#but i feel so much pity for your sorrowful lingering spirit… what’s left of you…

[goldensunset]

“so cold…

it’s cold… so cold… where… am I? my favorite park… the government building… all gone…

what… happened to me? no… no, i’m not ready to die!

i knew it… it’s time for me to move on. goodbye… i’m gonna go be with mom.”

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

I'll Wear Your Ring | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hi, friends! I am back back back again- I've emerged from under a pile of work shit to bestow some heavy angst upon you.💜

If you like what you read, throw me a reblog so others can find it 🥰

Warnings: angsty angst

“I wrote you a letter, I said I was better. I said I would never know why you left like a bandit, It's not like we planned it, but I'll leave the light on for a while. And I'll leave the linen the way they've been slept in, the sheets on the bed in a pile. And I'll wear your ring on the right hand for a while”.

Nat’s eye caught the hint of gold that adorned your finger. Her eyes lingered on the simple band and small diamond, the last reminder you’d held on to. Everything Bucky left behind rested inside stacked boxes that overpopulated your hall closet- everything except that ring.

“So you’re still wearing that thing, huh?” Nat’s eyes flitted from the ring to your face and back again, instant regret pooling in her chest when she noticed your expression change. Almost instantly, your small smile melted into the dejected grimace she’d come to know. It was the only look you wore for months after Bucky’s sudden departure, so much so that Nat feared your face might get stuck that way.

She watched you stare down at the memento that sat comfortably on the ring finger of your right hand. Memories of the night Bucky presented it to you lifted your spirits for a short moment, only for them to come crashing right back down. 

-----Ten months earlier-----

He’d spent the entire day vibrating with nervous energy and keeping his distance from you, even in the small apartment you shared. The warmth he usually showed you turned up missing, leaving you feeling empty and cold. His sudden shift in attitude had you fearing the worst; Bucky was the only man you’d ever truly been in love with, and if he broke things off with you, you’d be a wreck.

It was only when he presented you with the engagement ring did things finally make sense. And as he sat before you with the delicate ring resting in the palm of his comparatively giant hand, you finally saw what your future looked like.

“I can’t- I can’t even describe to you how much I love you…” Bucky’s voice shook ever so slightly. “Every day, I’m afraid that I’ll wake up from this amazing dream and realize that you’re not real- how are you real? You’re so good. So kind. So warm. And if you’ll let me, I swear on my life that I’ll do anything to make you even a fraction as happy as you’ve made me. I love you. I’ll always love you. Will you marry me?”

Rendered utterly silent, all you could do was nod. You leapt into Bucky’s arms and nearly knocked him over, but he’d never let you fall.

“Yes- yes! Yes!” you finally shouted, making grabby hands at the thin gold band Bucky still held outstretched. He slid it slowly onto you finger and stared down at it, taking in the perfect picture of you wearing the ring he’d spent months picking out.

“I know it’s not much- the diamond is really small. But I promise I’ll get you a bigger one when-” His words grew muffled as you clapped your now ring-clad hand over his mouth.

“It’s perfect- please don’t get me a different one. I want this one.”

———————

“Um, yeah…” you reached for your drink and took a sip, avoiding Nat’s eyes, “yeah, I- I like it”. A heavy silence pushed its way between the two of you, weighing down the casual dinner date. Nat stared at you for a long moment, giving you the same look she always threw your way these days: pity.

“Hey, don’t- can you please not look at me like that? He’s coming back, Nat. He promised”.

Nat raised her hands in surrender and took a bite of her pasta, granting you a reprieve from her sorrowful eyes. She hated that you were still so stuck on Bucky, still hanging on to the false promise of his eventual return.

“I’m not looking at you in any particular way. I was just thinking that maybe…” she took a deep breath, “maybe it’s time you took it off”.

The eye roll you shot at her came as no surprise, and only seemed to spur her on, “Come on. He gave you that ring, asked you to marry him, and disappeared. It’s been almost a year!” You gave her sharp look, warning her not to take it any further, but it was too late.

“You can’t defend Bucky forever- he’s the bad guy here. No texts, no calls, no emails…I mean, he gave you a fake address. Those letters got returned to sender way too damn quick if you ask me”. 

Her tough love and brutal honesty scratched like sandpaper against your heart, leaving it raw and bloody. Unwelcome tears blurred you vision and you tried to blink them away before Nat noticed, but it was too late.

“Shit- sorry. I’m just trying to help you- you deserve better than this…”

As you lifted your hands to your face to banish the tears from your cheeks, the ring caught your eye. It was exactly what you’d always wanted in an engagement ring: simple, dainty, classic. You loved the way it looked and what it represented, always reminding you of the love and commitment you shared with Bucky.

Until he left.

----Nine months ago----

Bucky flitted quickly across the room and back again, gathering everything he needed before his departure.

“Where’s Fury sending you this time?” you asked, “tell him he owes me big for stealing my fiancé away from me”.

Bucky let loose a quiet laugh and planted a kiss to your forehead as he brushed by the bed with an armload of clothes. “Um, he didn’t say. Don’t know how long I’ll be gone, either…” he dropped the clothes into his duffel and smushed them inside, taking no care to fold any of the garments.

Something struck you as odd. Fury hadn’t called Bucky in the middle of the night for an emergency mission ever since he realized how bad it was for Bucky’s anxiety; he couldn’t expect Bucky to perform his duties when a panic attack loomed over the horizon. After that, Bucky always knew the plan. He knew when he was leaving, where he was going, and always received an estimate of when he’d return.

“Everything okay?” you wriggled out from under the blankets and allowed the 4am chill to creep across your skin, “you seem off”. Bucky’s shoulders released their tension as your hands wound around his waist and rested against his navel. No matter how much time he spent with you, he couldn’t believe what a calming effect you had on him.

Everything before you felt like scaffolding, his life precariously balanced and held together by nothing but pins, but you made him feel whole. You made him complete. He turned around and rested his forehead against yours, “I’m okay. Just stressed by the middle of the night call- that’s all. You know how I get”. 

With his bag stuffed to the brim with clothes and weaponry, Bucky walked hand-in-hand with you to the front door. “Alright, um…” he cleared his throat, “Fury said he has an address that I can give you- since I won’t be able to use my phone”. He took your hands in his, running his fingers across your knuckles as though it were the last time he’d touch you.

A warm smile stretched across his face as he admired the gold band on your ring finger, but an air of seriousness clouded his eyes as he flicked them up to meet yours.

“And I need you to take care of yourself while I’m gone. Don’t work too late. Get enough sleep. No late night runs to the bodega.”

You rolled your eyes at him but threw a “Yes sir, Sergeant Barnes, sir” his way anyway. He cared for you so deeply; all he wanted was for you to be safe, and who were you to be mad about it?

His crystalline eyes rested on yours in an unflinching stare. Something dark swam in the two blue lagoons that served as his irises, but you couldn’t place your finger on what. The way he looked at you- it was almost as if he were trying to memorize your face.

“I love you. So much. And I’m gonna miss you…shit, I don’t wanna go,” Bucky let loose a deep sigh, “I’m going to be back as soon as I can, I promise. I promise I will always come home to you”. 

He poured every ounce of his love into one last kiss before exiting the apartment- and your life.

——————

“I know you’re trying to help, Nat. I just…” you rubbed your thumb against the ring like you always did, “like you said, it’s almost been a year. Almost. I don’t know, I need time to…grieve, or whatever. But hey, I don’t wear it on my left hand anymore. At least give me credit for that.”

Nat feigned some less than enthusiastic applause. She knew that, even in his absence, Bucky still owned you. He lived inside your heart with no sign of leaving, and you were never going to evict him. 

“I had to practically beg you to wash the sheets. And you still leave the light on for him-” Nat tried to argue, but you stopped her.

“I’m doing my best to work through this, and I know it’s taking me a while. But there’s just- I need to move at my own pace. Whenever Bucky was away, I’d leave that living room lamp on so that, in case I’d fallen asleep, he wouldn’t come home to a dark apartment…” Your tears fought their way to the surface once again, and you swiped at them with your sleeve, “I put all his shit away. I took the pictures down. I washed the fucking sheets. Just let me have the lamp and the ring. I still need them. For now.”

Nothing sounded as good as crawling into Bucky’s embrace and crying until you tired yourself out, but that wasn’t an option- your safe place was gone. Nat offered you her napkin and you dabbed at your eyes, quickly forcing your overflowing emotions back behind the dam.

Nat leaned forward and put a hand atop yours, Bucky’s ring resting just under her palm. Her heart broke for you as she cursed her less than gentle handling of the situation.

“I know, I know. And you’re doing great. Really. I’m sorry. I’m just angry for you,” she shook her head. “He made so many promises to you. He told me for months about his proposal and his grand plans for the life you two were going to live together and he just- he’s not allowed to pull this shit. He’s not allowed to do this to you”.

Nat was flooded with memories with Bucky. All the times he’d asked for advice on how to get close to you or what kind of flowers he should surprise you with. Nat always had a front row seat to all of your dating disasters, but when Bucky entered the picture, she thought you’d finally find happiness. 

“I just don’t want you to spend any more time or emotional energy on him, you know? He’s a liar. He doesn’t deserve the space in your brain.” Nat wasn’t wrong, but ridding your heart and mind of Bucky was much easier said than done. And even though you knew she was right, you hated when she called him a liar.

-----9 months ago-----

Agent Hill’s phone rang in the pocket of her tac suit. Normally, she would’ve ignored a call during training, but the most recent recruits were stomping on her last nerve. She ducked out of the room and pressed the phone to her ear, asking you what was up.

“Hey! Nothing much. I’m just wondering if you have any idea when Bucky will be back? He said he didn’t know how long he’d be gone and it’s been two weeks- just wanted to check”, you waited for a response, but the line remained silent. “And he texted me an address so I could send him a letter or two- I wrote one as soon as he left so he’d get it ASAP, but it was returned to sender. Any idea about that?”

Once again, Hill was quiet. After a repeated ‘hello?’, she finally answered. 

“Um. Bucky’s not- hang on…” Hill dove into her emails and checked everything from the last few weeks, scrounging for information on Bucky, but her search came up empty.

“Hey, sorry. Just needed to check my mission logs. I don’t- he’s not in any of them. We didn’t assign him to a mission…”

Hill’s words didn’t register. You threw her a small chuckle and a ‘good one’ before asking once again for Bucky’s projected return date. “I’m serious. He’s not in any of the logs- let me talk to Fury and call you back”, Maria hung up the phone and ran for Fury’s office, but didn’t receive the information she’d hoped for.

Anxiety surged through you with each beat of your heart as you waited for Maria’s call, and when she finally got back to you, you answered on the very first ring. Maria didn’t know what to say or how. She knew how much you loved Bucky, how deeply you cared for the man you planned to marry. But she couldn’t help you.

“Fury went through everything. Bucky’s not on a mission. We don’t know where he is-” Maria heard the line click as you hung up. 

Hopelessness overwhelmed you at the very thought of Bucky choosing to leave you behind for good. You always thought he knew you better than anyone. From the moment you met, it felt like he could read your soul like a book. He knew about all of the romantic skeletons in your closet, the lying, cheating ex-boyfriends who shattered your assurances over and over again. He promised to never leave even a scratch upon your mangled sense of trust, to keep it pristine and unharmed for as long as he had the pleasure of being in your life- but even that was a lie. 

A deep, empty crater formed in your chest, but filled quickly with sorrow. Tears streamed down your face and dripped onto the shirt you’d borrowed from Bucky’s drawer. The rational part of you screamed at you to rid your body of the soft fabric that smelled like the love of your life, but the romantic side begged you to keep it on.

You slid slowly down the wall and crashed against the floor, holding the worn red fabric to your face. Bucky’s warm scent enveloped you completely, flooding you with happy memories of his body wrapped around yours. The familiar smell always brought you comfort, but the reflexive smile that formed across your face disappeared almost instantly as Maria’s words resurfaced. 

Bucky was gone, and he wanted to stay that way.

——————

“Okay, alright. Can we- I don’t wanna talk about this anymore”, you looked at your watch and motioned for the check, “I still have a lot of work to do before Monday”.

Nat gave an exasperated huff and looked down at your plate, still-half full of chicken and pasta. She eyed you like she always did, staring you down until you read her mind.

“What? I’m full”, you lied. Ever since Bucky’s sudden departure, you’d had no interest in eating. His absence left behind a pervading sense of emptiness that couldn’t be filled with food. As the waiter dropped off the check, Nat insisted that he bring you a to-go box for your “heaping pile of leftovers”. 

“You’re taking that home. I’m guessing your fridge is pretty empty right now, huh?” Nat knew you too well. The only things in your fridge were hot sauce, hummus, and a bag of spinach that had the potential to grow legs and crawl out of the drawer any day. She shoveled your food into the Styrofoam box the waiter brought and practically shoved it into your hands with a smile.

“I know you’re not gonna listen to me, but don’t go home and work yourself to death”, her cocky smirk faded suddenly, leaving an air of seriousness in its absence. “I understand that you need to distract yourself, but you go to the office early. You stay late. You work from the second you get home until the second you go to bed- and don’t even get me started on how you don’t sleep enough…”

Nat threw some cash on the table, covering both shares of the bill. You tried to protest, but she wouldn’t hear it, “I made you cry during dinner, paying for your food is the least I could do”. The two of you walked out of the restaurant in silence, both knowing that you were going home to work until you passed out.

Upon arriving home, you put your leftovers in the fridge to be forgotten and changed into some pajamas. Just like Nat guessed, you planted yourself on the floor in front of the coffee table and drowned yourself in work until your laptop looked like a pillow. The words on your screen blurred together, squiggly red lines forming under almost everything you typed. The clock in the corner read 3:37am, and you knew that if you didn’t make it to bed, you’d wake in the morning with a massive crick in your neck and a matching one in your spine- again.

With your last few ounces of energy, you shut your laptop and slowly rose from your spot on the ground. Heavy steps carried you in the direction of your bedroom, but faltered as you passed the very lamp Nat had just given you shit about. Maybe she was right. Maybe Bucky never planned on returning. Maybe you didn’t need to leave the light on…

But you flicked it on anyway. Just in case. 

Only an hour later, you awoke from the same dream you had every night- Bucky’s return. After so many months without him, it felt like a cruel prank played by your own psyche. An overwhelming thirst drew your attention as you sat up in bed, the realization that you hadn’t had any water since dinner suddenly dawning on you.

Begrudgingly, you slid out of bed and opened the door into the dark hall- but something seemed different. Cautiously, you moved down the hall at a measured pace, sliding a hand along the wall to guide you through the darkness. And then it dawned on you: the lamp. The lamp you’d left on for Bucky no longer illuminated the space.

After almost a year, the bulb finally burned out, leaving you in utter darkness. You rolled your eyes at the heavy-handed metaphor of the light fizzling out like your relationship with Bucky, and continued en-route to the kitchen. It truly felt like the end of an era, the closing of a chapter of your mourning process. Just like that light bulb, your hope for Bucky’s return died.

“Ow! Fuck” you groaned as your toe collided with the armchair Bucky used to read in, “Fuuuuuck fuck fuck”. 

“Are you okay?” a timid voice asked through the darkness- a voice you’d know anywhere.

The overhead lights came on suddenly, forcing you to squint as your eyes adjusted. Next to the light switch stood the scruffy, long-haired James Buchanan Barnes. He eyed you with concern, taking several hesitant steps toward you before stopping in his tracks. He was bruised and bloody, with red-stained gauze adorning his forearm and neck. Every day since his disappearance, you dreamed of his return. You fantasized about falling into his arms and reclaiming the familiar warmth of his body, but as he stood before you, you didn’t know how to react. 

The two of you stared at each other for a long time, the silence only broken by the ticking of your living room clock. Even if you wanted to move, you couldn’t; it was as if you’d been rooted in place like a tree, able to only sway in the wind. Tears welled in Bucky’s eyes as he looked you over, taking in the first glance of his best girl in almost a year.

After what seemed like an eternity, you finally moved. One shaky hand hesitantly grazed Bucky’s chest while the other cautiously cupped his stubbled cheek.

“Bucky…?” you wondered how real this could be, how possible it was that he’d actually returned to you. So many of your dreams played out almost exactly the same way, and you always woke disappointed. 

But when his large hand rested atop yours, all doubt fell away- he was real. His warm cheek nuzzled into your touch, greedy for as much contact with you as possible.

“Hey…” he stroked the back of your right hand as it lay upon his chest, a quizzical expression overcoming him when he noticed your engagement ring. “I think um, I think this is on the wrong hand, doll”, he tried to joke, but his attempt at humor pushed all levity from the room.

You snatched your hands from his reach and put enough space between the two of you to give you room to breathe. If you stayed in such close proximity for much longer, you’d melt.

“Well, I think you abandoned me” you crossed your arms, silently wishing you’d taken off the ring before bed. Bucky stood there, unable to speak, his heart slowly shattering. “What are you- what the fuck are you doing here? You couldn’t call? You thought sneaking in in the dead of night was really the best way to do this?”

All he could do was shake his head.

“You lied to me. You made promises- you swore you’d always come home”, you took a brief pause, forcing the emotion out of your voice. “And now you just show back up in the middle of the night like everything’s cool and normal? You wanna make jokes about the fucking engagement ring you gave me? I honestly…” a deep breath filled your lungs, giving you the courage to continue, “I honestly don’t know why I still wear it”. 

“Yes, you do, doll”

“No-”

“You still love me. I know you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do-”

“And how the fuck would you know, huh? You haven’t spoken to me in almost a year-”

“You left the light on.”

When he stumbled in the front door that night, he never expected to see that lamp waiting for him. It bathed the room in a warm, welcoming glow that always felt like home. He’d been prepared for his key not to work- or to find another man’s things occupying the space that used to be his. But you’d left the light on for him, welcoming him home.

Tears streaked freely down your cheeks and fell against your shirt, dampening the fabric of the garment Bucky didn’t recognize. It wasn’t as comfortable or as cozy as the shirts you used to borrow from Bucky, but you didn’t care. Sleeping in a slightly stiff men’s t-shirt from Target was better than wrapping yourself in the melancholy feeling of wearing something Bucky left behind. 

Bucky’s urge to comfort you raged inside him as he watched you cry, but he knew you’d reject any attempt at affection.

“Fine. Okay,” you sniffled, “I do- I still love you”. Bucky’s long-lost smile suddenly reappeared, only to vanish once again as you continued. “But I shouldn’t. I should hate you.”

All he could do was nod. As much as he hated it, you were right. He knew didn’t deserve a kind word or a warm gesture from you after all he’d put you through- but he needed to see you at least once. 

“I know. And I- I don’t even know what I’m doing here, exactly. I shouldn’t have showed up like this. This isn’t…” he looked around the familiar room, noticing the changes you’d made. Every framed photo of the two of you came up missing, and all of his favorite books were gone from the shelf. “Um- this isn’t my home anymore- I know that. I’m sorry. I got back and I just had to come here, it’s all I could think about- you’re all I could think about.”

“Bucky, don’t-”

Just hearing you say his name after such a long time without you was enough to give Bucky goosebumps.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, and I don’t deserve another chance…but please just let me explain”.

A sharp scoff pushed its way past your lips, “explain? What explanation could possibly exist to make this okay?”

Part of him wished he didn’t have to tell you. He didn’t want to admit what he’d actually been doing all those months he spent away, but he didn’t have a choice. The gears in his mind shifted into overdrive as he tried to formulate a way into the long, complicated story, but his mouth moved faster than his brain. 

“I was back at Hydra.”

Your blood crystalized into sharp, icy razors, “You- what?” Surely, you’d heard Bucky wrong. 

“I was with Hydra…” he said again. His soft blue eyes watched you intently, searching for any twitching of a brow or clenching of your jaw, but your stare remained blank. A deep sense of disbelief drowned you completely, leaving you adrift in a sea of confusion.

“Fury needed me to go back. One of our SWORD agents was taken- they sent me to extract him”, Bucky began. “I’m the one with the most intimate knowledge of their innerworkings and I…” he fell quiet for a moment, an air of wistfulness filling his eyes, “I know how horrible it is to be trapped there”. 

He took a seat on the arm of the couch and allowed his body to relax for the first time in months. His gaze fell to the floor as flashback after flashback of his time at Hydra flooded his memory and filled him with anxiety. A quiet, metallic clinking sound caught your attention as Bucky’s vibranium fingers played with his dog tags.

“Fury called me about three weeks after I um, after I asked you. He told me what was going on, gave me a departure date, and swore me to confidentiality.” His pleading eyes met yours suddenly, “I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell anyone. Fury didn’t even tell Hill. Everyone had to think I was AWOL. Otherwise, Hydra wouldn’t have…” his voice trailed off. 

With cautious steps, you inched closer to him. As though it were an olive branch, you offered Bucky your hand. No matter how badly he’d hurt you, you still loved him- and you knew he needed comfort. He accepted your gesture desperately and with the utmost care, his gentle touch stroking back and forth across your knuckles. He traced lightly across your palm, seeking comfort in any way he could.

“If word got out about Fury sending me on this operation, Hydra would’ve taken me out. They needed to think I was returning on my own”. His head fell forward in shame at the thought of going back to Hydra, even under a false pretense.

With that, you took a seat next to him, leaning your body against his ever so slightly. His body heat radiated into your skin, warming you like the sun after a long and lonely winter.

Words clumsily spilled from your lips as you tried to make sense of Bucky’s confession, “Wait- okay, so- Hang on. When you said… I thought it was a rescue.”

He nodded slightly, but anguish still weighed him down, “It was a rescue- but it wasn’t just a rescue. We needed them to think their Winter Soldier had returned- otherwise I would’ve never been able to get to our agent-”

An almost inaudible whine left Bucky’s lips as you leapt up from your spot next to him. He watched as you frantically ran your hands through your hair, the horrifying reality of his mission ravaging your psyche.

“Bucky, what- what if they’d wiped your memory? What if they put you under cryo? I mean, they could’ve killed you.” Without you noticing, more tears began overflowing down your cheeks. “All the hard work- the healing you’ve done- could’ve been gone. What was Fury thinking?” 

Bucky’s shiny vibranium hand outstretched toward you slowly, beckoning you closer to him. After getting a taste of what it felt like to be close to you once again, he was desperately hungry for more. He knew you probably didn’t feel like kissing him or even hugging him yet- if ever- but feeling your body next to his was enough for the moment.

The anger and hurt you’d been holding on to for months dissipated just a bit as you saw your super soldier sitting there before you, dejected and downtrodden. The skin under his eyes was shaded dark purple with exhaustion, and his shoulders slumped forward the same way they had after his first Hydra escape. Cuts and bruises littered every inch of his body, with new scars forming every day. He was broken, and he needed you more than ever. 

Almost automatically, you granted him your hand. And with a gentle tug, you led him around to sit properly on the couch. A quiet sigh of relief pushed past his lips as he abandoned the hard, uncomfortable arm of the couch and sunk down into the familiar cushions. Memories of this couch flooded his senses: afternoon naps with you in his arms, pizza nights and movie marathons, spilling red wine on a cushion and flipping it over so you wouldn’t find out.

He let his eyes drift slowly up to your face and, after a long moment, he finally spoke: “I’m sorry”. Your hand tightened around his, granting him permission to inch a bit closer, “I’m sorry I lied, I’m sorry I left- I never would’ve done any of it if the circumstances had been different. I just- I couldn’t leave one of our guys to rot under Hydra. I couldn’t let that happen- not after everything they did to me…no one should ever have to go through that”. 

Bucky always worried about others, but never about himself. He knew venturing behind enemy lines for such a risky mission had the chance to end in utter catastrophe, but his heart broke for the SWORD agent he’d never even met. And even though you had always been his number one priority, something in him took over when he got Fury’s call. He knew he had no choice but to go in for the rescue or die trying.

“When I left here, I took a jet to Wakanda. Shuri worked on me- put some safeguards in place to prevent me from being reprogrammed”, he placed a hand on your cheek, “I was never at risk of returning to the Winter Soldier”. With a small nod, you invited him to continue. “I went from there, got dropped near Madripoor, and followed some coordinates to the Hydra base- our agent had a tracking implant in one of his molars, otherwise we never would’ve known where he was. And then I…” He swallowed hard, almost choking on the memory of what happened next. “I just- I let them take me. I followed every order to the letter. I let them think I was theirs to control.”.

The entire time Bucky was gone, you imagined him in the worst scenarios possible. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get the image of his lifeless body lying cold and alone in the middle of nowhere out of your head, and it hurt you- but thinking about him returning to Hydra’s clutches was excruciating.

Out of instinct, you ran a hand through his long locks. He always loved it when you played with his hair, especially when his anxiety got the best of him, or another night terror sent him into a dark spiral. He let out an almost imperceptible whimper at the contact, the sensation overcoming him completely. After almost a year without the gentle touch of his best girl, he was finally home. He let his eyes fall closed, finally feeling safe enough to let his guard down. But when he reopened them, the dark memories didn’t dissipate. 

He slumped forward and rested his elbows on his knees, forcing his eyes down as he spoke. “I had to be, um, ‘disciplined’ every day. For disobeying and running away.” He cleared his throat, “so they tried to push the limits of the serum. They wanted to see how quickly I could heal- or if I could heal at all- from increasingly worse torture. The ripped out fingernail after fingernail. Beat me. Burned me. Stabbed me. Flayed my skin open and watched me almost bleed out.” The sensation of your gentle touch ghosting along his back brought a sense of comfort he hadn’t felt in almost a year, but as your hand neared the top of his spine, he stopped you.

He quickly turned and took your hand in his, preventing any further exploration of his body. He didn’t want you to feel the newest addition to his skin- not before he could warn you, “They branded me this time- that way I can never forget who I ‘belong to’.”

“Oh, Buck…”

He hated telling you all the terrible things he endured during his time in captivity. His pain always became your pain, and he knew diving into the details of his abuse only added to the tremendous hurt he’d already caused. But he’d abandoned you for almost a year, and knew he needed to put everything out on the table if he was going to win you back. He owed you honesty.

“And after months of this- they finally thought they’d ‘reclaimed’ me. And then I had to be the abuser…” he shuddered at the very thought. “I had to go into the cells and ‘discipline’ the captives. I had to ‘teach them a lesson’ every time they fought back or resisted interrogation. It was…” The memories were enough to make him nauseous. 

“I was finally able to get a few minutes alone with our guy- told him the plan, snuck him a few weapons, and we shot our way out.” It sounded so normal, so business-as-usual the way Bucky delivered the facts of the rescue. His flat tone and matter-of-fact statement made it seem like a regular, every day, nine-to-five job. But he was a hero. “I got him out and broke the rest of the captives free- they’ve all finally been returned home,” a small smile flickered across his lips, “so… I’m here”. 

Silence filled the room as Bucky’s words sunk in. He felt so out of place in his own home, shifting uncomfortably on the couch next to you. Returning to this space made him feel like a stranger, almost as though he’d broken into the home of someone he’d never met.

“Why didn’t you call? When you landed, I mean. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?” Your eyes flicked down to the makeshift pallet he’d tried to make on the living room floor. One blanket from the armoire and a small throw pillow had served as his resting place until you woke him up with your clumsiness.

“I thought I wouldn’t be welcome- I shouldn’t be welcome. I know that. But, baby, I…” he stopped himself, whispering a small apology for the once-familiar pet name. “I needed to see you. I thought that if I called first, you’d tell me to fuck off and never come back here. I just needed a chance to talk to you face to face- to explain myself. But then I got here and I realized how weird it would be for me to wake you at 4am, so I just crashed on the floor- thought we could talk in the morning.”

Every cell in your body ached for Bucky. You wanted to hold him close, to tell him just how much you missed him. No matter how long he’d been gone or how badly he’d hurt you, you wanted him- but something in you wouldn’t let you tell him. The memories of long, lonely nights and heartbroken days spent waiting for Bucky’s return came rushing forward all at once, forcing you into an uncontrollable, emotional diatribe. 

You pulled your hand from his and rose from the couch, distancing yourself from him as you poured your broken heart out. “Okay, I’m not- I’m not mad. I know it’s not your fault. You didn’t choose to leave, I just…” you huffed, “you have to know what this was like for me. I’m not saying that- I know you obviously you had it way worse…” You cringed at the thought of Hydra’s most ruthless operatives tearing Bucky apart just to put him back together and almost stopped yourself from speaking.

Of course Bucky knew that his unexplained absence had been hard on you. But after almost a year of suffering without him, you needed him to know how you felt.

“This year has been a fucking nightmare. I mean, being here- in our home, without you- surrounded by pictures of us and all of the things you left behind…I’ve been utterly��empty. It was agonizing. I didn’t know whether to move to escape your ghost or stay here in case you came back- Buck, you vanished. You disappeared and I didn’t have an explanation. If you’d just said- you could’ve just told me it was fucking top secret and not to ask any questions. I know how confidential your job is- I wouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t need every minute detail…” Bucky simply nodded along, allowing you to empty your heart of the dark, overflowing sea of pain.

“I called Hill after two weeks, I just wanted to know when you’d be home. When she told me you weren’t in the mission logs….I thought you’d left me- I didn’t know what I did wrong. I mean, you gave me a fake address- what was that about? Couldn’t there have been a better plan? A way for me to know you weren’t just a liar who used work as an excuse to escape a relationship?”

Rage and pain twisted your insides into hard, knotted lines, spurring you on even further. “And I’ve been so fucking worried about you. I didn’t know if you were okay…I didn’t know if you were even alive. It was all so nebulous. I was fucking grieving you like you’d died, but there wasn’t a funeral to plan. There wasn’t a body to bury. Just a void. Nat had to force me to box up all your shit- looking at it every day was killing me. I saw all your clothes and your books and I felt like if I kept your stuff around, maybe you’d come back, you know? Maybe I could will you into returning. It was pathetic…” Bucky watched tears cascade down your cheeks as he wiped at his own. 

After a deep breath, you felt your heart rate slowly fall, “Like I said, I’m not mad…I’m just- I went from being newly engaged and marrying the love of my life to wondering if I’d ever fucking see you again…” Your voice cracked as you choked out a sob and leaned against the wall, allowing your head to fall into your hands. It was a familiar position- something you’d done countless nights before as you mourned the loss of your relationship.

