#at least i managed to draw this in a sickly haze

[okcassin]

Nerfed by god again

[zutaraangtastic]

If you’re still doing drabbles, here’s an idea: Nightmares and comfort afterwards. While it’s most common for Zuko and to a lesser extent, Aang, I think it would be so sweet to see Katara being comforted and tended to by her husbands. Of course, no offense will be taken if you’re done with drabbles or not interested in the prompt.

Final drabble! Warning for violence and temporary character death - nightmare stuff, as you might guess. I hope the comfort makes up for the hurt! (Reminder that we are not accepting new prompts; we received these before July 1.) - Mod J

The igloo seems impossibly big before her, its white sheen stained with the ash raining from the heavens. The snow is up to her knees, as small as she is, and the sounds of war clamor for attention behind her: the men shouting, the sickening swish of the burning catapults, the hiss of fire devouring everything in its path.

Katara hesitates outside, trying to breach the chasm of dread in her stomach and force herself to enter, knowing what awaits her.

At least, she thinks she knows, until something happens that’s never happened before: a boy comes flying out through the blue curtains with a horrible scream, flung by a red flare inside that she barely glimpses. She runs to where he’s collapsed in the snow, his shaking hands covering his face. 

Through the cracks in his fingers, she sees the raw, seared flesh, and gasps.

He’s dressed just like the other Fire Nation soldiers, but he’s too young, his armor too big for his shoulders. His head is bare except for a disheveled ponytail. He’s hurt, badly.

These things she takes in, paralyzed, before it registers in the back of her mind that she can do something. She can heal. 

Or, she should be able to, but her tiny hands don’t seem to work the way they should; their grasp on the water is too unsteady, and when they reach for his face, he screams again, his fist lashing out in a flaming arc. Katara drops onto her belly, trembling with her eyes squeezed shut, until the near-brush of heat subsides. 

When she peeks up to make sure she’s safe, she notices the overcast sky has changed color, now a murky blood-red crossed by a trail of blazing orange light. 

Then the boy slumps back down, and Katara scrambles away, leaving him to writhe in his agony and returning to her own task with just enough bitter determination to overcome her fear.

In the igloo, she finds a different man than she expects, this one’s armor adorned with gold, a semblance of wings framing his helmet when he glances over his shoulder at her. There’s another boy, too, a boy in simple orange-and-yellow monk’s robes. He’s even smaller than her, his legs kicking pitifully as the Fire Nation man holds him aloft by the collar.

“You’re too late, little peasant,” the man says, an oil-slick voice dripping with malice. “The Avatar is mine.”

It doesn’t make sense, because how can that kid be the Avatar? His tattoos would be glowing white, a radiant, otherworldly bluish-white like she saw in the iceberg when she found him, and that’s the thing that snaps Katara back to herself—the boy, Aang, doesn’t have any tattoos. He’s too young to have earned them yet.

He looks at her with wide gray eyes, pleading for help, but she’s still too small, too weak to fling more than a puddle of water at the Fire Lord’s boots.

Wake up, she tells herself. It’s not real, wake up, it didn’t happen like this, you’re safe, they’re safe, just wake up—

But she can’t, try as she might. She can’t even look away as Ozai throws a fiery punch into Aang’s face, even as everything inside her lurches with fury, with horror, with dismay. Aang howls, the same cry that Zuko made, as instinctual and vulnerable as a wounded animal. And Zuko, spirits, Zuko’s out there alone and she has to do something!

Too much happens all at once, Ozai roaring victorious fire and the igloo crumbling all around them and a crimson cloud gathering overhead and an awful static crackling in Azula’s hands—no, Ozai’s, but familiar white-hot lightning, and he’s going to strike them at the same time and there’s no way for Katara to shield them both—

Until her waterbending returns, and without even thinking, she surges into Ozai’s blood and freezes him from the inside out. His last, choked breath comes out a red mist.

Katara falls to her knees, overwhelmed and hanging onto the adrenaline just to crawl to Aang and carry him to Zuko. She’s fully herself again, not the little girl she was when the raid happened, but the two of them are still just kids, even smaller in her grasp now. When she lays them next to each other, she notices the symmetry of their fresh burns, and a nauseous weight of understanding churns in her.

Snowmelt coats her hands in a shimmering, glowing blue, ready to heal, until she realizes neither boy’s chest is rising or falling. Katara fumbles to feel their pulses, uselessly; Zuko is too cold, no trace of fire left in him, and Aang is so still, the joyful breath that animated him stolen by the sharpening wind.

“Wake up,” she whispers, not certain who she’s talking to. She presses her palms flat to their hearts, water seeping through together with her tears, to no avail. Between her blurry eyes and the gathering storm around them, everything is growing dim.

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up, Katara, you’re—”

She bolts upright with a sharp gasp, her head spinning in the disorienting dark of the room. Real tears are flowing sickly-hot down her cheeks, sticking wetly to her chin, even her ears. She almost can’t suck in enough air, her chest wracked with sobs, disrupting every attempt to steady herself.

“Katara,” Aang says again, and she nearly jumps, reflexively whipping water from her nearby satchel to catch the hand reaching for her in an icy grip. “Ow—Katara, it’s okay! It’s just me. It’s me.”

To the other side of Aang, Zuko stirs, mumbling in confusion. Katara barely has the presence of mind to return the water to its container before she throws herself into Aang, wrapping her arms tightly around him. With her ear pressed to his chest, she can hear his heartbeat, feel his breathing like the rush of a sea breeze. A tentative hand meets hers on Aang’s back, and she raises her head to Aang’s shoulder to look at Zuko, twining her fingers with his. His skin is warm, faintly damp with sweat. He reaches behind him to light the candle on the bedside table with a snap, and the soft orange glow haloes around him, permeating the shadows of the room.

Aang presses a kiss to the top of Katara’s head, cupping her cheek and brushing away the tears on one side. “Was it a nightmare?” he asks.

She can only nod, not trusting herself to speak. He folds her into his embrace just a little harder.

“I get them too, around this time of year,” he admits. When she remains silent except for her sniffles, he adds softly, “Ones where we lose. Or we win but I lose you, or Zuko.”

“That makes three of us,” Zuko says, his voice hushed. He turns his face against her hand, the scarred side. It’s one of the most intimate gestures they share, open and vulnerable, but this time it makes Katara flinch, half-expecting raw, oozing skin in place of the long-healed tissue. Zuko catches her recoil and draws back himself, his brow furrowed with uncertain concern. “Sorry, I can…leave you with Aang, if that’s better?”

Katara shakes her head quickly and extends her arm, beckoning him to her side instead. Aang shifts with her towards the middle of the bed to make room. Zuko still hesitates, sitting beside Katara with his knees drawn up.

“I understand if it was about—I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to see me right now.”

“Zuko,” Aang says, half-regret and half-reprimand, at the same time that Katara takes Zuko by the shoulder and pulls him into their hug.

Hoarsely, she manages to say, “That wasn’t it.”

A patient quiet presides over them as Zuko’s arms finally settle around her waist and Aang’s fingers wind through her hair. Katara’s breathing eventually evens out, her tears slowing. There’s still an awful feeling inside her, a violent terror in the pit of her stomach.

“It was…” She steels herself, curling one fist so her nails bite crescents into her palm, until Aang stops her gently. Katara picks a spot on the far wall to keep her attention and continues, “It was like the nightmare I always have, about my mom. But Yon Rha wasn’t there, and neither was she. It was the two of you—” she lays her other hand over Zuko’s and squeezes his knuckles, hearing his apprehensive swallow “—and Ozai. And he…burned you, and you were so young—we were, and then I wasn’t, but you both were just kids and you were helpless and hurt and I couldn’t do anything before it was too late and—”

The panic is rising in her chest again, threatening to overflow, and Zuko tries to hold tighter to ground her, but it’s too much, Aang’s look of frantic worry is too much, and Katara suddenly needs not to be touched or she might break something. She hurriedly disentangles herself and slides away to sit at the edge of the bed, raising a hand to let Aang and Zuko know to give her space.

After a moment, she manages to quell the nausea, her gasps fading. She’s crying again, but her eyes are too dry now, making it harder to get the tears out. Mostly, she’s annoyed by the thought of how puffy her face will be in the morning, and how much she’s overreacting in front of Zuko and Aang. Katara lets out a shuddering exhale and stands, smoothing down her nightgown and going to open the window. The tang of the ocean clears her head, blessedly wakes her from the nightmarish haze. The half-moon tilted low in the sky is serene.

She gives a silent thanks to Yue before she looks back at her husbands, who lean together on the bed, obviously trying to seem calm despite the visible tension in their joined hands. It makes Katara smile weakly and gesture for them to follow her. They pad to the kitchen together on three sets of tiptoeing feet, extra careful as they pass Bumi and Kya’s room.

Zuko puts on a pot of tea without being asked, and Katara pulls herself up on the counter beside him with a strained noise that immediately reminds her she’s too old for it. Aang suppresses a laugh and approaches, after she nods, to massage her lower back.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t mean to push you guys away.”

Zuko scoffs, though not meanly, giving Katara a skeptical eye. “Why are you sorry? We’re the ones who didn’t do anything to help.”

Katara kicks his thigh, though not hard. “Don’t say that. It helped that you were both there with me. If I was alone, or even if it was just me and Aang, I would’ve been so anxious.”

Aang bows his head against her chest, his sigh brushing against fabric. “Still, it’s—it’s hard, not being able to make things better. I guess that’s what your dream was like, too?”

“Yeah,” Katara says, but before she can start dwelling on it again, Zuko ushers her and Aang away from the counter so he can finish preparing the tea.

He brings it to them at the table with a generous helping of milk stirred in, and it’s exactly the right thing to soothe the lingering unease in her stomach. Aang sits across from her, leaving Zuko the spot next to her. Katara leans her head on his shoulder after she downs her cup, willing away the flashes of lightning on the backs of her eyelids.

“You think you’ll be able to go back to sleep?” Zuko asks. His foot is tangled with hers and Aang’s under the table.

“I think so.” Katara offers him a smile and a peck on the cheek. “The tea helped, Mr. Jasmine Dragon Jr.”

“Speaking of, when are you heading off to see Uncle?” Aang asks.

Zuko has abandoned his own cup in favor of playing with Katara’s hair, gathering it into haphazard braids that she subtly shakes out as soon as he looks away. “I’ll stay here another few days, at least.”

“Good,” she says. “We’ll have each other if anyone has another anniversary nightmare.”

Leaving their dishes at their places, they find their way back to bed. Katara claims the middle this time. She’s on her side, facing the moon and Zuko, with Aang’s sturdy chest against her back. Touch is welcome now. Aang spends a long time tracing patterns on her back, continuing his earlier massage as he goes, until he starts to drift off.

“Let us know if you need anything,” he says, stifling a yawn and kissing her cheek.

“Mm. There is one thing, actually,” Katara murmurs. “Your head wasn’t shaved before you were banished, was it, Zuko?”

Zuko’s brow furrows, but he shakes his head. “No. I mean, it was after the agni kai, but before I left.”

“And Aang didn’t get his tattoos until he was twelve.”

Aang confirms this with a sleepy mumble addressed to the back of her head. Zuko is kneading her leg, her hip, her side, working the last tension out of her muscles.

“Why do you ask?”

“That’s how I know it wasn’t real,” Katara says, blinking slowly at him. “That’s how I’ll remember, if it happens again.”

Consciously or not, Aang curls his arm more protectively around her stomach. Zuko lets her pillow her cheek in his palm and eases closer to kiss her. She drapes her leg over his to keep him there, his warm breath mingling with hers and his other hand resting over her back. Once he’s joined Aang in slumber, her eyes finally fall shut. Their hands are soft, tangible, and the sharpest burning details of the nightmare start to fade to cinders at the edges of her mind.

[dvrthncx]

Facing the Past

(**spoilers** for end of Jedi Knight storyline)

The air in the Emperor’s throne room felt thick--heavier than foggy mornings on Dromund Kaas, and stickier. It seemed to Nevar’ija that she was breathing in the Dark Side, inhaling its poisons into her lungs and unwillingly fuelling herself with those sickly sweet odours given off by the blue-flamed pyres. It smelled like her youth: achingly familiar and ruinously hateful.

“The circle closes. The end beings,” the Emperor said when the Jedi reached the bottom of the stairs leading up to his throne, his voice echoing sinisterly across the expansive chamber. It gave the impression that he was omnipresent, that he might even reside within Nevar’ija’s very soul. She pushed back against that disturbing thought vehemently. The Emperor did not--would not--possess her. Not again.

He stood up; his body was slight, thin--would have looked frail if he were anyone else, but the sheer power and greedy hatred emanating from that thin frame dissipated any sense of weakness; one could simply not be such a force of power and be considered frail. He slowly stalked to the edge of the dias, as though he were time itself and knew he could use as much of it as he wanted. Looking down at Nevar’ija he said, “You dissipated your energy saving the weak. There are consequences.” Nevar’ija drew her lightsaber out in an instant, ready to fend off an attack, her eyes never leaving the Emperor’s glowing red body--it seemed almost ghost-like, evanescant as a result of the black smoke twining itself almost lovingly around that small figure; but she knew better. She knew that was neither death nor temporality, but the proof of the Emperor’s eternity, his constancy.

The Emperor reached out with his greedy fingers and Nevar’ija angled her lightsaber towards him, but rather than shooting lightnight at her, he raised spikes of purple lightning from the stone floor in a semi-circle around Nevar’ija and T7. 

Out of the dark purple smoke and crackling lightning many Emperors glowing red and encased in tendrils of black smoke emerged. Nevar’ija felt them through the Force before she saw them--better than she saw them. They were more substantial in the Force, more real than what her eyes saw. They were the Force. But she was also sure thay they could hurt her. She spun on her heel and brought her lightsaber down on the closest Force-entity. It vanished with a burst of bright purple smoke upon contact. The others had moved in to surround her, blinding her with flashes of purple light and filling the air with silky, serpentine tendrils of dark Force energy. She couldn’t see. She struck out with her saber, feeling her way through the writhing, swaying Force as though wading through deep, murky water--lost, afraid, desperate.

Less through skill than through sheer panic, Nevar’ija managed to eliminate all five of the Force-entities. They and their black and purple fog disappeared and revealed the Emperor, who had descended the steps and stoped in front of Nevar’ija. She turned on him, lightsaber out, a furious growl in her throat. She could not forget that the last time she had been subjected to this concentration of Dark Side energy, her mind had been taken from her and she forced to commit terrible acts--acts from which she had fled when she left the Empire and sought out the mercy of the Jedi. It would not happen again--she could not allow it. 

Perhaps she was imagining things, but she thought she almost saw the Emperor smirk in that instant--just for the briefest of moments. Burning rage and shame pooled in her heart, boiling, uncontrollable. 

The Emperor, still standing weaponless and staring down Nevar’ija’s lightsaber at her scowl, merely said, “My life spans millenia. Legions have risen to test me.” For a being of pure hatred, the calm and collected confidence he maintainted was unsettling, aggrivating to Nevar’ija--all the moreso as she struggled to contain her own rage.

He was goading Nevar’ija, and she knew it. But the hatred she felt within her for the Emperor, for his Empire, for everything they stood for in the galaxy and to her personally steadily gained control of her. She wanted him dead. She needed him dead. “You’re a threat to every living being in the galaxy. If you won’t surrender, I will destroy you,” she all but growled, pushing her lightsaber closer to his face.

“You discern a fraction of reality,” said the Emperor condescendingly. “Beyond these stars exist other galaxies, other worlds, other beings. I will experience or ignore them as I wish. I will spend eternity becoming everything: a farmer, an artist, a simple man. When the last thing in the universe finally dies, I will enjoy peace and wait for the cycle to begin again.”

“You will never possess that kind of power.” Nevar’ija could hear the shaking desperation in her own voice, how violently it clashed with the self assured, blasé tone of the Emperor’s assertions. Her every emotion swelled with each moment she faced the Emperor, inhaling his poisonous black soul. She could feel them starting to spiral out of control. Oh, but she hated him. And all she could think was that if she could just kill him, her negative emotions--her hatred, her pain, her sorrow, her self-doubt, her confusion, the sense that she was lost--would all die too. In saving the galaxy she would save herself and vice versa. All she had to do was squeeze the life out of the Emperor with her bare hands. 

Her legs trembled beneath her. Fear. 

But who was she afraid of? The Emperor? Myself?

She wasn’t so sure that the two were very different in that moment. 

As if the Emperor could hear her thoughts, he said: “There is no death, there is only the Force and I am its master. My ascendence is inevitable. A day, a year, a millenium--it matters not. I hold the patience of stone and the will of stars. Your striving is insignificant. Let your death be the same.” 

He suddenly drew his lightsaber and lunged at Nevar’ija. She blocked his attack and threw herself into action with a fierce and explosive energy the likes of which she had never experienced before. All the emotions, the tension, the fear which had been building up from the moment she stepped foot in the throne room released suddenly and from them sprung a savage sort of force that took control of the jedi and seemed to move for her rather than with her. She could feel that she was not in control, but she felt liberated, relieved, powerful.

The Emperor chuckled when she landed her first blow on his arm after a relentless offensive. “You’ve grown reckless since we last met,” he drawled antagonistically.

Nevar’ija snarled like a wild beast and lunged again. “I’ve only grown stronger!”

“No... but your emotions have,” the Emperor said, almost pensively, as he dodged Nevar’ija’s attack and Force-pushed her back across the room. “You must use your fear and your anger to your advantage. Release them!”

His insinuation infuriated Nevar’ija. With a burst like a hot flame she launched herself at him, almost blinded by red tears of rage. She felt certain her blow would land, that she would have the satisfying sensation of impact: lightsaber cutting through skin, sawing the hateful creature in half. With a violent, shattering crash her lightsaber clashed with the emperor’s. The impact was so hard that Nevar’ija’s arms went numb. Shouting in frustration, Nevar’ija withdrew her lightsaber and let loose another flurry of attacks, propelled by dark Force energy that pounded through her blood with every beat of her adrenaline-soaked heart. It was intoxicating, the power that pure hatred had ignited within her. Far from trying to gain control, she drank it willingly and abundantly, let it drive her to savage and aggressive attacks in her desperate campaign to pierce the emperor’s flesh with her blade, to feel muscle tissue and bone yield to her thrust. Almost screaming in rage, Nevar’ija Force-jumped, shooting downward with her saber out to strike to killing blow--

It was as though she landed on a stone wall. A burst of the Force stopped her mid-leap and threw her back across the room. Nevar’ija slammed into the far wall and landed with a painful thud. Her entire left side would be bruised for weeks. For just a few seconds she lay there, stunned, overwhelmed by shock and stinging pain. The fall had jarred her, snuffed out the flame of writhing, bestial power that had burned in her chest. She opened her eyes slowly and her gaze fell on T7 who had rolled up to her and beeped worriedly. The Jedi was suddenly reminded of the quiet mountain forests of Tython, the place where she had first met T7, with its tumbling waterfalls and bubbling creeks. She remembered the sound of Master Orgus’ voice, and the fresh sense of peace and safety that had come with the perfume of the whispering pines on the breeze. There is no emotion, there is peace. She shivered slightly as a calm, cool energy caressed her aching body and soothed her weeping heart. 

“You can do better than that,” the Emperor’s voice wormed its way into Nevar’ija’s hazy recollections, drawing her back into the dark and foreboding chamber of reality on Dromund Kaas. “You Sith purebloods have a natural propensity for dark passion; don’t try so hard, just let nature do it’s work.”

Nevar’ija pushed herself up slowly, resting a reassuring hand on T7′s head. “There is no passion,” she said, drawing her fallen lightsaber to her with the Force and reigniting it. “There is serenity.”

The emperor scowled. “Foolish child! You think you can deny your nature forever and hide behind your precious Jedi teachings? I will show you the true meaning of power,” he spat. In a burst of purple lightning and smoke, he appeared to multiply. At least ten emperors, all glowing red and crackling with purple sparks, leered at Nevar’ija through the haze. Taking a deep, steadying breath the jedi raised her lightsaber. “There is not emotion, there is peace,” she chanted, as though reminding herself one final time, and in the split second before the force-entities lunged at her she thought she could feel Master Orgus’ approval radiating through the Force. Nevar’ija clung to that sensation as though to a life-line, and this time when she entered the boggy swamp of Dark Side energy she did not panic; did not lose her way; did not relinquish control. She fought with the Force, not through it: methodic, controlled, infallible. Until all the force-entities had disappeared, and her saber struck flesh and bone, sliced through the emperor’s lower abdomen, brought him to his knees.

The jedi stood over the emperor, silent, weapon drawn. The end was near, at long last.

The emperor, clutching his side, looked up at Nevar’ija with a frown. He no longer glowed red, swathed in the twisting cape of Dark energy; instead he wore his corruption naked upon his body: skin so pale it was almost purple, wrinkled and loose from an eternity of life-devouring evil, and eyes sunk deep in their sockets, glowing blood-orange out of the obscurity. “You harness immense power--but you lack the purity of will to direct it,” he wheezed in a voice that, though it did not carry into the depths of Nevar’ija’s soul, remained saturated with power nonetheless.

Nevar’ija said nothing. She felt a ripple in the force just seconds before the emperor raised his hands and she lifted her lightsaber to block the stream of white-hot Force lightning that the emperor shot at her.

Even as the emperor rallied himself through the Force and stood up, the jedi firmly held her ground, lightsaber absorbing the devastating energy.

The emperor pushed forward, and Nevar’ija pushed back until they were running at one another, drawing on the Force. The clash was inevitable, and only one would rise from its devastating blow this time. Nevar’ija could feel her saber vibrating from the lightning’s energy, could feel the tension in the chamber as the Dark and the Light pushed on each other from opposing sides, meeting in the middle in a violently bright explosion. She could feel the raw power of the Dark Side, of the emperor: it was indescribably strong, but it was wild, uncontrollable. Even the emperor could lose his grip--was losing his grip. With a shock, Nevar’ija realised that her control and trust in the Light was a threatening match for the emperor’s dark power--and he knew it too. It was beginning to destabilize him, making him desperate. 

They were close now, just seconds apart. The emperor was going to kill her; she knew it. She could feel his intentions. She would only have the slightest of opportunities to stop him, the briefest moment to break the connection and his path of destruction. Rallying her strength in the Force, the jedi breathed deeply until the Force flowed within her, became One with her. Time seemed to slow down. When the emperor was mere centimeters away from the blade of her lightsaber Nevar’ija knew instinctually that the moment had come. Guided by the gentle, sure hand of the Force she broke her defensive position and with it the stream of lightning connecting herself to the emperor. In one smooth movement, she swung her saber over her head and, with a controlled twist, landed a carefully planned blow and cut clean through the emperor’s thighs. 

He fell with a moan, landing face-down on the cold stone floor of his throne room. Assured that the mutilated creature on the floor was no longer a threat, Nevar’ija lowered her lightsaber and slowly approached, standing over the living corpse with a scowl of disgust.

 The emperor struggled to raise his head and her chest with weakened arms. “I will not be contained, I cannot be redeemed,” he said, his voice low, threatening, even in his obviously pitiful state. “Death is all that remains, and you will not kill me.”

A thrill of defiance shot through Nevar’ija at the words: the emperor thought he knew her so well, thought he could read her soul and intentions so easily? She would prove him wrong, just as she always had. She stalked forward, towering over the meager, pathetic creature on the ground. You think I won’t kill you? Just watch me, she thought. He was the spitting image of everything that she hated--the perfect representation of a time, a life, she had come to look upon with the severest resentment. Gazing down at him, hate rose in her once more, smouldering in the pit of her stomach. In him she saw her childhood, the world she had come from, the culture that had made her. She saw the death, the rage, the mistrust; she felt the blood, the betrayal, the fear. Her bitter hatred urged her, begged her to end him, to slaughter the creator of everything she resented so ardently--and in so doing, to slaughter also that part of her she hated: the part of her that belonged to and was born of that hateful world. She could eliminate her shame, and oh! how she wanted to. 

In that moment, the emperor turned his face up and his gaze caught Nevar’ija’s as she imagined striking the death blow--imagined the vengeful satisfaction of the act. He smiled. It was a smug, triumphant, ugly smile. Nevar’ija faltered, struck suddenly by the futility of revenge, the emptiness of the act, of which the emperor’s triumphant grin suddenly made her aware. She felt as though someone had knocked the breath out of her with that realisatio; the realisation that if she took revenge, if in the thrawls of her hatred she struck down the very personification of that hatred, she would have nullified everything she had worked so hard for since the moment she’d fled Korriban with Rijalu and escaped to Tython. Everything: worthless. Her life: wasted. It would be a betrayal of the person she had sought so desperately to become and the very values she had spent years championing throughout the galaxy. She would, in essence, become the very thing she hated most in striking a vengeful blow against that which she hated most. 

