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rubidium91 · 6 years ago

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A Woolly Encounter

forgive my stupid ass title - a gift for @friku8706 based on our conversation last night following their post about Wooly rescuing people from the cold. This ended up at a whopping 2094 words oh my gosh xD Hope you like it!

As he trudged through the frozen wastes, knee deep in snow, Zero silently cursed his own stupidity. How could he have been so careless? Blinded by excitement, he had neglected to fully prepare for this excursion, and now he was hopelessly lost, shivering uncontrollably, teeth rattling from the sheer cold.

Icejins, of course, were adapted to living in rather cold conditions. This place, however, was something else entirely. The biting wind cut right through him. His skin felt like it was on fire, as he was pelted with snow and ice. It shamed him as a scientist, how he had completely underestimated just how harsh this icy wilderness really was. Had he done his research properly, he might not have ended up in this mess.

Back when he had first heard of the mysterious tribe of icejins that supposedly lived in this region, he had set his heart on studying them. Not much was known about them; there wasn’t even concrete proof they existed. But Zero was determined he was going to be the one to find that proof. After days of scouring the libraries of the greatest cities, he at last found small references to the nomadic tribe. Images of tribal markers and paintings found in remote locations across the galaxy. Several different sets of primitive markings, all with something in common. It had to have come from the same kind of people. He eventually tracked them to this frozen planet in a corner of the galaxy. Packing his things, he immediately rushed off to board the next SpaceTrain that would bring him here.

‘Idiot. You damn idiot.’ He muttered to himself. He wore a long, padded winter trench coat, but he might as well have been naked for all the difference it made. The winds cut through to his bones. Hands clasped tightly to his body, he slowly continued; in which direction, he had no idea. Visibility was getting low rapidly. He thought he hadn’t gone far from the SpaceTrain station. Surely, he couldn’t have gone far? He remembered that mountain range after all, a visual marker he’d made for himself should he lose his bearings. Or was it that one there?

Oh gods. He was lost.

Panic set in, as Zero realised he had lost all sense of direction. Snow was up to his waist now, and it was getting increasingly difficult to move his legs. Why didn’t he just stick to the path? It was bright seemingly only moments ago, yet now it was pitch black. He couldn’t see any mountains or landmarks anymore, only swirling white winds clouding his vision. How could he have let this happen? Could people even survive here? What a stupid, stupid decision this whole trip was. He had let his excitement cloud his judgement, and now here he was, freezing to death in this snowy wasteland.

‘Must. Keep. Moving.’ One step. Another. Then another. Each step took every inch of willpower in him, every ounce of strength.

‘It’s hopeless.’ Said the voice in the back of his head, that logical part of his mind, gloating at his foolishness. ‘You stupid boy. You’re going to die here. Nobody will even find your body in this vast wilderness. When the SpaceTrain comes back, will they even realise they’re missing a passenger?’

‘No!’ He screamed at the gloating voice, emptying his lungs in despair. He made no sound, however, his cry carried away on the mountain winds. And as that last pitiful wail left his mouth, he collapsed into the snow, heaving with exhaustion.

He lay there shivering and sobbing, tears freezing on his cheeks as they fell. Not like this. He didn’t want to go like this. How pathetic he must look right now, curled up in the snow, a sad and dying animal. Every inch of him was numb, and his mind was cloudy from the pain. As he lay, he realised he could no longer feel the cold and he had stopped shivering. He left almost content. He had heard of this phenomenon, the wash of euphoria one feels as one is dying of the cold. He almost chuckled at his own misfortune.

‘Maybe it’s best to just stop fighting. Close your eyes and go peacefully.’ That wasn’t a bad idea he thought. Was it really such a bad way to go, surrounded by the sheer terrifying beauty of nature, the snowy winds creating dazzling, flashing displays in front of him? It really was spectacular. What a pity he could never write about it, or recount his adventure to others. And now his last memory was going to be here in the tundra, watching the snow swirl around him as he lay dying. His vision fading to black, he swore he saw a shadowy person like shape above him. But that was impossible. People didn’t survive this place. It was merely a hallucination conjured up by his dying mind to make him feel like he wasn’t dying alone. Yeah, that was it. He smiled one last time, and closed his eyes.

Warmth. Zero’s fingers and toes tingled madly as sensation returned. He flexed his fingers, and gasped at the sudden jolt of pins and needles. He focused on the pain. If he could feel pain, did that mean he was alive? As he moved, he felt wrapped around him a soft kind of fur. Wool like almost. Oh gods, it was the softest, most heavenly warm experience he’d ever felt. But what was it? He also realised he could not hear the vicious howling of the mountain winds. Where was he? He tried to open his eyes but could not muster the energy. Instead, he let himself float back into restfulness, caressed by that divine warmth, soothing him back to sleep.

As he awoke again, Zero stretched out like a cat, savouring being able to move his body once more. The soft, warm sensation was gone, and this time, Zero managed to open his eyes and sit up. He rubbed his eyes and took in his surroundings. He was in some sort of cave. A fire was lit nearby, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Faintly he could hear the howling gales in the distance. He was still on the planet then. But how did he get here? And what was that soft warmth from before?

The answer came just moments later, as a faint shuffling made Zero look around. The source of the noise was a curious looking, woolly creature, an icejin, undoubtedly, yet Zero had never seen anything quite like this. He was very tall, and thick white woolly fur covered several areas of his body, from his chest, around his neck, along his arms and legs, and parts of his tail. He stood feet away, berries and nuts clutched in his arms. Zero blinked several times. Did this creature bring him here? This was, he realised as his mind started working properly, that this must be one the creatures he had come here to study in the first place. They did exist, and here was one right in front of him! It must have been this icejin’s woolly coat he could feel as he slept. Was it keeping him warm? Confusion, excitement and fear collided in his mind, so he just stared numbly.

The woolly icejin approached, and placed the haul of foraged foods down by Zero’s feet, before sitting next to him. It took a berry, ate it, then offered another to Zero. To eat. For you. Clearly, that was the message. Zero took a plump, juicy looking red berry, and nibbled it. It was sweet and delicious. How could fruit grow here? Never mind that, he thought, and sampled more of the food, carefully watching the icejin next to him. It didn’t seem hostile, rather it just sat watching him eat, smiling gently. Several minutes passed, yet still it didn’t speak. Clearing his throat, Zero decided to make the first move.

‘So er… You saved me from the blizzard I take it?’ But the icejin merely looked at him blankly. Zero tried again. ‘Thank you for saving my life, my name is Zero. I can’t thank you enough, honestly, I wouldn’t know how to repay you. I know you’ve done so much for me already, but do you think you could help me get home?’ He was met only with silence. Okay, this is awkward, he thought. He opened his mouth to speak again, but was stopped by the icejin, who merely pointed to his mouth, then to his ears. Ah, so this icejin was either deaf, or couldn’t understand what Zero was saying, which made sense for an isolated tribe of people; they probably had a whole language all to themselves. Speaking of which, Zero wondered whether this icejin was here alone, or if there were more of his kind somewhere. He couldn’t wait to write down his findings and make doodles of this wonderfully curious icejin.

The icejin pushed more food toward Zero. Eat more. Zero ate, and looked around for his satchel. Miraculously, it had made its way safely here too, and was placed on top of his coat, folded neatly on a nearby rock. He went to it, pulled out his books and pencils, sat back down and started furiously sketching the woolly icejin and making notes, talking excitedly all the while. To the woolly icejin’s credit, he sat placidly, smiling as he watched Zero work.

Zero had never been so excited. He could sit here for hours, studying this mysterious creature. He had so many questions, so much he wanted to know! They sat long into the night, Zero scribbling away, picking at the fruit now and then, until eventually, sleep called once more. They bedded down for the night, the woolly icejin curling his tail around Zero as they lay, holding him close, keeping him warm, Zero’s face burying in that sumptuous fur.

