#but its said with internal agony at not being able to immediately throw his everything into service of xie lian

[fxvixen]

the audacity of Xie Lian in the first book to say "I'm afraid you don't know how to paint the Prince of Xianle, am I right?"

Hua Cheng had to have been thinking ".................while you were scrap-collecting, I studied the blade brush"

[gaytransflint]

@a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives​​ prompted: set in post season 2. Flint lends his largest shirt to Silver while he's recovering inside the cabin. Hurt/Comfort conversation about Silver's pain and discomfort. [tw for internalized ableism ahead]

When Silver wakes he’s quiet, barely conscious. He blinks and feels around the blankets and the bench, as if finding his balance. He groans inquisitively, but asks for nothing. For no one. Flint doesn’t rise from his chair, turning only to see Silver drift back off, hands gripping the hem of his stained shirt. Splotches of blood line his sleeves and waist. Flint makes note and stands from his desk.

The third time Silver wakes, it’s with a harsh start. He shouts and nearly throws his weight over the edge of his bed. Luckily, Flint had moved to rest in the chair by his bedside, resting in the setting sunshine, and catches him before he hits the floor.

“Steady, Silver.” Flint eases him back down. Silver has the look of a child-- an infant, almost: shocked and horrified and looking in every direction for relief. Everything is at the worst state he’s ever experienced and it’s unchanging. Flint can’t imagine the pain. He's unsure if he can.

“How are you feeling?” Flint asks, once Silver is sitting back again. "You were out for a while there."

“I didn’t want this.” Silver says immediately, shaking his head. There isn't just agony to his voice, there's terror. He's afraid it's still real. “I didn’t want this. I told them.”

"Silver, does it hurt-- where does it hurt?” Flint inches forward on his chair, resting his hands on the edge of the window bench.

"I told them I didn't want this." Silver surges upward again, grappling for Flint-- if only to thrust him out of the way. "I told them I didn't."

"Silver, you're okay."

"I told them no." There is a new ache in his voice. The sentence is worn out, but perhaps it's first time being heard. "I told them not to. I said no."

"I know. I know you did." Flint sits back in the chair. "I was informed of the entire ordeal. It must’ve been very horrific for you, I’m sure.”

"Don’t fucking placate me.” Silver snaps, shoving his blankets back.

He exposes his leg and his wound. He gags, but Flint supposes that’s the closest thing to a sob he’ll ever see. Silver places a hand over his chest, steadying his breath. His fingers dig into the collar-- then immediately splay out. Silver looks down at the shirt, holding his arms out. He begins to shudder.

“What happened to my shirt.”

“That one was completely soiled. I couldn’t let you wake in that.” Flint says, folding his hands in his lap. He hopes it establishes his willingness to see Silver through the terror racking his face, crumpling every hardened feature into a startling softness. He’s close to tears, and Flint can tell there is nothing Silver would rather do less than let a single tear break through and fall down his cheek.

“You changed my clothes.” Silver says. “You didn’t ask me. I would’ve said no. You didn’t ask me--”

The anger breaks through and flares out at Flint. He doesn’t move away from Silver, or even begin apologizing. He remains still and watches Silver’s face contort with the rashness of fury and, eventually, grief. It takes Flint a moment to realize it is not just the loss of a leg that Silver mourns, but a certain loss of self-- of being and being heard.

Flint unlaces his fingers and braces both on his knees. “I didn’t consider-- I’m sorry.”

Silver is still feeling the shirt, mindless and numb. Trying to form it against his skin, trying to make it into a second skin. A shelter for himself, or at least what’s unexposed and able to be hidden again.

Flint’s shirt isn’t exactly stark white. It used to be, he knew that much. It had seen its fair share of fights and fear. Flint hopes he isn’t passing any of it on to Silver, but rather a blanket of wisdom Flint himself doesn’t have but wants to offer to his friend in dear need.

Silence isn’t an option.

“How do you feel?”

Silver doesn’t stop feeling the sleeves, fingers finding the small nicked holes along the shoulder. “Awful.”

Flint pauses, but can’t for long. “Okay.”

“Everything hurts.”

“Everything?” Flint sits up, more at attention. He tries to see where it couldn’t possibly be hurting-- where else.

“I think I’ve been set on fire.” Silver mutters, his words sticking in his throat. He clears his throat, although it might’ve been another gag. “I’m burning up-- burning alive, I know it. I know I am.”

Flint hears the truth webbed in his words: once he’s burned, he’ll only be ash. he won’t come back. Flint knows the burn, one currently smoldering embers in the pit of his stomach, waiting for a winded moment of solitude to flare up and engulf him.

“I know it hurts.”

“You know. What the fuck do you know! They’ve carved me up.”

“They saved your life.”

“And I asked them not to!” Silver shouts, finally cracking. His voice quivers and his hands white-knuckle grab at his sleeves. His arms are crossed, holding everything together. “They made me into something. They should’ve left me as I was. Let that man die.”

“They didn’t make you into anything, Silver. They wanted to save the man you are.”

“Are you saying that because it’s true or because that’s what you keep telling yourself?” Silver finally looks Flint in the eye. It’s chilling, despite the fires attempting to eat them both alive, separate and unaware of the other.

“I know the man I see in front of me. He has not changed. And I won’t let him.” Flint makes the promise instinctively, uncaring to how it might sound. He knows of the fire, he knows of the burns it leaves, and is familiar with all the iterations of scars. The ones that fade and only twinge in ghostly aches. The ones that are always open and gushing. The ones that are mortal that can’t be shown beyond the safety of isolation, nursed in, and by, loneliness.

"Another task taken upon yourself without asking.”

Flint clenches his teeth and sighs. “This might be my initiative, but this requires a hell of a lot more from you. You have the say in whether or not this changes you. That fire can burn you, but it’s also only ever fueled by the same source: you. You have to decide if you want to feed that fire for the rest of your days or if you want to extinguish it. Those flames can’t fucking claim you if you tell them no.”

“Sounds a whole lot like making this my fault.” Silver snips.

“Reality has no fault. It just is,”

Flint thinks of Miranda. The reality of her death was instantaneous, though the consequences and effects slow-growing. There is no arguing, no analyzing if he could’ve possibly known of the deadly intervention taken toward her words. Flint could only watch the fire, make sure it didn’t get out of control. Or stoke it and let it consume the very last bit of reserve he’d kept.

Hope is the best gasoline.

"And this reality is one I decided against.” Silver says, his breathing labored again. “What am I now, Flint.”

His name is a sudden sharp edge to his words, nearly slicing Flint apart. It’s now not just about a man and his altered world, It’s about the small world they’d been avoiding, resting between them and hidden in the dark corners of the cabin. Silver assumes it’s been shattered, it’s broken and he’s become a singular, forgotten creature again. That all the fight ahead of him is to be done on his own.

Flint breaks and rests with his elbows on his knees. He reaches for Silver’s arm, gently pulling-- inviting him to open them again.

“What. What do you want from me.” Silver says, shoving his arms down by his sides. Flint grabs Silver’s wrist loosely, settling his own forearm into Silver’s lax hand. “What are you doing.”

“There is a ship full of men that know exactly what--who-- you are, even if you don’t.” Flint says. “I know, and would be more than willing to offer a reminder when it is required. And I am also open to corrections.”

Silver’s hand tightens around Flint’s arm. His fingers spread the fabric of his sleeve taut. He nods slowly-- almost following the rocking of the waves-- before looking out the window beside him.

“Everything hurts, Flint.” He says, words tucked against the window pane. Yet another secret for the room. “Tell me it won’t, at least not forever.”

“The hurt will stop.” Flint says. “It will stop and you will heal. Completely and wholly.”

Silver keeps his eyes on the ocean and nods again. “I’m going to be stupid enough to believe you. Don’t let me down.”

"You have my word.” Flint moves his chair closer to the bench and sits in the same beam of sun as Silver. He softens his grip and moves his thumb back and forth over the pulse point of Silver’s wrist. “And I take it you’ve given me yours.”

Silver nods again, finally heard but without a sound, and leans back on his pillows. The sun is lower on the horizon but just as glaring. It’s a kind heat, a docile fire. It encompasses them both, faces warm and pleasant. The flames are still for a moment. Everything is alive.

[ao3]

[bloodycassian]

Detour

In the woods amidst falling leaves, something creeps within. /// Sam fic - Self insert/”reader” fic - READER HAS NO ASSIGNED GENDER- Angst/declaration of love. Shortish stories by a short writer. Skip to *********** for angst and no background/story setup

Shifting, crunching leaves painted the immediate, and foreseeable path in front of you. Something about the trail was unsettling. Your head twisted with doubt, and anxiety as you paced the short distance between the tree lines, debating if you should continue or move deeper into the wood for a better shot at finding the beast that surely lurked within. 

“Shit” you breathed to yourself, knowing that you’d have to leave the false safety of your current position. Being able to see the guard rails you’d hopped over to get this far was a small amount of comfort. Comfort in knowing that your car - and the full arsenal of your weapons weren’t too far off. 

Maybe it was just the jitters of not being with your team - the safety of someone having your back while something was hunting you. Dean’s false confidence laced “goodbye” rang through your head once again - “Dont get caught- we’ll be fine, you focus on being a target”

 He smiled grimly, Sam giving him a dirty look. Sam handed you a knife you assumed was sliver, and a couple of flares before taking separate cars to each of your trails just before dusk. 

The road in front of you now, laden heavily with yellow, orange and red was ominous as it got darker. The yellows turned slightly purple, then to dark brown until they all blended together in the same, dark nothingness as you moved deeper into the woods. The sky darkened, no moon in sight. The trail was an offshoot of a main jogging trail that was now abandoned for the season. You wondered idly, if people felt unsafe here as well. As they should. 

Darkness usually was associated with quiet as well, which was why your shuffling feet through the deep blanket of leaves - wet, and sloppy sounding -  was unsettling. Finally, though the trail was beginning to narrow. Cut off by briars and unkept overgrown ferns. Your instincts were to turn back and get to the safety of your car, but you knew for the plan to work, you’d have to be vulnerable. 

A Weindgo wasn’t the most difficult monster to get rid of, but finding them and luring them was a task like no other. 

The stillness was now foregin to your ears, with the crushing sound of the leaves now gone. You took a moment to take in your surroundings, the briars to your back and spilling over the fallen trees at your sides. Their long, thick vines creeping up all around and making the area seem almost like a room of nothing but dark leaves. You knew this position was exactly where the brothers would approve of, but also detest. Having only one way to escape, you ran through the plan in your head again. 

Yours and Sam’s idea was far, far more in the realm of possibility than Deans. Neither of you said it though, in fear of Dean not allowing the team to be separated at all. As you were the most agile, and experienced with Wendeigo, you’d play bait. Both the brothers knew not to bother questioning you on this particular beast. They were waiting on the trail opposite to yours, but they had hiked deep enough to reach a turn that neared your trail. 

They shouldn’t be too far from you now, you promised yourself. Your knuckles were strained on the flair you held, fingers beginning to ache. This was your lifeline. You took a deep breath, the chill of the air stinging your nose and lungs. Your eyes watered slightly, the cool night air rustling the leaves around you. 

So you began your session of waiting. 

Time seemed to no longer care for logic. You checked your  watch several times, sighing to yourself after two hours of nothing. Your toes were numb, and your nose was running in protest of the cold. Your phone buzzed, “anything?” from Sam. You sighed, setting the flair down to type a response. 

