#basically like-- what if Inscryption-- but fantasy world?? and the scrybes were gods??

[languor-em]

Here it is!!! The Grimora x Reader that was WAY harder to write than it had any right being. Did I go through like,, thre separate ideas before I finally found one I liked?? Yes. Was it a self indulgent idea with a knight reader?? Absolutely.

Am I going to force it down y'all's throats? Yes. Yes I am.

Anyway I love Grimora so much she deserves so much more love than I see her getting.

Also!! General warning for gore and mentions of death because I'm a dramatic person

L'appel Du Vide (Grimora x GN!Reader)

In which it is not yet your time to go.

You could not remember how you got here.

Past a certain point everything was just… blurry. Faint and quickly fading impressions rather than clear and distinct imagery. You could remember grey- the clashing of steel and the shouts and screams of others. You could remember running towards something, something that felt like destiny. You could remember screaming out with bared teeth- burn, butcher! Burn!

You could barely remember the heat of battle, only faintly visualize the face of the one who had wronged you so long ago. You could hardly remember what it had felt like when your sword had pierced through their armor, ripping flesh and tearing a garbled scream from their throat. And you could only barely feel where their own weapon had cut you deep- had taken a chunk out of you.

You had collapsed, fading in and out of consciousness with only the fading warmth of vengeance finally satisfied to keep your spirit alive.

You thought maybe that the battle had ended, though you were not sure which side- if any- were victorious.

You could not remember how you got here.

Alone, cold, laying on your back on the cold ground. Your failing vision could barely process movement, could only really notice the shades of stormy grey and deathly purple that had taken over the battlefield. If you were even still on the battlefield, that was. You exhaled in a trembling sigh, closing your eyes for a moment and allowing an armored hand to rest lightly on top of your oozing wound. Your ears were ringing, everything surrounding you sounding as though it were beneath a good few feet of water. Your helmet had been removed- when had you done that? A cold breeze playing across your exposed face and drawing a weak shiver from your form. You were cold- colder than you had ever been. You feared that you would never be warm again- not with ice clinging to your bones they way it was now.

You forced your tired eyes open again, faintly aware of shadowy spectres wandering with no direction. You imagined you would join them soon, just another soul lost to battle. Just another epitaph for death to record- one of hundreds.

You inhaled, a strangled cry catching in your throat as your wound pulsed with fire. It burned, icy fire spidering up your veins and piercing your temples. You coughed, your whole body lurching with the effort and your eyes leaking pained tears. You tried not to sob, you really did, but the fear of your situation was finally sinking in.

You were dying.

You had anticipated it. Expected it- welcomed it, even. But now that you were here, death’s heavy embrace weighing down your whole form, you were terrified.

You didn’t want to go.

Retribution had left you feeling empty now that the hour for it had passed. Empty, and oh so very cold. What had it been worth? Surely not your life- not the hours you had spent training until your hands bled and until you collapsed from exhaustion. Surely not all the blood you had spilled, both your own and others’. You had dedicated yourself completely towards revenge, towards absolution. And what had it all been for, in the end?

Nothing.

This was not what you wanted your legacy to be. This is not what you wanted your gravestone to say. You did not want to die a bitter, angry person. You did not want to die having not truly lived.

This was not how you wanted to be remembered.

“Then how would you like to be remembered, my dear?”

You gasped, a nearly silent sound, your eyes once again fluttering open, though not without some considerable effort. It took a moment, but your shaky vision finally focused enough to see the woman knelt before you- her expression soft and her smile kind. The wrinkles gilding her face spoke of years of joy and laughter, a distinct wisdom shining through- the likes of which you had never seen before. Her eyes, while visually empty, glowed softly both literally and figuratively as she gazed down upon your battered, ruined form.

It took a long moment before you could reply, your voice weak and trembling with effort, “I am… not sure. There really isn’t anything else.”

You knew this woman, how could you not? You had seen statues of her, had read poems, stories, first-hand accounts describing her and the other three Scrybes. Everyone knew the face of death, knew her name. You were no exception.

What you had not accounted for was Grimora being far more beautiful than you could have even begun to imagine.

“Is that truly the case?” She murmured, her face moving a little closer to your own and a gentle hand brushing away the hair that stuck to your forehead, “Because I am certain that there is more to your story than this.”

You smiled, laughing breathily and allowing your heavy eyelids to close once more, “I’m afraid not, my lady. I am merely just another soul consumed by anger.”

You could not open your eyes as her hand came to rest gently on your cheek, far too exhausted to look upon her again. You could feel your life bleeding from you like wine pouring from a glass, your breaths becoming increasingly more labored and your heart sounding louder and louder in your ears. You did not react as you felt her remove the chest piece of your armor, deft fingers making quick work of the worn buckles and straps. Her other hand came to rest upon the quilted fabric of your tunic, just above your weeping wound, gentle as a moth’s fluttering wing.

“Oh, but there is, my dear,” her voice was a whisper, though it wove through your mind and drowned out everything else, “There is far more to your story than just vengeance. There is more to you than just that.”

You managed to crack open your eyes one more time, your breathing quiet and ragged. She leaned closer towards your face, the hand on your cheek tracing a gentle path with its thumb. She smiled, an expression you could only dare to describe as loving, the curled wisps of hair framing her face tickling your cheeks. Her presence was all-consuming, drowning out everything else. Fear, pain- everything except for the here and now.

“No,” she said, her voice sounding like honey on a warm piece of fresh bread, “No, there is more to you than that. And I look forward to learning exactly what that is.”

Your lips parted, your words dying on your tongue as her other hand rested entirely on the gaping wound in your side. It did not hurt, surprisingly enough, the icy heat beginning to fade away into a dull throbbing. A question caught in your throat, your body too exhausted to make hide nor hair of anything that was going on. But Grimora merely smiled, seeming to know exactly what was flitting through your mind.

“It is not yet your time to go, my dearest. Not for a long while yet.”

And with that she pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your forehead, lingering for a long moment before pulling away. Your eyes fluttered closed once more despite your best efforts to the contrary, the exhaustion you had been fighting finally pulling you under and into darkness. But it was not a cold, empty darkness. No- this was warm. This was comforting. This was the first time you had truly rested in… Stars only knew how long.

And you were resting still when you were finally found laying next to your vanquished foe, your wound having stopped its bleeding and color beginning to return to your cheeks. Your breathing was ragged, your heart-rate shaky at best- but you were alive.

You still had a story to tell, after all.

And death would await your tale with bated breath.