#because yes certain people are still very much on my mind and it's absolutely wretched

[nolivingdudeami]

*

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Wounded Love (Lady Dimitrescu/F!Reader) Pt. 3

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for blood/violence and language Genre: Action with a lil bit of fluff Warnings: Lil bit of blood Notes: There's an unnamed character in here who may or may not end up as recurring in my stories. I don't really have anything in particular planned for her, she's kinda just here to fill a role/allow for some easter egg type shit in the next chapter. Previous Chapters: Pt. 1, Pt. 2

{Wounded Love 3: Bloody Valentine (No, not that Valentine)}

“Mother Miranda, I must insist, if these lycans stray any further they might start feasting on the village as well! Pray tell, who will you use for research then? We can’t just-... Forgive me… Mhmm. Yes, I understand. Of course… Have a good night, Mother Miranda,” Lady Dimitrescu said, before setting her phone down with a loud thunk. Her hands shake a little, and for a moment you worry that her vanity won’t survive the coming moments. Then you make eye contact with her reflection, giving her an encouraging smile, watching as her gaze softens. “I’m afraid there’s nothing she can do, my dear. I cannot allow Heisenberg’s negligence to go unpunished, but we will have to take care of it on our own, without Mother Miranda’s support.”

“Is that wise, love? To go behind her back like this? I can’t imagine she’ll be terribly pleased if we cause chaos for one of her favored few,” you replied, clicking your tongue as you thought things over. Again you see anger cloud Alcina’s face, though she makes sure not to direct it at you.

“We are not the ones who started this mess,” she reminded you, through clenched teeth. “But we will be the ones to end it, one way or another. I don’t care if I have to gut that wretched man-thing and bring Miranda his corpse as proof of his incompetence! He has shown his lack of loyalty hundreds of times… and now he will pay.” Gulping, you rise to your feet, wanting to comfort your girlfriend. While you had understood that your injury angered her, you hadn’t (until this moment) realized the sheer intensity of that rage. How much blood would be shed before this was over?...

-----------------------------

Crimson drips down the beast’s side, across matted fur, before hitting the wooden floor. A stench as awful as you had ever found filled the air, only made tolerable by the nearby presence of scented candles. What a mess, you think, glad that you wouldn’t be the one to clean it up. Why had the girls insisted on bringing the damn thing inside? Couldn’t they have simply snatched a few teeth from its jaw as a prize? Somehow you doubted that the thought had even crossed their minds. Violence was a passion of theirs, and they preferred their trophies to be as large as the effort they put into getting it.

“How close to the path did you find it?” You asked after finishing your examination of the lycan. Next to you, the eldest daughter is rapidly taking notes in a leather-bound journal. Both of her siblings stand near the fireplace, hands held out next to the flames, needing to warm up after being outside for so long. It wasn’t even that cold of a day, with temperatures averaging around eighteen degrees celsius. All the snowfall from the prior week had now melted. While you knew of the family’s weakness, you also knew that they had bundled up before leaving, and had even taken a torch with them in the hopes of using it on a lycan. Their powers had taken somewhat of a hit, temporarily, but not nearly enough to prevent them from killing a single lycan.

“Heard it howling almost as soon as we left the castle. We couldn’t smell it until halfway to the village, though. Once we could we tried to track it, only for the stupid thing to come charging at us. Must have been eight, maybe ten, meters away by the time we collided,” Cassandra answered. There’s a bit of a shiver to her voice, and you can’t help the rush of sympathy you feel in response. Being out on the path, wearing little more than a dress and scarf, had been absolute hell for you. Even if it was warmer outside now, you imagined that being weak to the cold just about made up for the difference. “There was a little more howling once we started walking back here. Louder, if not closer. Heisenbitch isn’t even trying to keep these fucking things in check.”

“Cassandra, language!” Came a voice in the distance, making everyone present look up at once. Strutting down the stairs was a clearly miffed Alcina, eyes narrowed, body tense. “Did you three really have to bring the mutt inside? Surely you advocated against this, Bela? Or did you think I wanted new bloodstains right by the entrance, where everyone can see them?” Next to you Bela winces, but doesn’t respond, too worried about angering her mother further. “And you, my dear, what on Earth are you doing on the floor? You should be resting, in an actual chair, if not lying in bed awaiting my return. There’s enough for me to worry about without you limping around on a useless leg!”

Now it was your turn to wince.

“Please, love, I know you’re stressed, but I can still help. Given enough time I could help ascertain these things’ weaknesses. At the very least I could pass on what I learned during my fight with one,” you pleaded. Then you tried to stand up, wanting to prove yourself, only to stumble, barely avoiding a faceplant- and only doing so because of Bela’s quick reaction time. She helped you to your feet, letting you lean on her, then lead you towards a bench. Begrudgingly you sit back down. “You’re only doing this because I got hurt. Helping you in your endeavor to avenge me is the least I can do.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Alcina snapped, now just a couple meters away from you. Even with that space between you, her presence was intimidating, and you almost felt like a child being scolded. “Were you to get hurt again, how would we avenge you? If you fall by your own hand, there will be naught I can do other than lock you away somewhere without any dangerous elements. What sort of existence would that be for you? I simply can’t allow it, no exceptions.” At this you pout, feeling rather disappointed. It’s not as if you were asking to carry a gun and shoot Heisenberg yourself! Not that you would be opposed to doing so, of course. “Try to put yourself in my place, my dear. Could you live with yourself if you failed to protect me?”

“I suppose I could not, love. Very well, I shall simply root you on from here, and kiss away any injuries you return with,” you replied, at last giving in. Then you found yourself smiling… and on the receiving end of a very soft forehead kiss. “Nothing will separate us, my love. None can tear apart that which the universe has stitched together.”

-----------------------------

“Like I said, my Lady, I already want him dead. Did you really think that your family was the only one to suffer because of his machinations? I know half a dozen people who would love to put a bullet in that fucker’s skull, bare mims,” the huntress said, white teeth showing in her half-smirk. There was an odd coolness to her voice, like this whole ordeal was just another job, and you couldn’t help but feel uncertain about her. Could she really be the solution to Alcina’s problem? You couldn’t even judge her arsenal, considering she had been instructed to come unarmed. After all, she was a hunter of monsters, with a sizable history to her name. If not for her hatred of Heisenberg, you would never have felt comfortable letting her come within two hundred meters of your girlfriend.

“How can I be sure that you’ll succeed? The last thing I want is to have that wretched man-thing come crawling out of the filth he lives in, angry and coming for vengeance,” Alcina responded, scrutinizing gaze locked on the huntress.

“Didn’t Duke give you my file? Or at least read the good bits out loud? I’ve been in my fair share of scraps, with all sorts of bioweapon mutant freaks. Besides, I don’t plan on leaving any receipts behind. If he manages to survive, which is already one hell of an if, there’s no way he can prove that you asked me to do it. Considering he’s already seen my face, and knows I want him dead��� yeah, he won’t bother accusing you, not when I’m in the picture, and certainly not when you’ve got such a big reputation for following Mother Miranda’s word down to the very last letter. So, you gonna make this official, or what?” The huntress asked, gesturing her arms wide. Although you’re still not convinced, Alcina nods quietly, seeming ready to make her decision. Regardless of how you feel about the stranger in front of you, you’re more than willing to support your girlfriend in whatever she planned.

“Very well, huntress. Show us just what you’re capable of.”

-----------------------------

Flames licked at her heels, even as she charged forward, tickling like hot breaths against her skin. Behind her half a dozen lycans roared and screeched in unison. Smoke and ashes flew upwards, into the air, but could not poison her lungs, not when she had come prepared. Still, the mask was not as easy to breathe in as she had hoped, making her chest heave with effort at each intake of air. Good thing I’ll be gone soon, she thought, sparing a glance behind her as she ran. Dozens of trees were aflame, and countless glowing eyes watched from between the branches. They wouldn’t be there for much longer, not with what she had done.

Soon enough an explosion would shake the Earth. Then, finally, both the lycans who had killed her father and the man who desecrated the remains would be dead. And if a certain countess happened to pay her for her services? All the better, really. Funerals could be expensive, especially in such a remote village. More than that… there was no guarantee that she’d be able to outrun Mother Miranda on her own. A little money would make the flight out a hell of a lot nicer.

Assuming she made it that far. There was another scream behind her, this one more human, though somewhat warped by mechanics. It wasn’t a pained cry. No, it was filled with rage. Clearly Heisenberg had come out of his lair, hearing the fireworks, finding his scrap metal and werewolf army in chaos. From the sound of things- metal against metal, electricity crackling- he was coming her way.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” She muttered, desperately trying to get to higher ground. Even if the lycans succumbed to the overwhelming fire, it wouldn’t be hard for their leader to overcome. But the huntress was still too close to her explosives to risk activating the detonator. Just a bit farther, she thought, ignoring the way her lungs ached. Rocks kicked up with every step, loud enough to be heard from a distance, and made traction harder to keep. In the end she had to scramble to get up the side of a short cliff. A few scrapes appeared on her hands, making her curse under her breath.

But with one last movement, pulling herself up with both arms, she was finally far enough to be relatively safe. In one clean second she turned around, pulled the detonator out of its pouch and clicked the trigger. Just like that, a forest blazing turns into a mushroom cloud of pure hellfire. The setting sun makes for a beautiful backdrop, and the sight almost brings a tear to the huntress’ eyes. For a few moments she just enjoys the view. Then, without hesitation or remorse, she starts to walk away, mentally congratulating herself for a job well done.

Until something shoots past her head with terrifying speed. Before she can react another sharp piece of metal flies past her, grazing her arm, and there’s a blood-curdling roar from behind her. Then she’s running, fast as she can, pulse pounding harder than it ever has. One hand goes to the rifle on her back, pulling it out as quickly as she can. The area is rocky, with plenty of outcrops, perfect to hide behind (assuming there weren’t any hidden metal deposits). Quickly she ducks behind one, crouching to keep her head out of sight. Mere milliseconds later another metal spike slams into the ground just beyond her cover.

In the distance, more screams pierce the air, and something heavy drags itself across the ground. It almost sounds like a tank rolling through the woods. The thought alone worries the huntress, but she had never been one to let her fear control her. So she double checks her rifle, adjusts the scope, and pops out of cover. Less than a second later she has her target in her sights. It’s Heisenberg, for sure, more metal than man, but dripping with red. One press of the trigger sends a bullet straight for his ugly head. Unsurprisingly, it’s not enough to pierce his cranium, instead making him mad as hell.

Which is why automatic guns were invented, probably. The huntress holds the trigger down this time, though briefly, before dashing to the next piece of cover. She repeats the process a few times, hoping to kill the man before he could climb the cliff she stood on. If he managed to get up there with her… no, she couldn’t think about that, not now. She had to focus.

-----------------------------

Hidden among the trees, the Dimitrescu sisters watched as plumes of smoke rose in the distance. Even though they had been aware of the huntress’ plan, they hadn’t expected this much carnage. It was certainly exciting! But they really couldn’t see much from where they were. Getting closer was probably a horrible idea, and yet Cassandra shared a meaningful look with Daniela. A split second later they were forming a swarm, rushing into the trees, leaving their elder sister to yell after them.

“Mother’s going to kill me,” Bela said, before rolling her eyes and following. Maybe she could at least keep them out of trouble?... Probably not.

-----------------------------

Metal hands wrap around the huntress’ throat, squeezing hard, but do not twist or otherwise break their prey. No, Heisenberg does not intend to end this that quickly. This rodent had taken so much from him, set his plans back by decades. He was going to kill her slowly. When she still fights back, pulling a knife from her boot and trying to stab whatever she can reach, he does little else but laugh. It’s a crazed cackling that echoes through the surrounding rocky hills.

Just barely loud enough to drown out the sound of insects buzzing.

“Fuck that guy!” Someone shouted, right as a sickle descended upon the monstrous Heisenberg’s neck. The first slice isn’t enough to sever the connection, which is why it’s immediately followed by a second, from another sister, then a third, from the eldest, that finally does the job. Just like that the hands release from the huntress’ throat, and she gasps for air. Coughs leave her distracted as the sisters move to surround her. “Good thing we wanted to see the show up close and personal, eh?” Daniela asked, twirling her sickle with a little giggle.

“You idiots are just lucky I followed you,” Bela added, glaring at her sister. Internally, she was relieved that the end result was a success. Still, she worried about what her mother would think, and certainly didn’t intend to voice her satisfaction at delivering the killing blow. “Now let’s get back, before mother assumes the worst and comes to get us herself.” Sighing, she extends a hand to help the huntress up. Though their mutual enemy had been defeated, there was still much to be done. Who knew how Mother Miranda would react? Who, if anyone, would take Heisenberg’s place? There was plenty to be unsure about, and Bela let her mind wander the whole way back, hoping that things would only get better from here...

[aelingalathyniusrailme]

If you find me at the edge, we’ll jump together.

Gwynriel pirate au pt 8- you don’t know who I am. 

this chapters a little bit shorter because the part that’s coming next would have made it way too long. also check out the other parts.  pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6, pt 7

Gwyn’s eyes narrowed and Azriel swore there was venom in her gaze. If he was being perfectly honest, he was slightly turned on. 

“Alright, I’ll bite. Why do we need you?” She spat out. Her words were icy, not the passionate, flirty pirate he had come to know, but someone different. Someone new. 

Perhaps new was the wrong word, perhaps he had just peeled away another of her many layers. And perhaps, as the days of their time together grew shorter, he had become more and more interested to find who, and what lay beneath. 

His mind was an absolute atrocity. Split between the pirate captain he couldn’t rid himself of, his second with secrets and lies curved around his every word, and the fae female before him, who shared history with each of them. 

Feyre. It appeared Nesta’s sister was just as lethal as she was, but where Nesta was cruel words and brute strength, Feyre was power of a different kind. Fae. 

The first of the archeron’s was ruthless and cold while the third was as immortal as she was dangerous, with a slight superiority complex. Some morbid interest had him curious as to what the second archeron sister would be like. 

At that moment Azriel sneezed, interrupting the stare down going on between Berdara and the assassin. He looked around and found the culprit. In a vase on the a shelf was a bouquet of roses. Damn his fucking allergies. 

Gwyn turned to him and everything about her softened, amused. 

You alright? she snorted a little 

Yes I am perfectly fine thank you for asking. 

Well this is good news, the infamous pirate captain can be brought down with a simple flower. 

A wretched flower. 

“Excuse me.” Feyre seemed very agitated. “I would appreciate it if you two could stop looking at each other for one moment.” 

Azriel swore he could see Gwyn blush slightly. 

“Yes of course, our apologies, please continue.” 

“Please don’t” Gwyn mumbled for only Az to hear. His lips twitched in agreement. 

“Now you two have half of what you need but you certainly cannot acquire the huge hall with a measly half.” 

She paused for a dramatic second. “You have the map and while I’m sure that the phoenix piss worked wonders in uncovering the sigil of The Dragon. But I’m sure you know it does not actually lead you to Amren herself.” 

Gwyn and Azriel shared a look. “Oh,” Feyre frowned. “I guess you didn't know that. But you must have known that her island moves with the storm and is constantly moving and the only way to track it down is to use the compass.” 

“No, you didn’t know that either?” Feyre’s frown turned upwards in a devilish smirk. “One more piece of information I suppose you need to know. Only a pure blooded fae can use the compass.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Like calls to like, power recognizes power.”

“Someone’s quite full of herself.” 

“I simply speak the truth.” 

“Sure you do.”    

Azriel sighed, this back and forth would accomplish nothing and he had treasure to find. “How about Captain Berdara and I discuss your proposition in private?”

“What is there to discuss?” 

Azriel smiled charmingly, “Not that you aren’t delightful company, but plenty.” Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he saw Gwyn frown. 

Feyre looked him over, and then turned her gaze to Gwyn, curling her lip in disgust as she walked out the door. Her footsteps became faint and Gwyn blurted, “Absolutely fucking not.” 

Gwyn took a breath, trying to regain her composure, “I do not work with people with conflicting interests.” 

“We need her.” He was sure of it, Azriel trusted his gut instincts and his instincts were telling him she was telling the truth, or at least some form of it. Although he far from trusted her. Azriel had learned a long time ago that the only people he could regularly rely on were himself and his crew.

She swallowed, her eyes turning steel, and her gaze becoming daggers, “No.” She turned away, about to walk out the door. Her shoulders back and her chin high. Even in her moments of vulnerability she would not sacrifice her pride.

“Gwyn.” The sound of her name from his lips was enough to stop her. 

Her voice was faint, the words barely there, “What did you just say.” 

His words softened, “Gwyn.” He said again as she breathed in sharply, “I will not pretend as if I understand you even remotely.” She snorted. “But I do not believe you are the kind of person to be swayed from your goals. You go after what you want with a ferocity that could rival any. And I know you want this.” Gwyn shifted on her feet as if preparing for a fight. It was a nervous tic, he realized. “Whoever you were when you knew that woman is not who you are now.”  

“And who am I now?” 

“Infuriating, stubborn, a royal pain in my ass.” She laughed weakly. “You’re a lot of things Berdara, but you are not stupid and you know as well as I that we require her services.” 

“So what is it you said to me? Ah yes suck it up and think of the money.” 

Gwyn flexed her fingers and squared her shoulders, clearly still itching for a fight. But then she did something unexpected, her body relaxed and she exhaled slowly. “You’re right.” 

Azriel was pretty sure he was having a stroke. “I’m sorry, say that again but slower this time.” 

In a flash she had him pinned to the table with her knee pressing on his chest and a dagger to his throat. “I’ve said those words three other times in my life, every one of them ended up with their heads on the ground and their balls in the sea. Don’t make me regret it and don’t expect it again.”

He believed every word and yet the dagger was held with almost no pressure so he smirked in agreement, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

She got off of him and wiped her clothes, “To be clear we are going to screw over feyre archeron right?” 

“You have to ask?” 

Gwyn’s smile was one of pure insanity as she murmured, “Maybe this will be fun after all.”  

He walked to the door and opened it, standing to the side as he held out his hand mockingly, “Your majesty,” She breezed through the door without giving him so much as a glance and when they found Feyre and their combined crew, god Azriel despised this women.

Feyre was holding Cassian, a man who was double her size, by the ankles as others watched with bored expressions on their faces. Cassian was grinning like an idiot, Nesta however, looked like she was 0.2 seconds away from throwing a knife into her sister's chest. Azriel didn’t blame her. 

“Feyre, drop it.” Gwyn scolded. 

“What am I? A dog?” She growled. 

“That’s an insult to dogs.” Nesta muttered. 

Gwyn laughed but instead of continuing this useless back and forth she spoke again, “Feyre if you acquire us this compass and prove that it works as you say it does, then we will agree to your terms.” 

“Thought you might say something like that.” 

“Well?” He asked.

“Well, a certain day court event will be expecting a few more members.”

Rhysand, surprisingly, groaned, “Oh my god no.” 

Emerie questioned, “Wait what?”

“Feyre darling is taking us to the sun ball.”

Tagging: @imsointobooks @meher-sumedha @himadrij @gwynrielsupremacy @ipsa-est-lux-plenae @flora-shadowshine @allthebooksunderthemoon @valkygwyn @bookish-isha @lattristantketchup @generalnesta @brieq @sv0430  @carsonjade12523 @aelinismyreligion @gwynrielisunmatched @shisingh @sarcasticsugarcookie @feyretale (let me know if you want to be added or removed.”

[longitudinalwaveme]

Arkham Files: Professor Zoom the Reverse-Flash

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Eobard Thawne, also known as Professor Zoom the Reverse-Flash. Patient suffers from Antisocial Personality Disorder and displays signs of psychopathy and sadism. Session One. Good afternoon, Mr. Thawne. 

Reverse-Flash: Ah! Doctor Hugo Strange! One of my favorite historical figures! 

Hugo Strange: If that is a threat, Mr. Thawne, rest assured that I will not hesitate to send you to solitary confinement. 

Reverse-Flash: You misunderstand me, good doctor. Where I come from, you’ve been dead for over four hundred years. We only know you through history books. 

Hugo Strange: (Flatly) That is impossible, Mr. Thawne. 

Reverse-Flash: Impossible? HA-HAAA! (Pause) Good doctor, didn’t you read my file? 

Hugo Strange: It hasn’t arrived yet, Mr. Thawne. Apparently there was some sort of mix-up with the paperwork and your information ended up in Coast City. 

Reverse-Flash: Oh, so you haven’t read my file. If I wasn’t so amused, I’d be offended. (Pause) I hail from the 25th century, Dr. Strange. More specifically, I first gained my powers in the year 2463. Have you ever been to the 25th century, Dr. Strange? 

Hugo Strange: No. I haven’t. Moreover, I don’t believe that you have been there, either. 

Reverse-Flash: (Continuing as though Hugo Strange didn’t say anything)  I don’t recommend it. It’s a time of peace, prosperity, plenty...and tedious, never-ending boredom. (Pause) I spent most of my time reading about the heroes of the ancient days, back when there were epic confrontations between good and evil and exciting things actually happened. Your life story was absolutely fascinating, Dr. Strange...but I must confess that my favorite was always Barry Allen. What power he had! Marvelous, stupendous power! What freedom his super-speed gave him! What amazing feats he could perform! I...I idolized him. I wanted to meet him. (Pause) No, that isn’t it. I wanted to be him! With his powers, why...there was nothing that I wouldn’t be able to do! 

Hugo Strange: (Frustrated) Do you really expect me to believe this drivel about you being from the future, Mr. Thawne? How much of an idiot do you think I am? 

Reverse-Flash: I don’t think you really want me to answer that question, Dr. Strange. HA-HAAA! 

Hugo Strange: (Flat) Very amusing, Mr. Thawne. 

Reverse-Flash: I’m glad you found it as humorous as I did, Dr. Strange. Most people get unreasonably offended when I tell them that they’re imbeciles when compared to my unmatched brilliance. 

Hugo Strange: (Angry) Now wait just a minute-

Reverse-Flash: (Cutting him off) However, as time went on, I grew more and more frustrated with my hero. He had all of the power in the world, and yet he wasted it on stopping petty crimes and helping meaningless peons! Eventually, I came to the conclusion that his powers were wasted on him, and I grew to hate him as much as I had once admired him. It simply wasn’t fair that a infuriating, dimwitted good-good like Barry Allen had been given the unimaginable gift of super-speed when I, who would have used the power to become the wealthiest, most influential man in the world, was denied it! Eventually, I became a criminal, and my genius led my peers to dub me the Professor. I was very good at my trade, but it still wasn’t enough for me. And then it happened! A time capsule from the 21st century was dug up, and inside was the uniform of the Flash himself! Naturally, I stole the uniform, and, using advanced 25th-century science that your primitive mind couldn’t begin to understand, I amplified the weak wavelengths from the Speed Force that the uniform still contained to give myself super speed! I immediately went on a fabulous crime spree and made myself wealthy beyond imagining. Unfortunately, before I could enjoy my new life of ease, the Flash showed up and humiliated me; defeating me due to my inexperience and throwing me in prison. I swore that I would avenge my defeat and prove once and for all that I, Eobard Thawne, was the one true Flash! In order to do this, I decided to travel back in time so that I could fight him in his own era, and that’s when I met her. 

Hugo Strange: Mr. Thawne, I-

Reverse-Flash: Iris West, the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world. The second I saw her, I knew she had to be mine. Unfortunately, there was a minor hiccup: namely, the fact that she was already married to that accursed Flash. When I found out, I was infuriated. Barry Allen didn’t deserve a woman like that! By rights, she belonged to me! (Pause) But that was nothing a little murder couldn’t solve. I would murder Barry Allen, take my rightful place as the Flash, and then take Iris to be my bride! 

Hugo Strange: (Finally managing to cut in; loudly) And you didn’t have any concerns about this plan, Mr. Thawne? 

Reverse-Flash: Of course I had concerns! Do you have any idea how hard it is to decide on the perfect wedding dress? I’ve spent years agonizing over it, and I still can’t seem to find one that’s suitable for the bride of the Reverse-Flash!  And that’s not even mentioning how stressful it is to figure out what type of cake a woman from 400 years in the past would enjoy! 

Hugo Strange: Let me get this straight, Mr. Thawne. You are planning to kill this woman’s husband in order to marry her, and your biggest concerns are the dress you’re going to put her in and what type of cake you want at the wedding? 

Reverse-Flash: What else would I be worried about? 

Hugo Strange: Her turning down your marriage proposal on the perfectly reasonable grounds that you were the one who widowed her? 

Reverse-Flash: Turn down me? HA-HAAA! You really do have a wonderful sense of humor, Dr. Strange. 

Hugo Strange: But on the off chance that she did, for some reason, refuse you? 

Reverse-Flash: (Furious) I’d kill her! If I can’t have her, no one can! (Pause) Or I’d threaten to murder all of her friends and family members unless she changed her mind. It would depend how generous I was feeling, I suppose. 

Hugo Strange: Which one is supposed to be the generous offer, exactly? 

Reverse-Flash: The second one, of course. If she came to her senses and agreed to the wedding, no one would have to die. (Pause) Except Barry Allen, naturally. 

Hugo Strange: But she would still be married to you. 

Reverse-Flash: And? 

Hugo Strange: I only met you six minutes ago, Mr. Thawne, and I can already tell that marriage to you would be a fate worse than death. 

Reverse-Flash: HA-HAAA! (Pause) Really, Dr. Strange, the historical records do you a disservice by describing you as dry and humorless. You are one of the funniest men I have ever met. 

Hugo Strange: Whatever you want to think, Mr. Thawne. (Pause; clears throat) I still don’t fully believe that you’re actually from the future, Mr. Thawne, but on the off chance that you are...I recently had a session with Mr. Zolomon, and while it was going on, he told me that he thought that I’m going to lose my mind soon. There’s no chance of that...is there? 

Reverse-Flash: Ah, Hunter. My legacy; created 400 years before I was born. It’s backwards. It’s...in reverse. I couldn’t ask for a better successor. Or predecessor, depending on how you look at it. (Pause) As for the question...I wouldn’t ask that if I were you. Take it from someone who knows: too much knowledge of your future can be a dangerous thing.

Hugo Strange: (Insistent) It’s a simple answer, Mr. Thawne. Yes or no? 