As he lay there, Zero wondered. He supposed he would have to go home soon. He’d checked the time (miraculously, his watch still worked), and the next SpaceTrain would be arriving in the morning. He almost didn’t want to leave this place, with his new woolly friend. He still had so much he could learn. He knew he couldn’t stay however, and it filled him with a pang of sadness. Trying hard not to think about it, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Morning came, despite Zero wishing it wouldn’t. Silently, he packed his bags, put on his coat, and together, he and Wooly (as Zero now called him), left the cave. It was glorious outside; the sun shone brightly, and the winds had completely died down. It was only now, as Zero looked around, that he could truly appreciate the sheer beauty of this place. He cursed himself for not bringing his camera; another oversight in his rush to set off on his journey.

It seemed Wooly was used to seeing the SpaceTrain arrive every couple of days, as he led Zero deftly to the station, knowing exactly where to go. As they stood there waiting, Zero suddenly didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to leave his new friend. The SpaceTrain arrived in the distance, and as it made its way to the station, Zero found himself wishing Wooly could just come with him…

Why couldn’t he?

Zero turned to Wooly, looked up at him and said, ‘You could come with me, you know?’ Wooly stared blankly so Zero pointed at Wooly, ‘You’, then to the train ‘come’, then to himself, ‘with me?’ Luckily Wooly seemed to understand, as he smiled sadly and shook his head. Zero expected that at least, but it still made him sad. They hugged each other and Zero boarded the train. Looking out the window, he saw Wooly waving at him from below as the train sped off. Zero suddenly was overcome with emotion, and choked back the tears that threatened to fall. He wondered if he would ever see Wooly again. Would it be better to leave this solitary icejin alone, he thought? He wouldn’t want more people coming to this place to gawp at him like a freak show or zoo animal, after all. Maybe at the end of it, he would keep his research to himself, maybe even destroy it. That might be the best thing to do. Besides, he would still have his memories of him, and nobody could take that from him.

And he would see Wooly again one day, he promised himself. He would.

(abrupt ending cos I didn’t really know how to tie it up xD Sorry <3) Also, tagging @coldphoenix , love to hear your thoughts!

#my art #friend oc #zero #wooly #icejin #arcosian

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thedeadflag · 7 years ago

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I’ll Be Home For Christmas (WIP)

This is another one I’d put some work into in the past but haven’t finished. Figured I’d post it here to continue the festive feels

"...and I'm just saying, it's not good to be alone for the holidays."

Clarke rolled her eyes, wondering how many times she had to remind her mother of her plans. "I told you last week, and the week before, I'll be home for Christmas."

"And I remember the last three years, Clarke. Pulling your place setting from the table the day of, learning after the fact that you'd gone in to work an on-call shift after telling me you'd be home. At least this year you didn't keep repeating it like a mantra, but it's okay...I just...I'm a mom. I worry about you." The guilt pressed heavy against her ribs, ballooning in her chest as she remembered all the years of blowing her mom off for the holidays.

It wasn't fair, not really. She knew she wasn't doing the right thing, but Christmas had always been her, her mom, and her dad. Ever since her father passed away, the holidays had been a trying experience; when it was just her and her mom, it was hard, and it felt like they were lugging their dad's damn casket around every day of it, but they always made it work.

And then Marcus Kane came along.

First, it was him being invited to Christmas. She tried a year of that before she realized it was too much. The next year, he was invited again, so she found an excuse to stay away. The Christmas after that was a mere three weeks after her mother had moved into a new house with him after selling her childhood home, so she found yet another excuse.

Last year, she'd actually meant to give it all another shot, but the hospital had begged her to do an on-call in pediatrics after a third of the doctors on staff in that wing had inexplicably come down with the flu, hence her last minute change of plans.

Can't say she hadn't been a little relieved to have an excuse, though.

However, her mom deserved better than avoidance and excuses during the holidays, and as much as Kane would never be her dad, her mother deserved all the happiness in the world. Given the two of them had gotten married this past summer, it was only right of her to visit for the holidays

Of course, it didn't mean she couldn't halfway dread the whole thing. Marcus wasn't a bad guy, but without her childhood home, without her dad, without any real connection to anything outside of her mother, there was bound to be plenty of awkwardness.

"Like I've said a million times, I'm fine. I'm doing alright. There's not a major outbreak of disease or anything like last year, and the chief practically shoved me out of the building herself, so I'll be home. Stop worrying." Clarke insisted, checking her watch. "I'll be packed and out the door in forty-five to make the drive back up north. I'll get there late tonight."

"Clarke, there's going to be a bad storm rolling through tonight, it'd be safer to drive up tomorrow. I know it doesn't snow down there, so you're still using all season tires." Her mother was a hell of a control freak with top-end worrywart tendencies, which made for an insufferable mixture at times like these.

As if her trusty old Civic would fail her after all these years.

"Come on, mom, a little snow never killed anyone. As much as you used to worry, I did ace my driver's test on my first try, and I've never gotten in an accident. I'll be fine...I'll see you tonight, okay? Love you." Clarke ended the call before her mother could lob a flurry of other ridiculous concerns her way. How the woman could go from assuming she wouldn't make it down for Christmas to wanting her to take her time getting down there, Clarke would never know.

She was just entering her bedroom to do some last minute packing when a new text message rolled in, predictably from her mother.

Mom One last thing, you can always bring that girl you've been seeing, we would love to meet her. Love you, drive safe!

Her heart felt like it was being squeezed by a two-ton gorilla at the reminder of her most recent failed relationship. Luna had been great when they were together, but the woman was in the Navy and constantly out at sea. After nearly six months of long distance, they'd mutually called it quits in early September, but it still stung. Or, well, it was more like a deep, seeping ache that gripped at her heart and lungs, but 'stung' was a less depressing way to describe it, so she went with that.

Besides, it wasn't necessarily Luna in specific. Truth be told, she'd always been a people person in the sense that she really was never at her best without a nice flock of loved ones nearby. Having moved to a new city far from all her old friends, and now reluctantly single on top of that, loneliness was a pretty common antagonist in her life these days. Phone and video calls could help, but they could never replace having her people close by.

Okay, maybe she missed hugs, and maybe that was not an insignificant part of why she was making the trek back home for the holidays. It was normal to want affection, and to miss it when you go a few months without it.

Her mother had been beside herself with worry when she'd been out there in Polis without any friends or loved ones nearby. Luna brought with her a sense of security and hope for her mother that Clarke didn't have the heart to extinguish, not on Christmas. Besides, if her mother had remembered Luna's name, she would have said it, so Clarke at least had the benefit of not having to be specific when she got home.

Clarke decided against grabbing an extra set of cold weather clothes, figuring it'd be a waste when she'd only be outside for the walk between her car and her mom and Kane's home. It was always better to pack efficiently, after all. Besides, she planned on being indoors ninety-nine percent of the time; she really did look forward to seeing her mom, and to seeing whatever friends braved the western New York snow and returned back to Arcadia.

She had a good feeling about her little festive vacation. A really good feeling. Sure, maybe it was because she'd wished upon a star that she'd have a good holiday, it having been the first time she'd seen a shooting star since she was an awkward teenager, but still.

Christmas was going to be great.

Everything was going to be alright.

---

Everything was not alright.

At all.

Clarke knew that much as she came to, groggy and disoriented, but conscious enough to feel the deep, throbbing, full body ache, particularly around her face and neck. She could also feel the frigid sting of snow on her body, and it was impossible not to notice that more was flowing in by the second. Finally, the blood dripping down her face was probably caused at least in part by the sharp things on her face, probably bits of glass.

She took a moment to try and remember how she got here, but it was all too foggy. She remembered hitting the blizzard, the roaring winds sending her poor little Civic all over the road. Maybe a guard rail was involved? She wasn't entirely sure, but there had to be a reason her car was a few meters from the road, potentially having rolled over and over through the snow and ice given all the mess in her vehicle.

Clarke squinted her eyes open and tried to focus on where her car's phone dock was, but it wasn't hard to tell that her phone was gone. Glancing at her right and the large pile of snow and glass in her front passenger seat, Clarke was pretty sure it was down there in that snowy deathtrap.

So much for her shooting star-graced luck.

