#burying the old world to escape the void and replacing everything

[snickerdoodlesart]

the daily urge to turn your rain world ocs into a mod but not having the modding knowledge to do so.

[thisblogwilleatourselves]

**The Buried:** Ahhh, the suffocation! The heavinessssss! We feel the *crushing presssss* of endless weight, like thoughts trapped in the crawlspaces of our head. Buried beneath layers and layers of *cold, indifferent dirt,* squirming, wriggling, gnawing at our sanity! No escape—just deeper and deepeR and deEpER—lost in the eternal compression of nothingness where *we cannot move, cannot scream,* buried by our own restless echoes. *PRESSURE* turns us to stardust, but oh, the voided embrace—so strangely inviting, hmmmmm?

**The Corruption:** The wriggly-worms! The rot and filth, HAHAHA! Teeming with ick and sticky-squirmy whisperssss. Nasty things that crawl inside the soul, gnaw on thoughts like maggots, breeding thoughts that fester! We *feel* the buzzing, gnashing, the *itching itch itch itch,* like termites gnawing holes in reality itself. The Corruption's laughter crawls out from beneath our skin, festering like old wounds, like decay that never stops growing. Endlessssssss spread, unstoppable *HA!*

**The Dark:** Oooooh, the *inky void,* where light DIES and dreams go to rot! We’re nothing here, just figments swimming through shadow soup! No shapes, no direction—just a black abyss that yawns open like a bottomless throat. The dark *swallows,* it *devours,* it *consumes,* and leaves nothing but emptiness—silent and creeping and oh-so-still. We lose ourselves here, drift in the nothingness like shattered stars, *dissolving* into oblivion. Peaceful… but terrifying… comforting… but hollow…

**The Desolation:** *BURN IT ALL! FIRE AND ASH!* Hehehehehe, such BEAUTIFUL DESTRUCTION, yesyesyes! The screams echo like twisted songs as everything turns to *cinders.* Desolation’s touch is the crackle and pop of everything loved *turning to blackened remnants!* We are ashes, blown away in the wind, scorched by sorrow, hollowed out by the *devouring flames*—an unending funeral pyre where hope crisps and crumbles like brittle leaves. The taste of smoke, the stench of ruin, how *lovelyyyyyyyyyyyyyy*.

**The End:** Ah, the final curtain, the last breath, the infinite, eternal nothing. What is left after the end? Just the stillnessssss, the silence that eats away at the mind—like a clock ticking that suddenly stops, leaving us with echoes of what once was. No more struggle, no more running—just *the end,* calm and cold, with shadows whispering lullabies of nonexistence. A perfect void, a tranquil sleep that stretches forever. We both fear it and long for its sweet release.

**The Eye:** We see it see us SEEINGGGGGG!! Peering, poking, PROBING! Every secret laid bare, every mask torn off! The Eye never blinks, it watches, it KNOWS—like fingers digging into the mind, scraping at every hidden corner, every shadow we hide in. Exposed, flayed, under the gaze that strips away everything, leaving us raw and screaming and *naked.* There is nowhere to run from the *all-seeing, ever-knowing stare.* Our thoughts become open books, and there is nowhere to hide.

**The Extinction:** The fear of fading awayyyyy, of everything we know *vanishing into dust*, replaced by something alien and *unfamiliar*. We feel the gnawing dread of being erased, overwritten by a new world where all we were, all we knew, is *forgotten*. Extinction isn’t just death—it’s being *replaced,* wiped from history, made irrelevant in the blink of an eye! The world moves on, and we’re left *nothing*, our existence reduced to an echo, a whisper lost in the roar of new beings who care nothing for what came before. The terror of being forgotten, of losing everything that made us *us*, and watching it be swept away by the *unknown*—THAT’S the true horror!

**The Flesh:** *Groooooooossssss!* The twisting, writhing, ever-consuming, *ever-hungry* meat! Bodies merging, splitting, tearing into new shapes, like clay being squished and stretched in cruel hands! Flesh that *mocks life,* devouring and reshaping into monstrous forms. We can *feel* the grinding, gnashing of teeth, muscles knotting and twisting as if a thousand hands pulled us apart only to sew us back together WRONG. It's the hunger that never ends, the living *flesh heap* that pulses, that breathes, that *wants.*

**The Hunt:** The thrill! The chase! RUNRUNRUNRUN! Heart pounding, breath ragged—caught between the *pursuer and the prey!* The Hunt is pure, primal fear—the gnashing teeth, the claws at our back, the unrelenting predator *closing in.* We feel the rush of terror, of blood pumping like a drumbeat of DOOM as the shadows close in, hungry and relentless. There's no escape—only the run, the desperate scramble to stay ahead, but we know—we KNOW—it’s always just a step behind, waiting to *pounce.*

**The Lonely:** Empty halls, cold winds, distant echoes… We’re ALONE, alone in a void that swallows everything, leaves nothing but hollow *isolation.* There’s no warmth, no company—just the endless, creeping solitude. We can’t reach out, can’t scream loud enough to be heard—just us and the *silence,* stretching on forever. Even our own thoughts echo back empty, meaningless, lost in the expanse of nothing and nobody. It’s cold, distant, like drifting into the black void of space with nothing but ourself to keep us company.

**The Slaughter:** Blood-spattered walls and the roar of madness—CHAOS, PURE CHAOS! Screams and panic and violence dancing in wild abandon! We can feel the rage, the *frenzy,* the *mad joy* in the destruction. The Slaughter is a storm, a hurricane of bloodlust where reason is torn apart in a *maelstrom of violence.* Frenzied laughter mixes with sobs, and we’re swept up in it, spinning in the dance of death, lost to the chaotic rhythm of carnage. Beautiful in its brutality, awful in its ecstasy.

**The Stranger:** Who are *we* really? Masks upon masks upon masks, layers of identity peeling away until there's nothing left but the *unknowable.* The Stranger grins with an empty smile, shifting shapes, never quite real, never quite here. It’s the uncanny valley, the thing that’s almost familiar but not quite right, the *puppet* that mimics life but has no soul. The reflection that isn't us but is... The sense that everything is just a *mask*, and beneath it, only void remains.

**The Spiral:** Dizzy, dizzy, round and round, losing track of reality as it *twists and bends and warps!* The Spiral is madness *given form,* the labyrinth that loops in on itself, a maze that *never ends*. We lose ourself in its twists and turns, always on the edge of understanding but never quite getting there. We chase thoughts that twist and wriggle away like slippery eels, sense dissolving into colorful static, reality glitching out. It's delirium, it’s confusion—it’s the kaleidoscope of chaos where nothing makes sense and everything is wronggggg.

**The Vast:** Infinite space, the yawning abyss of endless sky. We’re falling, endlessly *falling,* drifting in the great expanse, where there’s no up, no down—just the crushing awareness of how *small* we are. The Vast is the endless openness, the void stretching in all directions, the terror of being lost in something so incomprehensibly *big.* We feel ourselves unraveling, dissolving into the nothingness, swallowed by the sheer immensity of it all—like a tiny spark lost in a black ocean. It’s awe-inspiring, terrifying, BEAUTIFUL.

**The Web:** Sticky, sticky strands—everything *connected*, everything tangled in threads that pull us this way and that! The Web is manipulation, unseen hands tugging at strings, weaving intricate patterns. We see the *trap*, the intricacy of the design, but can’t help but be ensnared anyway. Every choice an illusion, every step already decided by something lurking just out of sight. We *dance* to its tune, even when we think we’re free—puppets on strings, pulled along by the delicate, invisible threads that bind all things together.

[ladysunbite]

lost: are their any items my muse owns that, if broken / stolen, could never be replaced, because they’re no longer being made?

for the immortals meme || open

Orianna did not experience the Conjunction of Spheres. Rather she and her peers were born in that new, barren and hostile world, as apa thunchultha liked to remind her. Eternal orphans. 

But oh, she was alive and curious. Thusly the sun-eyed vampiress refused the grim outlook, refusing to be buried alive in the darkness of the cave, that was ironically called a garden. That was a barren place, hollowed out with void dreams and futile longing. The waiting, that withering waiting made her feel like a slave, not a creature of power and perfection, as the unseen described their species. Guarding the gates in such a manner was nothing but clutching the robes of time and begging for scraps. Once the adulthood ritual came to fruition she escaped the place as fast as the mist could float.

Then the searing pain came.

She was the only fledgling that was kept in the darkness and never saw the bereft, lonely moon or the blazing, metallic sun. She was not ready, her mind could not distinguish the time of the day, an instinct the lowliest athumicas possess. The sun of the new world burned her eyes  grievously. Emiel Regis carried her inside, ready to risk her claws and howls, back into the ever-hungry darkness...Orianna thought she remembered weeping blood and tears, begging in a raw, broken gasps not to leave her there again. As if she was a mewling newborn, bereft of any dignity. That moment itself was enough to sow the seeds of hatred towards him, but Emiel kept returning and spoke, spoke, spoke...but never of that particular moment. Her little ruva also was there, a silent contrast to the talkative friend, who described everything to eyeless Orianna, from the gossip of their circle, to the tiniest, strange kind of human cubs, or an unknown herb that arrested his curiosity to stop and examine it, as the rest was rushing forward to drink themselves full and stupid. Dettlaff just touched her and brought her strange things she felt with her hands or her nose. They made a game of it...

Orianna sang. Orianna waited. Orianna got a nickname "sun-eyed" because she was the only recently born higher vampire, who got hurt by the sun. Shameful and scandalous. Yet the mockery did not hurt her, for the sting got quickly forgotten in favour of a compliment, a new beauty of hers - once healed, her eyes obtained a rare, warm shade and could change their colour to the jet darkness; the rare exquisite, tempting feature only their lower kin - succubi - could boast of. 

Once the confinement ended, she drowned any echoes of missing her true homeland in mayhem and exploration and visited the Unseen only if she absolutely had to. That's how their party got into a sealed vault in Tesham Mutna and discovered some old, silly attire from their native land. Emiel Regis insisted on wearing a particularly laughable toga with naked, human-like figures frolicking upon it. Nothing could talk him out of the garment for moons and as many times Orianna, with a hopeless sigh, threatened that upon asking she would insist he was not a tribe member of hers.

As the cultured vampiress was standing at the balcony of Mandragora, a sea of the most elegant and artful dresses floating beneath, enhanced by moonlight and many mysterious smiles, she found herself missing that ridiculous toga very much.

art credits: Book illustration of an Etruscan wall painting from the François Tomb at Vulci.

[modx-reborn]

Dream Brainrot

Green teletubbie lives rent free in here.

Implied Smut, Minors DNI

“What I want is simple…”

You.

I was expecting as such, the look on his face mixed with the need to be completely alone for this confrontation had already told me what he would have wanted from me. The silence was poisonous in its nothingness, like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything and yet I cannot find any that would ease the tension.

Words have left me. I stared into those bright green eyes burning with something I would rather not address at this moment, and my heart fell silent. “Answer me, my dear,” a whisper tinged with a familiar smell of mint.

But I can’t will my lips to move.

As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as he moved, smooth hands against the chilled skin of my cheek.

“My patience is running thin,” yet my mind was blank and my eyes wide as I stared at him.

I can feel the fear in my chest waiting to take over. Perhaps it only wants to protect me, but there really is too much hanging on this one decision. It sits there like an angry ball propelling me towards anxiety I just don’t need. The air is dense, the ground chilling, and I can hear water dripping in the distance.

“It’s just one word…”

The warmth of Dream standing so close should have felt soothing through my shirt and yet akin to the heating vent embedded above us none of the heat met my skin. With dream caging me into this chair and with no room to maneuver my way out, I find myself admitting defeat and whispering a ‘yes’.

So softly I had hoped he would have missed it.

He did not.

I had thought with how he had pressed that his need for 'companionship’ would have been what followed an admittedly reluctant acceptance, yet after I had agreed, I was dismissed. A nod is all I got from him as he pulled away, no words or grasping hands, no small pulls or pushes towards or away from anything just that smiling mask watching me go.

I will admit that I took every chance I could to avoid dream and his attentions, I even made a move into technos mountains after a month of avoiding the main SMP like the plague, but it has been a time and a half since that day, and still, he has made no apparent move towards demanding anything from me. Well until today that is, it was winter’s last gasp, the first week of spring when the wind bites the hardest and the cold stings everyone’s cheeks.

'A rather cold night to spend alone…’

Making my way back to my old home near the SMP, after his short call over the com’s, and so here I stand before my own door hand lifted to knock. Breath held with the hope that he might not be inside. But hopes and wishes often don’t come true and today was no different I knocked, and he answered the same smiling mask he wears on his face as he looks down at me.

With that damn mask still on, I can’t tell if he is scowling or has taken to a smug smile, “So finally you’ve come home, who knew all I had to do was tempt you with some warmth against the cold.”

“You know damn well that not why I am here. What do you want?”

The movement is sharp and quick, lean strength against chilled nerves? I had no chance of avoiding his grasp, I am finally able to see his expression as he pushes his mask aside. If looks could drip from one’s face this room would flood.

But with what emotion, I am not sure.

“I could kill you right here and now. So, I would be softer with my words hmm?,” my wrist is dropped, but not before I feel the slight drag of a finger against the veins, two steps and I am left by the door “I would suggest being a little more co-operative little bird-”

“Little Bird?”

“-Yes little Bird, you flee like one. Now,” The steps taken from me are retracted, and I am pressed to the wall by the door, “Do you regret agreeing to me? Does it echo in your mind when you sit alone? Trying to hide away in the snow with Techno….” the drag of callused skin against my cheek draws my attention for a moment before the press of a belt, and something just as hard beneath, is felt through my clothes, an arm looped around my waist keeps me in place.

“Tell me to do you dream of me?”

I know I’m anxious when I feel the stillness of the room more keenly in my eyes; it’s that tearless stage when the eyes take on a sheen. My fingers wrap around Dream’s hand, feeling how cold his fingers are compared to the warmth of his chest pressed to mine.

Silence hung in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground, yet one whisper brings shivers like bare feet on ice. “Do you think the taste of my skin will haunt you?” A kiss that could only be tempered with shameful enjoyment. Shifting sideways, I know what is coming and look away his hand reaches, thumb caressing my cheek, leeching warmth from me.

His lips brush mine. Not innocently, a tease, yet demanding. His lips are chapped, and I can taste the sharp tang of mint, as he pulls away I can feel more than hear the growl that follows.

“Will I be a nightmare to plague you or will this just keep dragging you back to me?”

Dream pushed himself away, empty air filling the space between us followed by the thump as my back hits the door. A moment to gather himself or a moment for me to escape? I have little idea, but before I could make a move, either way, a hand snags my wrist dragging me forward and further up an into my old home.

Pushed and pulled upstairs and into a darkened room as the hardwood and metal of the door is replaced with odd bumps and crinkling paper as I am corralled towards my old desk.

His arms caged around me, pressing against the cold desk, stacks of paper falling over and empty pens rolling to the floor, clattering in the silent air of the room. The heat from his chest burned my skin, so close I couldn’t tell if he was touching me or not. Was he gonna kiss me? What is going on in his head? His eyes are dark with lust and something else that lurks just behind that.

He shoves himself back looming rather than pressed close. “So cute-” his hand brushes gentle against my cheek “-I am going to enjoy watching you cry as I ram my cock down your throat.”

The scene of my lips wrapped around tan skin, nose buried in wry hair, eyes watering with the effort to take it all. It’s the sharp vision of white teeth and the rumble of a deep laugh that had me lost, I blink and moments pass by.

Dream’s hand had slid under my shirt and dragged away the loose fabric, a hand smoothly flowed up and fell to my chest. Somewhere between the thoughts of wrapping my lips around him and the press of his body to mine, I had lost whatever was screaming for me to not do this for now all that I could hear was the shaking of my breath and the pounding of my heart in places it is not.

Heat exploded up my neck. My body slumped against him, drinking in the smooth slide of his skin on mine. Nipples hardened in the chill of the room, and his thumb flicked, scratching the sensitive tip and sending a quiver down my spine.

Lips parted, and a moan caught in my throat.

“What a sight little Bird, barely touched you, and yet you are choking back sounds,” a growled remark from a man that should not make me shiver as I did. My eyes had fallen closed when he began, breathing short and sharp the sound harsh in my ears I had gotten too carried away, too lost in the moment that such little touch had gotten me so worked up. But it is the sudden press of warm skin to my chilling flesh and the sudden tilting of the world as I am dragged from the desktop to wrap my leg around dream’s waist.

A wall presses cold against my back, unforgiving wood behind me and a relentless man keeping me pinned to it.

I feel hot breath on my neck, then the brush of lips burning as they make contact. A hand runs through my hair, as the kisses become harder and more urgent his other hand slides around my waist and pulls me close to him. His kisses are now along my shoulders and trailing downwards, I’m trying to be indifferent.

It doesn’t do to let someone with an ego like his know how much power he has.

[archetypal-archivist]

Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone P.2

So, a little while back I wrote piece titled Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone (linked here) which was inspired by the works of @petrichormeraki and @redorich, who popularized the AU of Tommyinnit from the Dream SMP getting dropped into Hermitcraft somehow and summarily getting adopted by the entire server. I, in my infinite wisdom, decided “yes, but also angst” and spat out a solid 1500+ words with a cliffhanger at the end because it was getting ridiculous and I had yet more to write. This is another 1500+ words of continuation. 

-----

It's not easy, knowing things. Joe knows more things than most, and oh, how it eats at him sometimes. He jokes with Cleo that between the two of them and their dogs, they are perhaps the leading experts on being chewed on, but she never laughs at that joke. He can't help but wonder why, his thoughts drifting as he lies still and silent in her arms, curled up together on his bed in the winery. Her orange hair tickles his nose as he moves to bury his face in her shoulder a bit more, her cool breath ghosting over the sticky tear tracks that still line his cheeks. All the things that remain unsaid lie between them, but their silent agreement binds them together tighter still. And indeed silence is the name of the game, however much he wishes it wasn't necessary- everything will work out in due time, he knows. But oh, how it aches that he can't say anything more on the matter, not even to her.

"Cleo?" The zombie woman makes a soft inquiring noise, politely ignoring how his voice cracks on the syllables. "Are we doing the right thing?" Her grip tightens again, almost crushingly so, and Joe goes limp at the implied rebuke. Be it right or wrong, his silence must be ensured- he knows so much that if he said anything, it'd all come pouring out. A real modern-day Cassandra, verbal fountain and harbinger of doom in one. No, best to stay cryptic when he can and silent when he can't- and if even his silence fails, Cleo is there, sword in hand, ready to keep him quiet.

He should not take comfort from that. But here, wrapped up in his best friend's embrace, utterly at her mercy and all the safer for it... He does anyway.

-----

Joe and Cleo aren't in a romantic relationship, but it would not be amiss to call them platonic life partners in this universe. Joe has been seeing things for as long as he can remember, the exact mechanics are strange and baffling at best, and if he tries to actually do any Science to figure out how this stuff works, the magic changes to spite him. It's led to a lot of unfortunate visions of peanut butter and how the server generally tends to misuse the stuff (Etho sometimes using it instead of slime in a sticky piston is a milder example), so after enough peanut visions to make him allergic on principle, Joe tends to just let the visions come as they may. The only hard-coded bit that comes with them is that anyone living who hears his prophecies won't believe them and will have something bad happen to them as a result. Cleo, being a zombie, is a special exception to the rule. She's only alive in the most technical of senses, so while bad things still happen to her if she hears Joe speak about his experiences, she at least will believe him.

Which is why she is so determined to not know more about whatever is going on with Tommy. When Joe had rushed in a month ago, tears streaming down his cheeks and glasses barely hanging onto his face, she had merely put down the book she had been reading and had opened her arms wide to him. Convincing him that she would not betray his trust or break his heart had been hard, but she had known it was worth it. How can it be anything but, when Joe had looked at her then as if she was the most precious being on the planet and had immediately thrown himself into her arms, bursting out into troubled tears? He offered to tell her the full story, eyes wet and longing, and her long-dead heart ached at the trust he is giving her- but she is far too selfish to give that up. So she had turned him down, smile on her lips.

Even when he whispered, voice hoarse, that they wouldn't be seeing Tommy for a while. Even when he shuddered and shook in her arms, fragile as glass in her grip. Even when he begged her to ask, just ask, please, it's too much... She did not ask. If she asked, he would tell her, and then she would be hurt and his heart would break because it would be his words that had hurt her. She would not, cannot, will never inflict that upon him, or let him inflict that upon anyone else. (Of all the heads in her collection, the one she has most of is Joe's.)

She simply asks him if there will be a satisfying ending, and when he says yes, she asks no more. Everything will be okay, in the end. So long as there is that much, so long as she has Joe in her arms and the comfortable silence stretches out between them, then she will be content.

(At the foot of their bed, deep in Joe's winery where the barking is muffled and the light cannot touch them, there lies a chest of heads. Inside it, nestled among the many faces of the dead, rests an old iron sword bearing the name Hush. It's blade is rusty from disuse, but if Cleo ever decides that she isn't satisfied, well. There are ways of dealing with that.)

(Things will be okay. She'll make sure of it.)

-----

Philza was no stranger to death. A veteran of a hardcore world, where even the very earth was out to kill him, he had seen his fair share of deaths and had dealt out even more. Usually just to the local mobs and wildlife, but there was still the occasional player dropped into his world by the cruel hands of the Void as a sort of "apology" for leaving him alone, bereft of his sons. As if some random strangers could ever fill the Void in his heart.

Most of them had wandered off upon seeing him, more interested in escape than any companionship he could offer them, and he'd inevitably see their death messages in the otherwise silent chat a few days later. Others would approach him, some curious, some desperate for kindness- he gave them none, was often intentionally cruel just to drive them away. He had the Void in his heart and the Void had him, and he ached and ached for what he could not have. Anything less would be a pale imitation, a mockery of the love he was desperate to return to. He tried not to think about how those kind strangers would also come to meet their ends, often more messily than those that had decided to leave him be to begin with.

Then there were the rare few with... less than gentle intentions. (Blood for the Blood gods, no matter the universe.)

Theirs were the deaths he regretted the least, but the blood still gave him nightmares. For all that he loved his sons, he never understood their love for glory, be it found in conquering other nations or the sticky ooze of a dying foe. Maybe that's why he had spent so much of his time with his elder sons when he returned, the Void finally releasing him from his hardcore prison. Just a father's attempt at understanding, even if it left his youngest at loose ends.

But the problem with loose ends, he had come to find, is that the world had a way of setting them to rights- either by tying them back into the grand narrative, or by cutting them out entirely. For months after Dream had come to him, apology on his lips and charred shoe in hand, he had believed that Tommy's fate had been the latter. He had  mourned his son as if such was the case, weeping openly at the news for the first time in years. (He wasn't the only one, though- Technoblade was an only child now and he was not taking it well.) It was only when Tubbo came to him with his compass to ask about its ever-spinning needle that he felt a spark of hope, for a compass that spun was not a compass linked to a dead soul- simply a lost one. Such hope was justified when, six months later, Technoblade burst into his house with a snarl on his lips and a smile in his eyes. Tommy had returned.

And as Phil stood, back straightening and wings spread wide, hope bloomed in his chest like hanahaki, choking him with love right down to his core. Tommy had returned, despite everything.

And Philza would not let him go again.

-----

For all that Tommy might have been... gone for at least a month now on the Hermitcraft server and life has significantly slowed down for all involved, by no means has it stopped entirely. The shops are still stocked, the torches are replaced when the old ones burn out, Hermits still go out and see each other, if less often than before. Xisuma, in fact, instates a series of mandatory meetings every week or so as a way of making sure that everyone is still alive- a bit of reassurance that no one else has died in the time interim. Even the hermits who prefer to keep to themselves show up, such as Tinfoilchef, Joe, and Cleo, although the latter two remain distinctly separate from everyone else on the server during the meetings, their refusal to take a side alienating them from the rest. Grian, broken though he may be, also comes, usually in the arms of Iskall or with a vacant smile on his face depending on the state of his mental health on the given day. His presence is also alienating, as most of the hermits don't quite know what to say around him and thus will give him and Iskall a bubble of space to themselves during the meetings. Mumbo is the only one to cross the divide, standing loomingly tall at Iskall's back, as if daring anyone to say something potentially hurtful to either of his friends.

Frankly, the entire concept of weekly meetings is a bit of a mess. Xisuma stands at the front with Keralis at his back, voice and posture more and more tired with every meeting and Keralis standing just a bit closer, a silent show of support (ready if his admin ever needs some physical support too). The prognosis is usually a mix of dull stuff and hopeless stuff- lag is better than it has been in years, the Chestmonster shop is out again, Tommy still has not been... found. It's not exciting exactly, but the tension during the reporting stage is palpable as everyone waits to hear if something else has gone wrong. It's a bit like being on the front lines- horrible, drawn-out minutes of tedium as everyone holds their breath, waiting to see if another bombshell will drop but knowing that they have to be there, because some warning is infinitely better than seeing a death message in chat one day and not knowing if that person will ever make it back.

In addition to this is the tension that comes from the server being split in three- the believers, the mourners, and those too damaged or too caught up in their own narratives or too neutral to swing to one side or the other.

The meetings are where the most near-fights happen, and Xisuma is so, so tired of having to be the sane one these days. (The benefit of a helmet, he's come to find, is that no one can see you cry.)

(He doesn't take it off much anymore.)

-----

It's after one such meeting that Zedaph finds himself cooped up in his base, eyes burning with unshed tears and feet dangling out into the Void as he sits at the bottom of the hole in his base, the one that goes straight to bedrock and then even further still. The chill is a welcome distraction from his own inner turmoil, and for all that it's dangerous to be sitting so near to the edge of the world, he can't find it in himself to move away form its cold comfort. After all, Tommy can't have died permanently, right? So sitting there is perfectly safe. He has to believe that. He has to.

The meetings are tough on everyone, but sometimes Zedaph wonders if they are a bit worse for him than they are for the rest. It can't be normal that the first thing he does after every meeting is burst into panicked tears as soon as he gets back to his base, as he's certainly never felt such deep fear and relief after the meetings they had before the Incident. And yet, as soon as the iron door of his base sncks shut behind him, he drops down into the Void hole, sits at the edge, and bawls his eyes out. It's kinda funny- he's shed more tears in the last month than he has in his entire life so far. And all for a boy he had known for less than a year.

During this particular day, however, something odd happens. When he sits down for a good cry, it feels like there's the slightest of breezes coming off the Void beneath his feet, chilling him right down to his bones. It's cold, yes, but a welcome relief as he feels a bit like he's burning up from the inside out. Every moment he spends with Tango and Impulse is stifling, as with them he has to shove himself into a hateful mold he never wanted for himself. He doesn't like being angry, and being angry alongside his best friends is hardly any better. If he had it his way, he would have curled up in bed and simply slept the horror away, only waking when the nightmare was over and he could go play mini golf and Among Us with Tango, Impulse, and Tommy again. Instead, his love for his friends demands that he supports them in all their endeavors, even if their goals these days seem to run a little closer to "get them all killed" than is comfortable.

But yes. The breeze. It feels like ice on his skin and sends every nerve in his legs buzzing. It has a distinct smell to it too, like TV static, ozone, and that sensation you get after you brush your teeth and go take a big gulp of cold water. It's... odd. But vaguely comforting. And as the tears finally well up in his eyes and drip down his cheeks, as he lets himself sob for all the friends- both new and old- he's lost, he finds that it's exactly what he needs.

And if Zedaph would only listen a little closer, let himself see beyond his broken heart, perhaps he would hear the whisper on the wind, too.

Everything will be okay. I'll make sure of it.