Reverse-Flash: I’m not going to answer that question, Dr. Strange. (Pause) But because I am a generous man, I’ll give you a hint: your future is going to be altered forever by a certain oversized flying rodent. 

Hugo Strange: (Quietly) No….No, that can’t be. The Batman is gone. I unmasked him myself. 

Reverse-Flash: Maybe you did. But the frustrating thing about those wretched superhero types is, they always come back. History’s made that quite clear. (Pause) HA-HAAA! 

Hugo Strange: (Furiously) GUARDS! Take Mr. Thawne to solitary confinement-NOW!

[carewyncromwell]

[Ficlet] Gonna Hit Rewind

Hi guys! So this is a little drabble inspired by a prompt by my friend @drinkyoursoupbitch​, where I show what my MC, Carewyn Cromwell, was up to during a certain scene in the Harry Potter series! 

Before we begin, just a couple of notes --

Post-Hogwarts, Carewyn becomes a lawyer for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement -- you can read more about her life as an adult here, if you’d like! When it comes to the Order of the Phoenix, Carey-Bear doesn’t formally join, instead providing covert assistance while staying autonomous from Dumbledore (who she doesn’t really like as a person) and looking “subservient” to Fudge’s wishes. Later on, this becomes very useful after the Death Eaters take over the Ministry in 1997: when the Battle of Hogwarts begins, Carewyn actually helps take back the Ministry by placing Umbridge under citizen’s arrest and temporarily taking charge until Kingsley Shacklebolt is officially appointed Minister. Carewyn’s outfit in the sketch enclosed below is inspired by this design. Musical accompaniment for this ficlet were “Leave Me Alone” by Michael Jackson (for Carewyn’s conversation with that...certain family member in the aforementioned sketch) and “Turn Back Time” by Derivakat (which inspired the title of this drabble!). And in regards to Carewyn’s negative attitude toward Time Turners...that is 110% my mother talking. When we read Harry Potter and the Cursed Child together, she absolutely hated that it involved time travel, as she found the whole idea ridiculously confusing and illogical. (The whole climax of Prisoner of Azkaban was even her least favorite aspect of the original Potter books. 😂)

Hope you enjoy -- and much love, Soup dear! xoxo

x~x~x~x

“Down here, down here,” panted Mr. Weasley, taking two steps at a time. “The lift doesn’t even come down this far…why they’re doing it there…”

They reached the bottom of the steps and ran along yet another corridor, which bore a great resemblance to that which led to Snape’s dungeon at Hogwarts, with rough stone walls and torches in brackets. The doors they passed here were heavy wooden ones with iron bolts and keyholes.

“Courtroom…Ten…I think…we’re nearly … yes.”

As Arthur Weasley rushed down the hall toward Courtroom Ten, he was unaware that in Courtroom Seven, the door of which was left slightly ajar, Carewyn Cromwell was speaking to her estranged uncle, the new head of the Cromwell Clan, at that very moment, nor that their conversation would ultimately determine Harry’s fate in that courtroom happening just three doors down. 

“You’re not supposed to be here, Blaise, and you know that full well.”

“I merely wished to speak with the Minister, little Winnie -- you are aware of how much our family still supports the Ministry and, by extension, your career, are you not?”

Carewyn fixed Blaise with a very cold blue eye. “And I suppose Lucius Malfoy speaking with the Minister down here mere moments ago had nothing to do with you making an unscheduled visit?”

Blaise cocked his eyebrows, his identically colored and shaped eyes narrowing under them.

“I can sense you trying to enter my mind, Winnie,” he said very softly, his eyes rippling like light blue flames despite the hardness of his face. “It won’t work. You couldn’t reach my thoughts when you were a girl, and you can’t reach them now.”

His voice became cooler, to the point of sounding condescending. 

“Whatever questions you have, you know your uncle would be more than willing to answer them, if you merely ask nicely.”

‘Answer’ -- ha! Carewyn thought to herself scornfully. Lie your face off, more like. But even so...if I’m going to get what I need, I need to keep him talking...

Carewyn went very quiet, considering Blaise carefully and her next words even more so. 

“...Are you or are you not associating with Lucius Malfoy?” she asked softly.

“You might recall that he and Father were business associates back in the day.”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m asking. Or have you forgotten where Grandfather’s activities sentenced him -- where they sentenced you, until you were able to bribe the Minister to reduce the rest of your family’s sentences?”

“Our family, little Winnie,” Blaise corrected her, a notable, fiery edge to his voice.

You all may be related to me by blood, but you are not my family, Carewyn thought fiercely, but she once again bit her tongue. If she provoked his temper the way she was tempted to, he’d be less likely to talk to her. 

When she didn’t respond, Blaise continued. 

“Lucius Malfoy has always had a working relationship with the Cromwell Clan. It’s only natural that we speak from time to time, as two patriarchs of prominent magical families.”

“Magical families with certain reputations, you mean,” Carewyn said very coolly. 

“Cornelius Fudge thinks very highly of Lucius Malfoy.”

“And of you, thanks to your impressive acting. But that doesn’t extend to everyone else, and you know it.”

“Of course,” said Blaise with a very cool smirk. “That’s something we have in common, isn’t it, Winnie? Putting on a charming face to get what we want, and not caring who hates us for it?”

Carewyn didn’t care enough to argue this point -- she’d already had this sort of discussion with Rakepick several times back in the day, and she knew that it meant Blaise was not only trying to divert the conversation, but also was absolutely full of it. 

You’re acting like this fact makes us just as bad as each other, Blaise, but it doesn’t. Even if we have some similarities in our methods, that does not make us the same. I’ve never terrorized people to try to advance myself. I’ve never manipulated or forced anyone to join a criminal organization. I’ve never masqueraded as my nephew in order to try to manipulate my niece into selling her soul and her freedom just to save him. However much I’m not perfect, I’m head-and-shoulders above you, when it comes to the moral high ground.

But honestly, there was no point in arguing with people like Blaise. It wasn’t like she’d ever convince him that everything he thought was wrong -- that Muggles weren’t inferior, Charles Cromwell was an abusive monster, and everything he and the Cromwell Clan did to try to get Carewyn, Jacob, and Lane back under their control was reprehensible rather than justified -- and she didn’t feel enough passion to try. Especially not when there were more important things happening at that very moment...

Harry would be in the courtroom by now. She had to hurry.

Although Carewyn tried to keep her face stoic, her brain was working very fast. Her eyes drifted away, off toward the far wall of the courtroom where the Wizengamot benches were lined up.

“...Look,” she said slowly, her voice becoming a little softer, “my Legilimency has become very sensitive, in this line of work. It allows me to read people’s intentions and feelings very quickly, even when I’m not actively trying to. And Lucius Malfoy...he doesn’t see you as an equal, but as a pawn.”

Blaise’s eyebrows came down over his eyes, but he didn’t respond.

“You and the rest of the Cromwell Clan only got out of Azkaban because you were able to appeal to Fudge,” said Carewyn, “but if you’re associating with the wrong people, that could very quickly sour. Your position will become uncertain again, and you won’t be able to protect them -- especially if Fudge gets the kind of control over the Wizengamot that he wants...where charges and judgments are laid down based on favoritism more than legality. We’re already seeing it with how Fudge is now treating Dumbledore and Potter, after how much he always sucked up to them. End up outside of Fudge’s good graces, as they did, and the same might befall you. I realize that you and Malfoy...”

Are Muggle-hating bigots.

“...have similar politics,” she said at last very stiffly, “...but Lucius Malfoy’s politics are far more extreme than yours, and although the courts decided there wasn’t enough evidence to prove his methods were also...we both know that’s also true. If he falls, he will drag you down with him -- and if you take the fall for his actions, he won’t lift a finger to help you.”

Carewyn forced herself to look Blaise in the eye. 

“Grandfather’s dealings with R got you all in enough trouble. You bought yourself and the rest of...our family a second chance -- something many others did not get. Are you sure you want to endanger that?”

Blaise considered Carewyn very carefully as she spoke, his blue eyes boring into hers critically. By the end, they’d actually widened.

“...Are you actually expressing concern for us, Winnie?” he asked very lowly. 

Carewyn scoffed. “Don’t misunderstand me, Blaise -- I don’t really think you all deserved a second chance in the first place, after everything you’ve pulled.”

Her blue eyes became a bit more solemn. 

“But truthfully...I’m not that upset that you were released from Azkaban. Dementors...they’re wretched creatures. I’ve seen what they can do to people.”

Her expression darkened.  

“...I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, however terrible they are.”

Something confused and almost disgusted rippled over Blaise’s face, making his nose wrinkle.

“Ugh -- and here I’d thought you’d actually weeded out that weakness in your heart...”

Carewyn’s red lips came together tightly, but she didn’t reply. The two stared each other down for a moment, before Blaise finally exhaled.

“Very well, Winnie -- you want to know why I’m down here?”

He reached into his scarlet robes and pulled out a gold chain, on the end of which dangled a tiny gold hourglass. 

A Time Turner. 

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed upon it. 

“Lucius Malfoy has expressed quite a bit of interest in my old department, when we’ve spoken,” murmured Blaise. “One sub-section in particular -- one where records of magical predictions are kept.”

Carewyn’s eyebrows furrowed. “Prophecies?”

“They are truly a fascinating thing,” said Blaise, his voice sounding rather airy. “So much value is placed on them -- too much, one could argue...just as one puts too much value on all attempts at��‘future sight.’ Alas, the section of my old department that Malfoy was interested in was not my area of expertise -- my area was in the study of Time, specifically backwards-facing. We did occasionally dip into the study of forward-facing time magic, but more in the sphere of inevitabilities -- things that evolve naturally in nature, every season -- not human affairs. Unfortunately when I was there, there was an employee monitoring the perimeter of the section I meant to enter -- I couldn’t have explored further even if I’d wanted to.”

“So Malfoy wanted you to stop by your old desk and pick up something that might help him or someone else enter the Department of Mysteries?” Carewyn asked. “Why?”

Blaise shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

“And yet you have a suspicion as to why?”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed upon Carewyn’s face, not angrily, but almost darkly. 

“I may no longer work for the Department of Mysteries, Winnie, but I cannot discuss the more classified branches of their work too deeply. That is part of the Vow I made when I first joined the Department -- it forces me to speak in hypotheticals and vague descriptions more than specific details. But I fear no random stooge using this tool to try to enter my old department, whether Malfoy or otherwise. In fact,” he added with a smirk, “I would frankly love to see them try.”

He ignored Carewyn’s critical, confused expression and pressed on more seriously. 

“You’re not a stupid girl, Winnie. I know you know what’s really going on, under the surface. Me offering assistance to Lucius Malfoy early on is merely how I intend to earn enough favor to keep my family safe, should the worst happen.”

“And what is that?” asked Carewyn.

Blaise cocked his eyebrows again. “Ask your mother. She remembers the First Wizarding War just as well as I do -- how it all started before.”

He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

“Blaise.”

Carewyn speaking his name and sharply grabbing his arm holding the Time Turner made him stop. 

“If you wish to provide Lucius Malfoy useful information,” she said lowly, “you can tell him that that employee was not there by accident.”

Blaise looked back over his shoulder, startled. Carewyn closed her eyes tight, trying to block out the intense nausea rippling over her. 

“He’s there to make sure Malfoy’s superior can’t reach what he wants,” she murmured. “There are many more, just like him, all with the same goal. It doesn’t matter when you go there -- there will always be someone there who will keep him away from what he wants.”

Blaise stared at Carewyn, his eyes narrowing in bewilderment. 

“...Why are you telling me this?” he whispered. 

Carewyn swallowed back the lump in her throat. 

“I haven’t worked with time magic like you have...but people aren’t supposed to be in two places at once. That I do know. A lot of problems have been caused by people trying to mess with time. Mum told me that once in the 19th century, a whole bunch of people’s lives were erased out of existence, all because someone messed around with a Time Turner...”

“Ah, yes, Eloise Mintumble,” said Blaise, sounding as darkly amused as a bully might upon seeing one of their usual targets wearing a particularly obnoxious dress. “Tried to go back more than a few hours and ended up changing things so dramatically that she both erased 25 people out of existence and aged her body five centuries and died upon return trip. A rather fascinating case study.”

“You’re disgusting,” Carewyn said coldly. But she got back to the task at hand, her voice hardening. “Even if Malfoy couldn’t get what his master wants from the Department of Mysteries with that Time Turner, he could still do irreparable damage with it. If all Malfoy needs is assistance, to believe that you’re helping him and for you to earn enough esteem that the Cromwell Clan stays safe...then give him the intelligence I’ve given you. Don’t give him that Time Turner.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, his lips spreading into a rather condescending smirk. “Why? Because it’s wrong, little Winnie? Because it’s illegal and immoral, and ‘not the right thing to do?’”

“I’m not foolish enough to appeal to you with morality, Blaise -- I know you don’t have any,” spat Carewyn. “I’m asking you not to do it for your own self-preservation. For the Clan’s. ...For your family’s.”

Blaise’s smirk actually slid off his face. Carewyn held his gaze as best as she could, even with how ill she felt. 

“I may not be one of those who takes turns standing watch in your old department,” Carewyn said very softly, “but Jacob is.”

Blaise’s face went rather white, and Carewyn knew she’d struck a cord. For as cruel, selfish, and immoral of a person as Blaise was, he still saw his family -- all of it -- like his personal belongings. And he “took care” of his belongings. He wanted complete control over them and, like Charles before him, he never respected them as people, nurtured them, or gave them any freedom...but Blaise didn’t want anyone touching “his things.”

The older man’s jaw clenched as a rather dark glint flashed through his eyes.

“...I see.”

His teeth still bared, he extended the hand holding the Time Turner’s gold chain and, very slowly, lowered it into Carewyn’s hand. 

Carewyn’s eyes softened in relief.

“Thank you.”

Blaise exhaled heatedly through his nose.

“Jacob always was a fool,” he growled, his voice full of resentment. “Risking his life for people like that Muggle filth who abandoned you and your mother -- ”

“Better than selling his soul and freedom to serve the person who locked my mother and all of you up like prisoners,” Carewyn shot back rather coolly.

Blaise’s eyes flashed angrily. “You will not speak ill of your grandfather, Winnie! Everything he ever did in his life was for us, including you, your brother, and your mother, and I will not have you forgetting that!”

“Crow that lie as much as you want -- it won’t ever make it true.”

Blaise seethed as Carewyn pocketed the Time Turner in her robes. Slowly, his temper cooled enough that his lips spread back out into a rather vindictive smirk.

“For the record, Winnie...Time moves in a loop. If Lucius Malfoy were to use the Time Turner after I give it to him a half-hour from now, the effects would’ve already been felt by us by now. We would have heard about someone having broken into the Department of Mysteries before our conversation even started. The fact that we are not hearing that means that he never receives the Time Turner from me. So, in fact, it was already clear that I would give you the Time Turner before I actually did -- ”

“Oh, shut your trap,” Carewyn said tiredly. Just listening to Blaise wax on was giving her a headache. “I don’t even want to try unpacking all that time travel rubbish. All I care about is that Malfoy and his ilk can’t try to mess with time, now or ever.”

She turned on her heel and strode for the slightly ajar door. Pushing it further open, she then looked back over her shoulder at Blaise. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to take care of. Stay out of trouble, or I will not hesitate to prosecute you.”

Blaise’s eyes were very cold even around his smirk. “If there’s anyone who should be warned to stay out of trouble, it’s you, Winnie. I’m not the only one who’s aligned themselves with people who could drag them down, if they fall.”

“Perhaps,” said Carewyn mildly. “But my friends will catch me if I fall, just as they have before. Just like I always catch them. That makes all the difference.”

She walked away, her heels clapping against the black tiled floor as she strode to the end of the hall, listening at the door of Courtroom Ten. She could hear several voices talking inside -- after a moment, she recognized two as Amelia Bones and Cornelius Fudge. 

“...certainly described the effects of a dementor attack very accurately. And I can’t imagine why she would say they were there if they weren’t -- ”

“But dementors wandering into a Muggle suburb and just happening to come across a wizard! The odds on that must be very, very long, even Bagman wouldn’t have bet -- ”

“Oh, I don’t think any of us believe the dementors were there by coincidence,” said a very misty, serene voice from inside the Courtroom.

Carewyn’s shoulders relaxed, even as her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling.

Dumbledore. He’d made it in time. 

Exhaling heavily, Carewyn quickly turned back around and walked briskly back down the hallway, back upstairs toward her office. On the way, she walked by Blaise, who was now deep in quiet conversation with Lucius Malfoy, and Carewyn and Malfoy coldly stared each other down as she passed.

x~x~x~x

Carewyn hated keeping the Time Turner in her desk. She wanted to be rid of the thing immediately, but she knew she had to be patient. 

Around 11:00, just before lunchtime, Carewyn asked to borrow a Dungbomb from Tonks and covertly dropped off it just outside the Auror Department on her way back to her tiny office. The resulting smell resulted in the entire floor clearing out, until someone could deal with the smell. Carewyn herself, however, stayed in her office and powered through, spraying some Muggle air freshener to try to mask the smell. 

I forgot how much I hate Dungbombs, Carewyn thought dully. Oh well...desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess.

Keeping the files on a case she was working on open on either side of her, Carewyn read through them every-so-often as she pecked away at a letter she had to write. This letter had to be concise and to the point, if its recipient was going to know it was safe and exactly what she had to do, to help keep Harry Potter from getting unjustly expelled. 

Right on time, three hours after Harry’s hearing, Carewyn’s Legilimency picked up the feeling that someone was approaching her office. A moment later, there was a knock on her door. 

The ginger-haired lawyer exhaled heavily, her eyebrows knitting together. 

“Come in,” she said. 

Although she kept her voice level, she already felt a headache coming on. She knew who was on the other side of that door -- and sure enough, when it opened, in came tall, silver-bearded Albus Dumbledore, dressed in long midnight-blue robes. 

Carewyn’s eyes hardened as the Hogwarts Headmaster closed the door behind him.

“Hello, Carewyn,” Dumbledore said pleasantly. 

“You got my message from Tonks, then?” Carewyn asked. 

“To come straight to your office as soon as I arrived, but to not let anyone see me entering? Yes. Though I daresay the evacuation of this floor thanks to the smell of Dungbombs helped with that considerably,” said Dumbledore, and his light blue eyes twinkled. “I presume it has something to do with why some members of the Wizengamot were asking what I was doing back here so soon, and why Cornelius looked even more sour at my presence than usual.”

Carewyn’s face was twisted in a deep frown as she finally took the Time Turner out of the drawer and put it on top of her desk. 

“The time and place of Harry’s hearing was changed three hours ago, with no notice,” she said stridently. “The hearing originally scheduled for 11 o’clock instead was moved to 8 o’clock at 7:58 this morning. The letter was sent by owl to Privet Drive at 7:59, right before a second letter informing Harry that because he didn’t show up for his hearing, he was presumed guilty and therefore expelled from Hogwarts. Both letters arrived at 8:52. The Order wasn’t informed of the change until a little after 9, but was also informed by Arthur Weasley that you’d had the matter well in hand and had arrived miraculously early.”

“And so they felt no need to send me any post regarding the matter,” presumed Dumbledore with a dewy smile. “But in order for all of that to have happened, I will have to go back and ensure it does happen -- isn’t that so?”

Carewyn nodded curtly as she handed the Time Turner and a sealed envelope to Dumbledore. 

“Three turns back should be enough -- you don’t want to risk changing too much, by arriving too early, and I have a closed-door meeting with Chester Davies prior to that. Give this letter to me as soon as you arrive in the past. As soon as she...escorts you out, head straight for Courtroom Ten. You should arrive just after Harry does -- it shouldn’t raise as much suspicion if you make it to the courtroom after Harry, since he was already in Arthur’s office when he first received word of the change...”

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with some mischief. “Clever as always, Carewyn, my dear. You do the Order very proud.”

Carewyn’s eyes flashed. “I’m not doing this for you or your ‘Order,’ Dumbledore, as you know full well. Jacob was completely at R’s mercy after he was expelled from Hogwarts, and I don’t want to even think about where Potter might end up, if the same thing happened to him. And if Jacob’s guarding something in the Department of Mysteries, I don’t want to make it any easier for You-Know-Who and his goons to get the drop on him.”

Dumbledore’s calm didn’t shift, though his eyes did turn a bit more solemn. “And as always, Carewyn, your cleverness is only rivaled by your caring for others.” 

Rising to his feet, the Headmaster tucked the envelope inside his robes and then picked up the Time Turner. 

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said cheerily, “or, should I say, ‘I will have seen you?’”

And with three turns, he’d disappeared.

Carewyn gave an exhausted, groan-like sigh.

“I hate Time Turners,” she muttered to herself.

x~x~x~x

When Dumbledore appeared in Carewyn’s office out of the blue at 8 o’clock that morning, the ginger-haired lawyer reacted with a lot of irritation and suspicion. Those feelings weren’t helped when Dumbledore handed her the letter addressed to her, and yet written in a hand identical to hers.

Carewyn,

First of all, yes, I know you recognize this handwriting. This isn’t a trick -- it’s just the work of a Time Turner: specifically the one Dumbledore’s holding. On that note, ask him to hand it over and then smash it. We have more than enough problems in the here and now: no sense in adding more time travel rubbish to the pile. 

Now that that’s been taken care of, let’s get to business --

The time and place of Harry’s hearing was moved just a minute ago. It now starts at 8 o’clock in the morning in Courtroom Ten. Don’t worry, Arthur’s already been notified and is ferrying Harry as we speak, but Dumbledore needs to get down there right now. Kick him out of your office, nice and loudly -- there are people outside who could overhear, and you don’t want anyone to think you and Dumbledore are on good terms. Which, fortunately, you’re not. 

Now that Dumbledore’s out of your hair, let’s go over what you need to do -- 

Blaise has sneaked into the Ministry, specifically the bottommost floor near the Department of Mysteries, on Lucius Malfoy’s direction. No, Blaise isn’t a Death Eater -- just short-sighted and self-serving as ever. The point is that he has a Time Turner on his person, which he cannot be allowed to walk away with, under any circumstances. You’ll be able to catch him leaving the Department of Mysteries if you go downstairs in the next fifteen minutes. He’ll be meeting Lucius Malfoy around 8:30, in the middle of Harry’s hearing, so don’t let him walk away without getting that Time Turner away from him. Don’t come at the issue straight-on, though -- you can appeal to Blaise to give it to you willingly. Just keep him talking. Once you have the Time Turner, you can hold onto it until Dumbledore arrives in your office at the time that was originally scheduled for Harry’s hearing, so he can use it to go back far enough to arrive at Harry’s hearing on time. 

I know, this Time Travel stuff is absolutely bloody ridiculous. But at least this way Malfoy won’t be able to use the Time Turner Blaise stole to cause even more havoc. 

Burn this letter as soon as you’re done reading it. We don’t want anyone coming across it. 

Good luck. 

As for Dumbledore himself, he arrived at Harry’s hearing right on time, all according to plan. 

“Ah,” said Fudge, who looked thoroughly disconcerted. “Dumbledore. Yes. You --er -- got our -- er -- message that the time and -- er -- place of the hearing had been changed, then?”

“I must have missed it,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. “However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the Ministry three hours early, so no harm done.”

[sondepoch]

Chapter 8

Written in the Stars (Lucifer x Angel!Reader)

Four thousand years is a long time. In the absence of your most cherished friend, it feels even longer. But when a certain student exchange program in the Devildom reunites you and Lucifer, things aren't the same. Because four thousand years of separation is a long time. And the love you once felt for Lucifer has changed into something different—something forbidden. But that might not even be your biggest problem, because with each passing day, your holy wings are turning blacker and blacker.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | ✔

MASTERLIST

Simeon cannot see the shackles that bind him.

He's not sure if that makes it better or worse. On the bright side, it allows him to forget that he is being held prisoner. On the downside, it forces the painstaking realization back down on his heaving shoulders every time he tries to lean forward.

He flinches against the wall, holding himself back as a cold sweat breaks out on his forehead. Give in, a part of him says. Give in, answer all the High Seraphs' questions about MC, and be free.

But the angel knows that, even in this torture, he'll never be able to bring himself to spill the secret that you've tried to hide so desperately. After all, if Simeon tells them the truth, he may go free; but then you'll be brought down to this very room to be put through the same torture he's enduring.

And he'll never do that to you.

Simeon groans, eyes opening to see the six glasses of holy water in front of him. They're crystal clear, shining oh-so-softly in the darkness of this room, but after well over twenty-four hours without drink, he seeks them like a moth to a flame. He doesn't just want water, he genuinely needs it, and he can't help but wonder what the seraphs will do to him when this torture of dehydration becomes life-threatening.

At the back of his mind, though, he suspects that it won't come to that.

Slumping against the wall, he recalls the dream Father had sent him. Or rather the vision that had been sent to all of you. It was far from the first time Simeon had been allowed to sit in on one of the conversations between the High Seraphs and Father, and he'd almost wondered whether the Celestial overlord was going to demand that he be freed from this cruel imprisonment. When the subject of discussion turned toward your fate, though, a smile bloomed on Simeon's face.

Gods be good, he had thought, realizing that he had the truth of it. Father is merciful.

Even now, as Simeon sits, he can hear the sound of you arguing with the High Seraphs, demanding your freedom. He hears your terms echo down the halls, reaching his ears long after you've said them: orders to allow you the right to return to the Devildom, to freely see Lucifer for not just the remainder of the year but for the rest of your life, to not be held captive in these towers ever again.

A soft smile finds its way onto the angel's face when he hears you demand that he be released, wherever they're keeping him.

You're too kind, little lamb.

Not that Simeon is complaining, though. He had been passed out when Father sent him that earlier vision, and the same fate threatens to arrive in the near future if he doesn't get some water and soon.

Simeon reaches another weak hand forward, testing to see how far he can go before the invisible shackles snap him back against the wall.

The sudden darkness causes him to stop.

His breath hitches in his throat, quietly trembling at the unexpected absence of light. It returns not a second later, and his muscles relax, smiling when he realizes that it's you causing these fluctuations.

Simeon's not sure if he should be proud or worried.

