only audience Nicky will ever need, and the knowing flash in Joe's eyes and glowing smile are the only applause Nicky really wants.

Although he and Joe often sing songs together - evenings when Nicky cooks and Joe assists him while they use a wooden spoon as a microphone and Joe starts swinging the kitchen towel while dancing are one of the best - Joe stays silent.

Swaying them gently, Joe's whole focus is on Nicky, who continues to sing a song as old as time itself, tied to precious memories that only they and no one else share. Nicky sings for Joe like he often does when Joe asks him to or he sits down in the kitchen while Nicky can't get rid of a catchy tune while cutting vegetables.

Nicky sings for Joe because Joe is the song that springs from his heart and is embedded in his bones.

As he turns Joe around, Joe laughs exuberantly and the sound reverberates in Nicky like the precious echo of a long-forgotten chiming of a bell.

"I love it when you sing," Joe says, releasing Nicky to give him a little applause, for which Nicky gives an exaggerated bow. It is not easy to stay on his feet, but since the alcohol doesn’t exist that long in their body due to their healing, Nicky doesn’t worry too much about his balance.

"I love you," Nicky replies and Joe dramatically presses a hand on his heart.

"People call me the poet, but it's your words that take my breath away, habibi." He winks at Nicky and Nicky is pretty sure that he looks back with a stupid grin.

Nicky doesn't know if it's such a good idea to climb the rock at the side of the street, but before he can change his mind he has reached the top and looks down at Joe, who is watching him with amusement.

"I could take your breath away with something other than words," he says bluntly, enjoying the effect it has on Joe. Joe swallows hard, blushing slightly, which Nicky doesn't even need to see to know it's happening. Just like the dark fire that makes Joe's eyes burn.

"Is that a challenge?" Joe asks roughly and bites his lip with a grin, causing Nicky to almost fall off the stone. He catches himself in time, but would have had no problem with falling into Joe's arms.

"A promise," he corrects smirking and Joe takes a step towards the stone and tilts his head back slightly to meet Nicky's gaze.

"Are you being funny tonight, Mr. Al-Kaysani?"

"With such good company, indeed, Mr. Di Genova."

They both giggle like silly teenagers and Joe raises an arm in the air and paces up and down in front of the stone like he's on a stage. “Standing like a Greek God on a rock,” he begins to recite. "Moonlight pouring over you and you have a beautiful..."

"Cock," Nicky finishes deadpan and Joe gasps and runs into a nearby street lantern.

"I didn't mean to say that!" He protests with a meaningful smile on his face and helps Nicky jump more or less graceful off the stone.

"You thought it, I said it," Nicky says and blinks innocently at Joe, who laughs and sways slightly.

“We complement each other perfectly, huh? Such an extraordinary coincidence.” Joe nudges him right in the side where Nicky is ticklish and the snorting laugh bursts out of Nicky inexorably as he tries to turn away from Joe.

“Didn't you read the contract? A perfect match has to be guaranteed in order to be in a relationship for nine hundred years,” Nicky says snickering and Joe pretends to be amazed.

“I had no idea about that! I always leave paperwork to you.”

Nicky nods, playing seriously. "Furthermore, the contract requires that I enjoy a cuddle at least three times a week."

"Phew, luckily I have received the world cuddler Award."

"I know. I can rightly confirm that you truly deserve this title."

It is uncertain what the night will bring them, they have made no plans. Nevertheless, the random brushing of their hands and the lingering of their pinkies on the back of the other’s hand are certain indications of what the rest of the night might look like.

"I don't need any more than confirmation of my love."

"You deserve all the acknowledgment in the world because you are expensive."

"Expensive? Do you mean ‘worth it’? ”Joe frowns. “Or was it precious? Who knows what we oh! That was an alliteration!"

"What?" Alliteration sounds a little bit like alligator in Nicky's mind, and he really hopes Joe hasn't seen one. "What was what?"

“An alliteration, you know. When we want words which...haha! Another one!”

Nicky follows Joe's gaze. "Where? Oh, that's just a cat."

"Ah, Nicolo." Joe shakes his head slightly and laughs softly to himself.

"What is it?" Nicky doesn't remember saying anything funny. "Do you want to share your thoughts? A nickel for your thoughts or whatever they say."

"I think it was a coin for your thoughts. Or dollars?”

Nicky has to snort and Joe starts laughing too. "It does not matter. We could continue this conversation at home.”

"Continue it at home?" Joe repeats indignantly. "Nicolo, we were in the middle of a conversation about stilistic means!"

"Okay, uh...if you’re able to come up with another alliteration, I'll do the thing with my tongue at home," Nicky says without thinking, completely relieved of the worries the world has in store for them, through Joe's mere presence and Malta as their retreat.

Joe laughs and raises his eyebrows. "The thing with the tongue? Ya amar, I have no idea what you’re ta- oh. Oh.“ When Joe understands, he stops abruptly, eyes widening. “Lima? Do you mean...Do you mean Lima?”

Nicky nods and keeps walking, grinning, causing Joe to pull himself out of his freeze and rush after him. "Do you really mean Lima? Oh my god, you can't just say something like that and keep walking!”

"So you are not interested?"

Joe almost chokes. ��Not intere...Nicolo! It is impossible that I am not interested in it! The thing with your tongue, Lima, sweet heavens! That was...that was…” Joe seems to remember Nicky's condition and squints his eyes in concentration. "On it. How much time do I have?"

While Joe is thinking hard, Nicky indulges in the serenity of strolling and reaches for Joe's hand, which Joe withdraws and places on something else.

"Yusuf?"

"Yes?"

"That is not my hand."

"Oh sorry, I guess I got a little confused in the dark," Joe says, grinning, but doesn't take his hand off Nicky's ass.

It’s the little things, Nicky thinks by himself as he watches Joe muttering under his breath and then throwing Nicky a beaming smile when he has an idea for another alliteration. It’s the little things that make this imperfect world so perfect.

#happy birthday #gildingthemoon #the old guard #oneshot #take the mistakes as what they are: loving gifts for each of you #this draft had the title 'Nicky and Joe are drunk and adorable' on my laptop

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lu-undy · 4 years ago

Note

May I have sniper being in a very depressed mood and spy tries to be silly to cheer him up. Maybe gets perle involved in this

There we go for a comforting Lucien with a depressed Mundy :D I hope you’ll like it :D

"Meow."

"Bonjour, ma belle."

[Hello, my beauty.]

Perle jumped on the sofa. Lucien was reading his magazine.

"Meow?"

"I don't know either. It seems Papa Mundy is having a bad day today. I tried talking to him but he is tightly wrapped in the duvet and he doesn't want to get out of it."

"Meow…"

"Oui, poor him." Lucien put his magazine aside. "I gave him all the morning on his own but he doesn't seem to feel any better."

"Meow."

"Oui. We need to do something. Come with me, maybe we will manage together."

They went to the bedroom and Spy opened the door slowly. The room was dark and when his eyes got used to it, he saw the same mass curled in a ball under the sheets.

"Mon amour…?"

[My love…?]

Sniper took a deep breath and exhaled in a long sigh. Perle found the edge of the duvet and pulled it off.

"Mmh…" Sniper grumbled and pulled the duvet back on himself.

"Meow!" Perle scratched the duvet as if she was digging it with her fluffy white paws.

"Ah, I see the kangaroo likes to hibernate on cold days."

"Meow?"

"I too thought that only the ostrich could bury its head under the sand, but apparently the Australian kangaroo can bury his entire self under his nest…"

"Meow."

"Oui, the kangarus irresistiblus is quite a peculiar species, Perle. They are quite wild and untamed but so beautiful…"

Lucien slid his hand under the duvet. He fumbled a bit but finally found Mundy's.

"They have large paws with rough, calloused pads." Lucien's fingers brushed Mundy's forearm. "Their fur is quite soft and their hide is priceless. But Perle, this species is endangered."

"Meow?"

"What it means is that" Mundy grabbed Lucien's hand and pulled it to himself, under his neck to hug it better. "There are very few left of them. In fact, as the last count goes, there is but one left and we are lucky enough to watch him here, in his almost natural habitat."

"Meow."

"Non, it isn't. You see, the kangarus irresistiblus lives in a den that he transports wherever he goes, a bit like a snail with his shell. In scientific terms, we call his habitat a 'van.' He transports it, or the other way around, and he lives like a poet, from one adventure to the next. But Lucien, I hear you ask, does this unique species really not have a permanent home?"

"Meow."

"Indeed, they do have one." Lucien's hand stroked Mundy's neck up to his jaw and cheek, from underneath the duvet still. He cupped his face and lied on the bed himself. He brushed Mundy's cheek with his thumb. "His permanent home is here… Let me show you…"

Lucien rummaged to find Mundy's hand. He held it and pulled it out of the duvet until it touched his chest.

"Here. Here is where he lives, and will live, forever."

Mundy's eyes opened under the duvet. He felt the Frenchman's heart beat gently below his palm.

"He is the only one of his kind and he takes all the space in my heart."

"Meow!"

"You too, Perle, you're in there with him. But I don't love you like I love him."

Mundy pulled Lucien's hand underneath the duvet again and cuddled with it. Perle slipped underneath it too and Lucien heard her soon purr and guessed that she was brushing herself against Mundy.

"Do you think I could perhaps invite myself in his dwelling or would that be intrusion?"

And Mundy's answer was clear. He pulled on Lucien's arm with both his hands and wrapped him in the duvet too.

"Bonjour."

[Hello.]

Mundy hugged Lucien's head under his jaw and the Frenchman stuck his body against the Aussie.

"Love you…" Mundy mumbled as his legs now wrapped Lucien too.

"Mmh… So do I. But why can't you leave the bed? What is wrong…?"

"Don't know. I just don't feel it. One of these days I guess…"

"One of these days? Does that happen often?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you need me to do anything?" Lucien asked.

"Just… Just stay with me… Here… Please?"

"Do you need me to hold you?"

"I-I don't know. I want to hold you and I want you to hold me too. It's weird. I'm sorry."

"Non…" Lucien closed his limbs around Mundy too. "It is fine."

They spent a few minutes in silence, holding on to each other, Mundy almost clinging to him.

"Lu'...?"

"Oui, mon coeur."

[Yes, my sweetheart.]

"I uh… I had a nightmare."

Lucien opened his eyes.

"You want to tell me about it?"

"Not sure. But that's why I… Want you to hold me." Mundy gulped down audibly. "I-I know it's childish and uh…"

"I do not care." Lucien answered.

"What?"

"If you need me, just say so. I do not care if you think the reason makes sense or not. If you need me to do anything for you, just tell me. I am here for you, Mundy."

"Gosh, I love you so much…" Mundy buried his head on his lover's, in his hair and took a deep breath of his scent, his perfume. It smelled of elegance and refinement, but also, Lucien smelled like… home.

The Frenchman kissed his neck, small, soft kisses, almost nibbles, just to comfort him, and Mundy's hands clawed harder.

"I dreamt you were tired of me and you just… You went away."

"I would never do that. If anything I'm the old man tired of life and you are the young man full of energy. You would be the one leaving."

"What are you talkin' about? I won't leave you, you're not old, you… You're a hell of a patient bloke, y-you're bloody brave too! You're not scared to say that you love me and you're not afraid to show it and do all these things for me."

Lucien raised his head and looked his lover in the eye.

"This is what I mean with 'I love you.' It doesn't mean that I want to sleep with you or kiss you. Of course this is part of it, but that is not the heart of it. Non…" Lucien cupped Mundy's face between his palms. "I love you means that I will voluntarily and gladly get tired, irritated, frustrated and mad, all that, for you, for your happiness. If it ever comes to it, oui, oui and a thousand times oui, I will sweat my last drop and I will give my last breath for you to feel the best way possible with me. I will work my soul off to be the one you come to, when you come home."

Mundy threw the duvet off them in a flash.

"Are you alright?" Lucien asked.

"I just… I got hot… What you said it uh… Thanks."

Lucien smiled and pulled Mundy to him.

"Do you still want to stay in bed or do you feel any better?" He asked.

"I want to go�� wherever you go." Mundy answered.

"Then, I made some lunch, a lasagna as it happens."

"Oh?"

"Oui, I cooked your favourite dish. I thought you might need it."

"I love you so bloody much. Let's get outta bed and I can have a bite."

"Non, first, take a shower."

"Do I stink?"

"Non, but you can do with a bit of hot water hitting your skin. It will help you relax." Lucien explained. "I can also join in if you want, or you can take it on your own if you prefer."

"Come with me, please."

"Meow!"

"Hey, pretty cat." Mundy took her in his arms and hugged her. "I'd have asked you to join but you don't like water."

"Meow!"

"Actually, it's perhaps better that you don't join… That shower might take longer than expected…" Mundy playfully bit the shell of Lucien's ear and peppered kisses on his cheek. The Frenchman moaned softly and pulled his lover out of the bed.

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etlunainmorte · 5 years ago

Text

✒ P.S. I Love You ✒

***

VII

***

"If there are any spirits here, say HHHOOOEEE!" Nico wailed as she tried once more to communicate with the Lancaster mansion ghost. She was holding up the voice recorder she invented just for V's paranormal mission in great hopes of picking up any sounds from beyond the grave.

"As if they will answer to that!" Griffon, who was perched on top of one of the Grecian statues, mocked. "Are ya even sure that will work?"

"Yes, I' am!" Nico shrieked at the Demonic bird, almost making him fall off the statue in surprise. "Any questions, little chicken?"

"SQUAWK!"

"If you are to do that, then you might as well do it on the second floor." V suggested as he leaned on his cane, observing her actions from a safe distance. "Maybe you'll be able to,... record something."

Just a few moments ago, his familiars showed him a single photograph they found stuck in the stool facing the grand piano. It looked like a stolen photograph of (Y/N) concealing her smile behind her fan as she offered her hand to a dark - haired gentleman whose face V could not see. And when he flipped it,...

"Do you think I should go up there, though?" Nico asked V, rubbing her arms up and down as she suddenly felt goosebumps on her skin. "The ghost might kill me up there!"

"Well, ye wanna hear ghosts on that thing, yeah? Then, go to the source and get yerself killed!" And Griffon was right.

"Say that again and I'LL COOK YOU IN A STEEL POT!"

"SQUAWK!"

V made his way through all the wires cluttered on the floor and handed Nico the photograph the familiars found. Nico stopped plucking Griffon's feathers, let him go, and pushed the rim of her glasses up her nose bridge. She, then, took the photograph and studied it, herself.

"This looked, like, super old." The tattooed woman muttered as she took a good long look at the photograph.

"Turn it." The poet told her. And as she did so, she finally saw the messages written at the back of it.

May 11, 1898

The Angels bow down to your grace and beauty, my Evening Star.

And I will forever be your humble servant.

~ V ~

"V?!" Nico practically shrieked in shock. "Is that - " she flipped the photograph once more and pointed at the man bowing down to the lady. "Is V that man or - ?"

To this question, the poet only gave her the journal. She took this and opened it. "But, there's nothing written in it, is there - ?"

The woman's eyes widened. For she could clearly see, as bright as daylight, the words that just manifested on the first page of the journal as soon as V received the old photograph from Shadow and Griffon.

At first, there was only her name and the date she wrote it. But, now,...

May 1, 1898

I could not believe what father said earlier this day:

He invited Victor Blake to our annual summer gathering! THE VICTOR BLAKE! My favorite writer, and also the best poet who ever existed in this world!

My heart...

I just could not stop the rapid beating of my own heart! I feel so excited! I wanted so much to meet him in person! For I thought for such a long time that I could only see him in my dreams, and hear his voice in my head. Now, I finally have the chance to actually talk to him!

My chest feels so painful right now, but with a happy kind of pain! ( Is there even a kind of happy pain? ) What should I wear for the month - long gathering? Would pastel suit me more, or dark palettes? What would I tell him when I finally get the chance to talk with him? I cannot just stutter in front of him! ( Which I do a lot when I'm nervous. ) What would he tell me? Would he quote some poetry for me?

I'm over thinking, I know! But, I'm just so, so excited! I could not contain it! I wanted to scream my excitement at the top of my lungs!

This is the happiest day of my life!

P.S.

I hope Victor Blake turn out to be the same man in my dreams. For if he does, then I could finally die with a large and silly smile on my face

Someone's coming!

"Victor Blake?! So that's the V who wrote on that photograph, I assume?" Nico mused out loud as she closed the journal and gave it back to V.

"Must be."

"Wait, wait, wait a second here!" The woman grabbed fistfuls of her hair as realization came down on her. And some more questions. "Did those words just pop out on that journal like a pimple or somethin'?! Because if it did, that's totally crazy!"