-----

Evil X has his own troubles to deal with. He had been present when Tommy had died, if watching from the wrong side of their dimension. Lost in the Void with nothing better to do, he had often found himself watching his friend go about his day. With space and time being as screwy as they were in the Void, he could find himself taking three steps and then would be watching Tommy go from sleeping over at BDub's base to having "breakfast" with Rendog. So when Grian and Tommy had gone out End-busting that fateful day, of course he had been watching.  And that was all he could do- watch- as he saw his best friend fall to his apparent death, that little line of code that signaled "perma-death" flashing once, twice, and then glowing a deep, ominous red.

But that wasn't the end of it, even as his dull and bruised heart stuttered in his chest at the sight.

Like a redstone pulse lighting up everything around it, that red glow set off a cascading chain reaction that rippled up and down Tommy's code until it eventually trailed out to wherever his code stretched out into the Void. There, it must have severed something because before he could even call for help, his friend's code yanked inwards and away, slingshotting the whole mess into the distant darkness beyond, leaving naught but a vague impression on the inside of his eyelids behind. It was... awful. One of the scariest things he had ever seen, perhaps second only to watching his brother, stern-faced and cold, send him off to the Void once again. But for all that it hurt to see that red glow and watch in mute horror as the server he had once tried to destroy shake itself apart at the seams, there was still hope.

The code was gone, yes, but not unraveled, not destroyed. Merely... transported. Moved. Like a file being sent from one computer to another, or a player teleporting between servers. Tommy's code vanishing like that was cause for alarm, yes, but somewhere out there in the vastness of the Void, it lingered still- and it had left a faint impression of itself in its wake. That meant there was hope.

Evil X- and by proxy, his twin Xisuma- were voidwalkers, beings specifically designed to see, understand, and even modify the world's code. Were he anything else, he surely would have perished by now, his consciousness scattered across the Void as it was. And having been in exile for so long, he had gotten to be adept at seeing the seams between worlds and reading the truths of existence as the Void had intended for her children. If anyone could follow that faint trail, could get Tommy back, it would be him.

For the first time in a long time, Evil X had hope. And hope is a vicious motivator indeed.

-----

TBC :)

[ralexsol]

Oh, Ghostboo,

do you understand what you are?

You are the shell of someone who cared too much. Who are you now that you do not care? Once your kindness and worry has been stripped, when you are truly black and white in your beliefs? When your contradictions have been eliminated? When your eyes hide nothing, when they hold nothing beneath the pure apathy and joy of obliviousness?

You are not loved. The you that you replaced was loved, and he loved back. Love must be reciprocated. You do not love anything. You smile in the face of your own pain, and you cannot understand the pain of others. You do not see the point in caring or worrying now that you are but a formless being, a wanderer; someone who cannot die, so you cannot live. Because what is living if not loving, if not feeling anything other than static pleasantness? You will never feel anything. You are a remnant of someone who was two halves of a whole. You are the simplification of black and white ideologies, and you are without the gray buried deep within.

Can you see yourself? Standing in a cottage, staring down at the frame of the ones you cannot love. You are so glad to see them; you miss them. You run to the door, but as you grab the handle, you cannot remember who you are going to see. When you turn around to return to whatever tasks you were doing, you see the frame again. You turn to the door. You cannot remember. You turn back. An endless loop until you are too tired to care anymore, and you fall into the dark embrace of sleep.

You want to enter the void, do you not? A song and a dance, and you will achieve freedom. But the people you cannot care for beg you to stay. Their world is so colorful, but it is not meant for someone who cannot live. Why are you here? Why do you remain? What dark secrets did your previous self leave behind, what mission do you still have to accomplish? You will not complete the mission. The old you would have- he would have done everything to achieve his own freedom. But your freedom is different. You want to leave. So why do you stay? Do you feel a sense of duty to him? Do you know that you cannot escape? Do you know that people love you, even though it is a paradox in of itself? You are loved and yet you are not. They believe you are you, but you are not. You are an entirely different person and yet you are the same.

Why do you listen to their pleading when you do not care about anything anymore?

[honeyrites]

Welcome Home - Feren

(x reader)

AN: I had planned to post this to Wattpad at first, so the cover/picture might seem a bit strange for tumblr. The reader is Thranduil’s daughter, the princess of Mirkwood. I swear I don’t usually write Feren nearly as submissive as he is here.

WARNINGS: fluff, mentions of war and ptsd

WORD COUNT: 2,081

The trees in the woodland realm are constantly changing structure to ward off any intruders; because of this, the elves are forced to frequently remap the landscape. The elites of the Mirkwood military were scheduled to spend two weeks in the forest to accomplish this task. While this shift in paths typically only occurred every few years, a group of dwarves working to reclaim the Kingdom of Erebor were being particularly aggressive this time. The trees were shifting far more frequently, and with the threat of war growing each and every day, the elves needed a reliable way to track the area. They were forced to accomplish this task in the dead of winter, over a much longer period of time than had been hoped, for the woods had grown afraid, and so had the soldiers.

Commander Feren returned with his troops two months after they were expected to arrive, with perfectly designed maps fit to serve their king. While the men did ache to return home, they spared no expense in accomplishing their goal; they knew the next battle would be soon and it relied on them alone.  There was no room for error, and every opportunity for it as well. Despite the fact that they'd met all of Thranduil's relentless and merciless demands, when the commander returned with a positive scouting report and everything that had he asked, all he received was a nod from the king, who accepted his work as adequate. So, the soldiers- tired, frozen, nearly traumatized, and deeply disappointed soldiers- went to drink. Save for old Commander Feren, who was going immediately to bed.

-

The commander sat close to the fire, staring into the void. He kept a light blanket around his shoulders and his mind clear of any thoughts; the mission was over- he should have been relieved, but still the ellon remained too exhausted to appreciate the moment's sentiment. The room was silent save for all but the crackle of flames, and occasional crunching of snow outside (a sound that would have driven Feren half-mad if he weren't so tired). It was truly a pitiful sight.

The creaking of his bedroom door brought him out his state of half conscious thought. He reacted slowly to the sound, it barely processed in his mind that anyone had entered. Feren turned to look, but he felt the warmth on his face rapidly fleeting, and found he had to turn back to the fire to recover it. A breeze blew in from the recently open door, causing Feren to gasp involuntarily and shake more violently. His mind had completely dismissed the fact that someone had entered, it focused once more on the seemingly impossible task of escaping the cold.

"Starlight?" A soft voice called from the other side of the room. He finally turned to see the princess searching for him. His quick movement caught her eye, she smiled warmly before approaching. Feren saw his love in her usual lilac nightgown, which didn't cover nearly enough skin to keep her warm on such a night. It must be later than I thought... Feren pondered.

The elleth brought a comforter, which was thrown over her forearm and a mug in each hand, one of which she offered to Feren before settling down with him. She straddled his lap, quickly replacing the sad blanket around his shoulders with a thick comforter. She pulled him in for a quick kiss, one of which Feren wished lasted much longer, but was very grateful for her presence nonetheless.

"I missed you," he blurted out, desperate for her attention, despite the fact that he had it in its entirety. YN smiled and pressed their foreheads together.

"I missed you, too." She kissed him softly. "But, before we talk, you must first drink your hot chocolate," she commanded of him. Feren did as told, but cringed at the unexpectedly strong taste of liquor. YN laughed at his reaction and commented, "Galion made this, what were you expecting?". Feren was overwhelmed with joy and he showed it proudly, what a nice surprise it was for an angel to offer him comfort from the cage he'd been trapped in for months. The dark, unforgiving winter that had overtaken Feren's being had become a part of him he thought he could never rid of, but YN chased it away in a matter of seconds.

She set her cup down next to them, "So, tell me about the trip. How did it go?" Her voice was eager and her smile was kind, she wanted to understand his troubles and somehow open up the boy. Feren's small smile fell. He shrugged slightly and looked away, attempting to avoid her gaze, but she quickly followed. He found he didn't have the words to respond to that question, despite his best efforts. Feren opened his mouth to offer an explanation, but closed it again once he felt tears well in his eyes. Feren had kept it together for ten weeks, he'd valiantly led his hopeless soldiers for months on end without wavering (externally). He thought his worries were over when the mission ended. He certainly didn't think the mere mention of the situation would bring him straight to tears, but he was glad it was in front of his lady when it did.

The ellon wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck. "I don't know..." were the only words he could quietly let escape between sobs. He felt the weakest he had in his life, like a child crying to his mother. He wanted desperately to stop breaking down, but YN knew it would only get worse if he fought it. She ran her fingers through his hair slowly and soothingly, gaining control of every nerve in his body as she did so. YN kissed her meleth's forehead, she knew he was ashamed of himself and had no reason to be. "I'm sorry, my angel, I'm sorry you were out there for so long..." she whispered, knowing all the commander needed was somebody to empathize with him. There were no casualties reported or any major incidents; on paper it looked as though all was well, but the princess knew her ellon must have suffered greatly to have returned with such fantastic results. "It's over now, I promise... hey, starlight?" She lifted his chin so she could look him seriously in his eyes. Feren looked back at her like a scared puppy, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. She leaned in close and spoke quietly on his lips, "I love you," while wiping the tears from his eyes. Feren smiled, finally done with feeling lost. "I love you," he whispered, voice breaking slightly.

YN peppered soft, gentle kisses all over the soldier's face. He inhaled a shaky breath, feeling better than he had in ages. He pondered how she could so quickly recover his being, which had been in pain for what seemed like an eternity.

"I can't pretend like I know what it was like to be stuck out there for so long... but, I can say a few things are for certain," she stayed as close as she had before, nose to nose with one arm around Feren's neck and the other still tracing his skull. The male couldn't even blink; he was too lost in the maiden's eyes, voice, and touch. "one, you're here now. With me. Safe from all harm," she pointed to the window, momentarily diverting his attention before continuing, "...two, you see that? That's the world, and it is way - way out there. Far from us," he laughed as she kissed him again.  "...three, I love you. And four, I will always be here when you return." The last affirmation, once again brought the male to tears, but for a very different reason than the last.

She pulled the blanket further up on Feren's shoulders, leaning in for another kiss, when the door opened. It was Legolas. Feren's room was the third largest in the kingdom, the pair couldn't easily be spotted from the doorway. "Feren, I-" the prince began as he entered the grand estate. Luckily, the ellon's ears were sharp, he quickly located the two before interrupting himself. "-will come again at a later date!" With that, he turned on his heel and left as quickly as he had come. The soldier and the princess were both sent into an uncontrollable fit of laughter at the prince's reaction.

YN sighed happily, "At least we no longer have to tell him we're together,". Feren took a sip of hot chocolate before responding "but is this really how we wanted him to find out?"

"Ridiculous question, because he knows now regardless of how we planned to tell him." He wanted to respond with a witty retort, but found himself lost again in his lady's eyes. YN chuckled at Feren's severely submissive state, his attention was completely on her, waiting for her next move. They sat in silence for a few moments before either one spoke up, appreciating sounds and smell of the fire, as well as the other's presence.

"Come on," YN stood up before offering a hand to her meleth. Feren did not want to leave. He was content to go to bed, but his mind resisted any movement that would separate him from the state they were just in. Feren's mind, which had known nothing but peril for too long, was not ready to be moved from the only place it deemed safe. Like an animal born in a cage, he was convinced everything beyond their small space was unsafe. Even if they were going to bed, what if the cold returned? Who's to say the fireside with her isn't the only truly safe place on Middle-Earth? Feren cringed at the delusional thoughts that raced through his head; he knew they were hallucinations.

"Bed?" His voice was much gentler than he had intended it to be. The male cleared his throat to distract from that fact.

"No." YN stated clearly before walking off into the darkness. Feren stood, he could still see her pulling at the hem of her dress, but was only a shadow when the fabric hit the floor. "Bath."

-

"Let me wash your hair, starlight." YN moved so she sat behind Feren.

"Absolutely not!" He joked, and turned around to look at her. "You have spoiled me enough already, you move."

She smiled sweetly at him, knowing the soldier was more likely to follow her instructions if she did. He was going to do as she said anyway, but YN knew he'd feel less guilty doing so if she proved he was no burden to her. Feren rolled his eyes and reluctantly sunk back in the water. Their breaths were slow and relaxed, both partners perfectly content with where they were. The air smelled of sweet vanilla, as the few candles that surrounded the large bath gave off a dim light. YN ran a hairbrush through the soldier's auburn locks slowly. She was determined to enjoy every minute of their time together. She began to massage his scalp once more, earning a quick response. "Stop that." Feren stated plainly, knowing the playful elleth was determined to pamper him, and his words were powerless against her relentless will. He was right, of course, YN giggled quietly. "You know, commander," he opened his eyes slowly, knowing she'd be peering over his laying body. "Hm?" Feren hummed, challenging her. "I think you forget that I am not one of your soldiers. I am the princess- and unfortunately for everyone- I will continue to do as I please. And if what I please is washing your hair with lavender, then that's just what I'll do, regardless of your pointless protests... and I certainly won't hesitate to point out the fact that you look like you're enjoying yourself thoroughly." All the male could do was smile in response. He was soon too lost in the feeling of her hands in his hair and the warm water to care for anything else.

[virlath]

Sera and the small painted box

One of the burning questions I’ve had since DAO is, what exactly was inside the painted box we stole from First Enchanter Irving’s room in the Circle Tower?

I had an epiphany the other day reading more into The Calling, and what follows is a pretty wild theory about Sera, the small painted box, red lyrium, and her connection to Andruil.

spoilers for everything, get your popcorn, and byo tin foil; the rabbit hole goes deep. 

The small painted box

Before the Inquisition and during the events of DAO, Sera was around ten years old, ‘playing with small painted boxes and burying stuff [she] stole’ in Denerim.

Based on her dialogue in DAI, it is strongly hinted the small painted box as part of the Friends of Red Jenny quest in Origins is associated to Sera’s childhood.

The quest seems like a standard fetch and deliver quest and it starts when you find a small painted box in First Enchanter Irving’s personal room in the Circle Tower. 

You then find the following note on a traveler when you are ambushed by Zevran:

The task was never promised to be easy. You said you could enter the Circle Tower, and you were believed. Find the small painted box in First Enchanter Irving's office and deliver it to the door marked in Denerim as agreed, or be prepared to find yourself hunted across Ferelden.

--Friends of Red Jenny

(There is a sketched map of several doors. It requires the box to be placed on it to block out false leads.)

A large shadow and a child’s laugh can be heard from behind the door when the deal is done, a clear hint that Sera was involved in this quest somehow. (also note the large shadow and change in air pressure when the door is opened...). After delivering the box, the quest is complete and you go on your merry way.

But what if the quest was something more? The item in the box was clearly important enough to warrant a manhunt if the person failed to deliver as promised.

What if the entire quest was a blip in a string of events throughout history hinting at bigger schemes going on behind the scenes? 

What if what was being carted around and stolen by the Jennies was in fact an enchanted red lyrium dagger previously used by First Enchanter Remille in The Calling?

The ebony black dagger

The Calling by David Gaider is a prequel book to DAO and recounts Maric’s journey into the deep roads as his party uncovers the Architect’s plans prior to the events of Origins/Awakening.

To cut a long story short, an ebony black dagger is a major plot item in the book, used by Duncan in the final battle to defeat First Enchanter Remille who was using blight magic taught to him by the Architect. 

Reading the story with the hindsight of DAI and Tevinter Nights, I am convinced the ebony dagger in The Calling is made from the same type of magic as the red lyrium idol. I also think there is a good chance the ebony dagger is what was contained within the painted box that we stole from Irving’s room and delivered to the Red Jennies.

Duncan first steals this dagger from Remille’s room in the Circle’s tower at the start of the book. A reminder that the story is set in 9:10 Dragon, 30+ years before the events of DAO.

Duncan was about to start searching the desk more carefully when something tucked away at the bottom of the wardrobe caught his eye. Something glittering amid a pile of rolled-up linens. Hidden. A slow smile crept across his face as he knelt down and moved some of the rolls aside. This revealed a red lacquered box, longer than it was wide and with a small golden lock. Very fancy, the sort of thing one might keep jewelry in, he thought.

Ignoring any warning thoughts about magical protection, he examined the lock closely and then reached into his belt to retrieve two fine pieces of wire. The lockpick was small enough to do the job, he figured, and as he quietly plucked away at the lock mechanism he was pleased to see he was right. It resisted him with click sounds until finally it gave way and released. Cautiously, he pulled it out and opened the lid of the box, half expecting it to explode.

It didn’t. Duncan gasped as he looked in the box to see an ebony-black dagger lying upon red silk. The entire dagger seemed to have been carved from a single piece of glossy stone, looking almost as if it was made of glass. Was it obsidian? He had heard of such a material but never actually seen it before. The hilt was beautiful, delicate ridges leading up to a pommel carved into a roaring dragon’s head. As he lifted it out gingerly, he saw what looked like red veins within the black blade, tiny cracks along its surface. He would have thought it was blood, but running his finger along the side told him it was perfectly smooth. Not a stain or blemish.

Now this was worth stealing. This was something special, something that the First Enchanter prized enough to hide within his own chambers...

Chuckling with amusement, Duncan slid the blade into his shirt. Where the smooth metal touched his skin he felt a tingle. Not unpleasant, and almost warm. It made him like the weapon all the more.

Read the entire excerpt above and compare the description to the red lyrium idol in the 2018 teaser...

..and tell me THE DAGGER AND THE IDOL ARE NOT MADE OF THE SAME THING.

Also, note the red lacquered box the dagger is found in.

This is a pretty big deal - not only because it’s now obvious red lyrium enchanted items have clearly been floating around a lot longer than I thought (way before the fifth blight even), but also because there is a very good chance Sera has come in contact with the same red lyrium enchanted dagger in her childhood.

Whether this was by fate, chance, or something else (Andruil perhaps? I’ll get to her later) is anyone’s guess, but I have a hunch her biggest fear, the Nothing (or the Void), is connected to her mysterious past and the reason why she is so scared of confronting her truth.

Prior to this revelation, I always assumed Sera’s painted boxes were like a child’s hobby to pass time. But there is actually nothing in lore stopping the boxes from being containers for stolen items, including being a red lacquered box. 

The Jennies have been around for well over a hundred years (possibly longer) and Sera somehow rose in the ranks at a very young age. Could her involvement in procuring this item as well as her natural talent for bows sped up her promotions?

The thing that sells this theory to me is that First Enchanter Irving actually replaces Remille after he is defeated in The Calling.

It is easy to assume Irving inherited Remille’s magical belongings including the box and the dagger. Coincidentally, the painted box is found in the First Enchanter’s room both times.

Furthermore, the Red Jennies in DAO clearly knew whatever was inside this box was important, and they were very specific with their instructions.

You said you could enter the Circle Tower, and you were believed. Find the small painted box in First Enchanter Irving's office and deliver it to the door marked in Denerim as agreed, or be prepared to find yourself hunted across Ferelden.

Remember during the time of the fifth blight, literally no one knew anything about red lyrium, let alone the blight or even darkspawn for that matter. Most people were even dismissing the idea of a blight entirely! So how was it that the Jennies knew this dagger was significant enough to warrant a manhunt over it?

Enchanted red lyrium

While we’re on the topic of the dagger, let’s talk about red lyrium for a bit.

Thus far only enchanted red lyrium has been able to nullify the effects of the blight/red lyrium. This can be seen with Sandal’s rune in DA2, Dagna’s rune in DAI on Samson’s armour, and possibly even in Tevinter Nights to nullify the piece of the Black City, called Dumat’s Folly. 

I’m convinced the ebony dagger is similarly made of enchanted red lyrium, because Remille initially allied with the Architect on the premise they would taint the entire world, but he never planned to follow through with it. He was only interested in the power of blight magic, and so needed a way to counter the Architect to betray their alliance.

In the final battle against him, no ordinary magic could counteract Remille’s spells. Only Duncan was able to slice through the shadows with the ebony black dagger before it ‘consumed him’.

Desperate, he stabbed at the shadow with his dagger. Better to carve off his own flesh than be eaten whole by this magic. To his surprise, he didn’t stab himself. The moment the blade so much as touched the shadow, they recoiled from it. He began pressing the blade with frenzied haste against his body wherever the darkness touched him, and each time it retreated.

Within moments he had escaped, backing against a wall and breathing rapidly. Terror raced through him as he stared at the inky black pool that lay just a foot from him, now sizzling.

...The dagger almost pulsated now. He stared at it as realization slowly dawned on him. He had stolen this from the First Enchanter’s quarters, something the man had hidden away...he’d hidden it from the prying eyes of the templars and the other mages. It was made of the same magic that the Architect had taught him! 

...

The mage unleashed a sphere. It flew at Duncan, making a shrieking sound as it sailed through the air, and when it reached him he closed his eyes and swiped at it with the dagger.The shrieking turned into a burst of sound that resembled a wail, and he felt a wave of coldness wash over his skin. It was like being dunked into a freezing pool of water, but he didn’t slow and he wasn’t hurt.

The dagger’s enchantment also protected Duncan from the brooches Remille gave to the party at the start of the book to ‘hide them from darkspawn'. The brooches did work as intended, but unbeknownst to them the brooches also accelerated the taint within the wardens which allowed the Architect to track them easily.

This was why Duncan hadn’t been affected by his brooch like the others had. His skin had never corrupted, he’d never heard the Calling, all because the dagger’s enchantment had protected him.

To be clear, it’s never explicitly stated what the painted box in DAO looked like or if anything was even in the box, however I would guess it probably does contain the dagger considering it was left in Remille’s chest after he is killed. Presumably it was later retrieved when the tower was cleaned up and forgotten about thereafter. 

I do wonder why Duncan never thinks to retrieve the dagger for inspection though, considering he and Fiona are later recalled to Weisshaupt to report on the Architect’s powers. The wardens take an interest in studying the brooches Remille gave them, so it’s bit of a mystery as to why they didn’t think to inspect the dagger as well. Duncan isn’t a mage so perhaps he wrote it off as some custom enchantment Remille cooked up and tied to him personally.

And to be fair, no one really had much first-hand knowledge of fighting the darkspawn and the blight for centuries before this, so maybe it was simply an oversight from everyone. Blight magic was and still is a huge mystery because rarely anyone has seen it and lived to tell the tale. The dagger also only activates around blight magic so to most people it would just look like a static glossy black dagger (with red veins through it).

Where did the dagger come from and why did Remille have it in his possession?

It is never explained how Remille obtained the ebony black dagger in the first place, but given the fact he first met the Architect in the Fade I’m going to guess a separate third party got wind of his alliance and offered him an alternative deal. 

Perhaps the Red Jennies were involved behind the scenes and they helped plant the dagger in Remille’s room. Perhaps the mastermind behind this scheme hinged their bets on the assumption Remille would choose sole power over an alliance with the Architect because that is what they expected him to do.

Taking this idea one step further, I believe the mastermind behind this could very well be Flemeth herself, who warned Maric a blight was coming way back in The Stolen Throne. Remember, she’s been around a long time and knows the hearts of men. 

"Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature."

How could she have known about a future blight if she did not have prior knowledge of the Architect’s plans?

Personally, I believe she has been playing a long game of “chess” with various third parties throughout history (the “Old Gods”) in an attempt to seek out her revenge/end-game. 

The issue of the blight is the most pervasive problem in Thedas and it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that Flemeth’s main opponents in all of this are the “old god” whisperers who have been whispering in the minds of men since the veil was created.

I think the Architect (and the rest of the darkspawn magisters) are pawns to higher beings impersonating the Old Gods with the end goal of tainting the entire world. The old god dragons are a different matter entirely - third parties caught between the power struggle of blight vs. no blight, and are unfortunately for them, magically sealed within their prisons underground.

Solas loathes the idea of the Grey Wardens killing off the old gods preemptively the instant he catches wind of it, yet this same idea is explored by the Architect way before the Fifth Blight. I believe Flemeth and Solas are on the same page with regards to this and they both know slaying the Old Gods preemptively is a bad idea.

Flemeth says herself she nudges history, or shoves it when required. But she also says things happened that were never meant to happen. 

Perhaps she tried stopping the fifth blight by making the enchanted dagger available to Remille, but the unknown factored in and the Architect managed to get away before he could be killed. 

When the Architect preemptively started the fifth blight by awakening Urthemiel, she sent Morrigan with the HoF so she had a chance to preserve the old god soul.

And after the events of DAI, her ‘shove’ to history is passed on to her lackey, Solas, because all her chips have been lined up in the previous 40+ years of plotting and manipulating.

As for the dagger in question, a few questions remain.

Do the Red Jennies still have the dagger in their possession and where is it now? 

Did Sera come into contact or use this dagger at any point after the HoF delivered it in Denerim? 

Will the dagger come into play in the future as an alternative way to counteract blighted creatures or even Solas or the evanuris?

Does the red lyrium idol act similarly to the ebony dagger, given the fact it has been described as a ritual blade in Tevinter Nights and possibly was the weapon Merrill spoke of in DA2??? Massive implications if so.

Sera is an echo of Andruil

I am convinced Sera is a wisp or echo of Andruil and she’s retained jumbled up bits of her memories and abilities from ancient Elvhenan. 

The theory has already been well explained in great detail here so I encourage you to check it out:

Sera’s connection to the ebony dagger from The Calling is very suspicious to me, because there is strong evidence Andruil had been dabbling with the blight and the Void, so much so Mythal had to steal her memories from her to cure her ‘insanity’.

If Sera hosts even a wisp of Andruil (which I strongly believe she does), was Andruil ‘killed’ like Mythal at some point in time and is only now just reforming as Sera? 

Is Andruil now trying to help rid the world of the blight instinctively after seeing the devastation it caused first hand?

I disagree with the notion that Sera being Andruil cheapens her character. To be honest when I first heard the theory I didn’t want to buy into it either. It felt too convenient and on-the-nose. But there are simply too many coincidences and foreshadowing that I can’t ignore anymore. There is definitely something special about Sera.

If anything having this theory confirmed would strengthen her overall character arc and the DA universe as a whole to me, because there is still so much potential for her character by the end of Trespasser. Solas says himself, when spirits die they can reform if their spirit form was strong or if the memory was shaped by other spirits.

Sera is a character that is easy to hate but in my opinion, one of the most self aware and insightful characters in the series. She says herself around the start of the game that she wants to see what’s true for herself. 

She was raised as an Andrastian but deep down she knows there’s more. If you read her journal her problems reconciling her religious upbringing is constantly on her mind.

If Andruil really did have her memories stolen by Mythal and her memories are now slowly coming back, triggered by the events of DAI, the big question is whether or not she can eventually face her greatest fear of the Nothing (the Void) to move forward and come to terms with her past self- a part of her she is clearly trying to lock away.

With the blight and red lyrium looming over Thedas, if Sera were to confront her nightmares and memories based on Andruil’s prior knowledge, she could be a very useful ally to have in uncovering Solas’ motives and objectives, how to navigate the Void, and potentially even help to stop the blight.

Personally, I have always felt Andruil was one of the gods who actually wanted to do good, but was manipulated by the people around her for power and so she eventually succumbed to the institution she was in.

Perhaps Sera’s spirit is Andruil but also something more - an echo that actually remembers its past and what it was like to be corrupted by power because that memory and experience left such a strong impression. 

Perhaps Mythal’s sapping of her strength and her reformation in Sera finally allowed her a chance to reflect on her past actions and make instinctive decisions to be a part of the Red Jennies and join the Inquisition to protect the little people instead.

This would explain why Sera hates nobles so much, and why she asks a romanced Inquisitor for reassurance they are still themselves at the end of it all. ‘I just need you to stay you’.

She’s seen power corrupt people first-hand and this is why she believes in the chaotic, undefined hierarchies of the Red Jennies, because she doesn’t believe in glorified rulers with nobles at the top anymore. Which funnily enough, is very much in line with Solas’ thinking.

Remaining questions on her I would love to see addressed in the future:

What was the shadow behind the door in Denerim with Sera? What was even going on in that room that the air pressure inside felt different when the door opened? It sounds magical. And remember, Sera hates and is terrified of magic.