“You’re right- I’m so sorry. And the address-” Bucky rolled his eyes, “Fury promised he’d get a PO box set up so you could write to me and I’d get the letters if I made it out. Shockingly, he dropped the ball on that one”.

Bucky’s classic sarcasm and distaste for Fury’s inconsistent nature made you laugh. The sound brought a wide smile to Bucky’s face, filling him to the brim with gentle warmth that made him feel alive again. He couldn’t believe how much he’d missed the sound of your laugh- it was almost as if hearing it had the power to heal his wounds.

“I don’t know what to say or how to make this better…you just have to know that I love you. I love you so much. I’m sorry this happened- I told Fury never to pull this shit with me ever again”.

With caution, Bucky rose from the couch and took slow steps in your direction, “If you want me to, I’ll leave. I’ll go right now and stay at Sam’s while you and I try to figure everything out- just please don’t end this. I swear I’ll make it up to you. I swear on my life that I’ll never hurt you again. Please, baby, just-” Bucky’s words halted the second you threw your body against his.

His strong arms wrapped around you, encircling you in the warm, protective embrace you’d missed so much. Bucky’s tears dampened your hair as they ran down his cheeks, just as yours left tiny droplets on his shirt. He noticed you shrink away ever so slightly under his grasp, your body no longer accustomed to his bruising grip.

“Shit, I’m sorry-” he tried to pull away.

“Don’t be. Don’t let go, Buck”.

He doubled down on his efforts, holding you so tight he feared he would snap your spine. But you reveled in the sensation, smiling as you almost struggled to breathe beneath his strong arms. The quiet whirring of his vibranium arm comforted you instantly; the apartment simply wasn’t home without that sound. Bucky felt your hands maneuvering against his spine, clearly trying to accomplish something behind his back.

“What are you doing, doll?” he whispered against your hair, “need me to let go?”  Instantly, you shook your head. He felt one of your arms unloop from around his torso as you presented your hand to him, “thought I should put this back on my left hand”.

The sight of the engagement ring he’d given you resting on the correct finger pulled a deep sob from his chest. “You still want-” was all he could say before you interrupted.

“I want you- I’ve always wanted you, Buck. I’ll wear your ring till I die.”

—————————

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[robininthelabyrinth]

NMJ is used to taking care of everyone else. He's not used to being taken care of. After getting injured or sick or a qi divination or something, his loved ones all come together to take care of him. He learns more people care deeply about him than he realized.

And if you can include a scene with someone bathing him or washing his hair, I would be ecstatic.

ao3

“- and no excuses!” Nie Huaisang’s voice was a little shrill, but under the circumstances, Nie Mingjue didn’t entirely feel like he could object.

After all, all the yelling, shrill or otherwise, was a sign that Nie Huaisang was sincerely worried about him, something Nie Mingjue usually did his best not to doubt. His little brother was self-absorbed and carefree, just the way he’d vowed he’d let him be years before when Nie Huaisang had been little more than a child. So even if Nie Huaisang’s behavior annoyed him or worried him, which it often did, even if it seized up his heart to think about what might happen when he was gone, when there would be no one to take care of his brother for him, it still pleased him beyond measure to see his brother grow up happy.

So what if it meant taking on some extra burdens, meant doing that little bit more to conceal his hardships and portray himself as the unshakable older brother Nie Huaisang saw him as? So what if his brother’s complaints sometimes acted as thorns hooked deep in his heart, itching under his skin, making him wonder does he really think of me that way and have I gone too far this time, maybe he hates me now and all that?

Nie Huaisang was yelling at him again, voice painfully shrill and piercing, but for Nie Mingjue, to hear his brother worried for him and not from him made for a nice change.

Anyway, he himself had probably been just as shrill, when it had been his father that –

It wasn’t that bad, he reminded himself. Baxia was as strong a presence in his mind as ever, their bond uninterrupted. It only looked bad from the outside.

It looked – pretty bad from the outside.

Nie Mingjue tried to smile at Nie Huaisang, but for some reason that just seemed to make things worse: Nie Huaisang’s eyes filled up with tears at once and the scowl on his face deepened. “I’m serious, da-ge! Really serious. I’ll take care of everything, you won’t need to worry about anything at all – for real, this time – and in return, you’re staying put until the doctors say you’re better.”

Nie Mingjue nodded obediently.

Nie Huaisang burst into tears and fled the room before Nie Mingjue could even offer him a hug.

Watching his little brother run, Nie Mingjue sighed and turned his gaze towards his (usually) reliable head disciple standing guard in the corner of the room, trying to ask with his gaze what in the world he was doing wrong, but Nie Zonghui’s eyes were red like a bad attack of spring fever and he wouldn’t even look at him.

It was not, in Nie Mingjue’s view, a very effective way to guard him. Not that he needed guarding – maybe if he’d had no choice but to return injured to Jinlin Tower, that pit of vipers and nest of foxes, but despite the gravity of his wounds they’d still managed to make it as far as this little outpost in disputed territory. Even if it was a stretch, they could put soldiers here and call it justified as being land under the command of Qinghe Nie…though possibly Jin Guangshan would try to find some way to use them doing that to his advantage.

And Nie Mingjue wasn’t exactly up for another war at the moment.

He wasn’t up for anything.

“Stop thinking of politics,” Nie Zonghui said, and his voice was hoarse as if he’d been swallowing sobs. Nie Mingjue wondered how he’d guessed. “I always can tell because your nose wrinkles whenever you think too hard about it…ah, A-Jue, you scared us.”

Scared his half-generation uncle enough to revert back to using childhood nicknames, apparently.

Nie Mingjue wished he could say something to comfort him.

Well, if he were wishing for things, forget wishing that he hadn’t been struck temporarily mute, he might as well go the full way and wish that the terrible creature he’d been fighting – a demon of especially vicious character, and so unexpectedly near to Lanling, too! – hadn’t taken advantage of the weakness he still suffered from, after the Nightless City, to attack his saber rather than himself.

Might as well wish, too, that he’d never been captured in Yangquan in the first place. That he’d never been beaten or tortured, that he’d never had a hundred Wen feet kicking at his saber in some pale shadow their sect leader, attempting to break him as their sect leader had broken his father.

How he had felt when the demon’s blow had fallen straight onto his blade and she had cracked –

Baxia was fine. He could feel her.

(He remembered his father shouting for someone to bring him his saber, long gone, and wondered –)

Baxia was fine.

He’d examined her a thousand times and couldn’t see any true damage – the physical damage was artificially induced, located at the far end; for a regular saber, it wouldn’t be anything to think twice about, a bit of hammering in the forge and it would be as if it had never happened, with no lingering weakness. It was only if her spirit had been harmed, or the bond between them, that his own spirit would be injured, his mind affected, and that hadn’t happened. He’d checked, was checking, time and time again. She was fine.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell anybody that.

When the blade had cracked, he’d reacted on instinct in a fit of panic, sending all of his qi immediately to his bond with Baxia, desperately and frantically trying to ensure that his soul wasn’t torn out of his hands the way his father’s had been, that gruesome descent into madness and frothing aimless rage. The demon had sensed his distraction and gone for his throat with its claws, and then the rest of the Nie sect that had come on the night-hunt with him had descended upon it like howling wolves, throwing everything they’d brought with them at it.

Not a good night-hunting strategy (what if the demon hadn’t been alone? what if it was huddled together with other creatures of resentful energy the way they usually were, and using up their arsenal on it left them vulnerable? what if they encountered something on the way back?), but admittedly very effective.

The demon had been utterly vanquished – and really, all the admonishments not to think of politics aside, it was very unusual for such a thing to be lurking around in the environs of another Great Sect like that, especially when that sect had invited its guests to casually night-hunt to entertain themselves – and now they were here.

Or rather, he was here, lying in bed with needles stuck in him like a porcupine, drinking bowl after bowl of medicine as his brother frantically hovered over him. And Nie Mingjue was yielding to it all without complaint even when it was really annoying (he’d never been a very good patient) because he understood, having once been there in Nie Huaisang’s place when his father had been in his, except all his complaisance seemed to be only making Nie Huaisang even more upset.

Baxia grumbled in his mind, having apparently realized that they weren’t going night-hunting again until she was fully repaired and all the worry-warts around him satisfied, and he comforted her with his own misery at the idea: stuck in bed, not allowed to train, not allowed to hunt –

He’d tried to mime the idea of doing some correspondence, since much of it was in fact urgent and he couldn’t even imagine how much of the endless work of being sect leader would pile up in the event of an elongated absence, and Nie Huaisang had thrown a fit, and also several teacups.

Apparently he wasn’t even allowed to do that.

Nie Mingjue sighed and sank back into the bed, briefly putting on an exaggerated pout that made Nie Zonghui laugh a little, the sound wet in his throat. But then, once he’d turned away and followed Nie Huaisang out the door, Nie Mingjue’s pout faded into a resigned sigh.

A little while later, he heard familiar voices at the door.

“ – came as soon as I could, of course,” Jin Guangyao was saying, sounding a little – amused? Long-suffering? What a strange emotion for him to openly display, given the circumstances. Even if he was enjoying someone’s misfortune, and Nie Mingjue knew that his sworn brother often did, he would normally be more tactful about expressing it. “Your missive wasn’t very clear about what the issue was, Huaisang.”

Well, that would explain it. If it was Nie Huaisang, being called to assist with a disaster might mean anything from the dramatic breaking of a fan to the even more dramatic prospect of being forced to actually do some work for once in his life. It very rarely referred to actual disaster.

There was the muffled sound of sobbing – it turned Nie Mingjue’s stomach to hear Nie Huaisang like that, but the last day or so had shown him that there was nothing he could do about it – and then some quiet discussion, too low to hear without trying, and Nie Mingjue had gotten some very stern lectures on how much he was not to try anything for a while.

The murmuring continued for a little, and then – “What?!”

A moment later, Jin Guangyao rushed into Nie Mingjue’s room, usual smile still frozen on his face and his eyes a little wider than usual. It was a refreshingly subdued reaction, Nie Mingjue thought: none of the wide-eyed teary eyes or drooped shoulders that usually accompanied Jin Guangyao’s demonstrations of upset feelings, the pity-me scenes that felt so staged now that Nie Mingjue knew what an able actor Jin Guangyao was.

This time, though, he seemed almost sincere.

Jin Guangyao stopped a few steps into the room, staring at where Nie Mingjue was lying, expression still frozen for a moment, and then the ice melted and the artifice returned, a look of sorrow and sympathy – look at how bad you’ve made me feel by being hurt like that – that made Nie Mingjue want to sigh. He’d been happier, their relationship better, before he’d gotten to peek under the mask Jin Guangyao wore, but it hadn’t been the truth, and he always preferred a hard truth over a soft lie.

“Oh, da-ge,” Jin Guangyao murmured. “Da-ge, poor da-ge…how are you feeling?”

Nie Mingjue said nothing, of course, and Jin Guangyao frowned.

“He can’t talk,” Nie Huaisang said, having followed him into the room. “His throat was nearly ripped out –”

For fuck’s sake, it was a scratch.

“– and he was almost entirely drained of his qi. I could barely feel his heartbeat when I arrived! And he hasn’t been acting like himself, either! I don’t know, I just – I don’t remember what it was like, la – last – last time –”

The tears were starting again, and Nie Mingjue tried to raise a hand to reach out to Nie Huaisang, wanting to comfort him, but something about the gesture made Nie Huaisang sob even harder and even Jin Guangyao looked a little taken aback, even a little stricken. Maybe it was the amount of effort it took for him to lift his hand, the way he had to stop and start the movement? The way his fingers trembled with the effort it took to keep it up in the air?

(His father hadn’t been like this at all. Maybe Nie Huaisang had been too young, Nie Zonghui too distant, but Nie Mingjue remembered it as if it were yesterday – there hadn’t been weakness, not like this. His father had been in a coma for three days and nights, and then he’d woken up. He’d seemed fine at first, not weak at all beyond the usual sluggishness that followed after a period of unconsciousness, and then he’d asked for his saber – and kept asking, no matter how many times they tried to explain –)

Baxia was fine.

The weakness was his own.

It wasn’t like that.

“How can I help?” Jin Guangyao asked. “Sect business –”

“I need someone to watch over him,” Nie Huaisang interrupted, wiping his eyes. “Someone who knows him well. He’s not…his reactions are all wrong. He goes into these dazes sometimes, doesn’t respond, and even when he seems present, he’s flinching at things that aren’t there or being nice and I just…I really can’t tell how much he’s really here or how much of it is reacting on, I don’t know, some sort of childhood instinct. So it has to be someone familiar with his habits, his likes and dislikes.”

Jin Guangyao was blinking rapidly. “And – me? You want me to...I was his deputy, yes, but – surely you or someone else in the Nie sect would be more appropriate?”

“Sect Leader Nie has always respected the differences between rank,” Nie Zonghui volunteered, voice low. “It would hurt his pride to be seen in such an undignified state by someone who wasn’t family.”

The blinking stopped, Jin Guangyao’s rapid thinking abruptly (and visibly) hitting a wall. “I’m – I’m not family.”

“You’re his sworn brother, aren’t you? That’s almost the same as being brothers, which makes you family,” Nie Huaisang said practically. “I’ve written to er-ge, too –”

He’d what?!

“Anyway, I know how good you are at managing things, but it wouldn’t really be appropriate for you to be involved in Nie sect business, would it? It might put you in an awkward situation, having to negotiate against your father.” Nie Huaisang gave Jin Guangyao another hug. “You just focus on taking care of da-ge, all right? I don’t want – if anyone found out, they could –”

He was going to start crying again, Nie Mingjue thought miserably, and wondered if people could die of dehydration by means of tears.

“Nothing will happen to your brother while he’s in my hands,” Jin Guangyao said, and Nie Mingjue even believed him. If there was one thing Jin Guangyao hated, it was being blamed for anything – even if he wanted Nie Mingjue dead, which Nie Mingjue was sure he did sometimes, he would never let it happen while he was the responsible party. Which was why it was something of a surprise that he was allowing himself to be made responsible. “It’ll be all right, Huaisang. You have to believe that.”

Nie Huaisang sniffed and finally wiped away his tears. “You’ll see what I mean soon enough,” he said ominously, and stalked out with Nie Zonghui a few steps behind, shooting Jin Guangyao an apologetic look as they left.

Nie Mingjue couldn’t tell if he agreed or disagreed with Nie Huaisang’s words.

“I hope da-ge doesn’t mind my forwardness in agreeing to help him,” Jin Guangyao said, coming closer to the bed to look down at him, his expression simpering and fake as it always was these days.

As much as that falsity annoyed him, how could Nie Mingjue mind? He knew, as Jin Guangyao did not, what his brother was afraid of; anything that could ease his brother’s mind, if only for a moment, was good.

(Why would Jin Guangyao agree to be the one responsible for him? A demon of such strength shouldn’t have been anywhere near Lanling. And this little outpost was nothing, unguarded, vulnerable; they didn’t have any defenses if Jin Guangshan decided to do something against them here, and yet Jin Guangyao willingly agreed –)

He couldn’t tell Jin Guangyao that he appreciated what he was doing and knew how hard it was, how much of a burden it was, so he reached out and caught his sleeve, tugging it lightly, and tried to smile at him.

It wasn’t any more successful than when he’d tried it on Nie Huaisang – less tears, but it made Jin Guangyao frown in a way that looked actually sincere, as if Nie Mingjue had done something incorrect – so he tugged on his sleeve again, like a child, until Jin Guangyao instinctively lifted his hand to stop him. Nie Mingjue exerted himself, caught it, and drew the words for an apology on his sworn brother’s palm.

My fault, he thought at Jin Guangyao, hoping that he’d understand. I’ve troubled you.

My fault.

It was his weakness. His family’s, his father’s, his own – why should others pay for it, the way he’d paid for his father’s? All he’d ever wanted was to keep them from having to go through that type of suffering.

Jin Guangyao’s hand was trembling, he suddenly noticed, and opened eyes that had slid shut with temporary exhaustion to look at Jin Guangyao again.

His sworn brother’s face had gone ashen, his lips pressed together tightly as if something was upsetting him.

“Da-ge?” he said, strangely hesitant, but Nie Mingjue didn’t understand what he was trying to ask him and was too tired to really try. He squeezed Jin Guangyao’s hand again and released him, letting his hand fall down to the bed.

He checked once again on Baxia.

She was fine. She was right there, their bond as strong as ever.

(“Where is my saber?” his father asked, rubbing his face. “Pass Jiwei to me, A-Jue, will you?”)

He shivered.

Opened his eyes.

The room had been reorganized, he noticed, and the light was different, although not too much – had he fallen asleep? He must have.

Well, he was still healing. It was normal.

“Da-ge!” Jin Guangyao was still there, too. “Can you hear me now?”

Nie Mingjue nodded.

“Good,” Jin Guangyao said, and seemed to even mean it. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

My saber, Nie Mingjue thought, and started shivering again, the room suddenly gone terribly cold even though he was under two layers of blankets already.

Baxia was fine. She was only out of his sight because they were fixing her – it was a small thing, nothing to a normal saber, easily repaired. It was only taking so long because they would have to find a good forge and bring over a smith familiar with spiritual weapons.

Baxia was fine.

He wouldn’t ask for her. He wouldn’t.

“– leader Nie! Look at me – can you hear me? Sect Leader Nie, Meng Yao has a question for you –”

Nie Mingjue turned his head with some difficulty and blinked at Jin Guangyao, who looked relieved. He’d used his old name for some reason, maybe to get Nie Mingjue’s attention, and even that much was a bit of a surprise. Jin Guangyao hated his old name, would prefer to pretend it had never existed, and this was the first time Nie Mingjue had heard it from his lips since the ceremony in which he’d received the new one.

“Good,” Jin Guangyao murmured, seeing him. “Good – yes, da-ge. You’re back. Good. Look at me.”

Nie Mingjue tried to mouth the word ‘question’ at him, but it felt like it was impossible to communicate properly. The lack of language frustrated him immensely, even if the usual anger that was always so quick to leap to his side at the first instance of such frustration didn’t come, too buried beneath the fear.

Luckily, Jin Guangyao was quick and smart and after a few moments seemed to understand. “Oh, ah, the question? Yes. That. Ah...I wanted to know if there was something you wanted.”

My saber.

Nie Mingjue shivered.

Baxia was fine.

“I rearranged the room to your preferences –” He had, too. Even the light fell differently. “– but I’m not sure what else I can get for you that you might need or enjoy.”

Nie Mingjue considered trying to ask for correspondence again, something to do that would be useful, but quickly realized the futility of that.  Still, he didn’t really do anything else, other than work; he’d long ago given up all his old hobbies in favor of his duties, being sect leader and training himself for war and eventually war itself, and even he didn’t remember what they were anymore.

“As da-ge knows, he has always been a mystery to me,” Jin Guangyao added, a little bit of self-depreciating humor in his words. That old joke between them (had it been a joke?), about how Meng Yao would constantly be trying to figure out what Nie Mingjue liked so that he could serve him better and Nie Mingjue constantly being disinterested in every vice he tried to present him with…after everything, Nie Mingjue had started to wonder if it hadn’t been a joke at all, if Meng Yao had been truly frustrated by the fact that he couldn’t find any chink in his armor, a weakness he could exploit to hold over his head.

He was so weak now, though, and yet Jin Guangyao made the same joke.

Was there anything, really, for him to do? Jin Guangyao must be terribly bored, forced to be a babysitter for a man who couldn’t even speak to convey his wishes, and wouldn’t –

Actually, now what he thought about it, there was something.

Nie Mingjue lifted his fingers and twisted them into the hand sign they’d used during the Sunshot Campaign to mean ‘break camp’.

Jin Guangyao stared at him blankly.

He made the sign again, hoping to convey meaning. There wasn’t anything in the room he could point to, and he’d never been especially talented at pantomime, yet surely Jin Guangyao with his quick mind would be able to puzzle it out – every time he made that sign, they would stop moving, set up the tents, and the first thing he’d want, every time it was possible, was –

“A bath?” Jin Guangyao asked, and Nie Mingjue nodded in relief. “I’ll order one set up right away. Anything else?”

Nie Mingjue pointed to the pile of his clothing that was now neatly folded up on a nearby table – and much reduced, by the look of it. Not a surprise. The always-efficient Jin Guangyao would have sent the worst pieces, the ones that had been cut off his body by the doctors, away to be retailored.

Jin Guangyao frowned at it. “You want to get dressed? No…to get ready to receive visitors?”

Nie Mingjue nodded.

“Why? Who are you expecting?”

After some contemplation, Nie Mingjue held up two fingers.

Jin Guangyao blinked.

Sighing, Nie Mingjue pointed at himself – one finger – and at Jin Guangyao – three fingers – and then held up two again.

“…you want to get bathed and dressed before er-ge arrives?”

It was so good to have someone by his side that understood him. Losing his trust in Meng Yao’s character had always been the worst part of that entire experience, the realization that the person he’d thought was a friend had never existed but had instead been deliberately manufactured to match his tastes, but losing the help of such a competent deputy hadn’t been great, either.

“Da-ge, are you sure?”

Nie Mingjue nodded. He couldn’t let Lan Xichen see him like this – the Nie and Lan sects had always been closer allies than they’d been with the others, and they’d been friends since childhood. While not physically present, Lan Xichen had seen some glimpses of what Nie Mingjue had gone through when his father had been dying, and again right after he’d died.

He’d been the one to whom Nie Huaisang had revealed that one letter that Nie Mingjue had thought he’d burned, the one that he hadn’t actually intended on ever using, the one that laid out what he’d say if he were to say goodbye – it had only been theoretical, a way to get out frustration. He would never have been so selfish as to let the awful burden that had fallen on his shoulders fall in turn on Nie Huaisang.

But Lan Xichen hadn’t really believed him back then, when he’d explained that he didn’t mean it, that he didn’t have any plans to do anything that would make such a goodbye necessary. He’d worried himself sick over him back then.

He’d worry now.

Nie Mingjue knew Lan Xichen loved him, he did, even if sometimes recently he felt that Lan Xichen might take him a little for granted. Lan Xichen loved him, so Lan Xichen would worry about him, but Lan Xichen also expressed his worries through trying to fix things.

He didn’t want to have to deal with that right now. There was nothing that needed to be fixed – Baxia was fine, he was fine, it was just a matter of healing for him and a bit of reforging for her.

It was fine.

“Da-ge, the bath is ready.”

Nie Mingjue pulled himself back out of trying to check on his bond with Baxia again to find that it was, steaming and hot; the servants must have moved it in while he wasn’t paying attention and then departed again. He tried to pull himself up to sit, but Jin Guangyao pressed down on his shoulder with surprising strength.

“Let me help you, da-ge,” he said, and Nie Mingjue graciously didn’t call him out on how much he was clearly enjoying himself. It was nice to think that part of that enjoyment was in helping him, as opposed to merely being in a position of power, but it was so hard to tell with Jin Guangyao – he wasn’t even sure the man himself knew which it was.

Shakily, with Jin Guangyao’s assistance, he sat up, and put his feet on the ground, only to have to wait while Jin Guangyao fussed around removing the acupuncture needles that had been left behind, murmuring something about having gotten the doctors’ approval. After that was done, Jin Guangyao helped him painstakingly totter over to the bathtub – his sworn brother might have only mediocre cultivation, but he was still stronger than Nie Mingjue was now, with his qi depleted and his battered body little more than dead weight. Nie Mingjue was as dependent on him as a small child on their parent. Once there, he helped brace him against the wall, helped remove his inner robes, and finally, blissfully, helped him slide into the bathtub.

“Da-ge has so many scars,” Jin Guangyao said, and Nie Mingjue looked at him.

Jin Guangyao was studying him with a strange expression on his face. He hadn’t allowed him to assist him with bathing before, Nie Mingjue recalled; he had been trying to maintain a divide between personal servants and military hierarchy, and Jin Guangyao – Meng Yao, then – had been a guest disciple, not a servant. Even when there were no personal servants to be had and Jin Guangyao had offered, Nie Mingjue had refused, not wanting his deputy to feel as though he were being looked down upon.

Still, it wasn’t as though the man hadn’t seen his bare chest before – there had been times on campaign when a bath hadn’t been possible, only a quick dip in the river to wash off the blood, and Jin Guangyao had even helped stitch him up a few times when an enemy’s blade had struck true and the doctors were busy elsewhere – so Nie Mingjue wasn’t sure what was drawing his interest this time.

Normally, he would have asked.

Normally, he would have gotten angry at the presumption, less because of the violation of social norms than because he was embarrassed, and when he was embarrassed he got angry. That was his temperament, the way he’d been raised, always defaulting to anger instead of other, less comfortable emotions, and he’d tried very hard to avoid passing along those habits to Nie Huaisang. He hoped one day to see Nie Huaisang teaching children of his own with new habits, different habits – for his little brother to scold him for being a bad example to the younger generation, for him to have a reason to try harder to be better.

He couldn’t ask now, and there was no point in being angry. Or embarrassed, for that matter.

Jin Guangyao’s hand came to his shoulder, and then slid down to his chest, the pressure of his fingers light and barely present. There was nothing sexual or threatening in the gesture, simply curiosity.

“So many new scars,” Jin Guangyao murmured, and Nie Mingjue looked down at his chest: raised red lines all over, old injuries scabbed over and scarred and healing. His cultivation was at such a high level that even scars eventually faded away, but many of these were too new. The marks of a knife, a sword, a whip, the remnants of blunt weapons that hit so many times that they pierced skin, even the indentation of human nails driven in deep…

The worst of it was his left side, right above his ribs, where the knife marks were precise and orderly, triangles of flesh cut like fletching; he had made a habit of not looking at himself there, yet that was where Jin Guangyao’s fingers went.

“How did this happen, da-ge?” he asked, staring, his gaze unnervingly intent. “Who tried to skin you alive?”

Nie Mingjue didn’t understand the question. He pointed at Jin Guangyao.

“What?” Jin Guangyao asked, not understanding. “Do you want me to get you something?”

Nie Mingjue shook his head. He pointed again, this time at his side at the place he preferred not to think about, and then once again at Jin Guangyao himself.

Jin Guangyao stared back at him, blank for a moment until he understood, and then he visibly flinched. “Me?” he said, his voice rising an octave. “No, I didn’t –”

It hadn’t been him directly, no, but the person who had done it had been his student – had boasted about being trained by Wen Ruohan’s chief torturer, the inventor of all those terrible machines that they’d heard rumors of, some of which they’d brought out to show him through intimate demonstration – the sick feeling in Nie Mingjue’s stomach when he’d found Meng Yao standing above him, smiling, and realized that the person that had been spoken of was him…

It might as well have been him that did it.

“I hadn’t realized,” Jin Guangyao said. His fingers had fallen to the edge of the tub, holding on until his knuckles were white. Anger, Nie Mingjue thought with the experience of a connoisseur, but he didn’t understand why it would make Jin Guangyao angry. “They shouldn’t have touched you. They weren’t allowed –”

Nie Mingjue didn’t especially want to hear any more of Jin Guangyao’s excuses – there were always excuses, he’d found, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t forgiven him for it already, or did Jin Guangyao think that he’d sworn brotherhood for nothing? – so he closed his eyes and let himself sink down into the water until it was over his head.

It was peaceful under the water, disconnected from the rest of the world. He didn’t have to think about Jin Guangyao ordering his torture and then covering it up, or maybe even ordering them not to do it but not keeping close enough watch to prevent it; he didn’t have to think about all the people that Jin Guangyao couldn’t use, the ones that didn’t get the benefit of such an order.

He didn’t have to think about all those feet kicking his Baxia like she was a dog they wanted to put down, or Meng Yao holding her in his hands and asking him how many slaps he thought it would take until she shattered the way Jiwei had shattered, or the invitation to go night-hunting at Lanling that led him straight to a demon that knew exactly where to strike –

Baxia was fine, he reminded himself. Fine.

Hands abruptly appeared in front of his eyes, bursting into the underwater scene in a frenzy of bubbles, catching him around the shoulders and pulling him up into the air to see Jin Guangyao’s white face and hear him shouting, “Are you mad, staying under for so long?! You’re not a fish; you can’t breathe water!”

Nie Mingjue blinked at him.

“You’re no Jiang sect child of the river,” Jin Guangyao scolded. “What’s wrong with you? Do you not want to live anymore?”

(“Stop stalling and get me my saber!” his father roared, his hand lashing out too quick for Nie Mingjue to avoid, the full-force blow sending him staggering and breaking something inside of him in more ways than just the physical. “Do you not want to live anymore?”)

Nie Mingjue missed the water already.

Jin Guangyao’s fingers tightened on his shoulders. “You’re not allowed to go, da-ge,” he said. “Not when I just realized that I want to keep you around.”

Nie Mingjue shook his head, realizing that Jin Guangyao had misunderstood his silence. It wasn’t that he wanted to die, he wouldn’t do that to Nie Huaisang, but that sometimes he didn’t know if he would be able to stay.

Baxia was fine – wasn’t she?

“Just don’t move, all right?” Jin Guangyao huffed, and settled down behind him. He found some soap and began scrubbing at Nie Mingjue’s skin as if he were a piece of laundry, although he didn’t use enough pressure for it to actually hurt. The repetitive movements were soothing, lulling him to relax – especially when Jin Guangyao, grumbling something about stress, jabbed him repeatedly in certain acupoints to force his muscles to release stored-up tension – and after a little while Jin Guangyao stopped being so rough.

“Huaisang was right,” he said after a while, having shifted over to running his fingers through Nie Mingjue’s hair as if he were a child, carefully detangling each knot he encountered. “You really are acting far too nice. Shouldn’t you be scolding me for overstepping?”

Nie Mingjue shook his head lightly, careful not to jostle Jin Guangyao’s hand.

“No? Then something else, surely. Where’s your anger, da-ge?”

Nie Mingjue looked down at his hands, his saber hand instinctively curling up to grasp a hilt that was no longer there. It looked wrong to see them like this, empty.

(“Where is my saber?” his father cried out. “My saber – my saber!”)

He wasn’t his father.

That he would die of a qi deviation, die young, years before his time – this he had accepted. But he would not die the way his father died, angry, lashing out at all the ones he loved most, not if he could do anything about it.