V didn't answer her question. Instead, he related to her every single thing that happened to him on the second floor last night, of the locked rooms on the right, of that ghost bride, of being locked in (Y/N)'s room, and of him actually seeing her in person.

"... and it only led me to believe that this lady," V pointed at the photograph on Nico's hands."... and (Y/N) are the same person. And that she, indeed, was able to meet Victor Blake that 11th of May."

"So, if this is (Y/N), then who is that woman in the portrait that Avery showed us?"

"They're the same person." V admitted with much bitterness in his voice. He just couldn't accept the fact that she changed drastically for an unknown reason.

"Damn!" Nico swore as she collapsed on a chair facing the monitor she set up earlier during the day. "Avery said (Y/N) died in 1899, right?"

"She did. Yes."

"Then," Nico went silent for a while, and when she finally gained the courage to speak out her mind, V could not help but agree to what theory she came up with. "... that tragic thing, whatever version that was, that led to her death happened a year later! The journal and that picture said 1898! And whatever tragic reason that was, it also led to that clear change she went through as a young adult! Either that, or the artist they commissioned just did a really bad painting of her."

"Seems like the former, as much as I want to deny that fact." V replied distastefully.

Nico's eyebrows furrowed in confusion at the poet's clear discomfort with the topic. "Hey, ya looked bothered. Wanna spill the beans fer real? Ye looked like ye're hiding somethin' other than (Y/N)'s journal."

V chuckled as he sat on the chair next to her. "There are no beans to spill and no other secret to reveal, I assure you."

"And I assure ya that I can tell ye're lyin'!" Nico answered as she booted up the PC.

"I'm not. Well,..."

"Well?"

"The first time I met her, she looked radiant, and happy. She was clearly in love." V confessed, feeling a strange lump growing in his already dry throat. "And she was,... the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my entire existence. To see her like that - depressed, and sick,... and hopeless, it just," The poet paused as he let out a deep sigh that seemed to rattle his very core. "... it felt wrong. It felt sad. Whatever happened to her, she doesn't deserve it. That death of hers, I must know about it."

Nico hummed as V finished talking. "The most beautiful girl, eh?"

"Yes."

"Then!" Nico slammed her palms against the table and turned towards V, her face leaning uncomfortably close to his. "The reason you stayed up so late!"

"What?" V simply asked, getting more and more confused with the woman's odd behavior.

Nico smiled mischievously as she pointed a single, perfectly - polished nail at him. "Ya fantasized 'bout her!"

"I,... come again?"

"Admit it! Ya did the thing while thinkin' of her!" Nico teased even more.

"What thing?"

"Oh, come on, man! No need to be shy 'bout bein' horny for a young and beautiful gal! Just admit it!"

"Admit what?"

V truly has no idea what Nico was talking about, so Griffon flew down next to her and joined in the teasing. "My, my, V! Don't tell us ya don't know what jackin' off means!"

"Jacking,... off,..."

"Yeah, ya know!" Griffon teased even further as he cleared his throat. Making his voice sound small and ridiculous, he recited, "Ya look so good, (Y/N)! So beautiful! Hmm, hmm, hmm!"

"Such beautiful face! Such curvaceous body! I want you,... AH,... so much!" Nico joined in as she made lewd sounds and inappropriate gestures with her arms.

"Oh, my beautiful, sexy (Y/N)!" Griffon imitated Nico's moves and started caressing his own feathery body with his wings. "YE'RE M - M - MI - AAAHHH - NNNEEE!"

"AAAHHH! OOOHHH!"

"HHHRRRMMMHHH! OOOHHH, YYYEEESSS!"

All of a sudden, they heard a really huge explosion outside the house, and a few seconds later, Roman came crashing in the house.

"¡DIOS MIO!" Roman howled.

"Roman, sweetheart, what is it?! What happened?!" Avery called as she came running immediately from another room.

"THERE'S A HHHUUUGGGEEE ONE - EYED GOLEM IN THE GARDEN!" Roman screamed as he pointed at the said thing outside. "RUN! ESCAPE! WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE! IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD!"

"One - eyed,..." Nico muttered.

"... golem?" Griffon stuttered.

And to their complete and utter horror, they realized V's hair has turned white and his left hand was raised up, his fingers in a snapping gesture.

But, the most dangerous of all was the poet's eyes that changed from soft, emerald green to bloody, murderous red. And he was staring emotionlessly down at them,...

"Hehe, s - sorry here, Shakespeare. I mean, M - m - m - master!" Griffon cowardly apologized thirty minutes later when V's rage diminished and when Nightmare finally went back to where he came from.

"Okay, okay, I get it. You're not in love with (Y/N)." Nico cautiously said as she opened some programs on her PC.

"I' am not." The poet answered, stressing out each word.

"But, surely ya must be at least smitten by her! I mean, to think of a girl you haven't actually talked to or met like that?" The woman was right. Maybe he was infatuated with her, after all? But, then again, how could he not? How could anyone not? "Lucky for ya, though. Ye won't have to deal with her super creepy husband."

"Husband?" Griffon asked as he landed back at the Grecian statue.

"Yeah. Mr. Christopher Lancaster? Duh."

That Doctor. I almost forgot about him. V thought as he slightly glanced at the hallway where the intimidating Doctor's life - size portrait was located.

"There we go!" Nico happily announced as she finally gained access to the videos of the security cameras she set up on all corners of the entrance hallway. And as V and Griffon came closer to her to have a look, they saw themselves at that exact moment.

"Hey, that's us!" Griffon exclaimed, astounded upon seeing a live feed of himself. "Wait, why are there no sounds?"

"Duh. That's just a security cam. Call it a spy cam, if ya like." Nico answered. "Now, setting the date to yesterday!"

The woman typed some words and numbers on her keyboard, and a few seconds later, they saw V on the monitor as he was about to go up the stairs.

"That was last night." V confirmed as he saw himself call back the frightened Shadow.

"Now, let's see what else happened." Nico spoke as they all watched V ascend to the second floor.

And after staring at the screen for more than fifteen or so minutes, they realized that nothing was, indeed, happening.

"I should be back around ten or a few more minutes." V said, his confusion growing ever so strongly.

"And you came back down in the morning." Nico answered. "Let's set the time to about, hmm, seven - thirty, then." The woman did the same process, and when the video fast - forwarded to the time she set, they saw V finally going back down to the first floor and met with the frizzy - haired Nico. "See? Told ya ye're gone for a long time."

"But, that's impossible!" Griffon yelled, turning back to V. "Didn't ya say ye're only gone for a few minutes?”

"And now you believe me." The poet simply answered.

"Alright! Alright! So, the ghost could not only manipulate things, it could also stop or control time, or something like that." The tattooed woman happily declared. "How very fascinating that is!" And she was, once again, getting more and more excited.

"I need to go back up there." V told her. "But, I'm not sure how long I'll be gone. A few minutes may mean a few hours up there."

"Ye're right. Hmm,..." Nico mused as she tapped on her lips. After a few seconds, she stood up, went over to one of the speakers she set up yesterday, and opened it, letting Mister Sandman on again. "How 'bout this: V, you do yer thing and investigate the second floor, and I'll be pulling an all - nighter for ya down here to monitor yer movements. I'll even make sure ya don't get lost for too long."

"How do we do that?" The poet asked.

"Simple!" Nico answered as she gave V the radio she was holding on to yesterday. She, then, pressed something on the speaker, and when it finally went quiet, she pointed at the radio on his hand. "Can ya turn it on?"

V complied by turning the dial on the radio clockwise, and a few seconds later,...

"...then tell me that my lonesome nights are over! Sandman, I'm so alone. Don't have nobody to call my own - "

"That song runs for two minutes and thirty - six seconds." Nico said as V and Griffon listened to the music on her radio. "I'll sync that song there and play it for ya for every hour ye're up there. Kinda like an alarm clock. Ya can also turn the voice recorder on to record any sound. And lastly, if anything goes wrong, like anything at all, and ya can't call yer familiars," the woman came closer to V and pointed at the red button at the lower right corner of the radio. "... think of nothin' else and press that button. Do ya understand?"

"I do. Yes. Thank you." V answered as he nodded several times, actually grateful for his decision to let Nico tag along with him.

And when the woman was finally satisfied with his answer, she cracked a toothy smile and suddenly took Griffon off V's shoulders, hugging him and twirling him around like a stuffed animal.

"PUT ME DOWN, WOMAN!"

"Aren't we the best paranormal team around?" Nico happily asked. "Like, Red Grave's Finest Paranormal Team ever?"

"WHATEVER YA SAY! JUST PUT ME DOWN! I CAN'T BREATHE!"

"Sorry." Nico apologized as she let the bird go. "So, ready for another night?"

"Ready - " V was about to stand when he collapsed all of a sudden.

"Hey, V! You okay?" Griffon flew down and helped him to his feet by clutching onto his arm with his talons.

"Ya look like ye need some rest. Ya haven't actually slept!" Nico suggested as she came and helped him as well by grabbing his other arm.

V could not agree more. "A nap will do. Thanks."

***

✒ @la-vita and @micaelagua . ✒

***

✒✒✒

***

#devil may cry 5 #vitale sparda #p.s. i love you #v x reader #v x you #chapter 7 #red grave's finest paranormal team

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deliciousscaloppine · 5 years ago

Text

Unclean Realm

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Little short story about Meng Yao becoming Nie Huaisang’s attendant in their childhood. Now they are roommates but nothing happens because they are children...well nothing except for a mysterious murder.

An attendant is someone who always politely knocks, but does not always politely enter. In fact an attendant enters whether you want them or not. Especially on high occasions when one should have been dressed in formal attire hours ago. A perfect attendant has of course already laid before one's master the proper clothes and accessories before letting them dress in private, only coughing discreetly behind the screen when their master takes too long. A rotten attendant, though, peaks from behind the screen and barks “You are not even trying to get dressed! I can see you painting your fan.”

“This Nie Huaisang has already decided he is not going.” comes the answer, as imperious as necessary.

“Then this Meng Yao will have to commit suicide if Young Master doesn't appear.”

Huaisang smiles, but he does not move. The beautiful clothes folded at his side lie neglected, collecting dust. He knows how these things rile up an attendant. Especially one who can only look enviously upon the luxuries heaped upon a spoiled young master, knowing they will never be his.

“The Young Master must be running a fever” Meng Yao says with a sulk. “To let an argument with his brother confine him to his chambers, where there is no song or music. That’s what this is! To stay here in a dark room and not display both his wit, and his fine silks in the main hall... in the presence of so many cultivated calligraphers and poets... who would surely weep if they knew such an accomplished prince lived in the realm and had not deigned to make their acquaintance.”

“Then why don't you go, Meng Yao? Put on my silks, take my place and go be acquainted with all the poets and calligraphers your heart desires.”

Meng Yao's countenance darkened. Ah, maybe finally there will be remorse.

“The Young Master is so mean to hold something like that against me. It wasn't like I had a say. I was ordered to go.”

“I would have rather gone in your place.”

“Maybe if you tried harder with your training, you would have.” Meng Yao whines.

“I begged and begged brother and he didn't take me. But he took you! I suppose I would embarrass him to no end. But perfect Meng Yao had to go for everyone to admire. The shining star of the Nie Clan!”

Meng Yao hanged his head miserably at this.

“It wasn't like I was alone with him. There were at least fifty members of the Nie. It's unfair for the Young Master to complain so. Chifeng Zun wouldn’t even know me out of these fifty people. And we didn't even stay at the same place. All the good inns were taken because of the Conference, he was lucky the Gusu Clan offered to share their place with him. Even he had to stay in a room with other people. And our inn was just horrible. The tea they served was cold and bitter.”

“I still would have liked to go. Even if I am too incompetent for a Conference! You should have said so, Meng Yao. You don't like me at all, all you want is to make others praise you.”

Meng Yao flinched like he had been struck by a whip. Then he started crying like a child- Meng Yao never cried, not even when Master beat him.

“It's not like the Young Master has to do anything to keep his place here.” he says “I am just a guest here, if I become troublesome I will be shown the door!”

“Stop crying.You are talking about drinking stale tea like it's nothing. What wouldn't I give to drink stale tea at a cheap inn even once in my lifetime. I am twelve years old and I have never stepped foot outside of Qinghe. It's so depressing.”

“Well, now you won't step out of your room...not even for beef and fine wine.”

Huaisang would definitely not deign that with an answer.

“If Huaisang obliges me" Meng Yao continues “I promise to let him drink a full cup of wine.”

“That's so cheap, it's not like you pay for the wine. And I can have wine if I want to. I can order some from the kitchen, and not give you a sip. How would you like that?”

“Then you will let me starve?” Meng Yao asks as miserably as he can.

“Don't be so forlorn. You are not going to die.”

“Prince Huaisang has me fetching snacks all day when he has to study half a book that isn't stories, yet would deny me a proper meal. I run here and there all day, and don't even have a bite of bread. And then the kitchen closes and Meng Yao has to go to bed on an empty stomach. Prince Huaisang just likes tormenting me like everyone else.”

Huaisang would not take such accusations. He was a benevolent master.

“We can eat here if you like. I never said we wouldn't eat. In fact I would like a bun.”

“Certainly" says Meng Yao with rancor. “Right after I get a beating for not bringing you to the banquet.”

Huaisang’s heart drops. Pondering such a consequence has him hold his brush in the air; ink drops falling with a thud on his fan. Oh, it’s ruined now. “Who will beat you?” he asks.

Something must be wrong with Meng Yao because his eyes flash weirdly excited when he talks about punishment “The Master has a switch and he'll take me out and beat my hand twenty times for slacking off. You'll see then how this Nie Clan star shines.” he says and rises to go.

“But how am I going to appear now. It's so late. Everyone must be already seated. Brother will be annoyed.”

Then suddenly as if Meng Yao accomplished his goal, he returns to him all smiles. “I'll take the blame.”

And Huaisang has to put his brush down and get dressed. If Meng Yao is willing to take the blame for his tardiness, this banquet must be quite the affair.

.......

It's only very late at night after several hours of feasting that they come back. Huaisang wouldn't have called it a bad banquet, but it was just that, a banquet. Mingjue was so stuffy. Whomst would it hurt to have some actors play something for them. And Mingjue was always so solemn perched on his throne, scowling at everyone from above. Even on the happiest occasions people didn’t dare make jokes to him. There was poetry for sure, but Huaisang would have rather had the jokes.

It's only after he is perfectly dressed for the night that he sees Meng Yao preparing a bed next room for himself. This has never happened before. Are they going to be roomates? Not that his apartments aren't big. It's that Huaisang would rather have them to himself.

“Why are you setting a bed here? You are certainly not staying! The banquet was not that entertaining, I have nothing to talk about. I am going straight to sleep.”

Meng Yao scowls.

“It’s not like I want to stay. The Captain of the Guard asked me to guard your room.”

“Why? What will happen to my room?”

Meng Yao gives him such a look of endurance. It’s honestly like sometimes he too likes to be dense. He only meant it as a joke.

“There are so many strangers here today.” he says. “A drunk person could barge in your room and cause a scene...or there could be spies...or even assassins”

“As if you could take out an assassin!” Huaisang scoffs. “You are not that much older, what are you going to do? Stay up all night to sound the alarm?”

“A-Huaisang you are so dumb. How will I guard you if I fall asleep? Of course I’ll stay up.”

This amuses Huaisang. A-Yao is going to be his personal bodyguard. He tumbles on his quilt in perfect bliss and starts giggling. “You are going to stay up all night...for me? I feel so valued. Meng Yao why didn't you say it earlier, I wouldn't have given you so much grief.”

“The young master only thinks of himself. How dare I deprive him of such joy.” Meng Yao says with a pout that can only be fake.

“The Young Master is sorry. In fact after he uses the restroom he'll loan you his best book for the night.”

“Oh, and what is that? Some story about an imperial princess eloping with a pauper.“

��There is also a white snake in it.“ he says and stands up ready to make good on his word. Then Meng Yao shoots up as well in that quick grace of his, fastening his belt with the dagger he has seen him sometimes have.

“Wait I'll come with you.” he says and opens the door.

“You want to go too?”

Meng Yao scrunches up his face. “Don't be silly” he says “There are many men out, and they are drunk.”

Huaisang steps out, Meng Yao his little tall shadow following.

“What does it mean there are men out and they are drunk? What will they do to me? Make me trip for a laugh?” he asks.

Meng Yao's face sours, as if some disgusting odor wafts through the air. He doesn't answer though.