As if the universe was waiting for the most minute distraction, there was an enormous howl, a low guttural cry of agony that shook the entire forest. Your ears were stunned, the bleak silence following the roar was cut only by a scream. Not exactly a scream, but a gurgling, hollow attempted yell for help. 

The beast hadn’t followed your intended plan. It didn't fall for the trap. Despite your anger, and total fascination of how and why the plan hadn't worked - Your legs were moving before you could think, everything flying by you in sharp clarity now. 

Your heart thundered in your ears, adrenaline made the sharp stings of the briar you ran through seem like nothing but a dull ache. The fire that it should have ripped across your skin seemed to transfer into the pit of your stomach. 

You paused for a split moment, willing your breathing to hold and settle long enough to hear something - anything that would point you towards the boys. Your team. Dean was right, and you only hoped that they weren’t hurt because of your idiocy. Nothing, not a sound or sight to help you find them. You began to shout “Sam!” when relief flooded your sight. 

A light flared bright against the shadows of the forest, painting everything white for a moment before your eyes could adjust. Your stomach plunged again, they were far away - much farther than they should have been if things were to work out like the plan had been laid out. There was another growl, and then shooting, more yelling. You were flying through the forest, heading for the flickering with your knife drawn. 

The creature was the perfect picture of death, easily double the size of the normal wendigo you’d seen your entire life. It’s claws were sharpened, teeth much more...terrorizing. As if it had adapted to fully hunt other prey on its own when human blood bags weren’t providing enough for it. You were fascinated, but to your dismay, Dean was hurt enough to require immediate attention. Sam snapped your attention back to his brother with a shout of an obscenity. You took one last glance at the creature, - so monstrously fascinating - before throwing your flair onto it, and turning to help Sam hold Dean up so you could hobble to the Impala together. 

Your head swam with so much information, but was quickly prioritized once you got into the car. Sam ran to the driver’s side as soon as you could lever Dean into the back seat. He almost took you down with him, and no wonder. His abdomen was wet, slick with blood. Dark, very dark blood coated his jacket, and his hands that were weakly holding on to the injury. The thick smell of copper and salt made your head swim, so much blood. Dean’s face was gaunt as the overhead light came on, and you were truly afraid for Dean. Of all people. The one man who would never admit a fault - to a fault. Who wouldn’t tell you if he had a broken ankle if you asked him to run a mile. Your hands went to knock his out of the way, holding onto the wound tighter. “Drive fast” was all you managed to get out to Sam, and he happily complied. 

***********

Dean’s doctor was a little too curious for your liking. Very intrusive, constantly asking questions about how it happened and how you all knew each other. You followed Sam’s lead, pretending to fuss over Dean’s hair like a worried mother. Once the doctors had given him a once over, and cut away his clothes to reveal the deep gash lining the side of his stomach, you knew he’d be fine with some blood. Dean was eaily the luckiest - and you had no doubt it was sheer dumb luck - person you knew. No organ, bone or internal damage at all. The claw mark had just missed his intestines. You idly wondered if it was because the claws were so large that they missed, the gap between each too big for a non-four legged creature. 

“Thanks, you have a good night” Sam was saying, politely ushering the doctor out and flicking off the light as the doctor glanced back over his shoulder at Dean, still looking remarkably pale under the bandages. His normally tan, rugged hands looked stark and almost childlike resting on his abdomen.  His wounds would heal, but you wondered what his mobility would be like following. You knew he would want to be up and out of the hospital as soon as possible. 

Sam blew out a breath, running a hand through his hair. The strands flopped lazily back to where they were, making him look so much older than he seemed with the dark circles under his eyes. He flopped into one of the plastic chairs, his legs sprawling out with exhaustion. He stared out the window, the full moon now uncovered from the clouds. White reflected from the machinery in the room. There was pain hidden in Sam’s eyes, just behind the rage that simmered in the forefront. You understood why and blamed yourself. 

“Sam I am sorry.” You stated, no getting around it. You knew if you tried to make an excuse it would only make the situation worse. “I should have checked where we were, I didn’t know there were so many trails - I don’t know how I missed that.” You felt your hands clamming up, and your words began pouring out. You were afraid of the anger regarding his brother. You knew they would always put each other before everything. 

And you didnt know where you stood with them, and Cas and everyone else. You knew that they cared a great deal for you,by the way they were letting you help them on these hunts. But maybe this would be the last. You didn’t want to imagine not being around Sam, having a team at your back again. And not having Sam around felt… wrong. You had paired up with Dean for these three pronged attacks before and it went fine every time but you never truly felt settled until you could see Sam again. 

“I don’t-” Sam caught himself, sighing again.

You felt your eyes stinging. The pain you’d caused him. Your feelings for him aside, you were truly sorry. Injury or not, it could have been much, much worse. You all knew that, and Dean would probably take it as another “dumb luck” moment. But you knew in your heart that it was your fault. No matter the reason you were so far off the mark with the trails, even if it was the park marking them incorrectly it was your fault at the end of the day. Guilt, fear and anger at yourself all boiled - joining at your eyes to create silent tears. He didn't want you around, you knew it. He had been distant since you had joined them semi-permanently. 

Before, meeting so casually he had been the most you could hope for in a friend, but nothing more. He would send you articles on more than just monsters in your area. He would send you science and space and other interests he thought you’d share with him.Some of the texts would turn into phone calls arguing about the logistics of Star Wars.  It was the most care you’d ever been shown by a fellow hunter. But now he wouldn’t want to be near you in any sense. You were a curse. 

 Your incompetence was too dangerous. “I can’t have… have you-” He broke off, clearing his throat and staring at his brother for a moment. He blinked quickly, his eyelashes catching the soft light of the moon streaming in. His eyes glinted with the blue silver of it, glassy and full of an emotion you weren’t used to seeing on him.

“I understand” You nodded, wiping your face quickly. You felt bad about crying when he should be the one upset with you. His head snapped to you, hearing the thickness in your voice as your breathing hitched. You took a deep breath and looked at Dean’s relaxed breathing. You’d have to do at least two blood donations to make up for what he had taken. 

“No-” Sam smiled faintly, standing up and taking one easy step to your side. You tensed, unsure if he would just kick you out now or wait until Dean was awake to at least say goodbye. “I can’t have you off on your own. I can’t stop...worrying about you.” Your heart swelled, like that pit of heat before but now in your chest. “I can’t have you end up like this -I cant see you… in a hospital bed. I dont know what I will do... and I should have told you before.” He looked into your eyes, his rimmed with red, you could tell even in the glow that shone everything silver. “I’m sorry.” He was the one apologizing? You understood though. Your cheeks flushed with flattery. He felt the same way. You were soaring, your heart was singing. 

“I’m sorry” He breathed, shoulders sagging as he took a step back from you. Butterflies, but also despair. You hadn’t rejected him. You took his hand, reclaiming that step between you. “I-” You didn't know what to say. Your heart hammered, and you smiled. “This really isn’t the best place to be doing this is it?” You sighed, giggling at the absolutely absurdity of the situation. You wondered if you were dreaming. Your stomach dropped as you considered if the Wendigo had gotten to you first… You stopped the thought dead in it’s tracks.

“Probably not-” Sam agreed, a smile tugging at a corner of his mouth. “But hospitals are second nature to us, if you wanna stick around I think you should get used to it.” his hands adjusted and he intertwined his fingers with yours. A silent invitation for something more, closer and more intimate. You knew exactly what he meant. You pulled him closer to you, urging him to meet you half way.

A kiss like no other - maybe it was the nerves..or the adrenaline. It felt truly electrifying. Simple, sweet yet utter sparks seemed to tingle on your lips as you parted. “I... “ Sam leaned away, heavy eyelids making him seem even dreamier than before. Your heart swooned. “Have wanted a long time to do that.” He shuddered a laugh, his shoulders relaxing, curling towards you. 

“So tips for next time… just put the man’s brother in the hospital to get him to kiss you?” You were giddy with excitement, uncontrolled joy. 

His smiled faded slightly, and he pulled you back towards the chairs, pulling one closer to his for you. “It’s not your fault, I looked at those maps too. Dean just...dammmit.” He rubbed his forehead with the hand not grasping yours. So firm, yet soft and caring. Your eyes did another once over of Dean, looking for something wrong, or something that had changed. “What?” You asked, concern heavy in your voice. Your hand loosened in his, ready to get up at any sign of a problem. 

“Well, we’re gonna have to tell him he was right….Then we’re gonna have to explain this.” He squeezed your hand gently, rubbing a thumb along the side. “But I think we can handle him while he’s immobile for a little while.” Sam looked at you, almost tensely - something wild about his eyes now. Was he thinking the same thing you were? No, there was a question in that remark he had made. Were you going to tell Dean? Was this a relationship or just momentary comfort? Your heart cracked, understanding his pain. 

“Well, we have an IV hooked up to him if he gets too….vulgar.” You played along, hoping to soothe his tension, make him understand you were serious too. His eyes lit up, his teeth stark white against his russet face. He kissed the back of your hand, seeming almost jittery with happiness. You could see yourself then, sitting side by side like this through all the hospital visits.

Side by side on a porch with him, gray hair and wrinkles. Side by side through the rest of this life - no matter how short it may be.

[sykilik101]

Colloyd Week Day 7: Free Day

“Lloyd!”

-didn’t turn in time-

“Lloyd, watch out!”

-panic, shoved to the dirt-

“Colette!”

-that sound, the sound of her screaming from-

-blood-

“Colette!”

-don’t die-

“Colette!”

-please, please, don’t die-

“COLETTE!”

In a flash Lloyd’s eyes snapped open, his body jolting up from the bed. Breaths came in strained gasps as his drowsiness and oncoming asphyxiation clouded his ability to realize his throat had practically reduced itself to the size of a grain of sand. His clothes clung to his body as sweat dripped from every pore, the moisture in his eyes making the darkness of the inn room that much murkier. Reaching for his neck, his survival instincts denied him his attempts to reach inside and force his throat open so he could remind his windpipe that it served a purpose.

“Lloyd, snap out of it!”

In his terror he hadn’t immediately noticed Genis shaking his shoulder, trying to pull him back into a sane reality. Through the haze he could make out the silhouette of his best friend, along with Regal kneeling beside his bed. Both wore dismayed expressions on their faces, though the older of the two was quick to rest his hand on Lloyd’s knee. “Lloyd, try to relax and focus your breathing.” He gave Lloyd’s leg a squeeze, as if trying to inject the words directly into his bloodstream.

Seconds felt endless as he gripped his fingers around Genis’s, the adrenaline making it difficult to concentrate. As he slowly found his heartbeat he began identifying the rest of his body’s functions, picturing his lungs and the way they expanded and deflated in the presence of oxygen. Blinking back further tears he found himself suddenly hyperventilating; less than ideal, but at least he was no longer in danger of suffocating.

“Colette!”

His nightmare returned to him, turning to Genis as he swallowed with a dry tongue. “Where is she?”

“Lloyd, who are you-”

“Colette! Where’s Colette?!”

It was impossible to tell if the half-elf was more shocked at Lloyd’s raspy voice or his outburst, but as he still possessed a rational mind, he seemed to look past it and give Lloyd another gentle shake. “She’s probably in the other room with the rest of the girls. What are you-?”