Maybe in the future, when he lost himself fully, he would become a resentful ghost in human flesh, a raging monster fit only for slaughtering – if his thoughts themselves had already begun to lie to him, to drip poison into his ears and into his heart, if despite everything Baxia was actually gone and he was already dead and he just hadn’t realized it yet –

For as long as he could manage, Nie Mingjue wouldn’t let himself be angry.

Did he still doubt Jin Guangyao? Yes, of course. But what good would it do to suspect him now? If he tried to accuse him, even he wouldn’t believe his own testimony.

(“- they say your father died of rage –”)

“Come on, then,” Jin Guangyao said, coaxing him like a child, and his hands as he helped him out of the bath were almost gentle. “I’ve got you some new robes. I’ll help you into them.”

Nie Mingjue caught his hand.

“Da-ge? Do you want something?”

My saber. Where is my saber?

He shook his head and let Jin Guangyao help him back to the bed. He sat heavily there and stared at his hands as Jin Guangyao wrapped him in a new set of robes – his own, he thought, but he couldn’t tell if it was the extra set he’d brought with him to Lanling or if it’d been brought from the Unclean Realm.

Was there enough time for someone to come from the Unclean Realm? They had smiths there, and forges –

Where is my saber?

He stared at himself in the mirror, Jin Guangyao lingering behind him, and closed his eyes.

Like all cultivators, especially good cultivators, Nie Mingjue had a very good understanding of his spiritual energy, the way his qi moved through his meridians and settled in his dantian. He felt it every time he cultivated. His spiritual energy was drained dry right now, but if he really pushed and strained himself, he could squeeze up a small droplet of qi and guide it through the whole cultivation sequence. He could watch it carefully, wait for it to hit the place where he connected with Baxia – where he could feel her, echoing back at him. Intact.

She was fine.

She was.

She had to be.

Nie Mingjue felt someone start to braid his hair and frowned a little: perfect memory or not, he didn’t think Jin Guangyao knew the right braids. There were very subtle nuances to the ones he wore, significant ones; copying another version of his own hairstyle might be making a grievous error. He’d been wearing war-braids almost the entire time they’d known each other, after all…

He opened his eyes.

It wasn’t Jin Guangyao behind him.

“Welcome back, da-ge,” Lan Xichen said. His eyes were red around the edges, as if he’d been crying, or trying very hard to keep from doing so. “How are you feeling?”

Empty, lost, afraid – oh, Xichen, I’m so very afraid –

“Huaisang said to tell you that if you don’t stop doing whatever it is that’s keeping your qi drained, he’ll lock your spiritual energy away,” Lan Xichen said after a few moments, when it became clear that Nie Mingjue wasn’t going to respond. “And I have to say, I agree with him.”

Nie Mingjue lowered his head, feeling guilty. He shouldn’t be causing them any more worry than they already had – Nie Huaisang’s eyes were never empty of tears, and it was all his fault.

“You need your spiritual energy to recover if you want to heal,” Lan Xichen said. His hands did not falter as he made the braids – the right ones, too, a sect leader at peace who was in temporary retreat due to ill health. “And you will heal, da-ge. We’ll do everything that we can to help you.”

Nie Mingjue’s shoulders slumped. That was a familiar refrain by now, and his eyes drifted down in the mirror in front of him to look at Liebing, tucked away in Lan Xichen’s belt as always – Lan Xichen would want him to meditate while he played, no doubt. As far as Nie Mingjue knew, there was no guqin here for him to play Clarity, but there were other songs available.

“I’ve asked Wangji if he would play something calming for you, if you think it would help, but I won’t force you,” Lan Xichen said, and Nie Mingjue raised his eyes to meet his in the mirror, surprised. His old friend tried to smile but didn’t quite succeed. “I’m not entirely up to doing it myself, I’m afraid. Liebing requires perfect control of breath, and I’m…”

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them once more.

“Do you know how much I’d miss you, da-ge?” he asked, voice low. “How much emptier my life would be without knowing that you were there? And not just me – all of us.”  

Nie Mingjue didn’t know what to say.

“There’s Huaisang, of course, but you know that. Your sect, your family…even A-Yao has been unusually upset about the idea of something more happening to you, he was engaging Nie Zonghui in a conversation about the defenses in place here in the event someone tried something last I saw. Wangji dropped everything to come rushing here when I wrote to him, and – you’ll never believe this – Wei Wuxian himself followed him here, asking about your health.”

Wei Wuxian? Here, so close to Lanling? That was a terrible idea.

“He’s being careful,” Lan Xichen assured him. “He went with Wangji and Jiang Wanyin to examine the site of the night-hunt – they’re saying it’s suspicious that a demon of that power managed to end up this close to Lanling, especially undetected, with you going in without any warning and the demon targeting you in such a specific way.”

It was suspicious. Also, Jiang Wanyin was here?

“I don’t know how he found out, he just showed up here,” Lan Xichen said. “I think Nie Huaisang might have written to him? Either way, he wanted to help.”

Nie Mingjue’s brow wrinkled.

“If you’re wondering why, it’s because he respects and admires you,” Lan Xichen said. “You helped him so much during the war; he wants to repay you…everyone does. You’ve done so much for all of us.”

Nie Mingjue shrugged. He really hadn’t – he’d only done what he’d need to, nothing more.

“You mean so much to all of us,” Lan Xichen murmured, finishing the braids and putting his hands on Nie Mingjue’s shoulders. “Oh, da-ge. Please hold on for us.”

(He thought of how his father looked at the end, gurgling on his own blood, red seeping out of his eyes and ears and nose as well and looking almost relieved to be going – relieved that his endless nightmare would finally come to an end, that he could rest at last in his grave…)

Nie Mingjue nodded and ducked his head to hide the tears brimming in his own eyes.

He’d stop checking, he promised silently. Baxia was fine, he thought, or maybe she wasn’t, but he hadn’t yet lost his mind, hadn’t yet started lashing out, and all those he loved were here by his side, ready to support him and help him however they could, if they could.

He would need to have faith.

He was still afraid, terribly afraid, but – he would, he could, rely on others to help support him, when he couldn’t support himself.

They wouldn’t let his anger eat him alive, and so he couldn’t let his fear do the same.

Nie Mingjue raised his hand and covered one of Lan Xichen’s with it.

He licked his lips, swallowed.

Forcing himself to speak felt like trying to break the Lan silencing spell, but he had to do it.

“Xichen,” he croaked, voice barely audible. “…Baxia?”

Where is my saber?

Lan Xichen’s hands tightened on his shoulders.

“Repaired,” his friend promised him. “Reforged by the finest spiritual smith in Qinghe. Huaisang is on his way to bring her to you now.”

Nie Mingue smiled.

A shichen later, Nie Huaisang pressed Baxia’s hilt into his hand, expression worried, all of them worried, all of them staring at him to see what would happen as he held his saber and carefully pressed some little, tiny part of the spiritual energy he’d been saving up into her.

Baxia sang out her song, bright and clear and unblemished, full of righteousness and rage.

Nie Mingjue closed his eyes and wept in relief.

She was fine.

[chipper-smol]

Hollow Knight Telephone Round Two: Pale Jester Chain 1

Prompt: PJ finds himself alone with the Grimmchild after the bug who finished the ritual abandons the Grimmchild charm

By @alaska-ren-works​

“Oh, the red casts great and terrifying spells Ones which no one knows The drums go bang and the bats ignite ‘Lo and behold a toad!”

The Pale Jester hummed to the beat of his steps, the atmosphere of King’s Pass having a little color now, PJ thinks. Little taps from crawlids and squawks of vengeflies adding a little harmony to his cheery bells. Ah, to have an orchestra of his own to play and dance to. Never the mind, there’s always his friends he could sneak away with. He’s sure Brumm wouldn’t mind if he borrowed him and his accordian. Brumm was always a lovely companion with his somber mood. Hm, now if only he could remember where he left his lute he’d be on his way to play with the troupe.

The jester paused when mued noise echoed from a tunnel above. Shrugging, his bells jingled as he scaled the stone up and up while wondering what this little mystery was. A statue of a great bug with red eyes a-plenty loomed from the jester's place on the edge, guarding over a single opened chest. The noise echoed from its hollow depths.

A grub? It must be. Unless something else can make such high-pitched sounds.

The jester jingled quietly to the chest, preparing a little song to cheer the poor sap out. Who would leave a child in a desolate place such as this?

He'd have a word with the young one's parents. A strongly worded one at that. If he had a child, he would never abandon them when they needed him most.

Indeed. You have done far, far worse. Strange. Is the wind howling voices? What a peculiar land this is.

The sound whimpered louder and at this the jester froze. It couldn't be. No, of course not. Master had made sure the bug was to be trusted. They would never... They would never do such a thing...!

He hurried and his claws dug into the chest's metal. His heart stopped when he saw what, or who, was inside. The black gleaming horns. The scarlet flame stuttering under glassy eyes.

No.

"Grimmchild?"

A stuttered whimper his only reply.

How dare that excuse of a life betray our child.

Grimmchild did not respond when the jester picked them up, cradling them in his puy-sleeved arms. Dark red stained their cheeks. Dark, sorrowful red.

"Child," he gently cooed, frowning when they hardly moved their head. "How long were you left here?"

No reply. What have they done to you?

“Let’s go home, little one. I am certain you are tired after your long adventure,” he sang with restrained tones, his fury marbled with his grief for this little one. "I have a few tricks I want to show you! Made them perfect while Brumm learned how to juggle. He's not the most dexterous of us all but perhaps one day he can handle flaming darts! What fun that would be!"

No reply.

The Jester trembled with every rocking of his arms for the child. He remembered how the child laughed and beamed when the bug took them to gather the scarlet flames. The child sang with such glee at the bug's performance with the master. The child grew more brilliant with every step this bug took with them down to the kingdom's last flame.

Come to think of it, he had not seen the bug once the heart was defeated. ... No.

"O, child," the jester piped. Taking one step, a stalactite fell from above. His hand moved on its own and in moments, the rock turned to powder under his clenched fist. The child merely curled in his arms, eyes dimming to a close. "Child, you need rest! Once you wake, you'll be in such a lovelier place with the most delightful of games to play with!"

That... fiend... left the child when the ritual was over? Like a mere toy to be buried once play time ends?

That abomination will pay. For every tear this child shed.

Every. Damned. One.

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By @lametinkerer​

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By The Grimm Chronicler

At first, it was easily muffled by all the noise outside. Then he heard it. A thud, a sudden cry of desperation.

Investigating at the source, there he found it, hidden away within a small chest. A child. A weeping, frightened child, clinging to his robes so tight and desperately as though the mere mention of legging go could mean that they would return to the chest and be trapped once again. 

"Oh, child..." The Jester whispers. "Who could do something like this to you? How long have you been there?" Questioned the Jester, though he knew he'd receive naught but silence. Embracing them as gently as possible, he rocked them evenly back and forth until they stilled, having given in to slumber.

His investigation has proven itself to be quite uncomplicated. Within no time, he found out about the child's former guardian and how they were so utterly left aside to simply rot away in the confines of an ornate chest in a secluded area. The mere thought brought forth despicable, hideous emotions he never thought himself capable of experiencing.

Anger. Pure, unbridled anger.

He swore that he'd find the one responsible for this sick malevolence and bring them to justice. Mayhaps even the Master would offer his aid. It mattered little whether he did so or not, the Jester sought naught but to seek out the evil being and he would do so relentlessly. He promised that. As he held the child in his hands, their crimson eyes staring innocently at the funny man with a strange makeup and even stranger outfit and pointy prongs on his head, they giggled at the sight. "That abomination shall pay for every. Single. Tear you ever shed. I shall see to it. They will not go unpunished for such atrocity."

The Jester brought them closer to him, closing his eyes. They giggled at the contact, embracing him back.

"I promise you."

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By @lagt-duck​

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By @al-the-frog​

the unexpected isn’t always desirable

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By @largeegg​

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By @wasabi-arts​

The audience departed, the stage left empty, not a sound. Usually Brumm’s pleasant tune filled the halls draped in red with faint echoes of the notes, but tonight remained silent. It wasn’t often the bug was left with the distinct lack of noise, with no joke to entertain himself or company to keep. All that greeted him was the faint whispers of an audience no more, the spirits that haunted the troupe.

And to think at first you loathed him- a creature created by the king of all nightmares after humiliating your very existence as the king’s little fool. However. . now? You feel pity for him while you watch the jester in red with his head in his hand, sitting on the edge of the stage. He’s weighed by a misery he can’t understand, memories he’ll never recall, all in a world through the holes of a stice striped mask. The stamp of the Grimm Troupe.

On the stage, the jester just stared at something in one of his hands, round and white. Normally, it's something you’d dismiss- perhaps a relic spawning a curiosity that would be short lived- but the curled carving, the white charm shape- it was unmistakable. Something that he and his wife had once shared, then split in two- was suddenly regained.

Several emotions filled your mind as you, in your ghostly shadow of self that remained trapped in the nightmare realm bound by a red string, inched closer to your physical counterpart. The kingsoul. Last you remembered- no, last you knew you held it on your cold dead corpse in the palace long since gone, hidden within a lingering dream. The other half was to your wife, if she even still considered you as much after everything you had done.

Tears ran down his face while he laughed, unaware of the peeking figure standing by the entrance- Grimm, though not the one bound by nightmares. Though the cloaked one’s look of pained sympathy wasn’t where your interest lay.

“Ah. . . .h . a . . ha h.” He laughed through tears, some falling on the kingsoul he held in his hand. “Isn’t this hilarious- laughing over a rock!”

He cringes at calling it such a thing as you do, staring with a mix of disgust and sadness, watching the red flame’s reflection flicker in the charm. The broken crown even seemed to sag even more, a dinky replica of what you yourself once were.

“Did-” A pause from the fool sitting on the edge of the stage- his stage that was built for him in this troupe of misfits. “Did she give this to me to make me cry? Hah-ha! M-Maybe it has a crying effect.”

Your annoyance and anger switched into a deep sadness, watching your counterpart laugh through tears, tears of which he knew not where the source was.

“That’s not what that is-” You say to no one, letting out a sigh as you turn away, responding to a world that wouldn’t hear you regardless. “You won’t know, and I doubt anyone would tell.”

The jester and the peeking Grimm didn't respond, as you expected. Though, finally your counterpart peeked up, catching the taller, monstrous bug in a spare glance. In an instant he hopped up on his feet, charm in hand, greeting the master of the troupe with four open arms- the charm in one.

“H-Hello hello!” He cheered, voice cracking through his tears, the unfamiliar sense of deja-vu crippling his very being. He bowed. “Why, my performance as long since ended, but if my master himself wants another show- then I shall prepare for one-!”

“That is not needed, dear Jester.” Grimm said simply, waving a hand to pause the jester’s actions, finally deciding to enter the room. “While I do enjoy a good show- I didn’t wish to disturb your thought.”

“Thought. . ?” The jester questioned, stature changing from fun to a distinct slouch. You huff- and he looks in your direction, though he doesn’t see you. You’re merely a shadow haunting this jester’s mind. Soon enough his focus drifted back to the round object in his hand. “Ah.”

“Are you feeling alright-”

“Splendid! I am doing fantastically, Master!” He exclaimed as you scowled. Master- what a disgraceful word for a wyrm to call such a makeshift god. Though he’s not a wyrm, nor are you. Not anymore. “I have just been given a cute little charm by a fair lady deep within the gardens. Well- half of it! The beauty said I had the other half, haha!”

Grimm cocks his head, in worry and curiosity, making you wish your counterpart- the one born for the stage and as a mockery of yourself- wasn’t nearly as tone-deaf.

“Hm, you had the other half, she said?” Grimm asked, moving closer to the jester.

“Why, yes! And you’ll never believe where I found it- in some dark little place deep below. How odd!” Grimm let out a ‘hrm’ in response as he spoke.  “Found it on a corpse of all things- a hollow shell of armour! Don’t you find it curious, Master?”

“Hmm- that is quite odd. What do you plan to do with it?”

You watch the jester flinch in a rather odd fashion at the question.

“Well- I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll hang it on to it- or perhaps I’ll wear the darling little thing! Maybe it will help me cry on command, wouldn’t that be hilarious?” Silence. A long, agonizing silence greeted both for a moment, the red flame glittering in the dark room. All these tents had for light were shades upon shades of red- you quite hated the color.

“I suppose it is.” Grimm said, extending out a hand. Long, bony, black. He seemed to lack a lot of the segmentation that typical bugs had. “Why don’t you allow me to hold on to that until you decide what to do with it? We certainly don’t need such a thing getting sawed in half during one of your splendid performances!”

“Why- of course, Master! If you would like it- who am I to refuse such a request!” He hummed back, reaching out to give it to the taller bug. The action disgusted you. Giving away such a precious charm that was your’s and no one else’s, let alone to that made your blood boil.

“Are you going to let go?”

You turn, finding that the jester hadn’t let away his grip of the carved white stone. In fact- it was almost like he couldn’t.

“I--I apologize, Master. I feel like. . . I don’t want to let it go? That’s not very funny, though! Ha-ha! I-”

“Then you can keep it.” he said, the slight smile of his pointed teeth not hidden under his collar for once. “It is yours- so you will do with it what you wish.” The Pale Jester turned his gaze from Grimm to the charm once more, turning it in his hands once. Twice. “However, let’s not focus on that- you have a grand show tomorrow, and I would love to view it from the audience this time around.” He turned to leave with a bow. “I expect an even grander performance than before! ANd I am greatly looking forward, my dear Jester. Have a pleasant night.”

“Goodnight, Master.”

And with Grimm gone, you look back on your counterpart, giving a joyful wave with a solemn, sad expression on his face. The charm lay loosely in his hand. And for once, you wonder what he was thinking in that separated mind of his as he left the stage.

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By @ded-lime​

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By @vivifrage​

The wyrm was in tears.

In times like these, it was even harder to remember that the broken, warped Jester dancing around the Troupe’s grounds used to be these lands’ god-king. Cold. Stoic. Unfeeling, many claimed. Ruled by and ruling over pure logic and calculation.

Easily enough disproved with sufficiently annoying input; Grimm’s own memories trotted out tales of delighting in that knowledge over and over. The wyrm was a stick in the mud, a hardass, arrogant and prim and so fun to bother until he was literally incandescent with anger he’d deny up and down and up again.

Yet here the wyrm stood, muddied white carapace given a pink cast from the tent’s fabric all around, tears still slicking the black tracks in his mask, giving them an obsidian shine. And for the life of him, Grimm couldn’t feel that spark of delight in seeing the pale bastard showing some kind of emotion.

(The Heart certainly could, but its smug pulse felt oh-so-alien versus this dismal thing dampening all the rest of his core more thoroughly than any rain could soak an eternally-burning god.)

He couldn’t quite bring himself to a smile, even a polite one, when the Jester hopped over, something clutched tight in one hand. He settled for an inquisitive look, a soft tilt of the head, eyes alert and bright, hands raised in greeting.

The Jester waved back, in that brief moment as cheery and oblivious as ever. But the moment passed, and he hesitated, hands sinking back against his sides, the closed fist kept close to his collar.

Whatever he held, he pressed it to the lower third of his mask, be it in hesitance or reverence.

Or both.

Grimm let him take his time.

It was the least he could do, really. For the both of them. The wyrm to find his words, Grimm to settle the dread rising in his throat. That rather particular sort of dread, too, that one that anticipated an ugly, ugly task.

“Master?” the Jester asked at last, “May I tell you a story?”

“Of course,” Grim said. It was not a lie. It felt like it was.

“Well, once upon a time, there was a- a-” He clicked his fingers together. “Something bright, almost shining. Resplendent. White, white as snow or ash or death. A tree! No, a tree’s root. And she had crystals for eyes, but they’ve long clouded.

“And in exchange for a laugh, a smile, and a goodbye, she told the funniest tragedy. One of two lovers who saw in each other the world, and whose deeds drove them apart. She gave me a token of their story, of their love, and told me to do with it as I will.”

He opened his fist.

Cradled in his palm was half a charm. White, a colder color than even pale ore, so white and with such a sheen that it seemed to cast the tent in winter tones, the most direct reflections twinkling like evening stars. All save for a black stripe cutting across the face, through the hole of the eye, dug through the detail in the same way the marks on the Jester’s and Grimm’s own masks featured their otherwise plain faces.

Grimm’s stomach dropped. He clenched his jaw to keep it from hanging open. Deep within his chest, the Heart sang in shock, confusion, and uncertainty.

That was wrong.

That was so, so very wrong. In so, so many ways. In ways the Jester could not know.

His eyes traced the mark from halved forehead to fractured jawline. That should not be there. It never should have been in the Jester’s hands but that should not be there-

The Heart swallowed his burst of flame-hot anger, echoed it back with the roar of a furnace.

Grimm put on a polite face. It just so happened to bare his teeth.

The wyrm continued.

“Personally, what I would like to do is mug the other half of the other lover’s no-good corpse!” He twittered with laughter in a way the dour king never would have. The sound just made his carapace crawl. “Ah, but that would require finding it, and the Ritual has us so busy, Master. It must be a matter for later fools.

But, in the meantime, I don’t- It hurts. Such a story. It’s cliché, is it not? The doomed lovers? I could tell you six like that with my tongue tied, and I’m sure you could tell me twelve right back, and we’d both laugh at how silly they all are, to think their love could ever be enough. Perhaps it’s something about holding this little trinket but-” He closed his fist again, held it to his throat. When he spoke, his voice was choked, and he pressed two hands to his temples, another two covering his mask. “The sight of her stung my eyes and I drank her words as sorrowful wine, and now my tears fall and my tongue bleeds in all the pretty reds-”

“Jester?”

The wyrm stared at the waiting hand Grimm held out between them, eyes slowly rising to meet his. There was a spark in there, shadowed behind those vacant carvings in the mask, something bright and cold staring back at him. He smiled at it, and let the chill sink into his teeth.

“If it upsets you so, may I hold it for a time? For your respite, of course. I seek no undue pain from my people, and perhaps I could look into this local legend myself, so we could discuss it together. Besides, it is quite the curious artifact, and I would love a closer look.” His hand bobbed, palm up and curved into a perfect receptacle for the little broken charm.

(Well, not perfect. Only two beings in the world had ever had hands for that.)

Wordlessly, the Jester handed it over. It clinked into Grimm’s hand, its weight off-balance in a way that itched at his mind. And, for everything he knew it was, it struck him as so mundane. Like there should have been something to it, holding a wyrm and a root’s wedding charm. Even half of it. But rather, the thing felt…

Dead, it felt dead.

Comatose, at best.

(Or worst.)

(He glanced back at the Jester. The spark had faded from his eyes, replaced with mellow-warm embers.)

(The Heart thudded its relief.)

“Thank you,” he said, and stepped back.

The Jester blinked, visible only as the slightest hint of eyelids moving behind the mask. He stared at his empty palm, touched the tracks of his mask and rubbed the lingering wet he found. “Was I upset?”

He stared up at Grimm, searching his face. “What was I upset about?”

Grimm offered only a shrug before he turned away, and left the Jester standing alone.

“Brumm,” he muttered, clasping the other bug’s shoulder as he passed by, “Prepare a fire. I must commune.”

Brumm hummed in that low, doubtful way he always did when he sensed Grimm was up to something he ought not to ask about directly. “Are you sure you can’t rest for it? I’d not blame you a moment’s respite.”

Grimm paused, reached back, took his wrist and squeezed it gently. “I know. But I must be of clear mind for this.”

His thumb rubbed the halved charm, stroking up and down the new line carved into its face. The Jester’s story turned over in his head, biting in like a sliver of carapace caught between the teeth.

The dread grew sour.

This could not go on.

The Jester didn’t come to dinner. An odd happening; his appetite easily rivaled Divine’s, and he knew it had been suppressed. Allegedly for how recognizable a wyrm trait that was. But also, the Troupe only had so much in their stocks.

Still, a Troupe member in poor state was a Troupe member in poor state, and Grimm sought him out.

He wasn’t hard to find, exactly. Easier than it used to be by far. The Jester was loud, extroverted, and flashy. But even in his quiet moments, he had a pull to him.

No matter his background, though, Grimm should not have found him in the first tent he checked, hidden away under the first curtain he got a suspicious feeling from.

The Heart sank, staring at the Jester’s back as he curled up, sobbing into his hands. Something was going horribly, horribly wrong. The Jester was the dancing fool the wyrm had shown himself to be, that was all. If he cried, it was when something got too close, and Grimm had told the Grimmkin to ensure he stayed very clear of anything that could trigger that again.

Grimm sunk to the floor beside him, letting the curtain fall back into place. It brushed his back, the fabric thick and heavy, and absorbed everything but their breaths and the sound of the wyrm’s sobbing.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, with all the fireplace warmth he could muster. His hand ghosted against the Jester’s back, bumping over the rings dangling where wings once laid.

(Going back up, stroking again, this time pressing harder, he swore he felt slight swells where the buds should have been burned out.)

“I don’t know.” Desperation bit through the wyrm’s voice, through all the tears and despondence. He shuddered, sucked in a raspy breath. “I don’t-”

He turned his face away, pressing his knuckles into his eyes. He keened, the low sound of a hurt creature, kept close and intimate by all the fabric they’d hidden in.

Grimm just rubbed his back, and let him find the words.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have. Perhaps he should have taken a more directorial role in this two-bug production, and told the Jester what was going on, what his poor soul ought to be feeling. How he was new to the Troupe, and some of the changes took time to settle in, he would be fine. Most everyone had been upset for at least one Ritual, especially their first, and sometimes it was hard to place those feelings, wasn’t it? It would pass, it would get better, it meant nothing, really. Not in the long run.

And, if his memory ran long, that sometimes stories just struck a chord, but he need not be upset at simple trinkets and tragic stories with doomed lovers. They were all so silly, weren’t they? Thinking that, in the end, their love would matter.

Why, he ought to set all of it out of mind, and come to dinner. Surely he was hungry?

His tongue laid still, his mouth stayed shut.

“I- I miss- I don’t know. Someone? Something? I don’t know. I can’t find them, they’re slipping through my hands every time I reach. But Master-” His voice broke, cracking into a plaintive cry. He clutched at his chest, hands pawing uselessly at the fabric over his heart. “It hurts.”

Grimm clucked his tongue and cooed. His arms wrapped around the Jester, drawing his form, at once limp to his touch and much too tense, close, until he tucked him against his chest. Head held to heart, listening to its steady beat. All four arms wrapped around his abdomen, knees bumping against his thigh, while Grimm held him and drew his wings from their resting place to wrap around them, shielding the Jester even further from the world beyond.

“I’ve got you,” he purred. The side of his jaw brushed against the wyrm’s horns. “I’ll make it better.”

The Jester shifted in his arms, head tilting up til Grimm found himself cradling its back. When he stared down to meet his eyes, he found that spark staring back, cold as ice and with just as sharp an edge. “How?” he asked.

It could have been a coincidence. A slip of the tongue, the familiarity in how he spoke, with a voice like a lone gust of wind trailing through a cavern. The weight to just that one word, the melancholy it steeped in.

Grimm fought the chill clawing at his back to give him a smile. Gently, he rested the wyrm’s head against his chest again, where the Nightmare Heart beat. “A nightmare feels so very real, does it not? As false as it may be?”

(Again, the sickly sweetness of a lie on his tongue.)

The Jester hummed. After a moment, he snuggled close, full body up against Grimm’s, cool against the Troupe Master’s warmth. “I guess.”

“Take your respite, Jester. Let me care for you.” He leaned back as far as he could, letting the Jester’s weight rest on him. “Then we can get dinner, yes? I bet you’re hungry.”

“Oh!” The Jester’s hand curled against his stomach. “Yes, that would be good. But… a moment, first. To catch my breath.”

“Of course.”

Forgetting was the greatest kindness he could offer the Jester, and the cruelest punishment the wyrm deserved. Let his troubles slip his mind. Let him cry and wail for things he didn’t know, acting out grief for the horrors he didn’t know he committed.

But there was not supposed to be such a gouge in the Kingsoul’s face. There was not supposed to be that soul behind his eyes. There were not supposed to be stories of beautiful roots or jokes about horrible wyrms. There were not supposed to be wing buds in the Jester’s back. The side of him that resided within the Nightmare was not supposed to have such a strain in its voice, nor was he supposed to feel the snap of spellwork.

Something was going wrong.

And all he could do was watch and try to stuff the wyrm back into the Jester’s shell.

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

By @artisticdragons​

[herstarburststories]

He didn’t make it to 42

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: it’s Dean’s birthday, you go to visit him with some news and things that need to be said.

A/N: Happy bday, De.

Warnings: so much angst, mentions of sex, hopeful/happy ending (?)

Dean’s dead. It’s Dean’s birthday and he’s dead. You can’t argue much.

Sam denied the demon blood inside him, and that didn’t stop its evil nature from growing and gasping for his fresh air to the point he was almost shocked alive. Dean denied his dad’s destructive methods’ results for the longest time, and that didn’t stop the cicatrixes in every emotion he had ever shown. You denied the absence of Dean and that didn’t stop the bricks cracking in your soul. There’s only so far you can go with your eyes closed.

So here you are. Standing in front of an empty grave. You are bigger than the dull tombstone, yet you can’t help but not to feel tall, at all. How can you even start to talk? Talking to Dean used to be easy even when it got hard and now you’re feeling like a lost kid in a supermarket. Your snide thinking spells out his name with venom, saying it isn’t easy for you to open your barmy mouth and spill out contrarian shit because this isn’t Dean, just another meaningless symbolism that Sam promises that will help. The real Dean died almost a year ago, he was burned in a hunter’s funeral, the flames dancing over his body as the smell of burnt meat invaded your nostrils. Whenever you try to remember his fragrance, that manly aroma which you loved to scent each morning, all your brain can come up with is the odor of his skin and guts burning. The smell lingers like bad perfume, it doesn’t matter how many times you wash yourself with his soap-- that only broke your heart worse.