A broken laugh spills from his dry lips—interrupted by hoarse coughing—and he tries his hardest to recover, but he must pass out from the effort because when he next comes to, the sounds of your continued conversation echo down and fall upon his ears once more.

It's weak, but he can just barely make out what you're saying.

"You promise?" The sound is distorted, but it has the unmistakable inflection of your voice, filled with a hesitant hope. "Do you mean it?"

Simeon raises his eyebrows, wondering what you're referring to.

"Yes, child." Ah, that's a High Seraph speaking. "You've left us with no choice. You'll only continue throwing this tantrum for the rest of eternity if you don't get your way, so be on with it and do not return, you aggravating child."

Simeon's eyes raise. The High Seraphs are giving in? A part of him wants to laugh, that you've managed to disturb them so greatly with your "tantrum" that you've actually managed to achieve your demands, but another part of him is worried. Only Father has the explicit right to banish people from the Celestial Realm, but the way they told you to "not return" is awfully concerning.

"You—you mean it?" Your voice again, though the hopeful tint from earlier is more prominent. "You swear? Do you swear it, by the eyes of Father and all that is holy?"

"Yes, you obnoxious child of light. We swear, before the eyes of Father, the light within our hearts, the holiness of the Celestial Realm, that you may join your wretched union with Lucifer. Curses be upon you both, if Father ever understands how foolish this is."

Simeon's eyes widen. The words are riddled with jabs and mocks, entirely deriding as the High Seraphs speak to you, but they've said everything that needs to be said. The seraph who just spoke gave you explicit permission not just to see Lucifer but to be with him, having sworn a blessing (riddled with insults) before the eyes of Father, the light in their hearts, and the holiness of the realm.

They've given you the permission to do the very thing you desire.

Be with Lucifer.

A warmth blossoms in Simeon's heart, overwhelmed with relief and happiness for your sake. A liquid joy spills from his eyes, and he doesn't even wipe it away as he understands that the little girl he's spent the past four thousand years protecting is in love, and that you can finally act upon those feelings without it being a sin against your nature.

The High Seraphs have sworn it, after all.

He rests his head against the coolness of the stone wall, not even hearing the sound of wings approaching. He's about to give in to the temptation of slumber when the door on the far end of the room is kicked in, revealing your holy form as it crashes (rather ungraciously) inside the room.

"Simeon!" You call, first in joy. But when you see the disheveled state the angel is, your second cry of his name comes in concern.

"Simeon?! What have they done to you?!" You run forward to cup his face, brushing the tears from his cheeks. "You're crying!" You exclaim, lip trembling and eyes threatening to leak their own tears.

"Not for pain, little lamb," Simeon murmurs, running a hand through your hair. "I...I heard what the High Seraphs said. For you. And Lucifer." He summons all the strength he has left to flash you a smile. "It is the most wonderful news in the world."

"I'm so sorry for not telling you about Lucifer," You whisper, eyes searching deeply for anger or resentment on Simeon's features. "I never should have kept secrets from you."

"Shh, little lamb." Simeon shakes his head. "It's alright, you did what you thought was necessary."

"I know, but you're my guardian, and all this could have been avoided if I just told you the truth! If I had, you wouldn't be down here, being punished for my wrongs!"

The angel shakes his head, sighing softly.

"This is the best outcome either of us could have hoped for. If you had told me the truth, this might have all been avoided, but then the High Seraphs never would have allowed you to partake in any union with Lucifer." His eyes soften. "And you mean to…"

"I mean to marry him," Comes your response, slightly abashed at the words. Everything after is said with burning cheeks, rushed and choppy. "One day. Far in the future. When we're both ready. If you allow it. If. And only if we have your blessing. And if—"

"Little lamb," Simeon shushes you, a finger on your lips. "I told Lucifer, but never you. The two of you already have my blessing."

He smiles, resting his head against your forehead calmly while you sputter in shock, trying to understand when all this happened. Alas, as much as Simeon wishes to answer your questions, the burn in his throat is growing too strong for him to resist any longer.

"Little lamb?" He asks, finger pointing to the six glasses that have been kept just beyond his reach. "Would you be so kind as to fetch me some water?"

You comply instantly, making three trips to bring all the glasses back. Simeon hardly waits once they're within an arm's reach, and he downs the first glass in mere seconds. He raises the remaining glasses to his lips so suddenly that much of the water spills onto his chin and chest, but by the sixth glass, his thirst is quenched and he can bring himself to put it down before turning back to face you.

"Go, little lamb." He gestures toward the door. "The High Seraphs will be down here at any moment to free me, now that you've confessed to everything. And Lucifer will be waiting."

"Lucifer? You want me to return to the Devildom without you?"

"If I know him, he'll be long gone from the Devildom," Simeon chuckles. "Follow his light. Sense his aura. You'll find him, little lamb. No doubt, he's nearby."

You motion to get up, still hesitant to leave.

"Go," Simeon repeats. But this time, he's not saying the words as your doting friend. They're an order, his first and his last command to you as your guardian, to go to the arms of the man you love.

You heed him.

***

There's absolutely nothing Lucifer can do.

He floats helplessly, teetering on the border that marks the heavens, staying hidden in the clouds as he remains just outside the Celestial Realm. He's close enough to the tower of High Seraphs that he could see the flashes of light and occasional bouts of darkness as you fought with them earlier, so close that he could even hear your enraged shouts every now and then—but the tower has been still for nearly the past half hour.

He bites his lip, hating how there's absolutely nothing he can do for you.

What if they hurt you? He wonders, flapping his wings hesitantly as he tries to get closer to the tower, to no avail. What if they've locked you up again?

The endless questions plaguing his mind never seem to end, and he's certain that if he's left waiting any longer, he'd actually go crazy. But then, right when he needs it the most, his eyes detect movement.

You.

There's no denying it, the signature splash of (h/c) tresses battling the wind as you approach, (s/c) against the pale fabric of your clothes, wings turned white as you grow closer and closer to Lucifer, a beaming smile on your face.

He isn't a man to cry for joy, but Lucifer truly feels like he might in this moment, and he holds nothing back when you fly straight into his arms, the momentum of traveling at top speed hitting him hard as he flies backward with you in his arms. But that doesn't even matter anymore, because you're finally back by his side.

"Lucifer," You murmur, arms wrapped around him tightly as you bury your head in his shoulder. "I thought they'd never let me go."

"They let you go?" Lucifer asks, disbelief prominent in his voice. "The High Seraphs? Willingly?"

You giggle and hold him tighter, and he watches as you pull back just the slightest. "They couldn't say no after Father yelled at them for making me unhappy." You peck his lips. "They've given me permission to be with you, Lucifer. Forever."

The breath hitches in Lucifer's throat. He expected, if you returned, that you would be permitted to spend the remainder of the year with him at most.

But…

He holds you numbly, too overwhelmed by this news to do anything when you laugh sweetly and wrap him in another tight embrace, closing your eyes and resting your head atop his shoulder as you pull him as close as possible to let him know that this is real.

The demon returns your embrace, staring into the clouds in a strange mix of shock and wonder. He's no longer the Morningstar, no longer the pride of the Celestial Realm. What has he done to deserve such happiness, such a wonderful fate?

Tears form in his eyes, though he never allows them to fall, and it's in that moment when his vision is compromised that he makes out the familiar shape of Father in the clouds overhead. His eyes widen. The lord's gaze isn't forgiving as he stares at the son he banished, nor is it kind. But Father's eyes are soft as he watches the two lovers embrace, as if—though he may not love Lucifer the same way anymore—he does love MC, and he trusts Lucifer to make her happy.

He blinks, and then the vision is gone, the clarity of the clouds and his Father's face dissipating as a Celestial breeze pulls it all apart.

But Lucifer knows what he saw.

It's for you, he understands. The future he's been given, the right to spend eternity with the love of his life—it's entirely unsuitable for a demon, one who's been banished from the heavens and sent to the land of eternal damnation. But a life of love is wholly fitting for an angel. It is a life you deserve, and the life that Father has given you. This union is entirely for you, not for Lucifer in the least—but the fact that Father has trusted Lucifer, of all people, with your heart speaks volumes about your shared future together.

Trust, he thinks. After everything he has been through with Father, the god still trusts you with Lucifer. Is that a testament to the god's previous love for the demon, or a statement about his love for you?

Lucifer does not know. But the one thing he is certain about is that this eternity he has been given to spend with you will be perfect. He will ensure that much himself.

Lucifer quietly pulls your head off his shoulder, and a single look into each other's eyes is all it takes for your lips to connect, pressing firmly against each other in a passionate molding of love, lust, and warmth.

"I love you," He whispers, suddenly realizing that he's never said the words.

"I love you too, Lucifer," You murmur, recapturing his lips in another ardent kiss.

He can hardly say how much time passes like that, the two of you wrapped in each other's arms and kissing each other over and over again, as if neither of you can quite believe that you will no longer need to separate at the end of this year. It's still so impossible to wrap his head around: the notion that, just as he had you for eternity in the Celestial Realm, he now has you by his side for eternity once more.

Never has he felt so blessed.

"MC," He murmurs quietly, once he notices that the sun has begun to set. His eyes widen when he pulls apart, noticing your altered appearance. "Your wings. I've…" Ruined them, he wants to say, but he holds back because he knows how much you hate it when he insults the facets of demon appearance.

"I didn't even realize," You murmur softly, glancing your black wings. You raise a hand to Lucifer's cheek, and a strange sensation powers through his body. He watches as the feathers on your back turn from black, to gray, to white, and then realizes that this is the very power Father talked about in his vision. Your power to radiate light.

Lucifer's eyes widen as you return his own dark light back to him, the aura he usually emanates fluttering through his veins as he's forced, by your hand, to absorb his light for the first time.

By the time you're done, your wings are paler than snow, your holy halo shining brightly to match.

"I can control it," You say, giggling. "I wonder, can I make your wings change color the same way?"

Not even waiting for his answer, you turn to Lucifer with a cheeky smile and continue radiating light. This time, though, it's not Lucifer's aura pulsating through his veins but yours, holy and precious as it beats in tandem with his heart.

The demon isn't quite sure how he feels about the sensation, but he finally decides that he'll put up with it if it makes you happy. As predicted, he sees his wings begin to turn gray, but the sight of four wings no longer black prompts him to stop you.

"MC," He murmurs, a hand flitting onto your shoulder. You cease your ministrations instantly, and the moment you're not actively balancing his inner darkness, it comes rushing black, his wings bursting ebony once more. At the sight, he sees your own wings begin to darken, as if when you're not radiating light, you instinctively begin absorbing it. He chuckles. "It's not meant to be. Just like you," He strokes your cheek tenderly. "Are meant to have white wings."

You pout, resting your forehead against his. You make no move to halt the spread of blackness over your feathers, and Lucifer suspects that you're consciously willing to happen faster. "But I like it when we match, Luci."

"You'll make Luke scream again if he sees you with black wings."

"Luke can scream all he wants. He'll have to get used to it when I return to the Devildom."

"You're coming back?" Lucifer pulls back, eyes slightly wide. "You'll be returning for the remainder of the exchange program?"

"Of course, Luci," You chuckle, pecking his cheek. You beat your wings once, spinning the two of you as you continue to float gently in the air. "The High Seraphs basically told me to get lost and do what I want, as long as I stop disturbing them and don't run to Father to complain. So…" You trail a finger down to Lucifer's chest. "I can stay for the year. Even longer, if you'll have me."

"Of course I'll have you," Lucifer whispers, a smile spread out on his features once again. Truly, this day cannot get any better. He presses a kiss to your forehead, tugging you with him as he spreads his wings out atop a cloud that hangs just outside the Celestial Realm. Fingers intertwined, you join him, curling up on his sides as you rest your head on his chest.

"I want to stay here forever with you," He hears you whisper. "Right here. Right in between the Celestial Realm and the Devildom. Under the stars, with no one other than us."

Lucifer smiles.

"I'll make it happen."

You raise your eyes at Lucifer's words, staring sweetly into his eyes.

"I'll build us a house, right here. A house in the clouds, where no one from the Celestial Realm or the Devildom will disturb us."

You laugh, and Lucifer feels almost insulted that you're finding amusement in his declaration. He's being honest.

"What?" He asks, ears a light pink. "You said you wanted to be here forever."

"How would that even work?" You retort with a giggle, pinching a lock of hair and tracing patterns with it along Lucifer's chest. He'd ask you to stop, but the adorable smile on your face prompts him to let you do as you please. Even if it tickles. "We'd have to fly an hour just to get to our home."

"Or we could enchant a door so that it takes us here, straight from the Devildom. I'm sure Simeon wouldn't mind erecting one in the Celestial Realm, as well."

"Hm," He hears you mutter, thinking. The demon can practically sense your complaint, that you're no good with object enchantments and something like that is far too complicated, but much to his surprise, all you say is: "Alright."

"Alright?"

"Let's build a house here. On this very cloud. And someday, when you're not as busy with Diavolo's work and Simeon is no longer my guardian, we can live here for the rest of our lives."

Lucifer smiles. It's a plan that can hardly be achieved within the next twenty thousand years, but the two of you are in no rush.

He silently watches as you mark the cloud with your light, radiating it smoothly until the cloud glows gently, setting it apart from others. "There," You say with a triumphant grin. "Now, we'll always be able to find this cloud."

You giggle softly, and Lucifer pulls you even closer, wondering how he managed to obtain such a wonderful lover.

It would be a stereotypical date, if not for the unique nature of the series of events that brought the two of you here. You're cuddling together, Lucifer's head resting just barely atop yours and your eyes are always locked on each other or on the mesmerizing scatter of the stars above you. The two of you have already spent so many nights at the House of Lamentation in the observatory doing the exact same thing, but nothing can compare to this moment.

"Do you think I can make a star?" Lucifer suddenly hears you ask. He blinks down at you, his hand brushing against the feathers of your wings in wonder of where this thought came from. "I mean, do you think I can radiate enough light to make a real star?"

"Of course," Lucifer answers. "But it might be a lot of physical exertion, so don't push yourself too far."

He glances down at you encouragingly, smiling as he senses you begin to channel your energy outward, and he can see a thin line of light stretch out of your figure. In your focus, you hardly notice when your wings fade to black, changing to match with Lucifer's own, and he doesn't comment on it either, opting to watch as a faint but unmistakable mark forms in the sky: a star. Tiny, and almost invisible if he's not explicitly searching for it, but it's a star.

"Lucifer," You gasp, fingers tightening around his hand. "I did it!"

"It's beautiful," He whispers into your ear, kissing the top of your head as you try to create another one. He doesn't complain about your changing the sky, knowing that the stars you send forth are so small and delicate that the humans probably won't even notice it.

But when you finally stop creating stars, he can't help but chuckle at your antics.

"Really, MC?" He raises an eyebrow, acting unimpressed. But in his heart, he finds it incredibly endearing. "A smiley face?"

"It's cute!" You exclaim, laughing into the demon's chest. Then, an idea seems to pop into your mind. "Close your eyes, Luci!" You exclaim, casting a glance up at him to confirm that he's following your instructions. "Don't open them until I say so!"

He hums quietly in agreement, taking this as an opportunity to continue tracing your body with the one hand that isn't intertwined with yours. He goes from mapping the outline of your wings to tracing the curve of your hip, quietly running his hand over the dip of your collarbone and then outlining the angles of your face. He keeps his eyes closed as his mind completes the visualization of your body.

Eternity, he thinks, a strange giddiness overtaking his heart at the word. It's still so hard to believe, but finally has you for all eternity.

And to think, I have Father to thank for that.

The demon suppresses a laugh, wondering how he'll tell his brothers.

"Lucifer?" The demon turns his head downward, eyes still closed. "Lucifer, you can open your eyes now."

He opens them, blinking down as you smile up at you. He almost wants to stare at you for longer, but your impatient gesturing up at the sky above prompts him to finally raise his eyes.

And when he does, he practically chokes on his own breath.

"You…" He mutters, eyes wide. How did you manage to do so much in so little time? "It's beautiful, MC. Truly beautiful."

He laughs in disbelief, his eyes smiling as he stares up at the stars above.

The sky is a work of art.

He has no idea how you managed to create so many stars in such little time, but you've created a constellation of your own, put together exclusively by stars of your own light. They're the faintest ones above, but they burn with the familiar light Lucifer adores. To his eyes, they stand out bolder than all the rest, proud and distinct against the blackness of the sky.

He smiles, his hand raising to trace the shape of what you've so meticulously laid out. "I love it," He whispers, staring even longer.

There, in the distance, hundreds of thousands of miles away but there nonetheless, is the constellation that outlines both of your figures in the night sky: your arms reaching out to Lucifer, wings outstretched behind you, and his own demonic form flying up to greet you.

Perfection, he thinks, wondering when in these past years you learned the mechanisms of art. Because what you've laid out for him in the stars is that: beautiful art, more stunning than any painting he has hanging in the House of Lamentation.

It's a scene that speaks not with the image it presents but the emotion it evokes, four thousand years of separation manifested in the yearning on both your faces; the joy of reuniting after so long hidden in the way your arms beckon to touch each other; the pain at being ripped away from each other once more locked in the desperation of your gazes; the sheer happiness at the prospect of the remaining eternity the two of you have together conveyed in the finality of your pose, as if you're about to embrace for the final time, never having to pull apart ever again.

It's your entire love story written in the stars.

Lucifer can't hold his pride over your skill as he marvels at your work. It's a perfect rendition of everything that has brought the two of you to this moment where you can finally be together, after thousands upon thousands of years of love and separation and more love.

It is, without a doubt, perfection.

Lucifer sighs softly when you raise your hand to his, slipping your fingers amid his and intertwining them so that his attention is focused not at the masterful constellation you've just created but on the sight of your hands locked together.

"I love you."

He's not sure who says it first, but neither of you bother repeating it. Why bother? The proof is in the stars, in the light you both radiate—dark and pure, holy and corrupt, love and lust.

It's a union unnatural, countering every instinct known to both angels and demons. It would even be a sin, if it weren't explicitly pardoned by Father.

This match is wholly aberrant, strange and twisted in the way this love has wedged its way into both your hearts, rooting itself so strongly that Lucifer wouldn't be able to get rid of it if he tried.

And yet, he wouldn't trade it for the world.

MASTERLIST

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | ✔

Word count: 4.6k

Notes: I'm going to be straight with you guys, this is essentially the ending for this fic! the next chapter will be told from the POV of an outside character looking in on the evolution of MC and Lucifer's relationship. it will serve as an epilogue, if you will, and i currently plan for it to be significantly shorter than the usual chapters in this fic - so i want to take this opportunity to thank everyone for reading! this has been such a wild ride, and these past two weeks have been especially rough for me, just personally! being able to escape and write a soft, wholesome love story has done so much for my mental state, and i want to thank everyone who has shared this journey with me <3 the end is coming very soon, and i have enjoyed every step of this fic, from the annoying process of scrapping thousands of words to rewrite them (often multiple times in a row, god - my drafts for this series tell such a wild tale) to scrolling through every comment you guys have left, this has been an absolute pleasure and i thank you for joining me on this journey, whether you're reading this today as i continue to write or far in the future!

Comment & Like

Next Update: 6/16/20

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

[phykios]

the marble king, part 9 [read on ao3]

“Have you ever seen snow before?” Alejandro asked him, one bright and startlingly cold morning, as though all mornings here were not equally startlingly cold.

He had enlisted Percy’s participation in a round of hunting this morning, something light-hearted and fun to occupy their time while their spouses dealt with the latest political nonsense from the big cities, something to do with a union of nations and a dissatisfied noble class. Annabeth had done her best to explain it to him plainly, but his ears simply could not hold onto all the people, places, and events she discussed, and he had unwittingly begun to filter out her words after a few minutes or so. Rather than volunteer his no-doubt clumsy and ill-witted assistance, he had reluctantly agreed to be dragged outside.

At the very least, the garments the family provided him were quite warm. Still, he had a very large nose, and he was certain he could no longer sense the very tip of it.

“I have, sir,” he grumbled, flexing his frozen fingers inside of their large, furred mittens. “It did, in fact, snow on occasion in the South. As well, I have spent some time in Dardania, where it would snow heavily and frequently.” That had been the few months he had spent under the tutelage of Lupa, mother of Rome. She had been a harsh teacher, sterner and far less forgiving than Chiron, but she had beaten into him a kind of fastidiousness and respect for the harsh, wild climate of the mountains, teaching him to see the beauty in the rugged, barren landscapes.

“Terrible stuff, no?”

“Absolutely wretched.”

“In my hometown, Sevilla,” he said, “there usually falls a soft layer of snow, but only up in the mountains. When Magnus first brought me here, I had assumed the land was under some sort of magical spell, and we had been charged with freeing the people from the grip of endless winter. Alas, imagine my sorrow when the curse was not lifted, and winter came once again in a few short months.” He sighed, melodramatic, and Percy snorted. “Still, I have grown used to it. It is not so bad if you dress warmly, as you have discovered for yourself. The summers are my favorite, of course--I believe you may feel the same.”

Percy, wisely, held his tongue. To admit to your host that the thought of staying here for nearly a full year made your stomach roil, was nearing the absolute height of rudeness. Rather, he swallowed instead, stretching his mouth in a grimacing smile that, he prayed, looked convincing.

“You would not think it, but the summers can be quite warm. Not nearly the temperature to which you are accustomed, obviously, but warm all the same. But the true joy is the length of days; to make up for this endless, blasted darkness, the summer days are stretched far beyond their natural limit, and believe you me, my friend, by the end of summer, you will tire so much of the bright nights that you will beg for a little darkness.”

“I have heard tell,” he said, with a faint touch of horror, “that some days, the sun never rises, and the people are plagued with eternal night. Is this true?”

He shook his head. “Not so far South, but yes. The ancient peoples of this land lived quite comfortably in such darkness, and still do, if you can believe it.”

Closing his eyes against the bright glare of the sun on the snow, he tried to imagine a life lived in perpetual night, to never have seen the glory of Apollo’s light, to live only in the wan glow of fire, to never be able to ascend the tip of a mountain and look out into the beyond, the peaks and valleys bathed in the warm, golden glow of the sun.

He found he could not.

“You mentioned you had lived in, what was the name? Sev--Sevi--”

“Sevilla,” he said. “Perhaps you may know it better as Hispalis, or Isbiliyah?”

Oh, blast these slippery tongues which he could not speak! “Hispalis, yes,” said Percy. “I have never been myself, though I could indicate its location on a map.”

“In that, we are once again quite similar,” joked Alejandro, “for I could say the same of your fair city.”

“What was it like?” he asked, hoping that all this talk of warmer climes would help him to forget the cold. “Your Hispalis?”

Alejandro smiled, bright and free, his face shining in the sunlight. “Even I have heard tell of the beauty of your Constantinople, and though I have never seen the famed St. Sophia, I know in my heart that Sevilla outshines her even on her darkest days. The summers are long and hot, the wind from the sea bringing the scent of salt and spice in through the open windows of the old stone walls, curling and twisting as they wend their way towards the sky! Oh, Perseus, you have not known true beauty until you have seen the arches and gardens of the Real Alcázar, or watched the sun set from atop the Torre del Oro!”

So ecstatic was he, that Percy could not help but smile alongside him. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Only every day of my life. Well,” he amended, “the city, yes. There is no fairer jewel in the world than Sevilla, and I shall fight any man to the death who should disagree, but I can say with certainty that all that I have here, with Magnus, is infinitely better than what I had left behind.”

“What did you leave behind?” Percy asked. “If you are comfortable sharing with a stranger, of course, I should very much like to know.”

Trudging forward in the snow, Alejandro shook his head fondly. “You are no longer a stranger, brother, and I am happy to share. Much like your wife, I, too, was sent by my father to live in a religious order at a young age--the Monasterio de San Clemente --only I did not run away before my foot ever touched consecrated ground. Though,” he acknowledged with a sardonic tilt of his head, “I am certain you can imagine just how little I cared for monastic life.”

“Because of your…” he trailed off, unsure of how to phrase such a delicate topic. “Your situation,” he finished, lamely.

Alejandro snorted a laugh, the corner of his lips curling upwards. “My situation, yes. In any case, by the time I was expected to take certain vows, it came to the attention of the Abad that not only had I been shirking my duties at the monastery to a level previously unheard of, but I had, at the same time, also been in training at the convent around the corner, as one of the sisters.”

Startled right out of his chest, Percy laughed, a bark in the cold, quiet forest. “Malaka,” he chuckled. “I cannot even imagine what they might have thought.”

“It was quite the eventful week,” he said, suffused with an odd sort of nostalgia. “But, unlike my dear sister, my own father was not so accommodating, nor so open minded. There was nothing for me in Sevilla but beautiful buildings and a family who no longer wanted me--thus, I had no qualms about accompanying my husband to his ancestral home. After all,” he shrugged, gesturing to the dense forest, its dark green needles nearly black against the bright, white snow, “one could argue that this is my ancestral home as well.”

Yes, that was a topic about which Percy was somewhat perplexed. “Forgive me if my question is indelicate, sir,” he said, “but I confess, I am not so knowledgeable about your pantheon. If the Aesir hail from the far North, how is it that Loki came to sire you in Hispania?”

“You misunderstand me, friend, for Bölvasmiðr was not my father, but my mother instead.”

Percy blinked, stopping in his tracks. “Oh.”

And he had thought his family tree was complicated.

A rustle in the trees, then Alejandro held up his fist, a gesture for quiet and stillness. He cocked his head, listening intently, slowly turning round. Only when no further sound presented itself did he relax.

Percy blinked again, suddenly feeling as though he had somehow lost a handful of time.

“Well,” said Doña Alejandra, “onward, good sir.”

Trudging forward, she charged on ahead, leaving Percy to scramble behind her in her wake.

“Think you,” she asked, “that the Magians did not command the southern seas as skillfully as they did the northern ones?”

“The Magians?” he repeated, dumbly. Percy’s head swam, the cold freezing all his thought processes until he was as stupid as all his enemies claimed him to be.

“Ah, I do not know the word in your tongue,” she said, frowning. “The northern raiders, the ones whom Anja tells me were contracted to protect your precious emperor.”

Percy looked away, attempting to recall the word. Annabeth had said it, months ago, in the little room with the single candle in Athens--”The Varangians?”