The last of Genis’s words became background noise as Lloyd’s paralysis vanished, bolting out of his bed and making a beeline for the door. Throwing it open he sprinted down the second floor walkway, eyes locked on the doorway at the end. In seconds he was pounding at the wood, disregarding - or drowsily obvious to - any of the other potential visitors in the inn. “Colette! Colette, are you-”

His fist gave way as the door suddenly opened. Before him stood Raine, her half-lidded eyes an indicator of her exhaustion or her exasperation, though likely both. “Lloyd Irving, just what are you-”

He knew he’d owe her an apology later, but he shoved that thought into the back of his mind with the same potency he used to force his way past her into the room, immediately spotting the blonde-haired girl rubbing sleep out of her eye. There she was. Alive. Breathing, certainly better than he was. He didn’t even realize how quickly he’d made his way to her bedside, kneeling down and taking her free hand in his. “Colette, are you okay?”

The hoarse panic in his voice was enough to wipe away the remnants of her sleepiness, her blue eyes flashing with concern. “Lloyd, w-what’s wrong?”

A magnetic pull drew his attention to her stomach; beneath the cloth and stitching there he knew scar tissue and blemished skin marred her otherwise healthy torso. Human flesh was deathly allergic to monster attacks, and not even the Chosen was exempt from that rule. Flashbacks of the horrific incident flooded his mind, but he willed himself to drain the thoughts away as he floated his gaze back up to hers. “You- you’re okay, right?”

In an instant the fear she wore was replaced with understanding and comfort, resting her palm atop his. “Lloyd, I’m fine. I promise.”

His hands memorized the softness of hers, running a thumb along the barely raised skin that held a vein. That’s where blood belonged, not decorating the dirt in the middle of a road not even a few miles from town. The look of agony he’d seen on her face, of fear, raised every hair on his body to attention. Had it not been for Raine’s insistence on allowing her to tend to Colette, he’d have pulled her close and wiped the tears that had begun to shed below her eyes.

Yet here she now sat, playing the role of comforter as his composure teetered along a razor-thin wire. “Are you sure?”

To answer him she ran her fingers along her stomach. He instinctively flinched, though she showed none of the pain he expected from her at touching the injury. “The Professor spent a lot of time making sure I was all better before we went to bed.”

A hand landed on his shoulder, sending a jolt through his already fried nerves. Rained looked down at him, stern but compassionate eyes piercing into his. “I’ll examine Colette once more to be safe, and if there’s any issue with her injury, I’ll tend to it right away.”

Lloyd swallowed, still mentally shattered at the way his heartbeat couldn’t match his breathing. In his mania he tried concentrating on Colette’s hand and Raine’s words. Colette didn’t appear to be in pain, and Raine would do everything in her power to make sure any wound Colette had was healed. His eyes wavered back and and forth between them, eventually landing on Raine. He forced down a shaky breath before nodding. “Okay.”

His voice was tired, worn, but he’d choose her safety over his vocal cords any day. He looked back at Colette, offering what he hoped was a relaxed smile when he knew his worry was practically palpable. Standing to his feet he noticed Sheena and Presea had awoken, wearing the same look of concern. Guilt and awkwardness coursed through him, offering a meek hand wave as he headed for the doorway. “Sorry for waking you all up.”

Closing the door behind him he leaned against it with a sigh, fighting to calm his breathing and the maelstrom in his mind. Not ten feet behind him, Raine was inspecting Colette’s injury and making sure she wasn’t in danger. In a few hours he’d be back to sleep, and by daybreak he’d wake up and Colette would say good morning as she always did. Everything would be okay.

The cold, erratic grip around his heart said otherwise.

With another breath he willed his feet towards his room. As the door drew closer his peripheral vision took notice of the couch down in the middle of the foyer. The idea of immediately returning to the bed, and the night terrors, made his stomach churn. He’d heard Raine once comment how some time on a couch might do him some good. He hadn’t understood it at the time, but between a cushion and the vivid images of Colette’s near-death experience, he’d happily go along with Raine’s past suggestion.

Descending the stairs he plopped himself down onto the couch, his fingers falling into each other. In seconds they had resumed their shivering; he’d hoped a firm grip would ease them, but trauma was stronger than his grasp as panic sprinted through his head. It had been a normal battle, nothing that they hadn’t handled before. A pack of wyverns had attacked, but the party was accustomed to a fight like that. Lloyd had managed to cut down one of them, but another had managed to escape his vision. Then he’d heard the voice, and before he could register its owner his back was on the ground and Colette was-

His breaths began escaping him in shaky hisses, his veins freezing over as images of Colette’s body on the ground overtook him. He pleaded for his mind to stop, to erase the memory and never let him have to see her like that ever-

“Lloyd.”

Raine’s words sliced through his anxiety as he turned his grieving gaze to the foot of the stairs. She stood with a caring expression, but in it he could also see that stoicism that constantly accompanied her. Having gained his attention she walked towards him, her footsteps an echoing presence in the otherwise silent lobby.

“Is she okay?” He didn’t have the conviction to hold a steady voice, but in the moment proper articulation was the least of his worries.

She nodded, and the gesture alone slowed his heart to recordable speeds. “You don’t have to worry, the injury is fine, although it’ll still take some more time before she’s fully recovered.”

The malignant mirage of Colette’s lifeless eyes vanished from his mind, but his hands continued to shake. Raine took a seat in the armchair across from him, leaning forward. “Are you still thinking about the earlier battle?”

His chest tightened, the sound of the wyvern’s screeches ringing in his ears. “Colette got hurt because I was careless. I should have seen that monster.” Guilt began pumping heat into his face, twinges of anger and self-doubt mixing with his already potent internal ache.

She shook her head. “Lloyd, no warrior is perfect. Being able to count on your teammates in a fight is crucial when dealing with a group of enemies.”

“But I’m supposed to be her protector. I swore that I would keep her safe until our journey is over.”

“Does that mean Colette isn’t allowed to protect you, too? Or any of us, for that matter?”

Her words, calm and composed, allowed him a moment of reprieve as he latched his gaze onto hers. Without waiting for a response from him she continued. “Colette acted because she cares about you, just as you care about her. Being upset that she hurt herself to save you is no different than being upset at her for her willingness to ensure your safety. Instead of blaming yourself for not protecting her, acknowledge her as someone who would risk her life to save someone dear to her. After all, she’s no longer the girl who needed protecting that first left Iselia, is she?”

Years of friendship and fondness materialized into the mental image of Colette. Where he normally saw the klutzy, silly childhood friend of his now stood a Chosen of Mana, carried by scintillating wings and an adeptness with chakrams. He’d watched her for months and months, seeing the way she’d laughed, apologized, worried, but also grown and fought beside him. Raine was right; the girl who’d left Iselia would hide her insecurity and worry behind a smile, but the girl who he fought for now had earned her own warrior spirit.

A soothing peace wafted through his body, and for the first time in nearly a day he felt his shoulders relax. He inhaled, refreshed at the way oxygen had regained its taste. “I guess you’re right.”

Raine looked to be on the cusp of her proud teacher’s smile, that slightly upturned lip and its matching eye glint visible even in the dim room. “If you recognize that, then keep bettering yourself so you can keep each other safe. That includes protecting yourself, for her sake.”

“I will. Thanks, Professor.”

The creak of an opening door caught both of their attention, looking up to the second floor to see Colette standing above. Any ounce of sleepiness that should have been in her eyes was filled instead with concern, her fingers wrapped around the railing overlooking them.

Raine rose to her feet, walking towards the foot of the stairs. “Colette, I thought you had gone to bed.”

The girl shook her head. “I couldn’t go back to sleep, and besides, I...I was hoping I could talk to Lloyd for a bit.”

Raine’s eyes glanced over at Lloyd for a moment before turning back up to her. “Alright, but don’t be long. You still need to rest.”

The two traded positions as Raine made her way back to the girl’s room. Colette took a seat next to him on the couch, twiddling her thumbs together as she seemed to scour him for any residual distress. “How are you feeling?”

Lloyd took in another breath, giving his lip a gentle nibble. “A little better now, but I’m still worried about you.”

She nodded, sending a few strands of her sleep-groomed hair over her face. “I’m sorry for scaring you, Lloyd, but when I saw that monster attacking you when your back was turned, all I could think about was that you might be hurt.” Her fingers tucked the stray tresses behind her ear before resting on her chest. “I just wanted you to be okay.”

Lloyd sighed softly. “You dork, you don’t have to-”

Acknowledge her.

Raine’s wisdom replayed in his ears, and his normal habits gave way to her advice. “I mean, that was a really brave thing you did.”

“Really?”

He nodded, finding an enamorment in the way her eyes searched for his assurance and strength. “I spent our journey always thinking about how I was your protector, and that making sure you were safe was my responsibility. But yesterday, you actually saved me. I guess I didn’t realize you could protect me, too.”

Fluster and a cute awkwardness melded in her expression, her finger grazing her cheek before interlacing with her other hand once more. “The truth is, in that moment, I wasn’t really thinking about being a protector, or a Chosen, or anything else. I just saw this image of you on the ground after the monster had attacked you, and I…” Her voice hitched for a moment, but a shake of her head reset it. “I just didn’t want anything bad to happen to you. Nothing else really mattered.”

It was almost funny how he could imagine himself saying those exact same things to her, and it only solidified what it was Raine had been trying to tell him. “I feel that way about you a lot of the time, too. Sometimes I’ll worry that the next fight is the one where something goes wrong. Yesterday was...I was so determined to keep that promise of keeping you safe, and I guess I thought just by thinking I could keep that promise, nothing bad would happen.”

Colette’s palm landed on his hand, and he found solace in how her fingers curled into his. “You always do whatever you can, Lloyd, and I treasure how much you care.”

He intended his smile to reflect more joy at her words, but the demons born from the memories still whispered in his ear. “I realize that just thinking about making the promise doesn’t guarantee it’ll happen, and now I’m…” He felt the quiver in his hands returning, clenching them in the hopes of keeping them still. “I’m scared that it’ll happen again, but you’ll actually die next time.”

Die had no business sitting in the same sentence as her, and the word felt disgusting on his tongue as he said it. He was grateful for her other hand moving atop his; it took both of hers to cover his one, but the act was intimate and wonderful in a way that pushed back at the pain. She offered him a smile of warmth and admiration, her eyes glowing with that angelic endearment that he admired about her.

“Lloyd, you always try your best, no matter how big the challenge is or how scary the fight.” She inched closer to him until their hips pressed together. “If you’re worried about me being safe, just remember that you’re not the only one protecting me. Everyone in our group always does whatever they can to keep us all safe.” Her smile softened and suddenly her hand found its way onto his cheek. “I care about you too deeply to let anything happen, so I promise that I’ll keep getting stronger, too. That way you won’t have to worry about me as much, and I can keep you safe, too.”

Conviction rested in her voice; determination in her gaze. The esteem that he’d once held for the title of Chosen had long since dissipated upon learning its intended role in the world, but as she sat beside him now, a rush of pride overtook him. He was sure that there’d never been a nobler Chosen before her, someone so willing to care for and love those around her.

Love.

His throat hitched, pulling at the collar of his shirt. With the nightmares at ease it fully registered in his mind that he was alone with her, the sole audience to her words of reassurance. The fluster in his cheeks was no longer a symptom of his distress, and he wondered if the heat would transfer to the fingertips that caressed him.

“Thank you, Colette.”

Hers was now a blissful smile, and despite his alleviated heart, the idea that such a smile could be stolen from the world snuck into his head. Thoughts of her future, about the world they were trying to save and how she deserved to see it; endless images of how he wanted nothing more than for her to experience all of that consumed him. She’d believed all her life that she was meant to die; either the travels would kill her, or Cruxis would. He almost felt as if this journey wasn’t just about saving the world, but ridding Colette of her sacrificial notions.

There were some things she deserved to enjoy before she died. Things she deserved to know.