Master Orgus’ voice came to her, then: a memory, though vivid through the Force. “You must let go of hate, my young padawan. You cannot hope to become the person you want to be, if you insist on clinging to the pain of you used to be,” he had told her once--was telling her again. 

Closing her eyes, Nevar’ija inhaled, long, heavy, until she could not inhale anymore and her lungs burned. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. This is it, she thought. I will let go of my hatred and I will finally be free. No more sorrow; no more hate; no more fear; no more shame. Exhaling slowly, intentionally, she released her hatred and resentment, her rage and vengeance on her breath. 

Opening her eyes, she felt light, felt truly secure in herself for the first time. She knew who she was, and where she belonged. I am a Jedi, she thought.

And outloud to the emperor she said: “You’re right. I don’t want to kill you--but you will face justice for your crimes. That is the Jedi way.” In so saying, she turned her lightsaber off and sheathed it.

The emperor’s triumphant grin melted into a disgusted frown. “There is no justice. There is only revenge. I will not be your trophy. If I must die, I choose how--and everything dies with me.” In a flash of purple, his body dissappeared. Nevar’ija could no longer feel his presence in the Force, but neither did she feel a significant enough shift in the Force to mean that he was really dead. Whatever had happened, she did not think he had let himself die, but he was unquestionably gone. 

T7 whistled and beeped enthusiastically. 

“Yep, it’s finally over...” Nevar’ija replied pensively, her brain still trying to process what she had just done. Shaking herself to try and get a grip on reality, she said, “Let’s get us all back to Republic space, T7.”

[imagine-darksiders]

Haven

Chapter 4 - The Blessed Dark.

There haven't been many instances in your life where you've stopped and taken a few moments to really appreciate just how much of a blessing the darkness can be. As a child, the pieces of literature you'd hungrily consumed had all taught you that the dark is a frightening thing, a mysterious, encroaching force that hides monsters and brings nightmares to life.

Now though, having cautiously stolen through a city in the wake of a world-wide, apocalyptic event, you couldn't be more grateful for the darkness and its penchant for hiding things you don't want to see.

The maker – Ulthane – had insisted upon walking behind you as soon as your feet touched the black, crumbling tarmac, explaining that he’d feel a hell of a lot better with you in his sights at all times. Though you weren’t sure whether this was to ensure you didn’t run off again or to keep you out of danger. Either way, you had little choice but to reluctantly comply. 

Having him at your back the whole way to the museum set your nerves on edge, not only because your trust in the strange, otherworldly giant is flimsy at best, but also because you wish you could have had something to focus your eyes on. The straps of his boots, the pebbles that bounced up off the ground with every step he took. Anything to keep your attention away from the eerie, indistinct lumps that laid scattered all over the streets you passed through.

Night had obscured most of their features, and if it weren't for the moon that shone overhead, you could have quite easily pretended they were no more than piles of fallen debris, perhaps some upskittled rubble. But every now and then, you crept around a corner or through an alley, and in searching the area for any signs of danger, your eyes would happen to pass over one of those lumps and the moonlight would glint off a glassy eyeball, a mouth gaped open and frozen in place, sometimes a pale hand, reaching, stretching out to grasp for help that never came.

Each time, you reeled back and threw a hand over your eyes, assuring yourself that you hadn't just seen what you thought you saw. “Just a pile of rubble,” you whimpered through gritted teeth, “Or mannequins... a trick of the light...” 

If you started seeing them as humans, you feared your heart might just cease to beat.

But there were hundreds of them. Thousands perhaps. And it quickly became harder and harder to pretend.

“This is where I found you.”

The sudden intrusion of Ulthane's rumbling bass rips you out of a foggy haze and you leap out of your skin, suddenly aware that you’ve made it all the way back to the museum carpark. Swearing under your breath, you berate yourself for drifting off. You've no recollection of getting here, your body seemed to know where it was going, even if your mind didn't. At least Ulthane had his wits about him. You shudder to think what might have happened if he wasn't following close behind you, his head on a constant swivel, senses primed and ready to intercept any demon that tried to get too close.

The carpark you've stumbled back into is wildly different than it had been during the day because suddenly, the silhouettes of all those construction vehicles parked nearby look more like abysmal, eldritch horrors, all jagged and sharp and twisted out of shape in the dark. While the museum, you find, craning your neck back to gulp at the imposing structure, is no less daunting.

What had once been a place to learn and preserve aspects of history now stands as a silent monument to a terrible memory. You will always remember you were here the day the world ended.

“Cold?” 

Jolting, you glance up at the maker and manage to squeak out an eloquent, “Huh?”

In response, he wordlessly points down at your arms and it takes you a moment to realise you’ve wrapped them around yourself. 

“O-oh, no!” Hastily, you whip your hands back down. “Not cold...Just-”

“-Scared?”

There’s little point in trying to lie, especially when he’s giving you such a knowing look. “A...A bit,” you mutter eventually. It isn’t a total lie, at least.

A single brow slides smoothly up the giant’s forehead and remains poised there, dubiousness thick and blatant in his resounding hum. After a few seconds of subjecting you to his unwavering scrutiny, Ulthane draws himself up tall and grabs his belt, hoisting it a little higher on his hips. “You know, you’ve got nothin’ to worry about with me around, lass,” he declares matter-of-factly. 

It’s all very well him saying that, it’s another thing entirely for you to feel it. Still, all the same, you flash him a smile and offer a noncommittal, “Mmhmm,” before taking your first, tentative steps towards the museum. With your eyes kept peeled for anything that could be lurking behind upturned cars or in the still smouldering craters left by demons, you pick your way over loose rebar and head for the museum's south side. 

Along the way however, your eyes are drawn to a familiar sight.

The mouth of a concrete pipe stands several feet away, its concrete surface flecked with blood and covered in long, shallow scratches.

Behind you, your staunch sentinel catches you looking and he follows your gaze, pushing a low hum up his throat when he sees what you've spotted. “Sorry if I frightened you before,” he mutters, carefully considering the side of your face, though you're quick to turn away from him and march rigidly onwards. 

“What was that thing?” you ask softly.

Ulthane decides to let your deflection slide for now.

Scratching at the underside of his coarse beard, he waits for you to clamber through the gaping hole in the museum's wall before he replies. “S'what's called a Sufferin'. Horrible beast. Takes what's dead n' brings 'em back. Just not in any way that's good.”

“Wait-” You pause to get your bearings, squinting into the darkness of the cavernous room. “It can....what? Bring people back to life?” A semblance of hope creeps into your question and the maker's mouth screws up, hating that he'll have to be the one who stamps that little light out before it can gain traction.

“No, no, lass,” he explains softly, watching your face crumple, “It turns 'em into husks. Empty shells with nothin' in their heads but hunger.”

“...Oh...”

Ulthane sighs as you kick a loose stone and listen to it skitter beneath the monstrous skeleton he'd marvelled at earlier. Once the sound fades and you've begun to trail numbly after it, brushing your fingertips along an ancient fibula, the maker's brow creases, but rather than squeeze through with you, he hurries around the front of the skeleton, meeting you on the other side of its leg and allowing himself to be led over to a set of double doors that seem barely wide and high enough for him to fit through. Determined that he won’t be bested by a few, flimsy planks of wood though, Ulthane glares them down, his frown growing by the minute. 

Oblivious to the giant's new predicament, you hastily trot through to the other side and find yourself promptly awash in the sickly green of numerous emergency lights. “We're close now,” you whisper, pointing down the hall. “The kids should be in a room just down here.”

There's no answer for several seconds, save for a grunt and then a firm thud, and finally, “Uh oh.”  

“Uh oh?” Confused, you spin around and immediately have to slap a hand over your mouth to prevent a laugh from jumping out.

Somehow, the giant has managed to wedge himself halfway through the too-small doorframe. One of his legs has made it, along with his head and forearm. The problem however, lies with his broad shoulders, their bulky girth too wide for the opening and he, in all his wisdom, has obviously tried to stuff them through at the same time instead of one after the other. What results is the rather comical sight of a poor, mahogany doorframe trying its best not to buckle around Ulthane's bulging deltoids and failing miserably.

With another grunt, he gives his arms an experimental thrust, only succeeding in getting himself even more stuck and he curses, looking down at you helplessly.

You don’t know where the courage to laugh came from. “Are – ha! Ahem, are you okay?” you squeeze out through pursed lips, stepping closer.

“Oh, I'm dandy,” the maker grumbles and strains hard against his wooden bindings once more. Suddenly, the wall all around the doorframe begins to creak and moan in protest and a loud 'snap' splits the still air and makes you flinch. There, in the plaster, right where Ulthane’s shoulders press most firmly into the door, are two, fresh cracks that have spidered outwards along the wall.

“Woah, woah! Stop!” you hiss, waving your hands in front of his face, “You're going to break it!”

Halting his efforts, he tucks his chin in and slides you a flat stare down his nose.

“Oh.” You suppose it does seem somewhat odd to want to preserve a door when the rest of the world has gone completely to ruin. “Alright, well....You’re like, super strong right? Can’t you just like, bust through?” 

He tries not to swell with pride at the unintended compliment. To be honest, that had been the first solution Ulthane had considered. He’s certainly strong enough to simply burst through with sheer, brute force, but after some more thought, he realises that while this building’s infrastructure is solid enough by human standards, any sudden stress to the foundations could potentially cause a wall or ceiling to collapse. And with you standing right below him, even ‘potentially’ is much too risky. “Oh, I could, easily,” he at last replies, “if I wanted to bring the whole roof down on our heads.” 

“Right. Best not do that then.” Chewing on your lip, you consider the giant warily for a moment before throwing your hands up in defeat. “Oh for goodness sake. Here, let me help.”

A bemused smile replaces Ulthane's frown as you step close to him and wrap your hands around the thick chain connecting his shoulder pauldron to his belt and after testing your grip, you plant your feet and give a tremendous heave backwards.

At least, it's tremendous from your perspective.

The maker, at best, feels you give the chain a gentle tug. 

Forgetting himself, his eyes soften and a fond smile sprawls out across his face. All he can do for is marvel over your sudden burst of determination and admire the way your face scrunches up with the effort as tiny, delicate knuckles turn white and your feet begin sliding across the marble floor. From this close, the dust drifting up off your hair tickles his nose when he inhales, taking up the scent of sweat and dirt that clings to your skin. 

Suddenly, he blinks. 

For the briefest moment, he's reminded of his realm - the sticky heat of the forge, the earth under his fingernails when he'd build with his hands, the salt he would taste on his upper lip after tussling with his brother.... Ulthane's eyes slip closed. By the Stone....You smell of home.

A short, sharp scream yanks him back into the present and his head jerks up just in time to see your feet slip out properly from underneath you after giving the chain another, hard pull.

Without thinking, without remembering that he's jammed inside a doorway, the maker jerks his arm forwards and twists his hand around, letting you fall harmlessly into an upturned palm. The chain you'd been yanking on had slipped from your grasp as you fell and now it clinks gently against Ulthane's chest as he stares down at you, his surprise mirrored by your own.

“Uh....Thanks,” you pant uncertainly, blinking a few times at the giant's abrupt closeness. 

“You should be more careful,” he murmurs and you get a good view of his tusks with each word, “Don’t want to exacerbate that any further.” Just then, one of his enormous fingers curls inwards to prod ever so gently at your bruised side, although you hardly notice the responding twinge his touch produces, your attention too swept up by his smokey, grey stare. You instead find yourself wondering what makes up the biology of his eyes that causes them to glow faintly in the dark corridor. And has he always smelled so strongly of leather? It quickly dawns on you that you’re staring and you balk, tearing your eyes away to focus on the wall, only to let out a breathless laugh seconds later, jutting your chin and indicating his shoulder. “Uh, hey, check it out.”

“Hmm?” He had been so busy admiring the sculpt of your face and pondering how it could only have been carved by a skilled artist that at first, your words don’t register. “What?” Tipping his head to one side, Ulthane follows your gaze. His lips part around a soft chuckle upon discovering that his shoulders are no longer stuck. “Well, would you look at that?” In moving so suddenly to catch you, he'd managed to tear an arm free of its confines, allowing ample space for the other to follow through, all without taking the ceiling down.

A noisy exhale spews out of his nose as he places you back on solid ground and heaves the rest of his bulk into the narrow hallway. It's cramped and he has to stoop considerably to keep his head from constantly bumping against the ceiling, but it is manoeuvrable.

He raises a hand with a view to sheepishly scratch at the back of his neck, finds his elbow hits the wall, and drops it back down again. “Right,” he says, “That was...uh...”

“Kind of funny?” you dare to venture, trying to gauge his expression in the meagre lighting.

In response, the maker snorts. “I was about to say embarassin' but I reckon it's all about perspective.”

Indeed. To him, the whole ordeal of being stuck inside a doorframe while the human he rescued is present as a witness is utterly mortifying. You however, didn't just find it funny. It also came as somewhat of a relief.

To see the unassailable giant make a mistake, to blunder, to err like that....

Perhaps these makers are more like humans than you'd previously thought. Suddenly, Ulthane doesn't seem like such an unearthly stranger anymore.

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you jab a thumb down the hall. “We should...probably hurry up, right?”

And just like that, the atmosphere thickens once more. Tension creeps back into your stance and Ulthane's lips tilt down at the corners, the gruff visage slipping into place as if it had never left. With a resolute nod, the maker waits for you to turn before he lumbers after you down the shadowy hallway, his eyes trained on a small, green glow at the far end.

You proceed hesitantly, jumping every time one of the emergency lights flickers and sparks, and you can't help but to notice that they aren't as bright as they'd been when you left. The fact that whoever had the wit to install battery operated ones is a minor miracle or you'd be fumbling around in pitch darkness right now, though it seems they've finally started to run out of juice. 

‘Well... I know how they feel.’

Closer and closer you creep until the vault door at last looms into view, its metal surface glowing eerily beneath the led sign nailed above it that reads ‘Caution.’ Hardly daring to breathe, you wipe your sweaty palms on your blouse and reach out, fingers stretching slowly towards the door. However, just before you can push it open, you freeze, inexplicably overcome by a sinking feeling. Darting out your tongue to nervously wet your dry lips, you stare at the tremble that's started to spread up your arm and take a bumbling step away from the vault.

“What if...What if they're-” You don't want to finish.

To your back, you hear the telltale thud of Ulthane's knee hitting the ground as he shifts. Moments later, a gentle knuckle is prodding you in the spine - perhaps as a reassurance of his presence, or perhaps to encourage you to keep going.

“Can't start thinkin' about 'what ifs' now, bonnie,” he tells you, allowing his hand to linger for a moment before pulling it away again and you can’t help but feel that it’s his way of letting you know you won’t be facing whatever lays beyond that door alone. 

Swallowing past a lump, you nod, take a steadying breath and press your shaking palm flat against the door, drawing solace from the metal's cool surface.

With agonising slowness, you push yourself against the door and it swings open to reveal the darkened room beyond, where silence is the only thing to greet you, a perfect quiet so impermeable, it makes you acutely aware of the tinnitus ringing in your ears and you have to shuffle your feet just to have something else to hear.

“Kids?” you call softly, trepidation rising with every second that passes in which you don't receive an answer. “Ashleigh? Sam?”

Nothing.

The horror of what you may have condemned these children to finally begins to sink in. Behind you, the maker’s brow furrows as you raise a hand to cover your mouth and the sight instantly has him battling down the urge to put his fist through the nearest wall, enraged at himself for not checking the area more thoroughly after he found you. More children needlessly lost, all because of him.

But then, just as your knees start to wobble, there's a rustling from deeper in the vault, somewhere too far to be illuminated by the emergency lights. Ulthane's ears perk up and a voice – small and weary – calls out, “Miss?”

Your head snaps up. You hardly dare believe you'd really heard it.

"....Archie?”

To begin with nothing more is said. Then suddenly, with the gradual steps of a cautious fawn, a shape starts to emerge from the shadows. 

Two feet clad in red sneakers appear first, followed eventually by pale, skinny legs with grazes covering both knees just below where a pair of black shorts cut off. Finally, Ulthane can make out the figure's face as it steps into the light. Wide, round glasses sit upon a freckled nose, the lenses dusty and marred with cracks that have splintered the glass, creating zigzagging spiderwebs across their surfaces.

Ulthane’s breath hitches in his throat.

He always imagined human younglings would be small, but this? He’s seen makers born bigger.

Silently, he remains crouched in the doorway, so far undetected by the minuscule boy, and observes, enraptured as you collapse onto your knees and release a cry fraught with relief. Hearing your distress, the boy staggers forwards blindly, his arms outstretched and his face crumpling before he can reach you.

“Archie, you-what happened to your glasses!” you exclaim, but your question is ignored. By the time he comes close enough for you to circle your arms around his scrawny waist, the dam has burst and he lets out a miserable sob, curling his hands into the front of your blouse and lowering himself down onto your lap.

And just like that, Ulthane’s heart soars as four more children melt out of the darkness.

You suddenly find yourself almost mowed down by Kitty and Lucia, both of whom are also crying and each girl fights for the space to loop their arms round your neck.

“Where were you!?” Kitty wails and beats her fists against your back. “You left us! You left us alone!”

At the same time, Lucia's fingernails dig like knives into the skin under your blouse but at this point, you honestly couldn't care less.

With two children buried into your shoulders and one actively trying to burrow his way inside your chest, you glance up to see the last few – Sam and Ashleigh – standing nearby. They, like the others, had rushed towards you, yet something has caused them to freeze in their tracks, their stares fixed on a point above your head. Haunted, exhausted expressions shift swiftly through confusion, dawning horror and finally, their eyes burst open wide and abject terror sweeps everything else away. You soon realise that they've just spotted what their classmates haven’t, but before you can tell them not to scream, Ashleigh's jaw drops open and she lets out a shriek so piercing, the others yelp and jerk away from you to look back at her.

Shaking his head with a gentle frown, Ulthane instinctively tries to extend a hand through the door, his fingers skirting past you and continuing on towards the diminutive girl, who gives off another screech and falls onto her backside in her haste to scramble further into the vault. Swallowing, the maker retracts his hand, glaring at it accusingly as if it were the sole reason for her fear. 

“Guys, no! It's okay!” You reach out to try and coax Sam back towards you but he remains rooted to the spot, staring silently up at the door. It's at that point Kitty, Lucia and Archie finally whirl about and look up as well, frantic to see what has their friends so badly frightened. It doesn't take long for them to find it. Realising that this is quickly getting out of hand, you stumble to your feet and spread your hands out, fingers splayed. “Don't!-”

But it's too late.

Kitty immediately sees the enormous figure crouched in the doorway and leaps from you while Archie and Lucia grab your sleeves and begin to pull you with all their might, away from Ulthane. “Run!” Archie yells, at the same time as Lucia shrieks, “Monstruo!”

You have to wince on Ulthane's behalf at that one. Although not his native language, you're fairly certain he doesn't need a translator to figure out what he'd been called.

Ulthane Blackhammer has been hurt many a time in his exceedingly long life. He's been burnt, shot at, beaten up by his own brother, taken a blade to the back more times than he'd care to admit. Yet that right there, being called a monster by a human child somehow hurts his chest worse than any blow he's ever received. Crestfallen, the maker tries to school his face into steely indifference but ends up failing miserably.

Pulling out of the kids' grasps, you once again hold out your hands in a placating gesture. “He is not a monster, he's a...a...” Frowning, you twist your head over a shoulder to look at the giant. Even with the measly light, you can see him avert his eyes and press his lips together tightly in what you assume is an effort to hide the fearsome tusks behind them. “He's one of the good guys,” you murmur at last, prompting the maker to raise his head a little and glance at you. Maybe it's your imagination or a trick of the light, but you could swear a troubled grimace darkens his features at your words. Before you can dwell on it further though, Lucia – arguably the bravest of the gathered students – stops back-peddling and gulps instead, venturing, “Is – Is he gonna eat us!?”

“What!? No, of course not!” You suddenly hesitate, looking back at the maker again. “Are you?”

Ulthane's nostrils flare as he scowls, offended by your doubt. “No!”

At his unexpected growl, the kids gasp and retreat further, prompting the giant's frustration to evaporate like water off a scorching pavement. Heaving out a great sigh, he says, far more gently, “No, lassie, I'd never hurt any of you.” He casts his eye over each human, trying his damnedest to convey complete and utter harmlessness – a difficult task for someone so much more vast than any human who ever lived. 

The children don’t seem in the least bit convinced by his sincerity.

Both the maker and yourself lock eyes for a second. Neither of you know how in the world you’re going to broach the subject of leaving. Something in the kids’ faces tells you they'd all raise a few objections about going anywhere with this strange giant, even if you say it's safe.

“Right, well. There you have it. He won’t eat you, Lucia.” Brusquely, you clap your hands together, anxious to get moving. Any longer on your feet and you may just up and die of exhaustion on the spot. 'No time for that though,' you tell yourself, somewhat bitterly, 'safety first, then sleep.'

Forcing your body to stand tall, you level a somber but weighty look at the five children, the duty you've set yourself staring right back through frightened, bleary eyes. It settles heavily on your shoulders. “Listen to me, I know you're all scared, but we can't stay here.”

“Why not!?” Kitty contests and stamps her foot. She always did try to disguise her fear with anger.

“Because we don't have any food.” Raising a hand, you start listing things off on your fingers. “There's no more water, this door – this whole building - isn't going to keep us safe for long!...But Ulthane-” Here, you pause to share a meaningful glance with the maker. “-Ulthane knows somewhere we can stay. Somewhere safer than this museum.” 

Ashleigh squeaks, looking horrified at the mere suggestion. “We’re going with him!? But, he's so-”

“Big? Yeah, I know,” you chuckle humourlessly and earn a harrumph from the man behind you, though his grumbling falls silent when you continue, “But big doesn't always mean bad. He won't hurt you, I promise.” You really hope that’s a promise he doesn’t end up breaking for you.

Oblivious to your innermost concerns, Ulthane feels a weight lift off his chest, pleased that you seem to be coming around enough to finally start trusting him. He just wishes he had half of Eideard’s know-how when it comes to dealing with younglings.

For some time, none of children move or say a word. They simply glance among one another, Ashleigh clutching onto Sam's hand like he'll disappear if she lets go, Archie cowering behind Lucia and trying to make sense of the scene behind his cracked glasses whilst the latter looks torn between believing you and believing the stories she'd read as a young girl – of ferocious giants that stomp around and terrorise humans, gobbling them up whenever they get hungry. At her side, Kitty is desperately trying to jut her chin up at Ulthane in an attempt to appear brave, despite how her limbs tremble and her face is streaked with salty tears. 

It occurs to you, not for the first time, that you are way out of your depth. For goodness sake, you're just the art technician! You're only supposed to tidy up after the class, wash paint brushes and mind the lessons if their teacher has to pop out to the main office! By your very nature you aren't an authority figure to these kids. Not quite their teacher, not quite their friend....

A weary sigh blows past your lips and you slowly lower yourself onto one knee, mirroring Ulthane's stance. “Do you guys trust me?” you ask out of the blue.

Caught off guard by your question, the children all recoil and glance uncertainly amongst one another, the same question entering all of their heads at once. 

Do they trust you?

You who allowed Ashleigh to seek refuge in the art room during lunch where she could be left to read her books in peace. Or when Kitty had come storming in one day like a roiling tempest, itching for a fight and you'd grabbed some acrylic paint, a large canvas and told her to attack it with everything she had. The mess was hell to clean up but she'd left that class with a tranquil smile on her face and a sprinkle of blue in her hair.

And then there's Archie, who'd crumpled to nothing in your arms one afternoon and wept into your shoulder. He wouldn't tell you what had happened. He wouldn't say a word, and eventually, you gave up asking and simply held him close, telling him that it would all get better soon.

Every child in this room, for one reason or another, has had something happen that drew them down into the underbelly of the school where the art room waited and in it, they always found you.

Maybe it's because you aren't their teacher, not really. You like them, you liked most of the students and you never tried to hide that for the sake of preserving some inflated sense of pride.

After another few seconds of quiet contemplation, all five of them look back at you. The decision seems to be unanimous. Cautiously, they nod their heads. 

“Then trust me now,” you breathe, on the brink of begging, “We have to get out of here. And like it or not, Ulthane is our best chance for survival.”