She wasn't so concussed that she was unaware of the dangers. She was already freezing, and as her vision started to clear a bit, it was obvious she'd been out for a little while given the extra foot and a half of snow. With her door wedged shut from the structural damage, she didn't have many options. She'd never been the most educated about cars, but she knew what winters up here could do to a person if they were careless.

If she stayed out there much longer, she was bound to freeze to death, that much Clarke knew, and maybe that urgency had adrenaline coursing through her body, pushing her past the pain as she angled herself in her seat and struck out at her driver's side window, throwing all her weight into the strikes and breaking the fractured pane for good.

It took some maneuvering, and maybe a torn rotator cuff, but Clarke managed to unbuckle her seatbelt and get her winter coat off, using it to clear the window of glass and snow, giving her something safe to crawl onto as she emerged from the wreckage of her car.

"Fuck..." She let out, the snow and ice pelting her relentlessly, the instinct to cover up bringing her to pull her winter coat free.

The loud tearing noise told her that her luck had only gotten worse. She didn't need to look behind her to realize she'd just gutted the only real shelter she had from the storm. Clarke shook her head; it didn't matter, it'd be better than nothing.

Clarke shambled her way to the roadside, the untouched snow telling her she hadn't had any company out on the road since her crash. She peered down each end, her mostly obscured tracks telling her which direction was which, at least, though with her head so foggy, it was hard to focus on where she was. Nothing ever looked familiar in the snow. At least, not when there was so much of it.

"Come on, think...think..." She urged herself, willing her mind to go through the moments leading up to the crash. Turning off the highway, passing the old rickety farm stand shanty the Jorgensons used in the summertime. Making the left after the propane fill-up station.

A memory of a bridge came to her, startling her with the knowledge of where she was, or at least a general idea. She hadn't passed the dilapidated church yet, so the bridge had to be the one over the old creek where her father used to take her fishing, which meant she was smack dab in the middle of nowhere for a few miles.

Or, well, maybe not nowhere, as another memory surfaced. One of a gangly girl reading a book by the water's edge.

"Anya..."

It was a long shot, to be sure. Hell, the town had given the girl enough grief over her years to run her out of town if Anya was smart, but at a time when she needed hope, Clarke decided to hope, steering herself due northeast, trudging through the snow towards the thicker trees.

Anya's family lived a good dozen miles out of town, off a beaten path in the middle of a thick growth of pines, or at least they had until the divorce. Then it was just Anya and her mother, something Clarke had in common with the girl in a sense, but due to various circumstances, some beyond her control and some not, she never quite got to connect with her back in high school outside of a brief few moments at prom.

It was a little hard to be friends with the school outcast when she was the president of the student association and all of her friends were popular and accomplished and lived in town. It was hard when a lot of them just weren't open minded about Anya no matter how much Clarke tried to push the issue, which she probably could have done a better job on in hindsight.

As awkward as she'd been, Anya had maybe been even more so, but the girl's smile...at least the rare time Clarke was graced with it...could probably light up the night sky. Anya had always been a bit reserved, controlled, but that didn't stop the girl from constantly wearing her heart on her sleeve. Just the thought of that smile, especially the one she'd last been graced with all those years ago under their school's tacky set of mirrorballs, had Clarke feeling a little warmer in her snow-soaked boots as she staggered her way through the thigh-deep snow and through the trees, spotting a narrow road a few meters ahead.

Her breath was rattling out of her lungs by the time she spotted the dark cottage at the end of the road, the barest hint of light flickering in the front window. Her legs were lead-coated icicles, feet stabbing their way roughly through the snow in sharp, harsh steps, nothing but pain in her limbs as she shivered her way towards the possible sanctuary.

It was getting harder to focus and even harder to breathe as she trudged forward, slipping in and out of consciousness with each blink, finding herself ever closer to the door and death, not enough air in her lungs or strength in her tongue to speak, her head colliding against the door before her hands as she stumbled into it, the more sheltered porch offering less resistance for her newly clumsy frame.

"Anya..." She tried to wheeze, but all that escaped her was a harsh grating noise. It took every ounce of energy to raise her hand to hit the door, and with the wind and snow whipped around her ears, with how frigid her body was, she couldn't really expend the focus to hear much of anything, not that she probably could have in better health.

One last knock had her slumping hard against the door, depleted and desperate, knowing she was so close. She just needed a little help. Just a little. She couldn't have her mother lose the rest of the Griffin family. Not in the early hours of Christmas Eve.

Just as she was clinging to the last of her hope, the door swung open, and nothing in the world could stop her descent back down to Earth.

---

It was a weird thing, to wake up shivering uncontrollably for the first time. After apparently not dying of hypothermia, it was hard not to feel a little grateful despite the groggy aching frigid mess of sensations wracking her body, but while she'd been cold before, she'd never felt it so heavily and deeply, as if there were hidden caverns inside her ribs just full to the brim with ice. And then there was the splitting headache. It was all a little terrifying.

It was only when she managed to peek her eyes open and see a large lump laying on her chest that she realized the weight wasn't from the entirely alien chill saturating her body.

She'd only just let out the tiniest of grunts in confusion at the large lump under a larger mound of blankets when Clarke felt a hand gently grasp her chin, pulling her face and focus to her left, and suddenly she had a problem on her hands, wondering if maybe she had died after all.

What other rationale was there for an angel to be kneeling at her side, staring down at her with soft concern, eyes shining with reflections of a lit fireplace behind Clarke?

None, that's what.

Except in a blink, albeit a slow blink, the angel's features twisted in anger. "You idiot." The angel grumbled, a new fire burning in her eyes. "Clarke Griffin, you absolute idiot! What were you thinking?!"

Everything hurt, everything was freezing, her body wouldn't stop shaking, and the angel was yelling at her. "Car crash. Needed help." She managed to get out, trying to be economical with her words given how it felt like each word was using ice-climbing spikes to ascend up her throat and out into the air.

She'd hoped the angel would understand, but she only seemed angrier, the beautiful blonde getting to her feet, one hand knit tightly in her own hair in exasperation. "You were driving?! In the worst blizzard our town's seen in sixty-eight years?!"

Clarke wanted to speak, but just had no gas in her tank. Thankfully, the lump on her chest responded for her, an annoyed huff sounding out from under the blankets.

"Oh, you be quiet, Tris. You don't even know her." The angel grumped, arms folding across her chest.

Her focus was sharp enough now to recognize the strange half-baked vocalizations of a dog in response to the angel, which in hindsight sort of made sense. What with the heavy weight on her chest and all; some dogs would do that to keep people warm in cold weather.

"Unbelievable. Un-friggin'-believable." The angel muttered, pacing by her makeshift bed. As Clarke looked around herself, she noticed she was pretty intensely covered up with blankets, and there was definitely a large heating pad or three underneath her as well as the dog resting on her body.

And maybe as those details sunk in, and she loosely managed to wrap her arms around the pup atop her, her brain finally clicked that she'd made it to Anya's.

Thank heavens she hadn't embarrassed herself by putting to words what she thought Anya was. Even if the woman did look inexplicably angelic. With her eyes more open now, not straining so much to see anymore, it was clear as day that Anya was clearly hitting her stride in her late twenties, and Clarke's heart lunged at her ribcage at the tiniest notion of maybe getting a chance to connect with her in some way this time around.

Heaven help her.

"Sorry. Promised mom I'd be home for Christmas." She let out, a rattling cough bursting out of her after the struggled to get that last word out, hoping she wasn't too debilitated by her trek through the blizzard for there to have been any permanent harm.

Anya deflated at that, all the anger swiftly seeping away as the woman let out a lengthy exhale, slumping back down to her knees at Clarke's side. "Still an idiot."

Clarke tried to shrug, but she was pretty sure she just winced from the pain that moving her body caused. It was when Anya grabbed the nearby first aid kit and started replacing the bandage on her forehead that Clarke stilled in thought.

Her face had been a little cut up from the crash, but she didn't remember a gash across her forehead. "My head?"

Anya's cheeks took on a pink glow as the woman put her intense focus on the duty at hand. "I didn't expect you to fall when I opened the door." Anya spoke quietly, taking a moment to gnaw at her lower lip a bit. "You might have hit your head on my side-table on your way down after bouncing off me."