In the impulsive manner that had guided many of his actions, he rested his hands on her face and touched his lips to hers. In all his musings he’d never have predicted this would be how he’d tell her, but the way her palm slowly moved to cup his cheek, the way she sagged into him and returned the kiss, felt more vivid than any of his daydreams. He could swear he felt her mouth smile against his, and the way his heart fluttered around his chest compelled him to return the gesture.

Eventually time no longer sat still and he moved himself away from her. Moisture sat along the rim of her eyes, a new form of elation splayed on her face. “Lloyd…”

Without a word he eased his hands from her face to her arms, pulling her into him. He breathed her in, savoring the warmth of her body, alive and here with him. He didn’t know what the future would hold. Tomorrow could be another dangerous battle; the day after, even more hazardous. However, she wasn’t alone. She could protect herself, and she had him and everyone else ready to stand by her at a moment’s notice.

The inner demons wouldn’t beat him. She would be alright.

“I’ll protect you, no matter what.”

He felt her hands press into his back, deepening their embrace. She nodded into his neck, sending a shiver through him. “I know you will. And I’ll protect you too, Lloyd.”

Her voice was gentle, but quiet resolution rested on every syllable. He wasn’t ready to end the hug, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her presence, as close to him as she could be, was evidence that she wasn’t gone. Yesterday was proof that she wasn’t invincible, but it was also proof that she wasn’t going to die easily. Lloyd would make sure of that, as would everyone else in their party.

She would be alright.

xxxxx

I tried SO very hard with this story, and I’m REALLY happy and proud with how it came out. I wish I could’ve finished this for Colloyd Day, but I’m glad I took the time to really focus and try to give this story some of the love it needed. This (extended) week was so fun to participate it, and I’m really happy I did it!

[welcome-to-the-whumpfest]

His First Scream

Prologue 

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His scream is captivating.

It is like a drug to Sir. It is so pure and pained, he can’t wait till the young man screams again. After the black-haired prisoner’s little “incident” in the basement, Sir is quick, not to mention eager, to bring his new plaything to the attic. His territory. Now, he is straddling the young man, pinning him to the floor. Currently, he is using an effortless spell, but an effective one. Deciding not to ease the young man into his new life, Sir pushes the spell into the young man whose body is quivering in agony. “If you tell me your name, I’ll let the pain stop.” He coos in a sing song voice.

His prisoner moans in response and tries to push his captor away. His arms aren’t strong enough. Sir realizes his good luck. If Jordan was the feisty one, he wouldn’t be able to have as much fun immediately. He would have had to wait a great deal of time before his muscle’s grew smaller due to being chained up all the time. But this fiery young man didn’t quite possess the strength to be a threat. Sir is a giant of a man, and he certainly uses it to his advantage. “Come on, little firefly, just give me your name, and I’ll ease your hurt.”

The young man responds by spitting on his face.

Instantly, Sir slams his elbow into the prisoner’s cheek, all the while laughing insanely. Chills travel up the young man’s spine at the sound, and his vision briefly turns white before readjusting to the darkened attic. Before the young man can react, Sir shoves his forearm onto his neck. “You’ll learn not to do that. I was hoping to refrain from using my tools, but right now, I think you’re in dire need of some conditioning.”

Struggling against the tormenting pressure on his neck, the young man frantically waves his limbs around in an attempt to throw off his captor. All to no avail. The young man could feel a bruise burying itself deep into the skin around his neck as the edges of his vision became foggy due to lack of air. Still, he doesn’t plead. Raising a hand over his prisoner, Sir commands, “Stay.” The instant the word left his lips, the young man found that he could no longer push against his captor. He trembled with anxiety but could not move of his own accord. It’s dreadful.

Pleased with his work, Sir turns to the corners of the attic, past the young man’s vision. Listening with excruciating anticipation, the raven-haired prisoner listens to the clinking of metal. “Ah, what to pick, what to pick?” Sir mumbles to himself.

Sir is a professional. He knows his strategy well. The fact that his new plaything had no clue what was coming, allowed the prisoner to conjure up graphic and horrific scenarios in his mind of what may happen. Little did he know, the worst thing his imagination would form was pathetic compared to what Sir had planned. Moving towards the young man again, Sir lowers to his knees so they can see each other. “Now, I wonder which of these will have the desired effect.” The young man’s shaky inhale did not go unnoticed by Sir, who is smiling at the first crack in his prisoner. Revealing a hammer, Sir’s nightmare-inducing grin widens as he raises it to the young man’s kneecap. “It’s fascinating isn’t it? It would be so easy for me to bash your knee cap. Can you imagine the crunching sound that would make? You’ll scream again, but louder this time. You’ll be a quivering mess, begging me not to do the other, but you’re a fiery thing aren’t you? You’ll scream, but not give me your name, so I’ll have to punish you and do the other. You’re eyes will become glossy as you briefly become disorientated, but it won’t stop there, no darling, I have so much more planned for you!”

The young man whimpered. Another slip up. Just enough to arouse Sir to continue, as he gently, almost caringly, brushes his prisoner’s midnight hair.

“After we’re done with your knees, I’ll take your dainty little hand here,” putting the hammer down, Sir grasps his prisoner’s small hand in his large masculine one’s. “And I’ll make sure to meticulously snap each and every bone in your lovely hand. How does that sound, darling?”

The young man manages to push his fear away long enough to notice what his captor’s game is. After every threat and scenario, Sir watches his face carefully, making sure to scan every small flinch or hesitation. He is searching his face for a sign. He wants to know which one scares him the most.  

He is determined to be unreadable, but Sir has done this before. He is experienced. He is a sick professional who notices the slightest tense of a muscle, a wavering breath, a flash of horror in his prisoner’s eyes. Sir can read him like a book.

“What if I pay more attention to that divine neck of yours? Oh! You seem to be holding your breath.” The young man cursed himself, internally. Softly, Sir brushed his fingers against his prisoner’s neck, which causes the young man’s spine to tingle. He has to stay calm, but with each passing minute his hands trembled at his sides.

“I have a little something for that, little firefly.” Sir smiles greedily as he reveals a collar. “Let me help you, darling.” Tenderly, he raises the young man’s head off the floor to secure the tight, collar around his fragile neck. “This is a special collar. You see, I can control how loose or tight it is. If you misbehave, it will tighten. Overtime, it might cause a bit of discomfort, but I just know you’ll behave. Even so, it’s a good conditioning collar. Now, where to next?” The devilish look in his eyes studies the young man who bravely stares back at him, stiffly as if to avoid shaking.

Sir reveals another tool: pliers. “Open up!” He chuckles at the surprised and petrified look plastered on the young man’s face. His prisoner couldn’t believe this was happening. “Do I need to tighten your collar?” Sir raises an eyebrow in warning.

Suddenly feeling pressure on his neck, the prisoner realizes there is no way out, but still refrains from submitting. He has come this far. He has to prove his stubbornness.

Impatience and annoyance clouds Sir’s features, as he grips the young man’s jaw and forcefully opens his prisoner’s mouth with one hand, sliding his index finger and thumb into his skin, preventing his upper and lower jaw from clenching. His victim begins to squirm.

“You seem a bit nervous, firefly. Remember, all you have to do is tell me your name and I’ll stop.” The young man isn’t broken yet, and he isn’t one to give up a fight. “Very well.” Sir sighs and shoves the pliers to one of his prisoner’s molars. Whimpering, the prisoner pushes against the magic forcing him still but finds it impossible to budge, other than shaking violently. Cold, heartless metal finds its way to one of his sensitive teeth. Gripping it savagely, the plier tightens then pulls ruthlessly. Feeling the root of the tooth yank out of his gums, the prisoner shrieks in pain.

“Look at it!” Sir commands, digging his nails into the skin between his victim’s upper and lower jaw, which stings the young man’s tender flesh.

The midnight haired one does not obey until he feels his cruel collar tighten, closing his airways and causing an uncomfortable, hot ache to rise in the sides of his throat. When he does open his eyes, regret immediately overcomes every fiber of his body as he is forced to observe the tooth dripping with his blood and a piece of his gums that is still attached to it, hanging limply in a disgusting manner. Everything reeks of blood.

“You ready for another one?” Before he has time to think, Sir shoves the pliers back into his mouth, clasps another tooth (this time on the top) and thrusts it out of his mouth, throwing it across the floor.

Somehow, the second one is worse than the first.

Sir only laughs as his little firefly screams again, pain pressuring his brow. “Oh, you are a heavenly little thing, aren’t you?” He cues pushing the beads of sweat off of his prisoner’s forehead.

There’s too much blood gushing in his mouth! The prisoner desperately tries to roll over to spit some out, but finding that he is still immobile, he begins to helplessly choke on his own blood. A gurgling sound escapes his tightened throat.

“What’s the matter, darling?” Sir sticks a thumb into the pool of blood rising in the young man’s mouth. He is gagging on his own blood. “I’ll make you a little deal. If you let any of that blood drip out onto your pretty face, I’ll tighten your collar.” Sir leans in close to his captive’s ear and whispers, “Then you’ll have something to gag on.”

The young man squeezes his eyes shut, praying that this will all be over soon. “Next, I think we’ll play with your ankles. What do you think, little firefly?”

Time goes on and screams pierce the musty air of the attic. The young man can hardly take it anymore. The bone racking, agonizing pain ripping through his crumbled ankles seems to be the least of his problems. Sir decided that he wanted to destroy something that his firefly couldn’t hold or grasp close to himself after all was said and done and he would be left lying on the floor in excruciating pain. No, he wants his firefly to burn internally, but be unable to move, unable to comfort himself. He wants him to feel exposed and mortified. He wants the fear of death evident in the young man’s eyes. Placing his palms on his victim’s hips, a sinister grin slithers across Sir’s face. In one swift movement, he throws his weight onto the bone and a creak then snap sounds before a scream, no, a wail, follows.

The pain overwhelms the poor captive. This pain is far worse than anything he has experienced before, and he is unsure how to deal with it. Thrashing only causes it to worsen (which he didn’t know was even possible) so he stays a still as he can.

“Your name, darling.” Sir commands as he places his palms on the other, uninjured hip. The young man shivers and trembles aware of his captor’s intentions. “I’m getting a little impatient here.” He tilts his head slightly annoyed. Little did his victim know, how adoring he looked in Sir’s eyes. The way the beads of sweat rested on his upper lip and forehead and the look of pure terror rising in his eyes when the pain became too much, he was gorgeous. “Three.” It takes his firefly a moment to realize that his captor is counting down. “Two.” The only thing stronger than the pain is the fear of being exposed to more.

“Angel!” The victim winces breathlessly. “Angel my- my na-me.”

A wider smile reaches Sir’s lips. His captive swears he looks like the devil himself. Removing his hands from his hip, to his firefly’s relief, Sir strokes the young man’s tear stained cheek. “There, there, darling, that wasn’t so bad now was it?”

Barely able to choke back a sob, Angel glares through his teary eyes. There is so much hate and fire inside his icy blue eyes. They are so light that they almost seem grey like the skies after a thunderstorm.

“Don’t give me that look. It will only be a matter of time before you fall in love with me.”

“Y-you’re- si-ck-” The prisoner manages to stutter. His body is so tense, everything aches and the waves of pain coming from his shattered hip increases.

“No, little firefly. I am honest. You might as well except this, because it is only a matter of time before – never mind. I don’t feel like spoiling the fun. For now, you can just wait with anticipation. How exciting our adventures will be! I, for one, can’t wait.”  Leaning down to place a kiss on his immobile prisoner’s forehead, Sir simply ignores the terror-stricken face of his captive. “Now. As for the rest of the night, I’m going to make sure you stay wide awake. That way you won’t be wasting your time sleeping, and instead will be pondering exactly what I will do to you when I come back up.” Reaching a hand to Angel’s forehead and allowing a spell to unleash from beneath his palm, Sir smiles. Pleased with himself.