To the maker's surprise, that single, unassuming question appears to do the trick. Almost right away, the younglings start edging closer and you smile, stretching out a hand and offering it to Archie, who squints at it for a second before he plucks up the courage to lean forwards and grasp it in his own. 

Giving the boy’s fingers a light squeeze, you turn to Ulthane. “Okay, I think we're ready. We'll follow you out.”

In seconds, the maker’s stomach twists with worry - ‘No, not worry’ - he stubbornly corrects himself, but rather, something more along the lines of anticipation as he realises that in order to get these younglings back to the Tree, they’re going to have to leave the museum and venture out into the wild and dangerous city beyond. 

It has to be done, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. In truth, he fears what might happen if something goes wrong and one of the humans is injured, what will he do? Will he be able to hold it together and get the survivors back to the tree or will he be consumed by the desire to tear their attackers to pieces? That desperation, that primal instinct to protect the young is already clawing raggedly at his insides, leaving an uncomfortable, squirming sensation in his gut that won’t be shaken loose no matter how much he wills it away. 

Determined not to let his agitation known, he screws one eye shut as he hoists himself back onto his feet and twists about, his proportions large and awkward in the confines of the hall. Like you though, he's eager to get the children out of that cramped room and somewhere he can actually see them and get to them if they're in danger or worse, hurt.

The second he moves, Archie’s hand clamps down around yours, though you can understand the boy’s trepidation when Ulthane’s spine is to you, leaving you with an uninterrupted view of the gigantic hammer that he's slung across his back. All you can do is turn to the kids and offer them what you hope is a reassuring grin. “Okay, here we go. Does everyone have all their things?” You can't imagine there'll be much use for sketch books and pencil cases in this situation, but you aren't about to tell them to leave their only worldly possessions behind. After having to wait for Sam and Kitty to dash back and retrieve their discarded rucksacks, you lead the gaggle of children out and into the hallway, dragging Archie by the hand with the other four following almost toe to heel.

At the set of double doors that open out into the main room, you slow everyone to a halt as Ulthane bends himself down to squeeze through.

“Try not to get stuck again, okay?” you warn him, failing to hide a smirk when he swings his massive head around and grumbles at you lowly for a second before he ducks through to the other side, this time without a hitch.

One ear trained on the footsteps pattering along behind him and one listening out for trouble, he cuts straight across the main hall, his head periscoping this way and that until he focuses in on the collapsed entrance you’d used to get inside. Dimly, he wonders if you’d be more willing to accept a lift from him this time around? 

All of a sudden, a shadow skitters across the opening, moving fast and low like some insect crawling about between the bricks and rebar.

In a flash, Ulthane jerks to a halt and throws his arm out protectively, stilling you and the children in your tracks.

“What!?” you hiss, “What is it?”

There's no response from the maker at first, he's too busy raising his head to sniff at the air, nostrils twitching. Then, quite abruptly, he drops his sights to the gap in the wall and peels his lips back over formidable, gleaming teeth. “Trouble,” he growls, low and threatening, but before you can ask him to elaborate, he takes several, measured steps backwards, shuffling his enormous boots towards you until you're forced to back up with him or risk getting a nudge from his iron-plated heel.

To say you're perturbed by the sudden change is a gross understatement. “Ulthane, what are you doing!?”

Once again, he doesn't reply, and instead reaches up to wrap his fingers around the handle of his war-hammer, swinging it into both hands, the weapon's bulbous head casting a vast shadow over your little group. Behind you, several pairs of eyes widen in horror and you feel a tug on your shirt sleeve as someone latches on. “Miss? What's happening!?” It sounds like Sam. All you can do is shush the children as you're continuously herded backwards by an increasingly bristling maker.

The sound of pebbles being knocked loose snags your attention and you squint through the colossal legs in front of you, spotting movement in the gap as something stalks inside the museum. Its shape is difficult to make out, but whatever it is stands upright on two legs and the top of its spine curves over, painfully contorting the figure's stance into something misshapen and crooked. But at a glance, it could almost pass for a....

“Wait a minute,” you murmur, furrowing your brow and planting your free hand on the maker's boot, calming him down a fraction, “Wait just a minute, is that a-!?” All the breath leaves your lungs as you excitedly smack your palm against his ankle. “Ulthane! It's alright! It's just another human!” The idea that someone else could have survived this nightmare is almost too much for you, sending your head in a dizzy spin for a few seconds. 

To your dismay however, Ulthane doesn't seem so pleased. “That's no human, lass,” he says out the side of his mouth.

“What? Of course they're human, look at them!”

At the sound of your voice, the figure's head snaps in your direction and it freezes, as if it were no more than a statue, no movement, no sound, just the moonlight at its back and the sickly sweet stench of rotting flesh blowing in with the night's wind.

“A-aren’t they?” Just like that, you curse yourself for praising the darkness outside. Being unable to clearly see what’s about to tear your apart is maddening.

Letting a dangerous breath hiss through his teeth, Ulthane backs you up another few metres until your backside hits something solid and you jump, twisting about to see that you and the kids have been corralled up against the circular reception desk.

“Remember what I told you about the Sufferin'?” he asks suddenly without taking his eyes off the creature, “About how they take what's dead-?”

You cast your mind back even as a cold tendril of dread winds around your chest. “-And bring them back...Oh, god.”

In poetic conjunction with your sudden realisation, the creature blocking your exit throws it head back and unleashes a howl so chilling, Archie lets go of your hand to cover his ears while the others let out startled bleats and begin to cry. The sound of their fear hardens your resolve and, without warning, you whirl about and grab the closest child – who happens to be Lucia – underneath her arms, hoisting her up on top of the ringed desk.

“Get behind there!” you bark, indicating the space inside before leaning down to get Sam.

Unbeknownst to you, the maker standing to your rear is slowly working himself into a bloodthirsty frenzy. Of course...Of course the very thing that crawled through that opening just had to be one of the swarm, an undead member of the very species he’s currently trying to save. Though small and relatively weak by themselves, when a group of them get together, they can become as deadly and tenacious as any demon. And that’s the thing about the swarm. There’s never just one. Hence the name. 

Every single muscle in Ulthane’s hefty body is wound tighter than a coiled spring in anticipation of a fight, and all because behind him, there are six humans - six, innocent, petrified humans who never asked for any of this to happen, five of whom are small enough to be engulfed in the palm of his hand. This new world is unkind to small things. They can't protect themselves, so they have to be protected.

Up ahead, crawling through the rubble and dust like an oversized cockroach, is a threat - a threat to his charges. Unfortunately, it isn't the only one of its kind.

As he feared, another shadow flits along the ground and he has to tear his eyes off the first figure to see a second emerge into the museum's makeshift entrance. Then another appears, and another....and another...

Your voice cracks above the snaps of teeth and scrabbling of long fingernails on the marble floor. “Ulthane!?” 

“I see ‘em,” he growls, the blood in his veins reaching boiling point.  

One of the human younglings lets a sob escape their throats and it serves as kindling for the fiery rage that blazes in Ulthane's chest. 

“So! You bastards want a taste of human, eh!?” he jeers suddenly, eliciting snarls and growls from the aggressors. They slither closer, their hunger for a fresh meal curtailing their wariness of his immense hammer. Teeth bared and feet planted squarely between you and the swarm, Ulthane puffs his chest out, and you can't help but to be reminded of a bird fluffing itself up to try and ward predators away from its chicks. 

“Well then,” he continues and a dark smirk creeps onto his face, “You're goin' to have to go through me first.”

[arthurmorgan-s-heart]

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader: The Good Times

Warning: Smut, drinking

Summary: They say competitiveness brings out the worst in people. Apparently, that’s not always true.

“So, everyone clear on the rules? Miss a shot, drink. Miss ten shots, out.”

Lenny seems proud of himself as he stands in front of you, swaying slightly. He’d been drinking. As had you, and as had everyone gathered around you, who’d come to watch or join the shooting contest that someone - you don’t remember who, if you’re honest with yourself - had decided it would be a good time to hold. Even through the haze of alcohol clouding your mind, a small, somehow still lucid part of you can’t help but wonder if shooting guns blind drunk is a good idea. At least, you can comfort yourself in the fact that you’re a good distance away from camp, in a little clearing separated from the group of tents by a few feet of thick trees.

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Bill grunts from your right, taking a swig from his bottle. “Ain’t as if it’s complicated.”

“I would have thought that everything is complicated for you, Bill,” Javier quips from somewhere behind you, and Bill whips around so quickly that he almost keels over. There are a few snickers around you as Bill regains his balance before opening his mouth to speak, his skin - already red from drink - growing even redder in his anger. To you relief, Arthur steps in before he can say a single word.

“We arguin’, or shootin’?” he asks sternly, though the slight slur in his speech makes his tone less commanding than it should be - you can’t help a quiet laugh, though you’re careful to keep it to yourself. Still, Bill steps back, only shooting Javier a dark look before turning back around, once again looking to Lenny. You breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

“Right, let’s get started then,” Sean says, stepping forward towards where Lenny had haphazardly lined up some bottles on the half-rotten trunk of a fallen tree. “Watch and learn.”

He places himself at a respectable distance, leveling his gun at his target and taking a second to aim before shooting - and missing entirely. Laughs and jeers are heard around you as Sean is made to drink, you laughing along with them as Arthur comes to stand next to you.

“So, you ready to lose, then?” he asks nonchalantly, taking out his pistol. “I can go easy on you, if you like.”

You turn to him, flashing him a smile as your hand finds the grip of your revolver.

“We’ll see about that.”

-X-

“Ah, shit!”

“How - How many’s that, John?” Lenny asks from where he’s sitting on the ground. You doubt he could stand even if he wanted to.

“Ten,” John sighs, holstering his gun and grabbing his bottle from where he’d left it, taking a sip. “I’m out.”

“Leaves just you an’ me, Y/N,” Arthur says, coming to stand next to you. You smile, looking up to meet his eyes.

“And remind me how many shots you’ve missed?” you ask innocently, watching as he takes up position to shoot. He’s still for a long time, as if thinking of what to say, and you wait patiently, giving him a sickly sweet smile when he looks your way.

“Eight,” he finally grunts out before raising his pistol and shooting, seemingly without aiming. The sound of shattering glass prompts cheers from the small crowd gathered around the both of you, and he looks back to you with a smug smile. You give him one of your own as you plant your feet, raising your revolver and taking half a moment to aim before firing. Another bottle explodes.

“I’ll have you know I’m only at six,” you say lightly as you reload your gun, not deigning to look at him, and all he gives you is a non-committal grunt. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he takes aim again, breathes in, out, and shoots.

“Damn!” he curses as the bullet whizzes just a hair over its target. There is laughing and loud booing as a bottle is pushed into Arthur’s hands, and he tips it at you in mock salute before taking a long swig, stumbling back half a step when he brings the bottle down again.

“You ready to give up?” you ask when he comes to stand next to you again. “I been tellin’ you for years: I’m a better shot than you.”

“Ain’t over yet,” Arthur replies as you take aim again, shooting another bottle. 

“Sure looks like it to me,” you say lightly, and you’re not sure you like the smile he gives you when you turn to look at him - sly, almost predatory, as if he knows something you don’t.

“That’s what you think.”

-X-

You continue like this for a while, Arthur’s aim suddenly improving tremendously despite the large amount of alcohol he’d drunk, shooting bottle after bottle while you rack up one, then two, then three misses. It’s almost midnight now, and the crowd starts to thin out as people start to drift off to their beds, one after the other. Eventually, only you and Arthur remain, both too stubborn to give up.

“Right, come on, your turn,” you say as you shoot yet another bottle - at least, with the amount of alcohol the camp regularly consumes, you’re not about to run out of targets. You arm is hurting, and you’re not half as drunk as you’d been when you’d first started. You cross your arms as you see him take aim, look at you out of the corner of his eye, look back to his target, then shoot.

He misses by less than an inch, and it takes you a moment to realise you’ve won.

“Finally!” you shout, putting your revolver back in its holster as you flex your stiff fingers. You can’t help a satisfied smirk as you see him drink from his bottle - rules are rules. “Told you.”

“Sure did,” he replies half mockingly, holding out the bottle for you to take. “Strange, though; it’s somethin’ you been sayin’ for years, and you ain’t never proved it until tonight?”

You laugh and swat his shoulder before accepting the bottle and raising it to your lips to drink, closing your eyes as the whiskey burns down your throat, all the way to your stomach.

“Well, you ain’t half bad neither,” you say, bringing the bottle back down and looking at him. He barks out a laugh, hooking his thumbs into his belt.

“You tryna make me feel better?” he asks teasingly, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to lose a friend just ‘cause I showed him just how much better I am than him,” you reply playfully.

That makes him laugh again, that deep, earthy laugh it seems you hear you rarely, and he holds his hand out for the bottle, taking it from your hand and bringing it to his mouth as he looks up at the sky. It’s a beautiful night; there are no clouds tonight, and the moon is thin, the stars bright. The few lanterns around you provide whatever light the moon can't, bathing you both in a warm glow.

“I ain’t offended,” he says quietly, suddenly serious, handing you the bottle again. You raise it to your lips. “Always knew you was somethin’ special.”

You’re glad you hadn’t had time to take a sip - you’re sure you would have choked on it if you had. You turn your head to look at him, but his eyes are still on the sky, seemingly unaware of your reaction. You drain the last of the bottle as you feel heat rise in your cheeks - though you’re not sure if the warmth spreading through you is due to the alcohol, or to his words.

“You were almost a challenge,” you say after taking a moment to compose yourself, and when he turns his head to look at you, you hope the darkness of the night is enough to hide the red that no doubt still lingers in your cheeks.

“Would you believe me if I said I let you win?” he asks, and you huff out a laugh, shaking your head.

“Not a chance,” you reply.

“Guess that makes me defeated, then,” he says, facing you and bowing slightly. You give a quiet chuckle, but your laughter dies on your lips when he reaches for your hand, taking it in his and bringing it up to his mouth before you can react, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “My Lady.”

You can’t help the shiver that runs through you then, from the tip of your fingers to the soles of your feet, and you pray that he doesn’t notice. When he looks back up to meet your eyes, you know he has, and warmth pricks at your spine, sharp and impossible to ignore.

He brings himself back upright, not letting go of your hand, and you feel your heart hammering against your ribs as his eyes drop down to your lips for half a heartbeat before meeting yours again.

It’s not as if this is the first time you’d found yourself in a situation like this with Arthur; there had always been something between you, from the very beginning - but the time had never been right. There had always been another woman, another man, too much grief, too many open wounds. But it had been years since then, and you know something has changed.

You wonder if you should speak, say something, or leave, maybe - though you can admit to yourself that you don’t really want to. But before you can decide, he pulls at your hand, gently drawing you against him before kissing you.

His touch is bolder than you had thought it would be, but still somewhat unsure, his hand still holding yours as the other hovers at your side. Your body takes over before your mind can fully comprehend what's just happened; your hands rise to come and cradle his face, and your lips part for him as you kiss him more forcefully, pressing yourself closer to him. He lets go of your hand to find your hips, and you can feel years of longing in his touch, years of watching from afar and trying to forget but never managing to. You close your eyes, and hope he understands; me too. Me too.

He pulls away after what feels like an eternity, lowering his head as he looks at the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters after a moment, even as he doesn’t step away, slowly looking back up at you. “I should - “

You kiss him again, cutting him off, and he only holds you tighter as everything that had stood between you through the years starts to unravel.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper between kisses, and he doesn’t, his hands roaming everywhere he’d dreamed to touch but never could, spreading warmth through your body as you kiss him hungrily, almost desperately, trying to make up for years and years of lost time. You feel his fingers brush down from your shoulder to your waist before tracing the same path back up over your stomach, lingering at the top button of your blouse for half a heartbeat before continuing on, the touch light, almost accidental, though you’d heard the hitch in his breath when he’d felt it under his fingers - eager, but still hesitant. So you part from him, just enough so that he can see you reach up to undo the first few buttons yourself, watching him as he brings his hand up to brush his fingers against the newly revealed skin, hesitating for a moment before allowing himself to make contact. His touch is warm, gentle, leaving goosebumps in its wake as you press a light, tender kiss to his lips, and you feel him lean into you for a moment before he pulls away, his touch suddenly feather-light as he meets your eyes.

“Do you - “ he starts hoarsely, and he clears his throat, his eyes flitting away before coming back to you. “Are you - I shouldn’t - “

“I want you, Arthur,” you cut him off, closing the distance between you again - he doesn’t move away. You bring both of your hands up to frame his face, palms moving down the sides of his neck and to his shoulders, lingering there. “Do you want me?”

“Yes,” he answers instantly, without hesitation, and his own answer seems to make something snap inside him, the last of his doubts forgotten as he kisses you again, hungrily, longingly, without restraint, his fingers making short work of the last buttons of your blouse before his hands find the skin of your stomach, leaving smoldering trails wherever he touches as his lips leave your mouth to track kisses down your neck and to your shoulder. Your hands find the buttons of his own shirt, pulling them free one after the other as his lips trace the long line of your collarbone. He groans into your mouth when he feels your palm smooth over his ribs, pressing yourself as close to him as you can to feel the skin of his chest against yours. You'd wanted this for years without being able to admit it to yourself - and now that you're here, you don't want to wait anymore.

You reach for his hand, kissing him again when he raises his head to look at you, pulling him along as you stumble back a few steps, toward a more shadowed corner of the clearing.

“Arthur,” you whisper breathlessly, lacing your fingers through his. “Please.”

“Here?” he asks, pulling away just enough to meet your eyes. You nod.

“Yes,” you answer, feeling his grip on you tighten. “Yes.”

His lips are on yours again then, and you let your eyes flutter shut as you feel him guide you to the ground, slowly, gently. He lays you down in the grass before coming to kneel over you, your hands bunching into his shirt as you draw him to you again, kissing him heatedly as you feel his hand on your knee, smoothing down over you skirt towards where it had hiked up to the middle of your calves. You let go of his shirt, allowing him to sit back on his heels as he pushes your skirt up to gather around your waist, leaving you in your drawers. His hands brush over your clothed thighs until he reaches the waist of your underwear, looking to you for permission. You nod, and he wastes no time pulling them off, a low groan rising from his throat as his hands find your thighs again, this time bare and warm under his calloused hands as you spread your legs to let him kneel between them.

“Be lyin’ if I said I ain’t never thought ‘bout this over the years,” he whispers before leaving a trail of kisses from your stomach to your collarbone, one hand lingering on your thigh while the other one comes to cup your cheek. You feel heat spreading through you at his words, setting each of your veins aflame. “Can’t count the nights I spent thinkin’ about you like this…”

He bends down to kiss you again, long and slow, reveling in the feeling of you against him, like this, something that he’d waited so long for. Your hands rise, pressing to his chest for a moment before brushing down, toward his stomach, your touch light and seemingly innocent. You linger there for a moment before moving lower still, pressing a palm against the hard line of him through his trousers. He groans into your mouth before he parts from you, tucking his face in the crook of your neck as he rolls his hips into your touch, heaving warm, shuddering breaths against your skin as the hand he has on your thigh grips you tighter, the other planting itself next to your head as he holds himself up.

“Jesus…” he breathes as he rocks against you, seemingly unable to stop himself, seeking more friction, more warmth, more.

His breath catches in his throat when your hand leaves him to come fumble at his belt, and you turn your head to kiss him temple, trying to make him understand just how much you’d wanted this as well, just how long you’d waited. You know he probably still doubts himself, probably can’t quite believe that you’re both here - and, to be honest, neither can you -, but you want to show him how wanted he is, how precious, how good.

His belt clinks open, and he lets you push his pants down just enough so that you can free him, groaning as you reach into his trousers to grasp him, stroking him slowly. You spread your legs wider in wordless invitation, and you can feel how much he wants to simply push forward, but he raises his head, meeting your eyes, and you know what he’s asking without him even needing to speak: are you sure? Why me? Don’t you want someone better?

You reach up with your free hand, brushing his jaw as you draw him to you, kissing him deeply. No. It’s you I want.

Only you.

His hips jolt when you stroke him again, eager, impatient, and you smile against his lips, angling your hips up toward him as both of your hands reach for his hips, pulling back slightly to meet his eyes.

Yes.

He sinks into you languidly, unhurriedly, his eyes fluttering shut as he feels you around him, warm and perfect, moaning when you roll your hips against his. He sets a slow, careful rhythm, and you tighten your legs around him, trying to draw him impossibly closer, impossibly deeper. Each of your breathless moans seems to embolden him, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, but, always, loving, almost adoring. He kisses your mouth, nuzzles at the side of your neck, groaning quietly with each thrust, his hand smoothing up from your thigh to your stomach, your breasts, your shoulder, before finally coming to cradle your cheek, turning your head to face him as he presses his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes, letting yourself be consumed by the heat inside and outside, the tight ball of pleasure that had been gathering low in your stomach finally bursting as you come undone, softly, quietly, kissing his mouth, whispering his name, touching every inch of him you can reach as his thrusts become uneven, his hips stuttering against yours for a few moments more before he falls apart as well, moaning against your lips.

You stay like this for a moment, both unwilling to move, to part, to acknowledge what had just happened, willing yourselves to live in a fantasy world where it was only the two of you for a while longer. But eventually, he moves off you, laying down on his back next to you and looking up at the sky. Neither of you know what time it is, though it’s bound to be almost dawn by now.

He speaks first, eventually, his voice hoarse and low, not looking at you as he grinds out the words.

“I know this ain’t - you don’t wanna be with me, and that’s okay - “ he starts.

You reach out to grab his hand, groping at the ground blindly for a moment before you find it, and he cuts himself off when he feels you squeeze his fingers gently, reassuringly, turning your head to look at him, though he refuses to do the same.

“After all this time,” you whisper, letting your thumb brush the back of his hand, “I never wanna let you outta my sight again.”

He can’t help a laugh at that, light and quiet, and you feel his grasp on your hand tighten slightly as he finally looks at you, smiling.

“Think I can manage that,” he answers, leaning in to kiss you - gently, unhurriedly, as if you both had all the time in the world. You smile against his lips as you think to yourself that maybe you do, after all.

Happy 1 year anniversary of Sad Cowboy Simulator 2018. Have some porn to celebrate.

(I’m sorry those last lines are so goddamn lame somehow I couldn’t get anything else out and I wanted to finish it in time for today pls forgive me anon)

[dazeandhaze]

What is the kagerou project?

This post is for those who are interested in interacting with my muses Kido, Kano, and Konoha, but maybe don’t know enough about the series to really know where to start plotting wise. I’ll be linking this post to their abouts (when I make them) and I welcome any questions you might have on it!

First off, the Kagerou project is originally a set of vocaloid songs / videos that later got translated to a manga, novels, and an anime. It’s a story told achronlogically, meaning pretty much out of order and not straight forward at all - another reason I wanted to make this post so newcomers don’t feel confused.  That and all the mediums help tell the full story - so unless you’ve taken in all of them it’s hard to piece together the story from start to finish, and there is still a lot of details we don’t know. The kagerou project isn’t perfect but it’s a good story overall.

The actual story / character info will be below the cut cause this is gonna be a super long post.

Also if you get weirded out by snakes it’s probably not the best idea to read this - there’s no pictures but the word ‘snake’ comes up ALOT. Also please don’t read this if Suicide is a trigger for you, as that is something that I will be mentioning a few times aswell.

MAJOR CHARACTERS

First off I’ll introduce the characters / what their powers are and then explain the songs then the story and how the powers are significant and how the characters play into the story as a whole.

Azami - the medusa. Creator of the abilities.

The Mekakushi Dan - the ‘blindfold’ gang. It started as a childhood fantasy but Kido, Kano, and Seto kept the group name after Ayano’s death. Kano was the one that came up with the name.

 Ayano Takeyama - Number 0, Foster older sister to Kido, Kano, and Seto. Has the snake of favoring eyes. She is able to project her feelings and memories onto others.

Tsubomi Kido - Number 1, technically the leader. Has the snake of Concealing eyes. She can make herself effectively invisible and unable to be perceived by others as long as she doesn’t touch anyone. She can use this ability on other people, and any sound they make while the ability is active is unheard of by others.

Kousuke Seto - Number 2. Has the snake of Stealing eyes. He can read people’s minds and when used to its full potential, he can read a person's memories.This ability also lets him understand the thoughts of animals, though they can still not understand him.

Shuuya Kano - Number 3. Has the snake of Deceiving eyes. It allows him to change what people perceive him as. He can change his appearance to impersonate other people and even animals. He can only use this ability on himself and not others.