"I whaaaat?" It didn't seem realistic. Anya had been their high school softball team's catcher. She was literally tasked with catching blazingly fast balls. A sluggish human popsicle should have been nothing. "You didn't catch me?"

"That's....that's not the point! The point is, you're recovering. You're alive, and you're an idiot." Anya insisted, stumbling over her words a little as the blush on her cheeks deepened. "You still should have waited until tomorrow. Your mother didn't need you arriving at two in the morning on Christmas Eve. You could have waited the six or so hours for the storm to blow through and taper off."

Maybe Anya had a point, but Clarke was the wounded party, it was her right to complain. "I can't believe you let me fall. Always thought you had magic hands." She mumbled, only realizing what she'd said a second or two after she'd aired that thought out. In true Clarke Griffin fashion, a diversion was due. "You know, I'm a doctor now."

"I heard. Maybe you're the one with magic hands now." Anya noted all low and teasing before taking in a sharp gasp. "Oh my god, why am I like this?"

Anya's follow-up was barely audible and quickly spoken as the woman walked off towards the kitchen. However, the words were more than understandable to a doctor with a history of many patients who liked mumbling and speaking softly.

Truth be told, she'd gone to Anya for aid, but the girl had always been compelling. She'd always been beautiful. Lying there on the floor, wrapped up in evidence of Anya's efforts to protect her and heal her despite the woman thinking she was an 'idiot', it wasn't too difficult to let herself be a bit flattered.

Hell, maybe more than that. She'd always been a bit of a risk taker.

"Mmmn, nope, I think I want to give those hands another shot." Anya just scoffed at her remark, a scoff that fell away to a hard laugh, but Clarke fought like hell to hold her sharp focus on Anya as long as she could despite the quickly encroaching exhaustion taking over her. And as soon as Anya met her gaze, and held it second by second, Clarke watched that stark befuddled denial transform to something else, something approaching astonishment. "Always did like your sculptures in art class."

"That was ages ago, Clarke." Still, Anya's voice was softer now, taking small slow steps as she ambled her way back over. "Don't pretend you noticed me back then. You're hurt, and I helped you, but that doesn't mean you're obliged to sweet talk me."

Of course Anya would see a conspiracy. Honestly, after all the bullshit the woman put up with in high school, Clarke didn't blame her. "Hindsight may be twenty-twenty, but I saw you back then. You were always so distant, though...even the times I tried to reach out and see about you, you always managed to keep away. Every time but at prom, at least."

"Well, being the lone trans girl in a school seemingly full of cis straight people can do that. I had to be careful. Being seen around you would mean having a lot more eyes on me, more scrutiny. Wasn't worth the risk. Not...not until that night, at least." Anya explained, making perfect sense given their former context, the woman stopping a foot and a half away. "And now, you're half delusional from the cold, and you don't know what you're saying."

Given the way the haze of exhaustion was sweeping over her, she wasn't entirely sure Anya didn't have a point. "I know I'm cold...and I know I hallucinated that you were an angel..." Clarke mumbled, too far gone towards the edge to really care what was slipping out of her mouth.

Anya was kneeling by her again in what seemed like a second, face all fuzzy around the edges and unfocused, but she could see her smile. God damn could she see that smile from anywhere.

"I'm not that easy, Clarke." She heard the woman turn up the heating blankets a few clicks, and then there were soft lips pressed at her forehead, extinguishing the last shred of effort to stay conscious, confident Anya would keep watching over her.

Maybe she hadn't hallucinated after all.

---

Anya watched Clarke fade away again, the fresh sting of the woman's words bringing tears to her eyes, feeling them as if they were branded across her body. Here Clarke was, wounded and freezing, and it was her fault. It was all her fault.

"If I hadn't wished on that stupid star..." Anya muttered, fingernails digging into her palms as she stared down at her guest for the night.

Her mother was wiser than Anya had ever known; she'd spent her whole life routinely surrounded by superstitions she'd written off as nonsense, but her mother's words rang clear in her head now. That she should have been careful what she wished for, ones granted never came without a counterbalance.

Of course, she understood Newton's third law: for every action there must be an equal and opposite reaction. She'd just never processed silly superstition through that lens, and now Clarke was paying the price of her naiveté and desperation.

"All I wanted was for the woman I loved to come back to me." Anya sighed, slumping down at Clarke's side, brushing the hair out of the doctor's face. "I never expected you. Not now."

In truth, she'd succumbed to a moment of selfishness, wanting her most recent girlfriend back, who had left her before moving halfway across the world to take care of her father. It'd been four months, and the holiday season has always been particularly lonely ever since her mother passed, so maybe she'd had a moment of weakness.

Clarke Griffin was a surprise, though. Hindsight allowed her the clarity to know she'd felt more than just some infatuation for the student association president back in high school; that much was pretty firmly established at their senior prom when Clarke swooped in to her rescue and salvaged her night with a single dance.

It was nothing she'd ever forget, but that love had always firmly been rooted in the past. Ever since then, she'd never been able to think of Clarke and not see her as her beautiful eighteen year old self, in that midnight blue dress, spinning her across the floor and dancing away with her heart.

And sure, sometimes she'd idly wondered where Clarke was over the years, how she was doing, if Clarke ever thought of her. Usually, she chastised herself for it, knowing they'd only shared a single dance at the end of prom; the last dance, certainly, but still just one before they all went their separate ways.

Now, here Clarke was, all grown up and a doctor, challenging that perfect memory, that untainted love she'd felt for her. All the other women she'd been with across the years had ended differently, often in tears or pain or disillusionment, but the image in her mind of Clarke had been the one pure bit of love she had left, and now fate saw it fit to take that from her as well.

Her mother had been right to be superstitious. Wishing for a woman she loved to come back to her, only for circumstance to ruin that love through the lens of reality, was quite a fitting bit of karma for her, apparently.

Still, she wasn't just about to resign herself to fate.

Anya didn't have much, but she did have a cozy fireplace, some good comfort food, and some music. There were worse ways to cast herself in a nicer light, like rambling at length about the endless hijinks her students got up to in her classes. A dozen kids competitively eating spaghetti-o's and vomiting in near unison afterward wasn't exactly the sort of story to endear Clarke to the idea of reconnecting with her.

Of course, she didn't expect they'd spend Christmas Eve slow dancing to 'You're The Inspiration' like they had back at prom, that brilliant three minutes and forty-seven seconds being a bit difficult to match all these years later, but she'd settle for Clarke promising to keep in touch after she got the wounded woman home for Christmas.

"What do you think, Tris? I already wished on a star...do you think I have a Christmas miracle in store?" She asked softly, earning a huff from her pupper who was clearly not optimistic about her odds. "Yeah, figured as much. I have to try, though."

She watched her dog's tail wag under the thick covers, something Tris wouldn't do if she wasn't sure Clarke was out of the woods, something that gave Anya all the relief in the world.

"I probably have time to get in a bit more holiday baking before I need to hit the hay. Maybe that could help soften the blow of losing her car and me not catching her at the door...even if just a little..." She mused openly, rolling her eyes at her dog's warbled half-barks of disapproval. Tris always did hate when she stayed up long past her bedtime.

Still, cherry cordials and peppermint Oreo truffles, to add onto what she'd already made, might be worth her pup's frustration.

"I promise I won't take long, Tris. You just keep her warm for me until I'm done in the kitchen, okay?"

She allowed herself a laugh at her pup's disgruntled huff before making her way into the kitchen, knowing she needed to be quick, but that come the morning, they'd have something sweet to take away some of the sting.

She just hoped her measures to get Clarke warmed up kept working their magic. Hard as it was to let Clarke out of her sight, she trusted Tris felt the woman was well enough to only have one of them watching over her.

At least until she returned to keep her company for the rest of the night and re-up her bandages.

---

The light against her eyelids was what welcomed her back to consciousness; well, that and a full-body ache. Better than she expected it to be, after the crash and all, but as thankful as she was for the lack of major injury, it all still hurt.