“Yes!” she snapped her fingers. “That’s the one. Magian, Varangian, here they call them Vikinga, meaning one who seeks adventure. Charming, no? They certainly ventured as far as their ships could carry them, all the way round the western coast of Christendom until they sacked Sevilla some six hundred or so years ago. They must have brought their gods with them, I presume, and then the cabrónes never left. How amusing it must have been,” she laughed, “to suddenly find themselves in a land of endless summer, vying for attention with all the rest of the divinities who had already made themselves quite at home.”

“I suppose,” said Percy.

“Sevilla has always been a city of many faiths, all bumping up against each other. The Christians, the Moors, the Jews; they all brought their Lord with them when they settled on the beaches of Andalusia. What is one more, I say? The gods, without fail, shall always follow their believers.”

Would that were true, Percy mused, at least as it pertained to himself.

He shivered, a cold wind blowing against his face quite unexpectedly.

“Hold.” Alejandra thrust out her hand, stopping Percy in his tracks. “Quiet.”

Magnus had authorized Percy the use of his crossbow for hunting, but given how hopeless Percy was with a standard bow and arrow, he did not have much hope that he would be able to successfully target and kill any mobile creature with it, but Alejandra appeared to have the situation well in hand, raising her own crossbow, her mismatched eyes staring intently above the tree line, her finger near caressing the trigger.

With a crack, a thwack, and a loud braying noise, something large toppled over beyond a few trees, landing in a snowdrift with a soft thump.

“¡Guau!” she crowed, pumping her fist in the air. “We shall have a feast tonight, I can promise you! Now, make haste, thalassinos, for it is cold, and I am in dire need of a skirt.”

They did, indeed, have a feast that night, a feast of venison and good, red wine. Percy had been privately dreading what strange and terrible creation might the cook have prepared, such as the sour, fermented cabbage, or the meatballs in a brown, cream sauce which Annabeth had sworn up and down tasted just like his mother’s keftedes. She had been so incorrect in that assumption, Percy had briefly considered divorcing her on the spot for such an infraction.

Yet the meat was simply, marvelously prepared tonight, roasted with salt and paired with a wine imported from somewhere in Francia which was a little too sour for his taste, though Percy certainly was not one who frequently partook of the beverage. At the agoge, wine had been strictly forbidden as part of Lord Dionysus’ punishment, and so Percy had only really gotten to have it during his brief period with Legion.

After days and days of salmon, Percy almost felt guilty to be enjoying meat other than fish, as if his father would somehow be aware of it, and be displeased with him.

The thought strikes him about as quickly and severely as a bolt from the heavens--a sensation with which he was, unfortunately, well acquainted.

His father. Gods above, his father.

Startled, he dropped his cut of meat, wincing internally as it landed on the wooden table with a soft thud, disrupting what had been a lively conversation which he still could not understand. As a hawk, Annabeth sharply turned towards him, grey eyes full of concern. “Percy? Are you alright?” Fredrik, Magnus, and Alejandra looked on him as well, all in varying degrees of worry or bewilderment.

“Ah--yes. I am fine. Please, do not let me interrupt.”

She raised a brow, unconvinced, but with pursed lips, turned back towards her cousin, resuming what must have been an utterly fascinating debate.

Alejandra reached out towards him, laying her hand on his upper arm. “Truly, you are well?” she asked, her voice low.

He nodded. “Yes, of course. I merely--remembered something which I had forgotten.”

“Oh?”

A part of him, deeply held and strikingly jealous, did not really wish to share with Alejandra, even though he considered her his closest friend in Svealand, but given how patient she had been with him, how supportive and understanding she had been, he supposed he owed it to her. “At the agoge,” he said, slowly, “before every meal, it was our custom to make an offering to the gods. We would take a portion of our food, the best portion, and toss it into the hearth, so that our parents may bestow us with their blessing when next we had need of it.”

“Into the fire?” Her expression was dubious, one eyebrow delicately arched.

He had the distinct sense that she did not believe him. “The gods, they feed off the smoke,” he said, somewhat embarrassed. “They do not eat food like you and me.”

“Oh, I do not doubt that,” she said, “I am merely surprised, is all.”

He frowned. “Regarding?”

“That your father demands so much praise.” She tilted her head, considering. “My divine progenitor expected quite a lot from me as well, but usually not so much sycophancy.”

“It--he--” Percy stammered. “He did not--it was not demanded of us, that we praise them so.”

“Was it not?”

“No,” he insisted. “It was respect, politeness, not… not groveling or fawning or the like.”

Alejandra still looked quite skeptical, but she did not push the issue further. “Well, if you feel so strongly, then you are free to use the fire,” she said, indicating towards the large hearth against the wall. “Go on. Make your offering.”

It was a simple enough task. There was a particularly fatty piece of meat, glistening in the firelight, all ready to go. All Percy had to do was walk over to the hearth, place the food onto the coals, and speak the words which he must have said thousands of times: here’s to the gods. The ritual was uncomplicated.

And yet.

Percy glanced towards Annabeth, deep in conversation with her father.

He racked his brain, but he could not recall a single instance of Annabeth making an offering during their stay in Birka. Styx, he could not even recall a single instance of her making an offering during their journey North. If he truly thought about it, long and hard, he vaguely remembered throwing a fish into the fire one night, camped next to those horrid, horrid rapids, as he gave thanks for Annabeth’s life, and then… and then the days had begun to blur together, day after day of endless sailing, of a sick, hard pit in his stomach that screamed at him to turn ‘round, to go back to where he belonged.

“Would it be rude, do you think,” he asked his hostess, “to make such an offering to the Olympians in the land of the Aesir?”

“I should think not,” said Alejandra. “Certainly, neither Magnus nor Uncle Fredrik would take offense.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I care not,” she said, with a twist of a grin. “Neither, I think, would your wife.”

Would she? He could not say. Perhaps she would think him a fool to be chasing after the approval of one who had long since abandoned him, or perhaps she would take it to mean that he was ungrateful to the land and the family which had housed him during these long winter months.

In the end, he could not make a decision. The evening meal stretched on, with Alejandro, for he had become a man during the meal, attempting to corral him into some kind of conversation, and sadly failing, until only Percy remained. “Will you be along shortly?” his wife had asked him.

Percy had nodded, though he could not say for certain how long he would linger at the table. To be alone in the dining hall was far different than it was to be alone in his bedroom. At least out here, he could pretend that he was still in the pavilion at the agoge, or the villas of the Legion, lingering over a pleasant meal and more pleasant company.

The fire still glowed, nearly burned all the way down to its embers, warm and soft, pulsing.

Many years ago, on the eve of the final day of a great and terrible battle, he had met with the spirit of the flame, the goddess of the hearth, and had entrusted her with the task of safe-guarding Hope so that he would not be tempted to give it up, and surrender to despair. She had challenged him to a riddle, of sorts, and in solving it, he had gained the key to defeating Lukas and the Titan king.

Hope survives best at the hearth, he had told her.

Hope now fluttered in his breast, weak and small, but there, alive.

If he made his offering, here in this foreign land, even after all this time… would his father, somehow, hear him?

He stood up, the chair scraping on the floor. Snatching up the last portions of his dinner, he stepped over to the hearth, whose light slowly dimmed with every passing second.

Percy went down on one knee, and laid the last slice of wheat bread on the still-glowing coals. His fingers trembled so much, he nearly dropped it.  “Lord Poseidon,” he murmured, “ Asphaleios, Epoptes, father.”

For a moment, there was only quiet.

Nothing happened. The flames did not rise, sudden and hot. There were no voices, speaking to Percy within the corners of his mind.

There was nothing. Nothing, just as it was when he was but a child, and he did not yet know of his father who had been too much of a coward to claim him until it was nearly too late.

Slowly, he blew out a breath, his shakes easing. At least now he knew.

When he returned to his bedroom, Annabeth was already asleep. Wasting not a moment, he shed his daytime clothing, slipping on as many pairs of socks and undergarments as he could get away with, then slid in beside her, turning on his side away from her.

At least now he was certain.

***

There is the smell of salt. Figs. Flowers, and smoke.

Percy opens his eyes. There is sunlight, bright and pulsating, the sun itself far closer to the earth than it should be.

He sits up, taking in his surroundings. Lush, green fields, an undulating sea of flowers in full bloom. Sea birds calling overhead, crying out for each other, swooping careless and free.

He knows precisely where he is.

Having gone to bed bundled up in the warmest clothes he could find, it is something of a shock when he stands up and sees himself clothed in nothing but a chiton and a pair of sandals. It is all well, however; the morning sun is hot, and the rocks are sharp, and he is grateful for the protection.

The wind, sharp and tangy, pushes him towards the edge of the plateau, and he goes willingly. It is one, two, three, ten steps before he reaches the edge of the cliff, the breeze buffeting his clothes, his hair, and he holds out his arms, letting the force of the air weave between his outstretched fingers. Dried grass crunches beneath his feet. Before him, the bluest expanse of the water, a dip-dyed cloth of lapis lazuli stretched all around him, bunching about the islands off in the distance. Far, far off, he can see the top of a mountain, can see the snow as it dusts the very points and tips, the fingers of the earth which still reach for the dome of the sky.

Down on the beach, at the very edge of the water, he sees a man. A moment’s hesitation, then he begins the long trek down the cliff.

With each step forward, the earth comes up to meet him, a staircase down from heaven, until he has joined the man on the beach. The man does not turn to greet him.

He is tall, with thick, curly black hair, skin tanned nut brown from hours in the sun, hours upon hours and days upon days of burning, peeling, healing, over and over and over again. He, too, wears a plain white chiton, a rope tied about his waist in a simple sailor’s knot, and on his head, a crown of celery leaves.

Beside him, his trident has been stuck in the sand.

“Father.”

The earth-shaker turns to him, his twinkling eyes the color of the water beneath his feet, the same as his own. “Perseus,” he rumbles in return. “There you are! I was wondering where you had gotten off to.”

A child all of twelve, Percy had knelt upon first meeting his father. Now, he does not move a muscle.

With a groan, Poseidon eases himself down onto a nearby rock, one hand pressed to his back. “Come,” he says. “Come and sit with me awhile. You have traveled quite far, no? I would hear one or two of your adventures, should you wish to share them.”

Percy cannot move, too busy drinking in the sight of him.

During the war, the great Titanomachy, he had looked every bit as ancient as he truly was, with white hair and deep furrows carved into the skin of his face, but he does not look so haggard now. Indeed, he looks much the same as when Percy last left him. Still, Percy can plainly see that he is hounded by some grievance, some great worry that will not leave him, hung around his neck like a stone collar. He can plainly see, for it is the very look Percy himself wears when something is troubling him.

His request rebuffed, still Poseidon does not appear to be too bothered by Percy’s immobility. He looks out to the sea, lifting his face to the salty breeze coming off of the water. “Thálatta, thálatta,” he murmurs, an ancient litany. “The sea is never the same twice, but oh, how I have missed this view.”

Heart slowly rising up his throat, Percy tries to calm his breathing. It would not do, he thinks, to go into hysterics before the lord of the sea.

Above them, Helios’ chariot races across the sky, faster and more quickly than any natural day, shadows shifting from West to East before his very eye, growing longer with each breath.

“Our time is short,” says Poseidon, gently, the calm, even push and pull of the tides. “I know you must have questions. Speak, and I shall answer.”

Questions, yes. He has a thousand, each one vying for his breath and his tongue. But there is one question which will always come first. “My mother?” he croaks, his voice hoarse.

The god of the deep smiles, affection softening the harsh lines of his face. “Safe,” he promises. “She and her family both. Where they landed, I cannot say, but I saw to it myself that they passed the blockade unharmed.”

Good. That is good. His mother, Paul, dearest Esther; they are all of them safe.

His heart thumps wildly, sorrow and rage blocking his throat. The core of him shakes so violently that he is worried he will shake himself apart, here on the rocks, dissolving into nothing more than sea air.

“You have always been a good son to your mother,” Poseidon says, “and you are right to ask after her, yet I cannot imagine that you have no more questions for me. Go on.”

Percy draws in a shuddering breath.

“That night, in the city…” It haunts him still, the flash of light above St. Sophia, the vision he’d had of the lords of Olympus as they took flight. “What happened?”

He looks towards Percy, frowning, his thick, bushy brows drawing together. “I am sorry that you bore witness to it. Such sights are not made for mortal eyes.”

“Rachael saw it, too,” he says.

“Indeed. My nephew’s oracles are blessed, yes, but cursed as well, to see more and know more than any of their peers. No doubt she still suffers as well, wherever she is now.”

“But what was it?” he presses. He will not be denied answers, not after so long.

Poseidon sighs, casting his gaze down to the sandy beach. The wind blows in cool from the placid waters, ruffling the fabric of his clothes.

In his mind, in his memory, Poseidon always looms so large. The first time he ever saw him, his father had towered above him on his fisherman’s throne, a pillar of might, a beacon of strength, the power humming just beneath his skin, even when he brought himself down to Percy’s size. To see him among the mortals, no one would have mistaken him for anything other than what he is; a lord, a king, a divinity of unimaginable strength.

Now, though. Now he simply looks tired.

“What you witnessed,” he says, “has happened twice before. Always have we accompanied our believers, even through metamorphosis and transfiguration. Once, we dwelt atop Olympos, and there we ruled over the land of Hellas; then, they built temples to our glory on Roma’s mightiest hill. And then when the emperor moved his seat of power to that village on the coast, the place they called Constantinopolis, there we followed, and there we remained for a thousand years. But no empire can last forever, my son. Not even Rome, for all its glories, all its might and all its power.” He smiles, softly, sadly. “Not even us.”

The birds call overhead, singing as they soar above the caldera, as they always have, as they always will. Percy cannot hear it for the pounding of his heart.

His father’s shadow falls over him as the sun begins to more fully set, dipping below those far off mountains. The dome of the sky burns a bright orange now at its edges, blue turning to deep, inky purple, as a few glittering stars appear, a latticework of light.

“The hour grows late,” intones the god of the sea. “Choose your last question wisely.”

He raises his head, looking into his father’s gaze. He can feel his edges blurring, his fading form as he is called away from this sacred space.

There is only one thing he wishes to know.

“Why?”

His father does not require him to further specify.

He sighs, turning finally to face him.

“Because it was our time,” is all he says.

The sky shifts above him, the blue glow of the moon as she rises above the horizon casting the waters in a cool, otherworldly green. “What,” Percy breathes, “what does that mean?”

“It means, my son, that there are powers far older and stronger than my brothers and I. Powers that we cannot overcome. Laws that we must obey.” His eyes are hard, sharp like the cliffs. “I could not have stopped the siege anymore than I could have stopped the tides--and even if I had possessed such power, I would not have used it.”

The cries of the city echoed in his ears, phantom screams and ghostly wails from nowhere but the inside of his own mind. “All those people,” he whispers. “The city of Constantine stood for a thousand years, and you simply sat by and watched it happen.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “We did.”

Percy shakes his head. “I know--I know that the Romans gave themselves over to the trinity god, and I understand why your lord brother would be angry with such disrespect, but all of those who still believed--everyone at the agoge --what reason did you have for abandoning them? I--we made our sacrifices to you every day, walked the earth and vanquished monsters in your names and for your glories. We died for you,” his voice rises with each word, a dragon in his chest, “Carlo and Silena and Lukas and countless others--and what of the sailors who prayed in your name without knowing it every time they put to sea? Or the soldiers who petitioned the heavens for mercy, or the women and children who ran through the streets in fear and in terror and begged for your protection,” and he is weeping now, tears falling easily from his eyes, “were we not enough? Had we offended you in some way? Had I--was I--”

He cuts himself off with a curse, turning his head to the side. He cannot go on.

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Percy looks up through the veil of his grief and sees its mirror image in his father. “Of course not,” he murmurs.

“Then,” he sobs, his chest heaving with the force of his breath, stuttering, shaking, “then why? Why did the lady Athena abandon her ancient temple? Why did you l-leave me?”

Valiantly, he holds his grief to his chest, his fists wrapped tightly around it, nails digging into his palms. Yet Poseidon sees right through him. “Do not hold back your tears, my son,” he kindly commands. “I see that you have not given yourself the time to grieve. There is no shame in your sorrow. Let your lamentations fill the sea, until its very borders have burst, and you have drowned us all with the force of it.”

And so he shatters.

He weeps, weeps for the end of the world and the passing of time. He weeps for the thousand year old walls reduced to ash and dust, for the celestial dome of St. Sophia, for the last breath of Rome and the desecration of her body.

He weeps for his mother, cast adrift from the only home she had ever known. He weeps for his friends and allies, vanished into the air. He weeps for Annabeth, for the shattered look on her face when she first beheld the ruined Parthenon, for the loss of her home and her freedom, so indelibly tied to him as she is now.

And he weeps for himself, for the loss of the city which had raised him.

“There,” says his father. “Let your grief be a raging river--let it wash all away.”

Percy crashes to his knees, the sand rough against his skin, and he weeps, his hands tearing at his hair, beating his breast.

And then, eventually, he can cry no more.

Poseidon has fallen to the ground with him, down on one knee, his hand still on Percy’s shoulder. There is no shame in his gaze, no cloying pity, only understanding. “I prayed to you,” he says, broken, battered, bereaved. “Every night, I prayed to you. And I know Annabeth did the same. Was it not enough?”

“You could have martialed the whole of the world to our ways,” Poseidon says. His voice is impossibly soft, the whisper of a rope on a sail. “It still would not have been enough.”

Percy dips his head to the earth, his eyes stinging. “And so the city is lost,” he murmurs. “And the gods alongside it.”

All those temples and shrines, the streets and churches, the ancient walls and the little alcoves, the city cats and crowded marketplace, all that history--lost, lost forever, swallowed up by the inexorable march of time.

“Lost?” Poseidon hums, rubbing at his chin. “I suppose, yes. I daresay, should you ever return to the city of Constantine, you shall find it a very different place from how you left it. Buildings shall have gone. Streets shall have been renamed. Even their beloved St. Sophia shall become unrecognizable. Such things are static, and easily taken by prideful men who reanimate corpses in order to demonstrate their own sick sense of superiority.” He speaks with such authority, such sureness, it cuts deep at the heart of Percy, that even one of the city’s protectors could cast it aside so easily.

“And yet,” he goes on, “are there not still people within those walls? Are there not men and women, at this very moment, who will slowly come to call it their home? Who will learn to love the street corners and the smell of spice markets, and the way the sun rises over the seven hills?”

Percy tilts his gaze up towards his father.

“There are many thousands of people to come who shall make their homes within the ancient walls--more than you could possibly imagine,” Poseidon says. “The city shall not die, but endure; perhaps not in the way that you remembered it, but endure nonetheless. Countless souls will come to live, love, and die in the city of Byzantion, in the footsteps of all who have come before them. And as for the gods, my boy,” and then he grins, roguish and knowing, as though he is privy to a humor which no one else can tell, “think you so little of us? Though we may no longer haunt the dome of St. Sophia, we are by no means gone.”

Despite himself, he gasps lightly, filling his lungs with air and with hope. “Truly?”

His father nods. “ Olympos, this thing that they shall come to call the flame of the West: it still lives, somewhere in this world, and it can still be found, by those brave enough to seek it out.”

Standing, Poseidon rises from his crouch as a tidal wave, a fluid column of grace and strength, and turns to the sea, stepping forward. Before his very eyes, the years seem to fall from his countenance, his shoulders pulling back, shedding the pain and sorrow of a thousand years until he looks out onto the sea with nothing but unbridled wonder, sheer curiosity, unfettered joy.

Was this how he was before the dawn of mankind, Percy wonders, when the world was new?

Percy joins his father again on the edge of the beach, that liminal place between land and sea, night and day, life and death, dream and wakefulness.

“Do you know why the gods have children?” his father asks. Percy shakes his head. “It is so that they can do the things that we cannot. Immortal we are, yes, yet not omnipotent, nor all-powerful. There are restraints on our hearts, chains around our hands, even as we ourselves so desperately desire it to be otherwise--and so we sire heroes, to undertake the mightiest and noblest of quests, to bring about the changes we wish we could do ourselves. Yet there is another reason, one far greater and more powerful to my mind.”

He lifts his face to the night sky, gazing into the blackness between the pinpricks of light.

“Try as we may, nothing lasts forever in this world--no man, nor empire, nor thought. Not even the gods. One day, we, too, shall fade from the memory of man, and the last traces of us shall only be found in the ink of the poets--and in you.” Turning to Percy, then, he puts a hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy. “You, Perseus. You carry me within you, as surely as you carry the power of the sea itself. You and your children, and your children’s children, they shall carry the echoes of us into eternity: proof of our very existence. What is it your wife likes to say? Ah, yes,” he says, eyes twinkling. “‘Something permanent,’ I believe.”

Percy flushes. He was not aware that his father knew about that particular development.

Night has fallen in the dreamlike wilderness. The stars wheel overhead, thousands of them, in shapes and stories more vast and complex than Percy can make sense of, even as the fog of morning begins to set in.

“Oh, my son,” says his father, faintly, as if from very far away, “it seems our time has ended. Soon the dawn shall break, and so I must go now.”

Caught in that soft place between wakefulness and sleep, Percy reaches out his hand, suddenly so full of fear. He has so many more questions. He has so much more to know. “Wait--” he pleads, “Father--”

“If you should like,” he says, “you may seek me out in the city of old soldiers. Even so, I do not think we shall see each other again.”

The city of--“Where are you going?” he cries.

“When you see your mother again,” Poseidon says, smiling, “do give her all my love.” The lord of the sea then raises his hand, a final salute. “Know that whatever else you do in this life, it has been an honor to be your father. Hail, Perseus, prince of the Diolkos, hero of Olympus. Hail, and farewell.”

“Father!” Percy begs. “Please!”

The mist covers him in totality, swallowing him up like the stone of the Erechtheion, stealing him back out to sea, leaving Percy alone on the cold, dark beach.

He awoke to the cold, dark bedroom of the manor on Lake Malӓren. Annabeth had already vacated the marriage bed.

It was all very well, for there was no way Percy could hide from her the tears as they fell onto his cheeks.

***

Winter persisted, its grip on the land fierce and unyielding, and the festival season came to an end--not that Percy could tell, cooped up in the manor as he was. For what purpose was there to go outside? The sun did not shine in the accursed North, it seemed, a heady dream for those who had never known its warmth and splendor.

He was aware, distantly, that something was wrong with the state of his emotions. This constant, endless disinterest and apathy, it was not like him. Food did not satisfy, rest did not soothe him, nor company chase away his grey, drab feelings. One night, Annabeth had even invited him to accompany her on a midnight excursion; the moon had been dark, she had said, and the stars very beautiful. But he had declined, turning over in his--their--bed, and attempting, in vain, to find some kind of unconsciousness.

Tonight, during the evening meal, as he pushed his food around his plate without ingesting a single bite, listening to the rest of the household prattle on about whatever the intriguing developments of the little town were, he felt it particularly strongly. The evening wore on, and all Percy could manage to stomach was a slice of bread and a little bit of fish. By his calendar, they were well into the Lenten season, and by rights should not have had such a spread before them; then again, none who ate at this table were remotely interested in a fast for a faith they did not follow, so he supposed he should be grateful that they were not obliging him to eat only bread and salt for six long, cold weeks.

His apathy must have been quite apparent, for he saw Annabeth sneaking glances towards him all during the meal.

At last, his wife was finally paying attention to him, and he could not even enjoy it.

Eventually, the noble household departed to their various evening activities, whether it be reading, writing, swordplay, what-have-you, until only Percy and Annabeth remained. Still she looked queerly on him, worry creasing her brow in that way that he remembered thinking was beyond adorable. Tonight, it barely even crossed his mind.

“Percy,” said his wife.

He grunted in response.

“You should have some more fish.”

He shrugged, pushing his meal away. “I am not hungry.”

“You have barely eaten of late,” she argued.

Be that as it may, it did not change anything, so he stayed silent.

Annabeth sighed.

More often than not, their conversations would end in an awkward, stilted silence. It was as if, during those months that they traveled together, they had spoken every possible word to each other that could be said, and now there was nothing left for them to discuss. They awoke, ate their meals, went to sleep as husband and wife, but there was no affection between them, nor friendship, nor even the bitter words of their famed, legendary rivalry. There was, plainly put, no feeling to be found. She was trying, he recognized, trying her very hardest to give him space and patience, but unfortunately for her, he had nothing left to give in return. He had nothing left at all.

Annabeth took a draught of her wine. “I was wondering,” she asked, cautious, “have you had any odd dreams recently?”

Percy glanced up from the table.

She did not look at him, but swirled her drink around in her glass, her brow furrowed. “No,” he said. “Not recently.”

It had been several weeks since he had dreamed at all. After his last one, he had preferred to keep it that way.

She nodded, lips pursed. “I only ask because I--well, I have.”

“You know as well as I that our dreams are stranger than most,” he said, turning back to his half-eaten food. “I would not dwell on it too deeply.”

“But it was not just a dream, I am sure. I am confident that I had a vision.” Setting her glass down, her tone turned pointed, urgent. “I had been transported to the Acropolis--not as we had seen it, but in its prime, every temple perfectly restored, the pride of Athens, and there I saw my mother. We even spoke for a time.”

Against his better judgement, he looked back up at her. Some details were too similar to write off entirely.

“She spoke of many things, but at the end, she told me that, if I were to ever seek her out again, then I could find her in the city of--”

“The city of old soldiers,” Percy murmured.

Taken aback, she blinked, her words momentarily lost. “Yes,” she said. “Precisely. How did you know?”

Percy closed his eyes against her shock. He did not like to think about that night, nor his frightening dream. “Because my father told me much the same.”

“Lord Poseidon spoke to you?” Annabeth gaped, a faint tinge of indignation coloring her features. “Why did you not tell me?”

Percy swallowed once, but he decided that he had one thing to hide from his wife, and one thing only. It need not be this one. “Because all I did was weep as I begged him not to leave me,” Percy said, flatly, “and that was not an experience I wished to relive.”

So much for all his heroics. Inside, it seemed he was still the same child he had always been, full of a deep, desperate longing for a distant father.