Marry Kozakura - Number 4. Has two ‘eye’ abilities technically, Locking Eyes and Combining eyes. Locking eyes she inherited from her mother Shion and her grandmother Azami. It allows her to temporarily stop the movement of whoever meets her gaze. She is not able to turn people into stone, but it can paralyze them for a short amount of time. The Snake of Combining Eyes can combine and therefore control all snakes. It was directly given to her by Azami when she died and entered the Kagerou Daze. This ability causes her to automatically obtain a snake after its owner has died and also allows her to take a snake directly from them.Combining Eyes also passively causes the other snakes (and thus their owners) to be drawn towards its owner.

Momo Kisaragi - Number 5. She has the snake of Drawing Eyes. This ability can draw peoples' attention to herself regardless of their preferences in tastes or interests. She is also able to tell where a person's attention is drawn to.

Ene / Takene Enomoto - Number 6. She has the Snake of opening eyes. This allows her to to split her consciousness from her body, which then can reside in electronic devices (such as a cellphone) as a cyber-being. After regaining her body as Takane, she is still able to send herself to other electronic devices as Ene, but doing so causes her body to lose consciousness.

Shintaro Kisaragi - Number 7. Has the snake of Retaining eyes. This allows him to remember everything he sees. When his ability is fully activated, he is able to remember the events of past routes and speak with the Snake of Retaining Eyes.

Hibiya Amamiya - Number 8. Has the snake of Focusing Eyes.This has the power to perceive objects and details that are far away from an aerial view.

Konoha / Haurka Kokonose - Number 9. Has the snake of Awakening Eyes. This gives him the power to remake his body into one that he finds to be his "ideal" - as Haruka was physically weak and sickly, this meant for him to become supernaturally strong. He can also heal from even fatal injuries with this ability, which looks like multiple black snakes wrapping around his body when activated.

Hiyori Asahina - Number 10. Depending on the route she will have the snake of Focusing Eyes instead of Hibiya. 9/10 times though it is Hibiya. Just mentioning this fact for technicalities sake.

The Snake of Clearing eyes - the story’s main antagonist. This ability can interfere with and stop the use of other eye abilities completely. It normally possesses either Ayano’s father or Hibiya depending on the route. In every route it will always possess Konoha towards the end - as he is the strongest member and none of the others in the Dan can stand a chance against him. (if you see me reblog a black haired konoha, it’s him being possessed by this ability)

SONGS

As mentioned before, this started off as a set of vocaloid songs. So I will list SOME of the songs below - there’s over 33 songs related to the kagerou project but these are ones with MVs (or at least fan made ones) that have the main characters as the focus.

Shinigami Record - Azami Song

Jinzou Enemy - Ene and Shintaro song

Mekakushi Code - Kido’s song

Headphone Actor - Takene song

Imagination Forest - Mary song

Kagerou Daze / Heat Haze Days - Hiyori and Hibuya song

Konoha’s state of the world - Konoha song ft Hiyori and Hibuya

Yobanashi Deceive - Kano song

Shouen Brave - Seto song

Kisaragi Attention - Momo Song

Ayano’s theory of Happiness - Ayano song

Yuukei Yesterday - Takene and Haruka song

Children Record - everyone is here lmao serves more like an opening if anything

Moon Viewing Recital - Momo and Hibuya song

Outer Science - Clearing eyes song / The Bad ending

Lost time memory - Shintaro song

Summer time record - everyone is here but there is a focus on Haruka / the good ending

Additional memory - Ayano in the daze song

Never lost world - kido post story song

THE STORY

the first thing to know about the kagerou project story is that it is a time loop story. Each medium contains its own loop (or in the manga’s case, multiple), which is why someone has to consume all the mediums to really get the full story. Some character details or interactions only happen in one route / loop.  I’ll be going over what people are most likely to find out through google searches / the easiest medium (the music or anime) but will mention other routes here and there for context. Generally most routes we know of follow most of the same story beats but some differ dramatically - and I don’t want to confuse people.

For the overall story though - it starts with Azami. She is the medusa, but not in the traditional greek myth sense. It is just what humans started referring to her as thanks to her snake-like features. Truthfully she doesn’t know entirely what she is, she was born at the beginning, and lasted through the ages with not even a physical form until she met two beings - humans and a snake. The humans tried to kill her on first sight while the snake was kind and explained what the humans were to Azami. Her physical form ended up being a mix of these two species, hence humans calling her a medusa. (pictured below is azami from the novels)

Overtime she tried to interact with humans but they always shunned her and tried to kill her until one day she met an albino man named Tsukihiko. I will skip over the specifics but she ends up falling in love with him and building a family with him. They were both considered ‘monsters’ by society and thus made a perfect pair. They even had a daughter, Shion.

Now it’s important to note that during this time she made her abilities. considered ‘eye’ abilities or ‘snakes’, Azami had the ability to create almost sentient forces within her to help her solve problems. For example, the ‘favoring eyes’ ability was created so she could properly show her emotions to her infant daughter, pass on all the love that she had onto Shion in a way she would understand even as a baby.

However after Shion was born, after creating these abilities, she realized that both Tsukihiko and Shion were going to out live her and die. She had lived thousands, maybe even millions, of years by now and hadn’t aged a day - but her husband obviously had. In this fear a new power was born, the snake of clearing eyes. It offered a solution to Azami, for them to create an entirely new world where death and time didn’t exist, where she could simply be happy with her family. She does this, and tells her husband and child they would leave the world together. They agree, but Tsukihiko wants to officially marry Azami before they leave the world. She allows him to go back to his old home to get wedding rings and someone to marry them officially, but doesn’t return. What does return are humans, out to kill Azami and her daughter. Azami defeats the men with ease but believes now her husband is all but dead. In her grief, she escapes to the world she made - the Kagerou Daze - and leaves her child behind.Tsukihiko manages to return, escaping from the confinement the other humans had put him in, and knows once he finds his daughter alone that his wife left the world. They are not upset with her, and continue to live out their days in their home in the forest.

Tsukihiko eventually dies of old age and Shion grows up. Shion has her own daughter called Mary, who is a quarter medusa. Shion is extremely protective of her daughter after the events of her own childhood, and tells Mary never to leave the house. However being the fun loving child she was, Mary disobeyed her mother once. It wasn’t long after she was found by humans who were proceeding to beat her to death when her mother found her. They were both about to die at the hands of these humans when Azami decided to intervene.

She wasn’t gone completely, she had been watching over her daughter and grandaughter from the Daze. Knowing what was about to happen to her family, she issued a command to the world to take in the two people dying and bring them up into the world. The date? August 15th.When the two arrived in the world they were dead. The world brought them back to life but they couldn’t leave back to the ‘real’ world without a new lifeforce. Azami, wanting her daughter to live, gave her the core of her power - the snake of combining eyes, also known as the ‘queen snake’. But Shion wanted her own daughter to live, and passed it onto Mary. Mary was able to return to the real world, but had no memory of the Daze or what her mother and grandmother had done for her - she was now alone.

The combining eyes was the core of Azami’s power, and without it she could no longer control the Kagerou Daze. She couldn’t tell the world to stop bringing people into it, to stop giving them powers,and to stop returning people to the real world. This was the mistake that costs the main character’s so much grief.

Each of the members of the mekakushi dan (besides Shintaro) died on the day of August 15th. The Kagerou Daze, still fulfilling its order, took them and whoever they were with at the time up into the world, and if they resonated with one of Azami’s abilities, gave them the snake before putting them back out into the real world - the snake/ eye ability being their new life force and the reason they’re alive.

Kido died in a fire with her sister, and got the snake of concealing eyes. Seto drowned with his dog and got the snake of stealing eyes. Kano died in a robbery with his mother and got the snake of Decieving eyes. Momo also drowned and got the drawing eyes ability. Takene was poisoned and got the opening eyes ability. Haruka had a heart attack and got the awakening eyes ability. Hibuya and Hiyori were in a traffic accident and depending on the route - one of them gets the Focusing eyes. As stated above, 9/10 times it’s Hibuya, Hiyori only gets it in the manga route/loop.

Ayano is a special case. She committed suicide with the goal in mind to go to the Kagerou Daze. She stays in the daze with her eye ability for a reason which I’ll get to later.

Now Shintaro does have an eye ability of his own, however it was NOT one of Azami’s abilities. I will also get to this later.

Kido, Kano, and Seto all end up being orphaned around the same time and ended up in the same orphanage. Forced into the same room together as they were the ‘strange’ kids. They were all adopted by the Tateyama family, Ayano’s family, who were researching the Medusa aka Azami. they took these kids in for their research but also genuinely cared about them. With the help of Ayano - the three children come to be not so scared of their abilities and learn to like humanity again. The hoodies the three wear were gifts from their foster parents and Ayano to hide their eyes - as when their abilities were being used / went out of control, their eyes turned red.

One August 15th, Ayano’s parents were involved in a mudslide. They went to the Daze, and her father returned with the snake of clearing eyes. This wasn’t apparent to Ayano or any of the children at first, but Ayano soon found out that her father planned to kill her two friends at school (Haruka and Takene, who have pre existing health conditions and were in his ‘special education’ class) on August 15th so that they would go to the daze and get more snakes.

She found the clearing eyes wanted all the snakes in the real world for some reason, and thus on August 15th, she committed suicide by jumping off the roof of the school building, going into the daze and holding one of the eye abilities hostage by never returning from the daze. The clearing eyes still continued with his plan, Takene and Haruka died that day as well and got their respective powers. Haruka and Takene were strange cases though, they didn’t die with another person. Instead the clearing eyes tricked the world of the Kagerou Daze, getting it to recognize the mind and body as two different entities. So Takene’s body was left in the Daze while her mind returned to the real world as ‘Ene’, and could only exist within cyberspace. Haruka’s mind was left in the Daze and the perfect, healthy, body that he wanted returned to the real world as Konoha, who had no memories and seemingly little personality.

 But left the only one of their friend group, Shintaro, alive with all of his friends having died on the same day. He became a shut in, and for two years did not leave his home. The story officially ‘starts’ with Shintaro and Ene. Ene pretending she did not know Shintaro at all, found his computer during the two year timespan and proceeded to make his life hell, but also give him company within those two lonely years.

It’s important to note that Ene is crucial to Shintaro’s overall development. In some loops, her presence wasn’t enough and he ends up committing suicide out of grief. But emotions and lessons learned are kept throughout the loops, and eventually Ene came to realize that she had to help Shintaro no matter what.

Anyways, in a series of unfortunate events, Shintaro ends up needing to leave his house to go shopping as August 14th is a part of the obon holiday in Japan and he couldn’t survive one day without his precious computer being operational. On his one outing in two years - he ends up being wrapped into a robbery / terrorist attack on a shopping center and meets the rest of the Mekakushi dan (at this moment, only Kido, Seto, Kano, Mary, and Shintaro’s sister Momo). They help diffuse the situation at the shopping center and Shintaro ends up passing out (just due to nerves or he actually gets grazed by a bullet, depends on the loop), and brought back to the Mekakushi Dan hideout aka their apartment. It’s here he learns about the eye abilities, how his sister has one, and the exact events after this differ from loop to loop. Either way Shintaro becomes a sort of ‘unofficial’ member of the Dan and spends time with them over the next few days as he tries to wrap his head around the mysterious powers of the Dan and what they mean.

How the Dan ends up recruiting Hibuya and Konoha differs as well, but generally the group comes across the traffic accident that Hibiya and Hiyori were involved in and Konoha being there as well. Sometimes Ene will ask Shintaro to chase after Konoha, recognizing him as Haruka, and then they end up at the hospital and wait for Hibuya to be released / able to have visitors so they can talk to him. At this point in some of the loops, the Dan knows that August 15th is an important day to them, they’re just not sure why.

Hibuya leaves the hospital, determined to find Hiyori - not quite sure what has happened to her but knows she might be dead or lost or looking for him. Momo manages to get Hibuya to calm down and control his new eye ability, just in time for the Dan to be put into trouble.

It should be noted that technically, Azami had only 10 powers. And now with the exception of the power now taken by Ayano, all of those powers are in the real world. Which means it was time for the Clearing eyes to make its move. In the Novel and Anime route, the Dan ends up taking the fight to the Clearing eyes. (Possibly in the manga route aswell, I haven’t finished it).

Regardless, the Clearing eyes objective becomes clear rather quickly - it plans to kill every member of the Mekakushi Dan except for Shintaro (who doesn’t have one of Azami’s powers, but he still dies in some routes just for getting in the way) and Mary (who has the queen snake / snake of combining eyes, which clearing eyes wants). With each member of the Mekakushi Dan that dies, Mary gains their ability and grows closer to a full medusa. When she has five snakes - she can control the Kagerou Daze itself. The Clearing Eyes plans to kill the Mekakushi Dan, possess Mary, and become immortal + have control over the Daze and all of Azami’s abilities.

This is how most routes end. As soon as Mary has five snakes (four or more of her friends die), she has the power to control the Kagerou Daze and she has the world take in the Clearing eyes and thus trapping it there forever. After this she uses her new found powers to rewind time to sometime after her mother’s death but before everything else happened. This is how most routes start.

In the manga route specifically, the only ones alive after Mary has trapped the Clearing Eyes is Ayano (as she didn’t stay in the Daze in this route), Shintaro, and Mary. Everyone else is dead and gone and Mary is about to rewind time. Before she does though, she has Mary do something - give Shintaro an eye ability. Ayano gives up her life so that Mary may make her life force into an ability - the snake of retaining eyes. It is so that Shintaro ‘will never forget the tragedy that occurred here’. Shintaro has the ability to retain everything he sees, even across timelines. This route happens early on in the number of routes, but it’s never told to the audience when exactly it happens.

But, the problem with this is that he doesn’t remember he has an ability, it has to be triggered somehow. But it’s because of this that Shintaro killing himself out of grief in some timelines is so detrimental to the overall story - if Shintaro dies then he can’t activate his power and he can’t help save everyone. So for the story to truly be realized and head towards a good ending, Shintaro can’t die until after he remembers his ability.

In the novel route, only Seto, Mary, and Hibiya are alive after the confrontation with the Clearing eyes, and they live out their lives for almost two years before Mary decides to rewind time. Hibiya is able to contact the people who died and are now stuck in the Kagerous daze (death doesn’t exist there, so people are ‘alive’ there but trapped forever) and they all collectively make the decision to turn back time. Shintaro even comments that they’ve probably done this dozens, or maybe even hundreds or thousands of times by that point.

In the Anime route is when Shintaro remembers his ability. He remembers this due to something he knows but he shouldn’t have known. While he was friends with Ayano in school, he never knew that her siblings that she spoke about were Kido, Kano, and Seto. Yet while at the Mekakushi Dan apartment, he finds a picture with them all in it - and somehow knows that it’s the truth despite being surprised to find it out. This one event was enough for him to get things rolling and eventually remember his ability. He ends up killing himself and going to the Daze to see Ayano.

This is also shown in Route 1 of the lost time memory music video. He gets shot trying to protect Konoha (who was getting possessed by the clearing eyes, and thus tried to kill himself so that he wouldn’t hurt his friends), and he appears in the Daze to speak to Ayano and bring her back to the real world. The combination of Shintaro’s Retaining eyes, and Ayano’s favoring eyes, is enough to help get Mary to calm down. Ayano’s ability also lets her put the memories of others into other people, so she helps Shintaro show Mary that everything will be fine and that no matter what happened in every other route, they all love and care for her. This was enough to get her to calm down and for her to take everyone up into the Kagerou Daze, not just the clearing eyes.

Once trapped there, the Clearing eyes had nowhere to go and also was tricked by Konoha and Haruka into becoming the new snake / life force for Hiyori so that she could come back to life. I should note here that it is possible for those with snakes to sort of come and go from the Kagerou Daze as they please - people in the daze just can’t leave without a snake, so Mary also returns the snakes to those who had died up until this point so that they could leave the kagerou daze afterwards. Haruka is able to get back into his body after Konoha willingly gives it over, Takene gets her body back, and they are all able to have a few moments with those that they had died with to get some closure.

They then leave the daze together, and are able to continue on with their lives. (also shown in sumertime record)

Again, I skipped over ALOT here. But this is overall the major plot points of the kagerou project.

The Kagerou project is about dealing with loss, about looking forward to the future, about learning that you don’t have to deal with everything alone - there is always someone willing to help you. It’s about overcoming fear and despair, and learning to take a step forward. There is a lot of death and sadness in this story but there’s also a lot of goofy fun moments too - to remind us that even dark moments have a little light in them.

[psychosistr]

Mending the Broken- Chapter 3

Summary:  Jonathan awakens from one nightmare and finds himself in a reality far worse than anything he could've dreamt up..

Notes:  Alright, no two-ways around this one, there are warnings for dubious consent, mind control, and Dio being a general d!ck. You have been warned. Only posting part of this here because of how lame Tumblr is for certain content. Link for AO3 version will be posted below if you want to see more.

-First Chapter-

Jonathan’s eyes snapped open and he gasped for breath. He recalled bits and pieces of his dream, enough to realize why he was so startled when he awoke, but not enough to remember every single thought that had passed through his mind.

He remembered himself and Speedwagon talking…He remembered Speedwagon silently crying alone while cracks appeared on his body…He remembered Dio devouring Speedwagon’s heart…and..that was it..there had to be pieces between those points, but he couldn’t for the life of him recall them at the moment..

Jonathan’s thoughts were stolen back to the waking world when he attempted to move. The first thing he noticed was a crippling pain in his arms as he tried to rub his eyes and found himself unable to move any of his limbs. Looking down in alarm, he saw that he was in a seated position on a stone floor with his arms and legs shackled to the wall behind him. Both arms were wrapped in bandages and the pain in them when he attempted to move suggested they may have been broken. Surprisingly, his legs, while sore from being seated on the cold stone, were otherwise unharmed.

Next, he noted, there was something wrapped tightly around his throat. It felt like steel encased in cloth. He tried to breathe deeply and focus his mind but, when he did, there was a clicking sound from the collar just before it tightened to the point of near suffocation. He gasped on reflex, but that only made the collar tighten further. He quickly learned to take short, weak breaths until it relaxed enough to let him breathe with only a little more difficulty than usual.

Jonathan turned his head enough to see that the collar around his neck was connected to a steel wire that fed into an intricate series of gears on the wall behind him. He had a hunch what it was for, but decided to test his hypothesis anyway.

“Haaaah-nh!” Jonathan attempted a deep breath to charge his hamon, but the tensing of his neck muscles tugged the wire slightly and it triggered the gears. The device then activated as the gears turned, drawing the wire back in towards them and, in the process, choking Jonathan. Jonathan quickly relaxed his neck and took in short breaths until the wire released him and the device shut off once more. His neck hurt now, but his hunch had been proven right. “So, this device is meant to restrict my breathing and keep me from using my hamon. I would call it brilliant if it didn’t reek of Dio’s sadism.”

Jonathan decided to take a look around the room to see if he could spot a way to free himself or, at the very least, gain a better understanding of where he was.

There were no windows there, only stone walls on all sides with a single wrought-iron door on the wall out of reach to his left. The meager light of the room came from a lone candle left to burn in a wall scone by the door. The only notable fixture in the room besides the chains and device that Jonathan was bound to was a lavish, ornate wooden arm chair with intricate engraving and upholstered in blood red cushions located against the wall directly in front of him.

At first, Jonathan nearly overlooked the chair as just a piece of furniture…that is, until he saw the chain attached to the ground by the leg of the chair. Following the length with his eyes, he saw a figure sitting in the long shadow cast by the chair in the dim lighting that he almost missed. It looked vaguely human in shape and he could tell it was breathing, but he couldn’t see who it was in the darkness.

“Hello?” He tried calling out. “Can you hear me?”

“……” The figure didn’t answer him. But, its head tipped to the side slightly and Jonathan saw familiar golden hair slip out into light just past the chair.

“Speedwagon?” Jonathan tried calling out to his friend. “Speedwagon, can you hear me? Are you alright? Do you know where-?”

“……” He stopped when Speedwagon’s head slowly rose and turned towards him. The light was too dim to see everything clearly, but what he did see caused a tremor of fear to go through his body: Speedwagon’s eyes, which were normally so bright and vibrant and reminded Jonathan of perfectly polished copper, were now dim and lifeless, a haze to them that turned them a murky color like thick mud. His skin looked paler than usual, almost sickly, and, from what Jonathan could see, there was dried blood around the sides of his neck. His hair was also far more matted and unkempt than usual, looking as if it had been pulled and mussed and tossed about for quite some time.

“Speedwagon..?” Jonathan’s voice had a quiver to it. He may not have been able to fully see the state of his dear friend, but what he could see clearly told him that something was wrong with the other man. “Dear god, Speedwagon…What has that monster Dio done to you?!”

That seemed to garner some sort of reaction from the blond. His vacant eyes slowly drifted towards the door. “D…Di…o…”

As if on cue, the door opened after a clicking sound was heard and the man in question entered the room. The vampire closed the door behind himself with a loud “bang” before looking at Jonathan with a malicious smirk. “Well, well..finally awake, Jojo? You certainly kept us waiting.”

Jonathan was about to speak, to demand to know what Dio had done to Speedwagon, but the words died on his tongue when Speedwagon suddenly got up onto his knees.

“Lord Dio!” The street-rat’s previously expressionless face now had a large, almost manic smile spread across it even though his eyes retained their blank, muddled state. He crawled on his hands and knees around the front of the chair, revealing that he was naked from head to toe aside from a collar around his neck that connected to the chain latched to the floor. His body was scarred and bruised and coated in patchy spots of dried blood and a white substance that Jonathan dared not guess the origin of. “Lord Dio! Lord Dio!” He called out with a tone that was both ecstatic and desperate at the same time, crawling on his hands and knees until the chain reached its limit and jerked him back into a kneeling position. “I-I did what ya said, Lord Dio! I didn’ move or talk ‘til ya came back! Did-Did I do good?! Are ya pleased, Lord Dio?!”

Dio chuckled in amusement and walked forward, allowing the man’s eagerly reaching hands to wrap around his legs while he patted Speedwagon’s already mussed hair. “Yes I am, my pet. You’ve done very well.”

Speedwagon trembled as if a wave of euphoria had just overtaken him and slid down Dio’s legs until he was seated at his feet. “Ohhhhh, thank ya, Lord Dio…!”

Jonathan watched the scene unfold in stunned silence for several moments, unable to properly form words or even thoughts about what he was witnessing. His friend..his dearest, closest friend..a man who’d once shot Dio in the face with no hesitation and stood alongside Jonathan valiantly..was now..now..

“DIOOOOO!!!!” Jonathan yelled as protective rage filled his veins like liquid fire. He struggled against his bonds, ignoring the pain in his arms and the tightening of the collar around his neck slowly choking off his air. “What did you do to him, Dio?!” The collar tightened to the point of near suffocation, so Jonathan forced himself to settle back down, though the rest of his body was still tense enough to clearly show how enraged he truly was. “What..did you do..to..Speedwagon..?!!” He managed to huff out while regaining his breath.

“You don’t approve of my new pet, Jojo?” Dio smirked again and stepped out of Speedwagon’s hold, walking over to the chair and seating himself in it with his legs crossed. He snapped his fingers and Speedwagon instantly crawled to him, kneeling at his feet with his head positioned under Dio’s waiting hand to be petted like a common dog. “I find him rather amusing. So loyal, so easy to train..I’ve already taught him a few tricks. Watch.” He uncrossed his legs and snapped his fingers again.

~(cutting here for dubious consent/mature content- full scene here on AO3)~

“Now then, Jojo..” Dio lifted Speedwagon off of his lap with ease and dropped him to the floor carelessly. He ignored the yelp of pain the other gave on impact with the hard stone floor as he tucked himself back into his clothing and righted himself. He then walked over to Jonathan and kneeled down to be at eye level with him. “I hope you enjoyed my little show. If not, then do not fret- I shall return soon enough for an encore performance.”

“Diiooooo..!!” Jonathan practically growled out his hated brother’s name. He was seething with rage, possibly the angriest he’d ever been. He leaned as far forward as the collar and wire would allow him, looking Dio dead in the eyes as he spoke. “You will pay for what you have done, Dio! I will find a way out of here and I will take Speedwagon back with me! Once he is safe, I will make certain you pay for what you have done to him!”