Still, the sun's warm rays against her face after yesterday's blizzard had something more resembling a smile forming on her face than a grimace as she opened her eyes.

Pain in her neck flared up a little as she recoiled, Anya's face much closer than she expected. Hell, she thought Anya was asleep in the bedroom somewhere else in the house, but the woman was curled up just outside her mound of blankets, laid out across the rug, head resting on an insultingly tiny throw pillow.

Preposterous wasn't a strong enough word for how ridiculous it all was, but it was kind of really sweet that Anya was watching over her so closely.

It took a few seconds of sober thought to recognize that she wasn't shivering anymore. That, hell, she wasn't even cold anymore.

It was the second time in her life that Anya had managed to light a fire in her heart. All those years ago, it'd been a shy smile and Anya resting her forehead against hers on the dance floor; it had been the closest she'd ever been to Anya until then, the closest to kissing her, and she'd been able to feel the girls heartbeat as clear as day.

Now, though, there were a few extra inches between them, but Clarke couldn't help but hope that maybe it was a sign that they'd be closer from now on out. That maybe Anya could be open to that.

As strong as her urge was to kiss Anya, even if just on the forehead, she knew she'd need consent for that, so Clarke slowly slipped out from under the covers and got to her feet, deciding that maybe avoiding temptation would be best.

On instinct, her hand lifted to her head to check her bandages, a frown pulling at her mouth as she realized her bandages were fresh. Meaning, Anya had stayed up all night re-dressing them and watching over her. As in, hours and hours of first-rate care when leaving her bandages for a while and letting her warm up over time would have done the trick, more or less.

If she hadn’t made the effort to stand up already, she would have crossed that distance to at least nuzzle her nose against Anya’s in appreciation for what the woman did for her. In all reality, Anya hardly knew her anymore, and yet she’d treated her with the greatest hospitality she could have ever wished for.

Any doubt of Anya being a total sweetheart was entirely obliterated. Maybe she needed a bit of air.

The cottage was chillier than the veritable furnace of blankets, but not so much that it had Clarke shivering as she took step after deliberate step into the kitchen, Tris following her in with hardly concealed excitement.

“Easy, girl. I’m just getting some distance so I can think about something other than your mama’s lips.” Clarke noted to the happy Samoyed pup. “Still, it is officially morning. I bet you haven’t been fed yet.”

Clarke looked around the room, taking her time to scour the kitchen for the dog food, having noticed the bowl off by the small dining table. Eventually she found a large bag hidden in a pantry cabinet and poured out a cup of it for the eager, cute little goober.

Besides, she owed Tris a bit for warming her up. Feeding her was the least she could do after Anya had a long night.

“Okay, cutie, eat up.” She petted the hungry pupper, taking a moment to consider her own rumbling tummy and what options she had to sate her hunger. Not that she was literally starving, but it’d been a long while since she’d eaten, and the crash had taken a lot out of her. Some food would do her good.

“I’ll pay her back for whatever I eat...” She mumbled to herself as she wandered over to the fridge, pulling it open to peer inside, immediately spotting a tray of candy cane crusted truffles. “Oh my god.”

Clarke picked one up, admiring the craftsmanship for a moment before taking a bite, knees feeling like jelly briefly as she let out a loud moan. “Oh my god!” It’d been a long time since she’d had a treat that tasty. Sure, it wasn’t super fancy, being peppermint chocolate with Oreo inside, but still, very tasty. Enough for her to take a second without much thought.

And maybe a third after a half second of guilt.

She wasn’t about to mow down on all of Anya’s baked goods, at least not one specific bunch. Luckily, Anya had some eggs, bread, jam, and a Tupperware full of sugar cookies. While her body ached like never before, Clarke knew she was capable of making a simple breakfast so long as she took her time and went about half the speed she usually did.

Tris was finished her meal by the time Clarke started up, the pup standing by her side while she worked away, tail wagging happily against her leg. While waiting for the bread to toast, she spotted a portable sound system not dissimilar to the one Anya used to set up in the art room back in high school after classes.

The girl had always seemed a bit thorny and ran with a gothy-emo vibe way back when, so when she’d discovered the music Anya rocked out to, she’d been surprised to say the very least. All these years later, she wasn’t surprised when she powered it up and found a familiar song waiting for her.

“Nice to see some things haven’t changed.” She mused aloud as the chorus hit, smiling at the memory of Anya singing and dancing to the song while working on one of her sculptures. She hadn’t intruded on the moment, she’d barely allowed herself to enjoy it back then before sneaking off down the hall back to her locker, abandoning her impromptu plans to work on one of her paintings in the art room instead of heading to the usual Friday after-school dinner at Grounders that the student association’s council members.

She’d learned that Anya spent Friday evenings in the art room, and that she was a closet cheeseball.

“Fair warning that there’s no mockery of Roch Voisine or Richard Marx under this roof.”

Clarke turned around to see Anya in the doorway, wiping the sleep from her eyes and looking exceedingly cute.

“Never, babe.” She smiled, taking the eggs off the frying pan and plating them. “I’d say there’s a breeze on the water blowing time back to me, given the last time we saw each other, but...”

Anya just blinked owlishly at her, so maybe she’d stepped a bit too far there. While it was absolutely the song she’d heard Anya singing and dancing to in the old art room, it also reminded her of prom night, of finding Anya outside in the rain, face angled up to the sky, rain washing away her tears.

Kissing Rain, so to speak. Not that she’d make that pun and potentially ruin the song for Anya.

“Babe?”

Oh.

Her cheeks burned at the casual slip, but it didn’t escape her attention that Anya didn’t seem upset. If anything, there might have been the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth, which was what had Clarke stepping closer. “Can’t help it after everything. Are you hungry? I’m sorry for poaching your food, I’ll pay you ba...”

Anya waved her off, blinking heavily at her. “I’m fine. Ate breakfast two hours ago with Tris.” Clarke shot the Samoyed a disbelieving glance, realizing the pup had tricked her. It was a rookie mistake, and maybe one she deserved given how Tris had helped her, but still. "But don't worry about the food. Take what you like, and then get back to where I left you...you need to rest and stay warm, Clarke."

"Worrywart." Anya cocked an eyebrow at her remark, even if it was entirely on point. "Okay, I'll come back if we set up somewhere more comfortable together. You need the sleep, and I need the warmth, and we both could use a softer surface."

Anya's eyes grew wide, jaw dropping ever so slightly. "Was your section not padded enough? I just wanted to have you as close to the fireplace, and I don't have one in my room, so..."

She waved Anya off, though Anya didn't seem the least bit reassured by her gesture. "It was perfectly fine, it's just that I don't think I need to be close to that much heat anymore, and I think you could use a better sleeping surface than your floor. But if you're not comfortable with using your bed, I'm sure the couch would be good enough."

The laughter that escaped Anya was weak, and a little stilted. "I'm sorry, that sounds like you were....that you want me to share a bed with you." Anya let out, turning her head away, focus shifting across the kitchen, clearly trying to look at anything that wasn't her. "I told you I'm not that easy."

"I never said you were. Like I told you way back when, you can trust me to keep things above board with consent. It's just you've been taking care of me all night like a total sweetheart, and you deserve a good rest, and at this point, I'm pretty sure a nice duvet and your body heat would be enough to keep me nice and toasty. It's a win-win." She watched Anya's teeth descend into her lip, the woman's hand lifting to scratch at the back of her neck a bit, weight shifting from one foot to the next.

"Eat up, and then head down the hallway and to the room on the left. I'll get the bed set up."

Anya wandered off at a brisk pace and left Clarke to her breakfast, Tris happily following her mama through the home. As flustered as Anya seemed, she hadn't rejected Clarke's proposal, meaning she had a nice, warm bed waiting for her after this.

Which, despite the minor effort involved in making breakfast, really did seem like a damn good idea with how her body was aching and energy flagging. Maybe one more bit of resting could help her get to where she could head home for the holidays. Getting to snuggle with Anya would just be a very nice bonus.

Well, I hope you enjoyed this glimpse! Happy holidays!