But today is Dean’s birthday. He deserves a visit, even if it’s not him. Then you go and attempt to deal with the desolation, push it away just a little, and pick up something from the enormous pile of things you wish to tell Dean. You glance at the cold tombstone: Dean Winchester. 1979 - 2020. Beloved son, big brother, and husband. Hunter. A hero. Simple definitions that can never make it up for who he was and what he meant. You purse your lips and cough a little, a gentle wind touches your cheek so tenderly. If you were still a believer, you’d think this is some sort of sign, Dean’s presence or some other pious hoax. All you do now is to remain in quietude, a deep breath. Ultimately, your voice comes:

‘’You didn’t make it to forty two, huh?’’ You scoff humorless, reminiscing to the multiple days that Dean said he wouldn’t go past 35. He did live each year like it was the last--- you aren’t sure if it's such a good thing. If you carry on like your days are outnumbered, you are silently entertaining yourself until death's knock on your door. ‘’I always hated when you were right. Let’s be honest, you had the words of a pessimist and the wants of an optimist. Still, if you were to be right about something, it would be about a bad situation. A nest with too many vampires, how crappy the motel’s bedroom would be, or how that third glass of wine would make me tipsy. So yeah, I always hated when you were right. And look at you now! You aren’t right, you aren’t wrong. You are dead! And I’m the crazy girl screaming at an empty tombstone.’’

You let out a laugh empty of joy. That’s how a hunter’s life is: you die and people stop talking about you because it’s too sad or too long gone to hold any pity, meanwhile the ones who recall about you go loud with all the spirits in their heads. You put your hand in the pockets of the heavy leather jacket that once belonged to a green eyed man who would be turning 42 today, some strange force causing you to speak again.

‘’Wow.’’ You shake your head to the blue way you paint the scene until you notice that you never greeted him. ‘’Hey.’’ The simple word adds a comical insult to injury. ‘’Guess the dead don’t care about manners, huh?’’ You arch your eyebrows with a grin that demonstrates anything but happiness. ‘’Miracle died. Sam digged a hole next to the bunker and buried him there. He isn’t the same since you died, you know? Not the deceased dog-- Well, he wasn’t the same either. Always whining and scratching your door like a fucking cat, and sniffing your old boots. He made me company in your bed and I whined as much as he did when you didn’t come back home that day. He stood by the door most days, waiting for you to appear. I can’t judge him, I did the same.’’ You shrug, not caring about how risible that confession may look. It's true. You became as irrational as a loyal dog at some point in this sorrow. ‘’And Sam, your baby brother… I think he died with you right there, Dean. He didn’t try to bring you back as he promised, but I shouted and screamed so much. I said I would burn the bunker and throw Baby over a cliff if he didn’t-- if he didn’t let me try. I lived up to the mad woman title.’’

You are crestfallen, pacing on top of where the eldest Winchester - Sam’s brand new nomination -  supposedly was buried. You know your boots barely touch an infected land, there's no deceased man under your steps. The dead thing is in you.

‘’I spent days dragging your body everywhere and nowhere, anywhere I could catch a crumb of relief in hope to bring you back. But I couldn’t. Jack could, but that ungrateful idiot doesn’t wanna follow his grandpa steps and get too attached to mere humans, the creation or whatever. As if we are just some skin and bone to him, as if you are just another human.’’

You sit down on the tombstone, some tender solace in being close to a thing that's supposed to represent him, like sleeping hugged to a pillow or waking up to a photograph of his. Your nails sink against the gelid concrete at the thought of screaming into the sky for the new God that seemed as deaf as the last one. His calm answer to your burning pain. How he dared to tell you he knew what he was doing— as if he was the original lord and not a three years old. You can't make him do it, so you hold on the fury of some overthrown nation.

‘’Anyway, I couldn’t bring you back. Your body, well, you know how human anatomy works. Your body started to smell like death. We tried to stop with human and magic ways, and it wouldn’t work because you were dead. You should’ve seen the doctor’s face when we got you in that fancy hospital tha night. I think we traumatized the doctor with so much violence and trauma. She didn’t even give us a false hope or anything, you know? She just asked about organ donation of what was left. She just wanted to take every little thing out of you, as if you were just another accident on a Tuesday night.’’ Your shake your head as the memories and your points start to mix, it's hard to discern things and keep a straight line when you have an open wound in your insides. ‘’Well, they couldn’t bring you back to life, and neither could Rowena or whatever I looked for. Don’t be mad because I tried, Winchester. You know I’m too stubborn for my own good. I had to try.’’ you refuse to apologize, yet adds the playful words in his eulogy. ‘’But then your body started to stink and God, how could I continue to be so violent to your corpse? That was when I decided to listen to you for the first time and to Sam, so I let you go. I hate you for asking that.’’ What an ambiguous, contradictory truth to bare. You are glimpses of a person for months because of Dean Winchester, still have the energy to argue his selfless logic, just to love him even more. He's got your devotion, but man you can hate him sometimes. ‘’I hate you for going on that stupid hunt. I hate you for being dead, you giant idiot that I love so much.’’ You can't bring your mouth to say loved. "I was always telling you to let the past go and now I’m in love with a dead thing. What a comic way to end our history. I told you that Miracle died, right? I don’t know if dogs go to heaven, but I hope he’s in there with you. I wonder what your heaven is like. I bet it has Whiskey.''

Your dry chuckle makes your notice the tears in your eyes, glistening your orbs as they go like a waterfall to be absorbed by the thirsty land after leaving your cheeks.

"Sam and I-- We tried to make some sense out of this cruelty, but we can’t. You are dead and I can’t seem to put it past me. I still sleep in your bed, and I can still taste your body burning on the roof of my mouth in the quiet nights. I cried this morning because someone asked for a burger, can you believe that? It was so stupid since I used to shake my head and argue with you about cholesterol. Suddenly I was crying at lunch in a restaurant because some stupid kid asked for a burger with extra bacon. They sang Happy birthday to this dumbass child, and I interrupted with my awful crying, and wished that you were celebrating your birthday and not that kid. I guess you could say I wish death upon an innocent child with a problematic eating routine.’’ That was a whole new level of low, as if you are the one wrapped with the sentiment of laying six feet under.

‘’Everyone tells you about how grief is singular and particular with similar emotions that bring people who went through this together. They even have that crap stages thing and all that. You know what they don’t tell you?’’ Your mouth shuts for a moment, like you are waiting some response. You nod as if whatever you were expecting is handed to you. ‘’Grief can be fucking ridiculous. Who cries because of a burger full of oil and cardiac diseases? Who cries because they found a grocery store recipe under her dead boyfriend’s bed? Who falls on the ground screaming in the middle of the mall because they saw a flannel? Who? Those things are so stupid.’’ You smile like there's no tomorrow and the laugh leaving your lips is a treacherous tone. Perhaps you just aren't build up to express joy anymore. ‘’You see it in the movies and in the books and you think, you know, you think to yourself that grieving is being sad on special dates and randomly remembering the loved ones because of some screaming memory, like a flannel or their perfume. Thing is, it’s not just that. All your body seems so small, so tight for all the ache and agony inside it. Your senses go wild, you are not just one person in one place. You’re just the pain everywhere, like being pulled apart and you beg to jump in the fucking grave with them. At least you would be together, at least you would feel like one person and not suffering edges of a broken earthy thing. And--And you start remembering things you didn’t even know you had mesmerized. I look at the ceiling and remember you saying you’d paint it someday. I look at the kitchen and remember me screaming at you for giving Miracle the rest of the food. I smell Sam’s clothes and started crying because hey, they don’t smell like alcohol. You don’t iron them while drinking anymore, so of course they don’t smell like cheap beer.’’ You are chuckling through the tears and it only makes it more monstrous. ‘’Everything is you now that you are gone. Every man has something similar to you, every garden is green as your eyes, and each step sounds like you are coming home. They didn’t prepare me, not for this.’’ You said breathless. A soft single follows. The knife cuts both ways; the empty breeze and the words hurt. Where's the middle term? Where's the limbo? Where's the only safe place for you to rest your weary head?

Out of nowhere, you blurt out, ‘’I can’t masturbate,’’ I know it’s something stupid and even selfish to say, but I think you’d like to know. I can’t masturbate. That’s a part of the whole losing someone process that people are too ashamed to discuss, or maybe they don’t have the urge to be touched anymore because after someone you love dies, after someone-- the hands who touched are dead and cold, you become a haunted object. That’s how I feel most days, like I’m a haunted house because you touched me and now you’re dead and some days I believe I am too.’’ You look around the places. It's beautiful. It's lonely. It has trees and flowers and green. Not as green as Dean's eyes, but it doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't even have eyes at this point. ‘’Well, I can’t masturbate. I can’t touch myself. And I can’t ask someone else either. I tried and ended up punching the guy, Dean. I swear. I panicked when he was between my legs and just punched his nose. You’d have liked it, you were always the jealous kind. I won’t admit that, but I thought it was kinda hot. Especially when you got possessive in sex.’’ A dirty grin appeared on your lips, the echoes of luxury lasting in your eyes for a brief moment. ‘’I don’t think I can be cared for anymore, honestly. Sam tried to hug me when Miracle died and I… It was like I wasn't there. I got frozen in time, and I live in my sleep. In my nightmares you are alive. I  dream about the day you died every week and I used to wake up screaming, but now those nightmares are the only proof you were alive now that you’re as dead as the police report says this time. It was the most painful, calamitous moment for you and I swear it was a nightmare for me, but then I realized that at least I had you there, egoistical or not, I made my nightmare into a dream.’’ You aren't sure which opinion Dean would have on that. Would he understand? Would he shake his head? You wish you can ask him just this one more thing, just beg him to write it down for you on how to be without him here.

You raise on your feet, glaring at the name craved in the concrete. The tears go by still, although they're as usual as the blood in glir veins at this point. ‘’Death is so silly. What it takes, anyway?" Each word conquers more inches of pure wrath. ''People die because they stumbled on their own feet and hit their head somewhere, or they drove their car too close and too fast to the cliff, or because they were giving birth, or because they dated the wrong person, or because they were hunting a fucking vampire and got impaled. What are the chances? How stupid, and idiotic is death? Always creeping and waiting to bite and chew a piece of you-- Taking every scrap of you from me like that’s its right.’’ You are screaming, starting to kick and punch the tombstone with any piece of straight you have. Your limbs hurt and the blood is visible, but you keep going. ‘’YOUR STUPID DOG DIED, DEAN! AND YOU DIED! AND I DIED! SAMMY DIED! YEAH, IS SAID SAMMY! GO AHEAD, TELL ME ONLY YOU CAN CALL HIM THAT.’’ Another punch, your knuckles are ripped. Another kick, your boot as a hole. ‘’DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.’’ Kick. ‘’SAMMY, SAMMY, SAMMY!’’ A punch to each name. Anything to get a reaction, to get comfort. Anything. ‘’YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOU ARE DEAD.’’ Gasping for something you don't need anymore, sweet oxygen, your eyes are on the tombstone again. And the definitions. And the trees. Your body is sore and aching. It is the kind and coercion no person wants which you needed; the freedom of feeling outside the exact pain that was inside. ‘’You can’t because you are dead. I’ve been playing some sick games in my mind, you know? Sam stopped hunting and had his closure. He was always better at letting go than you and I, but he’s still hurting. I never saw him hurting so much. I think he knows you won’t come back this time, how could you make us promise something like that?  Well, my twisted game is a bunch of misleading what ifs. What if you hadn’t gone after John? What if you hadn’t gone on that last hunt? What if you had stayed with Lisa? At first I didn’t like her much. Jealous, I admit that. But she grew on me. She gave you something I couldn’t back then and I’ll always be thankful for that. And even though it would rip me apart, I’d rather you to die at sixth after living your suburban dream with her. Have another kid besides Ben, maybe a girl this time, and just have that apple pie life. You and Sam would live close and your kids would always play. They’d be as close as brothers. Maybe I’d get a guy and bring my own kids and we could’ve a barbecue and everyone would be happy. But we don’t get soft epilogues here. It ends how it starts, right? Bloody and desperate. I thought maybe, maybe Lisa could understand what’s going through my head now. I drove to her new address and parked close to her house. I must have spent hours there, thinking if I should come in or not, If she somehow remembered after Castiel died or if I could make her brain work again if I told her the truth. But then I just drove back home and fell asleep wrapped in that stupid lumberjack flannel of yours. The one I always mocked, yeah? She may understand me, but I know you wouldn’t want that. You want her, you want me and Sam to be happy. I don’t know if I can do that, Dean. It’s like myt brittle soul shrewd and my body is just waiting to collapse.’’ You signed, overwhelmed by the battle without an anthem. The victory with no triumph. Is it still a win when you don't have someone to come home too? ‘’Your dog died, it’s the first birthday you didn’t live to see, and I bought all the things you told Mrs Butters you wanted for your birthday because it’s your birthday. I just don’t know how to celebrate it with you dead. People stop counting after they die, right? They just say he’d have been 42 or he died at 41. They give melancholy smiles when they wake up and check the day on their phones and a woe atmosphere swallows them for the rest of the day. Then they get better the next day. I think everyday is your birthday.’’ You attempt to wipe away your tears, which only causes your pulsating hand to stain your face red. ‘’Dean, for the first time, what died stayed dead! Congrats.’’ Once again, a hysterical laugh. ‘’I wish but no. What died didn’t stay dead, you are alive, so alive in my head. I swear you are there some days. I wake and watch the door, so sure you’ll come back. Sam says I’m living in delusion and I have to wake up and keep going since that's what you would want. That's enough to make him keep going, but it only makes me angry. Everyone we know and some strangers looks at me like I'm a house on fire and no longer a warm home, like I'm a car accident. They think I don't notice but I do.’’ You look at your boots, the whole is rolling out blood like your hands. You feel closer to Dean. How sick.

‘’Help, I’m still right where you left me." You plea, his love lingering like a bruise. ''I think gravity is overwhelming and it keeps me here. Sometimes it’s like I’m one of those dusted books Sam used to read. Or those Bukowski ones that you hid, so we wouldn’t see how smart you’re. You tried so hard to hide your intelligence because you didn’t think you were entitled to it. You saw yourself as the protector and never the valuable one for protection. You, the man who made an EMF out of an old radio, who rebuilt the Impala from the ground multiple times, and who knew patterns better than any detective. The man who showed me I could rely on someone other than myself. The dude with a lopsided grin, tough hands and a heart of gold. I miss you so much. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were singing all those classic rock songs and Taylor Swift pop hits, while I drove here. I would think you were home, smelling like guts because you wanted to eat before taking a shower after a hunt. I would think that you are in the Deancave, waiting for me to curl up on your lap to watch Scooby Doo or Doctor Sexy MD until we aren’t watching anymore. If I didn’t know better I would think no death could take you from me. There would be no tear us apart in our vows.’’ The only thing that keeps your organism working is that Dean died knowing how much you loved him. You never let this talk for later or never. No tomorrow is promised. That's a nice comfort, maybe that's what will help you to let go in the future. ‘’But yesterday your stupid, skink dog died and I lost the last living thing that I had from you. You know what’s more angerting? I cried and Sam cried and I noticed we were the living things you left behind and all we have is each other. All your closets of backlogged dreams were left for us-- so yeah. Sam is done hunting and he’s met a lovely girl, and they are moving in like in your domestic dreams. I’m taking care of the family business like your other contradictory dream and making sure Sam is safe enough to be normal. Because I have to, we have too. Stupidly enough, I still wait for the day you’ll burst out the door and tell us to hit the road again. I still watch every episode of your dumb tv shows to make sure I’ll know everything that happened when you ask. I still drive around in your car and close my eyes when the street is calm, only picturing you driving as Baby’s engineers go wild but those are my hands on the steering wheel. If I didn't know better, I’d think you are still around. But I know better. I still feel you all around. I love you.’’

Your monologuing ends as astutely as it stated. You get up, press a kiss to your ruined for the next weeks hands and place it on the rock with writings. You turn around and walk back to the car that you parked near, only in case of Dean wanting to see Baby. How knows? You and your clandestine faith. You lick your lip and get in the car.

You swear you the AC/DC cassette wasn't there before, but when you turn on the car and the radio it starts playing. It's the first true smile that comes to your mouth, it's bloodstained and you look like a shameless woman. With that you can deal.

It hurts a bearable hurt for now. You didn't think it was possible. Maybe someday.

The end.

(she takes a little longer to arive in heaven than sammy. his baby brother says that women are most likely to live around six years more than men. it doesn't ease him up, though. dean waited sam for too long, his platonic soulmate. and now he has to wait his romantic one too? the eldest Winchester considers it the best earthly present when the he sense you around, that smell of orange and apples. it's you, he knows before even turning around. he can't wait to love you again. your name rolls off your tongue so naturally, as if you had seen each other just yesterday: ‘’hey, y/n.’’)

But then again, nothing ever really ends, does it?

REBLOG AND COMMENT. Feedback is magic and helps me!

Starburst's footnote: It just didn't feel right to make an author's note on the top. I wanted it all only to be an arrow to the story. So, this is my side note: it's six am and I'm up writing this after inspiration kissed me with a bruise in the middle of the night. Or more like grabbed my throat. Anyway, I had to write and finish this one to post today, even pushing sleep aside. Hey, we are writers, that's what we do! I've been watching the show since I was eleven and I cried like a baby with the finale. This series was just so important and crucial to molde aspects of relationships for me. The song marjorie by Taylor Swift was used here, and so was the line "you got my devotion/ but man, I can hate you sometimes" by Harry Styles. I told you guys I would use it somewhere! A special thanks to @msmarvelouswinchester​ who helped me with her encouraging and opinon. You are the best! And with all of this I wanna say: Happy bday, Dean Winchester!

REBLOG AND COMMENT! Feedback is magic! Especially about this fic, I’d like to know your opinion. Tags in the reblog! Send an ask or dm to get in the taglist.

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Contending the Flame IV

Author’s Note: Hope everyone had a safe and fun Halloween! Not much else to say here as we start to delve deeper into Ivar and the Nuns new relationship and the two different worlds they come from. Thanks as always for being so awesome!

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word Count: 2217

Warnings: Language, Master/Servant dynamic 

His brothers had kept a close eye on Ivar since acquiring his new thrall. He still played at the leader of their army, but he had refrained from shutting them out of power entirely. Any chance they had at lending a commanding voice they took. Hvitserk's strategy of giving their little brother a distraction was paying off.

The changes in Ivar's behavior were minuscule. Only Ubbe and Hvitserk took notice. It was the same when they were children when someone would give a new gift to Ivar. It would be a stretch to say he was happy, but his vengeance had quelled. For the moment it was enough, and they could focus on securing lands for their people while Ivar was preoccupied.

It was strange for a thrall not to be seen waiting over their master's every whim, but it seemed Ivar wouldn't permit you to leave his quarters. The other slaves they had acquired tended to him during meals, and when he walked the streets with his guards, you were always absent. Ubbe walked alongside Hvitserk contemplating this.

"What do you think he has her do for him?" Ubbe wondered aloud.

Hvitserk's brows puckered in thought. "Don't know. I can't imagine they have much to talk about, and I know the one thing they aren't doing."

"What do you mean?"

"C'mon, think about it," Hvitserk jested with a smirk. "I suppose that must make him a good fit for her. She'll remain a virgin after all."

Ubbe latched onto Hvitserk's arm, pulling him to a stop as he gave him a harsh look. "Those are dangerous words, brother. Remember Sigurd. I don't want to see another brother dead because of Ivar's fragile grasp of his anger. He has poor sensibilities when it comes to that matter. It's unfair, but it's not his fault."

Hvitserk shook off Ubbe's grasp and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. "Right, that was stupid. I do pity him, though I don't think he'd want it. Who knows how he'll be when we start having families of our own."

Ubbe grunted. "He'll probably resent us, more than he does already. I think I understand why he keeps her away from everyone. Besides our mother, no one has ever taken to Ivar's company outside of obligation or familial bond. He's lonely."

"And it's not as if she can refuse," said Hvitserk. "But she's a Christian. That's got to account for some strife between them."

They continued on their way towards the center of the city. Food was beginning to run scarce, and it seemed the Saxons were holding steadfast on starving them out. While Ivar was willing to take their army to its limits to play Aethelwulf's game, Ubbe and Hvitserk were devising their own plan to negotiate land. They just needed a little more time. Many things rested in the hands of the nun, as unaware as you were.

"I just hope he hasn't harmed her," Ubbe said while they passed through the market.

Hvitserk looked grim, a heaviness settling on him that had replaced his usual cheer. "Ivar did always break toys. We have to hope that Christian isn't as weak as she looks."

ooOOoo 

You were growing accustomed to your new station. As a woman, it was your lot in life to suffer, and you took your new situation as a test from God. The heathen, Ivar, he had made no bid to harm you. That wasn't to say he was good company to keep. He had taken to trying to instruct you in a handful of words and phrases of his language. Some of the words were difficult to form with your accent, and when you mispronounced things, he would grow irritated and throw things at you. Uttering dark curses in his tongue, you were certain he had insulted you as well, but it was better than a flogging. 

At night you continued to pray, your back to your master, and the words spoken only in your head. You were sure they reached God, even without a rosary in your grasp or the piety to kneel. In your heart, you struggled to keep hope alive. If this test was to be your final judgment from God, its purpose remained clouded to you.

It was late when Ivar returned, and you had remained awake for his arrival. You now slept when he did, short and inconsistent hours of the night, only to be woken before the dawn. He did not rest well. Be it from his duties or pain you could not say, but he never faltered from exhaustion. This pattern must have been his usual routine, life at war.

Ivar's eyes sought you out the moment he came through the door, and you returned the stare. He had only just started walking in his new contraptions, a set of iron braces that he had created from pride. His determination to walk was admirable. You had never witnessed such a fighting spirit before, and you were certain it was a blessing from God.

"Something you wish to say?" Ivar interrupted your thought, a scowl on his face from your lingering gaze on his legs.

"It is a good thing," You said while rising from your corner of the floor. "I believe God has blessed you."

Ivar snorted, blue eyes rolling at your absurdity to insinuate such a thing. He took a slow seat on his pallet of furs and started to remove the braces. "Really, and why would that be?"

"You are not the first cripple I have met, but you are the most assiduous."

You could see him test out the word for himself, a lack of understanding passing over his face. "I'm not sure what that means, but I like how it sounds."

"You have an unrelenting heart. Strong-willed and resolute in your goals. I find you impressive."

He halted what he was doing, and took a long, considering look at you. "I've been this way for as long as I can remember. It is the way if I am to be seen as a true Viking to my people."

"So there are others like you?" You asked as you approached him with careful steps.

"There are not many cripples among my people, no. A child born with a deformity such as mine is left to die. I would have been if not for my mother. She was softhearted, and couldn't bear my loss."

You didn't want to have any strong sort of feelings towards your captor, but to learn that he had been left to die as a helpless babe engulfed you in sorrow. "It isn't wrong for a mother to feel pity for her child," You murmured, showing how distraught you were by such a story. "You don't sound grateful for her mercy."

Ivar's face hardened at your sentiment. "Mercy is for Christians. I would have done the same as my father. I loved my mother, but there are days I resent her for her choice. Her gifts failed to foretell the agony I would endure at the hands of compassion."

"What gifts?"

"She was a Vülva, a woman seeress of our people who has visions of the future."

You frowned at such a concept. "That sounds like sorcery to me."

"I forgot your people fear magic and witchcraft," Ivar said in a teasing tone. "My mother would have hated you. She was too steeped in the beliefs of our own people to have care about your sensitive notions of God. My father would have liked you though."

You blushed at the idea of such a great man holding you in favor. Though you didn't hail from Wessex you had heard the stories of the Viking King who fought for Mercia and befriended King Ecbert. "King Ragnar? Why do you think that?"

"He was often amused and curious about your God. Maybe you would have reminded him of Æthelstan, his Christian monk." Ivar resumed the task of taking off his braces, wincing in pain whenever a particular part pinched or pulled at his legs. "Here, come help me with this."

Startled by such a request, you moved with haste and uncertainty. Ivar showed you which parts to unclasp, and you would mimic his actions with a gentler touch, stopping entirely when he would let out any sound of discomfort. You were certainly slower at the task than if he completed it himself, but he seemed to enjoy watching you work over him, and you were grateful for the distraction. 

"What about your family? Where are your mother and father?" Ivar asked while leaning back on the strength of his arms.

"They're both dead," You said, pausing only a moment to collect yourself before continuing on his braces. "I was born in Rendlesham, in East Angles. My mother was a whore, and I never knew who my father was as a result of that. When she died, I was orphaned to the streets until the church took me in. Being of such low birth standing, I turned to the church as my ray of hope."

You could feel Ivar frowning at you, but you did not waver. "Did you not want to be something more than a nun?"

You breathed a laugh. "Such as what? Saxon women are not allowed to be warriors."

"Yes, but isn't there a way you could have improved your situation?"

"No," You said bluntly. "Blood is everything. Those who are of Royal standing will always be in power, and through marriage, their line continues. The best I could have hoped for was a marriage to a farmer, and he would have to have been a poor one. I would have raised his children, and likely died young from childbirth."

"I see now why you're a nun," said Ivar. When you chanced a look up at him, he appeared troubled by your story. "Those Saxons in power are greedy. They keep all for themselves and give nothing back. What chance is there of an honorable death for those forced to live a life of poverty?"

"If you die without sin, you go to Heaven. We have no need for honor."

"A life without sin," Ivar hummed. "As if any man is capable of such purity."

"A Priest is," You argued back. "It takes a nobleman to obtain such a pious position in the church."

"Is it noble for these men to keep silver and gold in their churches while children run through the streets, no better than dogs?" Ivar had sat forward, his eyes emboldened with the wrath of a demon. "I have seen your noblemen of the cloth, and they died screaming the same as any sinning heathen of mine."

You lost your balance, falling flat on your bottom as you gazed up at Ivar in terror. "What did you do to them?"

"The things I've done to your priests," Ivar paused, a calm washing over him. "It would make Loki grin."

The suffering of your people seemed to fall down on you like a star collapsing from the night sky. When he spoke, you could almost forget that Ivar was your enemy, but he had now made it clearer than ever where the line in the sand was drawn. You were just a slave, a Christian slave, and how soon would it be before he tired of you? You did not wish the same fate to befall you as it had for the priests, whatever it had been.

"I have not dismissed you," Ivar tutted when you began to walk away to your corner, unaware yourself that you had begun to do so. You craved distance from him, even if it was only a few feet away. 

At first, he tried to manage his composure, calling you back with his voice deliberately even. When it became clear that no amount of coaxing on his part would work, he started yelling in his language. That word came up again, 'Ólaug'. It had been peppered into a number of your one-sided conversations. If he had tried to brand you with a new name, you would refuse. He would not take who you were. 

Your fight ended with him throwing one of his crutches at you. It landed just before you, and you were able to contain your flinch. Ivar scoffed at your non-reaction and threw himself back onto the furs. He had finished disrobing and gave you the courtesy of his back, which appeared to be covered in a new etched design each time you saw him. Matched against your own untainted skin, it was a reminder of how different the worlds you came from were.

When you were sure Ivar had fallen asleep, you moved to get under your own thin pile of wool blankets. They were scratchy and held none of the warmth of the furs, but it was not the worst sleeping conditions you had ever weathered. That night you prayed for the lost Priests, and for God to take away your suffering. You didn't see a way out of your situation, but if God acted through you, you were certain to find your answer. Content to keep faith in your heart, Sister Mary Catharine slept, ignorant to the matter that Ivar was awake and watching you.

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[seb-owns-these-tatas]

Witcher of the Night (Chapter 21)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

CHAPTER 20.1

WOTN MASTERLIST

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Bearing the child from a man who promised was sterile gave more anxiety as you lived in their world, knowing that Geralt will resent as the offspring was forged by a cursed spirit that held her own reasons and consequences. Your fate becoming more complicated as each day pass by with a dreading feeling that you surely have no idea about.

Warnings: The usual blasphemy. Lore about the Djinn. (I've made it up) Matka means 'mother'. Ingrith is an OC of mine so she ain't real in the witcher story. Hehehe. (Surprise! Guess Geralt knew Ingrith after all. HE LIED. LMAO. 😂😅🤣) Panicking reader. Pregnancy. 

Words: 5.4k

A/N: Is this a boring chapter? I dunno. But, it will provide everyone the lore they need for some of your questions to be answered. I forgot to actually edit this because I was too focused on ranking up in Free Fire. Hahahahah. 😂 Had to edit this a day before I actually publish it in Tumblr. (I usually take 2 days because everybody loves to disturb me in my house. Also I need to manually tag people in taglists, check my grammar and typos. Oof. It makes me squint my eyes too hard on the screen because of how small the letters can be) 

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! Sorry for the grammatical errors and such because English isn’t my mother tongue! PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK AFTER READING, BB! I apologize for errors!

Disclaimer: PNG’s and pictures used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. Character development and personalities are based from my understanding and how I want them to be. I only own my original characters in this fanfic. 

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

"Geralt of Rivia,"

Vicious and cunning as she may seem, her tone was utterly redolent. Familiar faces finally met in such a fate that not any fortune teller may assume would happen. Loved ones being involve in adversities that has been unflattering for the witcher who stood before the queen's long associate in the castle of Kaedwen, a victorious smirk warping her sharp-edge face that Geralt has not reciprocated. Twisted in a smile that tells she was hopeful over her plans being moved into the right places.

"---I knew you would come," Ingrith spoke as a matter of fact.

The witcher knew that this encounter was inevitable for the second time. Their previous meeting lingering inside his head---being the reason why he chose to live in the outskirts of Kaedwen which eventually made him tarry a bit over going to Kaer Morhen after receiving no answer from her. Receiving much of an answer he needed through Cuthbert, his neighbor who happened to heard rumors about 'her' whereabouts more than from the sorceress he'd decided to talk with.

He'd finally knew where Yennefer has been travelling when you've arrived, his search being an easy one as Geralt discovered her location after trying not to seek for the sorceress he has been looking for years---ending up knowing her area when he gave up finding the sorceress after a month or so.

"Where is she?" he beseech his avows, the scowl stern and never fading as he was eager to see you since the moment he step foot in the castle.

"Yen or your futile human? Oh, it wouldn't be that cursed princess you've butchered in Blaviken because she's already dead, Geralt."

The cunning sorceress tutted before him as they stood at the foot of the abandoned round tower, no guards being publicly seen because of the fact that they were too much of a milksop. Ingrith, Tybalt and Eanraig---the ones who had cabbalistic abilities were the only people who tries to take care of the prince. His own parents and siblings never giving bother about checking how he was doing despite of being harmless in daylight.