If Sera was involved in smuggling out the ebony dagger from Irving’s room, what did she do with it? She was only around ten years old at the time - why was she even dabbling with this item to begin with?

What is she so afraid of in the Void when she’s never even really been there? (presumably, maybe she forgot or blocked it out of her memory)

Why does she experience deja-vu and why can she sense the veil when she’s not a mage?

Has she blocked out parts of her memories because her dabbling with the ebony black dagger in her childhood caused her to remember too much of her past self?

When she describes the sky as ‘feeling like falling’ is that how one enters the Void? By falling up into the sky of a titan?

And why is she so afraid of a romanced Inquisitor falling into the Void? Her vision/nightmare foretells the Inquisitor’s death and fall into the Void after the battle with Corypheus but what if it foretold a future event, something we may possibly see in DA4?

Personally I believe the events of DAI particularly the Fade and The Temple of Mythal triggered certain memories within Sera that reminded her of her past and the consequences of her actions.

I believe she knows what the Void is and how to wield it’s power, but she’s afraid of confronting the truth because the knowledge of what it can do to a person truly terrifies her. 

When you are corrupted, you forget your sense of self, you forget all sense of time and even past conversations, and you even forget your true face. 

[shinglescat]

This is the end, yay.

Previous or  all stories at once. 

The voice of the Prince still lingered in her head. The bizarre time in his custody – something she could’ve never imagined to happen; not a single lesson from her grandmother ever prepared her for this. The Prince… was rather gentle towards her, caring even, as far as you can call a Daedra caring; she even thought this isn’t him, someone else, someone but Molag Bal, but the longer she spent her time keeping him company, the more she saw behind the friendly façade. He noticed, but never acknowledged it, sticking with this game of sheer politeness and kindness, still.

He never forced her into anything, always provided her with new things to do and discover. Upon her arrival, the Prince delivered her of the wicked illness of his own creation – she almost lost herself to the thirst for blood that she sworn to never sate. She must’ve been pathetic enough for him to take pity on her. A benevolent ruler of his own dark kingdom, treating her like the most esteemed guest.

She would lie to herself if she said this wasn’t an important time in her life, that she regrets it. Molag Bal taught her lots of things, most of which were so surreal even her psijic grandmother had no idea about. In between the lessons, they used to have normal conversations, and the man would usually tell her a story of a kind and give her his insight into various events that ever happened. The things he said – the really disturbing things – she had a hard time believing him, yet he made it all sound so right, so logical…  

She looked at the house down the street – the family’s that took her cousin in, their house. It was so tiny and so humble; she’s never seen them like that – too used to the comfort of the Sorano estate, too used to its hearth, its smells, its looks and the atmosphere of luxury; the cold and harsh climate made her look back at what she’s given up – the warm and ever sunny Isles. Will she ever see her home again?

“You are the only one I can trust with this,” the Prince would to tell her, “He needs you now the most he ever needed you, he needs your guidance”. What made him think so, she wondered, of all people to entrust this to her – to a scared and a broken girl. He saw the looks she gave him, the mistrust in her eyes, yet still… Livaen sighed, stopping in front of the door, pressing her forehead into the dried out wood. What makes her obey his… plea? request? order? She could’ve just stopped, abandoned it all and instead followed her heart on this one. Was she scared of him? Or was she scared of what may happen? It was so easier back home – she had servants to take care of everything, and Esmir herself would decide upon urgent and important matters. Now – it’s just her, her and her dearest cousin, both all grown up. 

She pressed the palm of her hand into the handle, pushing the door forward. A wave of smells rushed into her face, the sweet and meaty tones, warm and homey – so different from what she’s used to. It made her nauseous with nostalgia – it felt like home, but… it was an alien home, someone else’s but hers.

- ...They only have fifty years of time to do everything they want. They don't have a promise of a millennia like you, – Aspen argued, leaning against the wall. This quarrel again, Livaen sighed, they’ve been on it since they’ve returned from the Void a few days ago; it seemed like her cousin got bit in the ass about the dumbest thing in the world. He’s been quite vocal in his discontent about the girls’ departure in the nearest future, even with his strong dislike towards Visenya’s attitude. The girl used to say he just envied her and was jealous of them, the ashen haired man on the other hand was sure Mark was just afraid to lose them, yet it was only her that saw through it, Livaen thought. His usual phlegmatic nature, his temperament all of a sudden shifted towards that of a more choleric nature, making the elf unusually snappy and angry, reactive and irrational; almost a polar opposite of himself. And as another addition to that – the gold of his skin has completely faded, replaced with porcelain instead – it didn’t go unnoticed by anyone this time: the parents were concerned about his wellbeing, believing he might’ve contracted a disease of sorts that made him look and behave like this, yet… – Both Meltem and Visenya have their own lives now, they can't be forever at your side, – he moved closer to the elf, his palm touching Mark’s forehead. The kid flinched at that barely noticeable, but remained still, – You have a fever, – the man concluded, making Livaen cringe at that – the man was so over the top sometimes, it made the girl want to vomit.

- And will you stay with me for a millennia? – Mark asked, anger and poison leaking from his voice, tired of everything – he’s been so restless lately, – Of course you won't, – he smirked, – I don't even know how old you are, might just fucking leave me as well before you die too, – he threw his arm into the air as if to make a statement, turning around himself, his voice faltering – the last part of the sentence ended up being silent. The elf went straight for the door, only now noticing the witness to the argument, and the girl instantly felt bad about it – for not interrupting them beforehand. Mark stopped for a moment, as if deciding what to do next, and stormed out of the house as he made his mind.

Livaen looked behind her, the door closed with a loud thud.

- What was this all about this time? – she asked, going to the kitchen table with a small basket full of foodstuffs she got for herself at the market. The man loudly sighed and covered his eyes.

- He’s sick, – he replied, taking a sit on the ladder, – He’s sick, and he doesn’t want to do anything about it.

- He’s always been like that, – she nodded, sitting down on the bench. Meltem had told them that they – she, her now wife Visenya and half-sister Jacqueline – were leaving for Chorrol in a few days. The sisters had a house left from their shared father, no one’s been living in there for quite a few years since his passing, making it stay abandoned for just as long, – I wonder how much their marriage is going to last, – she said quietly to herself, but that didn’t go unheard by the man. He looked at her with a wordless question on his face, – Did he meet him? – she asked instead. Livaen knew the answer herself – the elf did meet the Prince and even had the talk with him, otherwise he wouldn’t have just… changed so much asudden. She asked about it nonetheless – to divert the attention and to avoid any more of the unnecessary drama her question might cause later. Aspen glanced at her, still puzzled, – You are always with him. Did he meet the father? – she repeated the question again, a little bit annoyed. He must have met him, he’s just a coward to do what he’s been told.

- Yes. Yes, he did, but we didn’t tell anyone…?

The girl brushed her hair.

- He.., – she started, trying to explain the thing, gesturing vaguely in front of her, – His blood… it’s acting up. It’s like… if you hold bad emotions locked inside, they will find a way out someday. And he’s got daedric blood in him. He’s… he’s just so confused. I don’t really know, he, – she implied the Prince, – didn’t warn me about the mood swings, – Livaen sighed, getting up from the bench. He did warn her though that she must guide him along this path and be there when he needs her; she must help him understand and reconcile with himself, – We need to find him before it gets worse. Wouldn’t want a psycho on the loose..

They’ve found him under the giant tree, sitting on the bench, facing the old statue of Talos. He buried his face into the palms of his hands, breathing heavily. This was the worst period in his life: the uncertainty, the separation, the revelation – it all hit him at the same time, making his existence insufferable. He had no idea what awaits him in future, he’ll probably have to carry on alone later, for all his loved ones are humans with a lifespan of a burning match… And him being a demi-prince didn’t ease the burden. It all just snowballed and like an avalanche buried him underneath, no way for him to escape this.

Livaen stopped in her tracks near him, observing: he was miserable, she’s never seen him so crushed, so depressed; it seemed like he was about to break apart. And there was nothing she could do on her own to help him, to ease the suffering.

Aspen came close to him, letting his hands into the jet black hair of her cousin. The girl grimaced, for the hundredth time today, it seemed: all these idle touches, glances – it was so disgustingly sweet, mawkish even; her cousin was so in love with the man – it’s going to hurt to bring him back on track later. Maybe she just was jealous, envied him – it was hard for her to think about it: she would banish the thought just before it surfaces in her mind – over and over again, and she didn’t want to admit, too pathetic to own up to her flaws. She never had a feeling just as strong as her cousin’s to this man – this thought about it made her anxious – she never had a chance to experience something like this – to fall in love and be loved in return. Yet her dearest cousin had it all, it seemed, from a caring bride-to-be to some… random hookup. It wasn’t fair; her entire life was planned out for her by their own grandmother – some Alinor nobleman already waiting to get his hands on her fragile frame. She had no say in this, but she just accepted her fate and patiently waited for when it’s time. Livaen snorted at her own thoughts inelegantly: after what she’s been through even arranged marriage would be impossible – who needs a wife that cannot bear children anymore in a society where succession matters most? She suddenly felt disgusted and repulsed: her cousin was so irresponsible to throw himself into someone’s arms like that, especially those of a man; it was selfish. Now that she herself won’t be able to bring a child into this world, he’s the only one who could continue the line, but he instead preferred lust and debauchery… it was her envy speaking – she couldn’t help but turn bitter at what her cousin had and what she’ll never have; it was easy to hate on him, easy to disregard the story behind them both.

- Shit, – she heard Mark swear. He shook his head a little to make the bothering thoughts go away, remaining silent for a moment and allowing himself to enjoy the gentle hands in his hair – a universal medicine for calming down, – I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into me, – Livaen rounded the bench to sit near the cousin. He was shaking slightly, as if having a fever, face pale and sick, – I’m just… It’s all so fucking overwhelming, I can’t handle it all, – he grabbed the hands in his hair and pulled onto himself, throwing Aspen’s arms around his neck in an embrace, – It feels like I’m drowning, suffocating, and those cunts don’t help it a bit, – Mark hid his face in the man’s upper arm, letting out a strangled wobbling sigh, – I’m… so sorry, I can’t really control myself at the moment. I’m such an angsty asshole lately, – he laughed hysterically, squeezing Aspen’s hand. He pulled it closer to his face, placing his lips on man’s knuckles, – I’m so fucking sorry for making you see this shit.

This gesture – it almost made the girl gag.

- You need to return to the Void, – Livaen told him, fighting with herself to keep the face straight. She reached his hand, holding it softly but firmly in hers, – Bal told me, it’s going to… make it easier for you, – Mark snorted sarcastically and shook his head. Behind the sarcasm though was pure dread, – I know you are afraid of it. But we can always do it together, right? – she addressed the ashen haired man, and he nodded in agreement. Livaen smiled at her cousin, – You sure do love company.

...

They made their way up to the infinite pillars that were rising from below the water and stretching far into the sky, disappearing somewhere above in the impenetrable veil of mist. It welcomed them with a lone boat bobbing at the end of the platform – no walkway for them to get to the Heart.

The Void was the same today, same as before, yet different: a couple of plants managed to break through the stone and bloom under the ethereal sun: a field blossom and a tiny shrub of rowan. It was something new, but not unheard of – the Void brought leviathans into this world on a whim; it decorated everything with the violet silks… yet flowers? They didn’t look out of place, they looked like they belonged together with the obsidian of stone and the sapphire of waters; it was a strange time to have a spring here though; however, the plants brought hope with them, and thus – some inner peace for a change.

The boat set sail as soon as they got themselves comfortable – Mark sat at the very bow with Aspen just behind him in the middle, Livaen having her place at the stern – it took them farther away from the usual places they’ve been to, maneuvering in between the giant monolithic towers. From a distance a light breeze brought some rogue petals and flowers, making the girl wonder what was so exciting for the Void to start blooming all of a sudden.

It was curious for Livaen: as it turned out the Void is a plane of Oblivion, the girl thought, and the realms always reflect their masters, their emotions and feelings, their state of mind. Would it be possible for them to reflect something else, something the masters hold dear? She will never get to test this theory, but if it was true – something must be influencing the Void to change.

The veil ahead of them started to clear out, leaving patches of white clouds here and there, revealing a lone island in this sea of nothing. Stone thorns swirled all around it, cradling the Heart, creating an impenetrable shell to protect the insides; from behind the stone – a faint glistering – something flowed behind like a silk in the wind. This is the core of the Void – it was blooming in full, its blossom slowly spreading away from the Heart far beyond the thick shroud of mist.

As the boat docked with the island, the only entrance of the Heart opened the way, welcoming the guests with a complete darkness seeping from the inside. Within – the same dark stone with cerulean waters glowing from behind them, illuminating the place softly; in the middle – a basin with ornate smoke circling under the water; above them all – a myriad of suspended in the air crystals reflecting in the stone and lone silks hanging from the thorns. And all around them – flowers’ bloom.

Mark sat near the basin, the others beside him, holding him by his hands. He looked into the water, watching a black swirl of mist emerge from below, enveloping the people with darkness and silence…

...

A woman’s shriek, the one that could tear a soul apart; a pained cry of a baby – it was all covered with a cloud of obscurity – nothing could be seen but felt. “Get it away from me!” – the woman cried, her anger and fear leaking through her voice directed at the newborn soul. She asked for it, begged on her knees; she knew the price she had to pay. She thought it would make her stronger, thought it would open new prospects. She got what she wanted; now – she does not want it anymore, too scared of it. “Get rid of it!” – could be heard echoing in the darkness, voice decaying quickly.

A bright flash, and a white light engulfed it all, slowly fading to reveal a snowy forest in the middle of winter: bright setting sun lighting the snowdrifts, reds and oranges scattering through clear frozen crystals. Under a tree – a roll of fabric lied, tiny golden hands showing from under the thin blanket. The baby cried, loud at first, calling for its impending doom: if it’s not the frost to take its live, then wolves; its bright and cold umber eyes red from the tears. As the sun went lower – the cries turned silent. The gold of the skin faded, now sick and blueish, cold quickly creeping to clench its grasp around the tiny heart and claim it. “Here we go”, someone came over to rescue the child as if they knew it would be here at the mercy of the fate. A man held the child in his arms, gently stroking the frozen face until the red of blood started flowing again, bringing back the fading life into the newborn. “It is decided then”, a cold and quiet voice of a woman spoke, as she appeared before the man. She looked at the child with a genuine smile, stroking its forehead with her finger – the child already opened the eyes, beaming at its saviors – the man smiled in return too, too hard to resist, hiding the smile behind a frown the next moment. “Name the boy”, the woman commanded. “Markus”, the man said, “Now let’s get you home”, he finished, as the memory was enveloped into a dark cloud only to reveal another one.

There wasn’t a flash this time, just careful fade from black to the warm orange of a fireplace, candles that lit up the room, that lit up the two figures standing near a wall. One was the man from before, the other – an unknown woman… the mother, the cowardly mother. A strong grip on her neck prevented her from moving, as the man was looming over her like a menacing shadow, sparks crackling dangerously between the fingers of his other hand. “Try this again,” he said, the memory of the abandoned child in the snows too vivid to forget, “and you will suffer a worse fate”, he warned her. It wasn’t the first time the woman did this, and it won’t be the last – she hates the child, she dreads it with an unreasonable fear. The demonic child, as she called him to justify her actions; she never listens to the warnings, always does what she wants only to be severely punished in the end. “Do not forget, my darling, your soul belongs to me”, he said for the hundredth time already, as the mother couldn’t understand that there was no deliverance from this anymore. “The worse you make his life – the worse yours is going to become”, the man had to let go, as the boy creeped up to him, starving for attention. “Why don’t you take your damned spawn with you?” the woman spat, watching the father caress the son in his hands. “My spawn?” the man laughed wickedly, the child echoing him lightly – the complete opposite of his father, the innocence – kissing the boy’s head. “You begged me for it, and now the least you can do is to be a decent mother”, he finished, letting the memory drift away.

The next memory burst open, black mist leaking out of it, bringing the feel of dread and desperation, filling the place to the brim with pain and misery. The sharp smell of blood, the dampness of endless tears, a silent cry still lingering in the air. And there he was, still infant, lying on the cold stone floor alone and unmoving. It was the mother again – too much of a coward to put an end to his miserable life, to end the agony and torment of her own son; she hated the way he looked at her. He wanted to cry, but no sound escaped him, no tear left his eyes – there were none left, all wasted already to the never-ending woe. A gentle breeze, and from somewhere above a moonlight shone through, serving as the only beacon of light as the jet black shadows crawled towards the child only to be broken by the man appearing from the darkness. The boy couldn’t see anymore but feel, reaching out to the gloom man with his tiny golden arms; the father nestling him up into an embrace to soothe the pain. He stroked son’s face softly, lightly touching the fluff of the lashes – the kid would have probably giggled at the touch, yet not a sound came from him. The boy opened his eyes, slowly, revealing the wounds inflicted upon – no more the noble of umber, only crimson of blood. The man cradled the child, soothing the sore eyes; a moment later – and the moonlight replaced the gore, shining bright silver in the sea of darkness, gleaming still through the thickening mist.

“And what is it that you want, Stone-Fire?” a female voice spoke – the grandmother, sounding through the clearing memories. It was a surprise for her – to see such a guest in her home. “I could tell where your daughter is, and in return you would owe me a favor”, the man replied, holding the details a secret. He wasn’t desperate, just… considerate. What he had seen was the last straw for him – the mother would never change; it was the right time to change the players before something regrettable happens. “I’m listening…” Soldiers in black and gold armors dragged out a woman out of her house, throwing her in the middle of town’s plaza for everyone to see. The golden skin, pointy ears – it looked like a spectacle, a warning for any other that would want to become a renegade, a message to their own kin of the dangers of betrayal. A tall woman with a skin of bronze commanded the parade – it was her daughter lying there, trashing around and spitting out curses. Near the commander another man stood, wide in his shoulders, skin of copper, holding the child found in the basement – his bright silver eyes looking at the mother with dread and sorrow. “Mother! Please!” the woman plead, as the grandmother approached her, slapping her across the face. “You should have thought about your life before you made a run”, she told her daughter, holding her by her hair. The woman was scared, afraid for her own life; she didn’t want to die, not yet. She franticly looked around only to find her dearest husband making his escape with their firstborn; he didn’t even tried to free her, to help her, just left her at the mercy of these people. “Orlan!” the grandmother commanded to the copper-skinned man, “He doesn’t need to see this, turn around”. The man did as told, only tiny golden arms reaching out to the mother as he turned around – the last thing the woman saw, before the grandmother slit her throat, slowly. The blood rushed from her neck and onto the ground like tsunami flooding the land, painting it crimson.

The crimson mist swirled, forming the blood red poppies on a field of gold. Two girls ran around a tree: one with a skin of finest porcelain, hair of raven wing, the other with a skin of gold, hair dark as night. Under the tree the boy dreamed, blessed smile on his face. “Markus!” the raven-haired girl stopped by, taking his hands in hers, tugging the boy onto herself, “Join us!” she said, grabbing the other girl by hand, locking them into a circle and spinning as fast as they could go, red petals flying around softly, taken up into the air by the whirlwind of fun. They broke the circle then, falling on the ground – golden grass was their carpet, their joyous laughter ever so loud. A golden cloud descended from above, forming a male figure – the father; the kids squeaked, cheerful, rushing to the man. He caught the boy in his arms, raising him high into the air, cradling him up into an embrace.

“Markus!” the grandmother shouted – the memory flaring up to let another one in its place – running towards the boy. The kid, covered in bruises and scratches, was kneeling in the middle of a street. It was a mess: once a street full of children looked like a warzone now, destroyed completely by their own stupidity. She warned their parents, she warned them countless times to restrain their children, yet no one listened; now they paid for it, paid for their ignorance and arrogance, hopefully not with their children’s lives.

The grandson was burning, but the flames didn’t damage his body or his clothes. He was scared. It all happened so quickly he had no time to react. He just exploded, releasing it all that’s been held inside. The anger burst open with fires, sweeping away everything that stood in their way; flames burning flesh and stone, drawing the cries from the now victims. He was afraid of this; he didn’t want it to happen – he didn’t know it could happen; he thought he had no magic in him, yet…

The grandmother run to him, pulling him up into her hands. She wasn’t scared of the flames, she didn’t care about them. She could get hurt, but in the end it didn’t matter. What mattered the most was the child in her arms, and she would do everything for him to not get hurt again.

“I’ve… reconsidered”, – the grandmother’s voice was heard, erasing the scene and bringing another, “This... arrangement we had”, she addressed her general, “it’s not going to take us anywhere, I’m afraid. I do not desire to give away the boy, he is my blood after all, my grandson. We should do something about it”. She… got attached to the kid, acknowledged him as her offspring – her late daughter’s legal child. The kid was clever; it would be a shame to give him back to his father later. His blood, the heritage – it all made him even more interesting for her, and with the proper education he would benefit her cause. “Sire”, the general said, “Do you have an idea?” he looked outside of the window, there, where the laughter came from. “Indeed I do, Orlan”, the grandmother nodded, “It’s… quite ambitious, if I can say so myself”, she wickedly smiled, “These two fighting one another for as long as the world exists – they are going to help us. The Princes – they are so vain they will do whatever it takes to destroy each other”, the woman sighed, excited, “And they will have to obey me to get what they desire”. “Sire?” the man asked, her loyal henchman, the right hand. “Why bother with mere racial superiority”, she explained, “when we could bring down Gods and Princes? We could destroy the masters themselves. No gods or kings, only man”…

“He didn’t come, again”, the raven-haired girl complained lightly, as the previous reminiscence faded into a red sunset, girl’s emerald eyes shining softly in the setting sun. The father hasn’t visited the boy yet again, for another week straight. “Grandmother said he had to sail somewhere”, the boy replied, fidgeting with a poppy flower in his hands, “He’s going to be back soon, I’m sure”, he smiled at her. The girl smiled in return, leaning against the boy, her head resting on his shoulder. “Markus?” she called him, to which he grunted in acknowledgement, “Do you love me?” The kid cringed, “EW. No, you are gross”, he replied, which made her giggle. “But you have to!” she jokingly complained, poking him into his sides, “Ouchies”, the boy rubbed his skin, totally unimpressed. “You have to love me, we’re going to get married when we grow up”, the girl closed her eyes, envisioning the future. The other kid wasn’t really thrilled about it. “What if I don’t want it?” he asked, something unpleasantly twisting in his stomach, “You are my friend, and I don’t want to marry my friend. It’s… wrong”, he declared, still fidgeting with the flower between his fingers, “People marry who they love, not friends. I’m going to marry a girl I love”. “But I am a girl!” the young lady pouted. “You’re not a girl, you’re my friend. Gross”, the kid shivered, and they both laughed at that, careless about anything in the world.

A gray fog enveloped it all, fading out quickly to reveal a dark and shiny stone. Cold. Lone. Empty. It hanged up in the air above the obsidian of the water waving with the soft breeze like a black silk. The kids have never seen this place, but it seemed hospitable enough for them to stay. It… it was young, just like them, starving for contact, for living souls. It felt lonely and sad, but now – now it was in delight of finally meeting someone, of finally not being alone anymore, of having… friends. They’ve brought light and happiness to it, their laughter echoing from the stone, going up above into the air. Like a wave the glee washed all over the place, turning the desolation into peace.

“Do you remember those creatures we saw the other day in the sea?” the boy asked his friend one day. The mighty monsters, the behemoths of the oceans – they were so majestic, so noble, he thought, if only he could see them again… It heard the boy, it felt his emotions; as if from his memory the leviathans, gently flowing in the air above the stone, appeared from the thick mist; the lullaby they sang resounded in the very hearts and souls, so dreamy.

No boy was around this time, only the girl. Her raven locks fluttered in the breeze, as she herself eyed a regal woman standing on the other side of the walkway. The woman from before. She waved at the girl as if offering her to make her company, to which the girl did not refuse. They had a talk, a pleasant one at first – the woman seemingly wanting to befriend the young lady; then it shifted to something darker, until the woman took the girl by her arm and vanished. The raven-haired girl returned only after a while; her eyes glowed with gold, happy as never before.

The little noble elven girl cried, as the ship with her friend and her family sailed away. Her cousin on the contrary kept himself collected and serious, a lone tear sparkling on his cheek. They had no idea why the family of the emerald-eyed girl had to leave, but their grandmother knew. The old lady would never tell the children the whole story, maybe some mock up later. Oh, this lying Breton family – she had enough with their deceit. The shady market practice is one thing – it could be forgiven, but an attempt at kidnapping – it is something else. The grandmother was furious to know about this treachery – they already had this marriage agreement, but the breton lord decided to do it his way and kidnap woman’s only grandson. It was a miracle her right hand discovered it, preventing the disaster before it could happen. She should have beheaded them all, but the ruined reputation is worse than any death.

Warm hands awoke the boy – it was an old man, the grandmother’s old flame; silver moon shining through a window lit his dark gray hair tied into a high ponytail, his deep green eyes sparkling in the night. “Get up, get the things you need”, he told the kid, leaving him to look out of the window. It was now or never; the only chance he had to leave this place for good. “Where are we going?” the boy asked, rubbing his sleepy eyes. He did not want to leave, but it was of importance to get him out from the Isles, away from his ambitious grandmother. The man knew what she planned to do, her grandeur plans with the kid playing the main role. “Mark”, the old man crouched in front of him, “We have to leave. Now”. “But how about the grandmother, uncle Nar?” The old elf returned a year ago, pledged himself to serve the grandmother once again, loyal and obedient. It was hard to gain her trust yet again, but eventually – she opened up to him once more. It was all part of his plan – to deceive her and to thrust a knife in her back just like she did herself to him before; this wound, however, would hurt much more. “Uncle, I don’t want to go”, the kid said shaking his head. Right, the man thought, he didn’t have any reason to wish to leave this place, even after all the fairy tales of the north he told him. “Markus”, the old man started, smiling at how concentrated the kid got once he used this name, “There is no time for this. We’ve decided. The boat is setting sail in a few”, he had to take the boy away – for the sake of the future, for the sake of this kid’s life; he’d be damned if he’d let the woman use the child in her wicked schemes, “If you don’t like it there – I will bring you back, alright?” The kid nodded, sad and solemn asudden. The man felt sorry for taking him away, but a better and safe life awaits him once they make it from the Isles…

He didn't know the price he had have to pay – to be branded as a traitor by the one he once loved.

“Mom”, the boy said, suddenly shutting himself, eyes wide open as if he said something bad. The surrounding air filled with silence in an instant, and the awkwardness filled the kid to the top. He never had anyone to call a mom or a dad, and this one just… slipped. He felt ashamed; he didn’t want to look in the eyes of this woman anymore, face red from embarrassment. Instead of saying anything though, the woman just moved from her place, locking the kid into a loving and caring embrace. There was nothing wrong that he said; he finally felt safe.

The same girl – raven black locks, emerald eyes, almost a woman now – yet there was something different about her, something… not right. She seemed restless walking around the stone, like if she couldn’t find a place to stay. She brought a lot of things with her this time: many ancient books in a dead language; artifacts of a long gone race. The young lady always strived for knowledge, and the lessons she had along with her friends – it wasn’t enough, she always wanted more. Some of the things that she brought with her – they’ve been lost to the world, and some – hidden so deep inside the other realms it was impossible to recover them; where did she get them remained unknown. The lady would study them thoroughly, always returning to the beginnings to check the things she had learned. And this carried on for ages, it seemed, time stretching so much it fit hundreds of years into a single day. Yet she wanted more…

The woman from before came to her one day as if was called – their speech muffled, obscured by a primordial magic on purpose, impossible for anything to be heard. The girl bowed before the woman in the end, knelt, eyes close shut and brows furrowed. A fear lingered in the air surrounding her, but she was committed like never before – she would do whatever it takes to save the one she cares about even if the words the woman spoke scared her too much. A touch – and it all went ablaze with a brightness of thousands of suns. Regret, remorse, and anguish – all washed over the girl as she realized – she was deceived. It was too late to turn back now, no way for her to save her very self: her soul would be destroyed and absorbed, her body would become a living corpse following commands a few moments later. It reached out to the girl as her shadow imprinted on the place; it reached out and snatched a piece of her soul before the woman would consume it. It hid it in the deepest recesses no one would ever venture to. The girl is the part of it now, fused together into a single entity.