#clanya #clanya fanfiction #thedeadflag #i'll be home for christmas #long post #writewritewrite

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fountainpenguin · 7 years ago

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I have a question about gynes. Why did Ambrosine want HP to get married so young in the Love Struck Out chapter? Aren't dominant gynes the ones with the instinct to fight? Wouldn't that put his life at risk?

There were lots of reasons Ambrosine wanted H.P. to marry as soon as possible. I think one of them was just, young H.P. was kind of a free spirit. He’s headstrong and stubborn and likes to do his own thing. If Ambrosine could get him to commit to someone and raise a family, there was hope that his son would step up to the plate and take responsibility.

That’s kind of H.P.’s main driving force: Before Sanderson was born, H.P. was a huge flake. He’s an extrovert. He loves hanging with friends, he loves raves, he loves drinking soda, he loves sugar. That’s one of the things that’s so funny to me- He’s not your typical pixie stereotype. “The Wanderings of the First and Alone” was mostly a timeskip chapter of H.P. skipping from town to town because his sassy butt couldn’t hold down a job for long. I guess I didn’t go into details, but his attitude was kind of, “I can do better and I don’t need you.”

Because here’s the thing. When it comes to his individual needs, H.P. is super low-maintenance. He’s a sarcastic party boy from a privileged background who’s never really known hard work or serious life struggles. Until he dropped out of the Academy, he never held a job beyond organizing files at Wish Fixers, (aka, working for dad). I mean, that scene from “Cutting Gingerties” when he tried to have a heart-to-heart with Anti-Sanderson about struggles with their respective dads really emphasizes how much H.P. has had everything handed to him on a silver platter. For crying out loud, his dad built him an entire village!

H.P. is the kind of guy who will skip meals to save himself money, who will warm himself up by sleeping in his coat instead of buying a blanket, who will let his roof leak and insist it doesn’t bother him, but he would never treat his dependents the way he treats himself. That’s why he risked the blizzard to go back for Sanderson. That’s why he married China despite how awfully their personalities clashed. That’s why he searched frantically for Hawkins when he feared the will o’ the wisps had captured him. That’s why he took in Wilcox instead of dumping him on Ambrosine for good. That’s why he let Longwood live instead of killing the young rival gyne. That’s why he does a lot of things.

I think Ambrosine figured this out while H.P. was still young. He recognized that an H.P. without a clear goal in mind is a wandering ball of sass who will fight everyone over everything. H.P. doesn’t have low self esteem, per se. He just… isn’t good with the concept of self-care. He sees himself as invincible, able to tough out any challenge. Why waste money on clothes when he can splurge on parties? But, he views his pixies as fragile things. An H.P. raising young pixies would never quit a job he would’ve turned up his nose at back when he lived alone and insisted that he could find something better. An H.P. with dependents counting on him is an H.P. who gets his butt in gear and works.

He is, against all odds, a family man.

So if H.P. had been married young, you can bet your crown he wouldn’t have gone to that party, gotten into that fight, and fled for Earth. He’d have had a very different life. But when people are depending on him, all of a sudden he starts thinking long-term. Being needed keeps him grounded. That’s why his biggest fear is athazagoraphobia- the fear of being forgotten or ignored. He needs to be making an obvious difference in someone’s life to feel like he’s worth something, or else his careless partying and drinking habits flare up.

I have a comic somewhere in my sketchpile that was basically me asking H.P. and Anti-Cosmo to say the first thing that came to mind when I said certain words. For “commitment”, H.P.’s answer was, “My one true purpose in life” with passion and sparkles in his eyes. Anti-Cosmo answered at the same time with one word: “Knives.” This would have been funnier if I had gotten it up before I revealed the whole kiff-tie thing. I seriously have around fifty comic ideas involving H.P. and Anti-Cosmo bouncing off each other…

From a parenting standpoint, that’s the overarching reason behind Ambrosine pushing H.P. into marriage- To give him that sense of stability, because if H.P. had a family to look after, then he’d care about going to school and securing a stable job so he could be a good provider to his wife and kids. H.P. needs to feel needed. And I mean, before H.P. proved himself a total flop at flirting, Ambrosine also wanted him to marry a rich lady. Good social status and all that. The Whimsifinado family were always of the higher class.

But to answer the gyne part of your question, dominant and subordinate gynes can get along decently. It’s when two dominant gynes clash that problems arise. Back when H.P. was going to school, there was a strict one gyne per school class policy that was intended to keep all gynes separate, because you never knew what might set them off. In Poof’s day and age, the population is higher, and gynes are forced to mingle more frequently. It’s the, “Let’s try to accept everyone and stop discriminating” time period, which also tends to be the, “Let’s pretend we’ve evolved to the point where those old biological instincts are considered nonsense / Just try harder!” time period.

There weren’t any established gynes in the small town of Novakiin where H.P. grew up, which is how a hotheaded fellow like him survived as long as he did. But again, Ambrosine is clever, and probably figured his smart-aleck son would end up challenging a dominant gyne someday… unless H.P. had secured a high enough rank that he didn’t consider fellow “dominant” gynes a threat.

By definition, “gyne” means “virgin female insect who is intended to become a breeder instead of a worker”. They’re basically the princesses raised to take over from the colony’s queen, or set out to start their own colonies. Once these gynes mate and are no longer virgins, they produce more dominant pheromones. Yes, I do research the mating habits of insects in detail a lot.

So for male Fairies, losing your virginity literally does up your social status, even if it’s on an unconscious level. Ambrosine’s goal in marrying off H.P., then, would be that once H.P. was paired off, he would hold a social advantage over other gynes. Kind of like leveling up to Level 10 over all the Level 5 subordinate guys. So there was also a biological reason behind wanting H.P. to start a family. Ambrosine loves his son and wants him to be strong and safe, and stop killing people he doesn’t like. We know how well that turned out.

#asks #Anon #We're Pixies!#FAIRIES!#ridwriting #Origin of the Pixies #Dragonfly grandpa #I'm wasp dad trash #H.P.: *Literally dying* I'm sure it's fine #Sanderson: *Coughs once*#H.P.: I have called the police and also the morgue just in case

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ruleandruinrpg · 7 years ago

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SVETLANA GAVRIKOVA

TWENTY-SIX ❈ HUMAN OPRICHNIK

She was ordinary once, a girl tinged by that soft shade of contentedness that lulls nearly everyone it touches into mediocrity like sirens call sailors to their deaths. She dreamed as all children did, of castles and princes and horses black as night, and like all children, she eventually outgrew her wilder fantasies in favor of tamer, more attainable ones��of stability, of a full stomach, of a life not spent in anticipation of the next loss. Svetlana Gavrikova was the sort of daughter mothers and fathers prayed for—as intelligent as she was beautiful, as strong as she was gentle, and though she was never soft in the way of petals and other things that wilt at the slightest touch, she might’ve been. Given the chance, she might have gone on to live some semblance of the life she’d always dreamed of, one step behind bliss and one step ahead of misery, but something within her wouldn’t rest; her heart beat far too strongly and erratically to ever be satisfied with normalcy, and the reality of it struck her between the eyes one fateful day and knocked something loose within the Gavrikova girl—something cold. Later, they’d say the war had gotten to her, as it tended to do—that it had rendered her as jaded as it had its veterans and its widows, as broken as its grieving and orphaned, and perhaps the world would have been better off if it had. But the war brought out something in Svetlana long-buried, disguised in lace and chiffon and masked as pretty, petty desires: a hunger—for greatness, for power, for infamy, and most of all, for the blood that inevitably preceded it.