"---You've disappointed me---I knew you had a penchant for sorceresses or women whom you could consider as your kind---strong, discerning....and even whores paid to entertain you through your pitiful solitude,"

Ingrith went on with her vouching, leaning her head to the side with a knowing gaze inside her eyes; a forewarning that she was dismayed from his foolish decisions that she finds, continuously mocking his settlements, "---But, you've chosen a useless woman who could not defend herself even by telling the queen that she was not the thief who has stolen her precious necklace,"

The butcher barred his teeth, jutting his jaw forward as he felt his back turn tense and rigid from how he was turning furious as each second passes by with the sorceress he'd regretted to seek for help before---not knowing she would also be the person to afflict pain for his midget in the future.

"You've told the queen that she stole her jewelry when you know it wasn't her, not a canny persuasion made, Ingrith."

Her grin turned bigger, finding his anger satisfying and entertaining in her perspective. Ingrith could disguise as a devil and nobody would notice because of how wicked she'd been turning herself into; a wretch that Geralt have seen from her with the sacrilegious intentions living inside her mind.

"I've expected more from you than to choose and defend a mortal, Witcher."

"---I've remember the night we first met," she continued to ran her mouth, sardonic as she gladly hinted. Ingrith could see the blaze in his golden eyes, how he wanted to unsheathe his sword that was carried behind his back to show her his indignation for everything---from leaving her niece in the hands of her father who detested her due to deformity.

Hence, she has left young Yennefer with no guilt in her eyes despite knowing everything---leaving the past behind and acting like it never happened, taking the initiative to ignore her whereabouts and look the other way from how she grew into a strong woman.

"You were asking Yennefer of Vengerberg from me," she stepped a foot closer towards the witcher, making Geralt deeply breathe through his nose from his pique and lack of personal space that she was trying to bombard him with.

Ingrith couldn't help but let her grin fall when Geralt took a step back, steering clear from her suggestive gestures as he gave her a low hiss and rumble of his chest when he added words to complete her sentence, "---and you had other plans,"

"I've had better plans for us, Geralt."

"I do not wish to be involved by those treacherous plans of yours. You want power---you wanted to become stronger. Settling yourself in the castle to do what you want. Even planning to extirpate your own niece because she is more powerful than you,"

The sorceress scoffed to herself, exasperated from how he blocked her advances. His amber filled with fury as it has still not yet died down after going the deep end. Her trials involving on discouraging his faith for a mere mortal like you. Her ears felt like it was being rattled from the inside, triggering her pride and ego over being told that she was below of her niece in terms of strength and magic, "Yennefer of Vengerberg? She is not powerful as you may seem, Witcher."

"You've left her alone with people who do not care for her,"

"Sorceresses don't die easily than mortals. It's in her blood; our blood, Elven blood. You know this."

Geralt couldn't help but give her a snicker, the small curl of his lip raising in disbelief for her intentions over you and being involved in his god-forsaken life that he didn't want you to be a part with, "You want my mortal to die,---" he gruffly muttered, the words tasting bitter on the ends of his tongue for the idea of you dying in his arms.

"---I won't let that happen, not until I'm alive, Ingrith."

The witcher continued to brood like how people described him to be; his mood turning sour for not seeing you yet and not knowing what was happening to you as it kept his chest bothered and heavy. Ingrith's features warped into a twist, her nose scrunched from how distasteful she found his protection over your vulnerable, weakened self; how pathetic he was caring for a mortal that could die easily especially having the curse, you were more impuisant than any other woman in the continent because a curse had effects and consequences.

His safeguarding would be useless because of the inevitable juncture that would give him sorrow and Geralt had no idea what he was in when he was trying hard to shelter you out of harms way.

Ingrith crossed her arms, shaking her head at his determination, "She'll eventually die, witcher. It's her fate in the continent. Humans like her reach their demise with misery and regret because they're nugatory, serving no purpose but to be insignificant over us,"

The latter turned his back away from her, ending the discussion with his perseverance being unyielding, shaking his head for her estimated fortune telling that he believed was a lie; understanding that she was only saying it because you didn't belong to their world and you were at high risk over danger for the chaos living in the continent.

"She won't die nor will you have the opportunity of doing so,"

"Her existence would bring more despair; more sorrow for your fate. She's just a nuisance value of human kind!" Ingrith loudly exclaimed from behind, watching him courageously push the doors to the round tower where the cursed prince has been living. Disregarding her warnings like the wind passing through.

He heard her but didn't give any acknowledge over her words. Whether it was true or not, the witcher may never know unless the day that Ingrith has been foretelling has actually been damned after all.

The fairly large throne room was filled in luxury, themed in gold and red. Such color that simply tells how their bloodline lived around the hierarchy that they highly take care of. Blood and coins. It says all. Their ornaments and artifacts spent with coins seeming to be conceived in detail for their palace rather than for the people who deserved it better living in Kaedwen.

Queen Makeda tapped her fingers along the arms of her throne, her gaze sharp and pondering over Geralt and Tybalt who stood in the middle of the room. Both having an obvious lour; deepening when she started to give orders about what was to be expected over the hunt, any hints as to where the witch has been rumored to be last seen or any more information that must be shared before Geralt takes off.

"Tybalt shall be coming in search for the witch with the witcher,"

Prince Markith, he was the queen's younger son before Prince Althalos. A lot more younger than the cursed man, immature as the maids say so. He stood beside his seated mother, wearing a simple doublet over his black breeches. The fading freckles on his cheeks stretching when a giggle escaped his lips; an obvious space between his two front teeth shown as his laugh echoed around the throne room that has gotten Geralt to give a gander.

"Witch. Witcher. Witchest." the teenager playfully mumbled beneath his breath, finding amusement over the whole thing going on with his family especially seeing the white haired witcher all brooding and silent, subtly mocking his kind in the least offending way as possible.

The queen immediately given him a sharp warning of her gaze, cocking her head to the side and seeing her son continuously chuckling from his own joke, having his own world that he always manages to live in. Seeming to be like he had imaginary friends rather than real ones that his parents seclude him amongst children because Markith should be remained untouched from the filth that people had.

"Markith, that is not a proper attitude of a prince," she lowly scolded in the midst of talking, the child's interruption obviously irking her temper.

Markith raise a brow, the child's tone utterly sardonic as he spoke, "But, I'm not the crown prince. Brother is. But, if brother dies then---"

She cut him off with a brusque hiss, "He will not die from our hands! He will live and rule the future of Kaedwen,"

"Does this kingdom even have a future when it is ruled by your hands?"

Quietude filled the throne room after her son's sarcastic retort. The silence was frothing; bubbling from her expected aggravation over the younger prince's shameless answer. Much to her chagrin, she has never received an apology nor an explanation as to why Markith suddenly blurted it out in the open for Geralt to hear.

Upon hearing those words coming from a child, the witcher couldn't help but stood nonplussed. His expressions coming off as emotionless with his brooding charm jumping off the four corners of the room. In which has received a glower from the vampire who also stood beside him, his eyes seeming to be taking Geralt much more of his attention when they were both called to stay beside each other.

Queen Makeda raised a finger, ushering one knight to march his way up the numbered stairs under the lavish canopy where the king and queen's throne sits.

"Bartley, bring him back to his chambers," she roughly ordered, her teeth barred as she glared at Markith who was also feral for disregarding his opinions over their corrupted reigning throughout their kingdom. Bartley gave a courteous bow for the queen before walking to where her son stood, forcefully grabbing onto his shoulders as he gently pushed him around to leave.

"But, Mother---"

The queen never takes no for an answer. Hence, one loud yell was all the child has taken before being thrown out, his gaze lingering longer at the witcher whom he has heard tales about; having quite the eagerness to see if the tales were true to their words. Yet, his mother decided to lock him up in his room again for being curious and playing around.

"Now!"

Geralt stood completely still. The scowl never changing as he gave a heavy sigh, seeming like the world was carried on his burly, armored shoulders. His sour mood being the result of your prior, quick separation before he even walked to the throne room. Your pained words ringing inside his head for a thousand times like a plague that he had finally not been immune for.

He shouldn't have left you in that condition especially when you were physically injured. Geralt actually just proved to you how much of a witcher he was; cantankerous, blunt and emotionless even though you've had this strong faith for him that you believed being the opposite of it.

But, he just needed to fuck it up by leaving you without a word and also calling you pathetic in such ways.

The butcher continued eating his own heart out by staring at the queen with brooding eyes, waiting for the go signal for his hunt. He wanted to get this over with; planning to do his job right and find the witch, bring her in the castle to reverse the spell then off you go with him. Leaving all of these behind as a past that you would never forget or decide to forget forever if you wanted to.

Tybalt audibly scoffed for Geralt to give him his regard, taking the side-eye from the witcher as he publicly stated his cavils, "Why am I traveling with him now, yer' majesty? to be his guard? Hilarious!"

One familiar hum was heard; gruff and utterly sarcastic once Geralt began to frankly acknowledge. His hostility over the vampire obvious when he has opened his mouth, "I work better alone and away from blood sucking monsters." a feigned curl of his lips appearing to be a smile has been received towards the queen, her quick understanding seeing that it was a forced one that Geralt was trying hard to perceive over his altercations.

"---I'm a witcher. I slaughter beasts. Monsters of any kind."

In the spur of the moment, Geralt turned his head to let Tybalt see the mocking flicker inside his golden eyes.

Tybalt knew he was pertaining to his kind. Vampires. He couldn't help but clench his fists on his sides, his nostrils flared while the witcher was trying to get on his nerves---or he just basically hated the higher vampire to send his animosity by being forthright, "What ye' lookin at, Weccan?" he sneered back at Geralt with barred teeth while the white wolf had the end of his lip curled into a leer, irked by his smug pillorying in the presence of the queen like he didn't give a fuck.

He really didn't especially when he wanted to behead everyone in his way.

Geralt's presence was already making Tybalt's hackles rise without even trying to nettle his temper. The image of his newly bathed hair was already narking him without even seeing his face and the feeling was mutual for both enemies.

Tybalt began forming his own ridicules, seeing the witcher become the object of his scorn.

"Your skin is as pale as your tresses. I doubt you still have any amount of blood in ye'!"

"The joke's too old. I'll assume you've asked me if I do bleed." the white wolf was nonchalant as he quipped. Displaying to be quite blase from his attempts of hurling more anger out of him when he was too furious from the start to even begin with.

"---Witcher, do you bleed?"

Geralt couldn't help the most jaded expression he could ever muster upon hearing the most asked question, uttering out a grumble of his insouciant timbre of his voice that has gotten Tybalt bellowing from his remark.

"My blood's not tasty enough for you. Don't bother."

"This feckin' arse!"

They've both sent each other deep growls against their chests, a low rumbling sound that was bouncing off the castle walls that everyone who was inside the throne room could notice as they stood side by side, giving each other glares and their derisive taunting.

Queen Makeda had a finger supporting her head from falling. Her arm folded and leaning against her throne whilst sighing over their random twits. Foot tapping along the stoned floors as she gave them both her enervated attention.

Tybalt's fixated gaze has been cut short when he'd knelt on the ground with one knee, bowing his head to pay his respects for the queen---probably, seeking support over not letting him travel with the witcher who must have a difficult time finding the witch that couldn't be found at all; not wanting to share his time with Geralt because their personalities were clashing against each other like rusty, acidic metal, "---Your highness, If you're worried about him dying in the middle of saving yer' witch whom can lift Prince Althalos' curse, I can assure you, he will not die. Legend says witchers die from monsters they hunt. The witch obviously isn't---"

The queen has raised her palm to cease his comments, completely unimpressed by how privileged he was being when it was her decision whether he would let him go or not.

"I can see how you both despise each other," she plainly stated, sounding nasally like she was too disappointed by Tybalt's actions.

At the mere exclamation of that, both men spoke in the same time. Their antipathy colliding even with their words sounding exactly what they felt for one another.

"Hate him." Geralt and Tybalt both snarled with such rancor, glaring for one more time before partially giving their whole attention to the queen who sat before the throne.

They've seen her mouth turn into frown, turning a blind eye towards the higher vampire who was left sulking for his sudden hunt. His plans with his sorceress coming to a stop for the queen's orders, intending to guard all your whereabouts in the palace as Ingrith tries to formulate a scheme to have you suffer without raising their hands on you nor using magic that will eventually fail because you were protected by a djinn.

"Tybalt. Be with the witcher. I want you guarding him until he finds the witch. The witcher shan't go back empty handed."

Tybalt couldn't help but curse beneath his breath, subtly rolling his eyes as he stood on both feet, adjusting his fur coat resting along his shoulders, "Oh, feckin' bullocks." before shaking his head as he forced a nod and approval out of him to gesture at the queen of Kaedwen.

Geralt calmly tried his best to exhale in a relaxing demeanor, his facial features twisting in utmost pique from the idea that he would be spending five days with the vampire he had a fight with back in the marketplace.

"Fuck." he lowly snarled to himself, momentarily shutting his eyes to breathe in disappointment. His head cocked to the side. Geralt felt Tybalt grip onto his armored shoulder, giving him a shallow pat to state his indignation with the whole ordeal. He turned on his heels, marching out of the throne room to fetch and pack his belongings for the journey ahead, quickly jogging out of the throne room that was making him want to curse as every second passes by with the witcher.

Queen Makeda can't help the snicker on her face, a smile forming wrinkles on the apples of her cheeks as she stated her false promises.

"You have my word about your little woman, Witcher. We will not touch her again."

Though, Geralt knew deep inside that it was all just a lie.

You've been receiving lots of personal questions from the druid. One of his queries was about the idea of wholeheartedly accepting a child from Geralt which you explained an approval if it was given in the future---or if he was even capable of giving you one. You strongly believed he can't.

Though, in the back of your head, you couldn't help but think how your child would look like with his genetics. Will she or he have white hair too? you gotta' have a child with beautiful genes somehow. An echo of hopeful, deranged voices filled your thoughts, quickly disregarding the thought in the back of your crazed head whilst hearing Eanraig bombard another question of his that kept you aware of how zealous he sounded.

"Do you love Geralt?"

"Woah. Hold your horses, Eanraig."

Subtly swallowing the anxiety away from hearing such question, you've warily cleared your throat. Your mouth wincing from the pungent taste of your after-retch. The inconspicious nullify of the subject taken heed by the scholar when you've avoided his eyes.

In-denial of the truth. Eanraig thought silently to himself while he brought his hand down, away from patting your back, "You will be giving the witcher a miracle," he lightly convinced you and decided that particulars shall be provided for the mother of the miraculous child growing inside; delaying the details with the father that would surely bring him into a shock and red-light from the witcher himself because of how having a pickney in the midst of his life will only bring his descendant danger.

"---From the night of the full moon, between a man and woman who had nature take its course, a child shall be produced,"

Mentioning that in a hot second, you were quick enough to counter the lie you ought to believe in. Trusting Geralt and his words more than ever because he knew himself better than anyone else especially in 'that' department. Thorough objection was promptly written all over your shocked, disapproving expressions; brows furrowed in worry with lips turning ajar for such sensible responsibility being given to your head like a crown fitting for you.

Was Geralt lying and he actually just wanted to get you pregnant? If so, then he was certainly a wacko for even doing it---in your world he could be arrested for lying.

"Geralt's infertile! What are you even---?!?!" you couldn't finish your sentence as the responsibility for having your lechery take over you a few nights ago was worth enough to blame. How did Eanraig knew when it hasn't reached a month after a tangle of passionate desires with the witcher? did everyone knew about it but not you both? was it why you were being hated by Ingrith because she knew you were bearing Geralt's child?

A ton rounds of bulleted questions rang inside your head after one query hasn't been answered. One by one it was hopping like rabbits chasing a baited carrot because on the other side of your head, it knew answers for your disputes within yourself.

Panic and fear over an unborn child was beginning to take a toll as you grabbed onto your roots, frustratingly tugging on them while you listened to Geralt's old friend.

"Infertile or not. As long as the other is human who possesses no magic---or better yet, both humans who possesses no magic shall receive results beyond their expectations. I have never told Geralt about this because he will never believe me. A Witcher does not take that kind of news too well---might be even saying that he would take his child as a bait to be eaten by monsters than to bring them to this world,"

You've pursed your lips, finding how true it was to hear those words from the witcher knowing that you were pregnant by his child. Was this a hoax? a dream that God wanted you to never wake up from?

Being transported to their dimension; loving a mutated human you never expected to and eventually baring a child from him when he knew he could never bore a child at all. Was this your destiny for him? giving him miracles---a child that he certainly didn't expected and needed because accepting his child of surprise was already difficult for him to undertake.

"I can totally hear him saying that." you uttered completely defeated and benumbed from the breaking news that made you forget how upset you were by Geralt's prior actions.

"You are having his child, my dear. You're carrying his scion that has been forged by the Djinn." Eanraig started his elucidation about the serious topic at hand, educating you about the accelerated gestation that the Djinn's curse may come between. Earlier telling you about the expected development because you might be seeing changes over your body than how a normal woman will be expecting.

"---The process is faster. Three times hastier than a normal pregnancy---Though, never fear for the child not to be normal."

With sangfroid, the breath that you've been holding has been puffed out with your eyes drooping closed; letting the calmness sink in without having the panic rise through your head for a hundred times because of the thought that the child would turn out different in which she may suffer in the end.

Until Eanraig decided to continue his statements that has given you whiplash.

"---Because that child is beyond normal. She'll inherit the Djinn's powers because it is a part of Matka's three wishes."

"She?" you've managed to feebly and shakily mutter beneath your soft breath, feeling the coldness wrap around you for knowing more about the child that you were currently bearing---keeping you in a constant disorient that had you staring onto your twitching fingers laid upon your thighs.

"I'll assume that the Djinn you have gotten was a Matka. The cursed Djinn who lovers try to find in order to bore an heir if they cannot create their own offspring. Matka was created to give her own powers to a progeny that would inherit her abilities---believing that her existence will help the world from lessening the bedlam within the lore of monsters and humanity,"

"You're telling me I'm really pregnant with a girl? with...with Geralt's child? This child is also...owning such power that is making me hyperventilate right now?! Is it a vampire?! What if it eats my insides just like how Edward's baby did?!" your back was still utterly stiff from the nervousness that this news has given you, the mere fact of taking care of a powerful baby pouring ice buckets on your head---the dread hitting your core from the stupefaction and fear raising a child of your own.

Your modern references has given Eanraig a nonchalant stare from him, never knowing to laugh or smile over your panicky state.

"Is the witcher a vampire?" he hesitatingly spoke, his throat sounding dry before Eanraig cleared his throat when he'd lately realized.

"No."

"Then, it shall not have any vampire blood."

Skin felt tingling as your heart couldn't stop the beating so fast, throwing you into a swivet, "I'm not prepared to be a mother, Eanraig!"

You couldn't help but reach a hand to clasp around your tightening throat, further listening to Eanraig. His expositions making you want to give him a bark of laughter due to the disbelief over what reality that destiny started giving you when the Djinn happened.

"The continent has its own supernatural contingencies that nobody may ever explain---which has given you a child of yours with the witcher. Your kingdom knows no magic based on your reactions, correct?" the druid raised a brow and grabbed both of your shoulders, firmly letting you look into his grey eyes that continued inspiriting your devastated self.

You've tentatively shook your head to give an answer. The dread gripping your heart so tight that you started breathing heavily, your fingers suddenly grabbing onto your stomach because of the sudden memory that the castle guards have placed a kick to your gut. The worry for your unborn baby bringing you into utter distress for her condition.

A loud gasp left your lips, "Wait, I've been---I've been abused---hurt---what about my child, Eanraig? If---If Geralt knows about this now, he wouldn't want my child, would he?"

"I...may never know what he thinks, little woman. He hardly speaks. Only to you, the bard and his surprise child, I assume."

"Then, should I keep this from him?"

"I doubt his mutations can keep your pregnancy as a secret,"

Panicking more than ever, you've felt your eyes well up with warmth. Signalling tears threatening to come out of it as both of your palms were on either side of your head. Quiet whining were heard in the back of your throat for the future that was bound for you especially by being thrown on the face by a brick, the brick being fate moving mountains for the witcher and his ill-fate infertility---that has been surprisingly controlled by the power of magic; black magic.

"Then, what do I do?! I don't want to raise a child on my own when I'm not even prepared to be a mother?!" Eanraig heard the sobs from you and he'd quickly gathered all of the comfort he could give by patting you on the back, calming down that tough anxiety you have.

"Cease the tears," he continued to pat, "---It'll be bad for you and the child,"

"I have a witcher baby! What do I do?!" you ranted and raved, sniffing in the same time as your fingers spread across your chest, feeling it tighten a lot more because of this serious matter. Time stood still for you, imagining what Geralt would say or tell when he couldn't even accept your love; when he was still secretive over things he wasn't comfortable about telling.

Would he be fine to have a child with a woman who was in love with him when he doesn't even know his true feelings for you until now?

"I don't know how to tell, Geralt! I don't wanna let this child grow without a father---what if I leave this world all of a sudden without him? Eanraig, what if he dies out there right now and this child grows up without a father?"

You knew, he would refuse the child you were having because of how he had a long time accepting Cirilla. A child who has already been taken care of by another---what more for a baby that he certainly had no experience of having nor wished to have?

The druid welcomed all your rants over such an important and surprising incident that existed in the white wolf's life. Completely knowing for it to be an unexpected route in his path that Eanraig could never see for him. He gave one last comforting pat on your back, nodding to you as if he was trying to let his words seep inside your head---your apprehension that he solely hoped to be the maturity of your mind.

"Let fate decide what will happen. You'll eventually need to tell the father of your child---and the witcher will know about it soon,"

Little did you know, there was already a tiny beat of a heart that seem to be inaudible for a mortal; but not for a witcher who had sensitive hearing created to catch onto the tiniest rustle of leaves till the quietest thumps of every heart.

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[ladyshiranui]

shiranui x chizuru iii

psst~ link to A03 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/26677699

Upon arrival, the devastated Goryokaku leaves Chizuru Yukimura all alone and questioning her future. Lucky for her, 'a fellow demon at her disposal' means she doesn't have to come to terms with the woes of grief by herself. 

words: 2272

༶•⛧┈♛ ♛┈⛧•༶

It was among the most havoc-wrecked sights of the war. Splinters of wood scattered across the soil like seeds of devastation. Canon fire had ceased, yet the deafening blasts still throbbed in her eardrums. The sky was blue, a cruel irony for a day that called for grey clouds. Lingering smoke of gunpowder and battle filled her lungs, gripping her heart in grief.

The flag of Makoto in her fingertips, tattered and smeared in the blood of the fallen, decidedly marked the end of an era. The faces of her comrades from the last number of years, their kindness and hospitality, their undying loyalty and unwavering conviction— It all came to her in a flooding nostalgia. She was overwhelmed, trying to surface the tides of sorrow to replace her stolen breath.

It was no thanks to Lord Kazama who’d made his departure as soon as the shores of Hamamatsu had been reached that the demon girl was left alone. Typical of the entitled egoist to have an icy heart until the journey’s end. If not for Shiranui’s inquisitiveness, and unshakable doubt of Kazama’s supposed altruism, he wouldn’t have followed.

After seeing Kazama refuse to disembark the docked boat while Chizuru ran ahead, he’d revealed himself. With his hands on his hips, he asked, “What, you’re not going after her? After all this time you’re gonna let her go? Just like that?”

Chizuru had long disappeared among the trees, the then active canons shaking the earth with their mighty bellows, but Kazama’s gaze stood fixed on her fleeting trail. “She is no longer of my concern. It’s clear she’s more vainly focussed on those shogunate dogs than saving her own bloodline. She would not make a suitable wife.”

Shiranui scoffed. “Can’t blame the girl for not being that into you. I wouldn’t be if I was stalked and kidnapped by some pretentious demon lord.”

Kazama’s absence of rebuttal was dissatisfying. “The Yukimura clan is dead. She has decided her own end and I will not associate myself with it any longer,” he averred.

“So what do you call travelling halfway across the country for her?”

“Pity, if you must label it. Not whatever silly selfless ambition you’ve conjured in that head of yours. I am not without dignity.”

The rolling of his eyes implied the second demon lord felt otherwise. “After all that’s happened and you’re still as egotistical as you ever were. You’ll never change, Kazama.”

“For what reason would I need to? I live for no-one but myself. It’s the half-witted female demon who needs to change. Her mind has been poisoned living as an equal among the humans.”

“Cut her some slack, will you? It’s not like she had much of a choice.” Kazama’s having an answer to everything was boiling Shiranui’s blood. The heat of his rising rage trickled into his tone, a low growl in the back of his throat when he opened his mouth. “Dignity, my ass-- You only care about yourself. She could have already been blown to bits and you’d feel nothing.”

A reaction was finally elicited with the chieftain’s sharp turn and piercing gaze. Shiranui met his challenge, standing convicted by his words and refusing to look away. Frantic shouts of warning as gunfire and cannonballs flew overhead had the lingering passengers scrambling for safety and collapsing to the ground, yet the demons were unfazed by the waging war of man. The deafening chaos underpinned the last spoken sentence.

“You...” Kazama snarled. His hand hovered above the hilt of his sword, his opposer watching him warily with his own hand close to his gun, but the former relaxed. Instead of hurling every threat under the sun, Shiranui questioned his look of amusement. “It seems Chizuru Yukimura is not the only foolish one here,” he smirked with a tilted chin.

“What the hell are you going on about?”

“First that spear-wielding red-head, and now--” he tauntingly laughed-- “You’ve gone soft, Shiranui. I expected more from the chief of your own clan. You’re a walking mockery of a demon.”

The pistol was drawn and fired in impromptu haste. A tuft of blonde hair bounced as a silver bullet flew directly beneath it, leaving no injury but an already fading red mark of heat on Kazama’s cheekbone. Shiranui’s nostrils flared with a sudden breathlessness, the derogatory mention of the Shinsengumi’s 10th Division captain igniting his anger.

His tightening grip dusted his knuckles white. While there was almost always a snarky response with Shiranui, his mouth stayed a thin line with his jaw clenched.

Kazama’s brow twitched. “As I thought,” he hummed. Sailors loudly declared their departure, rowboats retreating back into the ocean. The demon retook his place, turning his back to Shiranui with a dismissive wave. “Do what you want with that wench. The end of the Yukimura line should have an audience, after all.”

It took everything in Shiranui to not place a bullet in the back of Kazama’s head. Such an easy target; one pull of the trigger is all it would take. Looking at him alone made his stomach churn with a dangerous, deadly vexation. The wish to be as far away from him as possible propelled him to turn around and trudge through the sandy shores. He didn’t know where he was going, only the faint tug of an unseen thread luring him through the trees and turmoil.

And then, he reached Goryokaku.

Centre to the battered shelter, crumpled in the dirt, was her. Shiranui knew she was close to the men of the Shinsengumi, but not so close to mourn so greatly. He’d never fancied himself getting close to humans for this very reason, but he couldn’t deny how leaden his heart had become at Harada’s own fall. Sitting by his side, the sparkle of heroism that never left his eyes dissipating into a glassy haze, the last heave of breath leaving his body, his last words an unfinished sentence-- as the sole witness it had done more to him than he would have liked to admit. In a way that escaped even him, seeing Chizuru in her state lifted an inkling of the weighty sorrow in his chest. It was as though she cried not only for the two of them, but all others who believed in whom had met their end.

Shiranui was glad his arm’s length relationship with humans spared him from a pain he didn’t want to know what felt like. He didn’t have the heart to go up to her right away. Her grief was personal, something that no-one could ever understand. An audience, Kazama said. His inference reeked of voyeurism, and seeing her express the rawest form of emotional vulnerability angered him all over again. The churning of his stomach made him ill, and he couldn’t stand by anymore.

One foot after the other, fallen leaves and burnt wood crunching beneath his boots, Shiranui approached her. He didn’t know what he was doing, or what he should do. He couldn’t say he’d been confronted with such grief before and was left in the unknown how to handle the delicate situation. His feet didn’t stop, though. They knew where he needed to be, so he let them carry him to her side.

His shadow cast across her racking body, her sobs muffled in the tattered flag of truth she gripped so desperately. Her cries sounded strangled, like a bird in a cage desperate to be set free. Even in a moment so emotionally unbearable, she held onto the smallest inkling of composure she had left. An odd feeling extending to his hand arose, and stretched it out toward her. Slowly it lowered, resting atop of Chizuru’s head. The violent force of her anguish travelled through to him, resurfacing feelings he’d buried what seemed so long ago.

The flood gates opened, the bird was free. Sobs turned to a wailing lament, its echo carried through the leaves of the trees that shielded them from prying eyes. She doubled over, her head resting against the soil, and Shiranui compensated by lowering himself to his knees. The churning in his stomach morphed into the twisting of his heart. His pride begged him to stand back up, to keep himself in check, but he too bowed his head in dolour.

“They put up one hell of a fight, that’s for sure…” he murmured, the right words difficult to muster.

Chizuru’s cries gradually softened. Deep breaths swayed her frame under the demon lord’s gentle touch. Shiranui pulled himself away and stood to his feet, surprised by how heavy he’d suddenly felt.

“You can’t stay here forever.” He scrutinised the scene before them. Looking at her while speaking truthfully felt too guilting. Funny; he’d never felt like that before. “There’s bound to be imperialists still hanging around somewhere, and I wouldn’t count on their mercy towards you and your affiliation with the Shinsengumi.”

He waited for a response, but no such words left Chizuru’s lips. Side-eyeing her, her face lifted from the flag, revealing only her red, drenched and tired eyes. She looked so frail. He would’ve thought her to be otherwise sickly. There was no life in her, as though her spirit died with the fallen captains across the country. The look in her eyes was the very same he’d left behind in Ueno.

“So? What’ll you do?” he spoke again. “I can guarantee Kazama won’t come after you anymore and, well…” he hesitated, “you don’t have a place to go back to. You’re free.”

Sniffles escaped her while her back straightened upright. Her muffled, feeble voice eked out the reply, “It never felt like I wasn’t. I just wanted to be with them… always… They made me feel like I was human, like I was allowed to have a place with them.” She brought the flag to her running eyes, wiping her tears where no strong, gentle hand ever would again.

“You say that like being a demon means the end of the world. I can tell you-- It’s not.” Shiranui cast his gaze to the blue sky. The sun was lowering by then, a golden blush blanketing the remnant chaos in an ironic beauty. Everything made him think of him, from the red of the maple to the hue of the sunset matching his irises. He’d thought he’d let it go already, but perhaps he was wrong. “I can also say that Harada never thought bad of you for being one, either. It was almost closer to praise whenever he would talk about it. It got kind of annoying.”