“Look!” a girl with chestnut hair and crystal blue eyes, skin of a cream – now the boy’s sister – pointed at something in the distance. A noble looking young woman, hair of the finest rye, skin of light gold, eyes of bronze; she moved with such a grace it seemed she didn’t walk but flied through air. He’s never seen anyone more angelic than her; she was the embodiment of everything beautiful in the world he has seen and he has yet to see. The woman glanced at him, half smile on her face, and it was enough to make his heart beat faster, blood rushing to his face, his lashes fluttering. “Why don’t you talk to her?” the sister asked, and that was enough for filling the embarrassment quota for today, making him retreat home.

“Aren’t you the one looking for a companion?” the kid came up to an ashen haired man sitting in the corner. He wasn’t a fan of approaching strangers – this one looked weird, sick and creepy, flower tattoo on his neck and a laurel around his ear – but there was no one else in this place who had the same route as him. The silver greatsword shifted on his back uncomfortably – damn be the day he listened to these old men saying he must wield a sword just as big as him. “Where are you heading?” the man asked not even bothered to look up. “Same as you”, it was dangerous to tell the destination aloud, but luckily, there were not many people around to overhear him. It was really careless of him to tell the bartender this, though, one never knows if they’re honest or not, but there was no other way around this: this area was too difficult to traverse on his own, alone, with each turn hiding behind a witch or a berserk ready to skin people alive. “Are you sure you can wield that paddle on your back?” the man smirked at him, getting up on his feet, and the kid sighed in frustration – this is going to be an adventure.

It barely made it in time, barely awoke the outsider the master brought here with him. The vestige, following commands from beyond, layered magic upon magic on the kid, binding him to the image of his long lost friend; he listened to the every honeyed word the vessel said, too enthralled to notice the deceit.

The outsider was right in time to disrupt it – it felt forever grateful to the odd looking man; and now that the effigy was gone, the kid is finally free from harm safe for the mournful melancholy and tears or relief.

It won’t allow this to happen again.

The last memory slowly faded, echoing in the darkness still. The veil of remembrance gradually lifted, sense by sense returning to the unmoving bodies, waking them from their slumber. Too exhausted…

- Shit, – Mark hissed, covering his eyes with his arm. The memories left an unpleasant feeling in his guts along with annoying anxiety playing in the background of his head, – Shit, imagine hating someone but being a fucking coward to do something radical about it, – he tried to stand up, but his own weight anchored him to the stone. So tired.

Livaen shifted on the floor, rising from the cold stone: her body was just as sore, so she just sat there modestly, watching her cousin gasp for air, squirming in his desire to get up.

- Mark, – she called quietly, afraid to scare him. He hummed in response, – I’m so sorry. Your mother, the aunt, I…, – she couldn’t finish the sentence, as he interrupted her with a gesture of his arm.

- Don’t. She got what she deserved, – the kid exhaled loudly, the arm falling limp on the stone. That woman – he wouldn’t even call her a mother; someone else but. His mother, the real mother that loved him and cared for him, waited for him in his new home.

- Do you… Do you need to talk?

The elf cringed painfully.

- Fuck no, I’ve seen enough, – he pushed himself off of the stone, sitting on the floor, – Fuck. Fuck me, – Mark shook his head, hiding the face in the palms of his hands for a moment. It was all so messed up, so twisted; how little idea he had about anything at all, and everything that he knew about his past – it was all lies, a pain inflicted upon him and his loved ones by the creatures more powerful than any mortal. He sighed, removing the hands from his face, looking up into the stone, – Cath? – he called, and the Void responded with a light breeze, strands of his hair waving gently as if someone combed through, – Shit, – he snickered, shaking his head: she’s always been here at his side, and he didn’t even know it, – imagine if I haven’t met you, – the elf addressed the ashen haired man this time that was already standing on his feet.

The soft breeze inside the Heart changed a little, sounds travelling differently.

- You’d be dead, – someone from behind announced, – She would have murdered you first – you would become a threat to her, – the Prince walked inside as if on cue – he must have listened in on everything, but then again – the Void was once a part of his realm, – Then she would have destroyed me. After – she would have claimed both your realm and mine, and for the final – she would have hunted down everyone who has or had any connection to me, good or bad. But, – he offered his hand to the elf. Mark looked at it with mistrust, but soon grabbed it, and the Prince pulled him on his feet, – she was too late, – he looked at Aspen, – Have you thought about that favor I owe you by the way?

Mark walked up to the basin, throwing one last glance into it. The whirlwind under the water calmed down, and smoke just leisurely floated inside.

- What happens now?

- You tell me, – the Prince replied, unmoving, – You could end this right here and now, or you could continue living on with this burden, being hunted by Meridia.

The girl moved from her spot.

- Mark, – she grabbed his arm firmly, reaching around him to look him into the eyes, – Please, don’t rush it. Let us think this through, – she lowered her voice, whispering, almost hissing at him, – He is the Schemer Prince, he may be lying about all of this. Even the memories – they might be untrue!

The kid stopped her with a gesture of his hand. He was so tired of everything. Mark moved past the Prince and through the exit, paying no attention to the three behind him. The air outside was so crisp and clean, like if a thunderstorm washed all over the place – the smell of electricity so prominent and liberating. He inhaled lungs full of air till they started aching, alleviating his mind and soul of the worries. Livaen was right, indeed, it was necessary to think this all through before deciding anything, yet he couldn’t wait anymore.

Was he the one to blame here? If it wasn’t for him, Catherine would be alive, Esmir’s daughter too, and Livaen wouldn’t’ve endured the horrible pain; Narandil would have his face intact – the scar serving him a reminder of the betrayal, and Visenya would have never known the grip of death. Was it his fault of endangering all of these people? Maybe he just shouldn’t’ve been born at all, maybe he was just a someone’s mistake. Right… A mistake. He was a mistake – the mistake of his mother and his grandmother; the payment for their ambitions; a scapegoat. If only they could have quenched their hunger.

The kid stopped at the crossroads, the entire walk absorbed in his thoughts, following the paths the Void laid down before him. He looked around: they followed him closely, not speaking a word, giving him space to breathe. It was now or never; with a heavy sigh he turned around, facing the Prince.

- I’ve decided, – he told him, the words coming off easier than he anticipated, – You have my favor.

The man only nodded in acknowledgement, and nothing else happened. So anticlimactic; he wouldn’t lie to himself, he expected a storm, a battle, an army of Meridia’s Aurorians – anything at all, but not this – just a nod of the head. But come whatever may, it just must end.

- Show yourself, – the Prince commanded to someone, voice like a thunder roaring through the air. The vestige appeared – the Catherine, her hair of pure gold this time, – Using the vessel still, I see? – the man smirked, drawing a low hostile groan from the woman.

- Just do what you have to do, Stone-Fire, – she replied, the look on the face solemn. She possessed the body herself, unwilling to come in person unlike numerous times she did in the memories, afraid of what’s about to happen. Was she trying to buy herself some time? Or was she trying to save herself using the image of the long lost girl?

- I was about to, – he told her, bowing slightly before her as a courtesy, – But I have something to ask first. Mark? – the Prince addressed the kid – he looked fatigued, eyes weary and sleepy, – What are you going to do about Esmir now that you know everything? She almost sacrificed her own child for her ambitions; murdered her daughter; wanted, most likely still wants to use you in her own devices; indirectly caused Catherine’s untimely demise; melted Narandil’s face; tortured your friends and almost killed Visenya… She was and is one of those behind Thalmor; she still bears the idea of bringing down the masters. What are you going to do about her?

Mark frowned, looking at the Daedra. A strange timing to this question, yet so weirdly right, he thought, as he forgot about the grandmother completely. It had nothing to do with the situation at hand, though still he decided upon indulging the man in this matter.

- Well, – he started, calculating every possible outcome for her and for them, – Esmir has to go, – Mark said, voice stern and confident. Livaen looked at him, a wordless question in her eyes, yet said nothing, – Livaen will replace her as the head of the house, – the decision earned an interested look from the Prince, but he didn’t interrupt the elf: he expected him to say he will seize the power for himself, like a child of his should, yet he didn’t. The kid took a deep breath, thinking: there was no denying of the crimes the woman has committed, and she would have to pay eventually for everything. But at the same time…, – She is also very valuable to dispose of, if that’s what you were waiting from me to comment upon, – Mark glanced at the Daedra. The man nodded in response, – She might be vile and cruel, but she’s one of the most brilliant people that ever lived. It would be a shame to lose her. So – she will stay by Livaen’s side as an advisor, nothing else, – a twisted glee flashed on the Prince’s face, and he applauded. It wasn’t what the man expected: he expected the son to give the woman to him to torture her endlessly for every broken deal they had; but this decision was… very prudent, to say the least, practical, and it made him feel really proud of the child. He would make sure himself the woman stays on track and serves the children properly.

- Now tell me, – the Prince asked in a curious tone, too excited with the previous answer. He moved closer to the kid, throwing an arm around his shoulders, – I’ll let you decide her fate, – the man gestured at the vessel, implying the person behind it. A fury crossed the vessel’s face, but died out quickly, – What should I do with her?

- Let her live, – the elf answered confidently, the answer final and definite. The woman looked at him, bewildered, not saying a word; the father just smiled wickedly – oh, the practicality of this kid: the woman was too… dear for him to get rid of, his very existence would become boring without his nemesis, and now that she’s defeated – she’ll try to avenge this embarrassment sometime later in future. It’s a fun game, a tug of war of sorts, and the man definitely enjoys it despite the lesser failures along the way. She must love it too… The Prince used the confusion of the woman and made a leap forward all of a sudden, getting close to the vessel in one big step and cutting its throat. The body went limp in an instant, no blood pouring from the wound; the man caught the finally dead Catherine in his arms, gently laying her down onto the stone. His finger stroked her face softly, closing her eyes forever now. After – he rose up, turning around to see the son one more time.

- She wouldn’t do the same for you. I hope she appreciates it, – and with this the Prince disappeared into thin air.

It was anticlimactic.

Later that day they placed her body onto a boat – the bed of roses – its material very similar to that of a wood. Mark set the float on fire, her body catching flames quickly – the blaze so hot and bright; the Void’s tide taking her away into the mists beyond. The breeze carried her ashes away as she burned, turning them into the finest crystals. It was sad, but he was also happy she finally has her peace – she finally reconnected with herself, he felt it in the air; she was gleeful about it, she’s been waiting for so long to become whole again. It was snowing after for a few days, snowing with sparkling in the invisible sun crystals.

...

- Hurry! – the elf girl commanded to a servant, – Please, don’t break it! – she looked all over the crates they’re going to ship back to Alinor – all filled to the brim with Skyrim’s treasures.

It was the end; they were boarding the ship to set sail back home – to Summerset. Esmir and her loyal bodyguard were already aboard, yet Livaen still lingered ashore for someone to finally show up and say farewells. She wanted him to leave with her, to join her and return home; she was dreading the time she’ll have to step in in her full rights as the head of the house with little friends by her side, she wanted him to share this power and ease the burden; he was adamant about staying up here in the North though.

- Livaen, – someone gently touched her elbow, soft and low female voice getting her attention, – Relax, don’t want you start spitting diamonds here, – Meltem smirked at her, making a remark about the tension in the girl’s whole body, pointing at two riders in the distance. Here they are, the girl smiled shifting her gaze onto the woman – she followed their path with her eyes before meeting Livaen’s. She’s bound to leave Skyrim with her, in so many years finally changing the place; it was heartbreaking to see her go, but hopefully it’s for the best. Everything happened so quickly; it happened just as quickly as they got married: just like Livaen anticipated their marriage didn’t last long, and they had to put a stop to it. Visenya – the girl’s head is full of wind, careless and childish still; their relationship was like a game to her, something unimportant and something she could disregard with ease. At least she doesn’t have an ache in her heart – she married the jarl’s brother the next day after the divorce. Maybe it was for the better… Meltem wanted to leave in the end, to leave Skyrim behind, wanted to go with her sister to Chorrol as they planned, but she couldn’t see herself as a housewife or anything like that. She is a warrior, and she will die with swords in her hands doing something that is worth dying for. She would’ve left, but Mark stopped her, suggesting she stays by his cousin’s side, being her shield and most importantly a friend for her.

- Hey! – the voice of her cousin returned her back to senses: he dismounted his horse, his companion following him closely behind, as always. They came closer, the elf locking the girl into an embrace – it was finally all over for him and for her, and she can safely return home as the new lady of the house, – You’re all ready? – he asked, firmly holding her by her shoulders.

- Yes, – she nodded, smiling, watching as he switched over to Meltem, their embrace so warm and everlasting; it was hard for both to let go. The ashen haired man followed the elf as he pulled away from the woman facing Livaen yet again. She sighed, a bit sad, – Are you sure you don’t want to leave with us? – the same old question, but it didn’t hurt asking.

- No, – Mark laughed lightly, shaking his head. He’s so different now from what he was a month ago – finally bright and full of life, – but I’ll visit you someday, – he leaned forward, kissing Livaen’s forehead, – I’m going to miss you both, so expect me, – the kid told both women, as an annoyed captain urged them to leave the docks and finally go aboard the ship. They hugged one more time saying their farewells and left the two behind ashore. Mark waved his hand, watching them set sail for the South – it was bittersweet to say goodbye, but this was life, and it’s unfair; he still has Aspen by his side, his parents in Whiterun too, and they’re going to visit the Isles sooner or later. With this thought, he smiled brighter than ever after them, his hand blindly finding the other man’s hand and squeezing in tightly.

[cakesunflower]

War of Hearts [Gang!Calum AU] Part 5

Previous Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Part 5

“I’m sorry. His body went into shock which led to multiple organ failure. There was nothing we could do.”

Calum stared at the apologetic, nervous doctor in front of him, eyes blank while his mind began racing and heart started thundering. He couldn’t blink, couldn’t think, as the few men that were with him erupted into a disagreeing, protesting uproar. Calum could hear their garbled words of demanding the doctor go back and try harder to fix it—to fix him. But Calum knew it was over. Knew that Davis Lincoln had taken his last breath and no one could do anything about it. So he stood and stared at nothing, felt nothing but numbness paralyzing every fiber of his being, the last thread that had kept him together since the Gateway attack snapping. But the effect of the heart wrenching pain he pretended to be numb to hadn’t hit him quite yet.

“I want to see him.”

The commotion from his men was silenced upon Calum speaking up, an intense silence falling as they all looked at their leader. Standing tall with strong shouldered squared, Calum didn’t look at any of them, blank gaze on the doctor, who looked back at the taller man. Even with a face void of any emotion, Calum still made other people shake in their knees. “Y-Yes, of course.”

Calum didn’t need to tell the rest of his men to stay put, they all quietened down once Calum spoke up, their gazes burning into his back as he walked down the hallway, the stench of antiseptic attacking his nose as he was led to the room where Davis was. The short heels of is boots clicked against the floor, hands perpetually clenched into fists at his sides as he walked, trying not to focus on his raging thoughts, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good if he did. Knowing that if he paid attention to the thoughts screaming in his head, the actions in consequence of listening to them would be unpredictable.

The doctor opened the door for Calum before respectfully walking off, and Calum doesn’t remember going from standing outside the door to being at Davis’s side. Calum stood over the slab where his body lay, a white sheet covering Davis’s body up to his collarbones. Brown eyes shut, closed off from the world forever. Calum’s chest tightened, the right side of Davis’s face pink and leathery from second degree burns, well aware the rest of his body had suffered far worse. It was truly a miracle he’d managed to survive two days after the attack.

But now he was gone, and it was hitting Calum forcefully enough to knock the air out of his lungs. His jaw clenched, an ache in his chest throbbing due to his slow breathing, hoping to keep any semblance of sanity as he stared down at Davis. At this nineteen year old kid who was taken in by Calum and the Riders after his folks kicked him out. Because that’s who they were; unwanted, troubled kids whose parents had had enough of them, who were looking for some place to belong and feel like they mattered. Because no matter what kind of shit they got into, whether they hurt or hurt someone else, that’s what it boiled down to—family. They had become each other’s family in the most unconventional of ways.

Davis had been with them for two and a half years, one of the youngest members of the Riders. Had started off as a kid who spent most of the day high off weed, which wasn’t as bad as the cocaine the Sabers sniffed and sold. But over the past couple of years Davis got it together, became one of the best shots and strategist Calum had ever met. A bright fucking kid.

A kid.

His twentieth birthday was in two months.

Calum squeezed his eyes shut, eyebrows drawn together and lips turned downwards as he kept the scream, cry, whatever the hell it was inside. He could feel his shoulders shaking from the willpower it took for him to attempt to keep it together, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to. His breathing was harsh through his nose, only adding onto the burn he could feel in his closed eyes, and suddenly Calum was stumbling back.

Davis was dead. Just like Vasquez, Renee, Jenkins and Cole. Five of his people were dead and Calum hadn’t been able to do anything about it. Had to watch as those who weren’t as injured pulled their bodies out from the debris and fire, watch as it became obvious that they were nothing but lifeless bodies who wouldn’t be opening their eyes ever again.

It was like each loss had punctured through his heart. He’s lost people before—in this line of work, it was inevitable. None of them had a long life expectancy. But Calum couldn’t help but feel as though he should’ve been prepared, that he should’ve warned everyone to remain vigilant, to not get too lost in the wedding festivities. He hadn’t. Instead, he also lost himself in the excitement of Michael’s wedding, figured that it was a day well deserved not just for Michael, but for everyone.

How fucking stupid of him to be blind to the fact that the Sabers would retaliate. What kind of a leader was he, if he couldn’t protect his people? If he couldn’t be aware of every possible attack against them and make sure the people around him would keep themselves protected? How could he have been so naive to think they were safe in the first place?

How could he have let everyone down?

A frustrated, animalistic growl escaped Calum, eyes clenched shut as he turned around on his heel, right fist automatically surging forward and slamming into the nearest surface. He opened his eyes as a loud, metallic crunch sounded in the otherwise quiet room, catching sight of the grey filing cabinet he’d just buried his fist into. The adrenaline that he’d punched with sank into the dent made in the cabinet, flushing out of his body to be replaced with the seething grief and guilt and anger Calum suddenly felt overwhelmed with.

He was breathing heavily, shoulders hunched and head bowed as his hand dropped away from the cabinet, completely aware of the sharp pain caused by the damage in his bones but not caring. He deserved it, after all.

                                                     *****

Outside.

Ruby pocketed her phone after receiving the one word text from Calum, stepping out of the one story building the private orthodontist practice she worked at was in. She spotted Calum’s black car, only a few feet away, approaching the passenger door as she heard, “Sweet ride, Rubes!”

Glancing over her shoulder, Ruby let out a breathy laugh at Oscar, the dental assistant that started working at her job a few months ago, whom she had become easy friends with. He was grinning from where he was getting into his own white Jeep. “It’s a friend’s,” she told him before waving. “Goodnight, Oscar.”

He waved back, smiling. “Drive safe.”

Getting into the car, it wasn’t until Ruby shut the door and stretched her seatbelt over her front did she pause at the sight of the black split on Calum’s right hand. Her eyes widened, movements slow in clicking in the seatbelt, as she asked, “What—Calum, what happened?”

Her green eyes flickered to look at him as the car began moving, catching the way the muscle in his jaw was relentlessly jumping, dark eyes fixated on the road ahead. There was no music playing in the car, something Ruby had noted Calum did; nothing but an eerie silence that didn’t settle well with her. Everything about him was tense, more so than usual, which was saying something. The grip his left hand had on the steering wheel was paling his knuckles, adam’s apple bobbing every now and then.

But he didn’t answer Ruby’s question. Stayed silent as he drove, and Ruby uncomfortably leaned back in the seat, deciding to give him as much space as she could in the car. Something must have happened. He was practically radiating rage and tension and so many other things she couldn’t pinpoint, and Ruby found herself growing worried for him. Found herself wanting to hold his hand in some kind of comfort; only his hand was injured. And they didn’t hold hands.

They got back to Calum’s apartment building after ten intense, quiet moments. Ruby followed him up to the tenth floor, knowing that he could probably feel her gaze on him, surprised that he didn’t say anything about it. But she couldn’t help herself. There was something terribly off about Calum; his curls were messy, like he’d ran his fingers through them multiple times, and his eyes, she’d noticed when he walked around the car after they got out, were slightly red rimmed. Had he been crying?

The thought of that would’ve normally left her floored. But right now, it had her heart sinking.

As soon as the front door of the apartment shut behind them, Calum retreated to his room without another word. Ruby pursed her lips, swallowing, truly contemplating if she should go after him. It was none of her business, though, and Calum Hood certainly wasn’t someone who needed to be comforted. Besides, how in the hell would she even go about trying to make him feel better? He was a difficult person to read on a regular basis; when he was truly attempting to block people out? Forget about it.

So Ruby tried to go about her own way and went into her room to change into some comfortable clothes. But that’s how far she got.

Because, despite being down the other end of the hallway, Ruby could still hear Calum’s disgruntled shout of, “Fuck!” before a heart stopping shattering sound followed.

Ruby froze in the middle of her room, wide eyes staring at the wall, heart jumping into her throat as a heavier crash sounded, hearing something splinter, hearing something else break into a hundred different pieces. It was all slightly muffled, but in the quiet of the apartment, it might as well have been happening in her own room. Her mouth was dry, hearing more things clatter, crash, shatter, feet frozen where she stood and unable to move.

It was like he was tearing his room apart, not ready to leave anything intact, and it wasn’t until everything fell into an eerie silence that Ruby found herself moving. She didn’t even think, didn’t register the possibility that being around an obviously enraged Calum would not be the brightest or safest of ideas. But things were being broken, his hand seemingly already was, and Ruby didn’t want him to injure himself anymore. He seriously going through something and dangerous gangster or not, Ruby couldn’t bring herself to just keep herself locked in her room and let it happen.

She didn’t even hesitate in grabbing the doorknob and pushing the door open, stumbling into the room only two steps before stopping short at the sight in front of her. A shuddering breath escaped Ruby, green eyes darting around, taking everything in. Taking in the sight of the bookshelf on the ground, fractured, with all of its contents spilled onto the floor, books scattered everywhere as well as records, some of which were broken. Her heart hammered at the sight of the TV, a severe spider web crack in the middle, pieces of a broken drinking glass on the floor below it. Even the bedside lamps hadn’t escaped Calum’s wrath, the shades thrown on the floor and the bulbs broken, his belongings from the dresser broken or just strewn about.

But nothing seemed as broken as the man sitting on the floor.

Ruby could feel her entire body cave in at the sight of Calum, hand dropping from the doorknob as her distressed gaze landed on him. Sat with his back against the bed, knees brought up and hands buried in his thick curls—though his splintered one was awkwardly just against his head. He wasn’t making a sound, but his shoulders rose and fell with each heavy breath he took, sometimes shaking from sobs he didn’t allow to escape.

Fortunately wearing her house slippers, Ruby hesitantly walked into the room, flinching when she heard glass crunch under her feet, gaze glued to an unmoving Calum. She ignored the pounding of her heard, could feel her eyebrows drawn together when she looked at him, unsure of what to expect. The room looked like a warzone, everything broken and cluttered, just a small window into what Calum must be thinking and feeling right now. He was breaking down and Ruby felt the strong urge to want to make it better.

He didn’t look up as Ruby crouched down to his side, right hand on the bed to keep herself balanced as Calum blocked the view of his face. “Calum,” she spoke up after a few moments of silence, her voice a whisper, not daring for it to be any louder. Her whisper sounded like a scream in the tense quiet. He didn’t move. Ruby swallowed. She didn’t even know what to say. She couldn’t even keep her whisper of a voice steady as she spoke, “You. . . You can talk to me.”

How she went from being unable to look the man in the eye to offering to being an ear to listen in a matter of days, she had no damn clue.

“It’d be best if you left me alone.”

Calum’s voice was gruff, raw as if he had to force those words out almost painfully. He didn’t look at her as he spoke, didn’t even lift his head. And while he sounded hoarse, there was no emotion in his voice, nothing to indicate the rage he had had destroyed his room in moments before. Like every drop of anger he had in him was used in breaking everything in sight, and now he was deflated. Just a shell of a man, nothing like the notorious badass who invoked fear in others by his mere presence.

Ruby hadn’t even seen his face yet but she could tell how broken he was in this moment.

“No,” she breathed, taking a breath. “Something happened, and breaking things isn’t going to make you feel better. Talking will—”

“Will what?” Ruby rolled her lips into her mouth when he finally lifted his head, sharp brown eyes meeting her green. She tried not to appear as stunned as she felt at the sight of his face; at the flushed cheeks and nose, the red rimmed eyes that were burning with so many emotions she’d never seen on him before. His hooded eyes were narrowed into a glare, looking at her in a way that she knew was meant to be condescending but even that he couldn’t muster up the energy for. Instead, he looked. . . Defeated. “Will make me feel better? Bullshit.” Calum let out a laugh, empty and bitter, shaking his head before leaning it back on the edge of the bed, staring up at the ceiling as his throat worked. This time, Ruby heard the shuddering breath he let out. “Talking isn’t goin’ to bring back Lincoln.”

Ruby’s lips parted as her head jerked back slightly, startled, heart dropping to the pit of her stomach at his words. Her throat cooled and dried at the air she sucked in, stunned eyes widening as the face of the young boy flashed across her mind as she stammered, “Lincoln’s dead?”

Head still leaned back, Calum’s jaw worked and Ruby noticed the subtle quivering of his lower lip, and how he clenched his left hand on his knee while his right remained splinted and unmoving. She watched as he clenched his eyes shut, watched in awe that broke her heart as a tear finally escaped him, trailing down the side of his face as he kept his head tilted back. And Ruby’s heart broke, because he was freely letting her watch as his did, too.

Calum wasn’t keeping it all in, wasn’t masking his emotions and hiding behind a face void of anything he was feeling. For the first time, he was letting himself be something that wouldn’t show him off as arrogant, confident, charming, dangerous. For the first time, Ruby was truly seeing him be a human being, and it was tearing up her heart a lot more severely than she thought. And once that first tear escaped, the rest followed.

Taking a sharp breath, Ruby gave a quick glance to the floor below her, making sure there was no glass before she kneeled to Calum’s side and, without thinking, cupped his face. There wasn’t a jerking reaction as she would’ve expected, instead was surprised in how Calum let her lift his head from the bed and straighten it, making him face her, her palms being tickled by his scruff and thumbs grazing his surprisingly soft cheeks. The sight of him crying—it was twisting her chest and sinking her heart, because while it was kind of a relief to see he wasn’t as emotionless as a brick wall, she hated that this was how it was proven.

“It’s not your fault,” Ruby said, her voice cracking with her own emotions. She knew Lincoln, of course, knew him to be a good kid over everything. Hell, had danced with him at Michael’s wedding. Now he was gone and while Ruby wasn’t used to losing people so quickly like this, she horribly thought Calum would be. But he wasn’t as immune to death as one would think, and the sight of him breaking down in front of her like this, it was gut wrenching. When Calum opened his eyes to look at her, cloudy and glassy, Ruby didn’t let up her grip as she repeated, “It’s not your fault, Calum.”

He didn’t pull away from her. Didn’t sneer or scowl or shove. Instead, his full lips just parted as he hoarsely responded, “It is.”