“I have never heard of this place before, this city,” he said, eager to shift her thoughts from her piss-poor husband. “Have you?”

Annabeth pursed her lips, not at all fooled by his tactics, but she relented anyway. “Sadly not,” she replied, slumping in her seat. “Old soldiers can be found in every city in the world; to find one particular city… it seems almost impossible.”

“Perhaps the gods meant it to be impossible.” It was not an idea he wished to entertain, but he felt that it had to be said. “Perhaps they wish to remain unfound.”

Despondent, she laid her head on her hand, indelicate, unladylike. “Much as I am loath to admit it,” she said, “you may be correct. If that is the case, and the gods have made themselves impossible to find, then…”  

Then, nothing. She trailed off, out of words, out of ideas, out of hope.

That, more than anything else, had proven just how far they had fallen. The Annabeth whom he had dragged from Constantinople would never have said anything of the sort, would never have given up on a quest so easily. But they were drained now, sad and broken in ways they did not realize they could be.

Silence fell between them, thick, heavy, a suffocating fog.

Then, a thought occurred to him.

“During the last crusade,” he began, slowly, knowing that this was a sore topic for her, but also giving himself time to piece together his logic, “the Latins stole several treasures of the city for themselves, yes? Some statues, gold treasures, and the like?”

She grunted her assent.

“Where did they take them?”

So exhausted, Annabeth did not even scowl as she spoke. “Your precious Venetians carried them off to their home, in Enetoi.”

Thoughts whirled inside of his head, a typhoon of barely-heard words and half-cocked theories. “My father, and Alejandro, they--they said that the gods always accompanied their believers,” said Percy. “If the spoils of Constantinople are in Venice, then perhaps that is where the people fled to after the siege--”

“And if the people are there,” said Annabeth, sitting up, fire in her eyes, “then perhaps the gods are as well.”

“Exactly,” he breathed.

They stared at each other, the same idea springing to life before their very eyes.

It was not much of a theory. There was no way to confirm it, halfway around the world, and the journey South would doubtless be just as harrowing as the journey North--if not more so.

But it was something, at the very least. Solid and tangible, something to which he could cling with both hands.

And it made his next steps so much easier.

“By your leave, then,” he said, standing from his seat, “I should like to return to the middle sea, and to seek my fortune in Venice.”

As though she had been struck, she flinched back, eyes wide. “What?”

“You and your family have been most kind and hospitable, but you know as well as I that I do not belong. I cannot learn this slippery northern tongue of yours, nor can I support you financially. But more than this, wherever it is that I end up in this world, a larger part of me will always feel the call towards the lands of our ancestors.” Of course, his most compelling reasons to leave, he could not share. If she truly wished to be his wife, then he would forget the gods entirely, and would live out the rest of his days here in Svealand, amongst the Aesir--yet he knew that she did not want that life for herself. He had allowed her to play that part on their wedding night, even when she clearly had not been of her right mind, and for that alone, the only proper thing to do would be to exile himself from this land, from her smile, from all memory of her for dishonoring her so, and the twisted pleasure he took in the act.

Wordlessly, she gaped up at him, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to form sentences. “But--I--”

“But I want you to know, I have not regretted a single moment of the adventures we shared.” He bowed to her, in the fashion of the court of Constantinople, avoiding her gaze so he could not tempt himself any further to stay. “It was an honor, my lady, to accompany you home.”

He turned, and began out of the dining hall.

From behind, he heard her stand as well.

“I understand you had limited examples of good husbands growing up, Perseus,” she nearly hissed, the use of his full name an unexpected knife in his chest. “But allow me to be blunt: abandoning your wife a few months after marriage is not generally considered desirable in a husband, even if you warn her beforehand.”

He stopped and turned, frowning at her, too stunned to be angry. “Abandon you? You and I both know you will thrive without a forced partner. You are just like my mother in this way; she, too, had to marry a man for the air of respectability, but she only truly blossomed after she was free of him.”

“You--” She thrust her hands down on the table, a sharp, angry sound. “Then I shall come with you!”

“It took us the better part of four months to bring you here,” Percy said, sternly. “Four months and gods only know how many miles. I have no desire to tear you away from your family again, not when you are clearly so happy here.”

She gazed at him, grey eyes full of an unreadable emotion. “And when you are not,” she quietly confirmed.

What was the use of being dishonest when he was sure his dissatisfaction was written so plainly on his face? “No. No, I am not happy here.”

For a brief, brief, moment, she looked as though she had been stabbed in the back, a terrible, tortured concoction of shock, pain, and disbelief. Percy had only ever seen that look on her face once before, in a dream; he had once borne magical witness as Lukas had forced her to carry the dome of the sky in his stead through the use of trickery. To have such a look directed now at him nearly shattered his resolve. It certainly broke his heart.

Clenching her fists, grinding her teeth, something clearly warred inside of her as she struggled to keep her words in her mouth. No doubt she was crafting an insulting tirade worthy of the greatest poets, something suitably cutting aimed at his manhood or his courage, or lack thereof.

But squaring her jaw, she relaxed her hands, and swallowed her anger. “That you think so lowly of yourself, Percy, it pains me in ways I cannot describe.” Coming to some sort of decision, she squared her shoulders as well, drawing herself up to meet his gaze. “As your friend, I must protest at such slander of your character.”

He laughed, a little hollow. “As your friend, I thank you.” If only she knew just how deep the rot inside of him went.

“And as your wife,” she went on, “I will not allow you leave without me.”

He sighed, unwilling to have this argument again. “Annabeth--”

“No,” she interrupted. “I know all too well what you have given up by coming here. I cannot make amends for your misery the last few months, but I can move forward with you, wherever it is that we go.”

“What of your father?” he asked. “And your brothers? What of Magnus and Alejandro?”

“I love my family, dearly,” she said, “and I am so grateful that I have been able to spend this time with them. I never imagined I would be able to have this chance, and I thank you for making it so--yet I, too, am a Hellena. Do you not think that I also long for the warmer climes and familiar coasts of Sigeion and Constantinople? Do you not think that I also wish to see our friends again, to see my mother again?” Emboldened, she stepped towards him, rounding her edge of the table to stand before him. “As you once did for me, let me now return the favor. I shall accompany you to Venice, and there we will begin our search for the soul of Olympus.”

Percy was… he was speechless. He was aware he looked like a fool, his mouth hanging open, blinking stupidly.

As though she had only now just realized the boldness of her claim, she faltered somewhat, heat rushing to her face. “And I must again repeat, phykios, that abandoned women do not usually fare well in polite society. I would prefer to stay with you, if… if you would have me.”

He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. How could she wish to stay with him, after all that he had done to her? But his weak heart could not resist her siren call; to return home with Annabeth at his side was nothing short of a dream.

“To Venice, then?” he asked, quiet, full of hope.

“To Venice,” she agreed. “And there, I pray, may we find what we seek.”

***

They set out from Birka on a cold, foggy morning.

In the weeks that had passed, Annabeth had successfully sold her inheritance to her cousin in exchange for monetary value. When Percy saw how much her lands had been worth, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. She had somewhat understated their value to him at first, claiming it was no more than a few measly acres, when, in fact, she had been in possession of two huge tracts of land, exchanged for more money than Percy had imagined could be possible.

Usually, he did not mind the matter and circumstances of his birth, his lowly station, but he allowed himself, just this once, to be passively jealous of the aristocracy, even as he, essentially, entered that class with the value of his wife’s inheritance. The whole thing made his head hurt, just a little.

In any case, Fredrik had arranged for a boatman to see them off once more to Stadsholmen, where they would board a much nicer ship than the one they had stolen which would take them South, to a city called Danzig. From there, they would travel in a westerly direction, so that they circumvented the religious struggles which had broken out in that area. Annabeth, grudgingly, even admitted that Percy’s history with the Legion might even prove useful for navigation, scowling so preciously that Percy’s heart felt three times lighter.

Fredrik had come to see them off, along with Alejandro and Magnus. A far, far cry from the first days of their previous journey, Fredrik had loaded them down with food and other supplies, fine, warm clothes, and of course, their new fortune, in both coins and official documents. There was one other new addition as well, gifted to them by Magnus and his spouse. “It was a traditional wedding gift among the Norsemen,” Alejandro promised them. “She will bring you luck.”

“She” turned out to be a small, white kitten, with large blue eyes and grey ears. She had taken one look at Percy, sniffed his hand, then immediately made herself at home in the folds of his winter cloak, purring softly.

Oh, even he could not resist the lure of a small cat. He kissed its head, scratching it behind the ears. Annabeth smiled at him, full of an emotion which he could not name, but could only describe as being soft, somehow, full of affection that just transcended the boundaries of simple friendship.

And then all at once, their things had been loaded onto the little boat, and they were ready to begin their journey. First, Stadsholmen; then, the South and the ancient lands.

He could not deny that the very thought of Italy, of its warm summers and green seas, made him feel more alive than he had in months.

“Percy,” Annabeth said, “would you permit me to linger a moment longer?”

“Of course.” He had noted her furtive glances towards her father, and assumed that she wished to give him a proper farewell. “I shall await you on the boat.”

So that he would not be left alone with a boatman who did not speak his language, Alejandro volunteered to walk him to the dock, allowing Fredrik, Magnus, and Annabeth to have their solemn goodbyes. “Despite your sour attitude, please know that we shall all miss you terribly,” he said, his mismatched eyes dancing. “Your arrival was, by far, the single most entertaining thing that has happened to this little village in years.”

“Does this include your own misadventures with Loki as he attempted to bring about Ragnarok?”

“Includes and exceeds, my friend.” Perhaps with a little impropriety, Alejandro kissed him on both cheeks, embracing him as a friend and brother. “Do watch out for my cousin, won’t you?”

“She will watch out for me, of that you can be certain.”

As he went to speak with the boatman, Percy cast his gaze to Annabeth and her father, further from the shore. They spoke very quickly, hushed words in Swedish traveling on the breeze towards him, syllables he could neither parse nor comprehend. He observed as Fredrik brought his hands to his mouth, an expression of shock and wonder, then embraced his daughter, tucking her head into his shoulder. He watched as Annabeth allowed herself to melt into his embrace, standing on her toes to reach him.

That she had willingly chosen to give all this up for him… it made him feel as though he could do anything, take on any quest. She had but to ask him.

“You are very far gone for your lady, aren’t you?” he heard Alejandro ask from behind him.

Percy nodded, for that was the beginning and end of it all, that he loved her so desperately, that he was content to let it go unreturned, as long as she deigned to keep him by her side. To deny it would be a bald-faced lie, and one easily overturned.

He chuckled. “She is fortunate to have you, then.”

“On the contrary,” said Percy. “I am fortunate to have her.” After all, this amazing woman was willing to leave her family and journey with him into some great unknown. How many men could claim such an honor?

Finally, her father brought Annabeth to shore, visibly holding back his tears. “Shall we, then?” asked his wife, shoulders squared and eyes straight ahead.

Percy held out his hand, and she took it, using it for balance as she stepped onto the craft. “We shall.”

A final word to his employer in Swedish, then the boatman pushed off from the dock. “Farewell!” called Alejandro, waving from the shore. “Safe travels!”

It was not long before they were swallowed up by the morning fog, the house on the hill disappearing into the mist, like a dream come first light.

Beside him, Annabeth yawned. “I apologize,” she said. “I had not slept well last night. Would you mind terribly if I took a brief rest?”

“Not at all. Here,” said Percy, setting the cat down on a parcel of Annabeth’s clothes. “You may use me as your pillow, if you wish.”

Grateful, she rested her head on his shoulder, nearly cuddling into his side just as enthusiastically as the cat had. “If you please, wake me when we arrive in Stadsholmen.”

“Of course, for who else shall translate for me?”

She huffed a laugh through her nose, once, sharp and short. Then, trapped between the bark of the boat and the weight of her body, Percy was content to simply bask in the feeling of her shoulder against his chest, her arms cradling her stomach for warmth, even after he wrapped his cloak around her.

[storysofmyown]

Obey me! Scarred, Chapt. 9

Plot:  It’s time for the next step in Diavolo’s plan to unify the  realms. But, in order to work, the demons would be subjected to confront  their worst fears, and in some cases, who they are.  

Trigger Warning: Manipulation, some cussing

Word Count: 1996

Mc found themselves up in the human world. They stood right across from a coffee. The place looked like something that one would visit in France, some tables right at the side of the street with the shining sun looming over their head. The noise of the cars becoming overwhelming as they tried to figure out what was happening. One moment they were at the Devildom, the next here they were. Feeling the shining sun in forever. People were walking all around them. And although they should be overwhelmed with happiness being back at their world, it was all far too strange.

 Before they could even move from their spot. They closed their eyes taking a deep breath. It was different than what they had grown used to. Upon opening their eyes, they found themselves sitting in one of the tables, which had a small paper with their name and another name. Mc didn’t recognize it, but the name brought upon them comfort and warm. Like the name of the person one loves would, it rolled on their tongue like a name meant to bring peace. Mc looked up from the paper and right across the small table, there sat God.

 “Mc.” Was all he said with a curious smile on his lips. Eyes so white it made Mc uneasy. God starred down at Mc, the being seemed quite unbothered. For him, it might be just like meeting with an old friend to catch up. But for Mc, well, they were being faced by the known creator of all. Knowing damn well what he had done to his own daughter. Mc sat there, mouth slightly agape, hands shaking ever so slightly.

 “God?” Was all they could muster. God laughed.

“There is no need for such formalities here, we do not want any other human to hear us, do we?” God slightly looked around, and upon further inspection, Mc noticed some people starring at them. Perhaps it was because of the almost 9 feet man that sat there unbothered, or perhaps it was that since they had arrived there everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells. Almost like they knew they were being watched.

 “What…what should I c-call you?” Mc spoke softly, still not over their initial shock.

 “Whatever you would like. I go many names after all.” God started to stir his coffee with s mall spoon. Had he always had that coffee there? “The Africans call me something, the Asians another, the old native had me many names. You may know me as Zeus based on the Greeks, Brahma based on the Indians, The Nordic used to call me Odin. Some gave me other attributes, some divided me, some unified me.” For a moment he stopped, and even with all the people walking around, all Mc could hear was the sound of Gods voice and the spoon clicking against the cup. He sighed, before smiling again at Mc, cup now close to his lips.

 “I…uh, what?” Mc was confused, they looked at God once again. They could swear the being had just rolled their eyes.

 “If it makes you comfortable, you call me-”

 ¨What are we doing here?” Mc finally managed to ask. Eyes locking with Gods.  

 “I figured you would like to visit your own world. After all, you have been stuck in that wretched place far too long.” Mc thought for a moment about Gods choice of words. He had referred to the Devildom as a “wretched place”. It made Mc wonder why the being would even consider an alliance between the realms if that is how he saw the place.

 “I…guess so but…uh- wouldn’t people be suspicious of seeing you here? I mean…” Mc looked down for a moment. “You kind of standout…a little.” Mc’s voice was soft and trembling a little. They were nervous about this whole interaction. God only sighed, putting a hand on his temples.

 “Please, you actually believe any of those humans are smart enough to know I’m not like them?”

 “I…guess not.” God looked at Mc, a blank expression in his face before smiling, barely.

 “Besides.” He looked around. “It has been years since I last saw this world or any human, besides yourself. I was curious to see what had happen to it.” Mc would have expected to find a longing expression in Gods face. The expression of a father who was watching as his child’s accomplished their dreams but remembered them as little kids. Perhaps a nostalgic yet proud look. But no. The man had an expression between disgusted and no emotion at all.

 “Wait- any human? Weren’t there human exchange students in the Celestial Realm?” God seemed uninterested in this conversation. Only half committing to answering.

 “Ah, yes. Them.” God grunted, he seemed mildly annoyed at the mention of the humans. “I stayed out of their way. I figured they would not need to know me, in order to their year to be productive.” If there was a way to measure Gods annoyance level, Mc would be too afraid to use it because they were certain the seeing would be close to a hundred. If the way he was gripping the sides of the table was anything to go by, that was.

 Mc opted to stay silent. Their eyes scanning the place the were currently in. Mc was trying to figure where exactly they were. The sign of the place was no indication, since the letters were unreadable. Mc wondered if that was the owner’s fault or Gods, preventing them from knowing where they were so they wouldn’t run away or something. With every minute that passed Mc noticed the same people walking the same steps. The same lady walking her dog, the same man still smoking his cigarette. The delicate orange glow as the sunset fell upon them.

 Wait, sunset? When they started this conversation, it was still the middle of the day. Why had the sun set so quickly? Mc’s eyes fell on God, the being had his eyes stuck on Mc’s every move. It made them feel this nervous vibe set in the air.

 “Why am I here?” God placed his elbows on the table, leaning in, head resting in his palms as he watched Mc very intently.

 “Straight to business? Not even hoping for me to answer some questions that your kind would kill to have the answers to?” God starred at Mc in the eyes. Of course Mc was curious, there were thousands of burning questions in their mind, ever since Mc saw the man for the first time they had been more aware of the world around them and the life they were leading. It was a weird sensation. Mc had the answer to a question millions of peoples asked themselves. Is God real? They knew that answer. Not only did they know that, but they also knew what a terrible father the man was. “All in due time, deary. No need to hurry this encounter. After all, we are having such a great time.”

 “Answer my question.” Mc spoke firmly. Even if the being that sat across the table was God, they were not interested in playing his games. They wanted to know what was happening. Gods expression shifted. Their chill demeanor suddenly gave off this weird vibe as he starred fire into Mc’s soul.

 “Tone, child.” His voice was stern. Almost as that of a father punishing his own child for misbehaving. He scoffed, looking mildly annoyed. “You humans are so troublesome. I once considered destroying the whole place. Just as I created all of it, I could have turned it into cosmic dust or something with more use. But I opted to just stop intervening. And look how well that turned out? I literally had to do nothing, and this place is close to extinction.”

 Flashes of destruction became present in Mc’s mind. Volcanic eruptions, contamination, wars, death, blood, fire. All the images ran through Mc’s mind almost as if they were present in the moment. Like they were standing right there, as it all happened. Mc’s heartbeat was accelerated once the images stopped.

 “You have no idea, absolutely NONE about how much I enjoy hearing your pathetic selves cry for help.” God laughed, loudly. “The moment they know they have lost everything, and they cry for forgiveness. They call for ME! HAHA! Like I give a FUCK about them.” God kept laughing. The people around starring at the table as Mc’s hand were shaking. They wanted to be back at the devildom, now. “Humans, haha, what a joke. But sure, lets talk about why you are here. You see, human, I need you to do something for me.”

 “What? Do…something for you?”

 “Yes, yes. You see, the ball is tomorrow.” God reclined back into his chair. Taking the characteristically uncaring mannerism Mc had associated with the being to another level. “I want to talk to Mammon there. Think you could give him a heads up?”

 “Mammon?” God nodded. “What do you want with him?” Mc blurted out.

 “As I said, I just want to have a little chat with him. But since he is always with the others it will be practically impossible for me to reach him. Think you could do that?” Mc did not need to think about it, before their mind even processed why God might want to talk with Mammon words had already left their lips.

 “No.”

 “N…no?”

 “I will not help you traumatize another member of this family. You already hurt Beelzebulb and Satan by just talking to them.” Mc had a fire on their eyes. The fact that God thought Mc would help him get close to hurt someone they cared about was outstanding.

 “Is that so?” God sighed. “I was hoping you would be more…understanding. But I guess I’ll just have to find a way to reach Mammon tomorrow at the ball, on my own.” God stood up, looming over Mc as menacingly as possible.

 “Don’t you dare get close to him.” Mc slammed their hands on the table. Making the cups in it fall over. “I will not let you hurt him.” God turned around; a smile Mc was not able to see plastered on his lips. He had done it. He had planted the seed of worry on Mc’s mind.

 “It pains me to know you think I would never do anything to hurt my own son.” God sighed, or more like faked sighing. That much was evident to mc. “But at least now I know something.” He turned around, and all the bravery Mc had felt a second before while they were defending the people they loved so much came crashing at the hate in Gods face.

 Mc had seen that look before. They had seen it on Belphegors face after he had been freed from the attic, Mc had seen that same look on Lucifers eyes when the man found out Mc knew about the seventh brother. The difference? Even if it was dumb, Mc trusted those two demons. Even if they had tried to hurt them, they trusted the others will help. But here? Mc was alone, none of the demons were here to help them. They were powerless daring the possibly most powerful creature in the universe. But after the initial shock Mc recovered their composure. They were defending the people they considered now as family. And no amount of threats would make them back down.

 “And what is that?” Mc asked, the same furious tone as Gods.

 “Now I know where your loyalty lies.” Mc blinked, right in front of them was a mirror, their reflection starring right back at them. They looked around, recognition filling their worried heart s they let out a long sigh.

 “I’m back.” Mc spoke, with a hand over their chest, feeling themselves breath. That had been stressful. But now, now all they cared about was keeping the demons they cared so much about safe.

Aight! This chapter is a little different than the others. I wanted Mc to have some kind of interaction with God that was one on one. This could have been much longer and have Mc ask God a lot of stuff but it kind of felt...off somehow. I don’t know if its clear but Gods whole thought process here was “I need them to be out of my way when i go after the actual target.” And what better way to do that than having Mammon, a demon who will try to avoid Mc at every turn distract her. But, if y’all have any questions for God he might be up for answering them lmao. Also, don’t mind me being lazy and not actually giving him a name cuz none of the ones i came up with was good. Nonetheless i hope y’all enjoyed this chapter, and I’m not sure when the next one will be posted, but I’ll try my best for it to be before Friday lmao.

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

[randomfandomimagine]

Love Spell (Jaskier x Nissa)

Characters: Jaskier, Nissa (OC), Geralt

Fandom: The Witcher

Series: Soul of a Warrior

Tags: Original character, hardcore fluff, mild angst, sorcery

Warnings: None

Word Count: 4k words

Summary: While Geralt goes on a witcher job, Jaskier and Nissa wander around the woods. When they stumble upon a strong magic, it comes to Jaskier to help Nissa overcome the spells that falls upon her.

A/N: I wanted to give this a try, so here’s a Jasnissa ficlet because I love these two nerds. This is set after Soul of a Warrior, but has no spoilers, just a few references. I might write more stuff like this if you enjoy it, and maybe even take OCs requests if anyone’s interested :)

Written in Jaskier’s POV!

_

Oh, the way the sunlight falls on her, shining down on her silky raven hair, stealing the light off her emerald green eyes. Oh, the way her smile brings more life to the world than the sun above us itself. I should put this in a song. What rhymes with perfection?

“You’re staring again, stupid bard” Nissa tells me, despite the delighted grin in her enticing pink lips. 

Something about her disarms me at this very moment. Perhaps it is the resigned fondness and adoration in her eyes, or the way she tilts her head and smirks in smugness at the smitten manner in which I admire her. 

“How could I not?” I sigh, grinning when she laughs at my dramatic tone. “You have enchanted me, you cruel goddess” 

Nissa’s hand tugs at mine. Her gaze falls on the ground, and there is that flush on her cheeks, the one that makes her seem ever so beautiful. More so than usual, that is.

“That’s your punishment” She glances up at me, wrinkling her nose. “For being so insufferable” 

I am tempted to retaliate, though I only admit defeat and drop my head in resignation. Her eyes linger on me in expectation. 

“Well… love will do that to you” I blurt out, and the sound I was waiting for follows: her genuine guffaw of laughter. It makes my heart sing. I can overcome anything as long as she is happy.

Still laughing, Nissa stops on her tracks and throws her arms around my neck. I wasn’t expecting that part, but I am certainly not complaining. My hands immediately move to the small of her back to keep her close. We move to kiss, though something in the distance gathers my attention. Our lips are already grazing, though Nissa looks over her shoulder to whatever has caught my eye behind her.

“What is that?” I utter in fascination. Before us is an empty yet untouched building.

“A temple? It seems abandoned” She retrieves my hand before heading there. Our fingers play with each other as we advance together and soon reach it.

The temple, made of faded white stone, stands in ruins. Despite it all, there are no weeds clinging to its structure, no flora whatsoever. An eerie atmosphere surrounds the building, settling an unpleasant feeling in my gut. However, I am not worried as long as Nissa is by my side. 

Our footsteps echo across the temple as soon as we trespass the big arch at the threshold. The inside is incredibly spacious and the distant sound of water dripping somewhere fills the silence that we dare not break as we continue on our way, tightly holding the other’s hand. I can hear Nissa breathing next to me, trying not to let it show how restless she is. Nonetheless, I know her too well and merely taking a look at her expression I can tell how she’s feeling.

“Who goes there?” A voice erupts from nowhere, bouncing against the walls of the temple. I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound, and so I press my side against Nissa’s.

We turn to the noise, finding that a figure stands there in the distance, behind a white marble table that delimits the end of the long corridor we are on. She is a woman with long brown hair and piercing black eyes that lurk into my soul, like a black hole that threatens to swallow us whole if we get too close or stare too long. Her skin is white and smooth like porcelain, and I find myself attracted to her in a way I can’t explain. It is definitely not the way I am attracted to Nissa, this is quite like looking at an eclipse: I can’t stop staring yet fear something bad will happen if I linger. Something in her makes me shiver. Perhaps it is the fact that she reminds me of someone else. My free hand instinctively moves to protect my jewels.

“You dare break into my home?” The sorceress says, and eyes us with disinterest and contempt. “Leave, before I kill both of you”

I open my mouth, unsure of what will come out. Perhaps it will be a defensive statement, or a complaint, or a nervous apology. Whatever the case, Nissa takes a step forward and bluntly retaliates against the mage’s nonchalant warning.

“We were doing nothing wrong” Nissa assures vehemently. “Don’t-”

“Shush!” The woman quiets her, and I can feel how Nissa seethess next to me. “One more step and you will drop dead”

“Are you threatening us?” I gasp when Nissa steps before me and pulls out her dagger. “I won’t stand by and-!”

“Uh… Nissa, love?” I mutter, tugging at her hand pressed against mine. “I don’t think you should-“

“And you defy me” The smirk the sorceress dedicates us causes my stomach to churn in anticipation. Oh god, what is she going to do? We didn’t actually mean any harm!