There are indeed a lot of men out, one of them even sleeps on a roof. How did he get there? Oh, the night has such wondrous sights in it when the world broadens a little. If he could ditch his Meng Yao he would surely see more, but Meng Yao is there with a hand on his shoulder urging him to be quick, going as far as to check the restroom for drunkards.

“You are so fastidious, next you will want to check the drain” he says and at this Meng Yao laughs. It's true that he would... in another life. Huaisang might be young and spoiled and not know the ways of the world, but he is sure Meng Yao guesses more than he knows.

When he comes out he hears conversation. Meng Yao is there a few steps ahead, waiting for him. There are two men there with him who laugh. But Meng Yao doesn't laugh. If anything his expression is tight with disgust. His hand is clenched so tight around the hilt of his dagger that his knuckles have turned white.

“I knew I recognized him from somewhere” one man says.

He doesn't know what that is. Meng Yao under the moonlight looks so fair and handsome with his hair pulled back. And the men look so ugly, like some distortion lives within them.

“Meng Yao!” he calls a little desperately.

And Meng Yao bows to the men, turns to him quickly, and grabbing him by the shoulder he guides them back to their rooms from a different way.

Huaisang has never been afraid of Meng Yao, but seeing him like this, silent and trembling with unfathomable rage, it is a fearsome sight. He doesn't even understand that Huaisang is talking to him, asking him what's the matter. “It's nothing” he finally replies. “My stomach hurt that's why I couldn't answer.”

Huaisang goes to sleep, but not really, Because he sometimes likes to stare at the ceiling until it takes on different forms. Until the stains on the wood themselves become dreams.

Next morning he has to think hard if he is to determine whether it was a dream, or a reality, or some other unfathomable ghost that Meng Yao stepped out of the room for a while.

A man has been found dead in Unclean Realm. Another man knifed him in his stupor.

#the untamed #cql #nie huaisang #meng yao #unclean realm fic #the untamed fic

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spirit-of-the-void · 6 years ago

Text

Ebony and Ivory (V x Reader Fanfic) Chapter 19

Author’s notes: I’m back again, sluts, with a more Dante-filled chapter. Dont worry, V will be back soon

Chapter 19

(Your POV)

Chasing after Dante was, shockingly, easier than expected.

He left a convenient trail of dead demons in his wake on top of motorcycle track marks. You were moving at high speeds now, your tendrils carrying you in a blur around broken buildings and roots. You remembered now, just how fast you truly were. The power of the Void was precise and calculated, it was like having several sets of arms and hands to stabilize you and launch your body towards your destinations.

Things were definitely more chaotic here, walls of flesh and tunnels of debris weaving between the tree’s roots. Where the hell was Dante headed? He wasn’t going directly toward the tree, but more off to the side. You wracked your brain, trying to imagine what was on this half of the craters but unsure of what he was going for.

The only thing you could imagine that way was the very same house V had pointed out to you, his childhood home. But why would Dante be going there? It didn’t really make any sense. The landscape was so trash, and you literally knew nothing about Dante to even try and discern his motives.

Still, you gave chase, keeping your eyes peeled for Griffon along the way. You had no idea how far along the bird was, but you would feel better if you at least had him near you. This area was definitely not the safest to be traveling in, not that there was a single demon to be had. Lucky for you, because you didn’t want to waste any unnecessary time.

Other things were still rattling in your skull.

Your mind was still racing, heart hurting as you thought of V back with Trish. You had said something so deeply personally to him, then bounced before having to face his reaction. It was...both exhilarating and terrifying. You most certainly didn’t regret saying it to him...it needed to be said at some point. Nor did you blame him for not saying it back, especially since you never gave him the chance to. You were more easily attached than he, more prone to deep emotion. Mind you...V’s feelings toward you were never doubted, but he deserved time to think about it without you there clouding his thought. But his well-being never left your mind, worry clawing at you deep in your skin with each passing minute.

You prayed he would be alright. You wouldn’t be gone from him too long, that you were certain of.

It was unfortunate that you were already traveling alone for an hour, practically bouncing your way over each hurdle and area as fast as you could. Through a cavern under a statue, through areas Dante had already opened. This was getting ridiculous. Why was every path painstakingly extra? All of this foolery wasn't need at the bottom of a god damn tree, that was for sure. But it made sense that things would be far more fucked up at the Qliphoth base where it had been the longest, festering like a disease. You just didn’t have to like it, that was all.

More traveling, more panic, more worrying. But you were getting closer, you were sure. Especially so when you saw Griffon’s familiar blue feathers in the air ahead of you.

Thank god. Traveling by yourself was going to make you go absolutely insane.

“Griffon...!” You yelled, making the bird halt a bit and whip his head around to look at you. He looked shocked, his beak popping open when you extended your tendrils, gently wrapping them around him and pulling him to your chest as you leap into the air. You were faster than he was anyway.

“Toots?!” He squawked, tucked against you kind of how a child would be, “What the hell are you doing here?! Why aren’t you with Shakespeare?!”

Just the mention of it made you wince, flinching a bit as you recalled the poet left alone, his assistance cut in half now that you and Griffon were gone.

“He told me to go after Dante...!” You said in a clearly worried tone, unhappiness in your expression as you maneuvered him and yourself around more broken building pieces, “And he wouldn’t take no for an answer!”

Griffon let out an annoyed huff at that, his feathers puffing out against your chest, “What a fucking dumbass. He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

He was most certainly preaching to the choir.

“I tried to tell him...he wouldn’t listen to me,” You mumbled, pressing your chin to the top of Griffon’s head as you finally entered open air. Thank god, no more tunnels, “I didn’t want to go in the first place, I’m worried about him.”

Griffon went a bit quiet at that, which was unusual for him. You tried to steady your eyes forward, keeping track of the small amounts of energy you were exerting. Not much, nothing that impacted your ability to heal. Moving with the tendrils required practically nothing, something your body stayed accustomed to. Like riding a bike.

Though traveling without V felt...bad, lonely despite the fact that Griffon was with you. As much as you loved and adored the bird, there was a Void he couldn’t fill, so to speak. One shaped like a tall, lanky poet in sandals. You knew it sounded silly; you had been away for just an hour. But it was less of missing him and more than painful, overwhelming fear that something bad would happen to him. Your protective streak would never leave, and it was practically clinging to your back now.

You traveled a couple moments in silence still, Griffon's lack of speech only a small worry in the back of your mind.

When he spoke, it seemed heavily reluctant.

“Ahh, fuck,” He muttered, beak tilted down and talons flexing a bit as he struggled with his words, “I think I need to apologize to you, and I’m really shitty at apologies.”

You blinked in surprise at that, wrapping an arm around him to brace him as you skidding over the ground, narrowly missing some shattered trees and debris. The terrain was hard to get through here.

“For what?” You asked quietly, landing on your feet and settling on a brisk jog as you made your way up a hill.

He paused again, making confusion prickle at the back of your mind as he took another moment to gather his words.

“F...for not warning you about Shakespeare,” He mumbled, unable to meet your eyes as his feathers puffed out a bit more. Like he wanted to hide, “You didn’t deserve to find out that way, like that and shit. I knew he was going to start falling apart but I half hoped his dumb ass would make it up the tree before that.”

That made your feet falter, heart thudding painfully once it clicked what Griffon was apologizing about. You had forgotten the look Griffon had worn those few times you had spoken, that knowing expression. You realized pretty quick that he knew, so that wasn’t a shock. But...his guilt was. He sounded unhappy with himself, unhappy with his choice of omission to you. What were you supposed to say? Part of you felt like you should be upset, but...there was too much at stake, too much to worry about other than that.

“It’s...okay.” You replied hesitantly, unable to formulate your own feelings.

“The fuck it is...!” Griffon squawked angrily, whipping around to snap his beak by your ear, “You need to start standing up for yourself, girlie...! I knew how you felt but I still didn’t say shit! You should be mad about that, damn it!”

He...had a point in there, somewhere. But you had the feeling he wanted you to be mad just to help ease his guilt

“I...I know...” You mumbled, leaning your head back to avoid his angry snapping, “But you’re my friend...and I don’t like being upset with you about something that doesn’t matter, not now.”

Griffon let out a pained groan at that, leaning his head back dramatically and exposing the lighter colored feathers on his throat.

“Fuck, now I feel worse,” He hissed, sounding half way exasperated and half was frustrated, “I tell you I withheld shit from you and you say we’re friends and wanna smooch and make up...!”

That kind of made you smile, just seeing his over-dramatic display of suffering. You could tell Griffon was trying, in his own asshole-ish way. You doubted the bird had to ever apologize for anything before in his life, nor did you think he ever wanted to. It made you feel a bit better about everything, as if it somehow confirmed Griffon actually did care.

So you leaned forward, giving him a small kiss on his head and making him scrunch up a bit. Huffy as always, but you didn’t care.

“There,” You replied, starting forward again and setting his grumbling form on your shoulders, “I kissed, we made up. Deal?”

He let out another annoyed sound, but he looked secretly pleased. He was a lot easier to read than V was, that was for sure.

“Still,” He muttered, tone sounding hesitant and quiet as he continued hurriedly, “You should know toots, about Shakespeare—”

But you weren’t paying attention.

You spotted Dante’s form as soon as you crested the hill. With that silvery-white hair he was easy to see, along with his red jacket and giant god damn sword. He didn’t seem to notice you or the bird, strolling leisurely toward...the house. The one V had shown you before, his childhood home. You had been correct in your assumptions, this was indeed Dante’s destination, but...why? There of all places, a crumbling mansion now that you were seeing it up close. A portrait was hanging in the crumbling foyer still, dirtied and sullied by time.

You could barely make out the face of a woman, who you assumed to be V’s mother. Maybe? There looked to be a man in the photo, sitting with the family but his face was blackened by a past fire. With the woman was...two children? At least what you could make out—the portrait seemed so old, especially for a day and age of photography and technology. Maybe their mother had it done custom? Or maybe the portrait wasn’t of them at all, maybe it was some random painting the family kept hanging in their foyer because it looked nice. But that didn’t feel right either, especially since both boys had white hair.

Two boys with white hair. Did V have a brother? He never admitted it, never mentioned it. But you looked at Dante, eyeing his own white locks as about a thousand questions traveled through you. Were...Dante and V related? Hell, Nero had white hair too. And that seemed like a pretty unique genetic trait. The more you thought about it, the less it made sense. V was super young still, like around the same age as Nero, whereas Dante looked to be in his forties at most. The boys in the portrait seemed to be twins, at least they looked pretty similar in age.

Ancestors maybe? This was a mess.

Regardless, you had something to do here.

“Dante...!” You yelled, cutting off whatever Griffon was going to say as you started running closer, “Wait...!”

The Devil hunter paused at the sound of your voice, turning slightly so side eye you and the bird as you caught up to him. He looked bemused, albeit exasperated to see you. Despite all the demons he obviously had to fight to get here, he was free of scratches or wounds of any kind. Either he was a great fighter, or he had some seriously great healing skill. Or both.

“You just don’t give up the chase, do you?” He commented, turning and crossing his arms over his chest.

He definitely didn't seem happy that you and V were prone to not listening to him, that was for sure. It was hard for you to care in that moment, especially after following his trail for so long.

You mimicked the pose, letting out a heavy sigh as you replied, “No I don’t, not after chasing you for this damn long.”

It was about to hit the two-hour mark, and you weren’t happy about it in the slightest bit. Giving chase definitely wasn’t your favorite thing, and it was beginning to rain again to top it all off. You were willing to drag Dante back kicking and screaming if you had to. But...your Foresight did not like that. At all.

The moment the thought entered your head, it sent a warning jolt through your body, making you grunt a bit and touch your abdomen. What the hell, you weren’t supposed to stop Dante from leaving? Then why had your Foresight not told you that before you came all the way here? It made no sense. It made no sense. You couldn’t remember a mission where the power had been this indecisive, this inconsistent.

It was starting to piss you off.

Dante’s voice jarred you from the cascading anger at your own body, the man seeming oblivious to your internal conflict.

“Why are you following me anyway?” He asked, shaking some of the water droplets from his hair and turning his gaze away. He sounded overly nonchalant, tone ever lazy and bemused, “You seemed pretty friendly with that poet back there, so why come after me?”

You let out a low sigh, feeling incredibly strung out as you replied, “Because V asked me to. You shouldn’t be going up the tree alone anyway, not with how dangerous it is.”

You were trying really hard to figure out Dante, what kind of person he was. What made him tick. He seemingly showed no reaction to your words, other than tilting his head back to look at you again. His eyes confused you—they were wise somehow, on a face that seemed anything but. You felt like the Devil hunter was searching your face, sizing you up with a single glance. It made you a bit uncomfortable, that sensation of your secrets hiding on your spine returning once more.

“Someone has to stop the kid from killing himself,” He replied simply, turning to walk forward into the derelict mansion again, “Dontcha think?”

You reached out a hand, grabbing his arm to halt him as you protested, “Yeah but these things would be easier if we all stayed together...!” You were willing to bet Dante was the reason the group split up so damn much, it was driving you up a wall. Why was it so hard for everyone to just work together to reach a common goal?

Your Foresight didn’t like you touching Dante, not one bit. Or maybe it didn’t like you stopping him? Either way, it made a jolt of pain shoot up your abdomen to your chest, making you wince. Dante seemed to not notice, either that or he didn’t show any sign of it. Instead, he sighed, looking somewhat annoyed now as he looked at you. Impertinence was there behind that smirk, his brow slightly furrowed.

“And just what do you gain out of this, Miss Priestess?” He asked, raising a brow in your direction. The name made you jolt, remembering that Dante was not as oblivious as he seemed.

He knew what you were, and that was another concern you had.

“What do you mean?” You asked warily, frowning at the overly chipper tone he used. It definitely sounded close to taunting, at least to your ears.

Dante put his hands on his hips, rain water dripping over those white locks and causing them to stick to his rugged face.

“I know your kind,” He said simply, shrugging his shoulders and eyeing you with a bit of a smirk in his expression. That tone was condescending, taunting as he let out a light laugh, “What does the boss upstairs want out of this world? To lay a claim if everything falls apart? To snatch the fruit that tree is gonna grow?”

The boss upstairs...he must have meant the Deity. Who was less “upstairs” and more in between everything. Still, what he was saying struck a chord of annoyance with you, especially since it sounded pretty damn accusatory.

You blinked in confusion, holding up your hands as you replied indignantly, “I don't know what you're implying, but my Deity doesn’t want anything...!”

Dante scoffed lightly at that, inclining his head as he replied, “Every ‘Deity’ wants somethin’.”

He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t right either. And worse, he was bringing all your doubting back, all the horrible thoughts that refused to leave you. Anxiety was bubbling up again, threatening to choke you like bile rising in your throat. Already volatile, you felt like a bomb getting ready to tick off. You definitly had your doubts about your Deity, questions that were going unanswered and no sign of your master at all to guide you. It was already maddening and breaking you down, so Dante’s implications were both unneeded and unwanted.

Griffon had been with you long enough to sense your moods, eyes darting between you and Dante as he said in a warning tone, “Dante, you’d better lay off.”

Dante turned, pointing a single, warning finger at Griffon’s avian features as he replied, "Flock off, feather face.”

You fought another sigh. Things were only getting more out of hand, but it was under your skin now. An itch you couldn’t ignore.

“You don’t know a damn thing about what my Deity wants," You told him, feeling even more unhappy that you had come to find him. What the hell was even the point, wasting time like this? "I have better things to do than sitting here arguing with you...!”

V was still alone, and he was crumbling. Your Foresight was telling you not to stop Dante, or else. So why bother staying here letting him shit talk things he didn’t understand? You half turned your body again, ready to summon your tendrils outward to bounce away. If Dante wanted to do things on his own and get himself killed, he could be stubborn all he wanted. You would focus on the people that mattered. Like V, Nero, Lady, Nico.

But the devil hunter wasn’t done.

He let out a low hum, his tone almost pleasant and conversational as he added, “So tell me. What do you serve to gain by using Mister Poet back there?”

Your blood ran cold. Very very cold.

“...Excuse me?” You whispered, blinking in shock and not understanding exactly what he was implying as you turned back to look at his face.

He shrugged his shoulders again, crossing his arms as his blue eyes locked with yours.

“You heard me,” He replied, his expression taking on a more serious look as he continued, “You seem chummy with V, but I know your type. You’d do the same for anyone if it meant getting what your big bad God wants.”

Your mouth popped open in shock.