With that, the tall man leaves the attic and descends out of the room, abandoning Angel to be tortured by his own thoughts – nightmarish and strained due to sleep deprivation and the aching pain still coursing through his veins in pure agony.

[yanara126-writing]

Souls Lost in Endless Times

Finding Saint Waidwen in an endless loop of his own death wasn't what Favaen had expected when waking up in the Deadfire, but she'll be damned if she doesn't save him, both from Rymrgand and himself. But helping is much harder when you're personally involved, and the first steps on that journey are always rocky ones.

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Read here or on Ao3

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

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As soon as Favaen had seen the beams of divine light in Rymrgand’s realm she had suspected what they would find. So, when they walked through the third and last portal, she wasn’t terribly surprised to see the bridge Edér identified as Evon Dewr. She didn’t like the place at all. It felt crowded and torn, everywhere were souls, trapped in their agony and unable to escape. All because of one, and really there was only one who it could be. One they found, as trapped as the others, frozen in his last moment of life.

Saint Waidwen.

Favaen felt Edér tremble beside her and wished for only a moment this could be different, but as quickly as the wish had come, she’d banished it again. She had a duty to fulfil, to her god and every soul in this realm, living or not. The past could not be changed, only learnt from, and so she would help Edér learn from this, as much as she would.

Only it never was that easy, was it? When Favaen carefully touched Waidwen’s soul, it was the strangest thing she’d ever done, and that was saying a lot by now. Even Thaos had only been mortal, but Waidwen was... something else. He felt like no other soul Favaen had ever touched, like more, and yet not. The core soul was still the soul of a mortal, but it was... stuffed almost, embellished, and coated in more soul energy than any mortal could ever hope to contain. Energy that felt so much like Eothas, Favaen wanted to weep in both relief and sadness. Instead she focused on the man who clearly needed her, whose soul, in spite of its power, had been brutally maimed, to the point where he felt more like a terrified child than a god.

She tried soothing him, gently coaxing him to remain still enough for her to find the rest of him, but even her hold wasn’t strong enough to stop the trauma of one as powerful as he. His consciousness slipped out of her desperate grip, lost once again to terror and turmoil.

Suddenly his body was moving, but without the awareness his soul had portrayed before. He moved and spoke like he no doubt did back then, speaking to an enemy that wasn’t really there anymore.

“Did they expect a dozen to stand against the dawn?” Favaen couldn’t reply anything as she stood in horror and watched the tragedy unfold. Beside her Edér tensed, eyes wide, for what they all knew was about to happen. Aloth readied his tome, Vatnir drew his staff, and Ydwin prepared her mental shields. Though they were far less personally affected, all of them knew how the story went, and none of them were particularly interested in living, or rather dying, through it.

But none of them had any chance to stop it. Waidwen made his last speech and stepped forward to attack. Then all hell broke loose. Something snapped, too fast for Favaen to identify and the largest bomb ever created exploded. In a desperate attempt to save herself and her friends, Favaen pulled all the soul energy she could get a grip on and formed a shield, similar to the one they had used five years ago, in Sun in Shadow. Screwing her eyes shut and hands lifted, she tensed and prayed, no matter how futile an attempt she knew it to be, waiting for the inevitable pressure and heat.

Nothing happened. She only uncoiled when she felt someone tap her on the shoulder and hesitantly opened her eyes again, to find Aloth standing next to her. He wordlessly pointed forward, a grim expression on his face. Favaen looked and immediately closed her eyes again. The bridge had changed before them, the explosion had happened, just not to them apparently.

Or rather the explosion was happening. Once again frozen in time, the bridge was in the process of being torn apart, pieces of stone hanging motionlessly in the air. And Waidwen was lying before them, on the same piece they were standing on. All three pieces of him, burnt almost beyond recognition. Favaen felt like throwing up, and judging by the retching sound from her right, so did Edér. At least there was no smell in this realm.

As much as the corpse repulsed her, it also had an almost magnetic pull. Every cell in her body screamed at her to keep away, but something in her soul commanded her to go nearer. Still nearer. Until she was kneeling down next to him.

What was recognizable of his face was contorted in pure agony leaving nothing of the godly aura he’d carried just moments before. Still shaken to her core, Favaen reached out to his soul again, and though its presence was still undeniable, it was mauled as much as the body, making it impossible for her to do anything but pull back and leave him to his suffering.

As she felt the first tears run down her cheeks, someone gently pulled her back, but again there was a strange, familiar calling in her soul, quickly drowning out everything else, and she pulled out of the grip on her shoulders.

There was something she had to do, something she had to take… The rest of the world, including her friends, vanished in a smear of colour and need.

She woke again to the feeling of stone behind her back and the sound of fighting. Instincts kicked in and she scrambled up to aid her friends, only to see Aloth take care of the last enemy with some well-placed minor missiles.

“You good again?” Edér looked at her with a worried expression, sword still in hand an positioned in front of her, shielding her from the battle. It caused Favaen’s guilt to rise as it always did, though she hardly had control over her spontaneous watcher trances. Though, was that what that had been?

She nodded and opened her mouth to assure them, but suddenly noticed something in her hand. It was a sundial, simple and strangely unmarred.

“When you crawled over there you pulled that off of him. We couldn’t get you to let go of it,” Aloth said, face as concerned as Edérs as he put his grimoire away, yet posture as confident as he’d always been since they met up in the Deadfire. Despite the situation Favaen couldn’t help but smile at him. She was so glad to have him back and so proud of him for having grown so much in her absence. Aloth blushed and looked away, and the only reason Favaen didn’t start giggling was the sundial in her hand digging into a small cut, painfully bringing her back to reality. Or rather, Waidwen’s reality.

The calm moment broke, only to have something completely different follow it, something coming from the sundial. A ray of warm light broke out around them and without even thinking Favaen sank to her knees, staring in awe as her god appeared before her. Even after following Him across the ocean, talking to Him almost face to face twice already, it was a magical moment. There was no form to him, no discernible figure, only the light and the comforting weight of his presence, though it felt… less and yet heavier, weighed down by something Favaen had seen and felt all too often on her travels.

“You grieve for what happened here...” Favaen mumbled under her breath, not really meant for anyone but herself, yet as it happened all too often when He was involved, her mouth developed its own life.

“Always.”  The sound of his voice resonated across the bridge and Favaen was suddenly reminded that she was the only one here to have talked to Him before. The other’s stared, with varying degrees of distrust and wonder on their faces. “This man, Waidwen, he had a life that I invaded and delivered to death. I am the piece of the Dawnstars that lingered, delayed by grief.”

Grief. A concept she was all too familiar with now, not in small part due to Eothas himself, and still she couldn’t hate Him for it. There had to be reason for His actions, and He’d promised to tell her soon, but for now she would help Him however she could. Rymrgand the old goat be damned. Not that she particularly cared about Rymrgand’s opinion in the first place.

They talked, and even through all the horrors of this world, Favaen could feel her spirits rising at finally, after twenty years, being able to commune with her god again, without the looming threat of separation and whatever he had planned. Being able to soak up His light and attention like she’d last been able to when she was still almost a child was exhilarating. He had a mission for her, and though He phrased it like a request, she could never deny Him, especially not this, not when she could feel the pain permeating everything and everyone around her.

She felt somewhat guilty again, at having dragged her companions, and Edér especially, along with her, but there had been no indication of what they would find, and every one of them had willingly agreed to enter Rymrgand’s realm with her, so there was no point in regret now.

After their talk Eothas’ form vanished again, but Favaen could still feel His presence in the beams of light breaking through the icy clouds around her, and there was nothing that could have motivated her better. Without judgement or hesitation, she offered Edér to opt out on this one, to wait for them behind the portal.

“Thanks for the offer, but I have to know this as much as you do,” he answered, a slightly forced smile on his face.

Favaen nodded calmly, internally relieved. Her God was with her again, and though that brought her the comfort she had so dearly missed, this world, this moment, still weighed heavy on her soul as she felt a foreign desperation claw at her. Edér had become as much of a constant in the last years as Eothas and having him by her side grounded her more than Eothas with His overwhelming power and being ever could have.

She loved Aloth dearly, and Ydwin and even Vatnir were already valued companions, but none of them could truly understand the significance of this single moment in history they were standing in. None of them had any personal connection to this, they hadn’t fought this war, they hadn’t felt a connection in their soul, that had become the centre of their lives, break away and crumble. They hadn’t spent 20 years of lives asking questions without ever receiving answers.

And so, steeling herself for the horrors, and hopefully answers, that were to come, Favaen rallied her friends and stepped over the rubble of a tragedy long past into the divine light, offering the sundial and turning back the time to before the blast that had changed everything.

Favaen led her group through the nightmare that was the Godhammer, presenting a picture of serene determination. A picture she knew would not fool her two oldest friends, but she had no other coping mechanism. All the while, she always kept close to Edér, for both their sakes. He was doing pretty well, but she could feel the anxiety radiate off of him anyway. Not she blamed him for it. She too could feel the weight of the trauma inflicted here growing ever heavier, but she’d long accepted that it wasn’t her place to openly feel doubt or pain. Too many responsibilities were hers to carry now to let such things get to her, at least right now. Later, she promised herself. Later she would grieve for all that had happened here.

‘Make him whole again’ Eothas had said, and right now there was no power in this realm or any other that would stop Favaen from doing just that. Rymrgand could throw a tantrum if he wanted too, it wouldn’t change anything. She wouldn’t let Saint Waidwen of all people be a victim of this place. Not that she would leave anyone else here, she would lead all of the souls trapped by the incredible power of his soul back to the wheel, but his presence here was personal.

And the more of his fragments, of his memories, she picked up, the more personal it became.

When Favaen carefully pulled a ragged piece of his soul out of the bomb, she watched as his father threw him into the cold, dark lake, felt as his contempt for both his father and Eothas rose, and saw herself in younger years, full of anger and resentment.

On a crumbling balustrade, she watched as Waidwen scorned his father even on his deathbed, felt how there was still no relief for him, and saw her own desperate first attempts at peace in all the wrong ways.

At the edge of a cliff, she watched as Eothas appeared to him in that field, felt as he finally had a purpose for the first time, and saw her own homecoming to Eothas.

By the time she stood on a tower and watched as Waidwen calmly accepted his end, watched Eothas silently say goodbye and felt both their regret and pain, she wanted to break down and cry. But the past was what it was and was unchangeable, only the future remained. So, she did what she always did, she swallowed down her own sadness and heartache and continued on her chosen path with determination, so that it, and He, would lead her to a better day.

With one last, slightly shaking, comforting gesture for Edér, Favaen turned the sundial one last time, to take her to the moment before the tragedy. Standing before Waidwen, frozen in time except for the small part of his soul that still reacted to her, she summoned up all her confidence, all her conviction. She would not fail him. Either of them.

She let her watcher’s senses take over, carefully releasing the last part of his soul and it slid back to Waidwen, seamlessly slotting into its place, and completing a once broken entity.

The spell of agony suddenly unravelled, the chaos of tumultuous energy calmed down and fizzled out, leaving behind a stable but slowly draining power. With a start Favaen realized she had been wrong. She’d thought that there were others here as well, trapped by Waidwen, however unintentionally, being dragged along in the same cycle. But as all the soul energy flowed back to the man in front of her, Favaen recognized that there had only been him the whole time. All the shadows of souls she had felt had been a part of his memories, built by the immense power threading through his own soul, like the rainwater filled cracks in the pavement, to make sense of a situation his damaged mind couldn’t. Even the priestess must’ve been a product of his own psyche and for a second Favaen was curious about what that meant for the knowledge she’d had.