Dio laughed at Jonathan’s futile struggles and stood back up, now looking down on him both literally and figuratively. “My, my, Jojo. You actually seem to think you have a chance in all of this. How delightfully foolish.” He walked towards the door. “I invite you to try, though. Show me what you are capable of.” He glanced back when he heard a pained groan and a shuffling sound, looking at Speedwagon as the bloodied and bruised man brought himself up into a sitting position. “As for you, my pet, you are not to move or speak until I return again. Understood?”

“Y..Yes..Lord..Dio..” Speedwagon said weakly while catching his breath, sitting up with his back against the leg of the chair. “Anythin’..ya say..”

Dio seemed pleased by the response and opened the door. “Until next time, Jojo.” He closed the door with a loud “bang”, leaving the two men alone once again.

Jonathan glared after him for a while before his attention was drawn back to Speedwagon due to a dripping sound. He frowned at what he saw: Speedwagon, still seated in the same position he’d been in when Dio left, now had that blank, emotionless expression on his face once more, but with tears now slowly falling from his eyes and dripping down onto the stone floor beneath him.

“Speedwagon..” Jonathan said, trying any way he could to shift even an inch closer to his fellow captive. “I am so sorry..you do not deserve any of this..I swear upon my life and pride as a Joestar, I will find a way to free you from Dio.”

“…….” Speedwagon gave no response. There was no movement. Not even a glance at Jonathan’s face to indicate that he heard or understood what Jonathan said. He merely continued to weep silently while looking in Jonathan’s direction unseeingly.

Jonathan bit his lip, glancing down at the ground with a pained look of sadness. He had to find a way out. He had to find a way to free Speedwagon from Dio’s control. He had to defeat Dio and put an end to his cruelty once and for all. There were so many things he had to do that he wasn’t even sure where to start…

<-Previous Chapter Next Chapter->

End Notes:  Another thing I wanted to see more of in the series was Dio's use of hypnosis- it was only ever briefly used on Poco, but then never discussed again that he could do that. This whole story was essentially me wanting more hypnosis and seeing what that could REALLY do when used by someone as sick and devious as Dio.

[luminashdawnwing]

Stemming the Tide

This takes place before the fall of N’Zoth, whenever individual players feel it should have taken place. Co-written with Jaskian (@kharrisdawndancer), in which Luminash and Jaskian do their part to fight the Old God!

The halls of Ny’alotha stood empty. The joint Alliance-Horde expedition of more military-minded individuals had already pushed through, clearing the great entry hall of the Waking City, their front line pushing deeper into N’Zoth’s vision. It was both a spear aimed at the Old God’s heart, and a shield against its forces. Just as this bulwark could be overwhelmed, however, so too could the defenders of Azeroth in the physical world. It was this dilemma that had led Jaskian and Luminash to this point as they stepped into N’Zoth’s dream from the sands of Uldum.

Luminash gazed around the open space, his shoulders tense and brows furrowed, "I do not know what I was expecting, but this is something else entirely."

Jaskian 's gaze was caught below them on the half-hidden runes and words that shimmered on the stone. "Agreed. Disconcerting to say the least." She stood back up, letting her gaze slide over the walls and the various eyes, “I didn't think it would be so.. confined. I feel like we're inside something. I thought it would be more open.”

On nearly every surface, the smooth dark stone unnatural in its slick and angular perfection, eerie glowing eyes watched, moving, pupils dilating and contracting as they took in the vast open chamber.

Luminash focused on the eyes as well, jaw tense, "I thought so, too. Perhaps we are inside something, though. A building, a temple? Either way, I believe it is...watching."

“I wonder if it can process all it sees in real time, or if it needs to sift through all the visions. How does it know where to focus?” After a pause, she continued, “I am not sure we should stay still too long.” With an incantation, her companion elemental materialized, even in this place beyond.

“We should move, then.” Luminash adds, “This antechamber should be clear, from what I've gathered, but I do not like this feeling of being watched."

“Left or right?”

Luminash looks up and around as he steps forward, looking to the forking paths, platforms of that unnatural stone suspended over an abyss below with no apparent supports, "Ah, right I suppose. It looks as if there is some sort of exit across whatever this room is." He pointed, in the distance, to a path upward, an eerie orange light at the top, flanked by two massive obelisks, their eyes burning in their intensity.

The pair began to walk in silence, keeping each other always within arms reach, unnerved by the oppressive darkness around them, pierced only by the ever-present, ever-watching eyes.

Stepping onto the path over the abyss, Jaskian broke the silence, “Do you think it changes? The way the walkway is constructed makes me wonder if it isn't a fixed path, but maybe one that can be reconfigured…”

Curiosity drawing her nearer to the edge, Jasian peered over into the darkness below. She swallowed hard as her stomach turned, “...Oh.”

Far below, writhing in the darkness were tentacles of monumental size, pathways and obelisks stretching down into a sickly fog, where shifting shadows spoke of more horrors.

Joining her at the edge, Luminash replied, “You may be right about these paths. It would not surprise me. The Void and its possibilities... Nothing is constant, and I would be surprised if this place is.” Peering over beside her, he shuddered, "What...is this place, really?"

The pair turned from the edge and forged forward, leaving the question to linger.

“This place makes me feel...oily,” Jaskian finally said once they were far from the lip of the writhing abyss below.

Luminash nodded in agreement, "That is the best way I can think of to describe how the Void felt on Argus, too. There is just something so fundamentally...wrong here. It is outside all natural order. I am not afraid to admit, I...do not like it.”

“I would be worried if you did,” Jaskian replied, shaking her head.

Managing a slight laugh, Luminash answered, "Fair enough."

As they moved deeper into the chamber, they passed a high arch, the door within it closed tightly. As they moved, Jaskian continued to watch the eyes dotting the obelisks, “It's interesting the eyes seem to be on a single plane in this atrium. None face directly on the sides.”

Luminash followed her gaze, thoughtful, “Ah, you are right. So there may be blind spots…”

Nearing the door, Luminash stepped away from their path and reached out to glide a gloved hand across its surface. It was altogether too smooth, and he recoiled, shuddering. Jaskian watched him, looking between him and the massive structure, “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere this way.”

Luminash shook his head, "It seems so. Part of me wonders if there is anything beyond this door, or if it is simply here to trap the unsuspecting." He nodded, "Yes, back to it."

“What makes you say that?” Jaskian asked as they resumed their trek.

“If this place is truly just an extension of N'Zoth's will, why would he create a closed door? The eyes watch, and he could simply...open it up, could he not? It is closed, so it is safe, until it...isn't.”

“Perhaps it's just not used at the moment,” Jaskian posited, “A different configuration.” She continued, musing as the passed by more of those ever-starting eyes, “I wonder if we inscribed our runes on the pillars holding the eyes, but on sides that the eyes aren't on?”

Luminash smiled, eager for a change of topic, "Ah, that is a good idea! The blind spots could be played to our advantage. The less of this place..." He gestured around them, "Seeps out into Azeroth, the better."

“Agreed.”

The path towards the opposite end of the hall continued, winding over the fogged abyss below. Luminash craned his neck to gaze up into the haze above while Jaskian focused on the structure of the antechamber itself, and the rune-carved stone tablets that lined this stretch of walkway, suspended in auras of that now-familiar orange glow.

“These paths seem like tight quarters for some of the creatures I have associated with this place,” Jaskian ventured.

“It makes one wonder how many mortals have thrown their lot in... Reports from those who are holding the line deeper in seem to indicate that this place is somehow home to a number of cultists.” Luminash said in response, stopping to examine one set of the tablets.

Jaskian shook her head a little. "There are always cultists, but I never understand how they come to think that way." Looking ahead into the vast open chamber beyond the hall, she continued, “I have to admit, I thought it would feel more ... organic. Less geometrical.”

Luminash took in the carved stones before them with a sad sigh, "An excellent question. How the madness and nothingness can be a solution to their ills I will never understand. I am glad for that." Following her gaze, he too mused on the geometry of the place, “Perhaps once we are outside this...temple? Maybe then it will have that...organic nature.”

Past the tablets, and nearing the long stairway leading to the exit, Jaskian pointed once more over the edge, “There's something pouring over there. Can you see?” She peered over, resting her hands on the ledge of the platform.

Approaching the lip, Luminash joined her and peered over as best he could, “It looks like... I want to say lava, but it is far too swift. Blood? But it emits light.” He shook his head, "Whatever it is, it is not right."

Sure enough, rushing into a torrent in the gulf below the chamber was an iridescent flow of red-orange fluid, of unknown source towards an unknown destination. Seeing it, Jaskian shivered and scrubbed a hand over her sleeve to get the feel of the stone off her hand.

When the floating walkway rejoined what seemed, at least, to be solid stone beneath the elves’ feet, they noticed a strange shrine, torches of unnatural flame set under sloping stone overhangs covered in unintelligible runes. Above it all was a massive eye, its gaze fixed on the shrine below.

Observing the arrangement, Jaskian wondered aloud, “That gaze is only scanning right below it. Do you think there's something over there?”

Luminash peered up at the eye, "If this is, in fact, a temple, there may have been before it was emptied. It makes me think of...judgment. A great gaze burning down from above."

“Mm. Maybe a station for reflections.”

Whatever it had been, both elves gave it a wide berth as they moved further into the room, passing by channels in the floor, filled with the strange red-orange fluid that had been dropping into the deep, foggy reaches of the Waking City.

“I take it back. I think I prefer the geometric to the...organic,” Jaskian grimaced as she stepped over one of the channels.

As they finally reached the far end of the temple chamber, and the foot of the stairs, Luminash pointed at an apparently inaccessible platform, complete with stairs and altar, rising from the creeping fog, "You are looking more and more right about...configuration. How many halls are there around us that we cannot see?” Swallowing hard, he added nervously, “How actually empty is this place?”

“I'm not sure. But it's eerie.” She pondered a moment, “Going along with your previous comment, could it be a trap? Luring us deeper in?”

“Or it could be both.”

Jaskian pursed her lips again, ears pinning back slightly in her discomfort, “Do you have reports on how long it's been cleared in this area?”

“It's been some time,” Luminash replied, with some hesitation, his frayed nerves showing, “The line has pushed further, out of this structure to my understanding. I only know that much, I am afraid. The details have been...hazy.” He shivered and glanced over his shoulder, "Which hardly surprises me, coming out of here."

Beginning to scale the steps, the oppressive atmosphere had begun to take its toll. Jaskian admitted in a hushed voice, “I don't like how the perspectives seem to shift. I suppose that's the point, but I will have nightmares, I'm certain.”

"I do not doubt I will, as well,” Luminash agreed, “This was not meant for us to see." He took a deep breath to calm his mind, “Ah, the sooner we are out of here, the better." He unconsciously edged closer to Jaskian as one of the spined tendrils far below made a sudden movement, shadows flickering up from below.

At last approaching the grand entryway they had spotted as they entered the Waking City, Luminash and Jaskian stopped. He pointed to the two obelisks, larger than any other in the antechamber, “The blind spots here,” he said as he moved between them, out of the gaze of the piercing eyes, “These will be suitable, do you think?”

Jaskian joined him with a nod, “There is power coming from deeper inside, and many eyes here. Perhaps an arterial route into the deeper city? If we ward against the Void here, it may buy our defenders outside the time they need.” Luminash nodded in response, “And those within can put a stop to this. We shall buy them that time. Here,” he pointed again at the obelisks, “We make our stand. This is the culmination of our work, and there can be no half measures.”

“Shall we, then? We should work fast, though.”

Luminash nodded and began to prepare the tools for the task. He dropped his satchel on the ground at his feet and, kneeling down, pulled out a box. Within are crystalline foci with cores of Azerite, the scrolls transcribed from Nazmir - he looked upon these with a special pride, the memories of all those lost hanging upon them - and another scroll with the reverse-engineered sigil of Void warding inscribed upon it, a mark of Jaskian’s brilliance.

Standing again, Luminash turned to Jaskian, “The foci should provide enough power to leave a mark on these obelisks without exhausting ourselves, and with the right sigil, we can hopefully make quick work of it.”

“Will the Azerite combust?” Jaskian asked, tracing a finger across the box, mind already working on the complications she might have.

“If too much power is channeled too quickly, there is the risk, but they should be secure.”

“All right,” she nodded, “Shall we split up to make it go faster, or would it be best to spot for each other?”

Luminash places his hand over hers, "I would feel better if we were to keep an eye on each other. I am certain it will be accomplished well, however." He smiled reassuringly.

Jaskian smiled back, squeezing his hand with a nod, "I think it would be best, too. Get to work then. I'll help." She motioned and her elemental companion silently moved to keep sentinel for them, its watery form a lonely figure in the empty hall between the mages and the heart of Ny’alotha beyond.

Luminash pulled a focus from the box, and unfurled the scroll with the Void warding sigil. Turning towards one of the obelisks, he took a deep breath to calm his nerves, "Very well, then."

“You worked directly on this before,” Jaskian reassured, “You know what needs to be done.” As Luminash set to work, she picked up the box, unwilling to leave it unattended, even alone.

Luminash scanned the scroll, eyes following every line and flourish. He closed his eyes, then, and opened himself as a conduit of power, channeling it through the Azerite focus, a beam of blue-gold light surging towards the stone as his body became a vessel. He guided the focus as one would a pen, slowly tracing out the curves of the rune in his mind, eyes still closed in concentration, "Thank you, Jaskian." When he spoke, there was something otherworldly in his voice, an echo of power drawn from someplace beyond.

“Always, Luminash,” Jaskian replied warmly, though still wary of their surroundings.

As he neared the halfway point in forming the rune, Luminash began to falter, the Azerite focus surging and crackling with the channeled power. He gritted his teeth and continued, "Almost there. This should work..."

Jaskian glanced down to the box in her arms, feeling the thrum of the energy resonating within the other foci. She shifted on her feet, the uneasiness of the place settling on her and her own nerves taut, "You don't have to finish all at once, Luminash. Take your time if you need."

As he engraved the final element of the sigil on the obelisk, Luminash abruptly threw the now-overloaded focus to the side, where it sparked brightly and then lay depleted. He let out a heavy breath, the power flowing through him dissipating, "And one is done."

He slumped forward, resting hands on his knees and shaking his head, “I should have listened. I went too quickly, and nearly lost it. I suppose that is a lesson learned, but everything about where we are is... It is making this more difficult than it ought to be.”

“No, I understand. It is difficult to feel focused,” she murmured, glancing back to her elemental guarding the way.

Luminash took her hand again and gave it a slight squeeze, "Your patience surpasses mine most days, so you should have little trouble. We are here together, though, and ought not be anxious too much." He managed a little laugh, “Or so I say after nearly burning out the focus."

“You are sometimes excitable. It's part of why I love you.” Jaskian smiled warmly at him, not letting himself sit in his momentary brooding.

Luminash pushed himself back up and leaned over to kiss her cheek, "Only sometimes excitable? That's generous, isn't it?" He smiled more genuinely then.

“It's really quite charming and I'd never want you to be self-conscious of it. You're at your most brilliant then, too.” Jaskian leaned into the kiss, her nerves settled somewhat by the reaffirmation of their presence together.

She took a deep breath, then, and passed Luminash the second focus, “I feel more confident with you finishing them. Your fine control is better than mine and I haven't worked with Azerite nearly as thoroughly.”

Luminash took the focus and turned towards the other obelisk with a nod, "Alright. As long as you stay right here, I'll do just as you ask." He managed a last bit of playfulness before once more centering himself and beginning to form the sigil, brimming anew with arcane power.

“It's always nice when you listen to me without fighting it,” Jaskian teased back, but then let him concentrate, eyes still roving the area and alert for threats.

Although he did not open his eyes or break the formation of the rune, directing the beam of Azerite with as much precision as he could, Luminash still cracked a smile at her teasing remark. His work continued, moving more slowly this time, less power forcing itself through the focus, but still leaving blue-gold traces etched into the obelisk.

The final lines lighting up on the slick stone and the sigil humming with power, Luminash completed the carving of the rune much more neatly this time, the Azerite focus not sparking, sputtering, or otherwise failing as he eased off the flow of magic. He opened his eyes and beamed at Jaskian.

She breathed out and smiled in return. "We should tell the others what we've learned."

Luminash nodded, clearly exhausted, "And let them know that, until this whole vision comes crashing down, they might just have been bought some time."

“I think...I would like to leave now,” Jaskian replied, a smirk on her face.

Luminash laughs, a wave of relief washing over him, "Oh, I thought you'd never ask! The sooner we are home, the sooner I can scrub this...this wrongness off, after all."

Jaskian threw the bag over her back and led the way, her elemental leaving its vigil as the mages wound their way back through the empty halls of Ny’alotha. Behind them were their marks, surging with power, a dam against the torrent of the Void, a stone in the stream, carved to stem the tide, to buy Azeroth even a few moments more time, lest the walls of reality crash down too soon.

[tragedybunny]

The Blade’s Edge - A League of Legends Fanfiction - Chapter 21

Well, here it is lovelies, the first bit of a double update. It's been a long time coming and I thank you for your patience.

They had a simple arrangement. She was the weapon to be used on his enemies. Things get more complicated when emotions bleed into what should simple. Now the two of them find themselves on the precipice of something that was entirely unexpected.

We emerge back into the central chamber, Talon’s cabal vanished except for the unmoving bodies scattered about. Halfway to the stairs, I notice Jericho’s breathing is getting heavy and his steps are no longer sure but stilted and uneven. Now that imminent death is less of a threat, worry comes creeping back in. Wordlessly I reach over and take his hand, stepping closer, offering my support. The stairs are an agonizingly slow climb and his hand begins to clutch mine fiercely as we go, the pressure enough I’m worried he’ll break it. I say nothing though. By the time we enter the labyrinth of tunnels, his arm is wrapped around mine and the pull of his weight on my shoulder is allowing him to keep walking. “Kat.” He breaks the silence, his voice tired. “Maybe you should…”

“Don’t even say it. I came down here to get you and I will not leave without you.” What will I do if he cannot walk at all? “Thank the gods at least you’re not Darius’s size.” I try to tease but I can hear the flatness of my tone. I shrug it off and maneuver so my arm is around his waist and he’s leaning on my shoulder.

“Are you implying I’m short?” He laughs weakly for a moment before exhaustion wins and he’s quiet again.

We stumble down the ancient passages while I take turns from memory, anxious that it will fail me. The only sound as we walk is Jericho’s labored breathing and thud our boots on the stones. I look ahead into the sickly green light and a figure emerges from around the corner. I freeze and grasp for a dagger, shifting around to try to be in a position to defend us both. “Stay back!” I snarl, fatigue and apprehension robbing it of any real threat.

“Katarina!?” The voice is flooded with relief.

“Lark?” I echo that hopeful tone and begin to move toward him.

“Is that the Grand General?” I freeze, suspicion tempering my relief. “I found them.” He calls back down where he came from and another figure emerges.

“What are you doing here Lark?” I draw the dagger and bring it up in front of me.

“Calm down Kitty-Kat, we’re here to rescue you.” I have never been so elated to hear that obnoxiously arrogant drawl.

“We’ll just stay down here rather than have to put up with your bragging for the rest of our lives.” A genuine, relieved smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I expect a quip from Jericho as well, but there’s only a soft murmur. I look over, his eyes are closed and his brow is furrowed. “I suppose if you insist, I’ll allow the help.”

As they approach I see Draven’s expression in the torchlight, touched with concern, softened from his usual arrogant smirk. “My pleasure to aid a pretty lady and my favorite Grand General.”

I hesitantly let him take my place, my heart desperate to not let go until I have Jericho safe at home, but my worn body knows better. Lark takes the other side, allowing us to move with haste. “How did you find us down here anyway?” They fall into step behind me as I continue to lead the way out.

“Followed that damn creepy bird of his. She showed up making a racket and pecked me until I started moving.” It’s not the first time I’m led to believe there is more to Bea than an ordinary bird. Mysteries for another time I suppose.

Lark sighs. “I followed Inara. She’s been making me suspicious for some time.” And I couldn’t see it, how stupidly blind I was. He hesitates for a moment. “I got kind of lost before running into Draven.”

We’re quiet the rest of the way out, the situation weighing heavily on all of us. I turn back and the two of them are all but carrying Jericho, who shuffles along, head bowed, between them. Finally, we emerge into the fallen night and that secret courtyard of the Bastion. The ambient glow of the city is a beacon in the distance as a wave of fresh air washes over me. A small bit of the tension is relieved, we’re out, but not all is well yet.

“We need to avoid the search parties, I don’t want the word getting around the city that he’s hurt. It could cause a panic.” Lark reaches up and undoes the clasp to the dark cloak he’s wearing and fixes it over Jericho’s shoulders, settling the hood in place. Old Town is at least close enough. Prior to tonight, I hated that, the shadow of this nightmare fortress always looming over my life. Now I rejoice.

I try to take us on a brutal pace through the least crowded streets I know, relentlessly seeking the familiar silhouette of Swain Manor, but I feel myself slowing with each step. My thoughts dissolve into a sort of blurriness. Just get to the house, I tell myself, and it becomes like a prayer, I chant it over and over again in my mind. For a moment here or there, my eyes shut as I walk, and eventually, my foot finds a loose stone in the road and I wobble, nearly toppling over. A strong arm catches me under my shoulders, holding me upright until I find my balance again. “We’re almost there.” Draven reassures me in a soft tone.

When at last it looms before us, gate shut tight, lights illuminating nearly every window like the beacon of a lighthouse, a heaving sigh escapes me. Driving my exhausted muscles forward by sheer will, I bound toward the gate, giving a frustrated screech when I find the bolt locked. A commotion snaps my attention to the front door, Moira is veritably shoving Fex and Dras out of it toward us. “Madame?Draven?!” Fex calls, confusion evident. I release my clenched grip as Dras finds the key on the great ring at his waist. The gate opens with a metallic whine and Fex charges toward us. Seeing the burden they bear, he nods at Draven and Lark before taking my arm gently, giving me something to support my failing body on. “Let’s get inside.” We’re home, we’re safe, I tell my still thundering pulse.

Moira stands alone in the great hall, no doubt having barred the other servants from this sight. “Upstairs, he needs to rest.” I command, briefly anxious that she’ll try to reject my presence. “He’ll heal quickly enough on his own.” She says nothing though and stands aside. My heavy limbs manage the stairs, Fex still aiding me, as I lead the way. I turn back the covers before they settle him into bed, Lark removing the loaned cloak. Almost instantly the demonic aura envelopes him as if he can sense the security of home.

“The two of you.” Moira gestures to Lark and Draven. “Out. Let them get some rest.” Moira showing concern for my well being? I must be hallucinating with weariness.

“I’ll stay on watch. Don’t worry Kitty Kat.” Now that cocky smile returns.”Nothing gets past Draven.”

Lark fixes his cloak back in place. “I’ll make sure the right people are informed the Grand General is safe. That should keep High Command under control.”

Moira gives them a firm push toward the door and once they’re out, she turns back to me. “You will stay with him, won’t you?” I can see now the worry creasing her features and her voice wavers. “I know he did not always behave as he should toward you but…”

I cut her off. “I’ll stay for tonight. The rest I’ll worry about when he’s awake.” It’s almost too raw and honest an answer. I look away, afraid I’d find some sort of pity in her eyes. She gathers herself, looking relieved. “Get some sleep yourself, I am sure it is needed, Madame.” She takes her leave, shutting the door behind her.

It closes with a heavy thunk, and then it’s just the two of us. My body cries out for the rest I was told to seek, but my mind still races, unsure after all that’s happened and with Jericho still hovering between life and death. I go to his side and reach out, testing the aura. It is hard to describe, and maybe it is a trick of exhaustion, but it almost feels as though it acknowledges me. It shifts in a way beneath my hand, warming but not burning.

I should at least make sure he’s comfortable, then I’ll lay down. He’s still fully dressed in his military uniform, although it bears several new tears and scratches. I go to his boots, pulling them off as gently as I can and dropping them haphazardly to the floor, knowing he’d hate the disorder. I move on to the high, stiff collar still stubbornly closed around his throat. I open it down to his chest, and something gleams in the light of the gas lamps, catching my eye and bringing me to a dead halt. Two gold rings hang on a chain around his neck. Our wedding rings settled close to his heart.

I reach out to touch them ever so lightly, a searing pain blossoming in my chest. It’s an achingly sweet gesture, one I wouldn’t believe him capable of if not for the proof before me. My mind wanders back to our encounter before the explosion, the sadness in his eyes, how badly I wanted to put my arms around him. It would seem once again, he has robbed me of my certainty. I take his hand between mine, giving it a soft squeeze before leaning down and kissing his forehead. “What am I to do with you?’