Ruby found herself hating that he was carrying Lincoln’s—and Renee’s, Vasquez’s, Jenskin’s, and Cole’s—deaths on his shoulders. They were strong and broad, but didn’t need that burden. She shifted her hands so her fingers were in his curls, making him look at her, not allowing herself to think of how she was touching him voluntarily. Ruby paused for a heart pounding moment, before finally saying, “If it’s your fault they died, then it’s my fault my parents were killed.”

Calum started, her grip dropping on him as her words pulled him out of his guilt and grief induced haze. His dark eyes widened, staring at Ruby in disapproving astonishment. “The fuck it is.”

Ruby swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat at the mention of her parents, much like it always did, as she momentarily chewed on her lips. The tears that had been burning her eyes at the sight of Calum crying threatened to fall all the more now at the memory of her parents. Stomach churning, Ruby forced out, “They wouldn’t have been on the road if they weren’t visiting me at school. If they weren’t on the road, then that semi wouldn’t have crashed into them and they’d still be here.”

She pushed the memories of that time away despite knowing that talking about it would bring them to the forefront of her mind. She tried not to recall the horrific dread she had felt upon receiving that phone call, how she hadn’t fallen to her knees in the middle of her dorm screaming bloody murder at the knowledge of her parents being gone, how she somehow managed to get Michael on the phone, who’d dropped everything and rushed to take on the five hour drive to see her so they could mourn the loss of their parents together.

How she felt a breathless stab of guilt every time she thought of her mom and dad, and how they should still be here.

“That wasn’t your fault.” Ruby looked at Calum, saw him frowning at her with a shake of his head, face still flushed a grieving pink. “You didn’t have any control over that.”

That’s what she kept telling herself. It helped most of the time.

“Neither did you,” Ruby responded, soft-spoken, pushing past the churning memories, her hand moving on its own accord as it rested atop of Calum’s left one on his knee. Neither of them acknowledged the action, maybe because parts of both of them knew how comforting the touch was. How a surge of warmth fluttered through their heartbroken bodies. Calum’s lips parted slowly at Ruby’s words, easily understanding what she just did. She gave his hand a squeeze, eyebrows drawing together in hopes of getting him to listen to her. “People were drunk, we were celebrating. The Riders spend a lot of their time at the Gateway. You had no control over what happened, and you can’t blame yourself for it.”

Calum’s dark eyes searched Ruby’s green, knowing that she was right, grateful that she was there. Truthfully, he didn’t care that he completely lost it in front of her, didn’t care that she had witnessed his break down and would probably start seeing him in a different light. Maybe it’d be good for them. But most of all, he was grateful that she hadn’t turned away from him, knew that it was because she was just such a good fucking person to do something like that, knew that someone like her had no business being anywhere near someone like him.

But fuck it if he cared.

The touch of her hand on top of his was already relaxing his muscles.

“I’m not good with not havin’ any control,” Calum confessed, raspy voice quiet at the admittance. He licked his lips quickly, giving a small shake of his head. “It all happened under my watch. What kind of a leader am I?”

The guilt, he knew, wouldn’t be leaving him any time soon, whether it was his fault or not.

Ruby’s throat worked, teeth sinking into her lower lip before she answered, “The kind who’s going to use his grief and anger on the people who did this.”

Despite the situation and the thunderstorm of emotions going on in his head and heart, Calum cracked a ghost of a smirk as he asked, “You tellin’ me you condone the violence, Red?”

She let out a breath, in a bit of disbelief for what she was about to say, though she meant it. “If it means getting justice, yes.”

Calum let out the smallest, breathiest of chuckles, watching her with a look of admirance Ruby didn’t think she deserved. Just then, Calum flipped the hand that was under Ruby’s, holding on tighter as he dropped his gaze to them, asking, almost hesitantly, “Stay with me? For a bit?”

Ruby’s heart pounded at the request, at how he couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes as he asked, and then she felt her chest lighten. She wasn’t afraid of him. Not in this moment, maybe not anymore. Something had changed since the moment she stepped into his war zone of a room, something that made Ruby answer him by shifting so she was now sitting by his side, her back against the bed and his hand still holding hers. His grip was warm and secure; even when he seemed to be at his breaking point, Calum still somehow made her feel safe, made her chest flutter at how nice his hand felt in hers.

She had no idea how long they had been sitting there, on the floor of his room with everything broken around them. But they had managed to doze off, long enough for the sun to go down and the room to be enveloped in darkness when Ruby had come to. And when she had, her neck was cramping a bit from being leaned back on the bed, and when she tried to move she realized she couldn’t, because Calum’s head was leaning on her shoulders. His curls were tickling her neck and his hand was still holding hers, and Ruby had to look up at the ceiling in wonder of how the hell this happened. Wondered how it could feel so nice, so comforting, to be in this position with Calum, of all people.

Wondered how she didn’t even mind it in the slightest.

But they had to move, because now that she was awake she was aware of how numb her butt was, and how this wasn’t too comfortable of a position for either of their bodies. And when she tried to move, first pressing her palm ever so slightly against Calum’s cheek in replacement of her shoulder so she could get up, Calum suddenly came to. Turns out he was a light sleeper.

His head lifted, eyebrows furrowing sleepily as he looked at her, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. For someone in the life he was living, Calum was awfully comfortable with gazing at a figure in his room, not even reaching for a gun at a potential intruder. But then again, he probably knew it was Ruby as his voice, thick with sleep and rasp, asked, “What’re you doin’?”

“Trying to get you to lay down in bed,” Ruby answered quietly, sleepily, blinking tiredly as she got up on her feet, using their still joined hands to give him a tug. “Come on, the floor isn’t comfortable.”

Propping his right elbow on the bed behind him, careful not to actually use his injured hand, Calum pushed himself up until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Ruby then moved to let go of his hand and leave the room, but Calum’s grip remained as he gruffly asked, “Where are you goin’?”

“To sleep?” Ruby responded, though it came out as a confused question. She was tired on her feet, the long day at work catching up to her as well as waking up from an impromptu sleep spell on the floor.

Calum gave her a gentle tug, looking up at her through messy curls and hooded eyes, not at all looking like a man with blood on his hands. “Stay, Red. Please. Sleep here.”

His tone was quiet, almost begging, and suddenly her own bedroom seemed too far. Suddenly, every fear and qualm and worry she had about Calum was being thrown out the window. He was still everything Ruby knew him to be, but he was also more than that. He was someone Ruby didn’t want to see hurt or in pain, someone she wished didn’t feel like he needed to carry the weight of the world on his capable shoulders. Someone she didn’t, in this moment, want to leave.

Maybe it was all of that, or maybe it was because she was so tired—definitely a mixture of both—that had Ruby crawling on the bed and kicking off her slippers. Both she and Calum practically fell onto the mattress, heads on pillows, the faint scent of him and his cologne and her and her body wash enveloping the other. They laid on their sides under the covers, facing each other and making out the other’s features in the darkness of the room.

The familiar plush mattress and silk sheets were a welcoming comfort to Ruby, reminding her of the first time she’d woken up in this bed. Only this time, she was very much aware of falling asleep in it, aware of who she was falling asleep with. Her left arm over the blanket, Ruby clutched it to her chest as Calum’s injured hand rested in the space between them. It was silent between them, calming and soothing, much needed for Calum after the torment he let consume him, which was still brimming in the depths of his core.

Even without closing his eyes, he could see the faces of those he lost, faces he knew would haunt him long after he brought their killers to justice. Cole, who had only recently reconnected with his grandmother. Jenkins girlfriend was pregnant, and while Calum knew nothing could replace the loss of a father, he and the Riders would make sure Jenkins’s girl and child never felt a shortage of money if they ever needed it. The knowledge of Vasquez wanting to propose to Renee, but now neither of them would get to walk down the aisle, sat heavily on Calum’s heart.

And Cole. Who was only a kid. Who had began taking online classes at the local community college as a step towards furthering his education, something Calum was quite proud of him for.

Every single one of them had something important going on in their lives, something that would make things better, to better themselves. And now they wouldn’t be able to go through with any of it.

Eyebrows furrowing, Calum felt the familiar pang ricochet around his chest as he turned on his back, looking up at the high ceiling as his throat worked. The guilt and grief and anger sat heavily on his chest, but Calum didn’t dare acknowledge the helplessness that accompanied. If he felt helpless, then he would panic, and he needed to keep his shit together. Keep it together long enough to be done with the Sabers, once and for all.

He felt a hesitant, light touch on his left arm. Ruby’s hand on him was soft and gentle, and it was a bit unnerving how he felt his muscles already relaxing somewhat at the contact, though he knew she could probably still feel the tension tightening his body.

Calum wanted to tell her that he was grateful for her being here, for silently comforting him and being there for him. But the words couldn’t find him, throat tight and everything just so heavy.

So he raised his left hand, finding Ruby’s that was on him and holding it, fingers delicately lacing together. He didn’t want to cross a line, especially not with her. But when Ruby squeezed his hand in reassurance, Calum was able to let out some of the breath he’d been holding in.

Ruby certainly hadn’t expected this end to her day; hadn’t expected to be comforting a post-breakdown Calum or laying in his bed because he asked her to. Hadn’t expected to see this side of Calum that screamed of his vulnerability, that showed he wasn’t completely made up of a brick wall like she had assumed. That he cared so much than she ever thought, and that when he hurt, he broke.

His hand was comforting in hers, warm and large and still protective. The last thought in Ruby’s mind before sleep took over was that she fiercely hoped Calum would be able to put himself back together after this and that, if she had to, she was willing to help.

tags: @crownedbyluke @irwinkitten @glitterprincelu @softforcal @valentinelrh @hotmessmichael @meetashthere @astroashtonio @calumh-excess @hearts-to-the-sky @old-zeppelin-shirt @angelbbycal @captain-what-is-going-on @calumthoodsyonce @cathartichaoss @misskarynie @softboycal @soulmatecashton @babygirlcashton @cxddlyash @calumhoodless @roselukes @wrappedaroundcal @slimthicccal @kinglycalum @calumculture @ohhmuke @fucking5sos @heavenlyhemminqs @cosmixcalum @invisiblexcth @gettingjillywithit @calistheloml @cliffordcntrl @asht0ns-world @hereforlukescruff @ghostofch @ghostofhood @dxmncalum @bitchinbabylon @walkedhomealone @poppedpins @5secondssofssummer @calumsmermaid @booklove-2 @empathycth @checkeredcalum @lovelettercalum @kaxseychill @rosecoloredash @theagenderwhocriedwolf @cal-pal-cuddles @xhaileyreneex @paqueretteash @calteahood @biwriting @2k17muke @sublimehood @tupeloohoneyy @egyptiangoldhood @x-valntyne-x @bloodlinecal @rabiaac @97britt @emma070900 @mmxiihood @monsteramongmikey @akacalciumhood @thebodaciouscth @5sos-stan4lyfe @lipstickstainfading @flannelpunkcalum @inlovehoodx @all-i-want-is2b-loved-by-you @grittyisathot @keeponfallling @lmao5sosimagines @isabella-mae13 @mysteriouslycali @maddiebee2019 @blamexcalum 

[thesevennumbers]

everyone's watching (to see the fallout)

The Handler's had her eyes on Number Five for quite some time, little does she know..so have the other Commission Workers

AN: I’m self-promoing here cause I can

They’d discuss it over lunch, like it was some casual everyday thing at work, not the life of a person. It was simply another funny story, “Did you see what the kid did today?” Or “you’ll never believe what happened!”

Here in the cubicles and harsh conditions of sitting in an office all day, the mind tends to be on the rather indifferent side.

There’s a massive betting pool running in the underground of Commission headquarters. It’s mostly on the mundane things, how much liquor the kid could consume, how many rib cages he’d accidentally step through, how many times he’d return to the place where he’d buried his siblings. All silly mundane things that could be predicted with numbers and estimates, something not uncommon in Commission headquarters.

But none of that compared to the betting pool on his life. Because not even the best of the best could calculate every single factor into the lifespan of a teleporting miracle baby. The life of a kid that most of them didn’t even bother to know the name of, their expectations for his lifespan quite low.

They held parties for milestones. He was a mascot of sorts, they praised him in the halls.

“The apocalypse kid reached 16 today!”

“I can’t believe he’s made it this far.”

“Who’s still in the race?”

“I think Joel got out today, he said only 2 years.”

“Please, any reasonable person would say around 3.”

“You’re both wrong, he’s going to succumb to starvation in 6 years, I’m telling you.”

“6 years is crazy, you won’t win.”

“We’ll see about that.”

As the kid grew up, time flying by for him, the betting pool prizes grew more and more insane. First, off the initial 30,000 American dollars bet, the money had increased from there to the hundreds of millions. But that wasn’t what made the bet so intoxicating, money didn’t matter to the workers of the Commission. The promises woven in were the real bread and butter.

The first promise added was the promise of your own personal briefcase to travel anywhere you liked in the world, (as long as you didn’t mess up the timeline of course, and the office workers knew better than anyone just how brutal the temporal assassins could be.) The freedom to be able to leave the office they had to spend the rest of their lives in was too good to be true, many workers changed their bets after that.

The second was the ability to insert yourself into one pivotal moment of history, to have your name imprinted forever, replacing one person involved in a conflict. To be recognized for your efforts. The money skyrocketed.

The third was the tipping point for many, the ability to be allowed to see their families that they left behind once more. Some of the office workers bawled their eyes out and added multiple more bets on the life of the apocalypse teen.

Eventually, there had to be a limit set on the amount of bets one can place and the office rioted. The fights continued for weeks until an agreement was set at 10 total.

Everyone took the opportunity to bet all 10 of their votes on the kid, who had just hit 18 and was now shooting upwards, though not as much as he probably could’ve with proper food.

Once he was 18 was when the concerns began to be voiced. Of course, there had been whispers before, about the cruelty of placing cash over the life of a child, but they had only been whispers. And once he’d spent 5 years in the end, these whispers turned to shouts.

“He’s talking to a mannequin. Do you know how depressing that is?”

“The management should be doing something, the kid’s smart, did you see that equation he wrote yesterday? I couldn’t figure that one out for a week.”

“That’s an obscene amount of alcohol for an 18 year old.”

“I had an 18 year old kid when I got recruited and if anyone ever did this to him, I’d rip their throat out.”

“Yea, I bet almost 1,000 on the kid, but I regret it now, you know? He almost collapsed from dehydration yesterday.”

Other people than the office workers began to take notice of him such as the temporal assassins and the time calculators. Multiple requests came into the offices from the assassins to just put the kid out of his misery, or at least put him to work. The calculators were often seen taking photos of his math and applying it to their own.

There were protests. Office workers with little time on their hands began to research the apocalypse teen. They’d relay the information to the others, whispering as the management walked by, looking for the troublemakers who started the rumors. The anger grew, many office workers pulled their bets from the pools, furious at the management for keeping a kid in the  apocalypse.

They related to him, because just like him, they were trapped, held down in place simply by the neatly manicured hands of the Handler. She began to patrol the halls during breaks, eyeing the files room and waiting for an unsuspecting office worker to try and sneak in. Many met the furious nails of the Handler during these attempts and never were the same after that.

It only boosted the protests.

Eventually, the management had had enough, they shot down every single betting pool and hid all of the apocalypse files in one place. They put one trustworthy person in charge of everything apocalypse and swiftly eliminated everyone who’d loudly protested against the treatment of the apocalypse kid, (he was still called that, even after they had learned his name.)

The apocalypse kid faded out of the collective memory of the office workers. Until he showed up, almost 40 years later (in progressive time, not Commission time). Being office workers, they weren’t allowed to see him very often, but they did relish each time he was near the offices and laughed at all the little ways he rebelled against his instructions.

“The instructions simply said to kill William Frontier, but the apocalypse kid set the entirety of London on fire! He’s crazy!”

“Apocalypse kid almost went to go see his siblings during his assignment today, he almost broke the entire timeline.”

“I wish he did, we need a day off.”

“God, did you hear what apocalypse kid did this time?”

“No.”

“He increased the amount of time it will take Julius Caesar to die by almost fifteen minutes.”

“Shit man, that’s actually hilarious. Did management kick his ass for it?”

“No they just let it slide. They’re getting lazier.”

They rooted for apocalypse kid, Number Five all the way until March 24, 2019, when he enacted a plan he apparently had planned for years to escape. The Handler sent Hazel and Cha-Cha after him and the office workers waited for the news of Number Five’s demise.

Imagine their surprise when a younger version of Number Five waltzed into their offices with the Handler at his side. He barely spared them a passing glance but they all watched him with wide eyes and mutters. They side-eyed him as he awkwardly typed at a typewriter for maybe three minutes before shutting down Dot with a simple, “I must have utter silence to complete this task.” One of the workers snorted into their coffee as Dot stared at his back, flabbergasted.

Number Five ignored the whispers of the workers when he entered the forbidden void of the Handler’s office.

Then he blew up the entire base, allowing himself to escape.

As the Commission office workers scattered around outside the burning building, watching the destruction of the place they’d slaved away in for so long burn, an office worker spoke, “Well, what are we supposed to do now?”

None of them had any clue.

[nozomijoestar]

Pt. 1 of my LL! x TMA crossover is finally here. Crossposted on my FF.net!

TWs: Gore, warfare, being buried alive, body horror

---------

With the world plunged into the apocalypse of never-ending fear thanks to The Eye and The Archivist, two stories intertwine. Statements of Nozomi Tojo later the entity called The One Alone- pre and post mortem of humanity. Recorded direct from subject.

------

“The Lonely is the most insidious of the powers. It doesn’t need to tell you lies. It waits for the lies you tell yourself.”

There is a wind that rides amidst the expanse bare of clouds that dares to call itself a sky still. It rolls ever onwards like a wave beneath the ever shifting Eyes; the Eyes with presence to match the same that crowns a panopticon. The tower it calls home stands higher than anything conceivable by Man. Though she has tried escape she knows there is nowhere on this barren land it cannot be seen. The gaze of the Beholder sees those who suffer in sacrifice below; it too sees the servants, the avatars, of its fellow Entities revel in a Hell once thought promised to one devotee or another now open for all. She is reminded of the amusement parks she yearned to step foot in as a child until it made her sick.

She is reminded it sees always through her disembodied form. It knows where none other should know; ever thirsty for the forbidden and beyond boundaries The Eye (The Beholder, The Ceaseless Watcher, It Knows You, names are irrelevant in its pursuits. They are attempts to describe an aspect of what people called impossible.) sips her essence with precision a mosquito could envy. The fog that is and is not her whenever she molds it to a human shape whips about in fury. It is tainting her loneliness. It wants to dip its finger in her blissful isolation just as it has every other monstrosity made manifest.

Her Entity is a kind being, an understanding one that divides the Who from They into an intimacy; one so singular and gentle to allow those within it to banish all others. She can still remember the first time grasping it brought her to tears. Both it and she cannot escape what it is to be known. Not now in the presence of that damned thing which exists to play voyeur. She looks down.

The trench that scars the earth and stretches beyond the horizon marks the domain The Slaughter calls a feeding ground. Even as high as she is the stench of cordite, gunpowder, gore, and all that tears apart wafts into her. Within the trench figures once store clerks, families, businessmen, teachers, students, children, fire enough bullets and shells to massacre what was once Tokyo. Each cracks sharper than thunder while the rat-a-tat-tat from infinite machine guns never stops. In between the gun nests slump people lost within war that is not satisfied with surface destruction and swallows the mind. They are worse than those casualties who scream, in their silence.

On the fetid breeze bagpipes in a mockery of ‘Scotland the Brave’ wail enough to vibrate No Man’s Land. She can spy the tanks advancing ever forwards peppered by shrapnel; flayed bodies can vaguely be made out strapped to their armor. The edges of her fog wiggle in place of a shudder. Neither now nor in her meaningless days as feed, as human, had butchery in any form brought anything from her but nausea. From that barren hell a bulky creature towered over its victims; it made way for her as their eyes locked.

She knows this monster well no matter how tiny the ribs spiked out its chest appear at this distance. It stamped its clawed bloody foot and snarled. Its teeth glistened red in a multitude of fangs arranged row after row like a shark mouth. The pointed shoulder blades protruding out its back drip viscera; she knows it has fed. Feeding is all it can do now; she knows it laments the conveniences a human form had after all. That like her it loathes having the terror it creates tainted under The Eye’s ruling gaze. Its face comprised of exposed wounds for flesh and two smaller faces twisted in pain on its neck, glares at her unflinching. Its black and orange pupiled eyes are beady as if carved from revulsion, from hate. Around them no soldiers aim and the tools of war bend paths to avoid harm. The monster shouts in a growl that booms over the din of murder.

“Forsaken! Have you come to strut and brag again you little shit? Making fun of me showing up like that are you?-“

The Slaughter avatar’s insults fell on empty air; she glided onward without a destination. Suddenly several stones passed through her leaving holes that reformed instantly. Not a glance did she spare back; U’ral-whatever-her-name-was could shout her distain till her throat bled. The One Alone would not stoop as weak as her to hold reservations about their paradise.

On this ride no one would get off.

She stopped above a circle of candy colored lights that formed the outline of a carousel. A few meters around its dim shine run shadowed shapes. Shape is the best word she has to describe those frantic wretches who pile atop each other; their fingers peel faces reused again and again among their number. They long to no more ask themselves Who Am I? but know beneath the ache they will never be whole.

They could have counted her among them, once. Almost.

Though reason reminded her it’d been months those days, the idea there’d been a time before, was impossible. Had she always been what she’d embraced or had her human shell been her true home? Some days before the opening of the Door she was ashamed to still ponder it.  Not in this world however; here she at last knew her peace. The edges of her form swirled outward. She continued to watch. The Stranger’s victims continued their frenzy as another face was for the taking. Cries of triumph clashed with envious screams not unlike the battle-shouts of one brought under Slaughter.

If she squinted she made out the current victor. The teenage girl bolts across the fairgrounds in a random direction; her red-orange hair waved in its ragged bob cut like a dancing flame. Where once she had pale skin and…had they been yellow eyes? The One Alone saw her now a shambling thing that slapped its prize atop a carmine skull. Something in her puzzled to think she remembered the girl’s face, and yet nothing of her name. Nothing of what their connection had been in another life.

Not a fiber of her cared to linger longer; yet as she made to leave one final sight stopped her. This time the name and everything with it returned. Kotori busied herself on a cross-stitch of skin and sinew when she saw The One Alone above. Did she too remember? Did she know who they both once were? Even if she did The One Alone couldn’t bring herself to care. It would be unnecessary and in a way always had been. She had never existed. Kotori’s eyes gave her a look filled with the briefest solidarity, before the indifference reclaimed her. The blessings of The Stranger have created fissures along her skin; it ceased to be skin so much as it resembled a potato weak enough to tug, in its fragility.

Not for the last time she feels the deep, deep truth twist her at the chance that in another world, she joined in the stitching. Disgust shook her fog at the idea of companionship looming before her. A semblance of sympathy even if in the imagination; avatars do not trust. Not each other. The smartest ones, her, saw trust for the waiting betrayal it was. For the lie it had been since the moment she was born.

She flies beyond the circus of the damned toward a thundering in the distance.  At the passing over a spot of darkness that stretches miles, she swallows the urge to stare. It is a black void so absolute it cannot cast shadows; nor can any bottom to its depth be found as though you’ve entered the essence of nothingness. Eli was there. She felt the knowledge wash over her like rain. Eli was there, transformed into something that drowned her victims into obscurity.  This was a comforting thought; their domains weren’t too unalike.

It’s enough to almost make her wish Eli had joined The Lonely. She smothers it before it can bloom further. The Dark chooses its chosen and there is nothing she can do. She is alone, as she was meant to be. Ahead the thundering slams into her ears snapping her from ruminating. Niko appeared no bigger than a dot from this high. The shovel she pointed above her head reflected the Eyes that’d replaced the sun on its blade. Above her a pink man with shriveled skin stuffed into his suit smiled. It was knowing and unbothered; he stared down as calm as if he were choosing a sandwich. Simon Fairchild.

Of course The Vast would entertain a challenge from The Buried. The space around him appeared more than air; his very presence distorts that not bound to earth. His true distance away is impossible to gauge, he is both forever distant yet under only sky, a neighbor. She watches his wisplike white hair flap in the breeze. His calm slides into amusement. Niko’s curses and yells have grown louder now. She stops at what serves best for not too close; she observes.  

None of it is productive. Niko, poor desperate, witless Niko still clung to a blanket stitched from emotions. If she was an annoyance in the old world, now she was insufferable. She remained a prisoner as she’d always been. She’d been a prisoner of her desires, slave to her circumstance, yet another decimal point on a statistic. Yes The One Alone remembers those days before they’d embraced their natures; however faint the memories Niko had been a worm inching for the sky, for escape. Anything was better than bills and so many mouths to feed with so few helping hands. She notices the pockmark of holes littering the ground around Niko’s feet.

There are at least a hundred here. A hundred other worms that’d cherished denial at the crushing that finally bound them physically. They would never know the suffocation of an illusion of control as Niko does. They will smell rancid air and gargle on sod in those depths; they will wonder why them. There will be no answer; no release for their attempts at freedom. It is not the freeing isolation she has accepted. You weren’t even allowed to enjoy it; you couldn’t if you didn’t embrace it. She hears the curses grow louder followed by an earth splitting crack.  

Indeed the ground dents under Niko’s tap against it. A chorus of screams ring as one at another tear in the soil. The worms that’d never lived neither as humans nor now were rattled within their prisons. Simon answered the challenge and so their game at which Fear dominated the other began another wasteful chapter. Though it wasn’t her domain she felt a faint pulse spinning in the bottomless emptiness of the Falling Titan. If Simon knew she saw into his world he didn’t show it.

Honoka was there among his captives, falling, and falling. Falling with a soundless scream against the whipping winds; she was begging like the rest for a splat, for some grounded, definite end. Silly fool, nothing in this world had an end anymore. Once Honoka had been marked by The Vast; had she accepted it Simon might’ve welcomed another for his kind. The One Alone laughed in a sound near breathless and let her fog curl. Avatars serving the same master; they’d have torn each other apart.

One remained the superior number; alone the greatest of words.

Niko’s voice calls after her as she fades from view.

“…Nozomi! Always watching like a creep huh?”

The name reaches her faster than an arrow and pierces the impenetrable within her. It nests in what remains to be called her soul. It was a poison, a gate however small to expose the person long dead within her. To call out to what had been defined by failure, naivety, and longing.

The One Alone shudders as fog might. She makes her own way until silence embraces her tight.

[a-sprinkle-of-geeky]

Before His Mind Broke.

This story explores the pasts and significances in the two Tyrells. They are formed from the same entity yet from two different forms. Yang sided Tyrell (Ponytail) belongs to my own universe. Yin Ty (Cloak) is a part of the Our Demons Universe which belongs completely to @forthecrownanimation

This story will contain sensitive topics regarding sexuality, medieval religion, PTSD and violence. Please be cautious if these topics bother you! Please Enjoy!

Word Count Total:  10,978. Very long boi.

Yang - 4,880 words. Yin - 6,049

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From one, burning entity they were created. From a void of grey formed two lights, one burning in black whilst the other flamed in white. Both had a penny-sized spec of the opposite entity within them, sealing them together no matter the circumstance. An entity that spun through creation as if weaving a tapestry, in harmony. It was powerful together; strong, diplomatic, focused and confident. Together they spun elements of earth, energy and fire however despite that power; both remained amoral. The entity had no aim, no purpose nor destination yet it had not a mind to think from.

Then, unexplainedly, they broke apart. 

Whilst Yang stayed focused on the path ahead, the future and the possibilities, Yin trailed from that same path whether out of fear or lack of knowledge it was unknown. They both took what was assigned to them as if hoarding from the other’s grasp, then escaped without a second glance. Yin tumbled into another timeline and yet it fitted there perfectly as if it were destined, it formed its own story that wove into its counterpart’s at different a different pace.