But the question quickly vanished from her mind when the pull of essence ebbed away, and the light let up. Before them stood a young man, and even though the divine glow was gone and he still looked a little unstable on his feet, Favaen couldn’t help the thought that now he looked far more like the people’s king Adaryc had told her about.

“I… thank you, friend. I’m struggling to understand it all, but my thoughts are clearer now.” His growing grin was strangely infectious and Favaen almost snorted. Yeah, no shit his thoughts were clearer now, than when his soul had literally been sprinkled all over the place.

His eyes glinted with a spark of mirth and Favaen realized that he probably didn’t need outward reactions any more than she did. He may not be a watcher, but in all likelihood the pure power tethered to his soul even now would’ve given him similar abilities.

“I think I accept why this needed to happen, but it is only human to feel conflicted.” The grin crumbled a little, and he frowned, looking over the realm and specifically the images of people still standing frozen in an eternal fight around them. “There is a lesson, a purpose to the Godhammer that I failed to grasp. Eothas wanted the people of the world to stand tall, without gods propping them up.”

Favaen heard shifting behind her and didn’t need to turn to know why. That topic was an important one for all the people behind her. Edér had been struggling with his faith in Eothas since they came here and Favaen hadn’t been in the best of situations to help him. Aloth had grown independent and had made it his life’s goal to help other people become so too, developing a downright hatred for the gods, and though it saddened Favaen a little, she’d meant it when she’d told him she rather he live a good life than worship her god. Ydwin had made her distaste for the state of the world perfectly clear. And Vatnir… Vatnir was a special case. Put in a position to worship a god he didn’t love just for looking like he did. Yet another reason to shove Rymrgand in the deepest crack of the beyond and seal it shut, if you asked Favaen.

“The Godhammer didn’t just tear Eothas from my body. It drove a wedge between gods and kith across Eora. And isn’t that just a version of what he always wanted?” Waidwen looked at her with a piercing gaze and though he wasn’t a cipher, Favaen still felt as though he saw right through her. She let him. There was no reason not to.

“Maybe you’re right. Because of Eothas, mortals saw a god annihilated.” And though she wished it hadn’t been Him, who else would’ve done it? Waidwen nodded thoughtfully.

“Taking on that burden of suffering wasn’t in Eothas’ original plan, but it served him well enough that he was content to keep his distance for a few quiet years.” So, he knew at least this much then. But something about his casual behaviour, the way he just shrugged it all off now, even though he’d been caught in an agonizing cycle of death for twenty years, rubbed her the wrong way. Try as she might, she couldn’t tell if he really believed it or was just putting on a show for them.

“It wasn’t Eothas who really suffered though, was it?” Once again, her mouth was faster than her impulse control, but seeing as it was true, she couldn’t regret saying it. Waidwen looked like he wanted to answer something, but in the end closed his mouth again a more resigned look on his face, shaking his head and turning away.

“Does it matter? I can feel oblivion tugging at me harder than before, now that I’m free, so we won’t have time to savour the victory either way, friend.” He stared at his slowly dissolving hand with mild interest, holding it against the light still falling into the realm, which somehow seemed to dim at his words.

No. Oh no. Favaen would not let him get away that easily, for both his sake and theirs. ‘Make him whole again’ Eothas had said, and she intended to keep him that way now. There would be no true peace for him until he’d forgiven himself everyone else, no salvation from just simply ceasing to exist. She would sooner drag him out of here kicking and screaming by scruff of his neck than let Rymrgand win this, though she’d rather avoid that. She wouldn’t return to Nekataka and tell Adaryc that she’d let his, their, prophet succumb to the nothing.

While Favaen was stewing in her own resolve, Edér and Aloth shared a look behind her. Neither knew whether to be amused or concerned. Out of everyone in their group, they’d known her longest and they both knew what was going on her head. Hopelessness had always been her greatest motivator and coming from Saint Waidwen it was basically a call to war. Before either of them could decide on how to react, Favaen fell back into the role she played the best.

“No.” Waidwen blinked at her, confusion clear as she glared at him, her back straight, feet planted firmly on the ground. Everything about her posture screamed confidence and determination, her voice calm but firm.

“No?”

“No. I will not leave you here to slowly fall apart because of your fear of your father.” Waidwen stared, for once speechless at her audacity. The people behind her cringed, though they didn’t know the details, her tone and his reaction alone were indication enough that it was bad. Waidwen’s stunned expression shifted into one of indignation.

“Excuse me? And what do you know about it?” For a second Favaen faltered at seeing his defensive stance, but defiance alone had never been enough to stop her. Not from him and not from her own screaming heart.

“Everyone who loved you abandoned you. Eothas was no exception. Come with me – it ends now.” Favaen watched as an amalgamation of emotions crossed Waidwen’s face, ranging from anger, over shame and fear, to grief, and she had to physically force herself to stand her ground. She stretched out one hand and waited. As much as she wanted to just step forward and hold him close, as much she wanted to just grab him and take him away from this horrible place, it had to be his choice. She would do everything in her power to convince him, but he had to make the first step. If she didn’t give him the choice now, if she made herself the enemy instead of a pillar of support, it would only hurt him more.

Everything else faded into the background, the bridge, her companions, even her own pain at Eothas’ choices, all were unimportant in the face of one she could save. And so, she smoothed all signs of doubt and fear from her face, waiting patiently for his reaction.

A reaction he took his time with. Waidwen stared into her face first, the stream of emotions never letting up, and looking into her eyes as if he hoped to find the answers to all his questions there. When he couldn’t find what he was looking for, his gaze swept downward to her outstretched hand. Slowly, agonizingly slowly he raised his own. He never looked away from her hand, until he had hesitatingly placed his in hers.

Favaen firmly took hold of it and in silence thanked Eothas that souls were tangible in this place. When Waidwen looked up again a certain calm had come over him. The desperation was gone, and in its place, a tentative spark of hope had appeared. He nodded slowly and in a flash the king was back, his posture straight and confident again. He gripped her hand with fervour and stepped forward, right through her and into the in-between, joining the souls already following her.

With his departure, so went the pressure on Favaen, and like the strings on a puppet were cut, she sagged to her knees. The world came back into focus with a gentle pair of hands holding her up. Favaen tried her best to keep her composure, but everything was just too much. Eothas, Waidwen, the inquisitor, the king of Ukaizo, this whole horrible place, everything crashed into her at once and with a helpless, choked sob she whirled around and buried her face in Aloth’s chest.

For a while they just sat between the rubble on the ground, Aloth wordlessly holding her while she was sobbing her heart out. Soon another hand, that could only belong to Edér, joined in, gently brushing through her hair, his firm, yet still somehow soft chest against her back. After what could’ve been minutes or hours, she calmed down again but couldn’t bring herself to leave the comforting huddle just yet. Instead a completely different thought found its way into her mind, causing her to let out a wet and breathless giggle.

“Adaryc will have a heart attack.” Edér snorted, not taking his hand away.

“I’m pretty sure everyone will with that story. I still can’t believe you somehow adopted Saint Waidwen.”

“Are you sure we should really be telling people about this?” Favaen pushed away a little bit, only just enough to properly look Aloth in the face. He let her and lowered his arms, looking down at her, brow creased with obvious worry. That look was enough incentive for Favaen to pull herself back together. She still had a job to do, and her friends were relying on her.

With a deep breath she pulled herself up, bathing in Eothas’ divine light wit closed eyes, which still shone through the now slowly dissolving realm. She soaked up the serenity it offered and slipped back into her role as leader.

“For now, we should concentrate on taking care of that dragon. We can discuss what to do with the information later.” And she wanted to discuss that with Waidwen as well. Though it would hardly affect him, being dead and all, it was still about him, and he deserved to have his voice heard as long as he could. But later. Later when there wasn’t the vague threat of Rymrgand’s ice taking over the world hanging over them, when she hopefully felt stable enough to face him again without breaking down in tears.

Getting to her feet again, Favaen noticed a few things. For one, both Vatnir and Ydwin had apparently decided to stand guard a little apart from the group, clearly uncomfortable with her outburst. With a pang of guilt, she resolved to treat them all to a day in the luminous bathhouse at the next opportunity. Also, when she looked around, all the soldiers were gone. Aside from them, no other person was around anymore, which confirmed Favaen’s theory about it all being a fabrication of Waidwen’s damaged mind. Not even Eothas seemed to remain, though his light was still present, now that Waidwen was no longer a prisoner of this realm.

Before she could think too much about the emotions that sparked in her, she pushed Favaen the priestess to the back of her mind and became once again Favaen the Watcher. Help. Move on. Fulfil the mission.

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Finally. Finally it was over. The dragon was released from her prison without harming anyone and Rymrgand had gotten what he deserved. Even Vatnir seemed to have found enough courage to leave behind his people, who were preparing to return to the White that Wends.

For once Favaen was actually eager to return to her ship to fall into her bed and sleep the whole way back to Nekataka. She was completely drained, both physically and emotionally and dreaded having to recount the last mission for the others.

As soon as they reached the shore, something adamantly pulled on her Watcher’s senses. She stopped and looked to the side, giving into the pull and seeing Waidwen step out of the in-between, an incredulous look on his face as he watched the boat before them, more specifically the name painted on the bow.

“You named your ship after me?” he asked, turning to face her with a playful grin on his face. Favaen blushed a little and avoided his gaze.

“Well… it’s funny watching people squirm when they say it.” Favaen was very aware that she wasn’t immune to the occasional act of spite, though she tried to keep it as harmless as possible. Naming her new ship “Waidwen” had certainly been one of them, affording her short moments of hilarity every time they docked somewhere new. Though it had earned her a very disappointed look from Adaryc and a rather lengthy speech from the priestess at the Gaun temple. Xoti had thought it was funny.

“I guess there’s more to you after all than just stubbornness.” He was looking at her again as if she were holding the secrets of the universe in her soul. Favaen cleared her throat and did her best to stand up to his scrutiny.

“I’ve been told I’m rather… blasphemous for a priestess.” Waidwen snorted.

“How’s that? With that outfit you could’ve put me in my glory days to shame.”

“Well for one, I very much enjoyed beating Rymrgand’s face in.” With a dark look Favaen glared to the side, remembering the god’s audacity at trying to claim her soul, when it already very clearly belonged to another. Oh, and Berath. But that wasn’t going to last.

“He did look like an asshole,” Waidwen said, nodding very seriously before cracking a smile again. Favaen just continued glowering off into the middle distance.

“Yes, apparently it lies in his nature,” she grumbled, before realizing who she was talking to. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to talk like that. He just makes me so angry.” She shook her head to clear it, feeling guilty at having unloaded that all on him. Not only because he was, well, Saint Waidwen, but also because he really had suffered much worse at Rymrgand’s hands. Still, it didn’t seem to bother him much, which in turn bothered Favaen, but she decided to deal with that later when she didn’t feel so much like shit.

“Please, by all means, go ahead. Being angry at a god is what made me a saint.” The mischievous grin on his face faded as a frown took its place. “Although... maybe avoid that after all, didn’t end too well for me.” That admission, though she’d been waiting for it, left Favaen floundering for something to say. In the end she decided to stay quiet, silently lamenting the fact that she couldn’t at least touch him anymore. He seemed to want to say something more, so she waited until he found the right words.