My world spins and I know my body is finally failing, fatigue having its way with me. I take my place beside him under the covers, wrapping myself around him like so many nights before. The aura makes everything pleasantly warm as I begin to drift off in the pleasant haze that spreads over me.

I do not know what the sunrise will bring, but for now, this is enough, even if it is the last of us. “I love you Jericho.” I whisper, because I need to say it, just once. After everything between us, that long stifled feeling should be breathed to life, and given at least one moment to exist, unfettered. My eyes close and I drift into darkness. It is, of course, no great shock when I awake to an empty bed.

If I were sensible, I would see that as a clear sign that I should leave. Sensible has never been my style really though and no matter what, I need to find some sort of peace in all this, even if it is just finally saying a real goodbye. So I find myself biding time until I’m lying in wait in the study, sitting with my legs over the arms of one of his favorite chairs, holding a glass of whiskey.

“You have a guest in the study. She would not be dissuaded.” Moira hadn’t actually tried very hard to dissuade me. Unless you count her nonchalant shrug when asked if he’d indicated when he would be home. Even she can see that this moment is a necessity.

I take a sip of the whiskey in my hand as I hear the door begin to open, the burning helps to steel me for whatever is to come. “You really shouldn't push yourself so hard right away.”

“Good Evening Kat.” There’s a strained quality to his voice, he hides it well, perhaps I’m the only one who could hear it. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your continued presence?” He stands directly before me, not moving to sit.

“Your avoidance of me.” I finish the whiskey in one large swallow.

“I wasn’t avoiding…” Long bottled rage easily pours forth and I cut him off by slamming the glass on the table next to me. Of course that’s how he plays it.

“If you’re just going to lie to me.” I really shouldn’t have expected anything from him and now I don’t know why I bothered with this. I rise from the seat and start to storm past him and he drops his gaze to the floor.

He catches me off guard with a hand on my arm. I yield and freeze in place. He doesn’t let go for a long moment. When he does release his grip, there’s a rare tenderness to his words. “Wait I...I suppose after everything, you do deserve the truth.”

I inhale and turn to face him, his words soothing the storm in me. No going back. “No more lies?” He shakes his head. “Then why did you just leave me this morning?”

He finally raises his eyes to me. “It is painful to be around you.” I suck in a deep breath, feeling emotions stir, opening wounds I’d told myself were closed. He pauses for a contemplative moment. “It is painful to not be around you as well, but the former is far worse at the moment. It seems as though my feelings for you will not allow me to let go.”

The truth at last, laid bare between us, leaving my heart torn open and thundering. “It doesn’t have to be that way.” Gods, I can’t let go of him either. “We could give it another chance.”

He shakes his head, looking now so broken and forlorn. “I would only continue to hurt you. I believe we have proven that.”

I close the last of the distance between, standing nearly right against him. I ache to comfort him. Despite everything, seeing his sadness still breaks my heart. “It doesn’t have to be that way, if we just try.”

With a sudden fury he throws his hands in the air and I step back, startled. “I was trying! Don’t you see that? I tried, and I still gave into my worst instinct, I still did those things to you.” His voice becomes so small, I almost don’t hear him. “I still said what I said that night.”

“Jericho.” I feel as though we’re balanced on a blade’s edge. All of it, all the pain and anger and laughter and joy and desire has led us to this moment.

“I love you Katarina, very greatly. I have to wish to continue to hurt you.” Time is standing still and I have no breath, no heartbeat. Existence is waiting on what comes next.

I wrap my arms around his neck and press my lips to his, tears finally welling in my eyes. He doesn’t resist, returning my embrace, pulling me tight up against him. When I break the kiss I bury my face in his chest, afraid to meet his eyes, afraid it will be over again. “I love you too.” I sniffle, too overcome to be embarrassed. “I don’t want to let you go.”

I feel his grip on me tighten. “Please don’t cry.” He kisses the top of my head.

But it’s all breaking over me; my father dead at my feet, leaving home, taking the Guild, the betrayals, all the feelings for him, the attempts to deny them, all the pain and bitterness between us. I continue to sob in his arms and feel his hand softly caress my back. They threaten to overwhelm me, to drag me under and drown me, every moment from the last...year. One year exactly. My cries are stifled by a weak laugh. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Hmm, no.” Not entirely surprising.

“It’s our anniversary.” One year ago I was supposed to kill him and ended up in thrall to him instead.

“Oh.” He sighs. “Another of my sins I suppose. But I wanted you, and nothing would stop me.”

Neither of us have moved, remaining completely entwined. “I wanted you too. I haven’t stopped wanting you, even after everything.”

“Kat…” His voice cracks. “Come home please. I miss my wife. Let me have this one more chance. Let me make it right.”

It’s like a holy revelation hearing those words. I lean up to kiss him again, my hand pressed to his cheek, feeling it wet with tears. “I miss you too husband.” I close my eyes and press my forehead to his. We’re over that jagged edge, our fate decided. “I’ll come home.”

No more tears, his turn to put his lips to mine and the world vanishes. For one glorious moment, it’s just the two of us, lost in that love we never thought would be.

[tenthspeedwriter]

Recon Three - Pt. 3

Part 2

Through the spore haze flew a Yualithi trio, screaming vengeance for their brood-siblings. They’d given up on firepower and instead gripped their bayonetted rifles like war-spears--and they approached with the fury of a conroi charge.

Bo raised her pistol again, leveling one last flung shot at the foremost foe. A hit--but only a glancing one. “No way” she thought, “no way this can end well.” She braced for the wrathful charge, only to be knocked to the ground by a ferocious blast and a wash of burnt spores.

“You’re welcome~!” she heard Ojore say through the ringing in her ears.

Concussed but intact, the recon team draw back together. “Opposition neutralized,” said Iommo, pulling a spent magazine from his carbine. Bo followed suit and slid several fresh cartridges into her rifle. “Captain,” he said to Sallys, “We need to hurry. They’ll surely have our position now.”

“Good” said Abrox, “more clackers in the blast zone when the shells fall.” Sallys laughed and sighed in equally brief measure. “Rein it in, Peacekeeper, “Another hit like you took and you might not get up aga- LOOK OUT, WARDEN!”

The rebels weren’t quite finished.

One final Yualith, her face burnt and one hind-leg shattered, leapt through the smoke with Iommo in her sights. She held her rifle high, bayonet razor sharp and parched for the cuane’s blood.

Bo acted without thought.

Three sprinting steps. Shoulder forward.

The rebel lunged at Iommo. Her bayonet bit flesh--and was jerked away at once, with force.

Bo and her foe tumbled to the side with a harsh, wet thwack. She gathered herself first and swung her vicious claws at Bo’s exposed neck, but instead bit only the grip of her rifle. Bo levered it around and butted her thrice in the head before the Yualith could wrench herself free.

Screaming fury, she caught Bo’s leg in her hind-scythes--surely intent on severing shin from thigh.

Instead of breaking free, however, or even trying to soften the blow, Bo threw herself against the threat. Her knee, with all her weight behind it, drove the insectoid face-first into the lichen-crusted mud.

She did not move after that.

Bo wrenched herself free and took a few deep, measured breaths. Her ears still rang, with noise and with adrenaline. The world still moved a little slower than it should. With each exhale, things fell back into place. By the fifth, it struck her to check on Iommo.

“You’re a maniac, Boudicca.”

She ran to her warden’s side and grabbed his hand tightly.

“You’ll pull through, sir. Wound like that can’t kill-”

“I’m done for, peacekeeper. What… what madness overcame you there?”

“Sir?”

“Orders in CQC are to withdraw and engage at range. What… what did you hope to accomplish with that stunt?” He gasped deeply and laid his head on the earth. “Fool… damned fool. I’m done for regardless. Just… look at me.”

He was in a sorry shape. The jagged blade had torn him clear across the chest, staining opalescent skin in a dark, sickly green.

“It only seems fair that a warrior soul like mine should meet its end in a place so very like home.” He gave a weak sigh, and mewled in agony. “At least I die at peace with my life, satisfied in the road I have walked, beside the valiant fighters who aAAAAAALL THE GOOODS!!!”

“Just a flesh wound~” said Ha’li in sing-song, four tool-bearing claws fast at work. The smell of chem-cauterized flesh and antiseptics fouled the air he as staunched the flow of verdant blood. “But please, warden. Don’t let me interrupt you.”

Iommo uttered Cuanen curses between grunts of pain. Something, if she understood correctly, about Ha’li’s nurse-mother and an erosite dune hound.

“You know damn well he’s been practicing that speech for ages” said Sallys. “What do you suppose he does in his quarters all evening?”

At last Ha’li pierced him with an intimidating syringe and pushed the Cuane to his feet. “First stage exsanguination,” he said, “but you’ll make it through the mission.” Iommo took account of his companions with a much subdued and focused eye. “Let’s go,” he said with a cough.

“I can hear rotor-wings,” added Abrox. “Time isn’t on our side.” Sallys gestured recon three into formation; “let’s move before they encircle our position. We still have the cover of the spores.”

Iommo breathed hard against the pain as he moved. “If you have trouble, you can always ride on my shoulders~!” said Ojore. Through the pain-blockers and stimulant haze, the warden managed one more distinctive deathglare at his subordinate.

[siverwrites]

Day 21 Solitude Part 2

FFVIxGT. And part 2 of 3 with Cidgeon.

That wound up longer than expected.

Part 1

Part 3

Cidgeon woke to his surprise and was alive to his even greater surprise. At least he could only assume death wouldn’t ache this much. He cautiously sat up, grass crackling under his hands. His back threw some protests in, but not as badly as he’d expect. He took stock of himself, all present and accounted for, but he quickly realized, alone.

Where was Lovey-Dove? A quick search around yielded no results and he could only comfort himself with the knowledge that she at least had wings. Such a fall didn’t hold such dangers to her. But the winds, the magic… all things outside of his control. There would be time. Right now there were more pressing matters.

He took stock of the rest of his surroundings.

It was perhaps a good thing he was so sore. It was a clear sign of life and a reminder that he hadn’t landed in the world of the dead. The air was chill and a grey sort of light made it impossible to tell the time of day. He enjoyed quiet, but this silence was deafening. He felt if he spoke his words would be immediately swallowed.

He spotted the remains of the chunk of airship they’d fallen with not far from where he woke. Had he slipped off? He couldn’t quite remember, which was disconcerting in itself. Everything was a rushed and confused blur after Cabanela fell.

That, he knew he would never forget. He saw the exact moment Cabanela made the decision. The pain and fear drained from his face, softening his features, but leaving an emptiness in his eyes. Cidgeon tried to grab his hand. Too late.

The words snapped out of him in sudden desperation, harkening back to much older memories while this was far more severe than the exasperation and grumbles born of mishaps and his antics.

“Foolish boy!”

But there was nothing to be done. Nothing to do but wait for the inevitable landing.

Cidgeon made a search of the wreckage as well, but found nothing. He looked between it and the still and silent land before him. He made his best guess at the trajectory they’d taken and set out.

He hadn’t fallen long after Cabanela. There was a chance. He hadn’t been able to save him once. He had never been able to get close to the mysterious masked figure. He hadn’t been able to confirm his fears. Cabanela’s fate went unknown until the final hour when the truth, both terrible and relieving, was finally revealed.

Now a second chance. This time he’d know. One way or another he would know.

Cidgeon walked, keeping the careful but quickest pace he could maintain, all while keeping his eyes and ears open for any signs of life. No animals, no bugs and no monsters. He was thankful for the last one. The last thing he needed now was a fight. Was there any life here or did they merely hide? Lay low in the aftermath of this disaster—he couldn’t blame them.

There was a hill ahead, more cliff than anything. He’d made it a target with the intention of a viewpoint.

But the sight just ahead of him delayed that plan. He felt a sudden fear at the shape on the ground and hurried forward.

It wasn’t what he feared, but it wasn’t good news either. He grimaced at the crumpled body of a man in the grass, twisted and broken. He stared up at the rocky cliff above. It didn’t take a genius to work out what happened.

He made a mental note of the place. It was the living who needed his attention now (he hoped), but he would be back.

But someone had been here. Were there others? A town even? He quickened his pace, keeping his eyes peeled for a path up until he found it. It was better kept than he expected and the climb not as arduous as he feared.

The land stretched before him and looked no better for the view. There were no signs of civilization either. However, he quickly realized this was an island and not a large one. He wasn’t far from the shore in the direction he’d chosen and he made his way back with an increased determination.

No town, but he did find a lone cottage as the air took on a salty tang. He was getting close. A knock on the cottage door brought nobody. He found it unlocked and peeked in.

It was a small place, simple, but homely enough, at a glance containing table, desk, bed and hearth. He closed the door again and made note of this place as well. A shelter and, he thought with a grimace, a place likely no longer used.

He pressed on until he came to the shore. A sandy beach, rocky in some areas, but somewhere that might have been pleasant under better circumstances. The ocean stretched out vast before him, threatening to draw in his gaze if he didn’t keep his eyes firmly fixed on the shoreline, searching, searching until… There, a flash of red.

He stumbled over sand and pebbles, eyes fixed on the sight ahead. Cabanela’s scarf slipped part way off, being tugged at by the tide. He lay in a graceless sprawl face down, still half in the ocean. The only signs of movement came from his scarf and cape, toyed with by the water.

He dropped down beside him, and pushed back his worry. Only practical actions mattered here. Worry wouldn’t change fact.

He slowly and gently turned him over and the sight wasn’t much better. A sickly pallor in his face. Blood stained his clothing, mingled with clinging sand. Cidgeon brought his ear down next Cabanela’s face and waited.

Come on, you damned fool.

There, the faintest tickle of breath against his cheek. Too shallow, too slow, but there. Cidgeon rocked back. Alive, which meant there was more to do.

The source of the blood was quickly found, marked by a ragged gash in his clothing leading to the worse gash down his side. Cidgeon frowned at him as he reached for his scarf that would have to do for now.

“You had to play the hero, didn’t you?”

He carefully wrapped the scarf around his torso. That done, a check around his neck and arms satisfied him that while there were cuts and bruises, nothing appeared to be broken, and he got his hands under his arms and set to work, pulling him all the way out of the water.

“You’re too tall for this,” he muttered.

Once completely out he laid him back down and made the same check on his legs as best he could for anything obviously severe. A more thorough check would have to be done later in warmth and safety. There was nothing overtly worrying and he rose to his feet.

He frowned down at him. He was a mess, there was no denying that, but if it wasn’t for the worst of his injuries and the fall he wouldn’t be as worried with what he saw externally. It was what went unseen that concerned him most, both physically and mentally. The image of his eyes as he slipped away rose unbidden in his mind.

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

A good question. This wasn’t going to be an easy trip on either of them. Slow, so very slow and careful to avoid causing yet more damage. But there was no choice. At least there would be a bed and warmth and safety if such could be found. He hoped for some basic supplies from one who seemed to live all alone. There was nothing for it but to get this over with.

“Idiot,” he grumbled as he started the arduous journey down the beach. “Fool. Expect me to drag your sorry hide around.”

Carefully, carefully. A long detour around the rocks.

“Ever pause to think?” He took the pause, carefully lowering Cabanela’s shoulders back down, so he could stretch out. His own long day was catching up fast, but they still had to finish the beach and get up the path. Get across into the cottage.

He stared at Cabanela’s wan face. “Can’t save them if you’re killing yourself over it. Leave me to pick up the pieces.”

He huffed out a breath, took another deeper one, stared at the trails they’d left in the sand and set back to the long haul. “You’re damn lucky, boy.”

In this instance. In everything else? His mouth thinned and he continued with another muttered fool.

“Heavier than you’d think,” he growled as they moved through the path. “You never did make sense.”

Finally they made it. He shoved opened the cottage door, made another pull across the floor and stared at the bed with a sigh. Last trial.

Another bout of awkward pulling and heaving and he managed to get Cabanela’s upper body onto the bed. He sighed again at the dangling sprawl of legs, and reminded himself that they at least wouldn’t be hard to move, caught hold of them and at last Cabanela was settled.

A quick search about yielded a water supply and bandages. He set about getting a fire going in the hearth and turned to the next list of tasks. Practical actions to work through methodically. Anything else had no place here.

Remove soaked, salt and blood encrusted clothing. Clean and bandage his wounds, make another examination. Clean him up as best he was able. And all throughout only checks on his breathing told him he was tending to a living man and not the dead.

At last he pulled a blanket over Cabanela, rested a hand on his shoulder for a moment, then pulled the single chair over to the fire and sunk into it.

He should look around more, he thought to himself. See what they had for food, but now that he was settled his limbs refused movement. He should see if there were any clues toward the owner of this place and if his suspicions were correct, or if they should be expecting a surprised visitor.

He sunk deeper into the chair and into the growing haze of fatigue. If that was the case they would just have to deal with it. He wasn’t doing anything that would put Cabanela in jeopardy now…

Cidgeon woke with a groan and stared blearily at his surroundings until the memories of the previous day swarmed in. He was paying for it now in every felt bruise and stiff and aching muscle. He had planned more for today—to figure out their food supply, take a better look around at what they had. That would have to wait, but one task couldn’t be left.

With effort he pushed himself up and hobbled over to the bed. There was no change, but he’d be lying if he said he expected there to be, even if he fruitlessly dared to hold onto a small hope, but no change also meant Cabanela was still alive and that was the best state he could truly hope for currently.

He took advantage of being upright to do a cursory search of the desk and found a thick and worn journal. He took it back to his chair, found the last entry and nodded. The final day’s entry spoke of going to the cliffs apparently for some sort of inspiration. The man otherwise appeared to have lived a solitary life.

How quickly things changed, Cidgeon mused. One day seeming like any other turned to disaster. Poor soul, no doubt taken as the world cracked.

He spent the rest of the day alternating between reading the journal, sating both curiosity and a need for knowledge about their surroundings and with making regular checks on Cabanela.

The third day was spent making up for the second day’s lack. He explored their supplies, took stock of their food supplies, did his best to tend the small wilting garden outside and monitored Cabanela’s condition.

The fourth day he set off for the sombre task that still waited. A simple burial, respect paid, gratitude for a safe place given and a plain marker left.

The fifth and the days that followed were filled with various chores he could find for himself. He was no tailor by any means, but there were sewing needles and thread, and he did what he could to start mending their clothing. There was the garden to care for. Firewood to gather. Fish to catch.

He made outings to scout out more of the island. Animals started to make a slow and wary return. He knew they were out there but saw them rarely. Unfortunately stranger monsters than anything they’d seen before also started making their appearance and he had to grow cautious in his wanderings.

The first time he saw a flock of birds pass overhead, he stared with a sense of wonder and relief. There was no knowing where they came from, but he took the sight as a good sign. He was only disappointed at the lack of blue feathers.

Days turned to weeks. Cabanela’s wounds healed, and his breathing normalized. He would appear merely asleep, but he remained motionless and unresponsive and showed no signs of waking.

Cidgeon could only do what he could to survive. To live on and wait. When Cabanela woke he wouldn’t waken alone.

[starcunning]

Day Sixteen, Heroes and Villains

An AU in which your OTP has super powers. Are they a hero/sidekick duo? Are they archenemies? Are they both villains? From the 30-Day OTP Challenge.

So ... they’re basically already superpowered vigilantes in the main universe (or at least Shasi is superpowered). There’s another AU prompt that’s redundant (what if they had magic? i hate to tell you this, but magic is already in the setting), so you’re getting two glimpses into a timeline where the Warrior of Light becomes someone else.

Shasi sas Intemperatus. (She might be a villain, too.)

“Do you believe in Eorzea?”

It was the sort of question that demanded a ready answer, asked of X’shasi by the sort of man who would brook no less. As the lights of the Praetorium played over her face and his mask, the silence hung between them.

Was there a united Eorzea left to believe in? Would it long survive this operation? Ul’dah was in upheaval—and it was not merely the Sultana who had been lost to treachery in the Fragrant Chamber. The Syndicate had bullied its way into the war preparations and Teledji Adeledji’s hired killer had dispatched with the young monarch and her strong right arm.

And the Scions—what Scions were not lost in the attack on the Waking Sands or yet in the grip of the foe. That she had killed Adeledji and his assassins was cold comfort for the loss of her allies.

Raubahn’s successor, Eline Roaille, had been adamant that despite these setbacks—despite the aetherial readings on the Rhotano; despite a sickness in the Shroud the Hearers refused to intervene and curb—the Alliance must come together and act.

So she had acted, more alone than ever, and when the moment had come that Gaius van Baelsar asked her to speak, X’shasi Kilntreader found she had little to say.

“Yes,” she said, because it was what was expected of her. “If that were true, you would not have taken this long to say so,” the Black Wolf laughed. “I believe in it enough to fight for it,” X’shasi told him, the heel of her hand resting against the pommel of her blade. “Eorzea’s unity is forged of falsehoods, and its city-states built on deceit. To believe in Eorzea is to believe in nothing,” he said, his tone a lofty scolding. “To die for Eorzea is to die for nothing.” “But to kill—” “And to kill for it is to kill for nothing, too, girl,” the legatus said. “Pay attention.” He advanced, unhurried, his gunblade still at his back. “What happens when you kill me?” Gaius van Baelsar asked her. “I descend to the heart of this wretched place and I destroy your weapon. I dispatch Lahabrea,” X’shasi told him, setting her teeth. “And then what?” Gaius asked her. “And then you return the conquering hero, no doubt. Perhaps your homeland awaits your coming, every roadway lined with parades. But when they have tired of feasting at your victory table, what happens?” She looked at him with eyes as blue as ceruleum flames, and said nothing. “Ul’dah returns to its internal warring, no doubt,” Gaius said. “The vipers crawl over one another to the throne and whichever one wins floods the streets with poison. Perhaps the Admiral can strike a treaty with the sahagin before they succeed in summoning their eikon, but she will break her word in time. The Elder Seedseer watches her nation rot because her gods will not give her leave to act, and she is not strong enough to defy them. Are you?” “Am I what?” X’shasi asked, bewildered. “Are you strong enough to defy your masters? Nothing else will save Eorzea now,” he told her.

“Do you think yourself the answer to all of Eorzea’s ills?’ X’shasi demanded to know. “I was the answer to Ala Mhigo’s,” he said, laughing. “Better to peddle order and stability than madness and deceit.” “You would be hard-pressed to find a willing buyer in Eorzea after the destruction the Empire wrought at Carteneau,” X’shasi told him. Her knuckles were white around the grip of her blade. “I sought to spare Eorzea from the depredations of the White Raven,” van Baelsar told her. “She would have razed this place for spite’s sake. This realm deserved a better class of conqueror. But you are right; to bring Eorzea under my heel carries too dear a cost to bear.” “But you have not drawn on me,” X’shasi said, “so you yet carry some hope.” “The very same hope that all Eorzea rallies behind.” “Surely not,” X’shasi protested. “They would follow you. And you would lead them far better than they have managed.”

That had the ring of truth to it, she realized, watching that pallid mask. The lights of the Praetorium no longer swept over him—the lift had rumbled to a stop long before, she realized. The air around them was still, and thick with aether, dripping with it, like blood, like pitch; in the silence she could hear the whispers and the distant screams of the beleaguered dead. She could feel in this place a pulsing haze, and felt the lights grow dim; the aether rippled, and—

“Lahabrea,” she breathed. She felt the oppressive weight of the darkness, the quickening of long-dead magics. “The Ultima Weapon ...” “What of it?” Gaius van Baelsar asked her. When X’shasi answered, she knew not where the words came from; heard and felt and thought, and spoken, though foreign to her tongue. “It is not what the Dark Minion has told you,” she warned; “it is more. The destruction it wreaks makes this star tremble, from seventh hell to highest heaven.” “What?!” Gaius demanded. “I don’t know,” X’shasi muttered. “But we have to stop it.” “A truce, then,” the legatus said. “For now.”

They emerged together onto the platform that housed the Ultima Weapon. Its black carapace was aglow already in deepest crimson and brilliant azure, creating a sickly violet light that barely cut through the shadows gathering in the chamber. Lahabrea saw them coming and only laughed, a cruel sound from a friend’s throat. “Behold the Heart of Sabik,” he said, “the core of your Ultima Weapon.” His sneering tone laid bare his contempt for his erstwhile ally. “Behold a fraction of the one true god’s power!” “Lahabrea,” the Black Wolf growled back. “Your faith has blinded you.” “And have you come to grant me clarity?” “No,” X’shasi said, drawing her blade and beginning to channel her aether along its length. “The only thing I intend to grant you is death.” That made him laugh, raucous and mocking. “Kill me and you kill him,” Lahabrea told her.