“Alright, everyone calm down!” I exclaim, noticing how they watch each other. The energy is dangerous and electric and I fear what might happen next if I don’t intervene. “Nissa, we can just leave, can’t we? Yes, of course, we didn’t mean to break in. We didn’t know someone lived here”

Nissa stops, glowering at her while she slowly saves her weapon. The woman’s black eyes languidly fall over me. I gulp. I really genuinely don’t like mages. Her gaze is piercing me, seeing deeper, I can feel it. The imposing expression fades from her face, being replaced by a smirk.

“I see” She briefly glances at Nissa before staring at me once more. I don’t like it… I don’t like it at all. “Perhaps you will think twice before doing anything of the like again”

“I… Y-Yes, absolutely” I squeeze Nissa’s hand as I restlessly step back, hoping she will follow after me. “We will be more careful, that’s for certain. Isn’t that right, love?”

Nissa doesn’t reply, only lets her head fall forward. I could be hearing wrong, but I swear I heard a strangled noise escape her throat. I frown in concern, confused as to what she is doing just standing there. Why won’t she move?

“Thank you very much, we are on our way” I insist, tugging harder at her. Moving my gaze, I realize the sorceress’ smirk has widened. “Come on, Nissa, we… Oh, god!”

A movement out of the corner of my eye gathers my attention away from the mage. I move just in time to catch a falling Nissa. My breathing is suddenly erratic as she limply lies in my arms. I swear I am having several heart attacks at once as my mind races with reasons why she has suddenly faltered. Is she conscious? Is she ill? Can it be that she was frightened enough to faint? No, that doesn’t seem right. What has happened then?!

“I have dealt with enough people seeking power and fortune” The sorceress is unfazed as she watches us. “Fear not, bard, if she truly harbored no bad intentions nothing will happen”

I gape at her as the recognition slowly settles in. This is her doing, isn’t it? Shit. I hate mages.

My hands are shaking as I adjust my hold on Nissa. One arm firmly wraps around her frame as she rests against my torso. With my free hand, I nervously move the curtain of soft dark hair away from her face. Her emerald eyes are indeed closed. There are no signs that betray her unwell, instead she seems to sleep peacefully. She would look beautiful if it weren’t because I am still worried out of my mind that she might not wake up.

“W-What did you do to her?!” I exclaim, in my fervor causing Nissa’s head to tilt to the side. The weight and inertia causes her body to lean off as well, and she would fall were it not because of my grip on her. “Y-You, sorceress! Undo this right now! She was only trying to protect me, I-“

“Save it” She rolls her eyes, and I pay no more attention to her as I try to shake Nissa awake. She still doesn’t respond. The mage continues speaking. “You will find a way, now leave”

“A way to what?”

“Leave!!!” Despite her furious roar that echoes against the walls like a bad omen, I glare daggers at her. She did this to Nissa, whatever it is. No one should dare touch her, not my Nissa…

Alright, calm down, Jask, or you’ll make it worse for her. I clench my fists, ignoring the bubbling anger heating me up from the inside. I can’t retaliate, for Nissa’s sake. Enough harm has been done to her. Leaving is the only thing I can do.

Still gritting my teeth, I maneuver with Nissa’s limp body until she is scooped into my arms. I tenderly cradle her, lingering as I fear that abandoning this place will somehow mean her doom. Though I know not what to do, I decide to walk away. Who knows what this unstable sorceress might do if I disobey and stay. In any case, I have no reasons to remain in this place for myself, yet I doubt it would help Nissa.

Gingerly leaning her frame against my torso so her head falls against my shoulder, I begin to move. My footsteps echo around the temple once more, now bearing the anger and fright that I try so hard to conceal. Her weight on my arms seems to be nothing compared to the one that has established in my heart, sinking it into my stomach.

“Shit…” I mutter as I exit that wretched place.

As I walked hand in hand with Nissa, the sound of the birds chirping and the warmth of the sun in the back of my neck felt like a blessing. Now it all feels wrong as my light has faded and I hold it in my arms, desperately trying to keep it alive. Hoping I can keep her alive. Gods, I don’t even know what she has, how am I to look after her?

Wait… Geralt! He is a witcher, surely he knows about the subject and can find a remedy to whatever ails her. My heart had been racing ever since Nissa fell, but now it follows a crazed pace as I start moving faster.

“Geralt?” I shout to the void, looking around searching for a burly figure with silver hair or a bay mare. “Geralt, are you back yet?”

Where is this witcher? Surely he must be done with his hunt soon… we had the time to endlessly walk and wander around the woods. Time had flown by, of course, being by her side, but now… Shit. How long could it possibly take him to return? I can’t stand this helplessness for much longer, it is torture. I move to one side and the other, but realize there’s nothing I can do until he gets back. There is no way I can help her, not this time. Hence, I slowly kneel down and carefully lay her on the ground. I fear she might grow cold, and so I take my doublet off and put it over her. Is it my imagination or does she look a bit pale now?

Wanting to kill the time, I lean closer to her and check her vitals. After traveling so long with her as our medic, I must have caught on to some things. Her pulse under my fingertips seems normal, and so I gently let go of her wrist. Her breathing seems calm and paused when I lean my ear close to her mouth. Nothing seems wrong with her. Again, it is as though she merely sleeps. My anguish comes from the question of when she will wake up, or if she will wake at all.

Though I know it is in vain, I shake her shoulder. I tirelessly call her name as well as any and all of the terms of endearment I have addressed her as ever since we met. Love, delicate flower, sweetheart, my dear… None seem to work as she remains unconscious. I tap her cheeks, I move her head and her arms and yet nothing works. I even squeeze her sides in the hopes that she will move away as she has done before, lecturing me about tickling her. She doesn’t.

I let a big timorous sigh out as I restlessly sit down, passing a hand through my hair. If only she could open her beautiful green eyes and look at me that way she does, playfully and with a fond exasperation. I want to see her breathtaking smile once more, even if it is as she laughs at me in amusement to my foolishness or smirking with superiority and smugness. I would give anything to hear her call me stupid bard again, or to say my name angrily like the time I first kissed her, back then when I didn’t know what it truly meant to her.

“I need you, Nissa…” An unexpected sob tears my throat as the panic sets that she might not wake from this mysterious and magical slumber. “Come back to me, love… please…”

Tears are already welling in my eyes when the sound of hope comes to rescue me before I completely give in to despair. Two pairs of hooves rhythmically hit the ground as the horse’s rider urges his mount. I jump to my feet and turn my body to the sound, breathing once more when I recognize the witcher’s black leather clothes and silver hair.

“Oh, Geralt, thank the gods…” I stutter, gulping as I also stumble over my own two feet. Negative thoughts haunt me, and I try to ignore the possibility that he might not know how to aid Nissa either. “You’re here, I need… Geralt, please, I…”

“What happened?” The witcher jumps off Roach. He quickly hangs a creature’s head from his belt to the hook that his mare carries in the saddlebag. I don’t even pay attention to the monster he slayed, and he barely does either as his amber eyes fall upon me.

“It’s Nissa…” I drop to my knees beside her once more, clutching her hand in mine as I peer up at him with pleading eyes. “She has fainted and won’t wake up”

“Suddenly?” His deep voice grows near as he crouches by my side to look at her.

“N-No, we were in a…” I have to pause, forgetting to breathe and needing to focus on it for a moment. “A temple, we found it nearby and… this sorceress…”

“Sorceress?” Geralt interrupts my feverish ramblings. “So this is the work of magic”

“Yes, exactly. Or at least I think so. Oh, god… Geralt, please tell me you know how to reverse it”

I notice he clutches the wolf medallion hanging from his neck, though his amber eyes are fixed on her unchanging face. His other hand falls on her cheek as he moves her head from side to side as though examining her like a medic would.

“It depends” He only says, frowning in concentration as he stares at her. “Did this sorceress say something?”

“She did, she said…” Trying to recall the exact words, I stop to think for a moment. “That if she didn’t harbor bad intentions it would be alright”

“Bad intentions?” Geralt glances up at me, and I do not like the way he watches me. “What the fuck did you do, Jaskier?”

“Nothing!” I exclaim in outrage. “She is the one that cursed Nissa! My poor dove was only trying to protect me”

“Hm…” Oh, that is a frustrated and vexed grunt for sure. Geralt’s gaze lingers for a bit until it eventually falls on her again.

“Talk to me, Geralt” I beg of him, squeezing her hand tightly in mine and pressing it against my chest. “What did that bloody witch do to her?”

“Judging by what you said, it is a spell” He rummages through the small satchel hanging from his hip, though seems to find nothing useful. “From what I know, it searches within her heart and will kill her if the magic finds ill intent“

“K-Kill her?” I suddenly feel light-headed and have to lean on his shoulder not to fall flat on my ass, even from my kneeling position. My hand flies to my forehead. “Geralt…”

“Calm down” He brushes my hand off him in exasperation. “She had no ill intent”

“I know, but…” Remembering how Nissa brought out her dagger, I wonder what the so called magic considers ill intent. “How do we wake her? Will she be alright?”

“Did the sorceress say anything else?”

“Uh… she… she told me I would find a way, whatever the fuck that means”

That seems to inspire Geralt, as he quickly tilts his head up and glances from me to her and back to me. I frown, confused as to why he stares now. Nonetheless, I can nearly see the wheels in his brain turning. Perhaps I have had the solution all along without knowing.

“Kiss her” He blurts out, and I roll my eyes at him in exasperation. What a moment to tease us about our relationship, no matter how much it usually upsets him.

“I won’t do such a thing, Geralt!” I shout in anguish. “This is serious”

“So am I”

“No, this is no time to be sarcastic. This is not a fairy tale”

“All fairy tales have some truth in them”

It seems to me like he is actually being genuine. He is a witcher after all, he must know the intrincacies of magic. I frown and stare at my friend. Geralt deadpans as he stares back at me. I hesitate.

“Are you sure?” Honestly, I am so scared. When she was wounded, we at least knew how to help her. Nnow I feel utterly useless as she just lies there with no way of waking up. The witcher nods, and so I sigh. “Alright…”

I reach forward, puckering my lips until they make contact with her forehead. Her skin feels slightly cold, and I hope there is nothing actually wrong with her. If it is, that sorceress will suffer my wrath, I don’t care that she has powerful magic, I don’t care if she threatens me like Yennefer did. As I expectantly stare at her, I promise myself to get back to that temple and give that witch a piece of my mind. If she has somehow hurt Nissa…

“On the lips, Jaskier” Geralt tiredly tells me, abruptly bringing me out of my obsessive thoughts.

“Oh” I only say, leaning forwards again. However, his hand urgently presses against my chest and pushes me back. “What? What’s wrong?”

When I peer at him, Geralt is frowning. He clutches the medallion hanging from his neck.

“The magic intensified when you kissed her” The witcher gravely says. “It is a love spell”

“So I should kiss her again, right?” I hesitate, fearing that something might go wrong. “Then she will wake up… like in the fairy tale”

“If your love is strong enough” I know by his tone that he is only teasing me, but for a moment I panic at Geralt’s words. However, I recover the faith quickly. No, our love is strong and resilient. After all, it has withstood all these hardships we have lived together.

I take a deep breath and lean closer to her. My breath catches in my throat and I freeze. Concerned, I lift my head to look at Geralt. He sighs impatiently.

“What if it doesn’t work?” I point out, absolutely terrified by the idea. “What will I do if she doesn’t wake up, Geralt?”

“She’ll be fine” Though there is only determination in his voice, I read the worry in his features as well. He speaks only to convince himself, as he is just as frightened for her as I am. “Kiss her already”

“But what if it makes it worse, what if-“

“Jaskier, this will be the only time you hear me ask this of you”

Although I don’t know whether this is some sort of display of his strange humor or not, I roll my eyes in any case. Witchers make unique friends, that’s for certain.

“Alright…” I nervously breathe in, leaning closer to her once more. Her lovely scent fills me, reminding me of flowers. This appears to be enough to give me the courage to finally press my lips against hers. The feeling that overwhelms me is no different from other times.

My heart picks up its pace in euphoria, just like when I’m playing a tune to a welcoming audience or when I make Geralt laugh. It is the same sensation that envelops me whenever Nissa interacts with me, one of pure joy. It doesn’t matter what she does, a mere glance from her beautiful eyes in my direction makes my heart sing the most wonderful ballad I have ever composed. When she smiles, the feeling multiplies. When she holds my hand, I struggle to stand.

I lean back, closing my eyes to linger in the sensation of the kiss. There, I have poured all my love for her in that gesture. Hopefully the magic wil work, although if we needed any magic to fight the one that falls upon her, we need to look no further than the one Nissa possesses herself. Despite it all, I had never felt this tingling in my lips at the graze of someone’s, only hers, not to mention the way it spreads through my body and settles in my stomach.

“Nissa?” Geralt calls her, bringing me back to reality as I try to anchor myself to these sensations she produces in me… perhaps because I fear they might have come to an end.

“Come on, love…” I whisper, carefully watching her face in search for any changes.

Nissa’s eyelids suddenly flutter, and her eyelashes seem butterfly wings as they separate. Once I am received with the sight of her stunning green eyes once more, I let go a breath I had been holding ever since she collapsed. Intense relief floods through me, and a strangled noise leaves my throat, though I don’t know if it’s a chuckle or a sob.

“What…?” She whispers, and I smile when she gazes at me. “Jaskier, what happened?”

“Thank the heavens, it worked” I throw myself at her, being careful as I lovingly wrap my arms around her frame and bring her as close to me as possible until I feel her torso pressed against mine. “You’re alright”

“But…” Nissa mumbles. Her voice sounds drowsy as she clumsily puts her arms around me as well.

“Welcome back” Geralt pats her shoulder, moving us both under the force of his strong hand.

“What the fuck happened?” She insists, yet despite it all she allows me to hold her still. Good, I don’t plan on letting go of her anytime soon.

“A sorceress put a spell on you” The witcher replies, for I am too busy burying my head on her shoulder and holding her still.

“Oh…” My lovely Nissa hesitates, though in the end chuckles as she pats my back. “You can let go of me now, Jaskier”

“Don’t do that ever again!” I reluctantly pull away, bearing a grave expression as soon as we are face to face once more. “I thought we had agreed you wouldn’t scare me like that”

It had been awful to see her crumble soon after we met. It had been worse to witness how she got gravely injured that one time, the one I truly feared for her life and Geralt and I had to attentively tend to her for days. My fragile heart simply cannot take that uncertainty and pain again.

“I’m sorry” Her words are gentle on top of her sweet voice, and her hand is delicate as she presses her palm against my cheek. “I will be more careful next time”

“I certainly hope so” I dramatically put a hand against my chest, theatrically throwing myself backwards as though I am swooning. “Or else I might perish from such tension to my poor hummingbird heart”

In reality, my poor heart is actually racing. It doesn’t matter, my attempts have been successful and Nissa laughs. Geralt grunts next to us, but I pay no mind to him.

“I will make it up to you, dear bard” Nissa takes my face in her hands and gifts me with a chaste kiss.

For a moment I tense up, still fearing that the spell hasn’t quite been broken and the exchange will somehow undo what mine magically cured. However, I sigh once more when I see her still lovingly gazing at me, awake and well. What a scare… but the anguish is over.

I stare into her eyes, knowing what she is thinking of. We possess a special magic that exposes each other’s thoughts. She regrets worrying us both, yet at the same time she understands my jokes are a reassurance that everything is alright. By now, Nissa understands that I will comfort her as I have all this time. Grateful for this, she smiles with the power of a dozen suns. That is enough to heal any damage done to my heart.

“That was too fucking close” Geralt complains, now having returned to his blatant dislike for our affection.

“I agree” Taking her by the hands, I pull the both of us up to our feet. “We know better than to mess with sorceress”

“Yeah…” Nissa grins, looking from the witcher to me.

“Next time, Nissa…” He pauses to drop a hand on her shoulder. “Try not to threaten a sorceress”

We are so surprised by his rare and unexpected joke that we break out in laughter. It is the ultimate test to show the positive end of this particular tale. Sleeping beauty has awakened. Nissa is alright, and so everything is alright with the world again.

Tag list: @x-joie-x / @x-jodi-x / @bravelittlesunflower​ / @golden-guide / @alwayshave-faith / @this-is-whump-dammit / @legallyblindgamer727 / @lilyevans1 / @kingniazx / @molethemollie / @a-somehow-functioning-dumbass // Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list for this series!!

[imtrynnawriteshit]

Jacob Frye x Female!Reader (1? Maybe? It’s a surprise for everyone involved)

Hullo!!! Guess who it is??

Me, a lil shit

This was fueled by an intense yearning for all things Victorian (I've been gazing longingly at what WikiVictorian posts on twitter for a couple of weeks now) coupled with an obsession with Mr. Frye

Contains Victorian slang, that I’ve probably butchered beyond recognition

Again, I do wanna continue this, but if I’m back to being a bastard, I might not rip

Pls lemme know if it's too cringe. If it is, I will bury myself in sand, never to surface

Words: 1768

Warnings: One (1) fuck (2 now, I suppose oof), might end up sounding a lil pretentious or sucky or both :(

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed (Syndicate)

Characters: Jacob Frye, You!!

Relationships: So far, Jacob Frye x Reader

The morning greeted you with news of your mother’s death.

Murder, they said it was, her throat slit open with an unnerving amount of precision.  No eyewitnesses, even though it took place where she was completely surrounded by her guards. What good were they when they obviously couldn’t do their fucking jobs very well?

Pearl was deserving of a lot of things, but a lonely death wasn’t one of them.

Seated in your carriage, you idly wondered if the house would feel any emptier than it usually did, what with her always off somewhere, attending to business. You didn’t want to dwell on your uncle’s - no, Mr. Starrick’s words. Obviously they weren’t of consolation (not like you needed or wanted them to be, anyway); he wasn’t the kind to care for others, especially when they weren’t what he would consider family, you knew that. No, everything was about his wretched Order as always. The very Order that got the only familial figure to ever care for you killed.

Shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you glanced out the window, hoping to lose yourself in the sights and sounds of the city around you, only to catch a fleeting glimpse of someone’s boot heading towards the top of the carriage, which jostled. Once. Twice.

You barely had enough time to blink, let alone register what was happening as you watched your driver fall (or was he thrown?) to the ground before the carriage sped away, much faster than before, crashing into lampposts and fences. It went on like this for what felt like ages, only coming to a (rather abrupt) halt once you were far enough away from where you’d been, making you lurch forward. One of your hands flew to your chest, the other gripping the seat in the time that you took a few deep breaths to try and get your racing heart back under control, even as you heard a dull thud, and heavy footsteps making their way towards you. The carriage door was flung open, and a man slid into the seat opposite you before shutting it with a resounding click.

While he made himself at home, you took the time to examine him, his general (and rather fetching, in your opinion) appearance and apparent nonchalant attitude (even to approaching an obviously unaccompanied and unwed woman, you thought amusedly, lips twitching into a barely detectable smirk) telling you all you needed to know. The gauntlet worn proud on his arm didn’t hurt either.

This was your mother’s killer. The assassin, Jacob Frye. Was he here to kill you now?

If death was to indeed come by his blade, you didn’t think you’d mind his being the last face you ever saw.

“Miss Attaway, I presume.” It wasn’t a question, but you still inclined your head slightly in acknowledgement. “And what were you up to this early in the day? Not taking the time to grieve before you step into mummy’s shoes?” His tone remained conversational, but you could see the accusation, the distrust in his eyes, in the way his body was ever so slightly tensed, poised to strike at the slightest hint of danger. This time, you let yourself smile.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Mr. Frye”, schooling your expression, you leaned forward slightly, matching the intensity of his gaze with your own while your hand stealthily crept towards the pistol you knew was tucked under the cushions, “your dealings had to do with Pearl, not me. Leave me out of whatever this is.”

That got a reaction out of him. Setting his mouth in a hard line, he copied you, elbows coming to rest on his knees, arms pointed casually in your direction, but you knew what it was: a warning. Your fingers curled around the gun the moment it came into your grasp, but you knew not to pull it out yet. You had to time it right.

Though, you supposed you were flattered to have managed to warrant such caution from a man clearly far more menacing than you were.

“Y'see, it is my business. You may be a proper bit of frock, but considering your…relations, it’s not a stretch to assume that the next time we meet may very well end with my blade buried in you.”

You only angled yourself further towards him, chin resting on your free hand as you tilted your head to the side, half-lidded eyes tracing his features, delighting in the way his own followed your movements closely.

“Is that a promise, Mr. Frye?”

Your words were but a whisper, spoken through lips curved in a salacious smile. Rather reluctantly, an answering grin spread across his face, and it took all you had to not swoon at the sight. It certainly wouldn’t do you very well to have him think you’d go off in an aromatic faint every time a man so much as smiled at you.

“None of your cheek and back answers now, this is a serious conversation. One that has no need of a pistol, I should think”, he motioned to where you’d been practically strangling the poor weapon just out of sight.

Straightening, you huffed and let your hands fall into your lap, “alright, fine, what exactly would you like to know? Or did you just abduct me to reprimand me for not mourning an adequate amount of time?”

He sat back again, arms crossed, a self satisfied look on his face, “We’ll get back to that later if you’d like, but for now”, his voice dropped an octave or two, and you felt it rumble through your chest, almost making your breath hitch, “what are Starrick’s plans for you?”

“If that’s your way of asking if I’m joining the Templars, then no, I’m not. He’s allowed me that much, at least. I will, however, be taking over ownership of Attaway Transport.”

He furrowed his brow, “you’re taking over the business? You don’t look like an Albertine.”

Though he probably didn’t mean them to, his words almost made you burst your stay lace. “I’ll have you know I’m more than capable of it! After all, I was the one taking care of the accounts back when Pearl was still- well-”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. And you’ll be working under Starrick, then?”

Attractive as he may have been, you didn’t think you liked the way he dismissed your (righteous) indignation.

“Certainly looks that way”, you narrowed your eyes at him, “if I want to keep the business, I don’t have much of a choice, do I? Otherwise I lose the deed.”

That piqued his interest. “You don’t want to work for him?”

“Of course not! He’s a right bastard.”

“And also your uncle.”

You rolled your eyes, “in name only. And with Pearl’s death, he’s not even that anymore. Said so himself, in as many words.”

“Hang on”, he frowned, “are you not related by blood? To him and Pearl?”

You scoffed incredulously, raising an eyebrow, “I thought assassins tended to research their targets thoroughly. It appears I was mistaken”, at his scowl, you hurriedly continued, “but no, I’m not. Pearl took me in when I was younger.”

“So you have no obligations to Starrick?”

“None”, you exhaled sharply, suddenly exhausted. This was not how you expected your day to go at all. Clearing your throat, you pressed on, “are we done here? Or was there something else you wanted?”

He seemed to think for a minute or two, before coming to a decision.

“Work with us.”

You were stunned, to say the least. It must’ve been apparent, because he looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“What did you say?”

“Look, you’ll be running the only transport business in the city as of now, and I imagine you’d find yourself in close quarters with Starrick often enough. You could gather information, provide us with funds we - or others - might need, help liberate the people of London!” He spread his arms wide as he stared at you, likely eagerly awaiting your acceptance.

“No.”

“No?”

“No, sir?” Did he honestly expect you to agree? “The only person this partnership helps is you. I’m going to be the one sticking my neck out for you. And you have nothing to offer me in return. Any such agreement has to be mutually beneficial. And no”, you cut him off before he could get a word in, “your protection doesn’t count. It’s not exactly something I need.”

“But-”

“Mr. Frye”, you sighed, “you seem like a good man, and ordinarily I’d at least consider it, but it’s been a trying day, and-”, you paused as you saw the briefest glimpse of dismay cross his face, before it was gone. It made you uneasy, an incessant bob in your throat to see that, though you weren’t sure why. Still, you supposed you could be just a bit kinder. “Tell you what, if you do realise you have something you could bargain with, we can discuss terms. But only if I think it’s worth the trouble.”

He considered your words for a moment, before nodding, holding his hand out to you.

“We’re in agreement, then?”

“We are”, he affirmed, and you reached out to shake his hand.

“Wonderful. I’ll expect to see you soon enough. But for now”, you gestured vaguely in the direction you’d come from, “would you be so kind as to fetch me a driver? I’d walk, but I’m afraid I don’t know where we are. I might lose my way”, you smiled innocently up at him.

“I could always drive you, there’s no need for all that.”

“Forgive me, but any more of your driving and I might just find myself losing my breakfast”, you ignored his sputtering at your remark, “besides, there will be eyes on my home at all times now. Starrick doesn’t trust me yet, so he’s going to make absolutely certain I’m not…fraternising. I can’t be seen with you or anyone affiliated with you and your sister. So no Rooks either.”

He nodded, looking quite resigned, and opened the carriage door, “very well, ma'am, I shall fetch you your driver. Though, I do hope I don’t have to make an appointment for when I drop by to seal the deal?”

You bit your lip as a mischievous smirk flitted across your lips.

“I’d usually prefer a calling card, but I suppose you could always commandeer my carriage again. Only next time”, he turned to look at you, amusement glinting in his eyes, “try not to wreck London as you do so, please.”

Slang used:

Proper bit of frock - a pretty and clever well-dressed girl

(She’ll) go off in an aromatic faint - said of a fantastical woman, meaning that her delicate nerves will surely be the death of her

Back answers - sharp retorts, quick-tongued replies, without any concession to the laws of etiquette

Albertine - an adroit, calculating, business-like mistress

Burst (her) stay lace -  A sudden bust-heaving feminine indignation, which might even literally, and certainly does figuratively, bring about this catastrophe.

Calling card - small cards used for social purposes; also called visiting cards

[moonelf19]

Remember when they were in the boiling pot? Travis/Fjord tried to look for things he recognized, things people he knew had once had. Things like Caleb's necklace which hadn't been found yet from the pile. He rolled a 21, didnt find it. But Veth who rolled a 21 did. I think that's kinda lame that Fjord had the same score and got nothing out of it while another roll for the same thing did. Imagine if he had actually been given that find?

(I had most of this answer written and tumblr flushed it away so here is take two!)

I hadn’t noticed that moment (but my roommate, who usually misses subtle things in the show, totally DID notice it and thought it was weird). This is now the second time in this arc that Matt has overlooked Caleb when Fjord was looking for people/things.