“Is... is my name really that... hated now?” Favaen sighed and almost regretted telling him the truth, but only almost. Lies wouldn’t do anyone any good in the long run, no matter how comforting.

“I wouldn’t say hated necessarily, but you didn’t make yourself very popular in most corners of the world. Although the Huana don’t really care for the most part. It’s the Dyrwood and Aedyr that really despise you. The Vailians and Rauatains just get twitchy because the implications make them nervous.” Waidwen nodded thoughtfully, giving no answer beyond that.

“Hey Favaen, you coming?” The unexpected shout startled Favaen out of her contemplation and she turned to see Edér standing by the ship, looking back at her with a questioning look.

“Yeah, I’ll be right there!” she shouted back. Throwing a look over her shoulder, she found Waidwen already gone again and so hurried to the ship, filing that conversation back for later. For now, she would lock herself in her quarters and not get up for at least a day. Hopefully. With her luck probably not.

She shared a tired smile with Edér when he helped her up the ladder. He didn’t look much better than her, but still there seemed to be a weight lifted from his shoulders. No matter how tired she was, how angry at Rymrgand, that relief was worth all the hassle.

Finally on the boat, she stumbled past the rest of the crew, as her legs really started hurting at that point. Aloth was already explaining what had transpired and had apparently already introduced their latest crewmember. Favaen threw him a thankful and very relieved look, to which he responded with a nod in direction of the stairs and an exasperated but affectionate smile.

The most urgent job taken care of, Favaen didn’t feel so bad at locking herself away. Vela was busy playing with Tekehu, so she was taken care of as well, and no one needed her for now. With a heavy sigh she pulled off the little armour she wore and fell into her bed, mushing her face into the pillow and not even bothering with the blanket. In seconds she was out.

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Favaen woke not to the sound of someone frantically beating against her door as she’d expected, but instead to a comfortable quiet with only the gentle waves hitting the boat. While that was unexpected, it wasn’t the real surprise. The real surprise was the slightly translucent form sitting at the wall of her cabin, staring out the small window.

“You’re really weird, you know that?” Favaen mumbled into the bedding, still sluggish from sleep and eyes sticky. She was too tired to really be disturbed by this. Waidwen turned around with a slight start, obviously not expecting her to be awake, but caught himself quickly. Again, that snarky smile of his appeared.

“So I’ve been told. But what makes you say that right now?” Favaen rolled onto her back, her arm having begun to ache from lying so long at that awkward angle, and tilted her head backwards to keep him in sight. Her hair was still hanging in her face, but the act of rolling over alone had taken too much energy already for her to bother with it.

“None of the other souls ever did that.” Waidwen raised one eyebrow at her almost unintelligible slurring.

“Did what?” Somewhere in Favaen’s sleep muddled brain, she recognized that he probably didn’t have her experience with dead people. The rest of her brain however decided that that was rubbish.

“That.” There. Enough information. Waidwen was still staring at her, obviously confused. When she made no move to explain herself, he rolled his eyes. Suddenly something briskly pulled on her soul, jerking her awake with violence. Adrenaline flooded through her system and she shot up assessing the room with wide eyes. The only thing she found was Waidwen wearing a self-satisfied grin.

“That for example.” Favaen glared at him, her annoyance overshadowing any feelings of awe and respect. That didn’t seem to deter him though, instead he just grinned wider, and for the first time Favaen was sure that he meant it. That took the wind out of her sails and her frustration ebbed away. With a sigh she leant against the wall behind her. Now that she was awake, they might as well have that conversation. “Just being here. Without my help I mean. Usually I have to consciously call on the souls following me, or at least help them with materializing. I never woke up to one sitting next to my bed.” She frowned a little. “And while we’re on that, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make that a habit. You’re welcome to talk me whenever, but maybe don’t just show up when I’m sleeping. It’s... well to be honest it’s a little creepy.” She’d never thought she’d ever say that to Saint Waidwen of all people, but his simple look and friendly demeanour made it very easy to forget who he actually was. While Favaen knew on a factual level who she was talking to, her emotions told her he was just another lost soul in need of some time before moving on to the wheel.

“I’m sorry, I’m not really used that concept anymore.“ Waidwen frowned, and Favaen recognized the spark of guilt in the crease of eyebrows. “Once you share your entire being with a god, the notion of privacy gets a bit muddled, no matter how considerate said god is.” Though she had never experienced what he had, she could still empathize. Berath’s random calls were annoying enough, if she constantly had the pallid knight’s voice in her ear, she too would forget certain things. Also, while Waidwen was much harder to read than anyone else she’d ever met, with the exception of Thaos maybe, she could still sense an undeniable air of anxiety emanating from him. That, of course, couldn’t be tolerated.

“I’m not mad, I promise,” she said, using the same voice she’d use for a frightened kitten. Sometimes people just needed to be emotionally petted, especially the souls she tended to work with. “I’d just like to know why you came. It can’t be terribly interesting to listen to me snoring.” The joke didn’t seem to land as she’d intended. Waidwen did crack a smile, but it was flimsy and hardly worth the name. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came, and he just stared vaguely under her bed. Favaen waited patiently. They had time.

“There’s a cat under your bed,” was what he finally said. Favaen blinked a little. She slid her feet off the bed and bowed down, peering under the cot. A quiet purring greeted her, and in the dim light she could see the animancer cat staring back at her. She sat back up.

“So there is.” It wasn’t terribly surprising. She’d developed a... habit of adopting absolutely every animal that would let itself be adopted, so the whole ship was filled with pets, much to Edér’s delight and Aloth’s annoyance. Still, she didn’t see the connection.

“I... I tried to pet it.” Oh. Oh! That made Favaen realize what must’ve happened. His dejected stare, aimed at anywhere but her, broke her heart all over again. And for once she didn’t know how to help. She’d never had this kind of problem before, usually the souls either left themselves after a few kind words and reassurances, or they just needed a bit more time to accept their own passing. None of them had ever been this independent as to attempt to interact with the physical world. For the most part they weren’t even aware of it. She wanted to console him, she wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be okay, but she knew trying would only make it worse.

So, it was time for a new strategy. Favaen took a deep, long breath, counting to four, held it for seven, and released it for eight, letting go of all her feelings of helplessness along with it. With nimble hands she untied her two braids, letting her ruffled, fiery hair fall freely over shoulders. She unclasped the cape still on her shoulders, took off her necklace and prayer beads, and unravelled the layers of fabric of her priest’s attire. When she was done, sitting on the bed in only her undershirt and cotton trousers, there was no sign of her being an Eothasian priestess, a herald of the gods, the captain of a ship, or the lady of a castle. She was only a woman, just like he was now only a man.

“I won’t pretend to understand how you feel. I have never been in your situation. But I promise you this, I will do whatever you think is necessary for you to move on. I will not leave you. I will not abandon you. And someday, whenever that will be, whenever you feel ready, I will let you go.” The promise hang in the air between them, heavy with importance, not because of who it came from, or who it was meant for, but because of its meaning.

Neither of them moved or talked. They just looked at each other, much like they had back on the bridge, only this time there was no expectation, no call for action, only the reassurance, whether he believed it or not. After a long, though not necessarily uncomfortable silence, Waidwen nodded, and a bit of the tension bled away, both on his face and in the atmosphere, leaving behind a lighter melancholy radiating off him.

“I had a friend once. He didn’t think much of my station either and wasn’t afraid to call me out on my shit.” He looked at her with a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless as he remembered better days.

“Would you like us to go find him?” she offered. Whether the friend was dead or still alive, she would do her best if it would help him.

“I think... I would appreciate that. We didn’t part on the best of terms.” That was a feeling she could understand, though she herself had never had the courage to seek out her parents again. “He was there that day. I knew… I knew how it was going to end. Not in detail maybe, but I knew I wasn’t going to leave that bridge again. Usually he was right there with me, but for all the people I was willing to drag down with me, I was selfish. I ordered him to the back, far away from the front lines. He didn’t take it very well. Especially after he’d already told me again and again not to go to there in first place.” And Waidwen’s death would’ve been another blow, one that might easily have swayed fondness to resentment. Favaen didn’t need to reach for him with her watcher’s senses to know how afraid he was of that reaction. She had lived with the same fear for half her life. “For all I know he’s still in Readceras.”

“I promise we will go find him and you will be able to say your piece.” A promise she was confident she could keep, not that she would’ve ever made it otherwise. Even if the friend was dead, perhaps she could find an agreement with Berath. Somehow, she would do this. But first… “First, I have to handle the matter of Eothas, though.” Handle, support… thwart. She wasn’t sure anymore. She loved her god, more than she would ever be able voice, but what he was doing now… No. She shouldn’t think like that. There had to be good reason for his actions. There had to be.

Waidwen frowned. “Yeah, what is that about anyway?” An excellent question that Favaen wished with all her heart she could answer.

“I honestly don’t know. He…” The words she wanted to say got stuck in her throat. It was one thing to know what happened, another to accept and acknowledge it. But then, wasn’t that what she wanted to help Waidwen with? She refused to be hypocrite. “He possessed a giant adra statue under my castle, destroyed said castle, killing me and my subjects, took part of my soul and is now marching across the Deadfire to an unknown location, absorbing every soul in His path.” Favaen had to take a deep breath, after having blurted it all out in one go. A slight blush dusted her cheeks at the rather undignified display.

Waidwen just stared at her, slowly blinking. Her face reddened even more, the longer he just gaped at her in silence. Finally, he smacked his lips once.

“You know, I want to call you a liar, but you’re way too unconvincing for that right now. Also, killed? I feel like I’m missing something here.” With a very deliberate motion he lifted his translucent hand, gave it a hard a look and slowly turned back to her. Favaen almost wished Berath would call her again.

“Yeah it’s… it’s complicated. I’m not sure myself really. All I remember is the castle suddenly collapsing and this excruciating pain…” The words brought back the few memories she had of the encounter, the absolute terror at not knowing what was happening, the short spark of hope that was immediately swallowed by agony. “Next thing I remember is standing behind the shroud and moving towards the wheel. Berath offered me a deal. My life in exchange for becoming her herald and following Eothas. The decision wasn’t very hard.”

“I’m pretty sure if still had a body, I’d have headache.” He sighed, seemingly steeling himself for something, looking into a corner again. “I guess you want me to talk to him, eh?” It was Favaen’s turn to stare. Somehow that simple question had completely short-circuited her brain. Her thoughts were both incomprehensibly fast and aggravatingly slow. Finally, something snapped back into place.

“I don’t want you to do anything. If you wish to speak to Him, I will make sure you have the opportunity, but I will never make you do something.” She gave him a few moments to truly let it sink in. “Just like it is your choice how we handle the news about you.”

“You mean whether you’ll tell anybody?” Favaen nodded. “I… I’d prefer it if you kept it quiet. My reign is over, and it should stay that way.” Favaen nodded again, this time pursing her lips in thought.

“Alright. In that case, I’ll have to figure something out with Serafen and Ydwin before meeting with Adaryc again.” Waidwen turned back to her with start.

“Adaryc?” He went back to staring into the middle distance, contemplatively chewing on his lower lip. “Adaryc, Adaryc…”

“Adaryc Cendamyr. He was a soldier in your army.” Though why he would’ve known a random young soldier, Favaen didn’t know. He still didn’t seem quite satisfied with that answer though. Suddenly he shot up, eyes glittering with recognition.

“The servant boy! But what does he have to do with anything?” Favaen decided to ignore that connection. There would be more than enough time for this later, for now she just wanted to get the necessary exposition out of the way and get back to bed. The adrenalin from his shock earlier (And how did he do that anyway? Questions for later.) was starting to wear off and a familiar weight was creeping back into her limbs.