His mockery was cut short by the crack of a rifle’s report at Shasi’s shoulder. She glanced aside to see that Gaius van Baelsar had drawn his weapon at last. Lahabrea stumbled forward a step and rose, undeterred, and the legatus charged him to engage with a stroke of his blade. The Ascian caught it with the silver-shod claws of his gauntlets, shadows rising from where he stood in a writhing, flailing mass.

Watching the pair tangle, X’shasi swung back her blade and brought forth her focus to spew a gout of flame, letting the gust of hot air dry her unshed tears. Blackness pooled on the platform, thick as tar, and Shasi had to step lively to keep it from grasping at her ankles. She could still hear the keening anguish at Ultima’s heart or perhaps at her own—or perhaps that was just the scream of cermite on steel as Lahabrea repulsed his attacker.

Skidding to a stop, Gaius lifted his gunblade, emptying the ceruleum reserves in a series of criss-cross strokes as he dashed toward the Ultima’s feet. They ignited in sequence, raking across the platform in a blaze of blue heat, leaving trails of flame behind. Shasi could have cursed him for abandoning her, but she watched him climbing the thing’s frame, calling for Nero tol Scaeva. The Paragon turned and lifted a hand, fell words tumbling from his lips, and Shasi sprinted forward to tackle him.

She heard the crack of bones as she took him to the ground, and when he rolled to his back, those dark eyes fixed upon her. Shasi had not the room to make use of her arts, so she simply hauled back and punched him, pummeling Lahabrea with blows as he cackled and writhed beneath her, struggling beneath her weight. He worked one hand free and raked her face with his claws. Her world went red with blood; it filled her nose and seeped between her lips until it was all she could taste. She spit it back at him in a glob of crimson, trying to get her hands around his neck.

Shasi pressed her thumbs against his throat, digging into those tattoos—Thancred’s tattoos—as though she could throttle him out, blinking blood from her eyes. His gurgling laughter still sounded in her ears, louder and louder as the room seemed to quiet. She looked away, unable to bear the sight any longer, and saw Ultima still and black, its limbs slack and inactive.

Whatever magic the Heart of Sabik held, then, it would not loose. At least there was that small mercy.

“Purge the tank,” Shasi called, rising to her feet, hauling Lahabrea up by the neck. “What?” Gaius asked. “The ceruleum tank! Purge the fuel!” she howled. A moment later, the fuel vented in a ripple of heat nearly invisible but for the blue at its edges. She let go of Lahabrea’s throat and kicked him in the chest instead. He stumbled backward, and X’shasi made herself watch as flesh blackened and hair crisped, flesh sloughing from bone until only darkness clung there.

And then, as it had done with the essence of the primals, Ultima’s heart drunk deep of the lingering essence of Lahabrea. A veil of rime spread over the black steel, evaporating in the last flames of ceruleum. There was a terrible stillness in the chamber then, Shasi’s last ally crumbling to ash.

Well, not her last. “So you do know the value of sacrifice,” Gaius van Baelsar said, emerging from the cockpit to regard her. She looked up at him, blood streaking her face. “Yes,” Shasi said. “I do.”

[saphscribes]

What Matters Is The 90% [Ignis & Reader]

A pick-me-up sickfic for my dear @vashiane, because I’m predictable enough for people to know my writing patterns for now. Surprise! Feel better, cupcake.

Tagging: @wolfgoddess77​ @sedge-butt @marianne-dash-wood @me-yasato @alecair @toranyx @paopusunshine @noxhighwind @notsoartistic @bleucommelhiver @elloquench @ultimoogle @kidolegend@rhysspeaces  

“Back at it again with the adventures, are we?”

Trust Ignis Scientia to be the one to adopt a literal six-second Internet video and make it sound nothing short of scolding. Or patronizing. One day words would function correctly and you’d be able to pick one like papers out of a fishbowl, but today was not that day. Couldn’t be, when your mind was a haze and you couldn’t breathe out of one side of your nose.

It was tragic enough that you could barely taste whatever you could manage—a handful of saltines, some ginger ale, a slice or two of buttered toast—but those were easier to stomach than the I-told-you-so, face-in-palm gesture he carried as he loomed over your bedside. And that was an easier pill to swallow than the disappointed, almost defeated sigh that he heaved as he took a seat and unscrewed the top of a Coleman-brand thermos container.

Trust Gladio to get only the best equipment.

“I suppose you should be lucky that a cold is all you’ve got, in the face of all those daemons. All this research of yours is going to get the better of you someday,” he murmured. You could barely hear it from under a mountain of blankets—which was already paradoxical, when your cheeks were burning and the rest of you felt nothing but chills—but at least it had the sense to sound concerned.

But you smiled, weakly sitting up and propped against pillows, and rasped, “You say that like it hasn’t already.”

You hadn’t admitted to anything, you concluded; you couldn’t be held accountable for anything when you were delirious. Or, as Prompto would probably call it, “down with the sickness.” You didn’t even know he knew that song, but in retrospect, you probably shouldn’t have been surprised.

Ignis fixed you with a quiet, steady look that he must have faced countless others with, a countless number of times. Eyes just barely narrowed, one thin brow raised, a flicker of a warning as he poured out just enough soup and extended the cup to you. It was the kind of look that suggested, advised rather than threatened, that your quips weren’t going to fly with him, or get you out of anything.

“Drink,” was all he said, and you had nothing in you to do the contrary. Not when he was watching you so pointedly, with all the silent conviction that told you he wasn’t budging until that cup was empty. Or at least until you took what he considered a few substantial sips.

If you could trust Ignis to turn a joke video in his favor, then you could certainly trust him to turn vegetables and chickatrice stock into something palatable. Something that didn’t reek of illness and bland remedy. (Maybe it was the celery. He always knew just the right amount to use—but then, how did he carry himself if not with the precision of Insomnia’s surgeons?)

The closest thing to a beam spread across his lips and reached all the way up to his eyes once you drank deeply enough for his liking, and he got to his feet, idly pacing the length of your room and tracing delicate fingers across worn spines of textbooks and leather-bound journals. “Sometimes I wonder about you and all this work you do,” he said, something particularly unnameable in his tone. Maybe it was concern. Maybe it was something that endeared him to you. It was hard to tell with Ignis, sometimes.

“You know I could say the same about you.” It was easier to talk now that some of the broth had soothed your throat, even with a noodle stuck underneath your tongue.

Ignis didn’t turn fully, only inclined his head just so, so that you could tell he was carrying a dialogue instead of letting your words careen down shoulder blades. “I’ll thank you to remember that one of us is obliged to carry out their duties.”

“Just because I don’t have royal orders doesn’t mean I don’t have to do this.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I’ve got it under control, Ignis.”

“Clearly not,” he spat, “but far be it from me to uphold an argument with the ill.”

You could have shot something back—something with the vitriol and color of far be it from you to let people be their own people, for once—but a cough stopped you before the words could make it to your lips, racked your body until you were doubled over and the contents of your cup threatened to spill over onto your comforter. Almost immediately, Ignis’s expression softened, and he turned on his heel, coaxing the cup from your hands and setting it beside the container as he took up a seat on the edge of your bed.

“Apologies,” he said, just loud enough to carry over to you and settle there. “Merely meant to say that your life has more potential than for you to chase after danger of this caliber.”

“I know,” you told him. “That’s all you ever mean.”

In the silence, Ignis reached forward to take one of your hands in both of his. You couldn’t tell which was more foreign: the comfort, or the feel of wearing leather and thumb tips against the spaces between your knuckles. The squeeze of his hands, or the way his lashes lowered in an uncharacteristic vulnerability that only ever seemed to come alive after a snap, in the presence of another more so than in a group. “I’m afraid I’ll never understand why you feel the need to go after all those monstrosities. Are the horrors of the world so appealing to you more than the beauties of it?”

A breath through the mouth wasn’t nearly enough to gather your thoughts in the moment, but it would have to do. “It’s just something I feel like I need to do. Is that really so hard for you to accept?” A pause. “I figured… that was something you’d be able to understand, of all people.”

It took Ignis a while to answer you, your hand still in his. As though, for once, he needed the time to speak so carefully, because the right thing to say at the right moment wasn’t coming to him on a whim. “Our paths are different, yours and mine. You said so yourself.” His pause seemed to match yours. “And yet I can’t help wondering if you’re of the opinion that your legacy may prove more meaningful than your existence.”

You didn’t say anything.

Ignis inhaled, soft but sharp; he didn’t seem to be gathering his own thoughts, but yours. “Ah,” was all he said at first, barely audible despite the space between you, despite how he still connected to you. You weren’t sure if it was something he was scolding you about, or something that resonated with him, in some recess he’d never shown you or anyone else. “I suppose convincing you otherwise is a lost cause.”

You coughed again, through clenched teeth and into your elbow. “Something like that.”

He only let go of you to pour you another cup of soup, hot where the dregs were an almost sickly lukewarm. “Nothing left but to pray it’s only temporary, then.”

You laughed, bitterly. “Good luck with that.”

In the silence that followed, broken only by your own labored breathing, Ignis shifted just a touch closer, thumbing over the wrinkle and the heat in your forehead like the touch was enough to draw the illness away. There was that smile again, barely there in every bit of his expression except for his eyes. “I think you’ll find that luck is something I’ve hardly ever needed.”

[afterverse]

M•Register: The Last Giant - I

“I lost myself out’n the wastes. Tracking a lead in Scalar skies. Down, down ‘midst the sickly haze o’the Frontier. Report was, crazy folks cooking themselves down picking the rust say, they say they a-cross’d a glamour ‘tween the scrap and the ruin. Oughtn’t need to tell why that’s a mite odd. Though, only a mite’s a blessing when it’s Fey we talk. But I worked with the ‘gicks a-fore, so I’m the closest an expert that still know my way ‘round a gun ‘tween assigns, least a-thin a stone’s throw.

So I’m dustside, spitting glow from my teeth and already writing my shell off as ash. Nasty place, t’ Frontierland. I’m cursing what wyrd fate ‘a-cided I’m the sap for a job such this. And I walk...--Y’know those slaters up’n Scalar space necrop’ don’t even bother outfittin’ their ops with anti-rad gear? Know, I know. The blighter tells me, says it’s not worth R.O.C.’s dime to shield folk. The storms eat all regardless, and they got a team come sweep for dropped Hearts some odd years. So they just ‘print yer up and drop yer down into the haze and tells yer to send report home a-fore yer ash. Makes a body feel dis-posable, which, ehm...

Any’y. I’m down there ‘round a day, give. I trekked the husk of some city, footed back to front, ‘n’ find the place I’m ought to. Moulderin’ shell the Dead-House Ashrevan’s capital keep, watchin’ vigil o’er a kingdom of nary but dirt. Pickers a-crossed the magick nowhere to be seen, I assume rad-et’ this point. So I’m up the steps, and feelin’ a tic nauseous from chewin’ haze. Front door’s a bit a job, but I crack it, and lo.

Inside’s pri-stine. La’sh and a-gilded. House pride hangin’ high, and I’m alien here. A-fore I take it all in, I’m whisked inside and a-hind me the door seal. Still don’t know what to make a this place. The bloomin’ lights are still on, hundreds and hundreds after atomics scour’d the earth. So I manage to drag my jaw ‘cross the chamber, when I hear footfall down the way. Reflex draw my cannon in-palm a-fore I can think, and I’m stepping light as I can, investigate it.

...then I saw her, and the world took on an unearthly glamour.”

[churchyardgrim]

rip this took me fucking eons to finish and did I abuse the italics function and ole grandpa piss’s emotions both? maybe I did, and proud of it. so here’s my flimsy excuse for why greg got upgraded from shitty basement dorm to tower suite, along with some terrible Ye Olde Fancy Talk dialogue practice

Something smells sweet.

Sweet like flowers, like candy, and it disturbs his rest. He can’t sleep with this smell in the air, even ceasing to breathe doesn’t help much; it gets in his sinuses and won’t leave. He hears people moving in the levels above, laughter.

When a servant comes down to fetch food from the cellars Gregory calls to him, and, incredibly, gets no response.

He shouts again, but the serving boy doesn’t even flinch. Ignores him completely. Gregory goes as near to the bars as he can, craning his neck to see; the boy could be deaf, or stupid. Or so used to the monster in the basement that nothing scares him anymore.

But he doubts that last one.  

He hisses softly, that smell giving him a headache. The boy comes back into view carrying a jar half his height, full of some packed-away confection, no doubt meant for holiday time. He wobbles under its weight, teetering precariously on each step, but managing the ascent without incident. All the while, he never blinks once.

Gregory’s skin prickles, aware of… something.

He growls to himself, pacing restlessly in front of the cell door. Something’s happening, he knows it, something that gave that boy a thousand-yard stare and the wherewithal to ignore him. But he can’t move from here, not without a key on the other side.

So he fidgets and grumbles and tries not to wonder what’s going on above his head and startles very nicely when a trio of serving girls comes traipsing down, giggling and prancing on the balls of their feet. He stares at them, alarmed by further uncharacteristic behavior; cavorting is hardly smiled upon, among the house staff. So unprofessional!

“Look!” one crows, pointing through the bars, “the devil’s come to visit!”

He reels back, halfway offended — but the speaker’s unlocked his cell door with a twist of her hand and saunters inside, trailed by her chirping friends.

“Will you grant us a wish, devil sir?” one of them sings out, a hand arcing out and lashing around his wrist with fantastic heedlessness. His incredulity dies in his throat, swatting irritably at their fluttering attention. “Grant the wish of dancing, won’t you! Come, before the music stops!”

The giggler’s laughs have become labored, a wheeze audible on the inhales, and she wobbles on her feet. Her weight drags at him, attached to his arm with the determination of the supernaturally fixated.

Thankfully, mercifully, all three of them suddenly cock their heads, ears turned towards the dungeon corridor. Gregory feels the pressure of their attention wane, and draws in a suddenly clear breath.

Two of them dart from the cell, a laugh peeling from one of their throats, faux devil completely forgotten. Their third makes to follow them, but hasn’t got as far as releasing Gregory’s hand and trips, tumbling down like a puppet with cut strings.

He blinks at her slumped form, calloused hand still in his. His first impulse is greed, followed by apprehension: here is a meal practically presenting itself to him, but if he partakes there will be no shortage of punishment. And her addled behavior… perhaps she is drunk? But he can smell no alcohol tang on her breath, just more of that floral sweetness wafting down from the upper floors.

He turns her hand over, watching the blue lines under the skin, contemplating. Mentally addled, but apparently undrugged… waltzing straight into his cage, but very likely a trap…

He licks his lips.

A crash from above shatters his indecision with the sound of broken glass; he jerks his head up, hearing elated shrieks and laughter. What is going on up there?

He stands, dropping the serving girl’s unmarked wrist. She and her flock have left his cell door wide open, and he’s got no qualms about taking advantage of this carelessness, at least. He slinks through with nary a sting and heads upstairs, tentative.

No one stops him. No one even notices him.

The whole household is distracted, he realizes. Servants, children, the courtiers; all of them swaying dreamily as they walk, murmuring nonsense at each other. Twice he hears groups of people bubble up into charmed laughter at something he can’t see.

He doesn’t like it.

Whatever spell this is is tugging at him too, he can feel it. Cobwebs pulling distractingly at his skin, shapes seen out of the corner of his eye that vanish when he tries to see them properly. He wants to leave, to flee this house while the hunters are distracted, but the sun, the sun… It’s midsummer, the haze of heat outside making him wince just thinking about it. Maybe he could steal a carriage, bully the horses into cooperating, but it’d be a dicy thing even with someone to drive the beasts. He’s not even sure the seal on his breast will let him go. And something bids him to stay, filling his sinuses with sickly sweet rose smells. Something wants him here, among all these dazed and wandering people.

Something catches his eye; here, among slow-moving sleepwalkers, a flash of bright quickness. He follows it, lengthening his strides, and it comes into focus as a figure nestled in the crook of a chandelier’s arm, mere feet from a ceiling that stretches four or five bodylengths above Gregory’s head. As he gets closer he can see more detail, the figure resolving into an apple-cheeked boy, hair honey-yellow and tousled, dressed in shockingly green finery. His body is lean, and Gregory guesses sixteen summers at least. He’s got the look of someone in a growth spurt.

“What are you doing?”

The youth looks down, his face blossoming in surprise. “What do you know, a corpse! How unusual!”

Gregory scowls, glaring upwards. “What have you done to this place?”

“Hm?” The youth swings from his perch, hooking his legs around the arm of the chandelier and hanging upside-down to get at the jeweled bauble hanging at the very bottom. “They are but dreamers, corpse! They only dream.”

Seeing this feat, and the way the upside-down view made the boy’s features clearer in the light, Gregory suddenly understands. “You are the Fair Folk.”

The boy grins angelically, the planes of his face seeming suddenly alien. “Aye! A lord in my own right, I am!” He twists the bauble free with a delicate snap, and tucks it into the folds of his seafoam clothes.

He drops down suddenly, twisting in midair to land on his feet, light as a feather. “You, though, pose a problem. You do not dream!” He moves languidly around Gregory, eyeing him from all sides. “Perhaps the mist isn’t strong enough… ah, the dead are such tricky things, magic will roll off you as water off a duck!”

Gregory scowls, trying to keep the fae youth in sight — though who knows how old this creature really is? The Fair Folk only look old as a disguise, and are otherwise eternally young. “Stop babbling, what is it you’re here for?”

“Hmm?” He stops in front of him, tapping his chin as he looks the vampire up and down. “Oh. Politics, really. Opportunities arise, you see, and must be taken advantage of before the window closes.” He grins cheekily. “Don’t worry! It’s nothing to do with you. Won’t even know I’ve been here, in and out like a flash!”

Gregory opens his mouth to argue, to press more information out of the boy, but cool hands cup his face and shock him into silence and.

Oh. Oh.

The fae youth has pressed his mouth to Gregory’s, and shock paralyzes him until the fair lord swipes his tongue — sweet, like honey — between his captive’s lips. The taste and warmth make Gregory groan, rational mind bowing out; his hands twitch abortively at his sides.

“Sleep,” this beautiful boy murmurs, breaking the kiss and making Gregory whine with need — he wants more, he wants…

But he’s falling, unable to hold himself up, and his head hits the polished flagstones with a crack he barely feels.

“Sleep, and dream beautifully.”

—————

Gregory does dream, in his deep daytime sleeps. He dreams of red, red nights, when he still had his freedom and could sate his baser urges as he pleased. Sometimes, he dreams of his human days, and he hates these more than he hates the nightmares that plague him wearing the faces of his captors.

But now, under a Green Man’s spell, he dreams of love.

He walks through a rosy mist, following a scent that is all of his loves at once. He is suffused with it, filled to bursting with adoration. It is not the burning desire he knows so well, that drives him through his endless undeath, it is not want; and he has no name for this thing that is not want.

His steps are sluggish, turning to catch voices beckoning him. “Gregory,” whispers Peter’s voice, and it’s been so long since he’s heard it he almost doesn’t recognize it, “this way, this way, here.”

“My love, my draugr, hurry,” urges Torsten, all tenderness, and Gregory wants to weep.

“You fool,” Adelaide murmurs, “you utter, utter fool.”

And under it all the voice of his last love, that which will never leave him but which he will also never, ever have enough of; the throbbing of a live heart, full of rich, priceless blood. His basest vice, the key to his endless appetite.

Oh, he loves them all! He is shot through with love, crippled by it, and still he staggers on, choking on cloying, floral air. He has no awareness of his surroundings, nor of his fellow prisoners in this vague, foggy place. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, except following the unseen objects of his adoration.

And so it is no surprise that when, after an empty trackless time of wandering, he finally sets eyes on the source of these beckoning voices, he throws himself at the figure without a second thought.

But he moves as if through thick syrup, his limbs unhurried. The mist has thinned a little, now, enough for arched windows and a vaulted ceiling to be faintly visible, and the crouched shape that seems to flicker; he sees Torsten’s braided mane, Peter’s open, vulnerable face, Adelaide’s hands—

Have they always been marked like that, the dark silhouettes of vines fanning out from her wrists?

But he can’t dwell on that, he can’t, because his love recoils with a cry and Gregory almost sinks his nails into his own stomach in shame before he realizes that their gaze is not on him. His vision pivots, sweeping around, and— there.

A second shape, sweeping through the fog, and even dazed as he is, Gregory can recognize the murderous intent. He moves before it’s even registered, fighting through the haze for footing and traction and lashing out with an animal snarl.

To the utter surprise of his hindbrain, he hits something. The figure goes flying, flickering and skidding and rushing back at him and Gregory braces his feet, hands curved into claws, and meets his enemy head on. It jitters, faces morphing, and Gregory throws a nameless raider to the floor, parries the return slash from an armored Crusader, and smashes his own mocking, bloodthirsty face into the marble flagstones.

You killed her you killed her the others you just couldn’t save but Adelaide you killed her.

But something shifts, at that cracking impact of skull on stone. His mind clears, a fraction, some of the suffocating cloud lifting from his sight. His combined love is gone, replaced by an unfamiliar man kneeling, gasping, and the tidal wave of loss that sweeps through him is almost enough to make him lose his grip on

on the

the fucking fae boy, face snarling and catlike and suddenly the magic comes crashing down on his head again, making him gasp and reel and it’s almost enough to make him forget his own name—

But he can never forget his last and final love. The smell of it sings sweet and true through the fog and it is so, so easy to hold this creature down and rip into its rice-paper flesh and gorge himself. It is ecstasy, his love filling him up and making him perfect—

And then the spell snaps like a cut bowstring and he cries out in pain and sudden clarity. The taste in his mouth mutates, turning sour like old milk, and he coughs and spits and stares down at the cooling corpse beneath him, its throat torn out and a circle of blood spreading, oozing — it shines, that fae blood, gleaming like an oilspill, like the surface of a tainted pond. Not human enough for his tastes, apparently.

And the fog has lifted, he realizes belatedly. With the death of its maker the spell unravels itself into nothing, freeing his mind from that rosy mist. He scrubs at his mouth, wiping the iridescent red smears from his face as best he can.

There’s yelling. There’s always yelling, he’s starting to get tired of it.

“What’s happened? Does anyone know?”

“The dreams, the dreams, I…”

“That smell, ugh!”

“Forget the dreams, what about the king?”

King? Blinking, Gregory turns his head to look at the man trying to stand, the man that had worn the skin of all his past loves. Suppressing the flinch that comes with this thought, he sees this person clearly now; ermine on his shoulders, rings crusting his fingers. Yes, that checks out.

Fancy that. A king.

People rush into the room and the yelling intensifies. He wants to put his head down and wait until they figure out he hasn’t done anything, at least not to this king of theirs. A few soldiers start on him but are halted by a command from the doorway; Harold. Finally, someone reasonable.

“What happened here?”

It takes a minute for Gregory to realize the question’s directed at him. “Fae trickery,” he says, waving a hand at the corpse still before him. “Something in the air.”

Harold nods, sending a few of his men to secure the grounds, search for any others, and tasks another group with removing the corpse cooling on the flagstones. Gregory stays kneeling, ignoring the household moving around him and trying to tamp down the roiling boil of anger and loss in his gut.

Fucking Green Man. Old wounds are oozing again, torn open by that horrid dream spell, and it’s all he can do to keep his face impassive. Numb. He doesn’t even let himself think because if he starts thinking again he’s going to tear himself apart. Just. Stay still, and wait.

A heavily ringed hand lands on Gregory’s shoulder, making him jump visibly. “The nobility of this beast has impressed me.”

That makes everyone stop, sudden silence falling like a hammer blow. Noble? Him?

The king continues, “The love in his eyes, taking the blow meant for me; whatever his past sins, this absolves him!”

Gregory’s gut twists slightly. It wasn’t for you, stupid man.

The men object. “Sir, begging my lord’s indulgence, this man—”

The king raises his hand imperiously, cutting off their anxiety. “I will not hear of it. My gratitude must be delivered, I command it be so!”

Things happen very fast then, the king being whisked away by an entourage overeager to get him away from the stunned vampire on the floor, Gregory blinking after him in sheer bewilderment.

He is, mostly, ignored by the household then. They have bigger problems and he’s not actively menacing anyone, so they push him down the priority list so that it’s perhaps an hour before Harold seems to remember that he’s there.

“You lot, over here,” he calls to an unoccupied group loitering by the big double doors. He gestures, demonstratively. “South tower, you know the room. Escort him there.”