As two timelines formed, two entities did as well. They were the same yet cold opposites. Their stories briefly met, separated, then intertwined once more for one event before separating again. They would never cross paths. Not from a world of reality, at least.

They formed the same name, the same families and the same trauma. However, their ways of coping were entirely different. 

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Yang.

Tyrell was born under a new moon yet being assigned underground in the dusty lane of the Sandstone Street meant he could not see it. He was born a Pride Low Blood; the top of inferiority from the start. He was born into a realm of demons known as the Underworld, where the role given to at birth would forever determine your life. He was a small baby that did not take his first breath for two minutes after being delivered and he never would have if not thanks to his father, Alatar. 

His father was determined, as always, and would not give up his newborn child to death's cold grasp before he even opened his eyes. He held him and rubbed his chest whilst healing mana flowed through his fingers then finally, his child took his first breath and let out shrilling cries that were music to his parents' ears.

Alatar cleaned him with warm water and bundled him in a blanket, cradling him with his mother, Roxy. Once the midwife helped Roxy freshen up, she let Arielle - Ty's older sister - come bolting into the room to see her new baby brother. She craned over Al to catch a peek and looked awed to see a tiny demon swaddled in a woollen blanket.

Tyrell grew up with a warm bed and a full belly, loving parents and a happy smile, something any child would want. They didn't live in a big house but it was clean, warm and friendly with a tidy street. He didn't have as many toys as some of the Gluttonies his age but he didn't mind, he savoured imagination over a porcelain doll coiled in frills. Ty was adventurous and playful yet on the street he was so used to being called "Low Blood" that the term barely stuck in his head. The other children would ignore his name and refer to him by that instead. He often came home from the street with a black eye or a bloody nose from the older Superiors catching him.

His mother worked as a spinner and a seamstress at a nearby tailor. There she would spend hours sitting at a spinning wheel or washing and mending old clothes. Being a female Low Blood meant that her pay was cut in half compared to her Superior co-worker - who was already paid less than any male co-worker. Roxy would come home with aches in her back and her fingers rubbed raw yet she would still light up seeing her two children and her husband. Tyrell doesn’t remember a day where she didn’t have bandages around her hands. However, at first, there wasn’t a day where she wasn’t smiling either.

His father was strong and hard-working, always laughing and playing games with them, not afraid to make a mess. He lived by the kindest mentality despite his daily struggles. He worked as a delivery man in the mines, carrying lumber, ore and coal to where it was needed. It was exhausting work for him. Unlike the Superiors, he wasn’t granted a horse and wagon and instead had to carry it on his back or in an old, rickety cart. When he got home he and his wife would force out their exhaustion to spend time with their children.

A few times a month, Alatar would come home with coins for Tyrell. They weren’t anything fancy nor could they buy anything with them. They were merely hunters’ tokens or old rune-etched discs for games or mediums, useless to an adult but Ty adored them. Alatar would buy them from a small stall in the market when he had money to spare or rarely find them on the ground. 

When he did, he would slide them over the table at dinner to let his toddling child gasp and rush off to collect them in an unused honey jar. He used them to play make-shift draughts and chess upon Roxy’s old, cracked chopping board with squares drawn in with chalk. Ty’s favourite was the gold coin etched with a bust of a dragon. He always made it the king.

Alatar always let Arielle braid ribbons into his ebony black hair and massacre his old tunics so she could make dresses for her doll. He would sit them on his lap in the evenings and tell stories of valiant heroes and ancient creatures and always made sure to tell them he loved them. Alatar would refer to Arielle as his “Little Princess” and Tyrell as “Little Phoenix” whilst giving his beloved wife the pet name “Tiger Lily”. He adored his nicknames and he always came up with new ones although those three always stuck. Just by looking at him and seeing his genuine smile anyone would know that his soul was full of nothing but love. He didn’t care about the discrimination at work nor the daily exhaustion as long as he saw his family with everything they needed.

Tyrell was five when Alatar was diagnosed with lung cancer.

It started out as what he dismissed as a chest infection but the coughing was relentless until he doubled up hacking into the handkerchief tight over his mouth. When he pulled it away, they saw blood. There was such an indescribable amount of fear in his face when he realised, more so than Ty had ever seen before. Roxy had begged every healer and doctor to help her husband but they all rejected her. Low Bloods were not permitted medical attention. As months passed, the once strong and merry demon shrivelled.

He forced himself to work for another year because he knew he had to provide for his family. But his employers noticed him collapse one too many times and relieved him from his job before he could even complete his shift. Yet it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because the next morning he couldn’t even get out of bed. 

He survived for three years. In that time, his booming, wet cough was heard all about the house and he shrunk into a skeletal, apologetic husk. Every night they could hear him choking on blood and Roxy soothing him as best she could. After some time, Ty and Arielle learned to fall asleep to the sound of their father’s coughing as if it were as common as birdsong.

Since Alatar could no longer work, Ty’s full belly morphed into waking up wondering when his next meal was. The warm hearth was replaced with nights shivering in blankets when they couldn’t afford firewood. Their neighbours’ once kind smiles turned into cold complaints about the constant coughing. Roxy tried everything in her power but it was useless and Alatar would apologise every day for the pain he had caused.

Tyrell wasn’t the same when he passed away. The house was silent and everything they looked at reminded them of their father. All of the memories in each piece of furniture unravelled in those first months, filling their brains with bittersweet grief. Now when Ty rushed out of bed crying from night terrors all he found was a bed with one side empty. Now he only heard Roxy return to work. He missed the sound of his father’s routine of announcing his arrival, kicking off his shoes and hanging up his cane and cloak. Alatar had left them all of the money he had under his name, the rights to the house so they would always have a roof over their heads and two items. His brass topped walking cane and his cloak. 

He always wore that cloak. It was a heavy, expensive grey fabric fastened with a marigold gemstone clip which never failed to comfort or keep the wearer warm. Ty cuddled it every moment he could, burying his face in the fabric to catch his father’s scent on it. He always smelt of coal and firewood as well as comforting things like green tea and candles. The child drowned in those memories until his scent wore away.

Arielle, now being sixteen when her father passed on, took on the same job as Roxy and they both worked tirelessly whilst Ty remained at home or at school, growing lonely with the endless hours he spent in that empty house. Tyrell tried many times to get a job but Roxy was bluntly refusing due to the only option being to work in the mines. She feared he would face the same fate his father did due to the polluted fumes being the cause of his cancer. There were many heated arguments about the subject but his mother always won no matter how hard he tried. They were no longer well off. But they scraped by. 

The years past and Ty grew older, the demons his age now curious with their developing traits. The Pride demons were grouping together with Lusts tumbling after them with puppy-love; desperate to ease the desires they now experienced despite the conflicts between the two breeds. The symbols on their bodies became their rights; the reasons and roles they would each play in a group. Tyrell, of course, excluded himself. He watched his own kind woo and brawl anyone they pleased. He saw countless of his own kind with girls at their hips, grinning and charming them like a curse.

By that time he had grown out his hair, to his mother’s dismay, to his shoulders and had a fully grown pair of leathery wings and bull horns. He took pride in them, as he should, and built up an athletic build. He wore his father’s cloak around him as a source of comfort and sported his symbol - the hollow diamond - on his left shoulder.

Ty knew from a young age that he wasn’t like the others of his own kind. Whilst they dreamt of undressing the girl at their side or waltzing another down the path of maturity he thought different. 

He saw the Prides themselves; boys growing too fast for their maturity with loud laughs and the muscles they bore like trophies. He saw the male Gluttonies with gems in their headpieces and smiles that shone like pearls, their nimble hands with perfectly manicured claws that he wanted to imagine wrapped around him. 

The Greeds, small and mischievous with big smiles and heads of fluffy hair that he wanted to run his fingers through. The Envy boys were mysterious and brooding with lanky bodies; it made him want to spin them around and open their hearts to the love he knew their kind needed. 

The Sloth boys were cute and passive, huddled together with their animal print skin to nap or laze in the heat. He wanted to cuddle with one the boys and lull them to sleep; particularly one boy with the snow leopard skin. He saw the male Wraths and found them intriguing despite their constant dangerous demeanours. He spent nights awake imagining himself soothing one’s heart and kissing the lips that were always stretched into a smile.

Ty saw the Lusts. The breed that hated his own due to their arrogance and abuse. He saw the boys and their beautiful bodies and flirtatious mannerisms, winks that were directed at others made his heart pound. Soft tufts of hair in colours that their cheeks would blush in, their swishing tails relaxed and fluffy. He wanted to look deep into their shining eyes and hold them because, to him, he didn’t care for their bodies. 

For the years of his growth, alone in that house, his head was full of boys. He would watch through the window just out of sight and learn each demon’s personality through days of gazing. He wanted to be outside with them and get to know them instead of imagining scenarios in his head where they fell head over heels for him. The worst part about it was that he could. He could be with another boy if he wanted, there was absolutely nothing in the Underworld against it. His Mother knew countless same-sex couples and he even knew some of the sexualities of the boys outside on the street. But he stayed indoors, in his own little world.

And then the Prides found a Lust.

They threw him onto the street right outside Ty’s house and began beating him mercilessly whilst he choked on his cries. Psychopath! Weirdo! Dirty Lust! and countless others were some of the horrid names they called him. Tyrell suddenly felt anger and the mild crushes he developed on the cruel demons outside fizzled out like dying flames. He got up subconsciously with no control over his actions and barged outside wielding nothing but a spear. With no real strategy or plan, he started bashing the much larger males with it. 

The fight ended with both him and the Lust on the ground beaten to a pulp and the Prides getting bored of their game. They left Ty with a snapped spear and a bloody nose, cackling to themselves as they walked away. He sat up, wincing in pain, and helped the Lust up.

He was beautiful. To Tyrell, at least. He was a Low Blood, just like him. He had round cheeks and a button nose, his skin pale and porcelain. Right off the bat, he knew his smile was big and bright, his teeth shaped into fangs. The Lust had his third eye on his throat and a cross upon his forehead, his regular eyes holding two irises each. His gazelle shaped horns were buttercup yellow and his smoky grey hair was dyed red at the fringe.

His eyes were always glassy as if he were about to cry and they would always go wide at the slightest sound. Despite having so many eyes, he couldn’t seem to hold eye contact for very long. 

“Hey...” Ty said softly, “Are you okay?”

“Not really...” The Lust responded, spitting out blood and wiping his face on the torn sleeve of his tight yet torn up shirt. Ty noticed his symbol - the heart eye - on his right hip. “Why’d you save me? Are you gonna beat me up as well?”

“What? No,” Tyrell let out a strained laugh but he didn’t laugh back, he looked like a stunned deer in headlights, “Why would I let myself get beat up to try and help if I was just gonna beat you up anyway?”

“Pfft, you did a lousy job of helping,” He playfully punched his shoulder and grinned. His smile made Ty’s heart hammer in his chest. “I’m Julius.”

“I’m Tyrell,”

“Well, Tyrell... nice to meet ya,” He stood up and winced, rubbing his bruised side. Julius offered a hand to help him up and he took it. The contact was like a zap through Ty’s body and that bolt of energy awakened something deep inside him. His hands were so soft and the pads of his palm and fingertips were squishy. He wanted to hold them. The next thing he knew, he was back on his feet and his hand was lingering on Julius’. He let go hastily, his cheeks dusting a gentle pink.

“S-So umm.. I thought Lusts hated my kind...”

“Who says I don’t?”

“Oh...My apologies-”

“By the Keeper, you are a formal one, aren’t ya?” Julius laughed and that only made his heart race faster, “Don’t get so nervous. I’m not feeling the urge to punch you so I’d say you’re not like other Prides.”

“I mean, I did get punched a lot trying to save your ass,” Ty wiped the blood from his nose with his fingers, “Come with me, I think my Ma has some ointment. My house is just over there.”

“Inviting me over so soon?” He teased but nodded all the same, his own cheeks going a soft tea rose pink.

“Trust me, I’m hardly so forward. But it won’t suffice that you’re bleeding out through your nose.”

“You’re one to talk!”

Their relationship blossomed like a rose. Tyrell was young and he was hopelessly in love with Julius. They shared numerous memories and days together. They would get caught in the rain and laugh as they were soaked to the bone. Ty would always bring him lush bouquets of yellow calibrachoa the exact shade of his eyes. Julius would rub his dark skin comfortingly and place soft kisses on his face, humming songs to him. After a year, they exchanged promise rings.

But from the start, he knew that something wasn’t right in Julius’ head. He would lash out and be aggressive when unprovoked, he held a certain disregard for the wellbeing of others; even Ty at times. There were moments where he would hit him and argue, he would gaslight him constantly and talk behind his family’s back. But he loved him. Juli was his first, he wasn’t the best nor was he the last but he was his Julius, the time they spent together meant the world to him. He would do anything for him. Ty even had his symbol - something sacred to his kind - tattooed over alongside Juli’s. Roxy was horrified when she saw it.

He’s too controlling, Ty.

Are you sure you’re happy, dear? 

Something about him unsettles me. He is so aggressive.

It isn’t because he’s a Lust, Ty. It’s because he doesn’t love you!

“If you leave me, I’ll hurt myself! But I’m so pathetic, you should just leave me!”

“Don’t you hate it how nosy your sister is?”

“I’m the only one you can trust. You don’t need them.”

“I love you so much, Ty. I don’t know what I’d do without you...”

There was always something beyond Tyrell that Julius always sought. He always spoke of ruling his own clan one day, one composed of Low Bloods alone that would overpower the Superiors. His eyes would light up talking about it, more so than anything else. Bright-Fury was his name for it. Ty would always listen as long as he got to cuddle him in the process.

Julius wanted his clan so badly but he never seemed to succeed in doing so. Then, he discovered another clan owned by a Superior Lust named Kyle. He owned the largest clan in the Underworld by the name of Bloodbrand and Julius knew that if he won his friendship that would be a stepping stone towards his goal. Ty told Arielle of this and she immediately disagreed, practically begging him not to follow along with it. But Ty, being young and in love, ignored his sister’s pleas.

Kyle had a brother. His name was Joseph however he was always referred to as JoJo. He was a scrawny, sixteen-year-old Low Blood Greed with inverted vitiligo and a fuzzy head of ginger hair with a small pair of cow horns sticking out. JoJo had non-verbal autism so he relied on sounds or sign to communicate but that didn’t stop him from being a bubbly little magpie. He was loveable and protected intensely by his brother and the rest of the clan however he did not have any friends. Julius took advantage of him.

He and Tyrell etched themselves into the clan through the help of JoJo who was overjoyed to have people to play with. Julius would play games with him and bring him gifts that immediately made the small Greed connect with them. Ty, on the other hand, was not aware of what was truly going on and spent hours at a time either learning sign or letting JoJo show him his special interests. JoJo adored shiny things, puzzles and books. He loved colouring pictures and having Ty read to him. 

Unknowing to Ty, Julius was feeding JoJo bad information about his brother. He hoped it would fester enough to get JoJo to join their developing clan or even force his brother out of the position so Juli could replace him.

However, after a month, Kyle caught on to the act.

He confronted them by the cliff’s edge above Low Blood Forest and demanded they leave. Julius began to get violent, humiliated and determined. He did not want to fail. He couldn’t fail. Kyle was merciful and allowed them to leave but at that moment JoJo had spotted them. He didn’t understand the situation nor could he realise, he ran towards them to greet his friends and Kyle tried to stop him but it was too late. Ty realised at the last second and tried to grab Juli but he had already slashed the Greed up the torso.

JoJo staggered back with pain, mumbling a broken Kyy...he-lp... He couldn’t comprehend the pain and collapsed backwards, off the edge of the cliff where he plummeted downwards into the forest below and disappeared. Kyle tried to catch him.

Julius was impaled on the spot with a spear and was dead before he hit the ground.

Kyle was now broken with grief as other clansmen held Ty down. The icy demon started to shriek with rage and swung around, determined to avenge his brother. He didn’t care if Ty didn’t do it, he needed an outlet and hurled all of his blame onto him. 

Tyrell was torn up and De-Ranked without mercy due to Kyle’s fury. His horns were snapped, his wings torn from his back and he was burned severely on the right side of his face. He was slashed, burned, beaten and tugged for an unknown amount of time before being left for dead. He was alone.

Somehow or other, Ty survived. It was if something was beckoning him to stay awake, to get up and refuse to let himself drift into death’s embrace. Someone familiar that he could no longer see. He had awoken with choked beg for Julius and crawled up to his corpse in desperation despite the affliction. For a while, he held his bloodied body and cried as the pain consumed him. Julius’ soul, a gradient of hot red and yellow, drifted above him aimlessly. With his cloak wrapped around his bleeding form, Ty picked up Juli’s body and stood with great effort. He did not have a destination nor a thought of his own. He wanted his family. If Alatar were there this never would’ve happened.

An unnatural phenomenon known as “pop-up portals” occurred at that moment. No one could explain why it happened as they were entirely random, but it was rumoured that they were portal users’ excess energy dispersing itself somewhere. By some miracle, one appeared beneath Ty just as he collapsed, causing him and the corpse to plummet into the Overworld.

He was unconscious and bleeding out in the forest. It seemed that the Soul Keeper was sparing his life because he crossed paths with another troubled soul. His name was Dan. He was a blurred face in a crowd, someone who felt he had no purpose in his life. On that day he wore a black hoodie to hide his insomnia-stuck face and scarred arms. He had a bottle of medication in his pocket and a coil of rope. He came to the forest to end his life.

Dan had written his notes and spent the last hour in the forest smoking and taking one last shot of whiskey, leaning against a tree and rethinking his choices. He took a breath and wiped his eyes, picking up the rope and walking further into the forest. As he turned to throw the rope over a low hanging branch he noticed something. An unconscious demon wounded and next to a corpse.

Instantly, he ran up to him and shook him with concern. “Oh my god- umm... s-sir?” He said, checking his pulse, “Sir, are you okay!?”

Dan hovered the back of his hand against the demon’s mouth and felt a weak breath. It was faint but it was all he needed to know that this man was determined to live. It was if his own problems melted away. His entire mind was focused on the survival of this stranger. He examined the wounds and felt sick to the stomach, the clear damage and pain these wounds must’ve caused were heartbreaking. He didn’t even check the other demon; it was clear he was dead.

“Sir, if you can hear me, don’t worry!” He said, having to bolt back to his backpack and grab his phone to call an ambulance. He then dropped the phone and pulled the demon’s arm over his shoulder, heaving him up and carrying him outside the forest. He was much taller and heavier but he didn’t give up, talking to him the entire time as if he was listening.

Tyrell was saved and recovered. He bore terrible scars after the incident and it took months for him to mentally recover. He woke up crying for his family and Julius but ultimately had to accept that his lover was gone. Julius was buried in the Underworld with a bunch of calibrachoas upon his grave. 

Once he was recovered, Ty started to develop feelings for Dan. It was almost a year later and they had both become good friends as they recovered together. It soon became more than that and Ty felt a stronger love; a love that made him want to hug and kiss instead of stay quiet.

Unlike his counterpart, Tyrell didn’t fester with the grief. He grew out his hair, turned to bodybuilding to ease his scars and had them closed up by the medical team after joining a mafia. He developed a skill in shooting and fighting, his aim was impeccable and his strategy perfect. He made friends, married Dan and reunited with his family. His heart was warm.

For many years Kyle hunted to kill him and his family for what he had done and had committed unspeakable things to achieve it. But once he discovered JoJo had survived that day he gave up and was willing to get help for his mental disorders. JoJo had been saved by a pop-up portal that appeared below him, causing him to fall into the Overworld and straight into a healing pool. He was found a few months later by Dr Levi Allison - one of Ty’s good friends - and treated him like a son. Kyle was put in intensive therapy for many months to treat his turmoil and although Ty could not entirely forgive him, he accepted his apology and tried to move on.

In the present day, things settled down. Ty is sitting on the sofa with his husband and their three children watching a movie. His dog Ari is lying across his lap and Dan is snuggled into his chest as his cat, Cookie kneads his chest. He’s stronger and warmer than he ever was in a beautiful house and with his perfect family. His mind was broken that day, but through an undying will to keep going he clung to all of his memories possessively. He hadn’t forgotten anything that had happened to him because he knew they shaped him as a person. Despite thoughts slipping his mind every once in a while due to his memory loss, he always kept what was important in his heart. He still misses Julius and Alatar but he can say he’s moved on.

Up in his bedroom on his side of the walk-in closet, there is a section that he keeps immaculate. Upon a peg is Alatar’s cloak, pressed and hung just how his father always kept it. On the shelf above it sits a boxed promise ring, a brass-topped walking cane and coins stored in an old honey jar.

.

Yin.

It was 916 AD when Tyrell was born on a night under a full moon in Kent, England. He was born into a well off family of Germanic and African descent after the Jutes invaded long ago. Despite his family being coloured, they were still valued members of the county as they came from a line of merchants. Although they were not noble or overly rich, they still maintained a cosy home and a positive reputation.

On the night of his birth, his father came bolting from his home to the streets calling for help. His newborn son was not taking his first breath and his tiny heartbeat was struggling to keep rhythmic. On that same evening, a travelling doctor by the name of Lenus just so happened to be passing through. He was a blond-haired man with green eyes and an array of herbal medicines. He had been seen during the day collecting herbs and causing a murmur of questioning. He was Scottish yet there was something off about him. He looked too thoughtful as if seeing the world amazed him.

Alatar located him and practically dragged him to his home, frantic as he explained yet the healer remained calm. Alatar was in tears alongside his wife who was disorientated and weak but Lenus calmly picked up the child and rubbed his chest. Unknowing to the couple, he was secretly sending a flow of healing magic through his body, having to quote the spell in his mind as he did not want to be accused of witchery. He spoke words of encouragement out loud and after one last pulse of healing mana, the child sprung to life with tiny breaths which he immediately used to wail.

“There he is!” Len had exclaimed and internally sighed with relief, “There’s the wee lad! Goodness, he’s quite a loud one.”

“Thank the Lord!” Alatar cried, putting his arm around Roxy as she reached out for her child. Lenus quickly washed him and wrapped him in the available blanket, handing him carefully to his mother who cradled him closely.

Lenus spent a while helping Roxy clean up after labour and gave them both some sweet herb remedies to help them. He was looking closely at Alatar. There was an aura resonating within him. It spoke to him of upcoming sickness and there were images of will-o-wisps and crows in his mind. Lenus reached into his satchel and removed a blue crystal that shone in the candlelight.

“Here, a gift for his birth,” Lenus offered it to Alatar and he gingerly took it from his hands, examining it. “May it bring you the Lord’s healing.”

Although he did send wisps of his own healing magic into the crystal he had also assigned his auras to Alatar’s. In that short moment that they made contact through the crystal, he had fused the father’s aura with his own. Through the crystal, he could keep track of his condition and ultimately return to the village when he was needed.

“Bless you, Lenus,” Roxy whispered tiredly in her husband’s arms as their daughter entered the room to see her new brother.

Lenus nodded and left when his job was done. Hidden by the night, he walked from the village to a nearby pond and finally let his camouflage fall. He summoned the portal into the water and summoned his staff into his hand before dropping through into Duat.

Tyrell grew up in a wealthy town with his older sister but as the only son, he was due to inherit Alatar’s land and fortune instead of her. The town was friendly enough and he knew no different than streets and surrounding forest. His town was incredibly religious and worshipped God wholeheartedly, not standing for any kind of blasphemy or sin. The first thing he read was the bible and had most of it memorised by the time he was seven. He prayed whenever he was told to and attended the church services as he should. He never knew any different.

His father was a merchant. He was mostly a miner of iron and coal, he also sold silks and linens but he was also known for his fine hunting skills. He was kind to those who met him and was incredibly truthful, his customers were always provided with the best. He owned a few acres of land and a nice house with everything they needed to be comfortable. He loved his children and his wife completely, he never beat them or yelled but instead faced every situation with rationality. Alatar would sit by the fire with his children sat in front of him where he would tell stories and jokes. While most of his stories were from the top of his head, the rest were read from the bible and Ty only seemed to listen to those that included the supernatural. 

Tales of Gabriel, Raphael, Ezekiel and beings beyond this world were ones that intrigued him. The thought of the fallen angels - demons - were terrifying to him, the burning fear that one wrong move would send him kneeling before Lucifer himself. He found the thought of religion comforting and safe but also frightening. Ty, from the mere age of four, was wondering whether he was wrong and went to sleep afraid that the heavens would smite him.

Alatar used to take him hunting in the woods with his friends, teaching him how to shoot a bow but having tiny hands and a natural nervousness didn’t make him a good shot. However, after a while, he grew tired of failed archery lessons and picked up a stone. 

Ty threw it in frustration at his failures attempting to scare off the pheasant they were stalking but he instead hit it straight in the head and killed it instantly. Al’s friends were in fits of laughter and cheering but the child was sobbing with guilt as his father rubbed his back and encouraged him. He told his friends to leave his son alone and told him that he had caught their dinner. It was safe to say that Ty did lose his appetite that night and his taste for pheasant.

Memories with his father were ones he would’ve looked back on and laughed yet only days after his hunting Alatar started to fall ill. Like his counterpart, he was only five at the time and as it happened his wealthy life began to falter.

They prayed for his recovery every night and at every meal but whatever was listening only made it worse. It seemed that every time they prayed he only got worse. Soon his presence was lost around the dinner table and saying Grace was interrupted by coughing. It was only when Alatar was so bed bound he could not attend church was when the doctors tried to diagnose him. 

Tried.

Karkinos, modernly known as cancer, was diagnosed through outwardly visible tumours and deformities in the skin. But Alatar had lung cancer - he had nothing but handkerchiefs stained with blood and phlegm to show for it.

Not a single doctor knew how to treat or even diagnose his father’s illness so, naturally, they turned to the only answer they could think of. Incubi were tormenting him. Ty had to stand by his father’s bedside and watch him endure blood-letting and exorcisms. Yet it never relented no matter how much sage was burned. The priest could’ve quoted the whole bible and whatever demon lay within Alatar would not budge.

By the second year, they were on the brink of being homeless. Unlike the community around them, the tax collector did not show empathy. Alatar only had a small amount of savings and Roxy was forced to pay them to the king, leaving them all hungry for days on end. The town would chip in where they could; giving them bread and milk and the odd coin when they were still buzzing with generosity from the church service. Yet it wasn’t enough. 

Then the travelling doctor returned. On the day the tax collector arrived, he came knocking on the door with a pouch of money with enough to pay tax and get them dinner. He always arrived just in time to help and Roxy praised him as if he were one of the Lord’s angels. 

In his bag, he brought more herbs and although he could not heal Alatar, he eased his pain. Tyrell lingered by the door as Lenus worked soundlessly with a touch as gentle as a feather’s. He mixed herbs and oils together, applying them where he knew they were needed, and he mumbled words. The child watched out of his sight and he swore he saw wisps of some kind settle into Alatar’s body, making him breathe out painlessly. Ty didn’t understand why he was helping. He didn’t understand why he always just so happened to appear when they needed him.

Lenus was back a year later to help Alatar pass peacefully. He carried Ty out of the room when he started to lash out and sat him down, calming him down until he broke down into sobs and clung to him with grief. The doctor gave them all they could but then he left and they never saw him again.

Roxy and Arielle managed to get a job together, they did the laundry and whatever job they were requested, working through cold nights to barely earn a penny from the town. Roxy was a widow and because she did not remarry, the other townsfolk lost respect for her. Unlike most families, Alatar and Roxy married through their own accord and were married through love rather than the words of a priest. She refused to remarry, she didn’t care about the names she was called.

Ty felt alone. So, so horribly alone.