She became a soldier at sixteen, torn from her already mourning parents’ grasp with all the carelessness of men who wept not for the deaths of their soldiers, but the wounding of their pride, and her family grieved for her, believing they would never see their beloved daughter again. They were right, as she’d recall some years later, but not in the way they’d imagined; the child they’d raised would be forever lost to them, stolen away not by the cold clutches of death, but the tantalizing embrace of the dark, of the fatal kiss of ambition. She was a walking contradiction even before her comrades took notice, a daydream of a girl with startling blue eyes and fiery red hair who fought like every man’s worst nightmare. They’d seen her as a liability, a lamb of a girl to throw to the wolves and forget, but she wasn’t the soft, weak thing they’d imagined at all. She was ruthless, antagonistic, a sword in her enemy’s side; she was brutal, perhaps the most brutal of them all, and she wouldn’t rest until they knew her, feared her, heard death’s call in the sound of her name—and, some thought, not even then. She shocked her fellow soldiers nearly into a frenzy when she became one of the chosen few, hand-picked by one of the Darkling’s best men to join their ranks, but those who knew her best had the foresight to recognize that she more than belonged among the most dangerous soldiers the First Army had ever seen—that one day, she might best them all, too.

Thus, she traded her ragged First Army garb for oprichnik charcoal and her place in the barracks for quarters in a secluded wing of the Little Palace, where she fought a new fight, one entirely different from the war her family had lost her to, but one worth fighting just the same, and just like the last, it too changed her—led her to become the sort of soldier both otkazat’sya and Grisha feared. She evolved in the worst of ways—learned to draw blood as thoughtlessly as she breathed and came to see the abilities of those she was surrounded by as weakness, rather than strength; she left what was left of her fickle, empty heart at the gates and brought with her only what she couldn’t live without—her blades, her gun, her terrible and reckless savagery. There was no place at the Darkling’s side for the weak, for those more inclined to have mercy than to take action; a man like that left no room for anything short of the cruelty that both builds empires and crumbles them, that renders those who serve it immortal long after their horrible deeds have been done and their ashes scattered on the wind. She wanted more than infamy, more than the satisfaction of entering a room and watching the meeker sort scatter before her eyes; she wanted more than the pride that came with knowing she’d served her country well. There was a war brewing in her sovereign’s eyes and within the walls of the Little Palace, and she wanted nothing more than to go down in history as one of its heroes, or if it so fancied it, its villains—the world could have its pick.

She’s dangerous, this girl of blood and savagery, this red bird in a blizzard—begging to be noticed, demanding to be remembered. She’s dangerous, and it’s taken entirely too long for those around her to see it, but now that they have, it’s a spectacle of sorts, watching a woman that might’ve been an angel descend deeper into hell than even the devil himself would dare. She has evolved into a young woman unrecognizable even to those who raised her, a dreamer turned survivor turned killer. Ravka should rue the day she was plucked from its ranks and given some semblance of power, for ambition never tires, and she’ll see to it that it increases tenfold. She is a rose with thorns abound, a knife between your shoulder blades, the nightmare that wakes you up screaming in your bed. She is chaos incarnate, a beautiful thing with sharp teeth, fearsome and longing, and when darkness reigns at last, she’ll be sitting at its right hand, ready to eat the world raw.

CONNECTIONS

THE DARKLING: A foolish girl though she might’ve once been, she’s under no illusions now where her sovereign is concerned, not convinced—as so many seem to be—that making a show of one’s power or, for the braver sorts, trying to find one’s way into his bed, will earn a hopeful follower any sort of praise or favor with the second-most powerful man in Ravka. The Darkling notices whoever he pleases and disregards the futile efforts of those he doesn’t, and she’s learned, after several months of serving him, that he’s utterly unimpressed with ordinary acts of savagery, of brutality any mere man is fully capable of. Thus, she’s decided to aim higher—to become, blow by furious blow, a soldier he can neither ignore nor deny. If that makes her a fanatic, so be it.

GEMMA PAVLOVA: She’d dragged the younger woman back to the Little Palace with every intention of presenting her to her sovereign as a prize of sorts, a trophy to be admired and discarded; though she succeeded in doing so, the interest he’s taken in the girl is utterly wasted on her, and the energy the oprichnik exerted to deliver her to his hand, it seems, was wasted as well, for she’s yet to see an inkling of recognition or praise from him in response. Svetlana is a good soldier, well-capable of following orders and working in the shadows, but she’s loath to let anyone—least of all a newcomer—come between her and the one thing she wants most: power. The sun still rose and set before her, and it’ll do so after her; she’s dispensable, and the guard won’t let her forget it.

FYODOR DRUGOV & ADRIK VAHKROV: They are the children of the dark—chosen by it, not born of it, and it’s made all the difference. They’re every bit as brutal as she, and together, the three of them make a fearsome trio in the eyes of mere mortals and godlings alike. But for all her loyalty, for all her pride in who they are—in what they make up, her ambition is and always will be greater. She would protect them with her life—would fight with them to the death, but she would sacrifice even them for a taste of divinity, a share of the immortality that comes with heralding a new age. Perhaps it will come easily, as infamy never does; perhaps they can all call themselves the kings and queens of the new world order, the empire built on shadows. But she’s never been keen on sharing, and that, she knows, will never change.

SVETLANA IS PORTRAYED BY LAURA BERLIN & IS TAKEN BY GLORIA.

#lsrpg #literate rp #grisha rp #bio rp #new rp #closed #closedf #f #a #military #svetlana #svetlanabio

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mydumpster · 5 years ago

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By Rubidium

A Woolly Encounter

Oh gods. He was lost.

‘Must. Keep. Moving.’ One step. Another. Then another. Each step took every inch of willpower in him, every ounce of strength.

Why couldn’t he?

And he would see Wooly again one day, he promised himself. He would.

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mousedetective · 7 years ago

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Never Will I Forget The Deep Shadows, Never Will I Waste The Moon’s Light (16/16 + Epilogue)

And here it is, the final chapter from Sherlock’s POV (the epilogue is from Molly’s). It’s mostly a magical fight and a sacrifice, but I hope you all enjoy it. Stay tuned for a post tomorrow with all of @redrackham87‘s artwork with the epilogue (I just got the third piece and it is soooo pretty guys; it’ll be added to the AO3 posted story when it’s not super duper early in the AM).

Never Will I Forget The Deep Shadows, Never Will I Waste The Moon’s Light - The Holmes brothers come from a long line of powerful magic practitioners, but they are forced to keep their skills a secret. When Molly accidentally finds out about Sherlock’s powers and doesn’t turn away from him he slowly realizes that this pleases him, but soon enough he gets careless and is put in a position he would rather not be in, especially when others find out that she knows and attempt to use her as a pawn in their own games and machinations.

Read Chapter 1 | Read Chapter 16 | Buy Me A Coffee? | Send Me A Prompt

Sherlock knew that there was some magic that was virtually imperceptible to most other magic users, at least for his kind and those who were similar to him, and he held out hope that it would be true to Moriarty’s types of magic too. At the very least, he hoped the removal of some of the wards would go unnoticed at least long enough for him to regain a portion of his strength. The very first thing he did was to create a rose to keep Molly safe. He poured as much of his energy as he could spare into the peach rose, the colour he knew was her favourite, but all he could manage was a simple rosebud. It would work but it would have been more powerful if it had bloomed.

He would have to make sure Moriarty did not view Molly as bait or a prize or anything at all, even if it cost him his own life. At this point, it was a waiting game to see who could last the longest and whether Mycroft could mount a rescue attempt in time.

He practiced his magic while Molly dozed against him, and he let himself borrow some of her strength. It wouldn’t hurt her in any way or steal any of the warmth Toby had given her, but it would bolster him a bit more if Moriarty made his move sooner than anticipated. The residue from the spell-work done on her as a child and the work Anthea had done and the gift from Toby could be siphoned off and would help him without doing anything to hurt her in any way. It would not undo any of the corrections done to the mess done to her so long ago, and while he knew he should ask, there simply wasn’t time. He knew the work of the birds would be found out, and soon, if it wasn’t known already. Moriarty was a man who changed plans on a whim; for all he knew, now Moriarty could want him to regain a portion of his strength so he could claim a “fair” fight, though it would be a complete and utter lie.

Nothing Moriarty ever did was fair.

But he could prepare in all the ways given to him.

He’d expected a visit from Moriarty at daybreak but there was nothing, and he felt himself on edge. Another gift from the ravens appeared, and he took the bag of crisps for himself and left the protein bar and the packets of juice for Molly. Few more hours ticked by and there was another gift, and then he began to realize something was wrong. Molly was still asleep.