Indignation, anger, and pain all ripped through you. It became pretty god damn clear what he was implying, and it stung like nothing else. He thought you were using V, pretending to care about him just to succeed in your mission. You were determined to get close to people at first, but romance was never something you would fake for results. Hell, you didn’t fake liking anyone if it wasn’t genuine. To have him look you in the face and accuse you of such a thing made your blood boil and eyes burn.

You could not cry, not now.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me...!” You replied, tone low and promising violence as you balled up your fists, “I’m not using V for anything...!”

“’Ya see, that’s where I don’t believe you,” Dante clicked his tongue, turning away from you and starting for the house again, “You priestess types are all the same. Though screwing a dying man to get what you want is pretty harsh, all things considered. Gotta give him something in return for using him, right?”

You had enough.

Your tendrils whipped out in the next instant, grabbing every part of Dante you could reach and slamming him to the ground. You were shocked, he put up no resistance at all in the face of your rage. He didn’t even look surprised when you whipped him around, your own face filled with so many emotions you weren’t sure what to focus on. Anger, pain, fear, more anger.

Your day had been an avalanche of misery after a night of some of the only happiness you had tasted in such a long time. The man you cared about was dying, and you sure didn’t fucking appreciate Dante’s harsh words when things were so dire. How he even knew about you having sex with V, you didn’t know. Maybe he guessed. But his guesses were unwanted.

Your hand cracked against his face in a fluid motion, making him let out a grunt but he was still smirking lightly. It all happened so fast. Grabbing him, flipping him, hitting him. It felt less than a second. But you didn’t care.

How dare he. How dare he imply that you would give yourself to V for the sake of doing what your Deity wanted? You weren’t a whore to sell yourself to people at a God’s bidding. V was everything, and he mattered to you more than the mission itself. Hell, you didn’t know there was something wrong with him at the time, something that would mean his death. And knowing so now was agonizing, breaking you down and leaving you in a state of non-stop dread. V made you happy, and things that made you happy always ended up snatched away.

Your eyes turned black with your rage, hair raising slightly and tendrils twitching sporadically. Your Foresight was screaming at you, telling you to stop and let him go. Agonizing, making your limbs weak and tendrils uncontrollable. That tipped you off pretty fast that Dante wasn’t fighting back on purpose--he could easily escape in the state you were in right at that moment. You were fighting your own body, your own rage just to be able to make a point to the Devil Hunter.

You hated how emotional you were, but that was only par for the course as you gripped Dante’s coat and yanked him up.

“Don’t you presume to know a damn thing about me...!” You hissed, eyes burning with tears that slid down your cheeks against your will. God damn it. God damn it, “You don’t know anything about what I feel about him, or how much he means to me...!”

Dante stayed quiet, staring at you with a neutral expression as your aching hands began to shake.

Griffon was squawking in alarm, his talons gripping your shoulders and trying to haul you back as he screeched, “Not a good idea, toots...! Back off, he isn’t worth it...!”

You didn’t care. And you wouldn’t be swayed.

“If I had my way I wouldn’t even be here talking to you...!” Your voice was growing hoarse now with your tears, panting breaths leaving you as the pain continued, “He has no one else but me in this fucking hell, no one else who cares! Yet I came after you because he asked me to and you...you...”

To disregard what you felt so heavily, what tore you up inside. Brush it off like it was dust settling on his shoulders. It stung far too much.

How were you expected to change anything when it felt like everything wanted to stop you?

“I love him.” You whispered, head slumping on your shoulders as you finally released Dante, sitting back on your legs as the pain finally subsided. You couldn’t see his expression, couldn’t see anything but rain dripping from your locks. But it didn’t matter, you didn’t feel like you were talking to him now anyway. He was of little consequence, all things considered.

“I love him and he’s dying. And that’s not fair.”

Nothing ever is. That’s why you sold your soul, isn’t it?

Dante was quiet for a couple more seconds, letting out a hefty sigh as he sat up. Your tendrils dropped away from him, returning back to your body as the Void power simmered to a dull roar. You didn’t know what to say now, what to feel after such an outburst. You weren’t used to losing your cool and lashing out like that.

Perhaps you were learning a lot of new things about yourself with everything that was going on. That feeling came back, the feeling of wanting to go home but having no home to go to. V felt like home to you, and losing him would break you more than you realized. What were you supposed to do? You could barely handle things now, when he wasn’t even gone. Holding onto hope was hard, but you were trying.

Much to your shock, you felt Dante place a hand on your hair, giving you a comforting pat on the head. You blinked, breath catching at the action. It felt like something a dad should do, something you certainly didn’t expect from the demon hunter.

“I’ve learned all I needed to know,” He said simply, rising to his feet and extending a hand to you, “Sorry about how harsh I was, but sometimes that’s the best way to learn someone’s true intentions.”

You blinked more, looking at his hand then up at him. He was smiling again, but there was a concerned look in his eyes once they met yours. You were so confused, and it definitely showed on your face.

“You...were trying to get a reaction from me?” You whispered, tone still raw and eyes going back to normal now that your power was settling, “But...why?”

Dante let out a light sigh, scratching the back of his head with his free hand.

“Some servants of higher ups can be skeevy,” He huffed, rubbing his cheek you had struck and wearing a bit of a bemused smile, “Hard to disbelieve you when you react like that. You’ve got a mean right hook on you, kid.”

So...all that was a test to see if you felt how you truly said you did? You hesitantly took his free hand, wiping your eyes with your other. You were settling down now, but you still weren’t happy with how Dante went about doing it. But...he was right to mistrust the servants of gods—you had met a few less than savory ones yourself. They tended not to like people like you, who obeyed the beings that existed in between spaces. Trickery and deceit was at its finest when it came to working alongside priests and priestesses from other pantheons, especially ones specifically aligned with the notorious “good” and “evil” gods. Such alignments were bullshit, both sides would throw you under the bus to reach their goal.

You weren’t like that.

“Sorry...” You muttered to Dante, releasing his hand once he helped you up, “But...I haven’t had the best day today, and you really didn’t help.” You weren’t having the best existence, to be honest.

“People show their true colors when pressed to a wall,” Dante rolled his shoulders a bit, testing his muscles after you had flung him around. You knew damn well he held back on purpose. Had he actually retaliated against you when you attacked...He would have wiped the floor with you, “Consider us even now. No hard feelings.”

You nodded, but you weren’t sure how else to reply. Griffon landed on your shoulders again, letting out a relieved sigh as he looked between you and the demon hunter. You were willing to bet that little situation had certainly ruffled his feathers, that was for sure.

Dante seemed a tad bit amused by how the bird acted around you, but that amusement faded when he let out another hefty sigh.

“This isn’t your fight, kid,” Dante told you, face turning a bit serious before he went to turn away, “Go back to the poet and make sure he's alright. Shit still has time to work out—I've been surprised before.”

You blinked at that, taking a few steps after him as he entered the house. It was crumbling apart, decaying around the edges where it looked like fire struck. What the hell had happened that day, when V was a child? You could see just hints of a happy life here, beneath the soot and decay. It made you ache, seeing something so lived in now an empty husk resting on the edge of the world. Dante didn’t seem oblivious to it, staring around at the mansion's remains with something akin to wistfulness. Like he was remembering something. But...why? Especially when V had said this was his childhood home?

There were so many things you didn’t know.

“Dante...?” You said hesitantly, hanging back as he turned and gazed at the former home, “What are you going to do?”

He didn’t answer your question, turning back and looking at the portrait you saw earlier.

“A demonic power was activated in me once,” He said, pulling out what looked to be a broken sword from behind his coat. It seemed to be demonic in origin too, the blade snapped off and leaving only jagged edges behind, “When Vergil lovingly jammed this through my chest.”

...Vergil?

Who was Vergil?

You blinked in confusion, looking at Griffon with a questioning stare. That name felt...strange. It elicited a strange twinge up your spine. Familiar, but also not. Had someone mentioned the name before this? You...couldn’t remember. You had hoped Griffon would bring some clarity. But the bird was staring at Dante, water dripping from his sapphire feathers.

“I always wondered...why did my father give me the Rebellion?” Dante muttered, his voice barely audible to you as he palmed the sword in hand.

Was it named the Rebellion...? People in this word seemed big on naming swords, and it was confusing for you to keep up with. And better yet, who was Dante’s father? It seemed heavily relevant, at least to him in his own little world.

Griffon let out a confused sound too, hopping off your shoulders so he could fly over to Dante and circle him, “Okay, what are you muttering?” He asked, eyeing the demon hunter warily. He kept further than an arms length, making sure he wasn’t grabbed again.

Dante let out a light, breathy chuckle, sounding pretty rueful as he looked at Griffon. Completely ignoring his question, mind you.

“Over the years I’ve been stabbed and jabbed by a number of things,” He commented, lifting the hilt of the broken blade and staring at it with a faraway look, “But who would have guessed...”

You were completely unprepared when he flipped it around, stabbing the remainder of the blade hard into his abdomen.

Shock and panic filled you, eyes wide as the Demon hunter stumbled back, letting out a pained grunt as some of his own blood pattered onto the wet floor. What in the world was he doing?! You couldn’t even open your mouth to ask, absolutely stunned into silence as Dante panted, obviously in pain from stabbing himself. Just when you thought you had the demon hunter figured out, he completely scrambled your opinions of him all over again. Dante was an enigma, one you were afraid had just mortally fucking wounded himself when you all needed him the most. What the hell was going on?

Things were getting way too insane.

Griffon was, luckily, more composed than you. He echoed exactly what you were thinking...with his own flare.

“Have you lost your mind?!” He shrieked, flapping wildly as he hovered around the bent-over demon hunter, “There’s a demon to destroy...! Kill yourself later—I'll help...!”

Your mouth opened as well, letting out a shocked whisper of, “Dante...!”

But something was happening.

Dante was panting, teeth grinding in agony as he lifted his head. His hands were still clutching the sword, impaled into his body like it was nothing.

“If the Yamato can separate man from devil,” He gritted out, seeming oblivious to both of you, “Then what about the Rebellion?”

He twisted the blade harder into his flesh, letting out an agonized grunt as the sword began to glow. Brighter and brighter like fire, disintegrating into his body. Absorbed into it. That fire spread out in spider-webbing energy trails over him, all the way to his back where the Devil Sword Sparda rested. You stared in shock and awe, taking a few steps back while Dante stood, panting as his energy grew and grew, until the air was crackling with it.

What the hell was happening? The Devil sword began to disintegrate too, sucked into Dante’s glowing form until it was gone completely. Your Void sense rolled and toiled in warning, signaling you to get the fuck out of the way before something bad happened.

Signaling to you that Dante was doing something downright fucking amazing. Dangerously amazing.

But Griffon wasn’t aware, staring at Dante with the same shock and awe you felt.

“Wow...” He said in a low tone, flapping his wings to keep him hovering in air as he rasped, “You are...absorbing the Sparda...!”

You felt the energy cultivate around Dante’s form, telling you plain and clear it was time to move. Your tendrils shot out, grabbing Griffon and yanking him to your chest just as you dipped behind a wall to shield you both. Energy crackled out in the next instant, sending out a shock wave that rumbled through the Earth and the structure still standing against the rain. The Void power spiked, hating the sensation of an opposing energy type as it practically wrapped around the entire area. You panted lightly, rain dripping down your face and hair as you held a startled bird against you, both of you peeking out to see what happened.

Boy, were you absolutely stunned.

In the place of Dante was what could only equate to a demon. Sharp claws, fire licking parts of his glowing body with spikes and horns. It looked like he was armored, any trace of the familiar demon-hunters face now gone. You blinked, staring in shock as he turned slightly to look at you, his face completely different. Sharp teeth, flaming eyes...it was terrifying and incredible, you weren’t sure what to think, what to say, what to do. Dante was a half demon, that had already been explained to you. But no one had mentioned Dante being able to take on a demonic form, not unless this was new and unique to him stabbing himself and absorbing the Devil Sword Sparda?

At least you knew not to touch Dante in this form. Your Void power was pretty firm on that, and the power of Sparda certainly didn’t like you either.

Regardless, you stared at Dante’s panting, growling for. Unable to move an inch as he turned away. He bent his knees, leathery wings stretching out in a telltale sign of him getting ready to fly. You ducked back behind the debris to avoid the shock wave from that, wood and rocks flying out when he shot off from the ground, into the sky. You gasped, stepping out with water dripping into your eyes as you stared at him spiraling up toward the top of the Qliphoth. Holy shit. There was no way you could follow that, not now after running all the way here.

But Griffon could.

You released the bird, feeling him push off against you and shoot into the sky after Dante. Slower, panting in annoyance as he did so.

“Go back to Shakespeare!” He yelled down to you, not stopping as he arced into the sky. Pretty gracefully, in your opinion, “You get his sorry ass to the tree! We’ll meet you there...!”

You nodded once, activating your tendrils again as you yelled back at him, “Be safe, Griffon...!”

He didn’t respond, but then again you weren’t sticking around to hear it anyway.

You had a bad feeling that shit was about to go down, energy bursting out of you as your tendrils whipped out again, bringing you in the direction of V. You activated your senses, eyes turning black to search out the whale oil you knew he had. Everything was swirling in your head now, the day’s events certainly startling and a lot to handle. But you kept moving, able to tell where V was right away and making haste to get there. He wasn’t where you left him, probably moving forward with Trish once she woke up. You hoped the poor woman could find clothes; nothing would suck more than walking around in just a blanket.

You also prayed she would be able to help V in your absence. It would take less time to get to them than it did Dante, so there was that at least. They were headed for the base of the tree, and those paths intersected at some point.

You gritted your teeth, feeling the energy inside toil harder and faster now that you were free from having to chase Dante. You felt like you were exceeding your limits more, still growing now that things were so dire. Ready for anything, at least. You wanted to return to V, wanted to make sure he was safe and not crumbling again. Griffon was a smart bird, but you worried for him too, heading up the Qliphoth to chase after Dante. What were you supposed to feel in that moment? You didn’t want to go numb to it all, but you felt like you had no choice.

There was so much going on. So much to do. So much at stake. But still, you pressed onward, heart-pounding as you sought to be reunited with your poet once more.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136193/chapters/43974313

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Tagged: @nightshadow4713 @slightlylunatic @silentwhispofhope @just-call-me-no-name @efiicitia @raveninthevoid

#devil may cry v #devil may cry #dmc v #dmc5 #dmcv #V dmc #V x reader #v x self insert #fanfic #chapter 19 #Ebony and Ivory #ebony and ivory chapter 19

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thedyingmoon · 6 years ago

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🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

***

XVII

***

It was the happiest moment of my life. The moment we spoke our vows, the promise of our unending love, the feeling when he slipped the ring on my finger, and that time when we kissed,...

... it was as if the universe conspired to make everything perfect for the two of us as husband and wife.

But, that was a year ago. Despite our efforts, we could not help but be crestfallen for the thing we desired the most but could not gain - offspring.

We consulted every possible expert we could think of but, it seemed that it really was impossible for me to conceive. And one day, we just,... stopped trying. I knew there was something wrong with me, and I could never deny it.

But, my husband, despite this condition of mine, stayed with me and remained patient and understanding. He never gave up on me and never once left me. He gave me all the love that he could, despite the fact that I was unworthy of it to begin with.

No, he never thought of me as unworthy. Never.

Then, one day, he gave me the most wonderful gift in the world. Gifts, in the form of three very different, yet precious, little girls who stood before me that one morning during my birthday.

He called them Galatea, Andromeda, and Cassandra. They were the three sisters of fate - The Bearer of The Past, The Protector of The Present, and The Aspect of The Future. The three loyal Muses that served him and guarded him.

Despite them not being human, and also not Demonic, in nature, they do mimic everything that normal little girls do. They play, sing, dance, they ask for bedtime stories, they yearn for love. And they were the most beautiful beings in all of existence.

They were,... perfect.

From that day onward, they have become my three darling daughters who stayed with me at all times, protecting us and making us whole and happy,...

***

youtube

"Talk about a fine line between love and hate.

We've lost more than our direction of late.

Talk about a fine line between lovers and friends.

We've never been lovers now we're not even friends.

In this invisible war, it seems we're waging an invisible war.

Everyday I seem to lose you more in this invisible war.

Wounded deeply the scar is here to stay,

Opening up the little things I do or say.

You always want things to be as before.

So I make you angry and you bleed a little more.

In this invisible war, it seems we're waging an invisible war.

Strained maneuvers keeping silent score in this invisible war."

"Where is V?" You asked Nico for the third time that day.

Instead of saying that she didn't know, the freckled woman sighed. "Is there something wrong, hon?" She inquired as she repaired one of Nero's Breakers.

"Ah, nothing." You let out with a dejected sigh.

"You sure?"

You nodded.