“Harada did?”

He sighed, her oblivion to these things truly astounding him. “I’m pretty sure he would’ve told you a bunch of times himself, but yeah… He did.”

“Then--” she turned herself towards Shiranui, her eyes pleading for all the answers to her questions-- “why did they never make me feel like I was a demon? Why did it feel like I was always one of them?”

“Because you were. You spent five years of your life with them. It goes without saying you’d feel like a human being among humans.” He folded his arms, wrestling her doubts. “I don’t think it was that they pretended you were a human, but more like they accepted you for you; a demon. Maybe you should try it, too.”

Chizuru’s shoulders were weighed by defeat and sunk. “I wouldn’t know how to do that.”

“Well, consider yourself lucky to have a fellow demon at your disposal.”

“Who?”

Shiranui stared at her dubiously, cocking his brow with his mouth slack-jawed. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that.”

With a spin on his heel he turned away from the wreckage, his scarf dancing in the breeze. It was elegant, rising and falling like suspended ocean waves. Chizuru couldn’t help but stare, its tattered edges sparking curiosity. She found herself looking between it and the similarly affected flag in her hands. Her thoughts meandered, wondering if that green scarf in any way shared the devastation the flag of truth represented. A question begged to be asked, but she held her tongue. She would save it for another day.

“You coming or what?” Shiranui beckoned with a look over his shoulder.

Startled by her own daze she turned away. The feeling in her legs had returned to her and she sluggishly picked herself up. The uniform generously granted to her by the captains was smeared with all kinds of blemishes but her appearance couldn’t be a further concern. Her legs wobbled underneath her, clutching the flag tightly in her hands. This sacred keepsake, this sole memento she had of the fiercest group of men she’d ever come to know-- she swore she would never part with it.

Shiranui’s back grew further the longer she waited, so she jogged to his side. She said nothing, her eyes cast upon the ground while her feet dragged through the earth.

“Boats should arrive at Hamamatsu before long to retrieve the left-over soldiers. We’ll wait around until we can board one back to Edo.”

“What will you do?” Chizuru asked.

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure… I hadn’t thought about it very much.”

“Guess that goes for me too, then.”

His confusing response willed her to look at him questioningly. Seeing her greatly confused expression, Shiranui smirked. So oblivious. He’d never know what Harada saw in her, yet a deeply rooted curiosity fancied him to find out.

“But--” she croaked before his hand ruffled her hair.

“Relax, won’t you?” He smirked as they walked away from the wreckage side by side. “We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

༶•⛧┈♛ ♛┈⛧•༶ part i | part ii | part iii

[atortoiseinimladris]

Lashing Waters

 Summary; In which Elrond acknowledges the power of the sea as akin to his own strength when in weakness.

“Elrond commanded it. The river of this valley is under his power, and it will rise in anger when he has great need.” 

Elrond was unwell. He knew it to be true, for he could feel the encasing hold of pale-green sickness like stinging nettles twining with his veins. The throbbing pain of their touch lingered upon his brow and he shied away from their hold; unconsciously flinching when a healer laid a hand atop his forehead and rustled the thorny leaves against him in burning agony. There was a tumultuous sea within his stomach, restless as it consumed his lifeless form and lashed out in mighty waves which departed his lips into a porcelain basin that rested at his bedside.

“I do not understand; he was fine two days ago…”

“Much can happen in the course of a day.”

“He needs help. He will die if this continues.”

The night was still, but for the oceans restless thrashing. Elrond thought he recognised the sorrowed voice, but it was so very distant; its own despondency far overshadowed by the weeping of the waters within him as they whispered their leaden burdens into his ears, aging his soul by six thousand years not yet passed. A hand brushed against his own, but it was ablaze with clawing fire and his heart yearned only for the chill of winter, the bitter ice caressing the wrath of the waves into a cradling embrace akin to the rocking of a cradle. The fire cowered away from him as he flinched.

“Please. You must help him.”

 Such was the command that was given; that Elrond be aided in his recovery and at every worsening of his condition prevented from entering the shadow world to which he drew ever closer to succumbing to. Wise and knowledgeable healers renowned for their greatness were summoned to his sick bed, masters of lore flickering hastily between books in search of answers for the illness which had taken him so very unpredictably; he had been laughingly indulging in a late luncheon before he collapsed. Yet no answers could any of those great folk provide, as Elrond’s condition worsened with every passing hour and the shadows overcast his ailing form with foreboding clouds of darkening grey. Though Elrond was too weak to utter words of condolence- let alone to move his deteriorating body- the weeping of the High King still rang within his ears; tears of love and brotherhood lost brushing against his dreamscape as his friend’s hope dwindled. He heard them, but they meant to him naught; the raucous of the oceans was louder and more destroying, tugging at the hems of his tunic so that he may become submerged beneath their depths. 

Eventually- though Elrond knew not how long he had tarried before the doors of death- a single word of advice was found between the flourishing hand of a long deceased Valinorean healer. 

“The waters shall heal.” proclaimed the parchment. Though it revealed no further council, the archaic text was all that they had and as such arrangements were made for Elrond to be taken from his bed and to a nearby stream which was murmured in folk’s tales to have healing qualities beyond description. A swift horseman would take him, they said. Elrond had lingered upon the borders of consciousness as he heard the High King, his dearest of friends, vehemently assert his right to take Elrond himself to the stream; no other was fit for the role.

Elrond knew better. No other would be more distraught to see him leave. 

For three days they had ridden in haste as the storm within him lurched and crashed against his skin and consciousness; he was given water to drink, to soothe his aches, but it only gave more to the infuriated seas that billowed as though alight within him. Distressed, he cried out in his sleep; the moonlight pitied him and tried to guide him away from the shores but he would not depart, for he was the centre of the storm and the oceans encompassed him, ebbing from his stomach to fill the shadowy void. Each time a hand was laid upon his brow to comfort him and each time he turned away from it in agony.

At some point they ceased their journeying. Elrond was bundled up with ivory shawls and layed down upon the soft grasses as they tickled against his forehead with the evening breeze. He had not the strength to contain the water for any longer and it had begun to brim his eyes and dampen his cheeks as the hazy sunlight touched against his face. His mind was filled with vast, sorrowed oceans, yet now there was something else flickering within his mind; as though the curtains had been drawn to reveal the filtered light of the morning. A myriad of pale blue hued his vision as the lashings of the ocean seemed to fade temporarily into the background of his thoughts.

Ho now, Elrond, you weep but for what purpose! The sun is without but it storms within, I take it.

The spirit's voice was kind but Elrond wavered before its presence; the waters terrified him, had always brought naught but loss to him, and he knew that when this being left he would be at their mercy once more.

No no Elrond, you are mistaken; I would not leave you to drown! But what now makes you think that you would be submerged beneath the seas that encompass you at all, hm? The waters are not enemies, lest you would make an enemy of yourself! 

The being spoke in riddles that Elrond’s fatigued mind could not comprehend- though not for lack of trying. He made to convey some form of delicate response, but there were footsteps fast approaching as another voice joined with that of the river-spirit.

“Do not touch him, fiend!” The newcomer roared.

Your friend names me your enemy now Elrond, ha! The spirit whispered within his mind before addressing the other with spoken words:

“Do you both find foes where there are none? It would seem so!”

“Elrond is unwell; why do you speak to him like you have conversed?” 

“But we have! Come now; I know your purpose and of this ghastly sickness. Do you wish to see Elrond restored to his former vigour or nay?”

“Of course I do.” Elrond felt trembling hands adjust his shawl as his friend knelt at his side and made to lift him once more, ceasing to do such as another hand pressed him gently to the ground.

“There are foul creatures yonder; you would be leaving Elrond at their disposal. Do you truly believe that you possess the ability to fight whilst cradling your poorly friend to your chest?”

“He must receive the water. He must heal.”

The dispute between the two faded away into mere whisperings of the wind as a sudden, foreboding dread quenched Elrond’s heart and irked the sea within him once more into grief-stricken thrashings of anger. The waves glittered steel as the melody of swords being drawn drifted over the horizon. The river-spirit’s presence still lingered at the edges of the storm and Elrond felt indescribably safe despite the storming oceans.

Cries of vexation laced together with his vision as a battle began around him; there was a hand made of fire upon his arm and it burnt and stung like nettles thrown into a furnace and brought against his chilled skin. Yet there was an almighty storm within Elrond now and he understood at long last its purpose; not to harm, but to defend him. A furious descension of hail and waves was tearing at his heart and crashing against his skin, for suddenly he was the waters which encompassed him: powerful, infallible and knowledgeable beyond the count of years. He was water, but he would not fall.

The flames cowered away from the lashing thunders which he summoned to him now, the oceans of despair which he had long borne drawing themselves up from where they lay about him and whipping at those who would seek to weaken their Lord with the unquenchable force of a thousand armies of righteous warriors wronged by evil. Elrond lay still, but the storm he himself had conjured crashed and thundered with a rage never before seen as the orcs fled before the awful shrieking of the winds and the harrowing cries of the tempest sea. As the rivers thrashed, the earth shook and hail descended the skies until his foes were gone and could no longer bring about hurt to his weakened form. The High King came to Elrond then, kneeling before him amidst the waters and brushing a hand against his face; his touch was no longer ablaze, for the fires had witnessed Elrond’s wrath and bowed down low before his fea, beholding his power.

“The water rose for him.” His friend’s words were that of incredulousness, but to Elrond there was nothing at all questionable about his power. He was a descendant of the Ainur and he held within himself a storm that could make even the most hardened of foes fall to their knees. That did not bode well for those who would seek to undermine the strength of his will. He needed no weapon; the waters were his sword.

“The river answered it's summons, as a faithful subject does. You came seeking the aid of the water to use in healing, but you were mistaken. There is no greater power than the water, it is true, but you forget whom you behold before you now.”

The spirit turned its formless gaze towards Elrond, leaves rustling against his ebony hair.

“The water shall heal, which it has. But Elrond has not merely been healed by the liquid for which you sought after. Elrond is the water.”

It was unquestionably true, for though Elrond lay still and diminished by sickness he did not drown nor wake as his tunic dampened and his ebony hair ascended the waves which had borne him upon their surface. 

He was water. That power to him alone was granted, for he alone had lost so much to the tide; so much so that his identity had become entwined with its very depths. 

From that day forth, the oceans never ceased to obey Elrond’s every command.

[amethysttribble]

The Boneyard

@finweanladiesweek Entry 5: Earwen & Amarië. Do I have any idea what Amarië’s relationship with anyone is here? No. Is she here? Yes. Do I love her? Also yes. 

I rewrote the ending this morning, and that was good because now Amarië and I finally understand what the fuck Earwen was talking about. 

Post-Darkening, Earwen and Amarie play dominoes and philosophize.

Amarië bit her lip, carefully placing down the game piece, connecting the four dots on one side to another piece’s four dots. The three on the other side of her piece should- if she’d counted right and was remembering the rules correctly and wasn’t about to make a fool of herself- add up to give her, “Ten points?”

“Precisely,” Queen Earwen crooned, clapping her hands together in delight. She then proceeded to immediately connect one of her pieces with another domino’s one, adding six more points to the game to make…

“And that’s fifteen for me!”

Amarië pressed her lips together, gathered all her hard-won serenity around her like a cloak, and resisted the urge to flip the table.

“Congratulations,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, it was nothing dear. Besides, the game’s hardly over, there’s still quite a bit of time for the tides to change. It’s also your turn.”

Amarie did not like the way Queen Earwen was smiling at her. In fact, it made her distinctly uncomfortable, looking at that rigid mask of polite pleasure. Just around the edges of her lips and in her narrowed eyes was something sharper.

As Amarie picked up the only domino she could play- a three dot one with five on the other side- she pouted.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Queen Earwen gave a soft, sweet chuckle, then immediately used the horizontal, double-two domino to place down her two-three and give herself twenty points.

Amarie drew in a long, slow breath.

“A little bit,” Queen Earwen said. “But it’s not as much as the joy I get from teaching you and sharing a game dear to my heart. And think of all the fun we’ll have once you- Well, once…”

“Once I actually understand how to play this game with any level of skill?”

“Yes, precisely!”

Amarie snorted, and she wasn’t sure if it was out of frustration or amusement. She tried to keep good spirits about her as she placed another piece down and didn’t score again. Queen Earwen was smiling, after all, and though Amarië was sure that was something she did often, there was… a level of satisfaction in seeing it.

Pity and loneliness had been what called her to Aqualondë, and pity and loneliness were what Amarië had expected to find. But Queen Earwen was as lively as she ever was before the Darkening, and now that the sun illuminated their lands, she seemed much recovered from her sorrow caused by… that time.

Amarië had to seriously consider that she was the one plagued by self-pity and lingering pain- both the angry and the sad. Earwen certainly didn’t seem to be; she wasn’t the lady whose family was torn asunder that Amarië had thought to comfort. It had been a bit much, probably, to think so highly of her own presence. And rude to discount Earwen’s true bearing and manner when trying to determine her present happiness, relying instead on… literary ideals of what the lady whose children had left, whose husband was governing another people in another city, whose kin had slaughtered kin on the very beaches the window they looked out of must be feeling.

But all that self-reflection just meant that Amarië had been quite foolish and prideful- as her reflection often showed her- and now she was left feeling useless.

And bad at dominos.

She went to place another piece down, then realized that none of her dots could connect to the playable dots in the game at present.

“Drat,” she whispered, thinking of a much stronger word.

Amarië reached for the pile of excess pieces, hoping to be swiftly released from this new torture.

But alas! A one and a four.

She tried again. This one she could make work, a two and six. Now… just where to put the bloody thing to either make her own game better or Queen Earwen’s harder.

“They call it the boneyard, you know,” Queen Earwen said, thoroughly disrupting her concentration. At Amarië’s questioning stare, Earwen nodded to the excess pile, and said, “The boneyard. It’s called that because the pieces are bone white, and in the old days, across the sea, they were even occasionally made of bones.”

“That’s quite… morbid,” Amarie said, wondering if this was a new tactic to throw her off.

Queen Earwen didn’t needle her, though, as Amarië carefully set her piece down on the other side of the double-two. She merely looked towards the sea and hummed.

“Is it? I suppose I would have agreed with you, not too long ago. But now I have to wonder… What is all of Arda, but a boneyard? Our land is built upon the bones of the one Morgoth destroyed. We’ve built tools and jewelry and furniture from bone for ages, and never wholly abandoned the practice as uncivilized, because why would we? What is more civilized than nature? Even that beach is partly made of bone meal. It makes up everything. Should we be scared? No, I don’t think so. Bodies die and the spirit lives on and the bone becomes nourishment for the earth. And in the end we all return to the same place, both our spirits and bodies.”

Earwen placed her last domino down on the board, and even without counting the final points, they both knew that she’d one. She swept all the pieces together. When Amarië looked up, Queen Earwen was smiling.

“To the bone pile,” she whispered, giving her words a wobbly lilt like it was the end of a scary story.

Amarie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, shocked at her amusement over something so... well, it was a little frightening.

“There now! That was a very good first attempt, darling, I commend you. Before we try again, though, I have to ask. Do you feel a little bit better?” “Better?” Amarie asked, blinking in surprise.

Queen Earwen chuckled.

“Yes, better,” she said, and that sly grin and that foxy gaze returned as she winked, “I hope you’re not quite so worried that I’m about to fall into pieces like a boneyard at the slightest bad wind?”

Amarië felt her face grow flamingly hot, and conceded to having fumbled two battles. Drat. She hated losing.

But she liked the feeling of the sun on her face and the smell of the sea and the steady chill of the bone pieces in her hand, and she liked Earwen’s musing. There were… people discarded into the bone pile, and that was why Amarië was here in the first place. But that did not make them unwhole. The pieces to the side- the East- would be dragged back into their game eventually.

In the meantime, they would play.

[aliypop]

The Knights Archives

Wordcount: 2,115

Warning: Language 

A/N: A bit of backstory of Adina’s days as a knight

"So you left when you were 13.." Eskel asked, studying the look of the woman across from him. Adina hadn't been too drunk, but she had enough spirits in her for her limit. Both Lambert and Geralt sat beside Adina, Steins tilted back. It was slow midnight, nothing to be seen or heard, so they took the liberty of telling a few stories. " I don't think Adina wants to talk about it." Geralt mumbled: he knew her past was a soft subject to her, 

 It's okay, Geralt, I don't mind." Adina smiled, her eyes glancing over to both witchers, and Flora, who was sitting in Jaskiers lap,   

"Do you even still remember it, dear.." The bard asked, kissing the cheek of his lover. 

"Of course I do... It was on a night like this.." 

A full moon had shone over the kingdom of Abbinshire as the racing clumping noses of hooves raced deep into the woods, sitting there on top of the white steed was Adina. Dark curl's hiding underneath her crimson red hood and the hopes of never returning to her kingdom as a princess. Their destination was the kingdom of Anore. Home to one of the bravest knights, the thing that Adina wanted to be. The young girl was tired of the things that she had seen while in the castle, 

From the many lashings: she had endured to the mistresses her father, the king would bring back. Being that she was an unwanted child of surprise and her mother was proclaimed as dead, the young girl had no one to turn to except for her horse and, "State your business. " A rugged young man who seemed to be guarding over the training grounds commanded: standing, in his armor, he had appeared to be the fencing master. Adina had only gulped, her hands trembling. 

"Sire... I have nothing: I am from a family of surfs under Clarions rule." The young royal lied, but by her appearance from the rugged terrains, it was believable. "Why should I help such a vagabond.." he glared at the young girl, dirt on her cheeks, bruised knees, and wrapped-up knuckles. He couldn't help but feel pity for the doe brown eyes that were gathering up tears. "I'm 13.. and poor to go to Oxenfurt.. and too old for mutagens of a witcher... do with me what you will.." Adina responded, 

 "You can stay, but the horse stays here..." his rose-colored eyes focused on the young girl. 

"Fine, but you better take good care of Buttercup.. " she said, petting her horse. 

"She'll be fine.." 

"He.." She grumbled under her breath. 

Walking around the training grounds, Adina had seen the wonders of the knights. Some were in their tents while others trained, and then there was the holy grail castle Abnar. Abnar was where only the greatest knights went to become legendary. The place where Adina wanted to be the most. 

"Come along.." 

"Adina.." she looked up.

"Clorn.. "he stuck his hand out gesturing, her towards a tent, "You'll be staying here until I talk to fencing master Imbert.." Adina nodded, watching him walk away. Clorn, who had treaded up the hill and towards the cobblestone bridge, found his way towards the castle. Sitting in the grandmaster tower was Imbert, who had grey eyes and hair as black as coal. 

"My lord.." Cloran peered his head through the doors. 

"What.." Immbert was known to be one of the most intimidating knights that had ever graced the land. "We have a bit of an issue.." he pressed his fingers together, nerves riding over him. "Spit it out, you dolt.." he growled at the younger man. 

"There's a young girl 13 .. she .." 

"She what.." 

"Wants to be apart of the crusade.. a knight.." he whispered. Immbert only laughed, the expression dropping, seeing that he was serious.

"He sounds like Vesemir... " Eskel smiled. Adina had only laughed, seeing how hilarious that statement was. "Oh no, you'd wish you'd have had Vesemir." she retorted back, watching how Geralt got invested in her story. "What about that Clorn guy... " Lambert asked, watching as her cheeks flushed pink. 

"Can I please finish the story.." 

"I am under no obligation to make sense to you," Clorn growled, his rose-colored eyes now green. Handing over what little amount of clothes to fit the young girl, Immbert had wanted to meet this so-called wanna be that Clorn decided was a perfect fit for the school of knights. "By my heel, I care not.." she snatched the clothes from his grasp. Tightening her stir as she fumbled on a few strings. "Allow me.." Clorn, suggested reddish-brown hair gleaming in the sun. "I- I can do it myself.." she blushed, "I don't need your help.." she huffed, hearing him hum as he untied the knot from her strings. "

And to think I almost believed your lie.." he mumbled in her ear.

"What lie.." 

"You're a noblewoman, or either a Princess.. most surfs can lace their own stirs." he laughed,

"I'm no such thing.." she growled, 

"I won't tell, but you have to polish my armor.." he smirked. 

"That sounds like a good song.." Jaskier interrupted: Flora shot him a glare as he apologized. Adina only shook her head as she sighed, "Anyways, where was I.." she mumbled. 

"Clorn .." Geralt said with a jealous tone.  

"Right.." 

As the hot sun of Anore began to shine on the backs of Clorn and Adina, she could tell that she would get along just fine with everyone in Abnar school of knights. More so, she had hoped: walking down the drastically long hallways. There was what seemed like a sea full of knights, all wearing crests of their respective schools. There were the Knights of Valiant, the knights of courage, and the almighty knights of the flame. A class of Knight that took many years to achieve. Clorn only laughed as he passed alongside a few of his classmates. "Don't stare too hard." 

"And why not.." Adina growled. 

"I wouldn't want to be seen by the likes of you." he joked: knocking on the heavy doors was Clorn, who had escorted Adina to "Lord Immbert, she's here." he then looked at Adina, "Good luck." Immbert had only looked at the small woman chuckling in disbelief. She was short and unruly haired, curls sprouting in the same resemblance as his wife. She had seemed far more gentle than what she had led onto be. 

"What is your name, little one .." he teased. 

"Adina Avia Lioni... Of Abbinshire." she smiled, looking directly into storm grey eyes. "And you consider yourself ready for the crusade.." he scoffed: Adina only laughed.

"I don't think... I know that I am, I've taught myself to fight, and I-'' she grabbed the sword in her hands, "Most people flinch.." he said to himself, a bit amused at her reaction timing. "I'm not most people.." She grinned. Her naive eyes sparkled as she lunged forward. Immbert wouldn't admit it, but he wanted to see just how much he could turn this amateur into a skilled knight. Crossing his blade with hers, he could see that she had the placement of footwork and okay posture, but there was still something lacking. "Concentrate.." he followed her eye's which were twisted by the view of Clorn.

 "I've seen enough.." Immbert growled, pulling his hand back, "Leave my presence at once.."

"But sire.."

"LEAVE!"

"Yeah, Immbert sounds like an ass... '' Lambert laughed, sitting down another bottle of wine and Vodka, "But tell me more about this Clorn guy.." he smirked, wanting to get under Geralt's skin the usual thing he did. "Tells us more about Immbert!" Eskel suggested: as both Flora and Geralt agreed, 

"Well, a few weeks after my trails.. I got appointed into a school." 

"The Knights of Courage picked you, Adina," Clorn said, sitting by her bed: it had been a couple of weeks, and aside from being pushed around by Immbert and doing Clorns dirty laundry of armor, A few of the schools had wanted her on their team. " Yes, but Hamish can't stand me.." she laughed, "Beside's, I'd rather be a Knight of Valiant.." Adina smiled, her hand on top of his.

 "One day, we'll fight together." she giggled. 

"I'd rather fight for you.." he pulled her close towards him. 

"Immbert wants your decision no-" Felola, who was a succubus, said, bursting into the Valiant chambers, "Forgive me.." Adina only got up as she fixed her doublet placing her hair back in its braid. 

"By all means, Felola.. you did nothing wrong." Adina smiled. Felola was beautiful eyes of deep blue and hair as blonde as gold. If it weren't for the fact she was a succubus, men would still fall at her feet, 

"Well, have you made your decision.." his voice nearly a low roar. 

"The knights of Valiant ." 

"So did you merry knights ever get drunk.." Jaskier asked, "For research purposes, that is.." he laughed as Adina only had a wide smirk on her face. "Oh, did we.. we used to have this big celebration of sorts." she smiled, "This one was my big win." Lamber then rolled his eyes, "You don't say." he giggled: it seemed tonight he was much more a giggly drunk. "I was 16: it was my first taste of mead." she smiled, remembering it well. 

"CHEERS!" The knights all said in unison, gathered around a brotherhood of their code. "Let's hear it for Adina of Valiant!" Clorn said, twirling her in his arms. They had all just finished defeating a tribe of hagons and demons, while Adina proved herself brave: she too proved herself to be true of the code. "Pour her some ale!" Felola demanded, a bit drunk, "No mead ero's like mead!" she fell into Arnott's arms. "I've never even tasted wine.." she whispered, looking up at green eyes. "It usually tastes like shite when you first drink it." Clorn smiled: Clorn was 18, and he'd soon be off to join the knights of the flame or maybe even the lion if he so wished to be apart of Cintra's crusade. 

 "I'll take your words of wisdom. " she laughed, taking the stein straight back: Adina gagged at the taste as she then threw it down on the wooden table. "Another !" she cheered. As the night carried on, there was still a lingering sorrowful feeling that she felt.

 "We're going for a swim.. join me.. us.." Clorn asked Adina, who was a bit drunk, to agree. Stripping out of her armor, she drunkenly fell over top of the man who she had been crushing upon, 

"It's fucking freezing!" she laughed, the small scars on her body from training and her battles, "I didn't know a princess could talk like that." he laughed, "There are many things a princess can do.." her arms around his shoulder as she kept giggling. 

" Do you trust me.." he asked.

"Why do you ask.." she felt his hands on her hips, "Because I want you to be the last face I see before I go off to battle..." he tilted her head up with his index finger. Adina kissed his lips: it was soft and sweet, 

and for one short night, she was his, or so she had thought she was, 

"So a blooming romance had happened.." Flora gasped, "Is he still alive, or is he still a knight." She asked, watching as the expression on Adina's face had begun to fade away. Geralt knew that look all too well. "Later that night, I caught him with Felola, so to get it out my head, I.. " Lambert gasped, "She's the..." he grinned, "I fucking knew it!." he mumbled, 

"Lambert, shut up!" Jaskier slammed his mug on the table. "Continue, Adina." 

"I wasn't ready to say goodbye ... Immbert! you sent him to die!" Adina growled, tears streaming down her face. The other day she had watched the 23-year-old Clorn get knighted as a Knight of the flame, his beard just growing in, and now he was dead. Stabbed to death, she could still feel his dying body laying in her arms. "I sent him to kill!" Immbert growled, 

"He had what it took to be a knight while you never will!"  

"So then I packed up my horse... went to Cintra for a bit.. recovered, went to Abbinshire, saved Flora from Hagons.. eventually went to Posada, met Geralt and here I am." she cuddled up to Geralt, "It's not much of a story.."

"Love, it's an epic!" Jaskier cheered, "Wouldn't you agree on it Geralt," 

"Hmm.." 

"Pretty boys jealous of a dead guy.." 

[sparklecryptid]

Jean loathes to admit that he finds the Insomnian Gala’s he’s made to cover amusing. The fashions at such events are either stunning or terrible with very few pieces in between. Nobility, Jean thinks, often wears the most outrageous things.

The irony of that thought is not lost on him.

With a smirk on his lips, he sets about interviewing the guests that linger near the press gallery. The photographer he is with has certainly taken to photographing everyone’s outfit and Jean knows that later they will have to work together to put names to the faces.

This is the first time he’s covering an event at the Citadel and can’t help the budding anger that grows in him as the magic of the place teases at his senses; almost as if it’s trying to coax Jean into letting his magic mingle with theirs.

Jean has no intentions of doing so, which may be the catalyst for what happens next.

The King and his Shield pass in front of Jean and in the second they meet each other's eyes three things happen: Regis’ ring glows, Jean’s tight control on his magic falters, and the spirit of Somnus materializes between Jean and Regis.

The silence that litters the room is deafening. The look of pity and sorrow on Somnus’ face makes something ugly want to rear its head in Jean’s stomach. It makes him want to kill something.

Or something.

“Nephew,” Somnus says.

“Traitor-King,” Jean says and ignores both the whispers that come after his words and the look of regret that crosses Somnus’ face.

“I did not mean for it to end the way it did-”

“Your intentions don’t matter,” Jean says, voice still as deep water.

“They must count for something.”

“They count for nothing,” Jean hisses, “You imprisoned my father for five hundred years,” Jean continues and he doesn’t snarl, not quite, but he can feel the Scourge teeming beneath his skin and is amazed at his own self-control. “You killed my father, embedded chains into his skin, and left him to rot. In light of that, your so-called good intentions mean nothing.”

“You must understand-” Somnus tries again. Behind him Regis looks like he wants to intervene but Clarus’ hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Understand what?” Jean snaps, fighting back the urge to ruin everything Somnus had built in front of the man, “Understand you wanted a throne? Understand that you were envious? He was your brother! He protected you as much as he could for as long as he could! And you took his trust, his faith, his love for you and betrayed it!”

“I loved him!”

“You killed him! You took a kind man and turned him into a monster!”

There’s silence for a moment.

“And yet you still love him,” Somnus says, wonder in his voice, “You love him still. You defied the will of the Gods for him.”

Jean glares. “He’s my father. I would not turn my back on my family.”

[twilights-800-cats]

<< Allegiances || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || From the Beginning >>

Chapter 5

Russetstar pushed her way through the gorse-and-fern tunnel, pausing in the clearing to adjust her grip on the blackbird in her jaws. She was satisfied with the catch – the bird was fattened well compared to prey from just yesterday – newleaf was clearly well on its way to the marshes.

She set her catch down on the fresh-kill pile, which was sheltered in the hollow of a log. The pine scent that still clung to the bark helped hide the prey from predators that might think it worth invading for. There had already been good hunting this morning, apparently – two mice and a frog already lay in the pile. Russetstar couldn’t help but smile.

Things are finally starting to look up, she thought. Maybe if the prey was starting to get plentiful again, those annoying rogues from Twolegplace or BloodClan or whatever they called themselves would stop pestering her Clan.

Russetstar turned her head, and her good mood melted instantly.

Blackfoot and Wolf were standing nose to nose, bristling, tails lashing. Behind Wolf was Finch – the small gray she-cat that seemed to always stay in Wolf’s shadow. Pansy had introduced her properly before the rogues took to their temporary nests for their first night in ShadowClan’s camp. Russetstar sighed and padded over to the two bickering toms.

“What is this?” she asked dryly. Are these two destined to be at one another’s throats? It’s been one night and I’m tired of it already.

Blackfoot did not look away from Wolf. “Our guests are not doing their promised fair share,” he growled. “That one – Finch – hasn’t done a thing yet.”