Gregory’s cognition is still held carefully immobile, so it’s a jolt to his nerves when he’s hauled up by one elbow, a sourfaced soldier landing him on his feet. Mouth twisting, he jerks his arm out of the man’s grip and the sight of the group he’s been saddled with makes his lip curl further.

Meyer’s gang, all watching him with varying levels of distaste.

His eyes narrow but his input is clearly not needed here, as he’s prodded none too gently in the small of the back, and the group falls into lockstep around him, herding him out of the arched hall.

“What did you see?” he hears whispered behind him, one thug to another, and then hears the thump of a “Don’t talk about it, stupid,” reprimand.

Meyer glances back over his shoulder as they walk. “Bet you think you’re hot shit now, huh old monster.”

Gregory’s hackles raise, prickly with stress and the indirect afternoon sunlight making the corridor glow. “And what’s that supposed to mean.”

“Barging in like that, saving the day? What do you think you’re playing at, like anyone wanted you involved.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Gregory hisses, still-bloodied hands flexing into claws at his sides. “I was lured! And it’s not like you were doing any good.”

That makes Meyer round on him, stopping the escort team short. “You wretch,” he growls, “you don’t know a damn thing about this, it could have been us what got nobility realized.”

He sneers, then. “Did you even hear what that fool king said? Love in his eyes? Hah!” He looms, pushing Gregory back into the wall of his gang and looking contemptuous. “You’re not capable of—”

“Meyer!”

His head whips around, expression schooling sluggishly; Harold gives him a cowing look, long strides eating up the carpeted floor between them. “I thought I gave you an order.”

Meyer scowls, just barely avoiding tucking his hands behind his back like a schoolboy. “Was just poking fun, we was gonna get him there.”

The look Harold gives him is that of patience wearing thin. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Make yourselves useful and line the windows with nails, Agatha’s got the bucket.”

Meyer’s pack grumbles, it’s busywork and they know it, but none of them have the guts to argue. Belatedly, Gregory wonders what Meyer himself saw in the mist.

Harold watches them slink off back down the hall, then turns to Gregory with a look that brokes no argument. “Come.”

He does, silently, through parts of the castle he’d never seen before. Up three stairways, past portraits of ancestors long dead, skirting around the light of the dying day shining through those big, colored glass windows while Harold strides right through it.

At last they come to the second-to-top floor of a tower, after so many turns and spiral stairs that Gregory’s lost all sense of direction. There’s just one door up here, and Harold unlocks it with little preamble.

“Our lady says this is to be yours, now.” He pushes the door open to reveal a room the dimensions of his cell ten times over, with carpets and curtains and a corner of a bed piled high with linens visible from the hallway.

A room. An actual room, for people, almost as far from the cellar as it’s possible to be in this castle. Gregory’s disbelief must show on his face, because Harold sighs.

“You understand, I’m sure, the difficult position we are in now.”

Gregory nods, hesitating to speak. One does not put dogs up in a noble’s bed. Certainly not a half-feral hound with a biting habit.

“This is… mine?” he says after a moment. “Truly?”

Harold’s face remains outwardly impassive. “If the Lady Margaret orders it so, yes.”

Gregory’s eyes narrow. This has to be a trick, a sadistic play. They’re pulling him out of the dungeons for this? On the whim of one measly king?

Harold continues, “I’ll admit, it seemed lunacy. But our Majesty insists it be done, he’s convinced of your good character.”

That makes Gregory laugh, incredulously. He’s under no illusions, at least, as to the state of what could perhaps jokingly be called his character.

Gingerly, he steps over the threshold. Nothing burns, nothing stings, and he takes another step. “In all honesty, I’d much rather be up here than down there.”

Harold rubs the back of his head, a gesture of embarrassed acknowledgement. “That I know. And I can in truth promise you nothing, not before our lady has convinced the rest of the family heads.” That means her husband, and maybe an advisor or two.

“What is your opinion, then?”

“I will not say.”

A moment of irritation; then, “These curtains can be thickened, yes?”

Harold grunts an affirmative, face betraying nothing more than a slight twitch at the question. Something that could be any number of emotions.

Harold leaves, then, locking the door behind him. And Gregory is now alone, in a room that is still too bright for his liking, even with the shades drawn, and more luxurious than anything he’s been inside for at least a hundred years.

His first instinct is to wallow in it. To strip all the pretty things off the walls and floor, out of that elaborately carved wardrobe, pile them all on the bed and go to sleep inside the heap like some sort of demented miniature dragon.

Instead he walks around the perimeter of the room, avoiding the slivers of sunlight around the curtains, and examines everything.

The walls are decorated with fine tapestries, one or two with metallic thread, signifying their value. The subjects he can identify easily; biblical scenes, most of them depicting the same event. [symbolism/foreshadowing wahey, find a good scene to tie in here, and comment on the changing fashions for such things] Underneath them is bare stone; the tapestries serve as insulation as well as decoration.

Opposite from the bed stands a wide fireplace, empty of wood and ashes; this room has not been used in a long while. He supposes firewood will be brought eventually, but probably not until the conflict over his living situation that is currently gripping the rest of the house has played itself out.

More evidence as to the room’s disuse makes itself known in the ornate wardrobe; it is empty, though not horribly dusty. Perhaps he will one day have a collection of noble clothes to fill it with. The thought almost makes him laugh.

The wardrobe is well made, however, and obviously cared for. He runs a hand over the curls carved into its crown, admiring it. The wood is a rich, dark color, lacquered, and it wouldn’t take much work to get it gleaming.

The floors, though. They are stone like the walls, and like the walls are covered in luxurious fabrics, rugs instead of tapestries. A similar concept, executed slightly differently for the sake of function. No one would dare allow the tapestries now on the walls to be walked on.

The rugs are Turkish.

He’s seen that pattern before.

(But the Moor was Tunisian, wasn’t he, not Turkish, so their country of origin shouldn’t make much of a difference to him. Shouldn’t make his mouth taste bitter, shouldn’t make his head hurt with the effort of refusing to look at the memories it brings up.)

But it’s easy enough to ignore them as his eye is drawn to what is arguably the centerpiece of the room, that great, grand, curtained four-poster bed.

He’s almost afraid to touch it. Contents himself, for the time being, with running a hand along its outermost covering, and even that sends a delicious shiver down his hindbrain. There’s honest-to-God velvet here, on top of layers and layers of feathers and linens. He aches to strip down and crawl underneath all those blankets and quilts and pass out for a day or six.

Before he can take the thought further the door to the room opens.

He is startled to find the lady of the house looking him up and down, appraising. Jerks his hand away from the covers almost guiltily.

She says, quite bluntly, “Tell me your position on this whole business.” Not a request. He tries not to swallow.

“Begging my lady’s pardon, I would rather not be in a cage.”

She gives a small hm. “And our adversary, today? What of that?” The word she uses, adversary, has biblical connotations; she knows that he knows it. “I am sure you did not save the king on purpose. It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing you’d do.”

He elects, on his better judgement, not to take offense to that. “My lady is too observant.” His face stiffens slightly, feigned expressionlessness. “What I saw was not what was there. The rest of the household experienced similar things, I am sure. I acted on… false visions.”

Another soft, thoughtful hum. “I see.”

Then, “You understand, we cannot be careless. You yourself have ensured that.”

He suppresses a bristle, aware of his disadvantage right now. One on one, he’s not sure he could beat her. Not during the day, certainly. “Begging my lady’s pardon, but the feeling is mutual.”

She gives an odd little tilted nod, not appearing to disagree. “Consider this a probationary period then. Cooperation and compliance in exchange for… privileges, shall we say.” She brings her gloved fingers to her lips in a thoughtful gesture, looking around the room. “I confess I had been considering something of the sort for a time now. More flies with honey than vinegar. Perhaps one day we might do away with the unpleasantness of chains and muzzles. I have not noticed favorable results out of either.”

He blinks, slightly stunned. “…has it been decided, then? Properly?”

Her gaze returns to him, its intensity banked by contemplation. “Hm? No, not quite yet. But it will be.”

She leaves him bewildered, intimidated, and thoroughly sick of court politics. Even if it is through them that he’s landed in a room like this, he dislikes them.

It’s still light out, afternoon sliding sonorously into evening — one of those long, lingering summer twilights, thick with flying insects and the noise of the world keeping itself going, one amorous cricket at a time. The light out the window still makes him squint, when he peeks out between the curtains. It’s a long way to the ground, from here.

He should stay awake; it doesn’t feel safe to let his guard down in this place. And it will be night soon, besides.

But that bed…

Well, a nap can’t hurt.

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Sledgehammer*

Chapter Two

Previous Chapter

A/N: You asked for more, I give you more. It’s now become a series.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader   |  Word Count: 3159

Warnings: Smut, NSFW, fluff, swearing.  First part of this is 18+, lovelies because that’s how I roll!

Song: She’s So High by Tal Bachman

“Cause he’s so higgggghh, high above me, he so lovely,” you belted out, singing for all you were worth standing beneath the shower’s spray. “ He’s so higgggggh, like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, or Aphrodite. He’s so higggghhhh, high above me.” You weren’t quite sure how Steve had gotten ahold of your playlist, having them downloaded on the system which played over the speakers in his bathroom, but you were perfectly alright with playing it at a level which had the bass thumping while you worked shampoo through your hair.

Wiggling as you ducked your head beneath the spray, you twisted, swayed and danced. “First class, fancy-free, he’s high society, he’s got the best of everrryyyy thing. What could a girl like me ever really offer? He’s perfect as he can be, why should I even bother- ahh!” A particularly wild swing of hips had you squeaking as you slipped in the shower, falling backward, smacking into a big, wide chest.

“Careful, doll face. You’re gonna land on your head,” Steve scolded, pressing into your back.

Turning, you grin up at him. “Well, if you didn’t have my favourites loaded in your shower, I wouldn’t feel the need to dance.”

“Not sure how this can be your favourite when you keep getting the words wrong,” he teased, hands sliding over your slick skin.

“This was your song for a long time, Steve,” you confessed, hands gliding up his chest, loving the way his muscles flexed and quivered as you touched him, to link at the back of his neck. “At least the first part.” A week ago at Tony’s party, everything had changed for the better. Now, at the compound upstate, you and Steve were blissfully happy, still in the early stages, but settling in and learning each other’s routines. You still had two rooms, but you spent most nights in his. The bed was bigger.

His hand closed on your thighs, lifted you up so you could wrap them around his torso as he pressed you into the wall. Lips skimmed your jaw, worked down your throat when you tipped your head back on a content sigh right before the music quieted slightly, and you heard, “She comes to speak to me. I freeze immediately, cause what she says sounds so unreal…. Cause somehow I can’t believe that anything should happen…”

“No,” you groaned, “that’s so not fair! You can’t be good at everything!”

Chuckling he warbled badly, “Cause she’s so higggghhhh, high above me!”

“Oh god! That’s worse cause I know you’re faking!” you laughed. Clearly, he knew this song as well.

“FRIDAY, turn it down, please.” The music immediately dropped to a barely-there background sound. “You’re up early this morning,” Steve murmured, going back to kissing your neck.

“Clint’s coming in. We’re doing the mock extraction in the woods with the newbies. He gets to try and shoot me,” you giggled when his morning scruff tickled your skin.

“Just as long as he doesn’t actually shoot you. He’s using those soft arrows, right?”

“Mmm,” you hummed, stroking your hands over his broad shoulders and up the back of his neck. “You know he loves me.”

“He calls you brat,” Steve chuckled.

“Cause he loves me,” you quipped.

“I love you,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“Do you now?” you teased, smiling at the softness of his features, the brightness of his eyes. “I never would have guessed.”

“Cheeky dame.” He smacked you gently on the bottom in retaliation.

“Captain!” you gasped in mock insult. “How rude!”

“Rude is not saying it back, baby doll.” He dropped you down the wall, so your rapidly dampening core slid over his erection.

“Steve!” you groaned, tightening your legs.

“What’s the word, doll face?” he whispered against your ear, thrusting gently, teasing over your clit with barely-there pressure.

“Love you, too,” you moaned as he slid home, taking you gently against the wall, the water pouring down behind him.

The first time you’d been together, it had been a nearly frantic dance of tongues and teeth, shredded clothing and grasping hands, leaving you both a sweaty, exhausted mess in the middle of Steve’s bed. It had been mind-numbing, your body a limp blob of fantastically satisfied flesh. Then, he’d rolled over, and you’d learned the level of patience Steve showed in a training situation could be applied to the bedroom as well. The man was insatiable and as immovable as a rock when he set his mind to something.

You’d never had a lover like him. He took his time, touched everything, savoured every stroke. The man made it his mission to leave your legs shaking, body drowning in sensation every time he made love to you. It was never sex with Steve. It was love, sometimes frantic, sometimes slow, sometimes so teasingly you were ready to scream by the time he was finished playing, but it was always love.

Pressed against the wall, you whimpered at the way your nipples tightened and dragged over his slick skin. His hands squeezed in time with his thrust, his lips sucked and pulled at the skin beneath your ear, drifted down, brushed over your shoulder. Teeth closed gently on your muscle.

Sighing, you closed your arms around him, holding on, nails skating his scalp as you gripped a handful of hair. “Steve,” you sighed, loving the way he knew you already.

He knew when you made that sound to tilt your hips just a bit more, thrust a little harder, add a twist which had his ridge dragging over your sweet spot. A sexy growl rumbling in his chest sent a rush of heat to your core.

“Fuck, baby,” he moaned, face tucked into your shoulder.

Head thrown back, mouth open, you could only sigh and whimper, biting your lip to keep from babbling incoherently. You’d done that once, babbled. Said highly embarrassing things in your delirious state.

Shifting his grip to one arm, a hand came up to thread through your hair, hold your head as his lips sought yours, chased and nipped, kissed and sucked until you were lost in a sensual haze you have no hope of getting out of until he let you.

Keening softly, you worked your hips down, adding a twist, making him growl again. “I love that sound,” you managed to gasp between kisses.

He made it again, louder, nearly a snarl you didn’t think a human voice could actually produce.

“Oh god, Steve.”

He chuckled, a dark sound full of heat. “You like a little feral in your loving, baby?” His hips jerked up, and you moaned.

“Please…” you sighed, tightening your thighs more, holding him closer.

His lips continued to play and tug, but you could no longer focus enough to participate, only holding on as the burning, tightening, swelling heat in your belly grew steadily stronger with each, now vigorous, thrust of his hips.

Another keening wail slid from your throat.

Steve’s forehead pressed to yours. “Let go, sweetheart.” He placed a kiss to the corner of your lips.

You tumbled headlong into ecstasy, crying out, clinging to the man you’d never thought could be yours. “Steve,” you moaned, coming undone.

“Baby,” he groaned, hips losing their rhythm, head dropping, face pressing to your throat. “Love you.” A few hard thrusts more, and he was calling your name as he emptied himself. He kissed your throat, little pecs all up your neck, back to your ear where he tugged on your earlobe. “The best way to start the day,” he sighed happily.

Letting your arms drape over his shoulders, you smiled. “I thought that was coffee?”

He chuckled, drawing you from the wall without letting you down, so the water fell over you both. “If you’d rather I just go get you coffee, that could be arranged,” he teased.

Kissing him hard on the mouth, you snickered. “How ‘bout both?”

“Both is good,” he said, kissing you back.

***

Bucky’s metal fist slammed into the quinjet to the side of Garry’s head, causing the man to jump. “Hey, pal,” he chuckled, getting a good look at Garry’s face. It was a mess of bruises still, some black, some the sickly yellow of healing skin, but all impressive even a week later.

(Y/N) had really worked him over.

“Sergeant Barnes,” he muttered, eyes full of petulance.

“You get those engines cleaned out yet?” Bucky had found the absolute worst job possible in retaliation for the stunt he’d pulled, something dirty and disgusting.

“Working on it… sir,” he grunted, swiping an arm over his brow and smearing grease across his face.

“Good. When you’re done with this morning’s training, you can wash out the hanger.”

“What?! But it’s huge!”

Arching a brow, Bucky growled, “I was going to let you use a hose. Would you rather wash it down by hand?”

“This is bullshit,” he grumbled, scowl growing. “It was just a stupid joke!”

“It was a nasty joke, one in which you impersonated a superior!” Though his prank had, in the end, allowed for (Y/N) and Steve to finally get their shit together, no one was going to overlook the fact Garry had pretended to be Steve. Twice. That crap just wasn’t right. “You keep your own damn face on unless you’re on a mission,” Bucky snapped, striding away.

“Still bullshit,” Garry muttered, going back to his cleaning with an angry swipe.

Rolling his eyes, Bucky made his way inside the upstate compound. The party the week previous had been to celebrate the handful of new recruits finishing basic training, now ready to join the team when needed. That didn’t mean there weren’t still training exercises to be run. They were still newbies.

Team Avenger kept expanding as the world needed them, though the original group remained the same. The newbies assisted once in a while, but otherwise, they were forming their own teams, figuring out who worked best with whom.

Garry didn't fit well anywhere.

At this point, Bucky wasn’t sure how he’d made it through basic. Not with that attitude. But the kid had a unique skill set. One, which, when harnessed correctly, could be an extreme asset. So far, he was still a stupid shit who Bucky would really like to punch. Hard. With the left hand.

Garry was an asshole and just young enough to be stupid and cocky enough to think he could get away with it.

Pushing through a last set of doors into the team’s common room, he paused to lean against the wall and watch as Steve stroked (Y/N)’s hair back. The big blond doofus had been pining after her for months; she’d been pining after him nearly as long. If something hadn’t happened between them soon, Bucky had been about ready to help Sam in his plan to lock them in a closet together. But seeing them like this, happy, stupidly so, he couldn’t help but smile. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to tease them something fierce. “Get a room.”

“Shut up, jerk,” Steve chuckled.

“Make me, punk.”

“I’ll make you if you don’t,” (Y/N) muttered.

“You think I’ll go down as easy as Garry?” Bucky asked, a wide smirk on his lips as he sauntered across the room.

“If I kick you really hard in the nuts you will,” she quipped, grin wicked.

Both he and Steve had the same reaction. A hard wince and twisted grimace.

“Damn, doll. That’s just cruel,” Bucky turned his pelvis away.

She snorted, eyes twinkling with amusement. “If there’s one thing I know about men who are bigger, and a hell of a lot stronger than me it’s you all still cry like little girls when you’re kneed in the boys.” Pressing up on her toes, she kissed the wincing Steve on the cheek before sauntering away. “Don’t worry, fellas. Your bits are safe,” she called over her shoulder.

“Where you going, doll face?” Bucky asked.

“She’s got training to do with the newbies,” Steve answered for her, smile dopey as he watched (Y/N)’s ass sway until she disappeared through the exterior doors.

“You’ve got it bad, pal,” Bucky snickered, avoiding the half-hearted punch Steve threw at his shoulder.

“Yeah, well…” blushing, he rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s just so… great,” he sighed.

“Shit that was sappy,” Bucky teased.

“You’re an asshole,” he quipped, unable to put any heat behind the words, not with the smile which graced his lips.

“Captain! Such language!” Tony gasped, wandering in the door with Sam.

“And all these young ears running around,” Sam scolded, nudging Steve with his elbow when he arrived at his other side. “What would the newbies think of the Captain America having a potty mouth?”

“You’re all a pain in my ass,” Steve muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Least you know none of us will ever kick you in the family jewels!” Bucky laughed, slapping him on the back.

“Oh, shit! Did you piss (Y/N) off already? What did you do? How bad is it? Do we need to warn Barton? She’s with him today.” Sam was already digging for his phone.

“Nah, she was just kidding… I think,” Steve muttered.

“Only one she’s liable to knee in the nuts is Garry. How the fuck he make it through basic?” Bucky asked Tony.

Tony shrugged. “You’d have to ask Hill. She’s who recruited him.”

“You don’t think he’s going to be stupid, do you?” Sam groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I always end up with the ones who do stupid things.”

Clenching his metal hand into a fist, Bucky shook it gently. “If he does… I get to use this.”

“Buck,” Steve sighed, rolling his eyes.

“What? You threatened to hit him with your shield; it’s only fair,” he huffed. “I don’t think he’d be stupid enough to play Steve again. Not with (Y/N). How’d she do it? How’d she know it wasn’t you?” Bucky had never gotten around to finding out.

Steve blushed, scrubbing at the back of his neck again. “She, uh, said he… smelled wrong,” he said in a rush.

The rest of them burst out laughing.

“Of course she did!” Sam chortled. “With all the times you’ve dragged her outta this scrap or that scrap over your shoulder, of course, she’d know exactly what you smell like!”

Bucky couldn’t fault that logic. (Y/N) was a scrapper, always quick to throw a punch, more than once picking a fight with someone far bigger than she was. They’d all seen Steve drag her bodily away before, usually with her screaming insults at whoever was on the receiving end of her ire. “She’s like a Chihuahua after a wolf half the time.”

“Napoleon syndrome,” Tony snickered.

“She’s not Napoleon!” Steve barked defensively, causing them to all laugh harder. A wicked smirk suddenly appeared on his face. “You know, I could just have FRIDAY repeat this conversation in its entirety for her.”

“I’m out!” Sam said, raising his hands and backing away.

“Don’t be hasty there, Cap,” Tony, now a rather pale shade also back peddled quickly.

Bucky only smirked. “She already threatened my balls once today. I’ve got nothing to lose.” Shrugging a shoulder, he tucked his hands in pockets and walked away whistling.

***

Five steps from Clint, you broke into a quick jog and leapt to his back, wrapping your arms around his neck and legs around his waist. “Feathers!” you squealed happily, his hands coming up to grip your thighs.

“For Christ sake, woman!” he yelled stumbling forwards. “I’m not your damn super soldier boy toy. Let a guy get braced, so he doesn’t fall on his face, and don’t call me feathers!”

“Oh, shut it,” you snickered, clinging like a monkey. “You’re not that old and feeble.”

“I feel old and feeble when flying females fling themselves on my back!” he griped.

You only giggled harder. Clint may bitch, but this little ritual wasn’t about to be missed by either of you. Though you could have done without the quiver of arrows in the chest. Dropping to the ground, you ducked under his raised arm and hugged him around the middle. “How’s Laura and the kids?”

“Good, good. Everyone’s good.” He sighed, looking a touch wistful before his sharp eyes dropped to yours. “So, dumbass going to be part of this today?”

“Yeah,” you grumbled. “He’d best keep his own face on, or I’m going to borrow Cap’s shield and hit him with it!” Clint hadn’t been at the party, but Tony had taken the footage of Garry getting his ass kicked and set it to music. Everyone had gotten a copy of it, including Garry.

“Have you always been this violent?” he chuckled, ruffling your hair.

“You should know. You trained me.”

“That I did, kid. You ready for this?”

“You going to actually tag me with one of those today?” you asked, grin sly as you nicked an arrow from his quiver.

“I’ll try to avoid hitting anything Steve may want to grab latter,” he quipped, stealing the arrow back.

Gaping at him, you flushed a brilliant red. “Shut up, feathers!”

“Not gonna happen, brat!”

“One would think she’d be done flirting now she’d reeled in the big fish,” Garry snickered quietly to the six other agents who were walking with him.

Snatching the arrow back from Clint, you turned and threw it like a javelin, hitting Garry directly in the chest. It exploded on impact, coating him in bright orange paint. “Ooh! That’s new,” you snickered, looking to Clint.

“Got into paintballing with Laura. She wanted to do something fun where she could shoot back,” he explained, pulling another arrow from his quiver. “Just so you all know… these ones?” he held up the arrow with a wicked grin, “Hurt more than the nerf tipped ones.”s

“Dial back the glee, Robin Hood.” You rolled your eyes. “The goal here is to make it through the woods, unpainted, secure your hostage and get back out without either of you getting tagged. As there’s seven of you, I’m going to be playing hostage for one lucky probie.” From the ground, you picked up the sack dropped in your leap at Clint. “Maggie, Faye, Garry and Marcus, pick a name. Then, decide who plays damsel. You’ll all get to run this twice except for my partner whom I’ll play damsel for. Let’s get it done.”

“You don’t need the rescue practice, brat?” Clint teased.

“Considering I pulled your ass out of the fryer out last mission, think I’m good, feathers.” Holding out the bag, you gave it a shake.

The four you’d singled out came forward. Garry, eyeing you with anger, shoved his hand in the bag, pulled it out, and grinned victoriously. “Looks like you’re my damsel, (Y/N).”

You heard Clint hiss a startled fuck, and wholeheartedly agreed with him.

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