The first time was when Liam specifically said Caleb sat down next to Fjord at the bonfire to work on his wand (insert conspiracy theory about the wand here). About a minute later Travis asks Matt who is nearby and Matt listed people who were a little ways off doing food preparation but failed to mention Caleb sitting right next to Fjord.

And now Fjord looks for his friends belongings and finds nothing, but Veth looks for her friends belongings with the same roll and gets rewards?

Matt is a GREAT dm, I love watching him work. I also disagree with some of his choices (Veth unable to step across a 6 inch gap without rolling a save, her failing the save and dying in lava??? I was mad for a week lol). He can be a little harsh, which I actually REALLY enjoy! I love challenging DND, where the players have to be paying attention and thinking hard and involved.

However I think the reality is that Matt sees the characters and the story a certain way, and so the way he answers things, what he asks certain people, are all affected by that bias. It reinforces certain dynamics because he’s trying to help the players tell a story.

Do Veth and Caleb have a strong story connection? Yes, absolutely. I LOVE seeing Veth’s story play out because it’s been developing consistently since the start, her personality and choices have been shifting as she learns and grows, the wretched choice she is trying to make between her original family and the M9 is heart wrenching to watch.

I also think that Sam is really good at stepping into the spotlight and interacting with other characters. Veth has a connection with Jester (detectives), Yasha (the development from distrust to offering to give Yasha her flask), Fjord (pseudo-antagonistic friendship), Beau (dex based friendly rivalry). That’s all happened because when Matt asked what they want to do Sam took initiative and incited interaction with another player.

But the rest of the group is not doing that to the same extent. Case in point Ashley. Hardly ever seeks people out, very much still on the fringe of the party. 

All rambling to say that Veth has sort of monopolized Caleb’s connections. Their relationship was/is sort of codependent. If the group is taking watch, Veth immediately pipes up she is on watch with Caleb. If the group is rooming in pairs Veth is going to room with Caleb. If the party is reporting their marching order sometimes she is on watch, but often she will place herself with Caleb to watch over him.

100 episodes in of course Matt has created a Veth-Caleb connection in his head. It’s been hammered in there. Sam has no sense of fear or reservation making sure Veth is where he wants her to be. Her story is being told fantastically. I wish the other characters were getting that sort of treatment, even if I know why they aren’t.

So when Fjord asks for things he would recognize, Matt probably thinks back to when Travis/Fjord has interacted with other party members, and in the heat of the moment he can’t immediately pull up an idea, so he passes it off that Fjord sees nothing. Because Travis is more timid at the table. Because he hasn’t laid the groundwork to have that instant connection to other characters in Matts head.

When Veth asks for things she might recognize, Matt thinks of Caleb. He even mentions sometimes that he assumes Veth is paying extra attention to Caleb unprompted (in the dungeon under Bazzozan, when they were descending the staircase. I just re-watched that episode so it stands out.) And so Matt says that Veth finds Caleb’s necklace. Of course she would.

From a mechanics standpoint it’s like the DC is different for Veth vs Fjord because Veth has seen the necklace so much more. Even if in game Fjord has seen it enough to recognize it, even if the necklace is VERY important to Fjord because it is keeping Caleb safe while he carries the Cloven Crystal. Even if Fjord had a pointed conversation with Caleb about making sure he was safe while carrying this horrible item for Fjord, even if Fjord said he doesn’t want Caleb to be in danger and is soothed by the fact that the necklace protects Caleb from Ukotoa’s followers.

That wasn’t in the forefront of Matt’s mind. So Fjord didn’t see it. Veth did.

And we got another Veth and Caleb interaction instead of a Fjord and Caleb one.

And things stay the same.

[titanstalesofmidnight]

A Little Bird & The Beast

It was some freak accident, a spell gone wrong meant for his brother in the heat of battle, what it had left was something so inhuman, so dangerous and monstrous that when the wars were done he was locked away in an enchanted prison by his own family out of fear of what he was becoming.

The royal family scoured the lands for a way to undo the curse, but it appeared none would be able to.

In time the royal family slowly gave up on his fate, for they could find no cure, and perhaps there was none to save their beloved brother. Time moved forward as peace settled over their country. Prince Richard married the wise oracle who was called Barbara, their reign was long and prosperous as the crown was passed to their son and their son’s son. Prince Timothy was a renown scholar, who’s works became classic literature and classic studies for the educated mind. Prince Damian was a revered general, who had led their nation to greatness, and made their people indomitable.

And in the centuries that passed their names were revered, beloved, and remembered with great love and affection. But slowly time robbed their brother’s memory from their people, and slowly the grand castle which was the prison for their brother’s monstrous form fell into disrepair, and the once great Prince wept in sorrow as time moved on and left him trapped an immortal beast, for none would ever be able to break his curse.