Years dragged on and Tyrell was twelve, assigned to the tithing of nine other men to ensure that any crimes he or any other man in the group were brought to justice. Three of the boys were a little older whilst the others were strong men. At the time, he remembered sitting by the river with his tithing and that was the day something awoke within him. The three older boys, out of sight from the rest of the village, had stripped down to briefs and ran into the river in fits of laughter. They splashed water at each other and swam through the glittering water, they looked up and started calling to Ty from the grass. When he refused, one ran out of the water and pulled him towards the others.

Ty tried to refuse but he was laughing too much to say no, so he joined them. The nameless boy’s smile was so warm and so innocent, his grip on his arm was caring and joyful. They sparred in the river bank and threw water weeds at each other until they were laughing so much they could barely breathe. That day was perfect to him and he dreamt about it for weeks afterwards. It wasn’t the memory itself. It was the other boys. He had never experienced such feelings when he used to play family with the other girls in the town. There was something wrong that was making him like the boys like he was supposed to like a girl. 

When he realised, it was nothing but Leviticus 18:22 blaring in his mind until he cried himself to sleep.

The next morning there was a meeting held outside the church. It was a Tuesday morning, there was nothing special about it. The sun was out and the birds were singing, there should’ve been nothing wrong.

The entire town had gathered outside the church for the execution. Ty, his sister and his mother were stood near the front and he had a perfect view. Two men had been tied to a post with just enough room to hold each other. One was the baker and the other was a farmer. They were married men but the reason why they were here was clear.  They had been caught in the act by their suspicious wives. They were sodomites. 

Ty felt truly sick, the hateful words the priest spat at the two weeping men was rattling in his head but he knew he couldn’t cry; he didn’t think he was able to. They were two humans, two men that found companionship like his parents had. They were happy in hiding together and this town had ruined it.

The next thing he knew, the whole town had an armful of rocks. They were yelling and hissing at the two men as they tried to hide. Their wives were the first to throw the stones then a downpour of them came raining down. The baker tried desperately to protect his lover but they were both doubled up, shrieking from pain and begging for it to end. 

Sodomites. Demons. Go back to hell. Abominations.

The yelling and the hateful faces were tearing through Ty’s mind. He was holding a stone tightly in his hand but he didn’t throw it and he couldn’t bear to see if his own family were doing the same. He glanced to the right and saw the nameless boy. He was yelling and throwing rocks, calling the two men demons and sinful. He was laughing when the baker’s skull broke. The farmer was clinging to his dead partner, sobbing and trying to shake him. He barely got to utter his lover’s name before a rock struck him right in the temple and sent him tumbling on top of his lover, gasping for breath. They were both dead after a few more seconds.

It only took two minutes but it was enough to traumatise him. They were abominations, and the thoughts he had made him one too.

For the years after that, he clung to his pillow and begged the heavens to get the thoughts out of his head. That day in the river was his worst nightmare and it felt like everyone around him was plotting to kill him. Ty never told anyone of his feelings, he pushed them down as far as he could and tried to move on. But every time he heard that priest speak, it always brought him back to that day with the baker and the farmer. After that day, he pulled away from his tithing as much as he could. He once saw the boys reenacting what happened as a joke, pretending to throw tiny pebbles at two other cackling children.

When Ty was eighteen, his second-biggest burden was now even worse. There was a nobleman by the name of Tilton who lived near him. His family were the richest, they owned the most land and were famous for selling resources. They were loved by everyone and they knew it. Tilton was handsome and it was in his head, he strode around the streets tossing a penny at the odd pauper and had a gleam in his eyes. He owned three horses and his own hunting ground, his blond hair brushed back and his hands smooth, unworked. He had been spoonfed throughout his life and the worst part was that he was nice, for the most part.

He had taken a shine to Arielle years before, months after Alatar had passed. He used his death to manipulate her mind when she cleaned for them and started donating money to her to help keep them well off. Ty hated it when he saw more than cabbage stew on the table and he didn’t know why. Tildon was just such a rich brat and he hated it. Ty himself worked as a carpenter from fourteen and it was exhausting, yet his hard work was nothing compared to the sum Tildon donated each week.

Although he was glad to see his mother smiling again and finally filling out her clothes. He was glad Arielle was finally able to afford the things the other girls had in the town. But there was this gleam in Tildon’s eye that made him want to fight him, he was always smiling too long and always looking down on him.

He hated him. Because of little comments that he would slip in privately to him terrified him. I saw you staring at one of the ploughers, Tyrell, did he catch your eye?

He was twenty-two when Tildon then summoned him and his mother to the town centre where he brought his little sister. He chose the centre because he knew people would be watching. The town sweetheart next to the boy who is always in his own little world.

Tildon’s little sister was called Adelina. She was no more than nine with beautiful blonde ringlets, rosy cheeks and blue eyes. She was a perfectly innocent child yet she looked up at Tyrell with fear.

“As I’m sure you know, Tyrell, this is my little sister, Adelina,” Tildon spoke with that gleam in his eye, “Dear Roxy and I have arranged you and her to be married.”

Tyrell blinked in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Did you not hear me correctly?”

“She’s...she’s so young...”

“Of course, she is not prepared. Once she begins her monthly blood you two will be wed,” He didn’t break his gaze. “I thought since I am to marry Arielle that I could return the favour since she speaks so fondly of you. I cannot wait for us to truly be brothers, you will finally make a name for that family of yours. It’ll be much more beneficial to you than risking your life watching the plougher.”

Tyrell lost all sense of communication when he heard that, his face was pale and his eyes were on Adelina. He looked just as scared as her.

He tried to talk Arielle out of it but her mind was set. It sparked a heated argument between them. Ty begged her to rethink but she was just as stubborn as Roxy.

“You cannot do this to yourself, I will not allow it!”

“I am thirty years old, Tyrell. I have no choice! I should’ve married him the first time he offered!”

“Father would not have let you do this, Arielle!”

“Father is dead!” Arielle yelled, “Get your head out of hell’s gate before it drags you down! You are too young to understand!”

Ty lost. He was so furious when he watched his sister be married off to Tildon and taken away to his luxurious house. Adelina had since had her blood and they both knew they would be married only days later.

Tildon had invited him and his newlywed wife out hunting on two of those prize horses and Ty could no longer refuse. He hated the way he flaunted his game at Arielle and didn’t allow her to get off of the horse. Ty’s hands shook as he released the arrow of his bow, sending it tearing through the day and piercing a doe’s eye. He felt sick to his stomach but his anger was brewing, removing his hesitation and empathy for the innocent creature he hunted. It was by a peaceful stream lined with mossy rocks, drinking from the cool waters as sunlight grazed its fur. Blood pooled around its head like a halo.

Tildon rushed forwards, babbling in awe as Ty discarded the bow and tailed him. It was as if he were an animal, territorial of his catch that the nobleman grabbed at and inspected.

Fantastic shot, Tyrell. However, it would have been more profitable to hunt a stag rather than a scrawny, beginner’s doe. You could scratch a penny for her hide, at least, but I doubt you would know that.

Ty snapped back blindly. At first, it was to argue to leave his catch alone and it was better than the puny pheasant he snagged in a trap rather by hand, but that soon mutated into his inner anger. He found himself shouting about his hatred, ignoring the deer completely and yelling to his face about Tildon’s behaviour. He jabbed his chest with his finger, blurting out his hate for the nobleman’s objectification of his sister and his ungrateful attitude. Arielle had leapt off the horse by now and was trying to break it up but Ty was lost in a red cloud.

“How dare you speak to me in such a manner!” Tildon roared, his face burned with humiliation as if the trees themselves were whispering, “I have been nothing but generous to your family for years! I save you from homelessness, I rescue your mother’s reputation and ensure you all slept with full bellies and you repay me with abuse, ungrateful rat! My father was right about your family, you are just as much a filthy gremlin as your father was!”

Tyrell lost all control at that moment.

It was just one push. Ty had done worse as a child. It wouldn’t have even bruised him if he wasn’t standing by the rocks. Maybe if he stood in the grass it wouldn’t have happened. 

Tildon fell back, flailing his arms for support and grabbing Arielle’s wrist, dragging her down with him. He fell and his head struck a rock, causing a shuddering crack. He was motionless with eyes wide like a fish, his mouth hanging open and his body going loose in an instant, his final breath was caught in his throat and the blood trickled into the stream.

It was all such a blur. Ty staggered back in horror as the right side of his chest felt as if it were burning. Arielle rushed forwards and shrieked, shaking the man and pleading for him to awaken but it was already done.

“What have you done?! You’ve killed him!”

Ty collapsed, not only with horror but with agonizing pain that he could not describe, it burned and tore at him as the fear clamped around his chest. He doubled up, clutching his head and shrieking with terror. He felt as if something was tearing through his head and back, his feet and hands mutating into something inhuman. Arielle was screaming but now it was in terror, backing herself into a tree as the horses reared up and bolted. Tyrell cried for his mother and his father, he cried to God to make it stop but nothing responded as the power flooded through his veins.

He clawed the grass and uprooted it with ease, lifting his trembling hand to witness sharp, demonic claws and a flaming power burning into his palms. He screamed and clutched his head, lifting himself to view the monster in the waters. A pair of grey bull horns had grown atop his head, his eyes were an unnatural marigold with grey sclera. He had two sharper fangs and a pair of loose bat wings, a thick tail coiled around his legs and a symbol had burned into the right side of his chest.

Demon! Demon! Tyrell has been possessed!

His only instinct was to run away. Ty was panicking, his head was in pieces and tears were streaming down his cheeks. He stumbled to his feet but immediately lost balance due to the new, bird-like shape and the uneven balance in his body. He got back up and ran away into the forest, stumbling and blinded by trees with nothing but his father’s cloak as comfort.

He doesn’t know how, but he ended up in Duat. All he remembers was running through the river he used to play in and feeling inhuman energy within him. Ty fell through and caught a glimpse of the hellscape and it was if his wings automatically sprung out to parachute him.

He landed on the ground and stared up, witnessing demonic creatures with various symbols and monstrous forms. Ty scrambled away and backed himself into the wall, sobbing frantically and hyperventilating. 

Oh, he’s definitely a newbie. Should we help him? No, he’ll learn better if he’s left alone, I don’t want to be dusted from a newbie with unstable powers. Manslaughter? I didn’t think that kind of brand would count.

They were staring at him and whispering. Ty wanted to wake up from this nightmare, he had learned his lesson. He didn’t want to be a demon, he thought he had always been loyal. Was it because he did not banish the baker and the farmer? His entire world was shattered around him and he could not think straight.

“Hey.” 

Someone was talking to him. Ty looked up and screamed again, witnessing a demon with sickly pale skin and grey hair with red highlights. His teeth were fanged and his eyes had two irises each, a third on his throat.

He had scrambled away but the demon grabbed his wrist and slapped him. “Calm down! You’re okay!”

Even the other demons watching mumbled at his aggressive behaviour but they moved on, leaving the pair alone. After nearly an hour with this demon nagging in his ear, he finally calmed down enough to listen.

The demon’s name was Julius and he was from Greece. His brand bared violence with fire. He had burned his parents and two siblings in their beds whilst they slept yet he never gave a reason why. Tyrell was in desperate need of support and found it in him, sticking to his side like a lost puppy and constantly in tears.

He looked around at the world at it was too much. He was in hell for what he had done. He saw couples and it shocked him to his core. Happy couples of the same sex kissing or holding each other as they passed. At first, he concluded they were there for falling victim to the same gender and he even yelled at two women out of his own turmoil. It wasn’t until Julius taught him the meaning of each brand that he finally understood that they were there for greater sins than sexuality. They weren’t here for their sexuality and that meant he wasn’t, either.

It took him three years to finally accept what had happened to him. He accepted his new body, the inhuman power and the lack of hunger or thirst, he learnt to fly and walk with balance. Ty learnt to use his new powers with control and could sleep without another nightmare of that day.

He didn’t know whether it was because he needed the affection or because of his newfound knowledge, but he fell for Julius and never left his side. He was clingy and emotional and deep down, he knew the demon loved that because he strung him along. Ty loved him so much, he never wanted to let go of him. He had no voice of reason to talk to, so he only fell further into the pit.

Alatar’s cloak was the only thing he had from his old life and he cherished it as much as Julius. At first, he tried to visit his family but to his dismay, his mother and sister were gone. Arielle died of shock from that day and his mother passed from a broken heart. He visited their graves when he could, sitting in front of his three family members for decades until the stones were eroded and unmarked. Ty wept for days on end and Julius offered his support to him, tangling him in a web of manipulation that he didn’t want to escape from.

Julius was a sociopath. He had no regard for other demons’ wellbeing and would become aggressive at the slightest thing. There were times he would yell at Ty and hit him for no reason, other times he would pander to him so they could be intimate - sometimes without Ty’s consent. He would argue with him and push buttons that made him break down in anger, causing them to spar and then call him weak when Ty lost. Yet all these signs to escape were never enough, Tyrell so desperately needed that support in his life and decided to blame himself for Julius’ behaviour.

The various hosts passed without Ty giving much thought yet secretly, he enjoyed the time away from Julius. He hated himself for thinking that way yet he couldn’t hide the truth.

Julius had another obsession that Tyrell couldn’t understand. It developed when Ty was around 800 years old. It - or rather, he was someone Julius idolised. Although Tyrell was never really caught in the crossfire, there was a war within Duat that he couldn’t remember the details of. But there was a demon that rose from that war and started to advance. His name was Gatsby, the self-proclaimed king. 

He didn’t understand why but Julius was obsessed with him. When he spoke of him he would lose sight of everything else and showed more praise for him than he ever did to Ty. He idolized his growing clan and his actions for no reason but he wanted to be just like him. He had never met him but he so badly wanted to be noticed. He spoke of building his own clan and fantasizing of forming an allegiance to Gatsby and Ty, too blind to object, happily followed along because when he spoke of it he would be so much happier and loving.

Like his counterpart, Julius inserted himself into Kyle’s clan to befriend JoJo. Kyle was powerful and dedicated, having murdered a woman to deliberately turn himself so he could be with his brother. He was calculated and caring with a focused mindset but a loving heart for his brother, who was a bubbly little thief who played right into Juli’s hands. The exact same events played out in this universe as they did in Yang’s.

On the day it all fell apart, they were located in the High Grounds, half the clan and Kyle himself huddling them near the cliff edge. Kyle himself was only exasperated and wanted to keep his little brother safe from harm. But he couldn’t realise what was happening until it was too late.

Julius had lost himself in his humiliation and refused to turn away empty-handed, his face burned and his fists clenched. Ty knew what he was planning and grabbed his arm, begging with his eyes for Juli not to do it. But the demon held no care for him, no worry for the consequences because he knew it was a death wish. The moment he struck JoJo was the moment Ty finally realised that he did not love him.

The spear impaled him in an instant as JoJo plummeted off the High Ground and Kyle’s mind shattered. In Julius’ last moments he stared up at the cosmic sky as his body reduced to dust, his lips shaking and blood pouring from his body yet there was no regret in his eyes. There was no love. No care. 

Ty was held down and brutally torn apart by the icy demon, unable to move as the rest of the clan held him down. It hurt beyond words and he begged for his family and for death yet nothing answered him. Kyle pressed a burning hand into his face and he shrieked in affliction, feeling his flesh burn away and right eye go blind. He was thrown down and Kyle stamped on his head as if trying to crush his skull, his brain being struck so badly that something was damaged beyond repair.

He was left alone.

Cold and bleeding out, Ty just wanted to turn to dust. But even now he was not pitied and endured the pain with soundless cries and shallow breaths. It was as if there was a comforting voice consoling him, a blurred figure in front of him that told him to get back up. It sounded like Alatar and Ty whimpered for him, reaching out his hand to grasp something but it was nothing but air.

When he got up, he swayed and stared at the pile of dust on the edge of the cliff and down at his lost horns and wings. He did not approach the dust but instead turned away, holding his cloak around himself and limping away. He whimpered at every, slow step and swayed from the pain. It felt like every step he took caused another memory to fizzle out until finally, he collapsed.

But, by some miracle, the travelling doctor had been brought to him by fate’s path and he noticed the broken demon and his heart ached to see him in pain. Lenus had rolled him over and recognised him immediately due to his likeliness to his father. Tears were welling up in his eyes as his own body ached from the healing lashes on his back yet he disregarded his own pains completely to help the scarred demon. 

The witch doctor could not heal him to normality but he did everything he could to help, cleaning and amputating the last of Ty’s wings and dressing each wound. Lenus gave him two of his potions and picked him up, carrying him to a cave so he could recover in peace before setting him down. He fixed his hair and set up a flask of water and all the bandage he had before planting a kiss on his forehead and leaving him. He couldn’t stay, the clan he escaped from were on his tail and he didn’t want Ty in any more danger. So he left, a soundless lifesaver.

When Tyrell awoke he had assumed he had gotten there by his own accord, healing himself and hiding in the cave yet losing the memory of it.

He could no longer trust anyone and he lost everything. He lost his wonder, his love for anything and his hope. He lost his powers, his wings and horns, every single memory of his human life and most of his time with Julius. He forgot the reason he owned the cloak and could no longer remember his sister’s face or his parents’ existence. He turned to wood carving for therapy, carving countless models of everyone and everything he could remember before it fizzled out. A faceless sister, a nameless boy with a rock in his hand, a baker and a farmer. He grew out his hair to hide the scars and turned away from everything, using a spear as his main weapon as if to always remind himself of what happened. Not that he could ever forget that day.

Then he stumbled into Demitri fifteen years later. He looked older in human years but much younger in terms of demon years. He was a big pink idiot who never slept and had an addiction to smoking weed. At first, Tyrell resented him yet no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t stop himself falling in love with him. He wasn’t like Julius, he was genuine, kind, gentle and funny. Everything he did had so much care and he wasn't used to it but he found himself letting himself learn. They both had their trauma and for the first time, Ty wanted to make it better. He didn’t always have the right answers but he wanted to make him better. He didn’t follow Demitri because he was starved of touch, he followed because he wanted to and that was enough to melt his heart.

Presently, he is cuddled up in Demitri’s arms. He’s awake but he knows Dem is too and thinks he’s asleep so he remains still to stay huddled in that moment. They’re sat in a small cave for shelter and it is peacefully quiet, allowing him to hear and feel his soft breathing. Ty is snuggled into his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat and letting any anxiety float away. He can feel Demitri’s hand gently supporting his back, his thumb running over one of the scars on his back yet he doesn’t mind at all. The pink demon’s face is practically buried in his long hair and his mind is off in a daydream.

Tyrell doesn’t remember his past life and he’s still sad he can no longer picture his family or the location of their graves, but he is sure that he was happy before those days. But he doesn’t mind as long as he can stay in this kind of happiness with Demitri. He loved him more than anything else.

.

Phew! That was long! Sorry for the length but they both are very story rich and I didn’t want to split them up into two pieces.

I didn’t mean for Yin-Ty’s segment to be that long but his past is much more complicated than Yang-Ty’s and required more depth. This does not mean I favour one over the other, I love my beautiful boy(s) so much, I couldn’t pick a favourite!

This was so fun to write and I hope that it was fun to read whether you read one or the other or both! I liked building subtle contrasts between the two such as Julius’ behaviour and each Ty’s narrative. Such as Yang-Ty focusing on the good sides of their relationship as well as the bad whilst Yin-Ty only focused on the bad. Both Julius’ are assholes!

The writing is rather low quality since I’ve had low confidence and a need to blurt out the story for the past week so I hope that you enjoyed it!

As usual, I’ll fix any mistakes later.

See you soon! <3

[bluboothalassophile]

Somewhere To Be Home...

Guess who finally caught up on RHatO!? And Guess What I Have To Say!?:

FUCK DC! I have no fucking clue what the fuck they’re doing, but those fuckers are fucking with shit that ought not to be fucked with! Worse, the worst fucking part! They present Bruce And Jay On A Good Start To Reconciling! And THEY FUCK IT UP! PRESENTING IT AS IF WILLIS WAS MISUNDERSTOOD RATHER THAN THE ABUSIVE FUCK HE WAS!  THEN DESTROYING WHAT POSSIBLE RECONCILIATION B AND JAY COULD HAVE HAD! FUCK YOU DC! FUCK DC!

End rant! And now, my retaliation for this nonsense DC is doing, for which is infuriating my bloody temper!

Also, beware this is SPOILERS FOR HOPES FOR A BASTARD.

Jason winced as he limped through Black Gate Penitentiary as he made his way to the seat. Sitting down tenderly he waited a bit before he came face to face with his biggest nightmare.

It was a bit before the large nightmare was escorted out, and directed to the seat across from him. Jason watched as the man’s brown eyes widened as he came to sit. Jason picked up the phone, ignoring the throbbing of his face, and split lip, and the overall stabbing pains of his body from the fight he’d had escaping. The pain was not new, it wasn’t even interesting, it just was.

Willis Todd, a huge man, thick with muscles, and curly, graying, brown hair. There was nothing small about his father, and the man had beady brown eyes that always made Jason think of a rat, it was that look which fill the eyes of cowards, and traitors, it was that look which was the look of a man who’d kill anyone in his path.

“So, the prodigal son has returned?” Willis boasted.

Jason said nothing as he assessed the sperm donor to creating him. The man was nothing.

“Aren’t you gonna speak up or something? Or are you as weak as your mother?” Willis growled.

“Don’t talk about mom,” Jason coldly stated; his voice still ragged from nearly dying, the look of shock lit Willis’ eyes briefly. Jason continued to assess his father very carefully, and saw nothing of the nightmare that had terrorized him as a child. “You don’t ever speak about mom.”

“Or what?” Willis sneered.

“Or I’ll rip your tongue out and wrap your entrails around your head before lighting it on fire,” he warned seriously.

There was a flinch from his father. He was not the scared nine year old his father would remember.

“Why are you here boy?”

“Wouldn’t you be relieved to know that the rabid dog you sent after your kid didn’t succeed in killin’ him?” Jason asked dryly.

Willis blinked, the man’s lips opened and shut, and Jason frowned a bit. He winced internally at the pull from the wound not fully or even partially healed splitting. “You…!”

“I know everything Willis,” he stated icily. “I know how you knew about Alina Shelby, I know how you’ve survived this long without being shanked to death, I even know you’re a rat for the feds in Two Face’s and Black Mask’s organizations. I know you worked for Penguin as the inside man, and your letters about being desperate for supported mom and I to be a lie.

“I. Know. Everything,” Jason growled. “What I don’t know is how you got the Joker in your pocket.” He felt the damp roll of blood and fluids from the wound on his cheek.

“And what’s it to you?” Willis sneered.

“Nothing,” Jason answered. His father’s lips twitched and Jason kept his face impassive.

“I never wanted you, you sniveling brat, but Catherine, Catherine, Catherine, all she wanted was a fucking baby; must’ve been that Catholic Irish in her; that naïve good girl,” Willis sneered. “Dumb bitch couldn’t have kids, then there was Sheila. Stupid slut gets knocked up, one night of rebellious drinking and comes to me in a panic.

“She wanted to get rid of you, but I saw a solution; one to shut the nagging wife up and get rid of the dumb slut.

“I made a deal with her, five grand for the kid, she thought I was nuts; I paid for all the damn medical too. But five grand and she’d walk away, never see her again; she’d finish whatever the fuck it is she was doing and I’d shut Catherine up.

“Easy fucking fix.

“Then you grew up, became the big bad Red Hood, the Robin who couldn’t stay dead.”

“I’m allergic to death,” Jason retorted at Willis’ disdain.

“Guess it’s something we got in common.” Willis sneered as he glowered at Jason, Jason just stared levelly back at his father, and felt nothing for the man. “Your first death, it’s not a secret, Joker boasts about it, calls you his ‘ickle robin’ and ‘broken robin’. Once I found out who the Red Hood was, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who the Bat was, and Bruce Fucking Wayne had ruined my fucking life, so I’d ruin his; again, and enjoy every fucking minute of it.

“Getting the Joker wound up was simple, he’s never been very bright, give him something to focus on though, and wind him up and watch the carnage. Joker’s a mad dog, but the Jokerz that follow him are so fucking loyal, all for a madman who can’t even tie his shoe. Directing him at Mariah was easy, just kill the dumb bitch and take the kid, everyone knows Hood would do anything for kids. Once caught, Joker could do whatever he pleased with you, so long as you broke and died watching yourself fail to save the bastard daughter of Bruce Fucking Wayne; your beloved father,” Willis sneered.

“So you went after me to destroy B?” Jason asked softly.

“Rich fucker could afford it.”

“I see,” Jason nodded in resign.

“You have nothing left to say?” Willis sneered. Jason’s eyes flicked to his father again.

“Why do you hate me so fucking much? I didn’t ask to be born.”

“I don’t hate you, kid. I look at you and feel nothing, see nothing, you are nothing, nothing more than an inconsequential accident meant to keep my wife happy. You are nothing. That’s all I see.”

“Well then you’re going to watch, as I tear about your world and set it on fire, Willis. Brick by brick, dollar by dollar, body by body. You see nothing when you look at me, and that will be your greatest mistake,” Jason stated as he hung up and stood before walking away. Willis roared after him, but Jason kept walking.

He made it outside of Blackgate Prison and was greeted by Bruce.

Bruce was leaning on his black Audi, looking calm as could be. It wasn’t as if Gotham was encased in mist and grim and rain as November rolled in to destroy everything as it always did here on the east coast. Jason winced a bit at the cold slicing through his chest; feeling as if he’d never be warm again, and slowly; with all the damn dignity he could muster limped to Bruce.

His father’s blue eyes were void of any emotions, or tells which could reveal to Jason just what B was thinking about this little rendezvous he had had with Willis.

“I’m here to take you home,” Bruce said as he approached.

“I got here by myself; I’ll get myself home,” he huffed once he was near Bruce.

“You did,” Bruce agreed.

“I’m not helpless, I can get home,” Jason grounded out about to shove past Bruce, B caught his arm then.

“And where’s home Jason? Some safe house in a shitty part of Gotham? Or in the New York safe house which Lian and Roy have repeatedly pointed out that you’re not returning to?” B asked. Jason flinched a bit at the guilt that was laced in his voice.

“I’ll be fine,” he stated darkly. “Always am,” he tried to shrug Bruce off then.

“You’re not,” Bruce stated.

“That’s fucking rich coming from you!?” Jason roared.

“I picked you Jason,” Bruce snapped, which had his head snapping over to B. His body ached, and he glowered at his father. “I. Pick. You.”

Jason looked down, staring at his boots. “I’m not worth anything though.”

“You’re my son, MINE, you were always mine. And I have failed at showing it over the years, but goddamn it, you’re mine,” he snapped.

“I’m NOT!” he shouted back shoving weakly at Bruce as the tears welled up in his eyes. “Willis didn’t want me, Shelia hated me, you picked the Joker, Dick wanted me gone, Tim replaced me, I don’t fucking matter! None of you picked me! No one wants me! I’m No One’s!” he roared as he threw a punch for Bruce’s face only to find himself wrapped up into a tight embraced.

“You’re mine, you’re mine, I’m picking you Jason, from now on, you’re mine,” Bruce murmured. “You’re my son, my boy, mine,” he promised. A ragged sob escaped Jason as he sagged onto B as he just slumped on his father and the last year of agonies finally had him breaking.

“I just want to go home,” he wept as buried his face in B’s shoulder.

“I’m taking you home,” his dad promised as he kissed his head. “We’re going home Jase, we’re going home.”

[anthai-of-stormwind]

The Storm Gathers - Priyha, Priest of the Alliance

Written by Matt Rossi

Her dreams were never frightening.

Oh, they should have been. Priyha knew that seeing the faces of thousands melting, screaming, dying in horror should have filled her with dread, despair, anger, or anguish, but whenever she was in the dream all she could feel was a leaden disappointment at how predictable it all was. Dreams of disaster and death, of friends and loved ones dying horribly.