He went to check on her with as much of his other sense as he could as realized there was more to her sleep than was normal. Bastard, he thought to himself. He could hear Moriarty’s gloating chuckle ring around the cell but he ignored it as best he could, beginning the spell-work to reverse the spell. Whatever his plan was, Sherlock was going to make sure he failed.

When he was done, Molly awoke with a start. He hadn’t had time to bring her out of it gently, much as he would have liked to, and he cursed himself for not making the rose bloom. It would have protected her better. But he could do it now. Moriarty’s laugh was still echoing against the walls, so he gathered the food for her and helped her into the corner farthest from the one where Moriarty had Shadow-walked the first time. “I’ll shield you,” he said. “Eat, drink, get your strength. Whatever you see, whatever happens, don’t move. Don’t get involved. When Mycroft comes, he’ll be able to see you. You’ll be safe.”

“If you think I’m going to let you sacrifice yourself...” Molly said, giving him a hard stare.

“The world needs you, Molly. The world can do without Moriarty or I.” He paused and then leaned over and embraced her tightly before kissing her cheek. “You are the one that matters, Molly. You’ve always counted, and you always will.” Then he pulled away and cast the spell as the walls of the cell began to shake.

He braced the defensive spells he had cast earlier with a bit more power. He was adept enough to balance multiple spells at once, a skill that most wizards only were able to do with much practice but was something that had come easily. He had the feeling it would be something that came easily to Moriarty as well, so he couldn’t let his guard down. His primary concern was to keep the spell on Molly up at all times, keep himself as safe as possible and bring the bastard down while buying enough time as he could for reinforcements. He had hope that the spell keeping Molly shielded would hold; he’d tied them into the remaining wards on the ceiling so he needed to do little to power it, but he still needed to keep an eye on it to make sure Moriarty didn’t sever the connection.

The wall where the shadows were deepest blew in, the rubble hitting his shields and deflecting without giving away where Molly was. Moriarty strolled in with that damned smirk on his face, looking as though he already knew who the victor would be and that it would be him. “Really, Sherlock? That was all you could manage to do? I’m rather disappointed. You’re supposed to be the brightest heir of Merlin in an age.” He raised a hand and snapped his fingers, and the roof of the cell exploded, sending stone shooting outward and sunlight streaming in.

“You didn’t leave me many resources,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “Making do with what I have is the mark of a good wizard.”

“It’s cheating,” Moriarty said.

“Like you don’t cheat,” Sherlock said, giving him a look of contempt. “You sacrifice others to get your powers. You boasted your father was your first sacrifice. That makes you one of the worst type of Undesirables out there. Your powers are only bartered for, not earned.”

The smirk dropped off Moriarty’s face in an instant and Sherlock could tell he had hit a nerve. Perhaps this could be exploited. “I did earn those powers,” Moriarty said.

“Through dedication and study? Or through murder and mayhem?” Sherlock said, moving closer. “I think it was the latter. I think you bartered with things belonging to other people. You lied. You stole. You cheated. All of the power you have...you don’t deserve it. It’s all empty and meaningless. It’s not true power.”

“IT IS!” Moriarty shouted, but Sherlock had gotten close enough not to throw magic at him, but to punch him in the face with his fist. Sometimes the unexpected was enough to stun an opponent into doing something foolish, and Moriarty obliged by stumbling backward and casting out magic blasts wildly. While Sherlock had used the glyphs in the ceiling to help protect Molly that wasn’t all he had used, and he increased the strength of the spell as he sent a direct blast to Moriarty’s chest to try and incapacitate him.

But by then Moriarty had recovered some of his composure and began to pull weather magic upon them, bringing clouds over the previously sunny sky. Sherlock could feel the oncoming electricity of lightning in the air at the back of his neck and knew that was something his magic could not protect against unless he was in contact with Molly. When they first lightning bolt hit near his feet he dove to where she was, covering her with his body and enveloping them both with the shield while lightning danced around them.

“He’s absolutely bonkers!” Molly said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, calculating in his head how to fix the mess Moriarty was making by fooling with the weather while turning it to his advantage. Weather magic was dangerous to dabble in and had never been his forte, but there were a few things he knew. Slowly he worked on turning the clouds into the type that would snow, making the snow into a heavy blizzard that would blanket them all with at least a foot of snow. He hoped Toby’s magic was still working in Molly but that at least he could spring some surprises on Moriarty. Once he was sure the lightning strike had stopped he let her go and moved out from under the shield.

And waiting right outside was Moriarty, who met him with a left hook to the face. Sherlock fell back against the shield as Moriarty took some of the heavily falling snow and formed it into the shape of a blade before changing it into ice and went to stab Sherlock in the heart, but Sherlock pushed him away at the last moment and was nicked by the blade in the arm. This had been a good idea but it backfired, he realized as Moriarty recovered and began to make projectiles out of snow.

There was only one thing left to do. He had to take the fight elsewhere. If he died...if he died, Moriarty would go after Molly. After Mycroft. After John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and anyone else he cared for.

So he needed to make Moriarty disappear for good, at least as well as he could.

Unfortunately, that meant he would disappear as well.

But a sacrifice like that would do more good than anyone could imagine. There was no guarantee they would stay gone, that they wouldn’t slip back into this world at times, but Moriarty was too much of a danger. He had been for a long time. He had known that and had ignored it and now was the time to correct his oversight.

And there was only one spell that would work.

He began the spell, the one spell few dared to try, a spell he knew his brother had never wanted him to know but had left for him to see in his tomes because even Mycroft knew it might come down to this. For a spell of such importance, it was so very simple. So short, and it required only two things. He picked up the discarded ice dagger just as he heard a commotion from the blown out wall.

Just as he saw Mycroft and John and armed wizards come into view.

The spell required his blood and Moriarty’s blood and a few simple words. And as he broke the one keeping Molly safe and cut his palm, saying the words to the spell he needed to say to take himself and Moriarty far far away, as he felt ice projectiles hit him in various parts of his skin, as he saw himself stab the ice dagger into Moriarty’s hand and then yank it out, slamming their bleeding palms together, his last thought as a golden yellow light enveloped them was this:

They were all safe, and this was worth it.

#Sherlock #sherlock holmes #Molly Hooper #fanfiction #fanfic #my stuff #Multipart: Never Will I Forget The Deep Shadows Never Will I Waste The Moons Light #donation fic #wip big bang #sirro134

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ruleandruinrpg · 8 years ago

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SVETLANA GAVRIKOVA

TWENTY-SIX ❈ HUMAN OPRICHNIK

She was ordinary once, a girl tinged by that soft shade of contentedness that lulls nearly everyone it touches into mediocrity like sirens call sailors to their deaths. She dreamed as all children did, of castles and princes and horses black as night, and like all children, she eventually outgrew her wilder fantasies in favor of tamer, more attainable ones—of stability, of a full stomach, of a life not spent in anticipation of the next loss. Svetlana Gavrikova was the sort of daughter mothers and fathers prayed for—as intelligent as she was beautiful, as strong as she was gentle, and though she was never soft in the way of petals and other things that wilt at the slightest touch, she might’ve been. Given the chance, she might have gone on to live some semblance of the life she’d always dreamed of, one step behind bliss and one step ahead of misery, but something within her wouldn’t rest; her heart beat far too strongly and erratically to ever be satisfied with normalcy, and the reality of it struck her between the eyes one fateful day and knocked something loose within the Gavrikova girl—something cold. Later, they’d say the war had gotten to her, as it tended to do—that it had rendered her as jaded as it had its veterans and its widows, as broken as its grieving and orphaned, and perhaps the world would have been better off if it had. But the war brought out something in Svetlana long-buried, disguised in lace and chiffon and masked as pretty, petty desires: a hunger—for greatness, for power, for infamy, and most of all, for the blood that inevitably preceded it.

CONNECTIONS

SVETLANA IS PORTRAYED BY LAURA BERLIN & IS TAKEN BY GLORIA.

#lsrpg #literate rp #bio rp #fantasy rp #grisha rp #tgt #a #military #svetlana #svetlanabio #f #closed #closedf

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