"Whatever you say,... "

It was a really cold and cloudy day. Nero was snoring loudly on the sofa, Nico was doing some more Breakers for him to kill time, V was, indeed, nowhere to be found,...

... and you?

Ever since that strange encounter you had with him earlier, you couldn't help but feel unnerved. It's like a part of him drastically changed the moment he went back from his talk with Fleminger. You so wanted to ask him what's bothering him, to comfort him and to offer a shoulder to lean on.

But, the fact that you just saw him got hurt with something unknown? It was like watchig a loved one suffer from the other side with bars separating them, making it impossible for one to reach the other. And it really took a toll on your sensitive emotions.

You just couldn't stop thinking and worrying about him. And it awfully hurt not to see the usual V you have grown to admire and adore.

Silly, yes. But, you missed him so much,...

And the sad song on the radio was really not helping with your current situation, at all!

Nico noticed your behavior and cleared her throat, which succesfully gained your undivided attention.

"If you're just gonna grumble all day, then we might as well try out my new invention."

"What's your new invention?"

The Artisan at Arms proudly smiled and crossed her arms.

"Oh, you'll see what I'm talkin' about." She gloated with a wink.

A few hours later, the two of you arrived at the farthest and most abandoned site in the city away from Fleminger's mansion.

Nico dropped her huge rucksack on the ground and took out several pieces of unflattering clothing from it.

"What are these?" You curiously asked as she handed them to you.

"Those are special clothes made from a very durable and expandable fabric that absorbs extreme heat and pressure. I was developing it a week before this whole fiasco began."

"And this is for me?"

"Of course!" Nico answered, crossing her arms and looking very proud. "You can't burst out of your clothes every time you transform into that thing! We need to innovate! And we,... " she took out a video camera from the rucksack, turned it on, and focused it at you. "... are going to test that right now."

Staring at the woman, clueless, you muttered, "Ah, so I have to change now?"

"Of course, dummy! And make it quick!"

After scrambling to a secluded, hidden place to change, you came out wearing Nico's invention looking like a huge walking fashion faux pas.

"Is this it?" You questioned, looking at the huge sleeves of the gray jumpsuit - like outfit that was several sizes too large for you.

"Pretty much, yeah." Nico answered as she settled her video cam on a tripod. She took a peak at it and waved her arms. "Hey, uh, I need you to move farther away."

You took a few steps away from Nico. "Like this?"

"Honey, I mean, further, further away. I don't want to get disintegrated!"

"Fine,..."

You walked several feet away from Nico, trying to measure just how much the impact of your transformation would make, and when you faced her once more, she finally gave you a thumbs up.

"Okay! I need you to transform on the count of three!"

"Alright!"

"Whenever you're ready!"

"I' am!"

"Alright, then! ONE, TWO, THREE!"

You called the entity's name, summoning it, and when you felt its presence, it instantly took over your body, enveloping you with that blinding light and disintegrating everything within your immediate vicinity.

"Never gets old, (Y/N)." Nico said, whistling as she captured your mind - blowing transformation on camera. "Never gets old."

The entity hovered on the ground for a moment, waiting for a command, until Nico finally gave it.

"Alright, hon! You can go back now!"

The seven - foot creature spread its arms, enveloping itself once more with light. And after a few heart - stopping moments later, you changed back to your original form,...

... butt - naked from head to foot.

And from the moment you realized how exposed you are, you gasped in fright, covered your private parts, then hustled back to that secluded place where you've been before to put on clothes.

A few minutes later, you were back, horrified to see Nico laughing non - stop,...

... and the camera still recording!

"Are you really my friend, or not?!" You shrieked at the woman, not caring in the least that your movements were being documented.

"Dude, chill! I need this for documentation!"

"Of your crappy invention?!"

"Hey! It's a - HAHA - work of - HAHA - art!"

"Ugh, SHUT UP!"

Despite your complaints, you were back to where you transformed, wearing another one of Nico's inventions but, this time - in the form of a school uniform.

"What,... IS THIS?!" You yelled at the woman, disgusted at how extremely short the skirt was.

"Uhh, never mind that!" Nico, who was fortunate that she was far away from you and, therefore, could not be seen sweating, answered nervously. "Another round!"

You sighed, shook your hands, took a deep breath, and morphed once more into the entity.

And, once more, Nico recorded it, along with how you morphed back, and how you were naked again.

"THIS IS NOT WORKING!" You shrieked like a depressed banshee as you made your way towards your hiding place to put on clothes.

"You're almost there!" Nico reassured you a few moments later as she recorded you once more, this time with you wearing what looked like a risqué pop idol cosplay. "Don't worry! You look hella cute!"

"Just get on with it!"

And so, you transformed once more, went back,...

"THIS IS NOT GOING ANYWHERE!" You angrily shrieked, this time not even bothering to run away to get dressed. You just strode angrily towards Nico, who was still filming you in all your naked glory. "And why do you have to film me getting myself naked? You're planning something, aren't you?!"

Nico laughed nervously, her sweat instantly giving her away. "What do you mean by that?! I'm so not going to let V see this!"

"UGH!" You let your frustration out as you facepalmed. Of course, she's planning to let V see all this!

However, at the mention of the poet's name, you heard a noise coming from somewhere not far away. Nico stopped panic explaining as soon as she saw you getting your guard up.

You swore that whoever's watching you, they would not get out of this alive. Not when you've exposed yourself over and over.

You took simple, wary steps to your left.

"Hey, Nico," you began. "I think I left something at the van."

"What's that?" The woman played along, knowing your plan by instinct.

"V's jacket! I remember he told me to mend it,..."

And surely enough, the two of you heard the noise once more. It sounded like,... a squawk?

Your eyes widened. You gave Nico a subtle nod and made a quick dive behind one of the boulders.

There was a struggle, a lot of noises and curses, and a few agonizing minutes later, you finally came out, dragging a blue demonic bird by its beak.

"MHMH! MHMH! MMHHMMHH!" Griffon yelled through his muffled beak.

"Ohoho, so the little chickee really wants to be cooked in a steel pot, after all!" Nico taunted, making the bird struggle even more, to no avail.

"BRING OUT THE STEEL POT!" You madly boomed, not letting go of Griffon's beak. "I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THIS BIRD IS BREWING UP!"

"MMMHHHMMM! NNNYYYEEERRRHHHGGG!" The bird panicked once more but, this time, he was able to let out a weak electrical current, enough for you to let him go.

"FUCK! FUCK! FFFUUUCCCKKK! I THOUGHT I'M DONE FOR!" Griffon squawked, flying just a few inches above your head. "WHAT'S YER PROBLEM, WOMAN?! YE TRYNA KILL ME BY COVERIN' MA NOSE?!"

"Ah,..." you stuttered but, then, remembered that you wouldn't do such a thing to him if he didn't start anything in the first place. "YOU CAN'T BLAME ME! You know, all you need to do is ask and I'll definitely allow you to come along,..."

"Wait, don't tell me Chickee here knows the secret?!" Nico exclaimed, pointing at you and Griffon.

After a minute or so of explanation on how Griffon came to know your secret, Nico nodded knowingly, finally accepting the fact that the bird was now in on all your secrets from that fateful day onward.

"So, let me get this straight, Chickee knows the secret but, V doesn't?" Nico questioned.

"Y - yeah,... ?" The bird hesitantly answered.

"WHAT'S THAT? YOU TOLD V, DIDN'T YOU?!" You yelled at the bird as you grabbed his wings.

"NO! NO! I SWEAR BY MA OWN FEATHERS! SHAKESPEARE DOESN'T KNOW A SINGLE THING! I SWEAR! I SWEAR! DON'T MURDER ME WOMAN, I BEG YOU!"

"He's telling the truth." You finally admitted as you let him go.

"WAIT!" Nico, who seemed to not let go of the issue just yet, stopped you. "If you're here, then V is here, too!"

Griffon's eyes widened. "Hehe, well,..."

"AHH!" You shrieked in embarrassment as you covered your parts and literally collapsed on the ground, feeling your body heat up.

"HAHAHA! WAHAHAHA! LOOK AT YA! WAHAHA! WAHA - !"

Now, it was Nico's turn to grab the demonic bird by his beak.

"Keep messin' with us, and you'll really have to say bye bye to your pretty little Shakespeare!"

"SQUAWK!"

After a few more threats to the poor bird, you three had finally managed to settle down. You, now fully dressed and officially through with Nico's experiments, were taking a nap, leaning against the wall inside the abandoned building. The freckled woman was putting the camera back to her rucksack,...

... and Griffon? It was safe to say that the bird has started sniffing you for some unknown reason. Your friend noticed this and called his attention.

"Hey! I know that's a chick you're sniffin' there but, ya just can't do that without V's permission. He'll get real mad!" Nico mumbled in a whisper to avoid waking you up.

"Ah! Haha! Well, tryna sniff some bugs out,..." Griffon nervously lied, then whispered, more to himself, "That's weird, I can't smell anythin'!"

"I heard that!" Nico retorted as she quickly made her way towards you and him to shelter herself from the impending rain.

"Can't ya smell anythin' weird about her?"

"Weird? You mean bad odor, or - ?"

"Not bad odor!" Griffon shrieked.

"Sshh!"

"Oh, sorry."

Nico raised an eyebrow as she sat next to you and wrapped her arms around her knees for added warmth. It really was getting a bit colder.

"You've been actin' weird. Especially that Shakespeare dude! Where's V, huh? And you better start tellin' me the truth."

"He's,... ah,... somewhere! Yeah, somewhere,... "

"Really?"

"Well, I can't really tell ya! Just know that he's out there but, not close here, yeah?"

"Whatever." Nico said, rolling her eyes. She pushed the rim of her red - framed glasses closer to her nose bridge and went on interrogating the bird. "And what do ya mean by that odor?"

If birds could sweat, Griffon could probably produce buckets by now. Fortunately, it was slightly hard to see through his real emotions due to his brash nature.

After all, Nico would surely suspect something if he told her that V sent him to spy on you.

And for what reason?

V actually didn't fully believe everything that Fleminger person told him. He said to him the exact opposite of what he truly believed in, and, confused to the core he may be, he wanted to make sure if the guy was telling the truth, or not. He just couldn't do the spying, himself, as of the moment. It just felt wrong to do it to a lady such as you.

After all, he did come to adore you despite the really short time you've been together. And he's not letting anyone ruin that.

Not now when,...

So, he wanted to make sure by first sending Griffon to you. If the demonic avian failed to produce results, then he'd be the one who will do the interrogation, himself but, only as a last resort.

He would never believe that YOU were the Dreadnought, and he's willing to prove it so that he could slap that hard truth to Fleminger's face. Along with Shadow's scratches to boot.

The only problem was, he didn't know that you were hiding secrets from him, yourself. That alone was truly suspicious, and Griffon knew all that. The Demon just opted not to tell V that, for he had also learned to love you as a friend after the Malphas event. You've been a really good person and a protector to him, and he, like V, hoped that Fleminger was wrong about you.

"Hey!" Nico said, snapping her fingers to get Griffon's attention.

"What?!"

"The odor? I was asking about (Y/N)'s odor."

Ah, crap, Griffon thought. Should I let this woman know?! She's her friend! She could easily tell whether (Y/N)'s the fuckin' Dreadnought or not!

"Well! I, uh,..."

"Speaking of which," Nico interrupted, much to the bird's rotten luck. Or, was it? "... Nero has been bugging me with this non - existent apple pie he's been sniffin' round about three days ago. I mean, I can't even bake. But, if it's Kyrie then - !"

"If the pimple kid's a Demon, then that makes total sense! I - " Griffon blurted out without even thinking, making the woman stare at him in disbelief. He gulped audibly, his nerves getting the better of him. "Ah, oops?"

Nico raised an eyebrow in suspicion. "And what does that supposed to mean?"

"Ah, what?"

"THAT?!"

"AH! AAHH! NNRRGGHH!" Griffon squawked and started flapping his wings wildly in panic.

"HEY! I'M ONLY ASKING A QUESTION!" Nico said in an effort to make the bird calm down. "Unless,... " she stood up and pointed a tattooed finger at him. "... YOU'RE REALLY HIDING SOMETHING FROM US!"

"WWWHHHAAAKKK! QQQUUUAAAWWW!"

Griffon was moving too much that he accidentally scratched your arm in accident.

"DUMBASS!" Nico grabbed the bird's talons, taking them away from you. "LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!"

"G - guys,... " You muttered, finally waking up due to the noise and the sudden pain in your arm. "What's happening?"

"It's the chicken's fault!" Nico shrieked, shaking the bird in annoyance.

You gave them a confused look, then glanced at the now bloody wound on your arm. You shook your head in disbelief.

"Do not be too hard on the creature. I will heal." You tiredly responded, standing up and making your way outside despite the rain.

"Hon, it's still raining." Nico pleaded as she finally let Griffon go.

"It matters not." You answered monotonously. "This body would soon perish, after all,..."

"Come again?"

It took both Nico and Griffon a few seconds to realize that your voice sounded different, the way you moved looked suspicious,...

... and your eyes seemed a different shade,...

"(Y/N), is that you?" Nico asked, wary of her own movements.

"That is the name of our vessel." You answered, further confirming that you were taken over by the entity in a space of only a few moments right after waking up.

"Our?" Griffon added. "What do ya mean by that, sweet pea?"

"Feeble minds would never be able to comprehend the meaning of our existence. Humans and Demons alike perceived us as one." You glanced back at them, only for them to see that you have completely changed your appearance.

To Nico and Griffon, you now looked like a tall and slender woman with beautiful dark skin and equally dark and abundant hair. Your large, mournful eyes shone brightly and looked upon them with such enigma that none of them dared to utter a word.

"We are one. However, at the same time, we are three. I' am the Aspect of The Future." You, or the entity, made yourself known. "I' am here in this crucial moment to partake of a vital information from the near future."

"Future?" Nico bravely asked whilst Griffon remained silent. "You have a prediction for us?"

The entity, or The Aspect of The Future, bowed her regal head.

"In four days time, two hearts would be ripped open, blood shall be spilled, and emotions will clash upon uneven ground. A Prince will awaken and a King shall rise. The Pale Ones would make their move and engulf the whole world in darkness. Only then would the third and final heart, the one who would regret the most, be stabbed by their own doing."

"That sounds,... cheerful,..." Nico added sarcastically to somehow lighten the mood. She might have poked fun at you for changing into that light being who can disintegrate your clothes but, she just couldn't make fun of this particular entity who made unfunny prophecies.

Griffon flew towards the entity before Nico could even stop him.

"You said something before about crying and kneeling, and whatever that was." The demonic bird questioned. "What's up with that? Another twisted plot on a fuckin' t.v. show?!"

"My answer remains the same." The entity answered calmly. "At the final hours of the evening and the last radiance of the wounded moon, the past will weep, the present will kneel, and the future will die."

"The future will die?" Nico cut in. "Is that what you mean by your body perishing soon?"

But, the entity did not answer. Instead, she went past Griffon and made her way towards the woman.

"Would you weep, human?"

"Uh, it depends,..." Nico said matter - of - factly. It's the plain truth! Why would she cry at the prophet's death?

"You are strong and vigilant. Remain as such until the promised hour." The entity answered, then went back towards Griffon.

"Ahh, ya have somethin' for me?" Griffon asked.

"Remain true to your instincts." The entity told him. "Even in the face of true danger."

"Okay,... WHAT?!"

The entity nodded, then faced away from them, glancing at the depressing weather outside. Nico, who was curious to know more, followed suit.

"Why are you telling us all this? Isn't the future kind of forbidden to tell? And why show yourself now? Because the world is ending and some shit?"

"And so, you believed me?"

"Well, yeah! I believed in my friend, and her power comes from you! Of course, I believe you."

"Such innocence,..." the entity simply stated, then released a sound that sounded strangely like a chuckle. "There was a time when I was stoned by my own people for warning them of such dangers. No one believed me, and that is my eternal curse. A curse for turning away a powerful lover. He gave me this power."

"No one's stoning you here." Griffon said, joining the two. "That's just barbaric."

"Is there a way to prevent all this bad stuff from happening?" Nico finally asked, positively itching to know the solution. Well, there must be! "Like a plan B, or somethin'?"

"There is no alternative. Everything I told you is inevitable."

"So, that's it, huh? All of us will fuckin' die?" Griffon slightly yelled at the entity for being so pessimistic.

She looked at him and gave him a meaningful glance. "There is,... an alternative."

Griffon and Nico's eyes widened as they looked at each other in utter surprise.

"And it all depends on one." The entity finished.