Wolf bristled and squared his shoulders. “Finch is only five moons old!” he snapped back. “She’s too young to do much.”

“She can hunt,” Blackfoot pointed out.

Russetstar sighed. “No, she can’t,” she meowed impatiently.

Blackfoot narrowed his eyes at her. Russetstar lashed her tail. “Rogues or not, these cats are in Clan borders now. They’re staying with us, and we follow the warrior code. What does the warrior code say about kits hunting or fighting or patrolling?”

“They… cannot,” Blackfoot mumbled. He took a pawstep back, looking at his paws.

“Exactly,” Russetstar mewed heavily. This is not a rule ShadowClan will break ever again. She looked to Wolf. “Our warrior code states that kits under six moons are to stay in camp, in the nursery with their mothers or their caretakers. Finch will not participate in hunting or patrolling – but perhaps she can spend time in the nursery with Tallpoppy instead?”

Wolf frowned, glancing down at Finch. “Would you like that?” he asked.

Finch cowered, clearly still wary of Blackfoot, who was easily twice her size. “Will… Will Tallpoppy even like me?” she wondered. Her voice was quiet and small, filled with wariness.

Russetstar lowered her muzzle to meet the kit’s eye. “You are just a kit, Finch. Whatever BloodClan did, you were far too young to be involved. Tallpoppy will see that, no doubt. Why don’t you go and see if she needs help?”

Finch still looked very uncertain – but a nod from Wolf at least made the kit unbend her spine. Wolf licked her between the ears and sent her off with a bump of his muzzle. Russetstar watched the little gray cat hesitate before stepping into the tangled thicket of the nursery.

Russetstar turned her head back to her deputy. “Blackfoot, I want you to patrol near the Thunderpath, where we found Wolf and his friends yesterday. See if anyone came to check on them.”

Wolf curled his lip. “If they’re still there, claw them,” he suggested. “They’re no friends of ours.”

Blackfoot nodded. “I’ll get on that, and I’ll be sure to keep an eye on the place,” he added.

“Good,” Russetstar agreed.

Blackfoot nodded to Wolf – as much an apology as he’d give – and padded away. He pulled over Cedarheart and Rowanpaw with a flick of his tail and his patrol disappeared into the gorse-and-fern tunnel. Russetstar frowned, wondering what he’d find out there, and hoping it wasn’t conflict.

Wolf huffed. “He’s your deputy, right? Your second? He’s so unagreeable!”

Russetstar twitched her whiskers. “A deputy doesn’t need to agree with their leader all the time,” she pointed out. “The best ones will challenge their leader if they think it necessary.”

But even a rogue sees how insubordinate Blackfoot is, Russetstar thought crossly. He needs to grow out of that if we’re going to take ShadowClan into a better future. The point is to stop fighting so much!

Russetstar did not want to linger on the subject of her deputy. “Finch is your daughter, no?” she guessed.

Wolf flicked an ear, looking down at his paws. “Yes,” he admitted. “Her mother died. It’s been hard keeping her spirits up the past moon.”

“I’m sorry,” Russetstar offered.

“I don’t want pity,” Wolf grunted. His green eyes bored into Russetstar. “I just want us to be safe.”

———————————————————-

Evening was casting a dull orange glow on the clearing as Russetstar pushed her way into the medicine cat’s den.

Littlecloud was tending his patient, dabbing Brick’s rumpled pelt with a bit of soaked moss. The ginger she-cat’s side was still barely stirring, and there was a bit of mulched prey near her muzzle. Russetstar grimaced – clearly there was little improvement.

Littlecloud admitted as much: “Not much to see today,” he reported. “Just cleaning up her wounds so that I can get a better look.”

“How long do you think it will be?” Russetstar asked.

Littlecloud sighed. “I don’t know. But from what I can see… Russetstar, I don’t think Brick will be going anywhere if she recovers.”

Russetstar frowned. She sat beside Littlecloud, looking down at the ragged old she-cat. Her fur was still caked with blood, and Russetstar could clearly see deep wounds all over her body. Brick might have been an enemy moons ago, but now she was dying, and Russetstar didn’t like that. “Are you sure?” she whispered.

“There’s internal damage,” Littlecloud meowed. “And her body is old.” The small tom turned his round face to Russetstar, his eyes full of pity. “She needs to stay here, Russetstar. She’ll die out there, but if we keep her as an elder… we can at least make her last moons comfortable.”

Russetstar swallowed. “The rogues aren’t going to like hearing that,” she meowed. Nor will the Clan.

“I know,” Littlecloud agreed, “but given time they’ll understand. There’s no way they’ll be able to keep her alive wherever they’re going.”

Russetstar closed her eyes tight and sighed. Yet another complication, she thought. StarClan is clearly testing me.

———————————————————-

“She… can’t come?” Pansy’s eyes were wide. “That’s…”

“It’s got to be a load of mouse-dung,” Wolf growled.

Russetstar shook her head. “Littlecloud knows what he’s talking about. He even asked Runningnose – that’s his old mentor – for a second opinion. Brick must stay if she’s to live.”

Wolf’s eyes flashed in the darkness. Russetstar saw his shoulders bristle. Pansy laid her tail along his spine, her eyes filled with sorrow.

“She… tried to rebuild BloodClan,” Pansy admitted quietly. She glanced about for other ShadowClan cats before going on: “She was all that was left of Scorch’s inner circle. Brick wanted to keep BloodClan together, but too many cats wanted to lead. She ended up cast out of her own territory, with only a few cats following.”

“Now it’s just us,” Wolf muttered bitterly.

Russetstar frowned, drawing her tail close. “You’re still welcome to stay,” she meowed. “Get your strength back and continue on, to wherever you were going.”

Wolf narrowed his eyes. “And what good is a home without someone to lead us?” he wondered.

Before Russetstar could reply, Wolf whipped away. The gray tom slipped into the apprentice’s den and curled up, his back to the clearing. Russetstar blinked, feeling a pang of sympathy for him.

“He’ll calm down,” Pansy assured her. “He’s just handling this his own way. He’s lost a lot, you know.”

Russetstar nodded in understanding. “Let me know what you decide – until then, you can stay.”

“Thanks,” Pansy purred. She touched her nose to Russetstar’s. “You remind me of Brick, you know, in her younger days.”

Russetstar’s ear-tips burned at the gesture, and at how surprisingly good the tortoiseshell she-cat smelled. Pansy moved her muzzle away, twitching her whiskers in amusement. She mewed, “I’m sorry we’ve caused so much trouble for your Clan.”

“It’s alright,” Russetstar mewed, forcing her composure back. “Rogues staying in ShadowClan are not a new thing. We’ve a long history of accommodating others – many cats try to forget that.”

“That’s a shame,” Pansy chuckled. “After all, don’t the same cats get boring, day in and day out? G’night, Russetstar.”

The pretty she-cat got to her paws and headed to the apprentice’s den, leaving Russetstar sitting in the shadows. She kneaded her paws into the cold earth, thinking of Pansy’s words and how similar they were to Tinystar’s at the last Gathering – it didn’t take much thinking to put them into the same conversation.

But should the Clans just accept anyone who asks? She thought, watching Pansy settle down in the apprentice’s den. Wouldn’t that only cause more trouble? Rogues are rogues and kittypets are kittypets… their only loyalties are to themselves.

Yet even as she thought such a thing, she knew it couldn’t be wholly true – after all, she had been a kittypet herself not long ago. So had Tinystar and Cloudtail, and so had many others in ShadowClan, like Orre. The hypocrisy made her shoulders bristle. The warrior code says that we might all be cats, but… we’re not the same.

Are we?

[true-neutral-earth-elf]

Tdp Crack Theory/fan lore: Avizandum and the Seven Cakes of Xadia

Avizandum is actually a very popular protagonist in Elven folktales, like Jack and Hansel who both appear in various stories irl. Their appearance is unknown and will often be attributed different features, and genders, depending on the story origin.

At some point after entering Xadia and getting past Sol Regem, Rayla and Callum find themselves getting roped into a production of the most popular of these stories, “Avizandum and the Seven Cakes of Xadia.” Callum is singled out to play the daring hero by the eccentric director, while Rayla works with the special effects. Zym watches the whole thing from beneath one of the bleachers, occasionally sneaking some elven equivalent of popcorn from the distracted children.

The story opens with Avizandum sitting upon a rock, pondering the meaning of existence. A cloaked stranger approaches them, asking why it is that they sit there staring into space. The hero shares with the stranger their confusion. Why are they here, what is the purpose for which they were born (“Elves are, apparently, quite fond of stories depicting existential crises,” Callum notes). The stranger listens carefully, then calmly answers, “Dear child, that is quite the conundrum! If you are, indeed, bent on finding the answer to your query, then this I shall offer you.” The stranger tells them of the Seven Cakes of Xadia, magical goodies concocted by the wisest of the archmages many centuries ago (“What kind of preservatives were those things pumped with?!”); each one granted the consumer absolute knowledge of a single part of life. The stranger hands Avizandum a map made of riddles which would direct them to each of the cakes. Avizandum considers the offer (“guess the only trait everyone can agree on, is his need to take time to think,”), to which the stranger prompts him to decide, “My child, I have a long journey ahead of me and little time to waste; yay or nay?” They accept, and go on their way to find the first cake.

The first cake, a red jelly filled delight which almost seemed to pulse, contained the knowledge of body. Avizandum had to endure a hike through the mighty dessert and traverse the tallest mountain, and suffered from starvation, dehydration, and sleep deprivation until they came to the place in which the cake was kept. They now knew what it meant to hunger and want for nourishment, which they had taken for granted living a comfortable life.

From there our hero began the search for the second cake, which granted knowledge of the world. The elf ventured through a vast grassland, inhabited by ferocious creatures of darkness and was constantly berated by violent lightning, hail, and wind storms. It was in that place that they learned of true terror. They found the second cake, which was filled with dry nuts, berries, and was decorated with edible flora, hidden away in an underground cabin with a heavy door. Avizandum now knew what it truly meant to feel safe, secure, and what peace that brought to the mind.

To a small, old town was where their journey led them. The elves of this place were cold to the adventurer as they knew not of this being’s character. Avizandum felt out of place amongst the close knit townsfolk; an outcast in the crowd. Loneliness, that draining specter, haunted them. But then, a child, of all living things, befriended them; the little one showed Avizandum the ways of the village and convinced their kin to open up to, and accept their new friend. Eventually the subject of the third cake came up, to which the townsfolk were thrilled to answer all questions of. They brought forth the cake and shared it with the adventurer. A welcoming scent wafted forth from the soft, warm, buttery cake; eating it reminded the hero what it meant to love, be loved, and accepted. The cake granted knowledge of companionship, friendship.

The fourth riddle guided Avizandum to a grand manor, in which a contest of streangth and wit was being held. The master of the manor had promised the competitors that the winner of every contest could claim any prise from his treasury; the fourth cake being amongst them. The hero struggled greatly with each challenge, and met defeat with anguish and despair. But their competition faired no better; they were on equal footing. So, Avizandum began training harder and harder, gaining recognition amongst their peers. They took each victory in stride and shared their celebratory spirit with the others. Finally, they had succeeded in every challenge laid before them and claimed the cake as their prize! This cake provided knowledge of achievement, what it was to fight and be respected. (“Interesting prospect..”)

The elven hero was puzzled by the fifth riddle as it did not give way to a location, but appeared to urge them to reflect on themselves (“Finally, something they’re really good at.”). Avizandum chose a place beneath a mighty tree and recalled the events of their life. Their memories came forth like water through a damn, first the recent uneventful ones, then the sorrowful ones, the fearful ones, the ones that filled them with range, and, worst of all, the regretful ones. The hero began to weep from the the bombardment of emotions until there was nothing left to weep for. Within that time the daylight had faded to night, Avizandum gazed up towards the full light of the moon. “Who am I,” they wondered, “Am I as pitiful as these memories doth testify? Or is this only part of what makes me a reality?” They thought back on their memories, but, this time, examined each and every one separately; carefully, they considered why these memories impacted them so much, why that one person from before said claimed something about them, how a certain event caused the others to occur, and it had shaped them. Avizandum closed their eyes and whispered into the night, “All this life I have lived and all has become a part of me. Though, I know and regret much of it, I shan’t purge it from my mind! No. I shall do better. Be better. Many more mistakes will be made, but I will face and accept them as a new part of me. I shall reach for my full potential!” Their eyes fluttered open, and right in front of them was placed the fifth cake. Avizandum took joy in slowly eating the cake, appreciating the bittersweet mixture of flavors that made it truly unique, and gained the knowledge of self.

Avizandum set out upon the road once the sun had reached its peak. The sixth, and final riddle asked nothing of them other than to simply walk and watch the world around them. So they did. No flittering bird went unnoticed, no ant forgotten, nor breeze unappreciated. But it what truly caught The elve’s eye was the people they passed along the way, for now that they knew themself they could now recognize the “self” in others. The other elves, though very much strangers, were alive just as they. Suffered in ways Avizandum could never truly know but empathize with. Lived their own lives as they learned how to in their youth. And loved their home in their own way, as they would have it. At the end of the trail waited the cloaked stranger who had sent them on their journey. “My child, it is good to lay eyes on you once again!” The stranger clapped them on the back, then asked in a cheerful manor, “Have you learned anything from this trip of yours?” Avizandum gleefully shared with their friend the details of their journey. Just as before, the strangers listened intently and waited until the young elf was through to speak, “And, what have you learned this day?” “My dear friend,” the youth spoke in a calm tone, “today I have have found that we, let’s say you and I, are different, yet the same. We are, to each, our own. Both on our own paths with our own understandings, which may coincide at moments like this, but shall remain ours alone...and that is fine. We shall walk our own paths, side by side.” The stranger smiled, and from his cloak brought out the sixth cake. This one was rather simple, it surface was covered in smooth, light blue frosting and had no real taste but sharpened the elf’s mind. The hero now had knowledge of things beyond themself.

Once finsished with the cake, Avizandum turned towards the stranger, “But, what of the seventh cake? There is no riddle for it, nor can I imagine anything greater than what I have learned.” The stranger shook his head, and replied, “My child, the seventh cake is one you will find on your own eventually. I could tell you now...but I wish not do so. Your journey has taught you what it is to live, and thus what to maintain in life. If I shared with you the seventh cake, it’s knowledge would either frighten or excite you. Are you willing to face the possible consequences now?” The youth wanted to reply with an enthusiastic “yes” but could not bring themself to do so. “If it is truly something I will learn later on, then I shall wait until then.” “Very well, my young friend, very well indeed.”

The curtains close, Callum and the other actors take a bow along with the director then exit stage left. After most of the audience cleared out, Callum, Rayla, and Azymondias were relaxing in the bleachers, comparing notes on how they nearly botched their jobs.

“So, what was the seventh cake?” The words of the fabled stranger still lingered in Callum’s mind.

“Dunno,” Rayla shrugged, “I never thought it was worth wasting time over. Avizandum didn’t need it, why should I?”

“I guess that’s one way of thinking about it.”

“Might I be of some assistance?” The two snapped their heads towards the direction of the unknown voice. A tall, robe clad elf softly approached them. “I’m sorry for disturbing you both, but I couldn’t help but overhear your question.”

“That’s ok,” Callum gave a welcome smile, blissfully unaware of the the look of caution on Rayla’s face, “Do you know what it is?”

“Yes dear...but do you really want to know?”

The human thought for a moment, “Yes.”

The older elf smiled. “The seventh cake is the knowledge of the hereafter; death.”

Callum blinked, and shared a questioning look with Rayla.

“Knowledge of death entails the cruel reality of life; that it has no inherent meaning. There is not a higher purpose, nor a universal truth to be found. In death our “selves” perish, and eventually the memory of us follows suit. The stranger in the story feared that this truth would destroy Avizandum’s view of the world, that they would lose their will to live, as many do.” they leaned back a little, gazing thoughtfully at the fielding, “Some people find comfort in this truth. No pressure from a greater power means that we alone possess the power to define our lives, as we see fit. In this way, we are free.” With a sigh, the elf returned their gaze to the surprised teens. They chuckled, “Come now little ones! Does this news change anything?”

Rayla hummed, “I suppose not.”

The stranger nodded, then turned to head off, “Then think nothing of it! You’re young and full of life, embrace and appreciate that. Go safely dears!”

(A/N: This was so not meant to be this long. Well, hope y’all enjoyed anyways!)

[lillaxtrigger]

Young hope: Chapter 18

Within the void of a dark room, light begins to poor in upon the crack of the door. A young red headed teenage girl peeks within the retreating darkness and calls out for whoever it might dwell. “Opal? You in here?” Chloe wonder aloud. Once she fully opens the door, the hallway lights begins to flood the decorative bedroom. Several dishes litter the furnishings of the less then well kept room, the leftover food they still hold looking not as appetizing as they once were. The once proud dragon girl that she sought could be found laying upon her bed, stewing in the woeful market brand soup called depression, now with extra bits of sadness. “Beat it. I’m not in the mood for any of your crap.” the monk demands. “Oh, Opal. I can’t stand to see you like this...Later.”

Beginning to depart from the room, she figures if she wants to lock herself in her dank ass bedroom for the rest of time, that ain’t no skin off her back. But Chloe halts in her tracks once she hears the frosty ice dragon command and ask her to: “Wait a moment. Why did you come here? You didn’t just come to kick me while I was down, did you?” Upon turning back towards her the bed ridden monk, she admits after a sigh that: “Ryu wanted me to come over and check to see if you were doing alright. Said something about you not returning anybodies calls. He tried to come over, you’re mom told him that you didn’t wanna see anyone.” “But she’s not home right now. The doors are supposed to be locked.” “Yeah, I broke in, but that’s not the point. The point is that you haven’t been showing up to school in days. Everyone is worried sick about you and they won’t stop bitching at me to do something about it for some god forsaken reason.” Hearing this, Opal finally raises from the groove left in her bed to question that notion of worry with: “Oh, now everyone’s concerned about me? That’s priceless. Wasn’t enough that Ryu came out of the closet, but both Renee and Tricia haven’t been answering either. And on top of all this avalanche of trouble, my powers haven’t been acting right ever since that whole deal with Circe.” “You’re powers?” “Yeah, I can’t turn into a dragon anymore. No matter how hard I try, not even a scale pops up.” “Can you still control water?” To demonstrate, the fallen dragon casts her palm toward a cup of clear water resting upon the nightstand and lifts the liquid right from the glass. From their, she twirls the water all around the room, weaving the liquid both around her and unwelcomed guests. Finally, she tosses the water towards one of her unsuspecting posters, freezing into icicles and embedding themselves within the bedroom walls. A disheartened breath escaping the dragons once mighty lungs, the water warrior sadly admits that: “It just doesn’t feel the same. Like a part of me was just ripped away.”

“I don’t see what the whole friken she bang is, honestly. So you can’t turn into a scaly ice breathing monstrosity anymore, big whoop. I’d call that a plus.” “You don’t get it! Dragon transformation is a big deal on my moms side of the family! I’d be like saying to her: “Hey mom. The part you gave to me that made me a part of your heritage was ripped straight outta me in the blink of an eye. Too bad I wasted it all on nothing but petty teen soap opera shenanigans fighting over some stupid cute looking boy!” If she found that out, she might never look at me the same way again.”

With that admittance of defeat, the fallen dragon flops right back onto the comfort of her awaiting bed. A sorry site to behold for sure. One that tugs on her former nemesis heartstrings. Where before, the redhead would bask in seeing the ice monk in such a pitying wreck of torn emotions and battered feelings, now she can’t help feel like an asshole upon such a thought. With Ryu having been taken out of the equation, they don’t really have much of a reason to engage in such bad blood battles anymore. Their whole damn rivalry was kinda shallow and petty upon retrospect. Two young ladies fighting over little more then the passing fancies of an oblivious cute boy. Fucking reality TV drama all up in this bitch. Best get to work on digging their way out from the shallow remains of this broken love triangle they once had the gaw to call a relationship.

The red head begins her excavation by sitting on the side of the morning girl bed, grabbing Opals attention but with a light touch to her shoulder. “Look, the whole Ryu thing wasn’t that big a deal looking back. The dates that Ryu took us both on never led into anything serious. Probably why I never spared much thought on it when he came out.” This claims start reaching the ice monk, pulling her face out from the folds of her pillow. “As for the dragon thing; That witch bitch snatched up a lot of kids and tried to drain them of their powers. That whole fiasco wasn’t your fault.” “Yeah it was. I got careless. One night, I heard a cry for help in a dark alleyway, the next thing I know, a weird glow surrounded me I a was on the slumber express. I’m lucky to even be alive.” “That’s the thing. You are alive. I’m sure as long as that was the fact, your mom couldn’t give less of a shit about your powers.” “I don’t know. I always felt such a sense of pride when going dragon. Like I was doing that side of my family proud. Without it, I don’t even feel that much anymore.” “Quit spouting that self pity horse waste and listen. You don’t need any powers to feel like that. You’re already good at so many other stuff.” “Like?” “Um...Uh well, Mmm...You’re pretty good at getting on my nerves?” An upset exhale through the ice monks nose passes before Opal sinks back to the comfort of her bed sheets. Seems like this mission to bury the hatchet is hitting hard rock fast. Gonna need something to punch through before the ground below collapses. Perhaps a bit of dynamite might fair to shake things up.

“Alright then, fine. Stay in here and rot for all I care. I guess with you all cooped up in here, I’m gonna have to be the bearer of bad news to your mom.” The threat is more then enough to shock her former rival out from the folds of her sheets and call her out. “You wouldn’t dare. I can call the police before you even get the chance.” she counters, her phone ready at the dial. “Got her number from the sticky note on the fridge. Care to try me?” she boasts, threatening the same notion with the mothers number on the screen. The two phone toting teenagers stare each other down, their fingers itching for the call. The air gave off a much less risky wild west shootout, but with the guns being their phones and the bullets being the blackmail.

Finally, ice monk caves into the red head threats and lowers her cellular device. “Just let me get changed.” “There we go, now was that so hard?” “Fucking glaciers.”

Their trip on this self esteem recovery cruise is first through the metaphorical oceans of the Townsville mall. Although the damage from the town wide riot proved to still linger, repairs were already halfway done. Though Chloe is barely able to notice as she proves herself far too distracted by Opals choice of apparel. “Good god girl, what are you wearing?” “What?” “Why in high hell did you decide to go out in that?” “My sweater?” Opal checks, a warm green sweater wrapped around her body. “Yeah.” “It’s just in case of cold snaps. I’m been getting them ever since Circe messed with my powers.” With a disgruntled groan, the redhead turns away from the walking fashion disaster she called her guest on this trip. It’s far worse then she thought. The poor girls taste in clothing had gone off the deep end. Something must be done to cure this deterioration of clothing choices, post haste, before the poor girl crosses into the realm of the hideously abstract.

Chloe looks about the repaired walls of the mall for a single glimmer of hope to remedy Opals unfashionable affliction. Beyond the gushes of the fountain, a newly added boutique could be taken in view. Perfect. Now to just convince the victim in question to come along for the shopping spree. Best to approach this carefully. One backhanded insult could sink this entire cruise before it even leaves shore. “Hey, you know what always cheers me up when I’m feeling like a puddle of street piss? Buying some new clothes. Nothing like a shopping spree to perk those sorrowful spirits, my mom always says.” “Why? What’s wrong with what I wear now?” Opal questions. “Oh, nothing, nothing. I just wanna see what cute outfits you look good in.” “I don’t know. Growing up in a temple out in China for most of your life doesn’t exactly develop your taste in fashion.” “Well all that’s gonna change now. Come on.” A swipe to the wrist and Chloe set off towards the clothing shop with Opal in hand.

Within the shop of fashionable apparel and cute accessories, the duo partake in the fashion line inside to their hearts content. Tee’s, jeans, and accessories they go through, helping each other on what looks best on whom, though Chloe does most of the judging for what builds Opals wardrobe. Gotta build up a sturdy sense of fashion for the future. Upon one point in their shopping spree, Opal manages to pull out a pair of jeans with a design of a sky blue dragon stitched on the legging. Never though she’d get such a cruel reminder from a pair of pants of all things. Before the ice monk has the chance to dwell on what she lost a moment further, her red headed host snatches the glittering garments from her grasp and instead lends her a new pair of designer jeans, these sporting a pink petals design lacing the leggings. A site that cheers up the dragon a fair bit and reminds her to look towards the future anew.

With their fresh line of fashionable fair in hand, the pair head straight towards the changing room, eager to garb themselves with the clothes they picked. One at a time, they enter and exit, switching who changes while the other judges, even exchanging their picks at several points.

Once that fashionable changing montage has run its course, they walk out with their bags of newly perched apparel in tow. Chloe seems to notice Opals mood having lifted. looking like her woes were starting to lift away. “Seems that mini shopping spree might have done the trick. You’re looking a tons better.” “Yeah. I’d admit, I didn’t think I’d enjoy it as much as I did. Wearing the same old stuff everyday and you never really appreciate how you look.” The young monk pulls from her bag of acquired wares a dark purple skirt, one that she had taken a fancy eye to. “Not once did I think I’d pick out something as cute as this.” Upon inspecting the piece carefully, the red head finds it best to give out one more piece of expertise to her budding bud. “Opal, listen, listen...That skirt would go amazingly with something of a light violet.” “You think so.” “Oh trust me girl. Boys would be throwing sticks of dynamite to get a piece of you.” A light giggle escaping her lips, she gives her appreciation for the piece of advice with a humble: “Thanks Chloe.”

Looking ahead, the conductor of this blissful bullet train lays her sight on an obstruction upon the tracks. Their former crush on the approach, with a yellow and black haired individual at his side. God dammit, why does his dreamy ass have to rear itself now of all times! If Opal takes a peek of him hanging out with that bumblebee haired douche bag, it’ll send her back on a one way trip to the precinct of misery and sorrow. Time for this Spicer express to take a sudden detour off the rails. Hastily, she shoves Opal into the nearest store before her site rest upon the approaching duo.

Recovering from the sudden shove, the monk turns towards the red head, and naturally demands an explanation. “What the hell, Chloe? What’s your deal?” “Sorry, thought I might have spotted something in here that you might like.” “In business attire?” “Yeah, sure will find something in this little-what?” Finally, she notices the shop that Chloe had shove themselves into and finds Opal to be correct. The two found themselves in the midst of a business clothing store. Not even a good one where the choices avalible were stylish, more along the lines of causal office wear as the red head looks on in horror the droll line of dress shirts and khakis filling the racks. Oh god. What kind of dorkish hellscape have they forced upon themselves? Even standing aside such passe choices of wares is enough to make the girls skin creep. Best make their escape as soon as possible. “Oh, whoops. My bad. Must have been something I imagined. What’d you say we bounce outta here and look somewhere else for you to where did you go?” Beside her, the ice monk seemed to have slipped form her side, witnessing Opal travel further into the depths of the store. Dear god no. The red head hesitates not a moment further to chase after her guest, rushing into the racks as fast as she can.

Chloe takes her frantic search through the racks and shelves of this office depot, hoping to pull Opal out from the deep wells of this company appointed shop. Has the poor girl finally delved into the depths of madness, or she bravely naive enough to think that she might find something to pull a decent look off in this joint? Dammit, it won’t be long before the spirit of drab office apparel consumes her very being. There might be no saving her at that point. A fate she intends to have not befall the monk.

Her search takes her to the back of the store, the girl she sought coming out garbed in a long sleeved lilac dress shirt in junction with her new purple skirt. “Well, how do I look?” Opal wonders. “You...You look...Not half bad actually.” “You think so?” “Yeah. The skirt actually makes the whole thing surprisingly work.” The red head takes a quite sigh of relief upon the girls overall look. That was quite the scare for the minute there. Thought she’d had her sense of fashion poisoned within this horrid realm of dull business apparel. “Glad you like it so much. Just wish I had enough money to take it home. Spent the last of it over at the other place.” “Oh don’t you worry about cash. Let me take care of cash.” “Are you sure?” “Of course. I’m god damn loaded. Just give me a second.” As the red head goes off to pay for her former foes new digs, the watery young woman looks over to her sweater that rested within one of the bags with a mix of slight attachment and worry.

The next stop on this road trip in the RV of gleeful merriment and mirthful recovery was grabbing a bite to eat. Since Chloe picked where they went at the last few times, she figures it might be time for Opal to take the wheel on a couple stops. Where the ice monk decides to take this road trip was at a Chinese restaurant. And not one of those cheap ass takeout restaurants you find along a strip mall either, we’re talking about the exotic stuff all up in this biz.

The two ladies await for their servings to arrive, admiring the décor planted throughout the restaurant mixed with the eastern style music playing on the speakers above. The variety of food being served to the awaiting people matched the eastern motif like no other, emitting the unique scents that one would find in the land of dragons. The entire restaurant gave out the vibe that you just stepped within a little slice of China. “Wow, this place looks so exotic. Nice choice for a stop, girl.” “Yeah, I thought coming here might cheer me up a bit. The food they serve always reminds me of the stuff I’d eat at my dad temple. Hope he’s doing alright over there.”

Upon that wonder, their food arrives, the waiter resting the delectable dishes before them. While Opal has ordered herself a delectable bowl of chow mein with a side of fried rice, Chloe was given a saucy serving of sweet and sour chicken. The combining aroma’s of the dishes create an overwhelming scent that girls noses eagerly take in. They can practically feel the tantalizing tastes of the Chinese already and hesitate not a moment longer to dig in.

Although the water warrior does not hesitate partaking in her decided dish, relishing the nearly nostalgic flavors; the same cannot be said for the red head, having trouble as early as handling the pair of chopstick she was given No matter what way she choose to hold the foreign utensils, the sticks would always slip from her grip. Looking over, Chloe finds her former rival having next to no trouble accomplishing such a task, taking in bite after bite of the noodles set before her. How the hell does anybody eat with these damn things? Who’s the jackass that thought that eating your food with a pair of sticks would be the most practical idea? The better question is how it became a standard in some countries? Ah, well. No shame in asking for a fork.