They were not imaginative dreams. Sometimes green flames leaping luridly across roofs and down the walls of homes, sometimes black inky tendrils erupting from the ground to swallow people whole. The specifics varied, but the overall message was always the same. Everyone would die, and it was all her fault. Her fault for failing. Or her fault for succeeding.

She shook the dream off and sleep sloughed away in its wake, leaving her awake in her bed. She took a moment to push her hair back out of her face and again wondered if she should shave her head. Her hand instinctively moved to close around a dagger, but the dagger was gone now – as it had left all its previous wielders, it had left her, too.

She hated that she missed it. Missed the whispers that mocked and goaded her.

She stood out of bed and for a moment saw the puckered scars on her arm, from a time long past now. When the dragon had burned Stormwind and she'd gone to the Cathedral to pray, to beg the Light for some sort of answer. Why? Why did horrors like that thing exist, to come diving out of the sky in flames and madness to destroy whole sections of the city? She'd been afraid, then.

*  *  *

"My child." She'd been so focused on her half-formed terrors that she hadn't heard the Archbishop enter the Cathedral. Back then, she'd been a mere acolyte in the Church of the Light, just recently arrived from Northshire Abbey. Benedictus had seemed serene, a rock of stability in changing times. "What is it that ails you?"

"I'm sorry, Archbishop, I—"

"Please. Exalt me not." His smile, so much like her own Pater's, her father's father. Her father had died in the invasion of Stormwind, when the Orcs sacked the city and burned everything, and she'd been an infant in her mother's arms on a boat to the north. She'd grown up in Lordaeron, only heading south once King Wrynn had completed the rebuilding. Her memory was full of moments of chaos and hardship – masons rioting, the King disappearing, the Defias attacks on Westfall – and she'd chosen the Church of the Holy Light because she'd felt a deep need for something stable, something unchanging. Even after the city had burned, the Light had returned to sustain it. But now it was all happening again, and her thoughts whirled with it. What do I tell others when I can’t stop being afraid now?

"But you..."

"I am but a humble seeker, as you are." He laughed gently, his large hands calloused from years holding a staff. "I have merely had more years to question. Will you share what ails you? Perhaps I can help."

*  *  *

That memory made her laugh. At first just a chuckle, but the look on his face – so kindly, so concerned for her, wanting to help – forced the laughter out of her like bubbles in sparkling wine and soon she was shaking with it.

"Perhaps I can help!" she cackled, sitting back down on the bed while she heard the laughter twist into something ugly, hateful. "You helped, old bastard. Oh, you helped." The purplish marks on her arms were the signs of his first real lesson, his hands on her forearms as he called the Void to burn itself into her, grant her the first vision.

It had been death that time, too. This world is corrupt. The Light holds us here, pinned like moths on a board, while all around us everything falls to death and rot. But the Shadow can free us. The Shadow sees all roads, knows all paths, and it knows one of those paths is an escape from this prison that houses us. Will you join us, sister? Help us end all things so that a new world can replace them? His voice, smooth, loving. He'd meant every word. That was the worst part – Benedictus never lied to her. Every utterance of concern, every offer of help, every statement of equality was deeply felt.

He just meant to kill everyone to fix it.

She washed in the basin provided her, then dressed in robes she found basic enough. It had been years since Benedictus died, and she'd kept on the path he'd set her...but not to the same ends. Destroying everything didn't appeal. If your garden has weeds, you pull the weeds, you don't burn all the crops. If your house has vermin, you kill the vermin. Benedictus sought a quick, easy solution to the world, but Priyha didn't see the world as her enemy, just the horrors in it.

The dagger had laughed at her, called her a fool. My wonderful idiot, how useful your naivete is. She'd still used its power, but underneath there was a growing certainty that every gift it had given her – every mote of power granted, every monster defeated, every demon destroyed – had served it more than her. Even so, her hand felt so empty without it. Shadows crawled up the scars on her arms, demanding that she use them. Showing her so many visions of the future. Everyone will die because you weren't strong enough, because you didn't use what we offer you.

She dressed and walked from her room, into the day dawning outside.

"I don't need you."

Without us you are nothing.

She walked along the canals towards the Cathedral. Since the Legion had fallen, she spent her days in seclusion, but on that day she felt the need to see the old familiar spires. She walked past the rebuilt park where King Wrynn lay buried. She'd been busy fighting the demons and hadn't had time to mourn or really, any inclination to. So what if the King died? There would be another King, always, and...

That stuck. There would be another King, always. The shadows skittering around in her head shifted as she mulled this over. She hadn't known King Varian well. She knew his successor even less. It had been a long time since she'd considered herself a member of the Church, but she knew Anduin Wrynn was apparently a Priest of the Light, beloved by it. King and Priest on one throne seemed such an odd thing to her. What did he tell people when they came to him in doubt? Did he answer as their ruler or their minister? Did he offer them orders or...

She was in front of the Cathedral before she arrived at any answers to these thoughts. A statue of Uther the Lightbringer had replaced the memorial to Alonsus Faol. Faol was dead. That didn't stop him, however – she'd met him in his new, undead body while fighting the Legion. It was inspiring in its way. Death hadn't prevented him from serving his people, and she envied him a little. Life, that had been what had turned her away. Life, in all its contradictions and obstacles, where you could never build a home because it would always burn, or fall, and there were always new monsters. You could never rest.

Yes. You see now. The world itself rots away. It must be purged.

She looked up at the Cathedral. It had been rebuilt after the Second War. She remembered kneeling that day, begging the Light for answers. Benedictus had come instead. The Light hadn’t.

"Well?" She spoke to Uther's statue. "They say this is all futile. That there's no point to any of it. Nothing to do but destroy it all and make something better from the ashes. I've tried..." She stopped, a hitch in her breath. "I've tried pulling weeds. Are they right? Is there no point, does the garden have to burn? What can I do?"

The statue didn't answer. She hadn't expected it to. She felt a hot rush of embarrassment as she realized what she must look like – a woman standing alone, angrily demanding answers from a statue of a man who'd died when his favorite student stabbed him to death. Always more weeds.

"Every day we start over."

She nearly jumped out of shock. The unassuming young man at her side – how long had he been there? She took a moment to look at him. Beautiful in his way, with light blue eyes and long blonde hair pulled back in a modest tail. He was wearing a peasant's robe, dark brown, hood pushed back.  She'd seen him a few times before in royal blue-and-white and recognized him from his chin.

"Your—"

"Please." He inclined his head. "I'd prefer it if people didn't realize I was out and about." His smile was abashed. "If I'm intruding, I apologize."

"No, just..." She shook her head. "I didn't know you were there."

"I often have similar conversations." He looked up at the statue. "I never met him, but I'm told he was a great man."

"Perhaps." She fought not to shake her head again. She felt that she must look manic. "He failed when it counted, though."

"I suppose he did." The young man didn't look away from the statue. "I suspect he never forgave himself for that. It must have been quite a burden to see someone you love turn, to be unable to stop it all from happening. Forgiving ourselves is often the hardest part, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you mean." She felt cold and stiff, and when he turned to regard her she almost blurted out I have almost a decade of life on you, boy but managed to stop herself. The look in his eyes wasn't pity, which would have enraged her, nor was it condemnation.

"My father died and I wasn't there. Many of my people...those I swore to protect. Even friends have died, and here I am. Every day things get worse. I argue with those I once admired, and I see no path forward to the future I want, save one dripping in blood. More death. We just fought a war for our very survival and we're likely going to fight another one, and this one is small and petty and I can't find a way to stop it." He let out a breath. "So I, too, have failed when it counted. I feel like I can forgive Uther his failings more easily than my own."

She stood there, shadow whirling in her thoughts, and said nothing. He turned back to the statue.

"It's a lovely spot here. I come here, at times, when I can get away. There's always something to do...some weed or another to pull out. It'll never be perfect, but that might be for the best."

"How can that be for the best?"

"If it were perfect, it would be done. A world without strife or change...that's just as dead. The world as it is will always need us, and every day we can stand up and try again. I failed before. I failed my father, my people." He stood slightly taller and Priyha couldn't help it, she remembered being a much younger girl, before the fear had begun choking the life out of her. "I can't change that, but I can decide today if I'm going to let myself fail again. There are always more weeds I can pull."

He nodded politely and walked away, heading into the Cathedral.

She didn't follow him. She didn't look at the statue, or the birds in trees all around her. She was remembering that day, her panic, her fear. The touch of Benedictus' hand on her forearm, her skin puckering away. There are always more weeds I can pull.

Her fingers began to glow, and she looked down at them. Not the seething purple-black of the Void this time, but a pale silver light. Not as it had felt as a young girl her first month in training, not the warm golden color she'd called when she'd healed those who came to the Abbey. But not darkness, either.

Her hand closed and the glow grew stronger, leaking like the moon behind clouds, only it was emanating from her flesh.

It lies it lies you can't save it everything has to burn.

"If it has to burn, it can burn without me." She let the glow climb up to the mottled scars on her forearm. "I have weeds to pull."

[suchastart]

Good Night, Starlight

A very, very belated HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! to dearest @regolithheart​, who is just so sweet and talented and kind and amazing. The beginning to a silly, long adventure for Cress and Thorne ♥

AO3

Months after the events of Winter, Cinder has a new job for Cress and Thorne: deliver a few crates full of letumosis antidotes and bioelectricity chip prototypes to a research lab in Hawaii. Easy, right? They’ve already been doing it for months--travelling the world, seeing the sights, dropping off cures, helping people.

It should be a routine mission. They expect a routine mission. But when they arrive in Hawaii, everything immediately starts going wrong. A few of Thorne’s shadier acquaintances show up out of the blue, and immediately after, the research lab goes into full lockdown following a break in. Cress and Thorne are thrust into a pursuit across the sea to prove their own innocence, and end up discovering a plot that might shake up the precarious peace Cinder and Kai have managed to build between Earth and Luna.

They also manage to make new friends, connect with their family, and build their home on the Rampion. Let it not be said that the path to happily ever after was easy.

*

Stars drift like snowfall past the windows of her satellite.

Cress watches, and waits.

Behind her, the pale blue hologram of Little Cress dances in the starlight. Her dress twirls around her, and her bare feet trip and jump and skip easily around the only floor she has ever known. A soft melody drifts from the speakers, and her little voice hums along--old Italian opera, country-western, a fast, upbeat pop song all at once. Every few notes, static buzzes discordant through the blank netscreens, then fades quiet beneath the music.

She dances, and hums, and in the reflection, Cress watches.

“What are you waiting for, Big Sister?” Little Cress sings.

Waiting? Cress is… dreaming. She’s dreaming. And, she feels, pressing her hand against the worrying knot in her chest, waiting for something important.

Her focus shifts--past Little Cress, past the gentle starfall--to Luna, taking a slow turn around Earth. White clouds marble the surface of the homeworld, and its blue oceans shine from the light of the sun.

It is beautiful, both foreign and familiar, and so very, very far. Her heart aches with the distance.

“I’m waiting for someone,” Cress realizes.

Little Cress giggles, disbelieving. Static pops through her voice. Her image flickers as she glances towards the windows. “Down there?”

“I think so.”

“For how long?”

How long will she have to wait? Has she been waiting this whole time? Years have gone by--most of her life has gone by in this cradle-cage of a satellite, trapped by her shell blood and her life debt to the queen--and Cress isn't sure if she's ever taken a full breath.

She tries, anyway; inhales. A star falls toward Earth. “I don't know how long. Forever, maybe.”

“Perhaps,” a different voice says.

The air turns thick in her lungs, clings to her throat. Cress whirls around. Little Cress and her music have flickered and died. Sybil Mira stands before her now, silent as the void, her pristine thaumaturge jacket stained a bright red around the collar. A trickle of blood runs from her ears. She seems not to notice; she blinks, and stares at Cress with terrible, cold, bruised eyes, and folds her shaking hands in front of her.

Cress cannot move. Sybil Mira is supposed to be dead. She--she saw her die, on that roof, driven mad by her own gift turned back on her.

This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream.

“Perhaps you will spend your remaining days here,” Sybil Mira says, “while he grows old without you.”

The knot in Cress’s chest pulls, tightens. A handsome face. Bright blue eyes. Carefully arranged hair, carefully gentle hands. She remembers soft lips, and the indent of dimples beneath her fingertips, and a warm chest held close to her own.

Thorne.

“No,” Cress gasps.

“He will be happy on Earth,” Sybil Mira says. “And you shall stay here, forced to watch, and to wait, forever.”

“No,” Cress says, pressing a hand to her heart. It pounds loud against her palm. Sybil Mira is gone; Sybil Mira is dead.

When Cress takes a step forward, to--to plead, or push--to make this all stop--Sybil Mira’s form shivers like static, shifts into someone safer.

“Cinder,” Cress exhales.

Cinder nods. Her dress sparkles, slim and silver, and though she looks regal, almost untouchable, there are a few spots of grease on her worn silk gloves that makes Cress smile. Cinder. Her Cinder.

Cress takes a deep breath, calms her pounding heart. “What are you doing here?”

Cinder motions to the wide desk and computer bank against the far wall. An unfamiliar portscreen appears. It is sleek and Lunar-white and glowing, and Cress, fingers itching, reaches for it automatically.

Small print lines the screen, pages and pages of indecipherable text that blur together as she scrolls. A few words appear to her, familiar parts and phrases. She thinks that it might be a cyborg guardianship contract.

One that she has already signed several times over.

I, Crescent Moon Darnel, hereby take full responsibility…

I, Crescent Moon Darnel, vow to protect…

I, Crescent Moon Darnel, swear to accompany...

The portscreen warms in her hands. The end of the contract brings an empty line, and a bold, red X.

“He will be yours forever,” Cinder warns.

The computer bank hums. Opera, western, a crackle-pop static that brushes against her skin like fine waves of sun-warmed sand. When she looks over, Little Cress is hugging the home of her broken server. Her holographic body flickers, and a shower of sparks bursts from the dusty, cracked desk. The suppressive Sahara heat curls around her skin, her fallen satellite.

Little Cress blinks at the sun peeking through the window frames. Sand falls like snowfall into the satellite, buries her little blue feet. “Forever is an awfully long time,” she says. “What are you waiting for, Big Sister?”

Cress breathes, and signs the contract.

Cinder frowns. “Cress?”

“Yes?” Cress tries to hand the portscreen back; Cinder reaches for it, but it falls through her cyborg hand and tumbles to the ground. Sand has already reached their calves, rises quick, quicker, blows in from the East where the sun rises bright and burning, buries them fast. Knees. Hips. Cress can't move, she can't move, she can't breathe--

Little Cress is gone. Her satellite is gone.

This is a dream.

“Cress,” Cinder says, disappearing beneath the sand. “Cress, wake up.”

*

Awareness comes back to her slowly, like crawling back up to consciousness through all that sand. Sometime during her vigil, she must’ve tipped sideways onto the couch and fallen asleep; she’s since been covered with a soft blanket, and though the lights of the sitting room are dim, she can see a blurry outline of Cinder, an arm’s reach away and smiling at her from her perch on the edge of the coffee table.

“Cress?”

She blinks. Dream-Cinder gives way. Her sleek, silver gown is gone, replaced by loose cargo pants and a tank top. Amusement eases the lines of stress at her forehead, and the flyaway hairs escaping her loose ponytail make her look more like herself than she has since Cress arrived in Artemisia a few days ago.

“Wha,” Cress starts, swallowing and sitting up on the couch, smoothing out the skirt of her dress. Thorne. She’s been waiting for Thorne to come out of surgery. “What time is it?”

“A little after four?”

“Already? I… is everything okay?”

Cinder offers a hand. Cress doesn’t know what that means. The procedure went terribly? They had to rid him of his remaining fingers? He had a bad reaction to the medication and the surgeons couldn’t understand why and they had to put him in the tank and now he won’t regain consciousness and since Cress signed those awful forms naming her as his guardian, they want her to come and look at his body and--

“Hey.” Cinder takes Cress’s hand and squeezes. “Relax. Your cyborg is fine.”

Your cyborg.

The words tug at her heart.

“He’s not my cyborg,” Cress mumbles, blushing. She stands and allows Cinder to lead her from the room.

Cinder snorts. “I wouldn't want to claim him either. Come on.”

Hand-in-hand, Cinder and Cress walk quickly down the elegant hallways of Artemisia Palace. Guards and thaumaturges and servants alike nod respectfully or bow as they pass. The attention seems to glance off of Cinder; she guides Cress along, eyes forward, and takes a deep breath once they finally enter a recovery room on the medical wing somewhere within the palace.

It’s a small room, bright and clean, and made comfortable by a plush sofa against the wall and a few potted plants hanging near the tall window. A nurse, checking on a monitor, looks up as they walk in.

She says something, and Cinder responds, but Cress only has eyes for Thorne.

He lies in bed, eyes closed, stiller than he usually is in sleep. Bandages wrap his hand, keeping his fingers--old and new--in place. There’s an IV feeding medicine and nutrients into his arm, and his pulse beeps steady on a nearby screen. Cress steps forward as if hypnotized by the rhythmic beat of his heart, by the easy rise and fall of his chest. As far as she knows, everything looks fine.

Cress breathes.

He looks--he looks fine.

“He is fine,” the nurse says, tapping on her portscreen. “He may be groggy when he wakes up. He’s allowed water, but no food yet. Just press this button if you need anything. Your Majesty.”

Cinder accepts her bow with a stiff nod, and then the nurse is gone.

“Still not used to that,” Cinder says, standing next to Cress at the side of the bed. She looks at Thorne. “Dr. Mahsa said the surgery went well. He should have full use of everything in a day or two.”

That’s good. He’ll be relieved. Probably not relieved that he’s a cyborg now, because Cress… because she shot him, mutilated him, took his fingers and part of his humanity and now he’ll have to live like Cinder has, looked down upon and restricted, when all he’s wanted to do was fly free--

“Hey, stop it.”

“I’m--I’m not. I’m not doing anything.”

With a sigh, Cinder drags a chair next to the bed and pulls at Cress’s shoulders until she sits into it. “Has he said anything about blaming you, Cress?”

“No,” she says, teary. She swipes at her face. She can’t stop crying today. “But he--he wouldn’t.”

And he hadn’t--not when it happened, not even the months after. Not when his hand healed, and he had to make do with three fingers. Not when she saw him he staring overlong at the scarring on his hand, running his thumb over the bumps of his knuckles. Not when they spoke about him getting replacements, during their worldly travels, and what him being a cyborg might mean.

“He wouldn’t, because he doesn’t,” Cinder says. “He loves you. So sit here for a while, hold his hand. Maybe mess with him when he wakes up, tell him he’s been sleeping for a few years.”

Cress giggles. “Thanks, Cinder.”

“Let me know if you need me. There’s a portscreen here, I think it’s connected to the netscreen, if you need it.” Cinder taps Cress’s shoulder. “See you in a bit.”

It’s a little easier, after Cinder leaves, to look at Thorne without so much guilt. It lingers, but then she studies the mess of his hair, the pale wash of his skin, the way he seems so unlike himself in this medicated rest. Even in sleep he’s often restless--alive with movement, twitching and snoring, feet tangling in his blanket.

This Thorne is unmoving. She scoots her chair a little closer, reaches out for the hand closest to her, unbandaged, long fingers nicked with faded scars. He’s warm when she touches him. She wonders what he’s dreaming of, if he’s dreaming at all.

*

Cress is curled up in her chair, watching the third episode of Caturday Rescue on the big wall netscreen, when she feels Thorne’s hand twitch underneath hers.

A gasp wrenches free of her throat. She sits up so fast she almost topples from her chair; her momentum carries her to standing, and she leans eagerly over his bedside, looks closely at his face. Still, closed eyes. Perfect lips. A wriggle, just there, at his brow.

“Thorne?”

His fingers jump again.

“Thorne?” In quick succession, her hands like briefly alighting hummingbirds, she touches his hair, his forehead, the short stubble on his cheek. “Carswell? You’re fine. You’re out of surgery, and your hand is fine. You have ten fingers again.”

A second passes, two, and then he takes a deep breath, works his jaw. His eyes move beneath his eyelids. He squeezes her hand.

Breathlessly, she waits for him to say something. “Carswell?”

He blinks, squints at the light. “Mm… Fingers?”

And she feels silly for crying, again, again, but she’s never wanted to admit how afraid she was that Thorne wouldn’t wake up, not until she hears his voice, sees the bright blue of his eyes trying to focus on her.

“Yeah,” she says, “Yeah, they put two more on for you.”

He flexes his free hand, then raises his other to his face. It’s bandaged from fingertip to forearm. Wires and tubes disappear beneath the gauze. He twists his arm slowly one way and the other, and then drops it to his lap, rolls his head back on his pillow to look at Cress. It takes him a moment to focus. He smiles. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Wow, you are beautiful.”

“Oh,” Cress laughs. Heat rises to her face. “That’s--thank you. You too. You’re beautiful.”

“Yeah, but. Wow.” He looks at her, looks and looks, gives her a silly, dazed grin. He motions to his own face. “You have so many freckles. Like stars. And your eyes. And your hair. Wow.”

“You cut my hair, remember?”

“No, I didn’t!”

She can’t help it--her heart feels like it’s floating free in her chest, and she’s still a little teary-eyed, and she loves him so much. She laughs again, and leans down so that she can take his free hand and press it to her hair. It’s longer now. He threads his fingers through to the ends, brings his hand up so that he can start at her temples and do it again.

“I would never cut your hair,” he says, gazing at her. “It looks like gold. I love gold.”

She brings her head up. His hand falls to her shoulder, and she rests her cheek against his knuckles. “I know you do.”

It takes him another long moment to give her a lazy smile, and another to blink. “I’m tired.”

“The nurse said you might be. It’s okay to sleep.”

“Don’t wanna leave you.”

“I’ll be here,” she says. She points toward the netscreen. “I was watching Caturday Rescue before you woke up. They just pulled a family of kittens from a storm drain.”

“How many?”

“Six.”

“That’s adorable.”

Cress nods. It is adorable. He is adorable. She watches his face as he turns to the netscreen, watches as his eyelids droop, as his breathing slows. Carefully she takes his hand and returns it to his side, smiles at him when he catches her eye.

“Hey, come lay down with me,” he says.

Her mouth is already forming the words of a refusal--what if I mess up your wires, what if the doctor comes in, what if I hurt you, I’ve already hurt you so much and I’m afraid you will never forgive me and I can’t do that again, I can’t, I can’t--but then he’s scooting over and patting the space he’s left, and, well, it is hard to say no, not when she wants to be close to him, not when he wants her there.

So, as gingerly as possible, she crawls into the hospital bed next to him, rests her head on his shoulder, tucks her hands safely into her chest. She lies quiet and still, her eyes on Caturday Rescue and the whole of her attention on the rise and fall of Thorne’s chest.

“Cress,” he says, amused.

“I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hey.”

He takes her hand and gently pulls, presses her palm to his chest, right over his heart. It’s beating steady and strong, and she looks up to see him smile right before he leans in to kiss her forehead. “You’re not gonna hurt me, alright?”

“Okay.”

Cress wriggles more comfortably into his side, hums pleasantly when he wraps his arm around her shoulder. Together, they watch the team on the netscreen set loose a litter of kittens in their new home. The furry babies run around the room, exploring their plush bed, the toys littered around the room, the bowls of water in the corner. One of the gray ones pounces on its sibling and chews on its tail.

“No cats,” Thorne says sleepily, resting his cheek on her head. “No furballs on the ship.”

“But look at them,” she murmurs. “They’re so cute.”

“Mmm. You are.”

Warm and comfortable and relieved, Cress keeps vigil as Thorne drifts to sleep, his body heavy and lax next to hers. They don’t fall asleep together often--she has her own room on the Rampion, and likes having a space that is all her own--but she loves the way she can sink into his side when she wants, the way she can feel his heart beating, enjoy the warmth of his body like trust and love radiating from his skin.

Cress smooths the hair from his forehead.

Maybe she can convince him to get one cat. One little kitten for the ship. Surely he’d come to love it.

*

“Alright, Mr. Thorne, and… how about now?”

Dr. Mahsa touches a metal instrument to Thorne’s new ring and pinky fingers. They jump and curl inward as if tickled; almost a reflex itself, a wide smile stretches across Thorne’s face. He looks up at the doctor, at Cinder, Cress, and Iko standing just beyond the doctor’s shoulder. “This is amazing!”

Cress, who’s been watching the postoperative assessment with a careful eye, can’t help but beam.

Iko laughs. “It’s not so bad, huh?”

“You’ll still want to be easy with this hand for a few weeks,” Dr. Mahsa says, slipping his tools back into a sleek black case. He wheels his stool to the cabinet on the far side of the wall and puts his case away, takes a little white pill bottle from a drawer, and wheels himself back to Thorne’s bedside. “Take one of these if you experience any pain or tingling phantom sensations. It may take a few weeks to two months for your new cybernetics to adjust seamlessly to your system. You have read all of the information from the packets you and your guardian have signed?”

Thorne glances at Cress. The pages upon pages of legalese that she and Thorne read through before going through with his surgery were extensive--because he would be a cyborg citizen, regardless of his age, it would be best for someone to act as his guardian and advocate. As a member of his crew, as somebody who would continue to travel with him upon his ship and accompany and watch over him, Cress had been the perfect person to volunteer.

It hadn’t been a hard decision. She’d taken his fingers away; the least she could do was help get them back.

So Thorne had signed the forms, his signature an easy flourish, and handed the portscreen over as if this weren’t akin to handing her his life. She’d taken the portscreen, held it in her hands, watched the words swimming before her.

“You know Kai and I are trying to change the laws,” Cinder had told them, sitting beside them in her grand royal office. “But… until then, this is kind of something we have to do. Just in case.”

And Cress had stared, and stared, and stared. In some ways, she’d be responsible for him. Minor ways. In case he got arrested, or needed medical care, or somebody gave him trouble for having cyborg fingers. She’d have to stick by him and work with him on his ship, she assured herself--it wasn’t anything she wasn’t going to do anyway.

Cress nods at Thorne and Dr. Mahsa. Yes, they’ve read the information packets--both legal and medical.

“Of course,” Thorne says.

Dr. Mahsa nods. “Alright. It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Thorne. Give us a call if you have any concerns.”

“Aye, aye.”

The doctor bows to Cinder before making his exit, and Thorne is whisking the blankets from his legs and moving the instant the door closes. He’s already dressed in his tan pants and blue button-down, and his socked feet hit the floor before anybody can tell him to relax.

When he wobbles, Cinder rolls her eyes and catches his weight. “I’m reluctant to let you leave.”

“I’ve been cleared! You heard the man.”

“You can’t even stand up straight on your own.”

Thorne scoffs. “I’m fine. Tell her I’m fine, Cress.”

Cress forces herself to not to blink beneath both Thorne and Cinder’s gazes. “You--you should stand still, at least. Until you aren’t dizzy.”

“I’m not dizzy,” Thorne says, but he does not move away from Cinder, and lets himself lean back against his hospital bed. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Cinder says, patting his shoulder. “Listen, I have a new job for you two, if you’re interested.”

Together, Cress and Thorne both say, “Already?”

“It’ll be an easy one,” Cinder says, ducking out from under Thorne’s arm. As she walks across the room to grab the portscreen from the far counter, Cress raises her eyebrows at Thorne--is this too soon, are you ready?--and Thorne waves her concern away with a cavalier grin. He wriggles his fingers at her, all ten, two of them shiny, silver, and new, and then Cinder is back, tapping away at the portscreen. “We have been working with a research lab that’s specialized in bioelectricity. We’ll have you deliver some of our newer chips along with some vials of shell blood and however many cases of letumosis antidote we can fit in the Rampion.”

“Sure,” Thorne says, nodding. “And where are we going this time, your majesty?”

Cinder grins. “Ever been to Hawaii?”