"One what?!" Both Nico and Griffon questioned, to which they were just ignored as the entity glanced back at the weather outside.

"By then, the past shall still weep but, not for long, the present shall forever kneel but, the future,... may no longer die. That is,... a nice thought. If only,..."

"If only,... ?" Nico asked in an attempt to keep the entity talking.

However, the strange creature remained silent as she watched every single drop of the rain.

"It has been,... a long time since I watched the rain." She quietly said, her voice as gentle and calm as possible. "It is so calm, so peaceful. A fitting start to an end."

Nico sighed. They never truly heard something positive from her other than her proposed plan B, which was still very vague, much to their distaste.

"I'm afraid I'm keeping your friend." The entity told them. "I must go, for her strength must be replenished."

"WAIT!"

Both the entity and Nico looked at Griffon, surprised at what he just blurted out.

"Speak, creature of the night."

"I, ahh,..." Griffon began, unsure how to bring up the Dreadnought issue. "I just wanna know, is,... is (Y/N) an, ah, err, an,... ah, how to say this?"

"Just spit it out, Chickee!" Nico blurted out, crossing her arms once more.

"Is (Y/N) an enemy? I just wanna know." And just like that, the words were finally out from him like removing a thorn piercing his heart.

"ENEMY?! WHAT ARE YOU - ?!"

"I see." The entity said. All of a sudden, her body was engulfed with light, like she was catching on fire. "It entirely depends,... on the beholder."

And with those final words, the entity vanished, leaving behind her vessel.

Your eyes were closed shut, and when you finally opened them, you were surprised to see both Nico and Griffon staring at you with open mouths.

"Did I just do something weird?" You asked them, which made them convinced that you did not remember everything that just happened.

"No!" Nico answered with a nervous laugh.

"That's it! I just gotta tell V that she's not an enemy, right?!" Griffon said to himself, entirely forgetting that you and Nico could totally hear him.

"What are you talking about?" You asked him.

"Ah! Nothin' ! Gotta go!"

"Wait!"

And, just like that, the demonic bird flew away, his strange words and behavior making him even more suspicious.

***

~ A V X Reader set in an Alternate Universe wherein heavy rain means lost videos and Apocalypse. 🖤

~ Tagging @heaven-on-a-landslide , @lessy86 , @boundbysoul , @simmy-ships , @ehrzeth , @ceruleanworld , @gxthghoulfriend , and @diabeticsugarush . Thank you for all your support.

***

"I will wait for as long as it takes. I only ask for one thing: don't forget about me."

***

🖤🖤🖤

***

#devil may cry 5 #v #i see my future before me #v x reader #v x you #devil may cry nico #devil may cry nero #devil may cry griffon #invisible war #sitti navarro #chapter 17

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pravin1224-blog · 5 years ago

Text

Once upon a time I used to know a 13 year old boy who was convinced that he was destined to become something spectacular in life .

Then one day, he grew up.

Soon, the day slipped into years . And the years into decades . Until one fine morning when he looked into the bathroom mirror and found a stranger in there. A stranger who reminded him of a typical non-hero character out of a Woody Allen movie, someone who was standing at intermission and unable to account for the thousands of days that had slipped by, taking all his innocent and absurd dreams with them.

That 13-year old boy used to be me . Or maybe he used to be you. The you, you left behind – at misty bends and messy ends, as you went about earning your scars and chasing illusions you mistook for real life.

Time is indeed a queer commodity that is reconstructed in memories and deconstructed in regrets as it goes by. Most of us sleepwalk through our youth in trying to win some kind of identity . Then we stumble upon middle age & scramble to preserve that identity . And suddenly, standing at mid-point , we realize that somewhere in this medley of all the artificial races we were enlisting in, we have quietly let go of our greatness. Partly by default , partly by design. The first pangs of urgency hit us. We know this is no dress rehearsal. It is our own life that is gliding past. We straighten up and reach for it.

In many ways, 2019 has been that year for me. The year of pause and reset. The year of recalibration so as to find my personal 2.0. Agree, it might not fetch me that Olympic medal or get me a phone call from Stockholm in this lifetime, but it should at least bring forth the best in the rest of me. Someone had written somewhere that one day in your journey, the you who you became will come face to face with the you who you could have been . This year, and in the years ahead, I have chosen to test this out with my personal toolkit, my realizations from having lived a life of sorts. At least I owe it to the 13-year old who I would like to see eye to eye as we shake hands on the other side of the finish line.

Here’s my 2.0. Do let me know if it matches with yours ?

Find your song – Like Rocky says, ‘Fighters fight..’. Likewise, painters paint. Poets write. You were born with your own song inside you, a song no one else can sing as well as you. Find it. Don’t show up at the finale with your song still unsung.

Toss it up – As we get older, we become suckers for conformity. We join the herd, and get trapped in time capsules that we legitimize as our rule book. And in the process, we lose our fluidity and edge. Find ways to toss your days. Every day is different. Each day has its unique flavor and rhythm. Discover it. Savor it. Live it.

Subtract your busyness – In today’s super connected world, it is very easy to get zombified by irrelevant chatter and numbed by FOMO ( fear of missing out). Get off the bandwagon of manufactured busyness. If anything really needs your attention, it will find its way to you somehow. You don’t need to check your phone every 30 seconds for that.

Be the best first hand You – When people talk of you in your absence, there should be 5-6 consistent things that they recall about you. That is your own personal brand. Work on it, nurture it and protect it. This is what should make people love and respect you beyond your day job title. In 2019, I de-linked my brand from my day job. Its not that I do not love my organization or my job. Far from it. But I prefer an identity that is my own. And I feel glad that I have so many friends, connections and well wishers out there who don’t care what I do as my day job.

Find your well – My favorite among Haruki Murakami’s many metaphors is the ‘bottom of a well’ thing , a place his protagonists often retreat into. We all need a well as we do our 2.0. This is where we need to disappear periodically, to lose ourselves in dark silence every day, so as to find ourselves better. You are not ready to deliver your swansong till you know all that you must know about you.

Don’t be the dinosaur in the room – Keep pace with trends & technology. There is no scientific evidence suggesting that our brains become less capable to embrace newness as we grow older. In fact, I think it is the reverse. We actually develop a wider perspective to apply new things as we have a larger platter of past experiences to draw from. Most people get stuck in the ‘good old days’ syndrome and squander off their precious 2.0 in cynicism and nostalgia. As the saying goes – The good old days were not that good. The good new days are here. And better days are coming.

Don’t be a corporate robot – Most people out there wake up, grimace at the morning news, eat breakfast, drive their Toyota Corolla to work , sit nodding in endless & pointless meetings, grumble about life's unfairness at the vending machine, ‘Like’ their boss’s stupid posts on social media, criticize Trump and Modi, go back home, watch TV and go to bed. Don’t be most people. Your 2.0 should be about finding your unique way to add value. To yourself, to your workplace and to the world you live in.

Find the smaller meaning of life – In pursuit of some unnecessary profound, we often miss the necessary ordinary. Each day is an opportunity to do our own small things for this world. Find few small things to do each day. If each of us took care of the small things, the big things will take care of themselves.

Stop chasing credit for the work you do - The world is a fair place. Every honest effort gets noticed, recorded and applauded in due course of time. Your time shall come.

Find your Zen - Human beings, by nature, are designed for stability and coexistence. This whole discourse on disruption is overrated and temporary . It will soon pass. And life will go on.

Get fit -If you miss your workout for a day, no one will notice. If you miss it for three days, you will notice. If you miss it for a week, others will notice. One of the things you need for an effective 2.0 is robust health. Respect your body. And it will pay you dividends as you slug it out there and compete in the relevance battle with people half your age.

Dress sensibly - Don’t buy skinny jeans. Donate your light coloured suits. No one might tell you so, but they make you look silly.

Decode love - In 2.0, you discover that love is not a few nice words from a Rumi’s couplet , but rather, it is a person we uncover as we grow older – in someone else, as well as in ourselves. Love during your first innings is often impulsive, hormonal & stupid. Love during 2.0 becomes something that grows & triumphs over time and circumstances. Make sure you love your partner. Also make sure you remember to tell your partner that you love her / him. Nothing silly in that.

Draw out your circle of dignity – Youth is about misadventures and compromises. Hungry to get an appreciative nod from the world, we keep making allowances. Each such allowance leaves us with a vague vacuum within, a discomfort we cannot explain . One of the things about 2.0 is plugging the vacuum by drawing your own circle of dignity, your personal code of conduct. This is the line you won’t cross, no matter how big the repercussions be.

The dude in the sky - Mark Twain ( in his 1916 classic ‘ The mysterious stranger ’) wrote – “Humanity has unquestionably one really effective weapon—laughter. Power, money, persuasion, supplication, persecution—these can lift at a colossal humbug—push it a little—weaken it a little, century by century; but only laughter can blow it to rags and atoms at a blast. Against the assault of laughter nothing can stand.” Loosen up. Every once in a while, connect with your eccentric friends. Or with your own eccentric self. You are but just a speck in the scheme of the universe which again is only a speck in the larger scheme of a drama being scripted by that brilliant playright in the sky . Don’t take yourself too seriously.

Live fair. Stay kind. Have fun. Finish well.

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spratwurst · 6 years ago

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Happy Holidays, @levowgt!! 🌟 I was your Secret Santa, so here’s some Triss and Geralt for you. It’s a bit long for a Tumblr post, so I put it under a cut, and it’s also on ao3 here if you prefer reading it over there. I had fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy it as well. :) Happy holidays again and have a great 2019! ♥

Mornings like this are rare and he’s learned to treasure them.

Usually Triss is up and about before the first rosy rays of sun glide over Kovir’s snowy peaks, working on whatever earth-shattering task the King has for her or busying herself around the house. Mending a shirt or a dress, brewing potions, organizing and reorganizing whole bookshelves, baking pies and cakes and cookies, but never wasting a moment, not one second. As if there were simply not enough time left in the world for her to do everything she plans to do.

Sometimes Geralt wonders if that’s it: if Triss feels as if they’re living on borrowed time and should she give herself a moment of respite everything would fall apart. He certainly does feel so at times-- and, indeed, what a silly thing to feel. The years they’ve spent together in Kovir have been nothing but peace and quiet, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine a different life now.

But here she is, sleeping peacefully with her red curls-- red like fire, like rubies, like strawberries and wine-- spread out over the pillow and her freckled shoulders, the entire room overflowing with light and such mellowing warmth that one could easily forget about the biting cold raging outside. And here he is, smile soft and eyelids still heavy with sleep, propped on an elbow and watching her, taking in the image of her being all soft and content and safe, knowing it will be but a few short moments before she begins to stir.

And surely enough, it starts with a deep breath followed by a sigh. She opens her eyes, smiles when seeing him, closes them back. Hers is a bright and infectious smile, face all crinkled up with mirth, and he loves it so much. He loves her so much. It makes something warm and terrible tremble in his chest like it’s the first time he acknowledges it, with a giddy and tentative curiosity, the sort that is characteristic to love-struck youth. Perhaps that’s what he is at the end of the day: a century-old lovesick fool.

“You’re beautiful,” Geralt whispers, a half-breathless murmur of amazement more than a proper morning greeting.

Triss hums a wordless answer and begins to stretch her arms above her head, lifting herself off the bed slightly as she does so. “Good morning to you, too,” she says, and her voice quivers slightly with the grogginess of sleep. One of her hands finds its way in Geralt’s white hair and gently slides down to his face, resting above the fresh lick of scarlet slithering in a jagged diagonal across his cheek. She traces the scar’s contour with her thumb, and says, “It’s almost healed already.”

“Mhm. Thanks to your spell. They never teach witchers anything remotely as useful.”

“And with good reason, too. You’d all accidentally grow yourselves a second pair of arms.”

“What’s so bad about that?” he asks with an accent of feigned reproach. “I could hold you twice as tight.”

As if to prove his point, Geralt reaches over and pulls her closer, both arms wrapped around her. She laughs heartily, and the sound of it is a soothing touch laid upon his soul. He kisses her, then. A sweet and tender thing dragging on until they’re nearly out of breath, sunk in the bed’s smooth blankets and pillows. In time, they start drifting back to sleep. Their slow and steady breaths, the half-burnt logs crackling in the fireplace at the end of the bed, and the muffled blizzard slapping against the arched windows are the only sounds in the bedroom. Washing over them both is a sensation of understated delight, tender and quiet like honey-sweetened tea on a breezy spring afternoon.

“Hold on,” Triss says suddenly with a faint accusatory tone. She pulls back from the embrace and squints at Geralt. “How late is it?”

He shrugs. “Not late enough that we need to leave the bed.”

Frowning, she makes as if to get up, but her ever-so naughty witcher stops her. He squeezes her shoulder with gentle care, and then his hand travels down her back, tracing the curve of her spine with the back of his fingers. His skin is far from soft or unblemished, but she’s grown accustomed to his touch by now-- even confessed to preferring it this way.

“Stay,” he says, a low and breathy plea of profound and eager hopefulness. “Stay with me.”

After a first moment of reluctance spent biting her bottom lip, Triss relents, leaning into his touch. “There’s a new apprentice at the Court. I was supposed to show them around today, but… I suppose it can wait.”

“Tell the King it was too cold for you to come in today.”

She chuckles shortly at his suggestion. “I’m not walking to the palace, silly. I could always teleport.”

“Hm. Tell him you accidentally teleported on a faraway sunny beach?” Geralt offers, waving his hand in a broad gesture.

“And what a good impression would that make,” she says, but then looks over her shoulder, a small mischievous smile growing and lighting up her face. “Actually-- it might not be such a bad idea.”

“The faraway sunny beach?”

“Mmm. We never did go on a proper honeymoon.”

Geralt smiles and opens his arms in an invitation for her to settle on his chest. “True,” he says, and kisses the top of her head. “Minus the teleporting part.”

She looks up, shooting him an incredulous glance. “Would you rather have us take Roach across the entire Continent, then?”

A low chuckle leaves his throat, and Triss can feel it reverberating in his chest against her open palm.

“Why not? She deserves a holiday too. I get to spend more time with you away from the Court. We might even meet Ciri on the way there.”

“Oh, the ashen-haired witcheress, you mean?” she asks, a sly edge adding levity to her question. “I thought she was a mere figment of a poet's fancy?”

“Guess we have to find out,” he replies, his fingers tracing idly through her hair.

She goes in for another kiss, smiling against his lips as they share a marvelous and enchanting sense of belonging in the easy way their bodies fit together. It’s still early in the morning, but a kind of ineffable splendor already crowns the day.

“How long will we stay in bed?” Triss asks, placing a warm kiss over his collarbone.

“Until the end of time if I have any say in it.”

“Ah, Geralt. You’re getting more romantic by the day,” Triss teases. “But you’re forgetting something.”

“Am I?” he says, lifting his eyebrows with interesting.

“We’ll both get hungry soon enough,” she replies, laughing, and he can’t help but join her.

“A few more minutes, then,” he bargains.

“A few more minutes,” she agrees, closing her eyes, and sighing contentedly as he hugs her closer.

#levowgt #twsecretsanta18 #the witcher #tw3 #wild hunt #geralt #triss #geralt of rivia #triss merigold #geralt x triss #triss x geralt #my writing #mine #long post

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geneshaven · 6 years ago

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The Smell Of Books

I was starting part 2 of my Olicity fic, Overdue and was suddenly overcome with a brutal dose of writer’s block. I started it, then I stopped, then I started it---but there was nothing there. So, I shifted gears and wrote this little story about having writer’s block.

Spring had come, and Jonas Hiller sat at his computer in search of new ideas.

It had been a long winter, a time in which Jonas struggled with creation, shut up in his little house and ignoring the snow outside, falling from the sky like whispered secrets. All winter he had drifted through the rooms, stoking the fires he built all those months, eating his meals and dreaming his dreams. They left him with no rest. So many hours he spent hunched over the blank screen in front of him, staring at that white page as if looking for clues in an invisible mystery. Frost was in the air and it left him bitterly cold.

Now, sepia colors breathed and blossomed through his window as he sat once again at his station. Behind him, Jonas could feel the eyes of the Master’s upon him, lined up in his bookcase as if they were strict parents expecting the very best from their child. Shakespeare, Keats, Yeats---all rested impatiently in their dusty perches, waiting for Jonas to make them proud. But he could not make them proud.

He turned away from his desk and looked over at the bookcase. He could smell the aroma of leather and dust, familiar smells, like fresh bread baking in the kitchen of his childhood, his mother tied at the waist with her blue apron and giving his mouth reason to water. All through the lengthy winter, Jonas had no thoughts of his own, and reading those books brought him no closer to such musings.