Who could ever, truly, love a beast?

~~~*~*~*~~~

Raven Roth looked over her book selection of the measly shop in town, most of them were from the shop owner’s personal collection too, which was sad. Still, she was pleased to see the works of Ann Radcliffe here, it had been a small treasure she had found in London and was pleased to see it here in this small shop. She smiled as she paid for her book and left the shop. Oh how she longed for America again, but she was here in this European country side because of her ailing grandfather. Luci had been very ill when he had sent word to the States about his health, Raven had come in place of her cousins. Her family ran a small potato farm on Montaukett, her uncle’s family land, and her aunt had despaired knowing that Luci was so unwell in Europe. Raven had come to Europe to take care of her grandfather so her aunt wouldn’t worry.

Her grandfather had long since left his ancestral home because of the “Enlightened Absolutism” and had taken to hiding in a small mountain village in France. Her grandfather had sent both his daughters to the Americas though, where her mother and aunt had survived the Revolution, and now were both getting old and weary, Raven’s own mother had passed away, devastating her father.

Her father had been a member of the Mohawk Tribe, her mother had found him injured and helped heal him. It had lead to her mother’s marriage to the warrior, and later, it had lead to Raven’s orphan status before she returned to her mother’s sister in Montaukett. That had lasted a few years before Raven had come to France to care for her grandfather. Luci was a very old, very sick man, otherwise Raven would have insisted on his voyage to America where the family could care for him properly. Especially with all the unrest going on in France, and the Napoleonic Wars, Raven wanted to flee from here as quickly as she could but could not leave her grandfather.

Walking through the town she longed for her home where people did not stare at her for her unusual appearance, people had long since accustomed themselves to her at home. Here though she seemed somewhat of a novelty and she did not like it.

“Hello Raven,” a voice called out for her, she grimaced recognizing it. Since her arrival in this town she had been relentlessly hounded by the rich merchant Garfield Logan, an English officer who was stationed in this village because of the Napoleonic wars; another reason she wanted to leave this wretched country. She supposed he could be handsome, though she had yet to see the appeal of a Brit. At all. Her country had just gone through a bloody war kicking them out, and she was not inclined to be courted by one. Still, the manners her aunt had drilled in her had her stopping when Garfield caught her elbow.

“You must’ve been lost in thought and not heard me!” he chuckled.

“I heard you, but you have not heard me,” she replied tersely as she gingerly pried her elbow from his grasp and glared at him. His blond hair and blue eyes had no doubt endeared him to many but he was a nuisance to her. The way he leered at her also made her very uncomfortable.

“I was wondering if you would do me the honor of saving the first dance for me,” he smiled as he caught her hand, she yanked it from his grasp.

“I will not be attending the gather, I am caring for my grandfather,” she turned and continued for her home when he appeared at her side again.

“Rae, it’s unseemly of a girl like you to turn into a spinster,” he started.

“And I have no interest in courting a red coat, best be on your way Garfield,” she said dismissively. She was interested in going home. She had told Garfield numerous times ‘no’ and yet it always seemed that the blond had not caught her rebuff.

“Raven, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, we belong together.”

“I am not interested, and I must go,” she stated as she managed to finally escape him and started for her home. The red coat would not learn and it was killing her slowly. Putting on a small smile for her grandfather she walked into his small cottage.

“I have collected a new book for us to read, Grandfather! An Ann Radcliffe novel, I think you will enjoy her,” Raven said as she walked up to her grandfather, he was laying in bed, propped against the pillows watching the village, he turned to her slowly and smiled.

“Arella my angel!”

“No, grandfather, it’s me, Raven,” she said as she took her customary seat.

“Oh, yes, sorry my dear, you look so much like your mother!” he chuckled.

She smiled at the mention of the likeness. Her mother had been a stunning woman. “Now, where do we begin?” she chuckled lifting her new prize up.

“The beginning is best,” Luci sighed dryly.

“I am not so certain of that,” she chuckled. “But very well, we shall begin at the beginning!”

[magioftheseas]

The Farce of Hope

Written for @komahinaisle

Day 5: Fantasy AU, Healing, Hope

Summary: A certain hero of hope has been causing problems for those who reap despair. Hinata is assigned with breaking that hero's will through the targeting of the insipid, vapidly cheerful healer that is always by his side.

Rating: T

Warnings: Attempted murder and later kidnapping.

Notes: This is not a day late. I just can’t read. Anyway I’ve been wanting to write this idea for a long time...however I wanted to write it much spicier. I’m pretty sad that I didn’t. But hopefully it’s still serviceable if nothing else. Also demon!Hinata is v good. V, v, v good.

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

Lately, that hero had been causing more and more problems. Junko was getting increasingly annoying about it, which wasn’t helping.

“You gotta dooooo something, Hajime!!” she whined, clinging to him with big, watery eyes. “They’re ruining all my plans! All my despair! It’s sooooo frustrating! Not despairing, but frustrating! At this rate, the disgusting populace won’t fear me as much as they used to! And what will I do, then?!”

He grumbled. He griped. And she shoved him out the door.

“If you fail me, I’ll feel such despair that I won’t be able to resist killing you on the spot!” she chirped, cheerful now. “So! Take care of that wretched, stupid hero of hope, Hajime! In fact! I’ll make it easy for you! Target that dumbass healer always tagging along and fawning over them!” With a grin, she waved him off. “He looks like easy prey but is pretty annoyingly immune to my charm! You’re definitely more up his alley! Don’t let me down! Or else!”

And that was that.

“Urgh.”

Chief demon-in-command, Hinata Hajime, was given simultaneously a most important mission—and a most irritating chore.

--

It’s not all that important to mention, but Hinata Hajime hadn’t always been a demon. He was one of many former humans swayed to the side of despair due to discontentment with the current state of affairs and Junko’s promises of glory. She had presented them a paradise of free will and euphoria, and he had been desperate enough to hang on every word.

As time wore on, it was obvious she didn’t care about them at all. But, it wasn’t like Hinata Hajime cared for the other world, either. Hope, happiness, righteousness were all nothing more than farces. This hero, too, with their wide-eyed innocence and determination, was just another joke.

But the one Hinata undoubtedly detested the most was the healer. The healer who worshipped every step of the hero, and sang praise upon praise of their spread of hope, their sweeping influence as a symbol of hope. As if such a thing hadn’t already proven to be a broken promise. He was either willfully dense or just that stupid.

And yet, the hero kept him around. Likely for those asinine assurances.

Foolishness all around. But, if there was an ideal target, it was the healer.

“What sort of materials do we need for this next mission, Naegi-kun?!”

“You don’t need to worry about it so soon, Komaeda-san...”

“But! I! Insist!” With his overwhelming enthusiasm and fiery intensity, the healer having his way was inevitable, even when placed against a so-called hero. Even the most innocuous of observers could tell, and as someone spying on them, Hinata already found himself bored as the healer huffed. “A hero of hope can never be too prepared!”

As predicted, the hero sighs.

“Alright, alright. But, we’re going to relax here for a while, okay? I’m still pretty exhausted, and I’m sure you are, too.”

“If this feeble body of mine is destined to crumble, it’s no concern as long as it can still bear the weight of supporting you, Naegi-kun!”

Unsurprisingly, the hero’s face pinches up. He shook his head quickly.

“Please. Take care of yourself.”

“Oh.” The healer blinks back. “Did I upset you, Naegi-kun?”

“I’m not upset.” The hero shook his head again. “I just worry.”

“You don’t need to worry,” was insisted.

“But I do anyway. Komaeda-kun—we are running low on herbs for potions. Um. Maybe I could use a new cloak? What do you think?” A pitiful smile was given as the healer lit up, eyes bright. “I trust you on this more than anything.”

“We definitely do need more herbs,” he rattled off. “And we need to buy polish for the armor and yes, a new cloak. Preferably one resistant to poisons! We’re coming up on quite a dangerous area! So antidotes are also a must! Don’t worry, Naegi-kun! I’ll grab everything we need and then some!”

“Alright, Komaeda-kun. Thank you.”

It was painfully simple, Hinata Hajime thought as the healer went on his way. He wove through the crowd, following that bouncing healer, who was so easy to spot with his white hair and light robes. A blight, one with an infuriatingly cheerful hum as he walked.

It would have been painfully easy to burn that annoying little light into a crisp.

Just kill him—that’s all Junko asked for. She didn’t even care about extracting any level of satisfaction. I could just twist a knife into his gut and leave.

The healer tripped, and enough people parted so that he fell to the ground. The hero was too far away to witness this. Hinata Hajime drew near.

“Ahaha,” the healer murmured, pushing himself up shakily, still smiling. “How clumsy of me.”

“Do you need help?” Hinata asked, feigning concern as he played with the small dagger hidden in his cloak. He offers his hand. “Here. Let me.”

“Oh!” The healer perked up, eyes wide before he once again beams. He reaches for Hinata’s hand just as Hinata’s grip closes around the handle of his dagger. “Thank you so—”

“Out of the way! I’ve lost control!”

High-pitched whinnying. The crowd was screaming and scattering to make way for the horse charging through. Hinata was forced to yank the healer close if he wanted to avoid them both getting trampled on the spot. The healer’s mouth opens to let out a sharp yelp, which is then muffled by Hinata’s cloak. The horse races by. Its distraught owner chases after it.

The healer is still pressed close, and Hinata could feel his heart hammering. Rather belatedly, he realizes that the healer is gripping his other hand. The one that still holds the knife.

Hinata says nothing, but the healer lets out a shaky exhale.

“Oh.” He lets go of Hinata’s other hand, pulling back almost sheepishly. “That was rather exhilarating, wasn’t it?” He laughs, and his face is flushed. “I would’ve died if not for you! What truly good luck!”

Good luck?

At Hinata’s quizzical stare, the healer just gave his usual insipid smile.

“Thank you for saving me. Um.” He digs through his pouch and pulling out several gold coins. “How much—do you want?”

Does he think I’m just a thief?

“I’m sorry,” the healer went on. “I’m afraid I don’t have much gold to spare. But, I can compensate you in other ways, if you like. Is there anything you need?”

No one is paying them any mind. The menial bustling has returned now that the apparent danger is gone. It would not be that hard to finish the job anyway, the distraction be damned. The healer is smiling up at him so pitifully, and Hinata Hajime wonders if he’s still afraid.

“I don’t mind,” the healer said. “Really. Even if you were trying to hurt me, you ultimately helped me. So, you must not be that bad of a person.”

I could have let the horse trample him.

Hinata wanted to curse his impulses. No wonder this fool was trying to pay him.

“I don’t want any payment,” he snapped. “It was instinct. Your hand was already in mine. I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Are you sure?” There’s finally a frown on that face. “I really, really don’t mind.”

How infuriating!

“At least let me buy you a meal,” the other insisted, to Hinata’s disdain. “Instinct or not, you saved me. Please, let me show proper gratitude! I... I’m Komaeda Nagito, by the way. I’m quite the worthless healer, but I’m not completely hopeless, haha.”

What you are is hapless.

Hinata bit his tongue, but he didn’t really have an excuse to flee. Even if he wanted to disengage as quickly as he could.

“Hinata... Hajime. Nice to meet you.” His name wasn’t given very often. The sound and shape of it were as bland and banal on his tongue as ever. “If you really want to—I guess I can’t stop you.”

“Hinata-kun!” Komaeda grins with the radiance that he preferred to see crushed. “It’s nice to meet you! I hear the food at the inn is delicious, so let’s go there!”

Hinata can only nod, fingers twitching as he does. “Let’s.”

--

“Order whatever you want, Hinata-kun! I don’t mind paying for it!”

“What was that about not having much gold to spare?”

“I get a discount, ehe.” Komaeda’s grin grows, looking unbearably smug. “It’s because of Naegi-kun. Surely you’ve heard of him. He’s an incredible hero of hope, you see.”

“I’ve heard,” Hinata said, if only because he didn’t want to hear more about it. “How fortunate for you to associate with someone like that.”

“Mmhm.” Komaeda nods along dreamily, eyes half-lidded. After a while, he blinked a few times and his head tilted. “You knew about him but you still wanted to...?”

He’s sharper than he looks.

“It’s because you don’t look strong yourself.” That was true, at least. Everything about Komaeda Nagito, the healer, screamed fragile. And healers weren’t known for being all that durable in the first place. It’s astounding to think that Naegi Makoto could manage with a healer this especially frail in appearance, but either Komaeda Nagito was more than he seemed—or he was quite lucky.

I’m leaning towards luck.

Komaeda laughing more or else emboldened the thought.

“You’re right! You’re absolutely right! I’m definitely a weak link! If Naegi-kun hadn’t known me for so long, he would have rightfully discarded me long ago.” Brushing away stray tears, Komaeda added. “Naegi-kun’s such a kind person. I’ve known that from the start, even before I was aware of his potential. I do want to support him with all that I have.”

“Would you even give your life for him?” Hinata asked.

Komaeda didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes! Of course!”

He’s even stupider than I thought. Does he even know that his death will be a cause of despair? Stupid. So stupid.

It was infuriating. Beyond infuriating. Even if he does kill Komaeda Nagito, the healer will part with sweet words of encouragement and a smile. He’s sure of it.

He’s just like how I was back then.

--

“Are you not going to order anything?”

“Mm... Toast, maybe?”

“That’s not a meal.”

“Ahaha! I don’t need to eat that badly!”

So stupid.

But, he holds his tongue. He orders a modest meal, all things considered. Junko spoils them quite a bit with high-class meals when she doesn’t randomly decide to poison them. To eat something normal without that concern would be a nice change of pace. He’s not much for a lavish lifestyle anyway, it turns out.

The food was fine. The service was fine. The innkeeper was polite, well-practiced. This kind of mundane scenario had become a rarity ever since he joined Junko. There are times where he wondered if he had understood what, exactly, he sacrificed back then. But, it didn’t matter.

None of it really mattered.

“If you insist on staring so intently,” he found himself snapping at the other. “Then perhaps order an actual meal for yourself?”

“O-Oh!” Komaeda hurriedly waved his hands. “Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Hinata-kun! I was just...” Wetting his lips, he seems contemplative. “You’re so methodical with how you eat. It’s rather fascinating to watch. Especially when you’re a lowly thief.”

He doesn’t even lower his voice on the off-chance that he’s overheard. Hinata wouldn’t be surprised if it had been intentional. Even with the show of charity, there was a suspicious glimmer in Komaeda Nagito’s eye. As if he wasn’t sure if what he was appraising was dirt or gold.

Hinata merely snorted, unwilling to humor him. Komaeda’s smile quirked, but he didn’t add anything else.

“What were you before you joined Naegi Makoto?” Hinata asked next, head tilting with the inquiry. “Did you have any path laid out before you prior to clinging to the hero’s coattails?”

“Not really,” Komaeda said easily. “I was always clumsy, so I never had any promise. It would have been impertinent to have ambitions. But supporting Naegi-kun is everything I ever could have wanted.”

“I see.” Hinata nodded. “How fortunate for you to find happiness in someone else’s shadow.”

“It’s more than I deserve,” Komaeda speaks brightly. Easily. “So yes, I’m very happy.”

Happy—huh?

“Is that so? You’ve no resentment at all? No regrets? You really only appreciate what you have?” Hinata stood, leaving the meal only partially finished. “How noble of you. You’re just the perfect martyr, aren’t you?”

Someone like this isn’t even worth a glance. It’s just because he’s close to Naegi Makoto that Junko wants him dealt with. He’s fortunate and unfortunate in that sense.

“It may be hard to understand, but it’s how I feel,” Komaeda said, fearless even as Hinata approaches him. He doesn’t even tense as Hinata looms over him. “Are you angry, Hinata-kun? That’s quite a scary face. I guess you must be quite unsatisfied with your current lot in life.”

“I am, but I don’t envy you.” Hinata stares, gaze sharp. “I’m not sure if I hate you or if I feel sorry for you. She certainly wouldn’t care either way as long as you’re taken care of.”

Komaeda’s expression changed immediately, smile dropping.

“She?”

“She,” Hinata confirmed, reaching into his cloak for his dagger. Komaeda blinks, but Hinata merely carves words into the table. “This is for your hero. I assume he’ll understand what comes next.”

Komaeda looks over the message, and his eyes go wide when he realizes.

“You—”

Hinata covers his mouth. He takes Komaeda’s outburst of magic without blinking, and then he yanks the squirming, struggling healer close.

“I’m doing you a favor,” Hinata hissed, and he brought his hand down swiftly.

Someone screamed, but the two of them are gone before long.

--

In the end, he decided against killing Komaeda Nagito. Why? Sentimentality, perhaps?

I don’t know. I just got so angry and now here we are.

Hinata sighed, resting against the wall. They’re in a hideout, now. A location that he detailed on the table and Komaeda is secured, still unconscious and curled up on a pile of leaves. His wrists are bound, his magic restricted. Like this, he truly does look utterly helpless.

Hinata almost feels bad but stomps down the rising bile and guilt.

It’s because he’s a liar. Saying he’s happy with his lot in life—what a joke. I’ll prove him wrong.

“You’re not any better than me,” he murmurs, fierce as he approaches, scowling down at Komaeda’s innocent face. “You’re just as wretched, just as wanting, just as corrupt. You’re just in denial that hope is a farce, and once you realize, that Naegi Makoto will see it, too.”

He reaches out, and as Komaeda murmurs, Hinata finds himself softening and brushing the other’s hair back.

“Mm... Where...? Hinata-kun...?”

“Komaeda Nagito,” Hinata says, suddenly tired but resolute. “It’s time for me to teach you about the Ultimate Despair.”

[leothelionsaysgrrrr]

i couldn't decide between ❝if you shut up people might actually think you’re smart.❞ and ❝you could’ve died, you know?❞ for Rex, so you have a choice!

Like you don’t know which one I’m going to pick :P

Rexus, Alba, and Silver are mine, Longinus and Eli belong to @lavellanlove

——

The question hung in Alba’s throat as she stared, somehow simultaneously transfixed and entirely bewildered by the sight of a grown man stood atop a concerningly wobbly chair, straining with all his might to shove another smaller chair through a hole in the ceiling. Though hardly in the habit of asking questions to which she already knew the answer, this was...strange, even for him.

“Rexus,” she sighed, tucking her cane under one arm while rubbing circles around her temples with her fingers, “do I...want...to know what it is exactly you’re doing right now?”

It may as well have happened in slow motion.  Startled by her voice, Rexus shifted his weight a bit too far to one side for the chair to bear, and chairs and man crashed unceremoniously to the ground, followed by what she could only assume was muffled cursing. When he finally got to his feet, scowling through an unruly mess of loose black curls, Alba didn’t even try to hide her snickering.

“Still floating in uninvited like the demon you are, I see,” Rexus growled, aggressively slapping the dust from his clothes in her direction.

“Good to know I can always expect such a warm welcome from the man I am so generously allowing to live under my roof even as he shirks his promised duties and...” her voice trailed off into only sharp taps of her cane on the floorboards as she moved closer to the hole in the ceiling, staring with a curled lip into the darkness, “destroys my property, apparently.”

“Silver lets me live here,” Rexus retorted, of course, because recognizing that despite holding more sway over her than she’d like to admit, Silver still worked for her remained beyond him.

Tightening her grip on the head of her cane and forcing out her best smile that didn’t want to be a smile at all, Alba tilted her head coyly to one side and muttered a soft, “For now.”

Rexus, however, was already ignoring her, instead scratching his beard and staring off elsewhere, as if he’d forgotten she was there entirely until he happened to look in her direction again. The scratching stopped, and his face curled and scrunched into a look of exasperated offense, silently screaming something along the lines of “excuse me?!”. Somehow, Alba managed to clench her jaw against everything telling her to make absolutely sure the entire Oasis knew she was cross with him, and only widened her eyes as round as she could while raising a stiff hand into the air. Equally a gesture towards the subject of her question as it was a threat; if he had a mind to continue being cheeky, she’d be more than happy to spare him her cane and simply smack the shit-eating grin off of his face.

Rexus righted the sturdier chair and hoisted the other one onto his shoulders.

“Just...” he grunted, letting out a tiny whoop sound couched between more strained grunts as he managed to hoist himself up onto the chair again, “having a little fun with the kid.”

The kid? Thinking for a moment that he meant the newest and youngest of her courtesans, Alba’s hand tightened around her cane again, as she’d been certain to let him know not to even think about it the moment he’d arrived, she soon realized he meant another kid entirely. One that made the amount of work he put into this nonsense quite a bit more entertaining.

The madam tilted her head back with a knowing smirk.  “Longinus’s boy? The one whose neck you were raving about wringing the other day when he threw beets in the wash with your linens?”

Rexus scoffed.  “I’m almost certain that last one was actually Sil, or at least Sil’s idea.”  He adjusted the chair against the hole, and tried pushing again.  “But yes, that boy.”

“Is this...fun...of yours going to require the guards to keep the boy’s father - an exceptionally kind and patient man and one of my best courtesans - from killing you afterwards?”

Alba winced at the piercing, high-pitched giggle Rexus emitted at the idea, which she noted was decidedly not a no.  

“Look,” Rexus began, and finally managed to push the chair the rest of the way into the attic with another adjustment to the angle and a good, strong heave.  “Kid just wants to mess with his tutor a little.  I’d like him to get a taste for messing with someone else for a change, and I also happen to have a fair bit of experience with messing with tutors, so I offered to help.”

“By...putting a chair in the attic?”

“No, no, no - well, yes, but you aren’t letting me finish.”  He reached up to grip the sides of the hole, and lifted himself up to wiggle his way through into the attic.  Alba rolled her eyes.  

“Sounds like a personal problem, Rexus.”

His head emerged from the attic, twisting this way and that until he oriented himself enough to point a sharp glare in her direction.

“Well, you ought to know, at your age.”  Reaching an arm down, he pointed a finger towards her, but not at her.  Something near her, perhaps.  “Hand me that, would you?”

When she didn’t move, it was his turn to roll his eyes, and continued flailing his arm towards whatever it was he wanted her to find.  “That.  The...the thing, right there, the...” - he snapped his fingers a few times - “the powder can?  Right behind you??”

Alba retrieved the can in question, peering through the small opening in the top to examine the contents.  A fine, soft, brownish-grey powder, no readily detectable odor, but she wasn’t about to go trying to find one.  Nor was she about to taste it, but to her dismay found her curiosity sufficiently piqued.

“So you’re planning to...what, entice the tutor into the attic and then cover him in completely innocuous powder?”

Rexus had disappeared back into the ceiling, and thrust down an impatient, demanding hand.  “Give it.”  

Reluctantly, Alba obliged, and raised an eyebrow at the self-satisfied snickering emanating from above.  His masterpiece apparently completed, Rexus dropped through the hole a moment later, wobbling through the landing, powder can in hand.  

Alba raised her eyebrows.  “That hardly seems worth of such a smug expression, Rexus.”

“Hm?”

Of course he wasn’t listening.  He was fitting what she supposed was meant to be a door over the hole, which she supposed was at least somewhat more considerate than she’d expected of him.  

“Your master plan.  For a self-professed genius where pranking tutors is concerned, this all seems quite a bit less than impressive.”

“HA!” Rexus snorted, and hopped off the chair.  “Such little faith, dear Alba.  This being your property and all, you must realize that the storage closet in the next room - the kid’s room - has a little door in the ceiling that leads right. up. there.”  

She nodded.  

“Right.  So, he goes to get something, but never comes back.  What could possibly have happened to him?”  He inhaled an exaggerated gasp, and pointed a finger towards the ceiling, waggling it in cadence with his eyebrows.  “Then, once the tutor is sufficiently terrified he’s lost the child and runs for help before his father finds out, he simply crawls back down, gets back to his studies like he’d never left, tutor and anyone he brings back with him doubt his sanity, child is entertained at the expense of someone who is not me, everyone’s happy.”

It pained her to admit it, but despite being so very typically Rexus, it...wasn’t actually a bad plan.  No one would be injured, no messes to clean, no stains for the laundry staff to invent new detergents in order to remove...perhaps it was less typically Rexus than she’d thought.  

“And you felt the need to make a new door straight into the middle of your room because...?”

The room fell uncharacteristically silent for a moment, Rexus’s ordinarily plentiful words stalled as his bottom lip caught under his teeth.

“Ah, well...” he stammered, scratching at the back of his head.  “So there’s another way out, right?  His door could get stuck, or if something else happens and he needs to come find me.  You know.”

She knew, and that was definitely not typically Rexus.  Considering someone other than himself?  She’d have been a fool to expect it - was such a fool for years, before Silver found him in some dive bar in the Free Marches and dragged him back to Minrathous.  An act of utter naivete, she’d said, believing the wretched scoundrel could ever become anything but a wretched scoundrel.  Yet, here he was, risking his precious privacy and leaving himself open to all manner of practical jokes he’d cursed that very child over plenty of times before because he remembered sounds of fists pounding on doors amid Longinus’s frantic pleas and muffled crying through the wall between his room and the child’s closet.  Regardless of his willingness to admit any of this, if this sort of thing was to be the new typically Rexus, well...Alba supposed she could live with that.  

“You know, if you’d shut up every once in a while, people might actually think you’re smart.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed, “I take special care to ensure I never, ever do that. Do you honestly think I could get away with half the shit I get away with if everyone -yourself included, don’t lie for my sake- wasn’t absolutely certain I’m a blithering idiot?”

He was certainly not wrong, which was more than a little disturbing.  

“Well, you needn’t worry too much, once they realize your greatest rival is a twelve year old child.”

“He’s eleven, and he’s a menace.”

“He’s twelve, but I am pleased you have finally settled your differences amicably.  Though,” she picked up the powder can, and held it up beside her head, “I still don’t understand what this is for.”

A much more familiar spark grew in his eyes as he took the can and sprinkled some on the floor, slipped his foot into a nearby boot, and pressed his foot on top of it.  Unsure what he could possibly be so proud of himself about, Alba raised an eyebrow, but the smell hit her before she could ask.  A horrid sulfurous stench, and her hand flew to her face to hide her grimacing, her eyes searching his for answers.

Now sporting a particularly ridiculous grin and appearing perfectly content with the rancid odor now permeating his room, Rexus was more than happy to provide them.  “Well, I can’t very well just let him believe he’s beaten me, now, can I?”  

Typically fucking Rexus.

“I put it on the chair.  Anywhere he goes for the rest of the day, everyone’s going to be searching for who loosed such a foul smell upon them, and all evidence will point directly to him.”

Alba shook her head, and didn’t stop until she was well down the hallway.

[project-ohagi]

Hayato Yamagata x Reader - Soulmate AU {Haikyuu!!}

[Soulmate AU: Wherein you have the first words your soulmate ever speak to you, written on your wrist].

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Although the day was long, the evening seemed longer - significantly so.

Volleyball practice had ended a while earlier, yet here he was, remaining in the building to run some errands. The dormitories weren't far, so it wasn't as if actually minded. Glancing down at his wrist, a solemn sigh passed his lips. Gentle fingers traced the inscription: the first words his soulmate would ever orate to him, the words fated to spark an inevitable romance, which would blossom and blossom. Despite currently being unfamiliar with his predestined partner, his heart soared at the very thought of them. He knew, instinctively, that no matter their appearance, to him, they would present the most beautiful divinity.

Their aura would be unmatched in compassion towards himself and others - this was Hayato's sole expectation. Besides that, he couldn't care less. His heart thundered with the determination to shower them the utmost love and affection. He would treat them as a god, a goddess, a mixture of the two, or some genderless celestial. Whatever their manifestation, he would love them, both passionately and unconditionally.

However, the phrase engraved into his wrist was quite unsettling.

'No, please don't touch that!'

Without context, it sent insuppressible shivers all the way down his spine. Obviously, worry consumed him - it always did. He couldn't comprehend the truth of the message. Yet...an ache tugged so violently at his heartstrings. Those words bled pain, desperation. If they, his future, needed help in any way, then with his fiercest conviction, he wished to bestow it upon them. He wanted to find them, to cradle their frame tightly, close to his chest, so that his raging heartbeat could echo in their ears, acting as the proof of his love. He desired nothing more than this, and to witness the majesty of their smile. It made him giddy, like a young child arresting its parents' attention.

...Until his mind played back the phrase, droning on in miserable notes, as an amalgamation of all the world's depressing songs.

His yearning for the information of what agonised you so greatly was causing slight mishaps in his daily life. You had yet to physically enter the scrapbook of his life, but he could almost feel your energy...fragments of your pain. It was suffocating, sometimes. But still, he didn't completely understand. Meeting you, at this point, was absolutely imperative; he figured that it could potentially be the difference between life and death. Another abysmal thought began to plague his already-throbbing mind - what could you be referring to? What would cause such wretched words to tumble from your lips, and would they be in retaliation to a forceful act on his end? He really hoped that wasn't so. If he traumatised you to the extent at which your very vocals trembled, then, soulmate or no, surely your heart wouldn't ever allow itself to love him.

That imagining was a cursed reel, and he vowed never to replay it. Besides, there couldn't have been any point to worrying so tirelessly, when you were still yet-to-be-discovered. Hayato could hazard a guess that, at the least, you weren't in his class, and, perhaps some mystical connection might have compelled you towards each other, if you ever passed in the halls. Therefore, he decided that either you simply didn't occupy a space in the third year, or you didn't attend Shiratorizawa, period.

Although his brain favoured the latter, his heart pounded for the former, since it would obviously make finding you so much easier. Hayato had been raised to place faith in his gut instinct, and right now, his gut seemed to produce two words: foreign and danger. He was unsure whether this meant that you were of a different lineage, or that you attended another school, and consequently would be alien to him.

But, danger...

...There was no doubt - you were in a precarious situation, or on the losing side of a violent, bloody battle. He prayed for your eternal safety, day in and day out. You would forever arrest his unconditional support, no matter the circumstance.

Shaking off these depressing pictures was difficult, but necessary, because torturing himself over them during your omission from his life, would only affect his health and grades on a greater scale. Hayato trudged around the building, finding the papers and other things he needed, and prepared to head back to his dormitory. So much of his mental energy had been wiped out already, and he was exhausted. Lying down on his lovely, soft bed sounded blissful.

Instead, mere moments after falling, he registered that what he was kneeling atop wasn't a bed, but in fact...a girl?

Embarrassment permeated his very core. He never achieved much with women, mainly due to his sharp glares (yes, the unintentional ones - perhaps he had the masculine equivalent of resting bitch face), but this was just...oh my lord, why? He refrained from punching himself, only since terror had gripped your features, and he didn't wish to disturb you any further. He scrambled to his feet, apologising profusely, and reaching out a hand, to help you up. Those almost-feral, chocolate eyes ghosted over you, and in an instant, he was transfixed. You adorned the regular, Shiratorizawa uniform, but it appeared to be slightly larger than you needed. Your sleeves were very long, he noted, and he couldn't see your wrists at all. Luscious, (h/c) locks swept across your face, partially shielding your (e/c) orbs from view.

"Eh...are you alright? Can you stand?" His genuine concern captivated you, but you were panicked, tears welling up amongst the glittering constellations.

When you failed to respond, he started rubbing his neck, in an effort to soothe his nerves. This was a situation unlike any other (he was often a lot more careful of his surroundings), but his aid seemed to offend you, for some reason, so what could he actually do? The waterfall, which dripped from your eyes, was something he desired to wipe away. He detested this - watching you suffer in relative silence. Why weren't you letting him help? Couldn't you speak? Was something about his actions, his words, so wrong? After a minute or two of deliberation, he decided to perch himself on the floor, in front of you.

"Do you need somebody to talk to? Should I go and find a teacher?"

The words remained lodged in your throat, slowly suffocating you.

You squirmed uncomfortably, every movement revealing slightly more skin, although you didn't appear to notice. Hayato's eyes travelled to your wrists, now exposed, and his blood ran cold. His compassionate nature kicked into overdrive, and he immediately locked on to your arm. Meek sounds of discomfort rolled off your tongue, as the knife-inflicted wounds seared with pain. He was speechless, left gawking at your arms, specifically the one he had grabbed. Despite his concern, he proceeded to squeeze your wrist (albeit, absentmindedly - he was far too focused on the actual cuts). His fingers moved closer to them, as his mind scrambled desperately for any trace of logic.

Fear widened your eyes, causing you to whisper-yell, "No, please don't touch that!"

Hayato's mind ceased its constant rotations.

His eyes graced your own, partly in astonishment, partly in worry. He remembered all his previous musings with great sobriety - he was right to be concerned for your safety. Although, it hadn't ever truly crossed his thoughts, that you could have been your own arch-nemesis. That was just...it was awful, the fact that you felt such hopelessness, to rely upon a knife to release the agony. The deadly war in which you were engaged...it was against yourself, and that knowledge hurt immensely. He wished to place gentle kisses along all those beautiful, yet disheartening battle scars.

They were beautiful, he affirmed, because they were a part of you. They had been carved on to your flesh, and in spite of their secrecy, you owned them. With enough time and care, they could be removed, but they were a testament to your survival. You had lived, through everything which tried to kill you, and that made you strong - stronger than him, by far.

With determination, he maintained the eye-contact.

"You can talk to me, about anything. I'm not going to judge you. Everyone feels pain - people just cope differently."

"You - You're not disgusted? Scared?" Your voice quivered, emotions spilling to the surface.

"No, of course not. Those scars are yours, and you're beautiful. I'm not scared of them - I love them, like I love you."

This boy, he was honestly too sweet. Someone of your position, your weak constitution, didn't deserve he who behaved so admirably. He possessed a strength with which you could never compete. He was everything you had ever wished for in life. But...you couldn't keep him, and he couldn't keep you.

Not in this lifetime.

Before the illusion vanished, before it was too late and regret began to fester, you smiled, as brightly as possible. You wanted to leave him with something positive, if only for a mere second. Hayato mirrored your expression, ears burning crimson with the inclusion of your little "I love you too.". A question danced on the tip of his tongue, but he was never allowed to pose it.

"Hey, Hayato! What're you doing over here?" Said male turned, meeting the perplexed gaze of a certain, infamous red-head.

"Tendou?" He muttered, equally as confused. "I'm helping someone I bumped into."

A strange look came upon the boy's face.

"Well, did she run away before I got here? I didn't see anyone!"

The chocolate-orbed one paused, asking, "No...she's right her-"

Although, when he tried to glimpse your divinity once more, he found nothing but an empty spot. There was no indication that you had ever been in the general area, but he hadn't noticed you leave. Tendou surely would have seen you...?

Was madness consuming him?

[airlock]

so, folks, having put a great deal of time into staring at the dining hall menu on Fire Emblem: Three houses, I decided to attempt a fun little exercise: what if I set about putting together a list of what my dislikes, neutrals and likes from the list would be if I were attending Garreg Mach?

and see... due to my presently undiagnosed neurodivergence, I have a hypersensitive palate, as well as a hypersensitivity to textures. I have been described by sufficiently rude people as “difficult to feed”. if y’all have seen and remember that one post where you tally up everything you would eat and get a higher score the less of a picky eater you are, well, I scored like a two or a four on that. so, y’know... this is going to be fun y’all

The Wretched Food Sins (dislikes)

Beast Meat Teppanyaki, Pickled Rabbit Skewers, Gronder Meat Skewers, Garreg Mach Meat Pie

see, I’m just going to get this one out of the way immediately: I don’t like red meat. when I tell people that, their first assumption is usually that I’m a vegan or avoiding the shitload of growth hormones or whatever, but no, I still eat some other types of meat and health is obviously not a priority in my diet; I just find that red meat tastes and feels something awful. we clear? we clear.

Onion Gratin Soup

(Onions stewed with white trout and baked with a layer of cheese on top. Will warm you up from the inside out.)

onions I’m also not very fond of. when they’re used for flavor, they’re normally used in small enough amounts to be safely ignored, but here it seems that the idea is to eat whole baked onions off a soup, like... is that a thing that human people do with the single lives that they have??

Country-Style Red Turnip Plate

(A balanced meal including red turnip and verona stew, red turnip salad, and sautéed red turnip with garlic.)

just not sure about this one; I mean, it’s not that I actually recall ever eating a turnip, or that a “verona” is a real vegetable that I can compare to any extant thing... I just don’t think I’ve ever had a good time attempting to eat a plateful of vegetables and I don’t have much faith that the monastery cantina is breaking new ground there

Vegetable Stir-Fry

(A dish of dried tomatoes, cabbage, chickpeas and other vegetables, stir-fried with egg. Nutritious and very filling.)

I might just be mixing up terms, but if I understand correctly, I’ve never heard of stir-frying before. it sounds like a cool thing, though! I do love the the idea of using egg as a base for this, too! it’s a pity that they then proceed to pick nothing but ass ingredients for the entire rest of this particular recipe

Fish and Bean Soup

(A soup made by simmering white trout and chickpeas. A simple yet wholesome dish.)

sorry, head chef, beans are a horrific mouthfeel and you cannot and will not convince me that a dish featuring them is uwu wholesome

Pickled Seafood and Vegetables

(A Dagdan dish of raw fish and turns pickled in a vinegar-based seasoning liquid. Rarely eaten in Fódlan.)

so, I’ve actually had the idea for this post quite a ways ago, and one of the very first things I had in mind was the precise burn I was going to deliver unto the smell of vinegar. right? thing is, it’s been so long since then that the anedocte I was going to use as a delivery vector for that burn has since taken a dark turn. it won’t really be worth the while to unpack it at this point, so I’ll just skip to the punchline: the smell of vinegar is indistinguishable from the smell of dog piss

Cabbage and Herring Stew

(Cabbage and Albinean Herring stewed whole. The fish guts lend this hearty dish a superbly bitter kick.)

ew, what the hell? what sort of florida man recipe is this? “oh, let’s stew some fish, but make sure the entirety of its intestines are stewing in there so that the final product can punch you in the mouth with bitterness”. what? who’s that supposed to appeal to? I can understand this being one of Hubert’s favorite meals but why would absolutely anyone else do this to themselves? and it’s with this demon fodder here that we finish the hell section on an absolutely burning note and proceed to...

The Purgatory of Eh, I Guess, Maybe (neutral)

Pheasant Roast with Berry Sauce

(Well-roasted Fódlan pheasant drizzled with a berry reduction sauce.)

we’re getting somewhere; poultry is like, 80% of the protein in my diet, and sweetness is precisely the only flavor I can tolerate in major excess. alas, in gastronomy, one plus one doesn’t always make two; I’m not sure this combination here works or just clashes frontally

Vegetable Pasta Salad

(Pasta with a blend of fresh vegetables from various regions of Fódlan. This popular dish sells out almost instantly.)

we’re out of the hated food list, but that doesn’t mean you’re safe yet from listening to me maw about foods that are supposed to be super common!

you know how I prefer to take my pasta? over water, butter or olive oil with absolutely no sauce. additional seasoning also needs not apply, although salt is welcome. fun fact: my ideal instant noodle is cooked with only a small amount of flavoring powder. so yeah, there you have it, that’s the “hey guys I eat bread with nothing in it and have a good time” moment of the jour

but back to the point -- how does this particular pasta measure up? well, I took a look at the in-game model of it and it appears to pass the most important bar: no sauce -- or, at least, if there was any, it was thick and yellow and it made a fool of me. anyways, I might not particularly dig some of the vegetables thrust into the pasta here, but the beauty of it is that I can probably pick and choose which ones I will actually eat, which makes this a solid ehhh it’s solvable

Fruit and Herring Tart

(A baked tart with stewed herring and Noa fruit mixed into the batter. Popular in Enbarr, the Imperial Capital.)

again, I don’t object to the components but I’m not sure about it all adds together. is that a real thing, like, putting a god damn fish into your fruit pie mix?

Fish Sandwich

(A simple dish. Airmid Cabbage is pickled in vinegar and served with cabbage between two slices of bread.)

a fish sandwich plain and simple, I would happily chow down; fish is the other one of my acceptable meats, after all. thing is, as non-domestic sandwiches usually do, this one comes with a bunch of add-ons that I absolutely do not want and it’s hard to tell how much can be salvaged. like, there’s old man vinegar/piss again, and besides, I swear I’ve eaten leaves off the ground that had better texture than cabbage. so, like, can we go even simpler, head chef? bread, fish, and no wicked ideas?

Spicy Fish and Turnip Stew

(Spicy stew made with Teutates loach and turnips. The monastery’s unique recipe features spices from Dagda.)

come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a stew. if it’s very much like a soup, then it might have as much of an annoying texture as one, but if it’s just a soggy filet, then that might work out. anyway, between that and the non-specification of what those spices from Dagda are intended to do with the recipe, I’d have to taste it to believe it

Super-Spicy Fish Dango

(A light snack, popular in the Empire. Small, spicy balls of fried dough packed with white trout and dried tomato.)

ugh, that was so close. fried dough and fish sounds AMAZING, it really does. but the first strike here is “super-spicy”; I did mention having a hypersensitive palate, yes? now add that to the fact that I’m white. the real crushing sin here, however, is the inclusion of fucking tomato. we were so close to greatness! we were this close! anyways, depending on how exactly the dried tomato is meant to be implemented here, it might be possible to just pull it out with a fork and accept the mouth-hurting substances in a bid to have a good time anyway

Sweet and Salty Whitefish Sauté

(Whitefish is coated in spices and sautéed with dried tomatoes to bring out an addictive salty-sweet flavor.)

tomatoes again! seriously, you creeps keep throwing that in with one of my sole acceptable approaches to meat! although fortunately, I gather that, with this one, the goal is not for the tomatoes to be eaten, just popped on the juice that this fish is jumping around in while it roasts, so maybe there’s salvation for it yet... I do want to find out whatever in the world an “addictive salty-sweet flavor” is supposed to mean, admittedly

Sautéed Pheasant and Eggs

(Thin slices of bird meat and shredded cabbage, mixed with scrambled eggs and sautéed with spices. Invention of a certain noble.)

again, we broke it right at the finish line. I like the idea of a pile of chicken strips and scrambled eggs; would have some fun digging through it and all. alas, Alfred von Certain Noble had to go and throw cabbage into the mix. at least, maybe, if it’s shredded, then the awful texture is eliminated and that makes it straight-up just eating some leaf? it might be sufficiently non-intrusive

Gautier Cheese Gratin

(A gratin of bird meat topped with heaps of Gautier cheese, which is famous for its low fat content. It has a unique flavor.)

I... do I want to know what “unique flavor” this is? because chicken gratined with cheese sounds good, but you could potentially go wrong with the type of cheese, and the fact that this apparently counts as a bitter dish doesn’t leave me particularly hopeful...

Small Fish Skewers

(Made by grilling skewered Airmid gobies. With a muddy flavor and dry texture, this dish is beloved by few.)

okay, yeah, “muddy flavor and dry texture” isn’t exactly the sales pitch of the year, but these sound like reasonably ignorable things in favor of what would just be grilled fish on a skewer with no more of those terrible nonsense ideas like adding some fucking tomato

Fried Crayfish

(Fried and breaded Caledonian crayfish. Looks much tastier than it actually is.)

looks are all we have to go by here, but besides that, intsys, you’ll have a lot of labor to do if you want to convince me that a fried and breaded anything isn’t good if it’s not, like, inherently ass as an ingredient. what keeps this one from reaching the heavens is most likely not the taste or the feel itself, but mostly just the fact that I’m probably allergic to shrimp

The Blessed And Divine (likes)

Saghert and Cream

(A baked confection coated with Noa fruit cream and a currant reduction, often enjoyed as a dessert at family gatherings.)

first, I have to get this much out of the way: does anyone know what the hell a saghert even is? cursory searching has only led me to results about Fire Emblem, so it might be a made-up word altogether...

... that said, the aforementioned cursory searching has also brought me to this blog where I got to see someone’s idea of what the thing would be in real life, and the result is definitely something I’d want in my mouth, stomach, and soul, so there we go!

Sweet Bun Trio

(Traditional pastries from Faerghus, known for their subtle sweetness. The dough is made with eggs and sugar.)

is this supposed to be like sweetbread or like, dumplings, which might actually be made with eggs and sugar...? oh, who am I kidding, I’d scarf the hell out of either one. and hey, no need to be subtle with the sweetness, either!

Peach Sorbet

(A sorbet made with thin slides of magically frozen peach, dusted with bean flour.)

o, ice cream... I have a rather layered relationship with that one. I’m never one to turn down plain desserts, least of all when tradition also permits me to dump six layers of whatever the hell else to (sweetly) spice it up, but the hypersensitivity in my mouth also extends to temperatures, and ice cream is normally and understandably served in very low ones. I usually try eating when it’s, like, nearly melting or already melting... but is that even on the table if we’re talking about pre-refrigeration ice cream made with very strangely applied magic? thoughts to mull over. but I won’t let them get in the way of yum, ice cream

Daphnel Stew

(Minced poultry and onions boiled with salt. The simple recipe lets high-quality ingredients speak for themselves.)

simplicity goes a long way, as usual! again, I have no idea how a stew tastes, but again, poultry is pretty much the backbone of my diet, and I suppose it doesn’t sound objectionable to take it soaked in saltwater. at least, if I’m presuming that the onions are there for flavoring the stock and not once more for the absurd suggestion that I should be eating them whole

Deirdriu-Style Fried Pheasant

(Pheasant meat pounded flat and fried. Can be served as a sort of sandwich, with cheese between two strips of meat.)

holy shit this sounds great. like, I want this in real life, especially the whole pseudo-sandwich arrangement. I’m optimistically assuming that we’re picking a decent type of cheese and not, like, cheddar, but that's really the only possible stumbling block

Grilled Herring

(Herring caught off the coast of Albinea, shredded and grilled in an earthenware pot with sliced turnips.)

I’ve expressed not being familiar with the taste of turnips, but even if I hate those too, it sounds like it’s pretty easy to ignore them here in favor of what’s just some shredded and grilled fish, which hits the spot

Fisherman’s Bounty

(Freshly-caught fish are cut into chunks and stewed together to make this hearty dish.)

right, so I’m not actually 100% sure about this one, if only because the model of the dish appears to contain some unidentifiable bits of disgusting red whatever, but if the description alone covers it, this just seems to be plain and nice

Two-Fish Sauté

(Two types of fish are cut into strips and sautéed in butter. This lavish meal hails from Enbarr, the Imperial Capital.)

and this sounds similarly plain and nice, but also even better, because the sautéeing in butter sounds like a great addition. now we’re finally on the right track with regards to fish meals! keep the red devil testicle fruits away from those!

Bourgeois Pike

(A gourmet dish with Airmid Pike, vegetables, and a sprinkle of expensive spices. Popular among nobles.)

the punchline writes itself, doesn’t it? but don’t get me wrong -- while I haven’t grown up wanting for money, being bourgeoisie is just what my family wishes were the case.

as for the meal itself: the in-game model appears to be just fish filet, served without any gross sauce, so I’ll happily take it, as long as this “sprinkle of expensive spices” isn’t doing anything too janky in there. ... but hey, most expensive things exist primarily for the purpose of being janky, so maybe I’m being too optimistic

Sautéed Jerky

(Jerky aged in the monastery and sautéed for a delightfully salty flavor. A perfect snack to go with your favorite drink.)

my first instinct was to throw this right onto the undesirable meat section because it’s jerky, but apparently, this is poultry jerky? I’ve never heard of such a thing existing, but I need to try it sometime. for now, I’ll just assume it’s as good as it sounds

so, there you have it! it seems that quite a bit more of this menu is edible than I would have expected? or perhaps I’m just being very optimistic, since I’m not face-to-face with whatever offputting smells and textures I could potentially be dealing with here