After grabbing the attention of a nearby waiter with a wave of her hand, Chloe asks them: “Excuse me. Have you got any forks or spoons I can use?” “Oh, sorry. I’m afraid we can’t serve anyone those at them moment. All of them are being washed.” The waiter takes their leave, leaving Chloe little option but to risk experimenting with the unique set of utensils. Well shit, guess this exotically enticing meal will have to wait for the doggy bag, then. But the red head stomach relay’s to her its objections upon waiting a moment further with quite the upsetting growl, demanding the food before them enter her body at once. Fine, you win stomach. Guess no better time to practice then now.

One more time, she holds the sticks together, pinching them carefully between her fingers. Slowly, she navigates the ends towards her chicken, pinching the piece between the tips. Ha, gotcha! Now to just lift the sour sweet piece and finally partake in the long awaited flavor. But inches away from her gaping mouth, it slips from the sticks delecate grasp and plops upon the table. The gooey sweet and sour sauce splatters upon impact, tempting to land on her newly bought designer garments if not for the red head blocking palm. Jesus, that was close! If even a single drip of this tantalizing nectar got on her person, its doubtful the stains would ever come out. Why didn’t she just order the fucking rice bowl?  Damn this enticing Chinese explosion of sauces and flavors. The taste of exotic foods was always such a crippling weakness to the young lady, no matter how unashamedly juicy it may present itself. Its all just so damn tasty.

Opal on the other hand proves to be halfway done with her chow mein, taking in the delectable noodles with nothing but pinches from her chopsticks. As she continues to dine on her dish however, she can’t help but notices Chloe’s fumbles upon the same venture, watching as she struggles to lift even a piece of her chicken. Where before, the monk of water would take the opportunity to show off amidst her former rivals falls from grace, she instead feels motives for a much opposite form of action.

Pinching the piece of sweet and sour chicken with a stick in each hand, she slowly lifts the longing flavor of the saucy poultry towards her mouth, only to have the piece fall right back on the plate. Right from the cusp of a boiling rage, Opal cools her growling with a grasp of her shoulder while relieving the sticks form her grasp. “Chloe, relax. Chopsticks aren’t that hard once you figure out how to use them. Let me show you how to hold them before you stab someone’s eyes out.” The monk returns the red head sticks back to a single palm, placing them between her index finger like a pair of pencils. “Just place the two sticks between you’re index finger and hold then with your middle finger and thumb like so.” That step finished, the next one shows Opal guiding their hands towards Chloe’s awaiting delectable dish, pinching a piece between the tips of the sticks using her finger and thumb. Finally, the piece makes its trip towards Chloe’s long awaiting lips once more, finishing its abrupt journey with a well deserved bite. At long last, the red head can savor the sweet and sour flavors that swirl within her mouth, the exotic tastes queuing a satisfied moan.   After swallowing a piece of her well desired dish with an ending sigh, the red turns to the water monk, with a thankful: “Thanks a bunch, don’t know how much longer I could risk getting any of that sauce on my clothes.” “Hey, don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do after you bought this shirt for me.” “Now I can finally dig into this bitch!” Eagerly, Chloe pinches another piece and quickly laps up the chicken towards her mouth, but she proves that she still need work with the utensils as she drops the piece just as fast. A lowkey growl escaping the cracks of her teeth, Opal gives her reassuring calm by noting: “Hey, don’t sweat it. All it takes is a little patients and some practice. You should have seen the first time I handled them, one of them wound up flying in my dads ear.” “Really?” “Yeah, I was almost grounded.” Sharing a pleasing giggle, the two return to their meals with the aim to finish.

After a while, the duo finally end their meals with a relaxing slouch and a hearty sigh. “Man that hit the spot. That chow mein you shared with me wasn’t half bad.” Chloe admits. “That sweet and sour chicken you picked out was pretty nice too. This place serves some good Chinese.” Opal shares. “Well, hope you hadn’t had you’re fill yet. We still got some day to burn off to make some stops.” Rising from her booth, the red head prepares her trip towards the bathroom with the followup of: “But first, I gotta make a stop myself.”

One trip to the bathroom passing and Chloe prepares her walk back to pay for the check. Something that catches her eye makes her halt in her tracks however. Her former crush, Ryu, sitting in a booth facing the young man he walked beside with earlier. Are you fucking for real, here? Is he just following them or is this just some massive ass coincidence. Better bolt it before the site strikes Opals gaze, else the whole day plan might come to a screeching stop.

As the ice monk prepares for their departure, she takes witness to her red headed friend making a swift rush in her direction. Quickly setting the money she owes upon the table, Chloe takes Opals hands and rushes for the door. “Come on. The night is burning.” she insists. Little do both of them fail to realizes is that the water warrior has yet to retrieve her sweater, resting upon the seat of their former booth.

With their stomachs stuffed and their taste buds quenched, Opal yet again takes the reins of this frolicsome venture, riding into the realm of infinite possibilities as the day soon fades to make way for the towns dusk. However, in what seemed like a cruel joke, the water monk decides that the next stop upon this girls night out was an office supply emporium of all place. “You know, Opal. You had me with the restaurant and then you lost me here. We’re supposed to be having fun tonight. Why did you drag us hear of all places?” “I just need to stop in here to get several things. My supplies stock has taken a huge nosedive and I need to refuel.” Hearing a load groan escape the redheads lungs, Opal reassures her to: “Don’t worry. I promise we won’t be here for long. Maybe you can help me pick out some cute files.” With that, a much louder groan escapes the red head.

Surely, an excuse that she has heard many a times by now. It’s always just a couple minutes, isn’t it? But a couple could soon easily morph into several, as evidence by the so many times Kingsley has drag her and her parent to this accursed depot of business tools. Seriously, every time she wound up in here, the minutes just slug on to a dead crawl. She’d even try faking sick a couple time just for the hope of relief from the ticking of the clock. Though the red head dares make an acceptation this time around, as her determination to put the petty past behind beckon to the call. This is a day of redemption dammit, a day that will not be tainted by the impulses of rising boredom. If her budding bud wishes to partake in this spree through the mart of office supplies, so be it. Chloe’s only concern is how long she’ll be able to last amidst the droll wilds.

And its not long before the red head resolves swiftly begins to wear thin. The trip through the depot leads them through shelves of staples, plenty of papers, and countless amounts of pencil and pen alike. While Opal enjoys the weirdly tranquil calm of looming through the interior of the store, the redhead was beginning to loose her mind trekking through all of it once again as the horridly shitty excuse for store music breaches her ears for the 10th time in a row. Seriously, its all they fucking play here! She’s heard it on loop, so many times, she occasionally hears echoes of its reprise long after she’s departed. If she has to navigate her way through even another hall of boring file organizers, someones spine is coming out of their backs. The wonder if her former rival just dragged her hear to make her suffer, begins to take hold.

Upon the cusp of a rage induced shit fit, something that catches her eye halts her readying freak-out. Twas nothing more complex then a simple pen, a pen with a rather unique design catching Chloe’s eye. It looks...really nice actually. The elegant pattern swirling along the barrel, the gracious clip seamlessly matching the design of the cap, almost like the designs of a fashionable dress. How the hell is it possible for a pen to look this good. Throughout all the times she’s been through this god forsaken office store, she’s never noticed such a gem. Can’t let this catch slip through her grasp. Taking her newfound pen, she turns back to find she has lost site of her frosty friend. Dammit, where did she wonder of to, now? Swear, you take your eye off some people for a moment and they’re gone, just like that. Better find her before she looses herself in the swirling nether of clip boards and printer ink.

In the midst of her search through this office emporium, Chloe comes across a mess of supplies forming trailing throughout the isles. These supplies seems a little familiar. Staples, paper, pen and pencil. Weren’t these the things that Opal was shopping for? Hard to say for certain. Almost everything in here looks the same, all of it blending together to the red heads point of view. But something still feels amiss. She knows Opal isn’t this incompetently clumsy just to drop her shit everywhere like this. Whatever’s happened, she better follow the trail fast.

The path of paper and pencil leads Chloe all throughout the depot, weaving through the countless isles of supplies and customers. Each second passing is another moment the red heads worry grows. The trail beginning to wear itself thin the further down it leads, she hopes that the path doesn’t come crawling to a close soon.

The paper and pen path leads towards the back of the store, Chloe finally coming across Opal huddled in the corner. “Opal, finally. What the hell happened? Why’d you just ditch me like-...Huh?” A closer look upon the ice monk revealed her to be suffering from a nasty shiver, her breath on full display within the heated space. “Opal, what’s going on!? What’s happening!?” “Cold snap...Can’t find...sweater...Need warmth...now!”

Not a moment further does Chloe wait to drag her freezing friend out from the business depot, ignoring the alarm that sounds off as they pass. Out in the parking lot, the red head looks around, hoping to find someplace for her bitter cold bud to thaw. Can’t take to the skies, gliding through cold evening air is just asking to make things worse. Too far from home either. The trip potentially taking roughly an hour on foot. Not the kind of time she has to spend. There’s gotta be somewhere around here a couple gals can shelter themselves from the chilling cold of the fall winds. Wherever that may be, they better find it fast, else Opal might make for a fine example of the looming dangers of hypothermia.

Up and down and all around the block they go, hoping somewhere around was the salvation of heat and warmth the freezing monk so desires. With each passing second, her shaking worsens. Chloe feeling Opals shivers against her body worsen as the red head holds her tight for warmth. Come on! There has to be somewhere here that can save them from the freezing faults of fall. Another minute longer and shemight succumb to a frightening frosty fate.

In the midst of her frantic search for the desiring relief of warm do the duo spot an orange glow, piercing through the darkness of an alleyway on the wayside. Not a moment longer do they rush towards the light, finding within the alley a burning oil drum that few of the cities homeless have huddled around to bask in its heat. Perhaps not the most appealing places to seek shelter from old mans winters knock at the door, but given Opals dropping temperature, it’ll have to make do. The freezing monk wastes not an another moment to approach the glowing blaze, warming herself against the radiating heat. “You feeling better?” the red head asks her. “Yeah...Warming up at least.” “Hah….that’s nice to hear. Thought for a minute there you would have ended up turning into a grape dragon popsicle.” “I...I don’t get it.” “Ah, see it’s cause you’re wearing purple and you almost froze to-” “My sweater! I don’t know where it could have possibly wound up. I need to get it back.” “Oh...Well don’t beat yourself up about it. I’ll just get ya something even better to where. Maybe even a designer coat with silk lacing in the-” “No!” The suddenly harsh objection from the warming warrior makes the fiery red head and the other homeless jump back. “I need that sweater back ASAP...I can’t go home without it.” she demands under the frost of her breath. “Alright, fine, Jeez. I’ll get it back for you.”

As Chloe takes flight from the orange lit warmth of the burning blaze, she wonders what the hell bossy MC ice fangs deal is. It’s just a stupid sweater. Not even a good looking one either. That snot colored abomination didn’t even look that good on her to begin with. If she was that worried about getting cold, it’d be best to get her a much more stylish designer coat instead. Perhaps something of a magenta color would tie her look together quite nice. Something to spare thought to as she begins her search for the ice monks sweater. Don’t want all that hard work and cash in cheering the girl up to go right down the drain. The only question left unanswered is where they could have left the damn thing. Only four places it could possibly be at. Seems this mystery is gonna require retracing their steps.

First stop on this mystery march was back at the business supply emporium. “Nah, we haven’t seen you’re friends sweater, But we did see you two run off without paying.” the cashier mentions. A disappointed sigh escapes the red heads mouth as she pulls out the money she owns.

Second stop upon this sweater search was at the boutique, the cashier at the front claiming: “No, you’re friends sweater wasn’t left here. Good thing, too. That horrid thing best not be left in our shop.” Although inclined to agree with the sneering comment, the red head ultimately takes her leave.

Up next was the office dress shop, and much like the other shops before that Opals sought after sweater is: “Ain’t here. Sorry. Though while I have you, would you like to try out are new membership plan. You get a new pair of khakis sent every month?” Nope. An irritated growl seeps through her teeth as she walks out.

Only place left to check on the list was the Chinese restaurant they dined at earlier. Luckily Chloe manages to strike a bit of gold during the hunt, the waiter confirming that: “Yes, it was here. You two left it at the booth you dined after rushing out.” “Really? Mind if I have it back then?” “Oh, sorry. A couple of guys that came in here earlier snatched it up on their way out before any of us could grab it.” “What!? Can’t you at least tell me what they look like?” Chloe pleas. “Eh, not really sure. Didn’t really get a good look at them going out. Don’t know what to tell you.” “I-...Thank you for your time...” A weary moan leaves the girls lungs at she exits the restaurant.

Well, that proved to be a complete waist of time. Going around everywhere only to find out that Opals stupid sweater was stolen. Who in their right mind would look to a sweater left on a random seat of a Chinese restaurant and go: “Ah yeah. That shits mine, motherfucka!” Fuckin really now! Now how to break the news to her as gently as possible?...Wonder if the boutique still open?

A round trip back to the alleyway the fiery red head left her frosty friend behind and she finds the lady of the hour has left the scenes entirely. Oh, where the hell did she wonder off to now? Can’t exactly message the girl to see where she’s at. Never bothered to get her number. Okay Chloe, calm down. She’s not stupid. If she left, then that means that her cold spells must have wore off. At least she’s alright for now. Only question left was where she went. Now think; where would someone who grew up in a Chinese temple for most of their life go to when feeling like frosty shitcicles? ...

Within the confines of the Townsville park, a wide view of Chinese themed scenery stretched before her. Flora and fauna from the very country it was attempting to emulate planted throughout the section of park. Buildings matching the old atheistic placed about to go with the tranquil scenery, some housing public services. A calming stream leading throughout the park flowed from the ponds almost like lifeblood, little wooden bridges connecting the lands for safe passage. Completing the entire eastern aesthetic with the paper lamps suspended upon the poles. Its a miracle this place remained untouched during the town wide riot. It always looked so gorgeous. The redhead can’t imagine what would happen this beautiful portal into the land of dragons were destroyed overnight. The park just wouldn’t be the same. But now’s not the time for exotic admiration, there’s a friend that needs to be found, dammit. Best find her soon before this nightly fall air makes her succumb to another cold snap.

The koi ponds, the ancient bell, the lily garden, the bamboo thicket each and every corner the red head looks for the lady of the hour, finding not a single speck of the frosty lass anywhere. Checking in the buildings around proved to be just as a fruitless endeavor, the ice monk failing to be in any of them. Maybe she just went home after all. As Chloe begins her trek out from the eastern themed park, her expression perks upon spoting a familiar figure standing atop one of the wooden bridges crossing the streams.

Opal herself was busy staring down into the flowing stream below, entranced by the passing koi fish as a senses of waning nostalgia envelopes her. “Hey girl!” The call for attention snaps her out of the enticing trance, finding her fiery red head friend approaching from the side. “There you are. I was getting worried you might’ve went home. Good thing I caught ya hanging around here, huh. Nice to see that you’re feeling better too.” “Uh, thanks...Did you find my sweater yet?” “Ehhh...No, wound up getting stolen.” “What!?” the ice monk exclaims, visibly distraught by the baring news. “But don’t you fret. I got you something even better. Ready?” With that, the red head presents her final gift on this metaphorical merriment cruise liner: a top of the line fur designer coat. “Ta da!” Placing the coat in Opals grasp, Chloe goes into further detail about said gift with: “Figured it’d help you plenty with any freeze spells you might catch, with it’s thermal wool interior and heavy outer fabric, that baby should keep you warm no matter how low your temperature drops.” “I...Um...Th-thanks...I guess.” “What, you don’t like it?” “It’s just...I really wanted that back sweater back is all. And hearing it get stolen is just-” “You still going on about that national offense of fashion? Just forget about it. That coat I picked out for you is way better then that snot green disaster any day of the week” That snide remark manages to set the water warrior off to boil, arguing with: “Excuse me!? That offense of fashion was special to me. You can’t just replace something like that.” “Oh, come on. I guarantee you that coat you’re holding has had a lot more money dunked into it then that mucus colored mess ever held. What kind of value could that hideous excuse for clothing possibly have?” “It was a gift from my cousin, you bitch!” A mix of shock and guilt befalls the red head upon this fact reaching her ears. “I haven’t seen him in years, but he sent me that sweater as a birthday gift several months ago.” “Opal, I-” “You know, I was honestly hoping that we could have put all all our bad blood business behind us and maybe bury the hatchet. I actually liked hanging out with you and thought you were really cool. Like, I was thinking, “Hey, I guess she isn’t as bad after all.”… But I was wrong. You’re really are just and as selfish and inconsiderate as I thought.” Her words of bitter scorn and deep remorse delivered, the fallen dragon tosses her newfound coat into the mercy of the sky, the fall winds above claiming her ill received gift for themselves. The emotionally wounded warrior then departs, leaving Chloe to stew in the wonder of her actions.

Hmm, figured that conversation could have taken a much smoother route. Things might have not taken such a drastically worse turn if the red head hadn’t crashed into the ice monks nerves like that. Maybe it’s not to late to apologize for the sudden wreck?...You know what, no. If that bitch isn’t thankful for all the money I spent on her, so be it. There’s better things to do with ones time anyhow.

Ready to depart and leave the upset dragon to her woes, Chloe turns around to find her former crush right behind her. “Hey Chloe, what’s up.” “Ryu, hey.” Whoa, when the hell did he get here!? Wait a second, did he catch that whole fiasco? Judging by his upbeat expression, its a safe wager to assume that he didn’t see much. Play it cool, Chloe. “So, what brings you around here?” “Just hanging out with this cool guy I met the other day. I spotted you and Opal at that Chinese restaurant earlier and was hoping I could catch you two to talk for a bit.” “R-really? With what?” “Well, this might sound kinda weird. But I always got the impression that you two might have been fighting over me.” “What? No. No. That’s crazy. Whatever gave you that silly idea?” Oh god. “Well, I kinda figured that both of you had a thing for me and wanted to say sorry if I may have broken a couple hearts coming out.” “Ryu, it’s no big deal. Honest, I’ve moved on.” “Okay. I was a little worried there. Hey um, if you see Opal, mind giving her something for me as a sort of apology.” Curiously, the red head awaits as the boy before her turns from behind, requesting her to: “Wait for it...”

Shortly, he pulls his of apology which takes the form of Opals lost sweater. “Her sweater!?” “Yeah, I kinda saw you two rush out of the restaurant without it. Figured she might want it back. You know where I can find her?” “Um-Uh… Swiftly, she nabs the sought after garment from the boys grasp, promising him that: “Don’t sweat it. I’ll make sure she gets it the next time I see her.” “Oh, great. Thanks. You know, I’m so happy you two are finally getting along. I guess with me outta the game, there’s really no reason to fight, is there?" “Ha ha, yeah. Good to hear. Ha.” God dammit. “Cool. Listen, I gotta get back to this guy that I’m hanging out with. Maybe work up the nerve to ask him out. Tell Opal I said hi!” With the boys leave, Chloe gives her wave goodbye, waning the further he goes as she says farewell with: “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to tell her. Good luck on your little date, Ryu. Ha ha ha...ha ha...ha...Shit.”

Whelp, guess that was the final nail in the coffin, wasn’t it? The red head felt like a complete asshole. I mean sure, at first she did all this because nobody would shut the hell up about it, even tempting to leave when the fallen dragon proved to be too stubborn. But during their time spent together, they found more common ground then either of them realize. Maybe there was even a chance to form a budding relationship where war once waged. Fuck, why did all that have to come out of her mouth. Hope the soil isn’t too far tainted for anything to grow now.

Around the park she goes once more, hoping to catch the ice monk before her bitter departure. However, another sweep around the park proved fruitless as she fails to find Opal anywhere. Please say she didn’t leave already.

Within the confines of a hidden grotto, she finally found the frosty dragon of ice, dwelling in the darkness upon a stone seat. Opal herself not to happy that her depending rival uncovered her, evident by questioning with a mildly harsh: “What do you want?” “I um…I was hoping to catch you so I could say sorry for the sweater. Didn’t know it meant that much to you. I shouldn’t have made us leave without it.” A depressed breath escaping the fallen dragons mouth, she turns her gaze away from the red head. “But guess what, it didn’t get stolen after all. Ryu stop by to chat and found it.” Reaching around, she presents the treasured sweater in question, prompting Opal to slowly approach. Showing little emotion, she takes the sweater from the red heads grasps and after inspecting it asks: “So Ryu found it, huh? Did he say anything else?” “Just sorry that he kinda broke your heart.” “Oh...” Her sweater in hand, the icy monk returns back to the shadows of the grotto, her gaze breaking with Chloe once more. “Listen, if it’s Ryu you’re still worried about, you don’t need him. You-” “It’s not Ryu I’m mad about. I’m over him. It’s about you.” “Me?” “The way you treated my sweater with callous disregard, it showed how little you think of me. That you barely even considered how losing something like that made me feel. It make me wonder that all we did today was just you trying to look like the bigger woman.

Hearing this, Chloe approaches the dragon monk, sitting beside her upon the hard stone. “Look. I’m just gonna come clean with you. At first, I just did this because everybody wouldn’t stop coming to me about you, like whatever you do is my damn business. But the more time I spent on this whole trip, the more I began to enjoy it. I mean picking out great clothes, teaching me how to use those chopsticks, finding an amazing looking pen. I’d never thought I’d have much fun hanging out with you, until today. And about your sweater, you’re right. I acted like I could just buy my way outta loosing it and never thought it might have been important to you. I always just took that kinda of stuff...for granted. You’re honestly one of the coolest girls I’ve ever met and I really don’t want things to end like this, but...I understand if you never wanna see me again. Later.” Her heartfelt apology dealt, the red head prepares to take her leave from the darkness of the grotto.

Right on the cusp of taking her sorry leave, Chloe hears the sound of the water monk call out and demand that she: “Wait.” A quick turn about towards her staring frosty friends request and she wonders what the girl might have left to get off her chest. “...Thanks for...getting me out of the house and taking me shopping. You’re whole encouraging blackmail trip actually kinda helped. I was beginning to feel a lot better. Lord knows how long I’d stow myself in my room if you hadn’t forced me out. Do you...do you still think we have time to hang out?” A warm smile drawn across her face, the red head approached and reassured that: “We’re teenagers. We can make our own time. But you might wanna better way of hanging onto that sweater of yours. Hang on.” Taking the garment from Opals grasps, she ties the warm sweater around her reforged friends neck. “There we go. Don’t look half bad on you when you wear it like that.” “Hee, thanks. Come on.”

Upon emerging from the darkness of the grotto, the sound of the ice monks phone halts the two in their tracks. “Oh hang on.” Digging the phone from her purse, she takes the answer, only to be met with the ballistic screams of her mother on the other end “Mom...S-slow down, what are you talking...The business depot...They said I did what!? Ha-hang on mom! I can explain, I...um, I...” Struggling upon what to say to the furious parental figure, the fallen dragon feels the calming touch from her once bitter rival upon her shoulder, looking back to find the fiery red head with a reassuring smile. The doubt and fears leaves the renewed monks person with a soothing breathe, determined to face the fury of her mother head on with: “Mom...There’s something that I need to tell you...”

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With this chapter, I wanted to try and explore the dynamic between Chloe and Opal in the aftermath of their burnt out rivalry. I thought it might be interesting for Chloe to try and help out a former rival having been weakened by the scares left behind by Circe, exploring a different side to the whole coping story that I did with Roy a couple Chapters back

(Also as a good story excuse to retcon Opals dragon powers, but never mind that.)

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “The Angel of Death”

As the Messenger of Death, your fate is to decide who lives or dies. If you spare a mortal’s life, you can either curse or bless them, or do nothing and let destiny determine the outcome. Tonight is a very bad one for Gotham: a lot of souls on the verge of dying. And you are here to sentence them all.

The ambush went incredibly wrong; the gangsters knew about the stakeout and the mob boss detonated the explosive with everyone in the building: cops and henchmen alike. So many humans on the verge of dying.

Your black wings stretch, gently stopping their movement as you walk over rubble and ashes. You firmly hold the Silver Sword, the only thing shining in the darkness: one side of the weapon is engraved with the curse of the underworld, the other one with its blessing. Only nothingness surrounds you, the glowing white orbs in your eye sockets assessing the aftermath of the carnage.

You halt by the kingpin and bend one knee to bring yourself closer to him. Only souls trapped in between, waiting for the judgement can see you. Your uncanny presence makes him shiver with fear, the pool of blood he’s lying in sizzling as an outcome of the powers bestowed upon The Angel of Death. Your long, ghostly hair touches his shoulders as you decide on his faith:

“You created enough damage. I have a lot of work to do because of you. I am not forgiving when it comes to this. STOP BREATHING!!” your voice echoes in his mind and your ethereal lips touch the man’s forehead: the Kiss of Death. His heart stops and you get up, searching for the rest of the mortals.

Bruce Wayne is not very far. The Batman armor is very strong, yet not enough to protect from such a violent blast. His wounds are fatal, but you linger on top of him, debating.

“I…I remember you…” he kind of smiles, half gone and delirious. Bruce thinks he’s hallucinating since there is no way you are besides him again.

He saw you a long time ago, when he was a child and fell into that accursed cave near the Wayne mansion. He almost died but you spared his life; you didn’t curse or blessed the little boy, you just allowed him to go on.

You have a weakness for lost souls; he is definitely one of them. The goosebumps on his skin alert you it’s time for a decision.

Your sword touches his chest, the piercing words lingering in the heavy air around you:

“I curse you with life, never to find peace unless you keep on fighting. It is your doom and your salvation.”

Bruce groans in pain and falls in a deep daze, but his broken body will survive because you said so.

Commissar Gordon is under a crashed wall, struggling to breathe, barely conscious, which is why you are here.

“Who…who are you?” he manages to whisper, thinking this is a dream. Poor humans, they never recognize The Angel of Death and the blissful contradiction it brings.

Your huge, heavy wings go around him like a misty curtain; James slowly blinks for a few seconds before passing out from the loss of blood. The verdict is quick to follow:

“You did a lot to save the rest. I tend to be forgiving towards those who strive to save others for the greater good. You can go on. BREATHE!!”

You don’t curse or bless him, but the man is allowed to continue his mission on earth.

So many to judge after the slaughter, but it needs to be done: all the policemen and gangsters are taken care of one by one, no other choice but to obey your will.

**************

There is another soul waiting for The Angel of Death: in the Arkham prison, The Joker is fading away. One of the doctors secretly switched his medication, injecting him with a new experimental drug instead of the usual one–just to see what it would do. Who would care anyway; they are all crazy in there, unwanted criminals, forgotten by the rest of the world.

The drug reacted as a poison in The Joker’s body. He was returned to his cell immediately after the therapy, lights out and silent confinement as a punishment for his attitude; that’s why nobody realized he is not well.

So much stillness in the air… and the human cannot move anymore. His eyes are pinned to the ceiling: a small stream of blood makes its way down his chin, dripping on the cold floor where he collapsed, almost unconscious at this point.

The Joker moans in pain under the paralyzing pressure of his organs failing one by one, his dying body responding to your touch: he gets the strength to turn his head and gaze upon you, the enormous, black wings fluttering without any sound.

“It’s… it’s you…” he stutters, remembering the only thing standing out from his horrible childhood:

He saw you that day, a long time ago when he was 10 years old and his father gave him such a beating it nearly killed him. As if it wasn’t enough, the cruel parent tossed his son down the stairs afterwards, ignoring the faint cries for help. His father wanted him dead and left him there, running away God knows where with his tramp. But The Angel of Death decided the young boy should live; you didn’t curse or bless him back then, but he was granted life.

Oh, how fast they were to diagnose his rant as crazy talk every time he mentioned The Dark Queen in the therapy sessions. A hopeless case, screwed up beyond repair.

“My… Queen,” he gasps for air, wanting to touch the Silver Sword; he is so feverish and drained that his hand falls back to the side, while the sentence resonates in his mind:

“You suffered and made others suffer. It’s time to let go. STOP BRE…” and The Joker’s heart slows down, waiting for the end of your command. Your lips are close to his forehead, awaiting the Kiss of Death.

But you have a weakness for lost souls; he is definitely one of them. It’s very rare for you to change a judgment in the last moment, still you need to do it. You get up, the heavy blade rests on his chest, the decision taken:

“I bless you to feel emotions again. You will know sorrow, regret and love; it will be your ruin and redemption.”

The Joker’s body relaxes, immersed in a dreamless nightmare; he will survive because you wish it.

******************

Years went by like they were nothing for you: The Angel of Death is not confined by time or space. Your task is to do Death’s bidding for eternity and it will never change.

Busy again in Gotham: things got worse and worse on Earth in general; this city is no exception. After sentencing mortals to life or death all night, you find yourself kneeling by a familiar human.

The Joker was driving his Purple Lamborghini towards the penthouse when he got ambushed by the police and attempted to escape. He was speeding on the streets of the damned town that made him who he is, when he lost control of the car and smashed into a brick wall by Liberty Street. The impact was so strong that he flew through the windshield and landed in the ditch nearby, every single bone in his body broken to pieces.

“T…The…Dark… Queen,” the mortal mumbles, in shock from so much pain and internal bleeding.

You lean over to look into his eyes which makes him regain a bit of concentration.

“You…you’re so… beautiful…” he coughs, wanting to touch your face but can’t: his limbs are fractured. No human could withstand such forbidden transgression anyway, yet he still attempted: The Joker never forgot about the Dark Queen, the only thing in life he was certain it was real and not a figment of his twisted imagination.

“You had enough,” the judge passes the outcome of his fate. “STOP BREATHING!!” and the Kiss of Death puts an end to his misery.

His heart stops and a faint smile lingers on his lips: after being tormented for so long, you finally have pity and give him peace. The King of Gotham is finally free and The Angel of Death decides one more thing:

“Wait!” you order the soul as it prepares to leave. “Stay with me!”

From time to time, you like to keep strong spirits around you, especially lost souls. And you have a weakness for lost souls.

******************

The Angel of Death is only seen by those on the verge of dying, forever cursing or blessing mortals allowed to go on. The souls awaiting judgement can see one more thing lately: a silent, Dark Shadow to your right, wings blacker than night and blue orbs lightening the abyss.

The apparition never says anything, but sometimes you turn towards it and ask for its opinion even it’s no use—only you can decide:

“Cursed with life?”

Its head nods a yes and the Silver Sword touches whomever you are judging, passing the sentence.

The surreal glow surrounding you while doing this gives the Dark Shadow enough courage to whisper in your mind:

“You’re so beautiful My Queen…”

Also read: MASTERLIST

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