More hours passed and he felt evening come, bringing its shadows to the world. He was exhausted by the absence of words and the tragedy of not being able to tell the simplest of stories. He pushed himself away from his desk and stood up with an unearned stretch. He thought about taking one of those books to bed with him, a nightlight for his mind, but it felt too much like cheating. Jonas gave a silent nod to the bookcase. Those were not his stories, but he wanted them to be. He wanted those tales to tuck him in and lull him to sleep.

He turned, clicked off the light and left his study. He would try again tomorrow.

For he is superstitious, grown of late, quiet from the main opinion he held once, of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies

-William Shakespeare-

These words spoke in Jonas’s dreams. He awoke the next morning and saw them like crystal monoliths in his head. Again, they were not his words, but they were meant for him.

Outside, birds flew past his window, speaking to him in their own language. He could almost hear their heartbeats, their tales of flying and landing and taking off again. Two rooms over from his bed, Jonas’s study waited for him, a torture chamber of dead ideas and silent thoughts. The exuberance for life those birds sang about gave Jonas a brief flare of inspiration and he heaved himself out of bed, slipped on a bathrobe and went out to once again look for the edges of creation.

An hour later, Jonas sat in front of his computer. And sat. And sat. Waiting. Staring. Thinking. Hoping. There was nothing. The words in his dreams and the songs of birds had vanished. The blank page before him was the same one as yesterday---empty and lifeless. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours. Breakfast became lunch and dinner was just around the corner. Even the smell of books behind him did not bring any direction or advice.

“In Endymion, I leaped headlong into the sea, and thereby have become better acquainted with the soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.”

Jonas turned around at the sound of the voice behind him. An icy touch of fear stiffened his back. Sitting in an old cracked leather chair next to his bookcase was John Keats. He sat there and stared back at Jonas with soft, knowing eyes.

“I assume you are in search of advice,” he said to Jonas. “Little of it I can give you, but I have been on the edge of that green shore and felt the same fear that consumes you at this moment.”

Jonas sat speechless, wordless and senseless.

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. It is thy feeling of being alive.”

Jonas heard this quote come out of the invisible air. Keats also looked around. They both recognized the words, and suddenly William Shakespeare materialized in the room, standing behind the leather chair. Keats looked around and up at the great Bard.

“The only means of strengthening one’s intellect is to make up one’s mind about nothing---to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts,” Keats added.

“Nonsense,” Shakespeare replied. “Intelligence has nothing to do with expression”

Jonas had nothing to add.

Another voice drifted on the air. “Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer; things fall apart; the center cannot hold, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned; the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.”

W.B. Yeats joined the party and Jonas tried to remember his poetry days at college, but they were as transparent as his creative energy. The room was becoming crowded with philosophers. Jonas felt very small in their company.

He finally found his voice and spoke up. “Uh…I’m sorry, but what is going on here? What means of insanity is this?”

The three poets looked at Jonas, filled with their own importance.

“Have we eaten of the insane root that takes the reason prisoner?” Shakespeare quipped.

Jonas shook his head. “Oh…I know what this is. You are my frustrations playing tricks on my mind. I have been trying too hard all this winter to have my say and this is my mind telling me to ease up.” He did not think that hearing voices was crazy; indeed, it was a necessity of writing. But when specters were added to those voices, Jonas suspected that he was not to far away from the land of rubber rooms and butterfly nets. He closed his eyes, hoping that his delusion would disappear while immersed in blackness.

“The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails,” Keats chanted from his 1820 poem, The Eve of St. Agnes.

Shakespeare and Yeats chuckled at the young poet.

Keats went on, encouraged by their reaction. “And soft adornings from their loves receive upon the honeyed middle of night.”

The other two poets lightly clapped their hands. “Not bad,” Shakespeare said.” Though a bit vague, it has rhythm and verve.”

“But little style,” Yeats harshly added. “Perhaps you find it easier to touch the face of God by speaking to Him with ignorance?”

“What do you mean by that, sir?” Keats angerly replied.

But Yeats only went on keeping his observations to himself.

Jonas opened his eyes and realized he was at the mercy of his delusions.

“A young man” Yeats suddenly spoke. “When old men are done talking will say to an old man, ‘Tell me of that lady, the poet stubborn with is passion sang us when age might well have chilled his blood.”

“Passion? Blood?” Shakespeare seemed to have his head on a swivel, turning it in refusal as he dismissed the persuasion from his peers. “A man whose blood is very snow-broth; one who never feels the wanton stings of motions of the sense.”

Keats cleared his throat. “Sirs, I cannot go on with this useless chanting,” He pointed over at Jonas. “Take heart in the wasted soul and be brave. Words are only small things compared to the majesty of God.” He winked out of existence, once again taking his poetry with him.

Shakespeare and Yeats did not seem to notice departure.

Finally, Yeats decided it was time for him to go as well. “I have enjoyed our voices, William. Once again you push from the sky the very touch of beauty and reason, shining in the secret shimmering of the stars. Adieu.”

Just before he winked out, Yeats turned to Jonas and added one more observation. “Remember---in dreams begins responsibility.”

He was gone.

Shakespeare also felt it time to go. He looked at Jonas and seemed satisfied.

“And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, and then from hour to hour, we rot and rot. And thereby hangs a tale.”

He winked at Jonas and disappeared, taking his place back up on the dusty shelves of the bookcase.

Jonas sat alone in his study, night already painting it acknowledgement of another wasted day at his computer. Yet, there was no weariness or frustration from his lack of words. Perhaps the poets were right. Life and its paces should be enough to give him his own voice. Trying so hard to capture the essence of meaning and reason for it all could be why he does not see the obvious. Jonas turned back around and faced the computer again. He took in another large scent of the smell of books from the bookcase behind him. Leather and dust filled him, and with it, motivation to stand on the edge of what he wanted to say and what will eventually be said without him.

He clicked on the little lamp sitting next to him and began to write about the spring, of its sepia colors and fresh landscapes, once again uncovered by the melting of winter snows.

@memcjo @it-was-a-red-heeler @swordandarrow @hope-for-olicity @vaelisamaza @gabriellamarie97 @almondblossomme @wordslovedreams

#writer's block

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summerhuntresses · 5 years ago

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oh, icarus

[ao3]

There is a castle on a hill, and in that castle is a girl who never leaves.

But she wants to.

There is a castle on a hill.

Water surrounds the castle, water and jagged rocks that jut to the sky.

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say-

There is a castle that sits on a crag of rock in the middle of the sea, with only the waves and the bravest of the birds to see it.

There are people, of course. This castle was built for a reason.

If you asked one of the residents, they would tell you there is no safer place in the world and the only dangers we face here are the storms and the king is wise oh he is so wise we are lucky to have him.

If you asked the king, he would say no one would attack a castle surrounded by rocks and reefs on all sides and I had a duty to my people to protect them and I must do all I can to keep my daughter safe.

If you asked the king’s daughter, she would answer hubris and fear and selfishness.

Of course, you would not ask the king’s daughter.

The castle is not entirely cut off from the world; there is a port, and many merchant vessels dock here.

Not much food can be grown in solid rock, and there is not enough space for livestock. The people of the castle rely on trade to survive, trade brought to them by ships and merchants from the outside world.

They have quite a bit of spare time, without the need to raise their own food. Time is precious and powerful, even in the wrong hands, and the king chose his people well. There are artists and metalworkers and poets and scribes, but what the king is most proud of are his scientists.

The castle on the rock is filled to the brim with knowledge, quite literally. The library stretches from the ground to the sky, soaring over the sea and constantly growing.

(Not on its own, of course. This is not that kind of story.)

As the castle’s knowledge grows, the king’s architects and engineers expand the library so it can contain it all. The result is the most magnificent tower - the most magnificent library - in all the land, and pilgrims of knowledge come from far and wide to see it.

Very few are allowed in; the king is wise, and cautious, and guards his knowledge jealously.

But that is not the only thing he guards.

At the very top of the tower there is a room. Not a large room, to be sure. The nature of this room is such that as the tower grows, the room follows, cleverly anchored to its peak.

In the room there lives a girl.

This girl is not extraordinary - she is not inhumanly beautiful, and neither is she touched by the gods. She cannot bewitch a person with only her voice, and there are very few suitors fighting for her hand.

None, in fact. The girl is not a social animal, and the few times she makes the effort, she is not the most charming of girls.

What she is, however, is brilliant.

She lives at the top of the tower - at the top of the library - and she reads, and she learns, and she creates.

The girl is the greatest of the king’s scientists. Her hands make miracles, that is what the castlefolk say, and they are not entirely wrong.

From her hands spring wolves made from steel; fierce and loyal and twisted from the earth into her own design.

She forges strong iron bulls, beasts of burden that can carry many times what a flesh and blood creature could, and dainty electrum cats that twine around the ankles of the castlefolk until the line between flesh and metal is blurred to nothing.

But her greatest creations, the ones that leave the castlefolk in awe, are her birds.

Songbirds fashioned from gold, sweet music ringing from copper throats.

Hunting birds knapped from obsidian, their swift bodies bound together with deft twists of dark iron.

Even seabirds, gulls woven from bronze and alloyed titanium, swooping over the open ocean and catching fish to bring back.

No one knows how her birds take flight, and no one is willing to venture up the tower to ask.

To do so would be to risk the king’s wrath.

The girl, you see, is his daughter.

If you asked him, the king would tell you she is my most precious treasure and all I do I do for her and I have to keep her safe.

If you asked her…

Well.

You would not ask her.

She sits in her room at the top of the tower, and she reads, and she learns, and she creates.

She does not venture down to the ground.

When she was younger she tried, of course. Children are curious and want to explore, and she was a curious child indeed.

The tower was smaller, then.

She was a child and she wanted a friend, but all she found was deference. The castlefolk feared her father, and because of that they feared her too.

That fear hurt her, deep in her soul. They were polite, of course, perfectly willing to speak with the king’s daughter, but they never forgot who they were speaking to. They bowed, and smiled, and greeted her as princess and my lady and your grace (but never by name) and each and every time she remembered that they only spoke to her for fear of her father.

Still she kept exploring, finding new places and new people each day. She told herself that she would speak to every single person in the castle and find the one who would see her for herself.

(Existing as simply a concept in the minds of everyone you meet is exhausting, she had learned.)

Weeks passed, and with them months. Seasons changed and she grew older, still hoping to find a single person who would call her by her name.

Her thirteenth nameday came and went, celebrated by all the castlefolk. The girl hid in the cellar with a stolen honey cake and a treatise on the chemical properties of iron. No one realized her absence, all assuming she had different and grander plans than theirs.

(There was a merchant girl, once. She smiled, and spoke to the girl, and didn’t fear her father. There was a merchant girl, but the problem with merchants is that they leave.)

(She wishes she could leave, sometimes.)

By the time she is fifteen she has spoken to every single person in the castle. Not a single one has used her name. Her father tries to comfort her, saying they are only peasants, they do not understand your brilliance, you are so much more than them.

She returns to her tower that night, to the library, and she does not leave.

Years pass.

The tower grows.

She stays in her tower, watches as the ground gets farther and farther away, and she brings metal to life.

The castlefolk see this, and they marvel. Witch, they call her, sorceress, she who commands the earth to bend. They do not call her king’s daughter any longer, but then she would not know that, would she?

She breathes life into metal and she wonders what it feels like-

what life feels like.

Her father the king is pleased with her work. How could he not be, when his daughter works miracles in his domain? He does not enter the library. A king has much to do, and there is no time for him to waste on books.

It does not occur to him that his daughter is in the library. It does not occur to him that she is alone.

The girl does not spend all of her time in her room. That would be silly. She lives in a library after all, the greatest library in the world. She walks among the shelves, reads book after book after book, learns to refine her work more than she ever thought possible.

The castlefolk, if they see her amongst the shelves, do not speak to her. Perhaps they think they are doing her a service, that she would prefer to be undisturbed, or perhaps they merely fear her still; she does not know.

She is not guarded, of course. Why would she be guarded, in the castle on the rock? Who would she need guarding from? The only people in the castle on the rock are those who the king allows to be there.

And the king would never allow her to be harmed.

(She never thinks about how even being guarded night and day would be preferable to this constant, neverending solitude, for at least a guard might speak to her.)

(This is a lie.)

As time passes and the girl grows older, her spark begins to dim. She still weaves her creatures from metal, still breathes life into them, but they dim as well, forged from iron and built for work. The cats grow less plentiful, and the bulls less ornate.

There are no more songbirds.

The castlefolk whisper - of course they notice the change, how could they not - but they do nothing more than whisper. The girl is barely more than a legend to them by now; she is a flicker in the corner of their eye, a shadow passing through the library.

Her creations still roam the castle, but they have been there forever, without a beginning or an end. They merely exist.

(Like her.)

Her gaze has turned inwards, no longer gazing to the stars and dreaming. She looks at the ground, sees the castlefolk there, and resigns herself to solitude.

Once upon a time a little girl imagined what it would be like to fly; she stretched her hands out to meet the glittering songbirds that circled her tower and felt them soar through empty space, held up by nothing but their wings and their will.

The longing to fly was fierce and all-consuming. To soar with her gulls, dive with her raptors, dance with her songbirds.

A messenger had interrupted her daydreaming, then, with a requisition form from the stone workers on the ground. She had gone back to work and pushed the dream from her mind.

Her shoulders itched for days.

Now the girl was three and twenty, an adult in both body and mind. The passion had faded from her creatures; they did their jobs and moved like beasts, but it was easy to tell that they were metal instead of flesh.

The castlefolk whisper about it in secret. They had quickly grown to love the quirks and foibles of the creatures, how one of the electrum cats would knock the paintings askew while another of the bronze gulls roosted in the rafters, refusing to leave unless forced to.

Those creatures, the early ones, had had names, individuality, personality, but no more. As the girl lost her spark, so too did her creatures.

The dreams have returned to her. Her days are filled with thoughts of flight, of sprouting wings like the songbirds of her childhood and simply falling off the tower. No longer the dreams of an artist, these are the dreams of a girl without hope, one forced to grow up too soon.

She dreams, and as she dreams she despairs.

Her father the king is pleased with her work but concerned all the same; even he, with all his distance, has noticed the change in the creatures roaming the castle. A dinner invitation is sent, one that she accepts after a great deal of thought. It has been so long since she had left the tower, after all, and even longer since she had interacted freely with the castlefolk.

Would they remember? Would they recognize her face, or think her merely one of the travellers who came to visit the great library?

She does not know, and in that uncertainty she finds fear. But her father the king requests her presence, and, after all, he is the king.

She leaves her tower and ventures down to the ground for the first time in - decades? centuries? lifetimes? - years.

The castlefolk do not recognize her.

Dinner is- fine. It is fine. Her father marvels at her beauty, asks after her work, says we do not see you as often as we would like and she does not know if he is speaking of the castlefolk or if he merely means himself the king. She does not ask.

When he asks after the songbirds, she tells him I am an adult now and there are responsibilities I must fulfill and I do not have time for childish fancies.

Her return to the tower is quiet but long, winding around courtyards and through corridors she vaguely remembers, soft and faintly lit as if she was walking through a dream. A man runs past her, laughing merrily.

The sound of his laughter echoes for a long time. Scant seconds later a woman races up to her and asks after him, her words rushed and breathless from running and laughter. The girl from the tower stumbles over her words, taken aback.

She does not notice the woman leave.

It startles her, having that much contact with someone, and that surprise is a shock in and of itself. She has been alone for so long, so many days and months and years of solitude.

She remembers the merchant’s daughter, then. Tall and dark, flowers braided through her hair and hands roughened by years of hard work, she had been the most beautiful thing the girl had ever seen.

Her laughter, though, had stuck in the girl’s mind not because of its beauty - the merchant’s daughter had been thirteen, wild and unrefined, and her laughter had been the same - but because the merchant’s daughter had been willing to laugh with the daughter of the king. There had been no duty, no fear, no fealty. There had only been two girls who had laughed together.

For a instant the girl thinks of the future, of what it could have been.

She imagines laughter and warmth and freedom and it hurts, hurts her to realize that that is not hers to have. All there is is her duty and her tower, climbing ever higher away from the ground.

There are tears in her eyes but before they can fall she hears a noise, far down the long hall.

She is a scientist, and her curiosity is peaked. The hall is long and full of hiding places, and she very nearly gives up. As she turns away, however, she hears the noise again, metal scraping on stone and a faint animal noise. A glint of gold catches her eye and she turns.

There is a songbird in the wall.

One of her songbirds, golden wings and copper throat, dust covering it as though it had lain silent for years upon years. It wriggles faintly, beak opening and closing as though it is trying to sing. One wing brushes against the stone wall, scraping gently as the tiniest chirp makes it out of its throat.

She has no idea how long it has lain here, silent and still, as lifeless as any statue in any hall in the castle. So too does she not know why it has woken now.

(This is a lie.)

Gently, oh so very gently, she takes it from the wall, cradling it to her breast as she hurries back to her workshop.

(She does not think of the tower’s height now.)

The songbird is very nearly a ruin, twisted by time and neglect until it is little more than a lump of metal and wax. She sets to work anyway, deft hands dancing as they have not in years.

The sun rises. The gulls cry. The songbird is repaired.

Sweet music rings from its throat, as cheerful and pure as the day it was forged.

The girl sits back from her workbench, stares in awe as the songbird takes flight. It circles the room, singing all the while, golden wings bearing it easily through the air. She is mesmerized, watching it sing and fly and fly and sing.

It flutters past her, grazes her hair with one golden wing, and makes for the window, the blue sky outside calling to it. Singing still, it soars towards it- and bounces off.

The songbird is not stunned; it is not alive, it cannot feel pain. It merely flutters back up and tries again, the crack of metal against glass sharp and jarring to her ears. The girl stands frozen, watching as the songbird collides with the glass once, twice, thrice.

As the songbird rises for a fourth attempt, the girl shakes herself from her stupor. She rushes to the window, quickly opening it and allowing the songbird to escape. She does not close the window immediately, though. She leans outside instead, turning her face to the sun and basking in its warmth for long moments.

Then she looks down.

The ground is a dizzying distance away, hundreds and hundreds of meters down. The castlefolk are mere dots, ants scurrying along with their little errands in their little lives. Her stomach drops, but she is not afraid of falling. She never has been.

She stares at the ground for a moment longer, turns her gaze to the ocean, and ducks back into her workshop.

She does not close the window.

Three days later, Alexandria leaves her library, wings of iron and gold strapped to her back.

(Her wings are not wax.)

(She does not fall.)

#the 100 #lexa #commander lexa #vic writes #gonna be honest i wrote this for something else and then reskinned it #but in my defense this is how it started out before i hijacked it for other reasons #validate me

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aaronshunga-blog · 7 years ago

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Q and A with TOMMI MUSTURI

Recently following my trip to Europe, I collected a few comic books from artists in various countries. Mr. Tommi Musturi operates out of Finland, and has published a weird, whimsical series of wordless comics featuring a ghostly vaguely homer simpson-esque character and his adventures known as “Samuel.” This is the 2nd installment, and I decided to correspond via email a Q and A. He responded with some very thoughtful answers and I’m happy to share them with you here.

-Aaron Shunga

1. I grew up reading Moomintroll by Tove Janson as a kid. I notice a mysterious, fantastic quality in both her work and yours. What do you think the connection is here if any?

I suppose every Finnish kid has some connection with the Moomins. When I grew up I read the Moomin novels illustrated by Tove. My sister who is nine years younger grew up along the 90s Japanese animation and the generations after that were suddenly surrounded by all the merchandise, a new comic magazine drawn in the style of the 90s animation and so on.

It took until I was adult I really started to read the Moomin comics. They were originally made for adults and I remember trying to read them as a kid was kind of tricky. They were also all black and white which was of course lame in eyes of a 10-yo. The Moomin comic appeared (and appears) in several newspapers around Finland so it was familiar as well. However, an early 80s magazine version of the stories with covers taken from the late 70s puppet animation (I think it was made in Poland) existed for few years. I’ve been collecting those on my adult age. Didn’t know it existed back it was getting released.

What I still prefer are the actual novels. Beside being an artist, Tove was a great writer as well. The novels are more surreal and irrational as well. The atmosphere is really stong in all of them.

The comic version of Moomintroll is of course all great stuff as well. Notice that big part of Moomin comics were actually drawn by Tove’s brother Lars. I think for Tove’s career it was essential that she had such great people around her helping with things here and there. In the end she wanted to be a painter, not a comic artist. That’s kind of sad though but maybe presents the times and the fact that comics were seen merely as ‘cartoons for kids’ or something immoral. There was indeed a nice recent exhibition of her paintings in Finland just couple of years ago. It was not that bad but I still prefer the writings, comic & illustration work she made.

Anyway, there’s a Moomin museum in my current hometown Tampere and they present quite a wide variety of original art as well. I must say it’s some of the best drawing work I’ve ever seen. I could watch those small detailed pieces again and again and I think most of the people who visit the place feel the same. It’s inspiring of course. Especially her use of light and shadow. Sometimes there are almost no outlines at all. The forms appear in depth.

So, I think Moomins somehow come in our 'mother’s milk’ over here. I can’t really say that they inspired me to do this or that. However, I see things I share with Tove – there is sort of melancholic level that’s always present there below the surface, the taste of life is something I also aim at (meaning I tend to go through a variety of emotions in my work), she respects nature as well and there’s this sort of simplicity in it all, though the content is kinda complex.

However, if you at some point try to draw the Moomintroll you’ll notice how damn difficult it is.

2. One drawing that stands out to me in the book is an old man with a word balloon full of gestural abstract ink brush strokes. I feel that this is an aesthetic choice others try to enforce upon you. What is your opinion on Jackson Pollock and Gary Panter?

That image was indeed based on an idea that some people tell their views too late. So I present Samuel as this old alcoholic guy without any friends shouting alone in his dirty apartment. There is no one to listen to what he says so the language might as well something abstract. He could basicly say anything, have any opinion and there is no effect to the world around him. What makes this merely meta notation on Samuel’s comics in general is the fact that Samuel has been a mute comic until now. So, this was the first time the guy spoke out. Of course, Samuel as a character does not want to end up like that so the image of the old guy is merely a possible future. I think Samuel in general is much stronger indeed. Though he does not speak (or have any expressions on his face) his acts are usually statements to the world around him.

I’ve actually drawn now another image where Samuel speaks. There’s a small ad I did for Kuti magazine (a free Finnish comics newspaper, with English subtitles so get it!) with Samuel standing on Trump’s cut-off head and speaking to the reader. So maybe he’ll speak from now on but only in advertisements. This’d be perfect 'sell-out’. We all love capitalism and will do anything for it, won’t we?

In this 2nd book ('Simply Samuel’ that is) I’ve pictured several moments of Samuel’s possible life. So along this 'image of him as old’ I’ve drawn him as semen, showing how her mother and father met, how he gets younger and goes back to his mother’s vagina etc. It’s sort of play with time which this 2nd book does a lot. Sometimes time goes backwards. I’m fooling with the reader as I like that kind of stuff as a reader as well. It keeps you awake.

What comes to Pollock and Panter. Well, good artists of course. I indeed did a study on Pollock in art school. That’s like 20 years ago. I like his works but it’s of course bit out-dated these days. I wouldn’t have wanted to know him as a person. What comes to Gary, he is of course been an inpiration for long time. I used to run the publishing house Huuda Huuda (we quite a year ago in December 2016) and we ended up releasing a book from Gary in Finnish. Or actually it was two books as we made this big-size doublebook (that one can read from both ends) with both Jimbo’s Inferno and Purgatory. This was quite a project indeed and took us +one year to produce. The first translator gave up with Purgatory but the 2nd (Teemu Manninen, a Finnish poet) made great job with it. I spent two months lettering it all by hand. It was one of the most painful lettering jobs I’ve ever done. I think there was a tear in my eye at some point. Anyway, the book turned out great and I think the version of Purgatory is still the only translation of it. I remember that Gary emailed me after the project something like “I thought you couldn’t do it” which was the best complement I could’ve got.

What I like in Gary’s work is that is sort of 'a mash-up’ of different styles. I think 'style’ is merely a capitalistic tool and if you’re doing art you should try to stay far from it or put it all through a mincer.

3. Compared to your last book, there is much more violence and action. What led you to this decision? You have several scenes in which Samuel dies, via car crash or by fists.

In Samuel’s case it’s obvious that he can die whenever I want. I’ve always had this idea that the his novels are sort of 'longplays of a computer game’. So basicly he may die at any point and then I start from scratch in the next story. This is kind of reliefing thing for myself as an artist though I don’t really 'like’ to kill or torture him. It just happens. I like dark humour of course as that’s the key thing to stay sane 2017.

Anyway, I myself also noticed that this 2nd book of his is much more violent compared to the 1st one that’s overall mood was merely 'beautiful and melancholic’. I did not have any plans to do this so it all just happened. I’ve tried to analyze myself why it came out like this and the only thing I could think of is that it presents the vibes of the times. It is no secret I’ve felt utterly frustrated with what mankind is doing for the world that’s raising them. It think this frustration and pure anger somehow came visible in this new book. What comes to action, this 2nd book is more complex and has TWICE the amount of ideas in it compared to the 1st book. It’s more fragmented and complex in away as well. So, there’s more going on compared to the 1st book that was merely really calm in it’s storytelling. I might go back to that if I do a 3rd book.

4. There are instructional elements to your story, as if one were reading a manual on how to build a hobo guitar or bake artisinal bread. This reminds me of Chris Ware. What are your opinions on his work?

I’ve never read that much of Ware indeed I must say. I’ve got some 90s Acme magazines, some big Quimby-book and Jimmy Corrigan but I haven’t really read what he has done the past ten years. It’s good stuff of course but I think I respect him more because of his experiments with storytelling than because the actual content. He is one of the greatest contemporary comic artists of course, there’s no doubt. When it comes to his info comics I think I’ve seen this kind

stuff in early American comics & kids’ magazines. Silly Symphonies used to have the same kind of cut & paste parts. So I suppose his idea to use info comics came from there.

Anyway, in general I don’t read that much comics these days. I think most of comics are not very good indeed. I get couple of meters (in shelf-space) of comics every year that I try to go through though. However, if I had to choose in-between of a comic or a novel I’d choose the latter. Literature is inspiring. If there are maybe tens of important comic books ever made, in literature there are thousands.

Anyway, going back to my own drawing… when I was a teen I think I aimed to simplify what I did on paper. I liked Didier Comés and Charles Burns for example, both having very clear images. We had a really good comic store in Tampere during early 90s, with a mailorder of course (I lived on the countryside with my parents back then) so I bought a lot of stuff that FB and D&Q put out, along with lots of material from France and Belgium (like Freon & Amok releases, some Atak’s early stuff, Reprodukt’s releases etc). Anyway, when I was around 18-yo my drawings were very close to what my graphic novel The Book of Hope looks like – very clear line, simplified colours and so on. When I went to art school I indeed tried to 'destroy’ this style that I was already bored with. So I started to experiment with lots of different styles, equipment, techniques and sizes and even went to something that was more realistic. When I used these maybe more realistic styles with comics they never really worked that well. At some points (after few years and lots of work made) I came to a conclusion that in comic narration the art should be somehow simplified – it’s kind of unseperataple part of the comic storytelling. So, I went back to this simplified old style and started to work on The Book of Hope. Later I developed this mathematic thin & clear line for Samuel. Both of these works look very oldschool in a way. This is a trick of course as the content is much more complex than it appears. So, the reason I ended up in these styles was merely a result of experimenting and going through it all and process what I had done.

The info comics I’ve included in the recent Samuel book (there was some in the 1st book as well, originally published 2009) are actually inspired by a Finnish book from 1930s – Kodin taitosanakirja ('The Home Dictionary of Skills’). That’s a book that was sold even after wartime, there are tens of updated editions of it. The idea of this (thick!) book is simply: to tell how you should do things that are essential for life. So, basicly there are 'simple instructions’ on how to build a house (!), a boat, make porridge, rye bread and so on. It’s such a rich book so full of information that I keep on going back to it every now and then. Most of the things you wonder about can be found from it indeed. Anyway, what I like the most in this case is the basic idea of the book. That is what inspired me to add info comics in Samuel’s book as well. I didn’t want them to be just any funny informative comics but instructions that give value for life. First there was an idea to make a seperate big book with only these instructions but in the end I thought it might work better if I mix them with illustrations and more normal comics. In general I like diy-culture, repairing broken stuff and so on. It’s a view on life in all: you can do most of it by yourself. That’s could also be a motto for Samuel.

4. I notice in general the very clean, almost vector like aesthetic. Do you find yourself at peace with technology?

I did live pretty much nerdish childhood; Got my first computer (Commodore 64) when I was 9-yo, collected lots of different things etc. Anyway, I gave up playing games quite early and got involved with sub culture called 'demoscene’. It’s sort of audivisual culture where people create things together in small 'groups’. I ended up making graphics while some others in our group (that’s called 'Extend’ and it still exists) made musich and code. So I basicly learnt to draw on computer (pixel by pixle back then, with a joystick, it was mid-80s) before on paper. My relationship with computers and technology is kind of natural I think. For art it’s one tool next to a brush, lightbox, canvas etc. However, I prefer working on paper most of my time. Never owned a tablet or even tried one. The basic advice ’d be that one should always know what he or she is about to do when turning on the computer. You can easily see it in art if somebody is just trying out things in Photoshop without much knowing where to aim at. Working on paper means you do more mistakes and mistakes are indeed the key thing to learn something new. You should look at the mistake and think how you could use it. When drawing straight on computer people can try to get 'the perfect line’ as long as they want – even a crappy artist can aim at something out of his or hers artistic cababilities and reach it. However, the bad thing with this is that it is usually not his or hers image that was the target but an idea of something someone had made – a specific technique or some image from subconscious. I mean: if you’re not aware of what you’re doing, this all usually leads to the actual result that they had in mind. With my own work I like to change the plan on the way all the time so the result is more an individual than the plan. I think it’s better to learn to live with the mistakes than trying to avoid them.

With Samuel and The Book of Hope I did all the colouring on computer. But for example in Samuel you can see 'a shadow’ layer on all the colours. This shadow was indeed as well done on paper so I basicly have always two originals for each Samuel page. The originals of the shadows look often like childish Sin City. In both books the colouring is bright and simple, kind of 'dead’ as well. In Samuel’s case the colours are important part of the actual storytelling. It’s really veeery slow process indeed and I don’t know why I do it like I do it. Well, maybe it’s ok not to reason everything.

5. There is a scene when Samuel enters a cave, and a panorama from above at three quarter degrees reveals a dungeon full of peril. Is this a reference to videogames, of the fantasy RPG genre? Do you think videogames influence your work?

As told before, there has been sort of idea of Samuel’s life 'as a game’ but that’s pretty much it. I stopped playing computer & video games early 90s to focus on doing stuff with the machines. I was also aware I could easily develope an addiction with games so it was better to focus on something else. Anyway, I still go back to that idea of a game every now and then when starting a new Samuel episode. It’s kind of liberating as 'with the new life’ you can start everything from the beginning. This doesn’t apply for OUR real lives of course, so I’m on a bit thin ice here.

This specific spread in the recent Samuel book was intended to be 'a labyrinth of daily routines’. The whole episode is kind of melancholic, Samuel is not doing much, just wandering around, throwing some stones, collecting fruits. On top of a hill he finds this cave and goes in just to find a labyrinth full of dangers, requirements, responsibilities, pressure etc. He manages to get through it (with minor damage) and gets out to find this paradise like environment again. I suppose this is a good example on how I use symbolism in Samuel’s stories and in all my comics indeed. The simple idea of this piece is of course that sometimes our lives are struggled (that’s part of a life, probable) and once you get through the struggles you will find something better. Very simple, spiced with small nuances in action.

What comes to games, I do actually like to play in general. I did sports for fun when I was a kid and teen. Started to play street basketball again couple of years ago… that’s more for fun as well. Anyway, we’ve tried some oldschool stuff recently. Indeed we made our own playing card game with my fiancee Tiina. It’s called 'Little Red Ridinghood’ and it’s indeed one of the best 2-player card games (with the normal pack) I’ve played. Suppose we should spread it around at some point. A year ago we indeed started to play the original Dungeons & Dragons again (after +20 years) which is kind of entertaining and educating because the world around the characters is so strong and evil one can die basicly any moment. I haven’t (yet) found much inspiration for my comics in it though. During summer we usually take some dices along when going in the forest or on the lake, play some Yatzy or stuff. I like the simplicity in that. Also playing Othello or Go with stones. Anyway, I never even tried PS or Xbox or something recent. Don’t have a smart phone either. There’s some lousy golf game in my crappy phone. It’s kind of entertaining though. What I like in “playing” in general is that it still very much the same experience as when you were a kid. So, I think all the adults should play all the time indeed. That’d make the world much better place already.

#tommi musturi #comics #finland #samuel

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