“He’s a commander now and in the Deadfire as well. More importantly though, he’s a watcher as well. Since I have very little experience with other watchers, I have no idea if just stuffing you into the in-between is going to keep him from sensing you. And we’ll have to talk to him if we want any hope of finding your friend.” After a second of deliberation she added: “He’s a good man and still very much devoted to his country and you. He won’t go against your wishes.”

“A watcher, hm?” He seemed to drift off again a bit, his form shifting into different positions without actually moving. Under his, well not breath, but what else would you call it? Language was very inconsiderate to the dead. Favaen shook her head in attempt to wake up again. She tended to start deliberating strange things the more tired she became. The words that had sounded suspiciously like ‘explains a lot’ had already disappeared from her mind.

“I guess we can decide what to do about him later. Sounds like you’ll be busy for a while yet anyway.” Was he shifting again or was her brain just filtering too much?

“Hmm,” she hummed affirmatively, mentally planning out her timetable, while trying to keep the fuzzy feeling in her head at bay. “I always wanted to go down to Readceras. I never got to the see the musical.”

“What musical?” Waidwen asked, and Favaen blanched. Why did her mouth always have to be faster than her brain? She cleared her throat pointedly looked to the door.

“I didn’t say musical.” Waidwen’s eyes narrowed, some of the light-heartedness in the air freezing up.

“Okay, now you’re lying. What are you not telling me?” Favaen’s resistance was already crumbling. As much as she didn’t really want to explain that to him, she’d been raised better than to lie, much less to a saint. She started rubbing her fingernails against each other in a nervous gesture. She really didn’t know him well enough to know how he would react.

“Well, about two years ago a group of young artists first premiered a musical called ‘Saint Waidwen’ at the annual commemoration day. Since then they’ve played it every month, because it’s so popular with young adults. Though the older generation tend to see it more as… well, heresy.” Despite the fact that she could feel her face grow hot and red, she was also incredibly relived when Waidwen’s face split into broad grin.

“I hope you understand that we’ll definitely go see that later.”

“You’re taking this impressively well.” She herself was rather mortified at the knowledge that Kana was literally singing her praises, not that she would’ve had the heart to stop him. It was one thing to speak in front of the masses herself, a completely different one to have someone else tell your story. She trusted Kana, but still the idea made her uncomfortable.

“Are you kidding me? Before there were just a bunch of old people who kept trying to make boring paintings of me. A musical sounds much more entertaining!” He seemed legitimately excited and Favaen felt a warm feeling rise in her chest. Quietly she vowed to herself to get tickets as soon as this was over. “And a bit of heresy salts the soup. They’d have to try to really piss me off.“

And that sentence more than anything else she’d seen of him, proved that something, somewhere along the line had gone horribly wrong, and for the life of her Favaen didn’t understand what. Of all gods, Eothas had always been the closest to kith, had meant well with his decisions and had been worshipped for just that. Waidwen, this man before her, was neither the monster nor the saint she’d heard about. He was a young man, broken by his circumstances and rebuilt by pure stubbornness and spite.  Both of them were good people. So why, why oh why had it gone so badly? How did a country with this man as king still stay so stuck in their ways with no tolerance for difference? Why had an essentially bloodless rebellion turned into a religious purge and a brutal war? Why did so many people have to die? Eothas, tell me why!

Favaen started when a hand waved directly in front of her face, creating no wind at all while almost touching her nose.

“Are you okay? You looked really down there for a second.” At some point Waidwen had kneeled down before her, or maybe he glitched his way there again, Favaen was too weary to question his abilities at that point. He was looking at her, worried frown on his face. For a moment she saw Edér’s face before her, years ago when he’d woken her from another nightmare from a life long past.

With all her might she forced a strained smile on her face. She did not have the mental capacity in that moment to deal with any of this.

“Yes, of course. I just haven’t slept enough yet is all.” She could see something in him slam shut at her denial, and she wanted to slap herself. Waidwen stood up with a nod, clearly making to retreat back into the in-between. In a desperate attempt to repair whatever she had just broken, she forced herself to her feet as well.

“Wait! I…” She swallowed as he indeed stopped, wearing the same mask of careful neutrality she herself had worn so many times, when the risk was too great too speak her mind. “I promise we’ll talk about it, but I’m just not in a good enough shape right now.” All her exhaustion and fatigue, both mental and physical, resonated with her words. That was all the heart she could bear to expose. She could only hope it was enough.

His mask crumbled a bit, the skin around his eyes crinkling and their light dulling. It might’ve been a trick of the light, or something else entirely, but even his already translucent skin seemed paler and his hair stringier. He looked as exhausted as she felt.

“Neither of us are.” The words were delivered flat and distant, almost like from another time. The next moment he was gone, leaving behind Favaen alone in her quarters that suddenly felt too dark, even though the evening shone clearly through the small window. She didn’t know if she’d succeeded or if she’d just entirely ruined every chance she’d had of helping him.

Her knees gave out and she heavily sat back down, shivering slightly, though her underclothes were warm enough for the weather. For a moment she debated finding Aloth and/or Edér, but that would’ve required movement and leaving her cabin, neither of which she wanted to do, so she laid back down and pulled her blanket around herself, hoping the physical warmth would help drive out the chilling fear that had settled in her soul.

Her last somewhat comforting thought before falling into a restless sleep was, that should she have broken his tentative trust too thoroughly to repair it again, she would hand him over to Adaryc. Certainly he would do better, could empathize with him better. He had actually lived through the same events after all. Not like her, who hadn’t dared to leave her safe home in the abbey until it was fifteen years too late. Who hadn’t had the courage to stand and see her god for herself and had instead followed the orders of a king she didn’t know.

But in the end, that was all past and lamenting it useless. Favaen had chosen her path, and she would walk it to the best of her abilities, even if the lantern guiding her flickered sometimes. Even if she sometimes misstepped. Even if she sometimes made mistakes. For she knew with a certainty she knew little else with, that no one was beyond redemption, if they were only willing to work for it.

-

The Soundtrack for Saint Waidwen The Musical, written by young adults almost 20 years after his death, and therefore not entirely accurate to his story. The last song was added after the events of Deadfire.

Here the post with my long ass rant about how this is totally a thing.

[snufflesmajor]

‘Kiss’

[kiss meme] 

get ready for a novel (no really, it’s almost 3k)

   There were few times Sirius wasn’t attached to James. Mostly it was because the latter was playing Quidditch (or was trying to win the hand of a certain unnamed Evans), and Peter was usually with the both of them. It never gave Sirius and Remus much time alone, but neither of them ever minded. They were a family before anything else, and neither could ever hope to be apart from the others.

   That said, since their relationship had changed, they had managed to spend more time alone than ever before. They hadn’t told anyone about the shift yet (it was too early, and Merlin, what if it changed the Marauders?!), but James and Peter seemed to find other things to do far more often these days.

   Truthfully, it had hurt Sirius’ feelings at first, but now… Well, now he was almost positive James and Peter knew. Or, at least, James did. Still, it was too early to verbalise what Moony and Padfoot were now to each other, and the change merely became a loud, unspoken secret.

   Nothing to worry or talk about; it simply was.

   Which is why, when the Full Moon had fallen just after term had ended, James and Peter had gone home, leaving Sirius and Remus alone for a few days. Just enough for the Moon and the subsequent recovery, and they’d join their families (being the Lupin’s and the Potter’s, of course) shortly afterward.

    It was the very first time Sirius and Remus had the dorm completely to themselves. While others might be excited at the prospect, it had truly terrified Sirius. Despite what others might think, he was inexperienced in more sexual matters. The idea of doing anything like that was scary, but with Remus?

   What if he did it wrong? Or made weird, ugly faces? What if he wasn’t equipped enough? Would Remus laugh? Or pull that face, the one he always pulled when Sirius said something stupid and embarrassed himself?

   What if he was bad at it or hurt him or—

   What if he hurt Remus?

   Or worse–what if Remus hurt him, and put an end to everything entirely? Sirius was pretty sure he could live without sex (he had so far), but he couldn’t live without Remus. If Remus hurt him, even a little, he’d put an end to everything forever. He mightn’t ever see him again.

   Needless to say, Sirius had been terrified.

   The first few days had been fine, though Sirius felt guilty for thinking it. The Moon had taken its toll on Remus, making him weak and sickly and forcing him to retreat to a warm blanket. As awful as it was, Sirius did enjoy these times somewhat. It was the only time Remus would let himself be spoiled, and there was something so very endearing about seeing a pale hand dart out from beneath a mess of blankets, flop around on the mattress as it searched for whatever it was Remus was looking for (chocolate, mostly), before quickly retreating.

   It was something Sirius knew he’d never forget or grow tired of.

   The Moon came and went, leaving Remus more battered than he usually was. Without Prongs and Wormtail, they hadn’t dared leave the shack. Though Padfoot had kept Moony occupied for a time, he’d grown frustrated with the lack of freedom and injured himself greatly. It was all Sirius could do to not turn back immediately to try and heal him.

   Once the Moon had set and Remus had returned, Sirius had shifted back immediately and tried to tend to the worst of the injuries. There’d been too much blood, too many breaks, and while Remus was nowhere close to death, he wasn’t exactly close to life, either.

   The forty-three minutes it took before Madam Pomfrey arrived might have been the longest Sirius had ever experienced, and it hurt his very soul to stay away from Remus whilst she tended to him.

   But he had to stay away; if he were found in the Shack, the jig would be up and he’d never be able to run with Moony again.

   The next few days were spent in the hospital wing. While Sirius had been told to go home, he’d decided to ‘do as the Muggles do’ and stage a sit-in and hunger strike. Luckily he’d had a rather large breakfast in preparation, but it had all been for nought. The staff acquiesced after exactly two and a half minutes of Sirius singing anti-war songs (something Remus might have tried to throw a pillow at him for), and he’d had his mid-morning snack shortly afterward.

   When Remus was finally released, it was early evening. They’d go their separate ways the next day, which gave them one night together.

   Alone.

   And relatively healthy.

   It was terrifying.

   Sirius had been standing by the bed when Remus limped in, nervously playing with the ends of his hair and trying his hardest to look casual. A thousand scenarios played through his mind, and while he felt as though he’d be ready if Remus were ready, it was all so… awkward.

   So when Remus flopped onto the bed in what could have been an expectant and suggestive way, Sirius did the first thing he could think to do:

   He took his shirt off and threw it at Remus’ face.

   And got nothing but a strained noise in return as Remus burrowed his face further into the pillow.

   Now, Sirius was sure he’d heard about this–pillow biting, that is–but from what he’d heard, there was meant to be more movement when it happened. He doubted very much that Remus was doing it out of ecstasy, which meant Remus must have been doing it for some less wonderful reason.

   “Moony?”

   “Hrrrrggg…”

   “…”

   “…”

   “Remus, I’m naked.”

   “Arrhrhhdhhhrhffdd.”

   “Only a bit, but I don’t see why it doesn’t count.”

   “…”

   “…”

   Hesitantly, Sirius walked over to the bed and sat beside Remus. His hands felt strange, as though his fingers were suddenly far too large, and his heart accelerated. After a moment of intense internal debate, he carefully laid a hand in the space between Remus’ shoulders and felt an incredible amount of relief once he saw Remus relax into the touch.

   So, he wasn’t repulsive then. That was a start.

   “We don’t… have to, you know. I just thought–”

   “Mmhhdhgh.”

   “Didn’t catch that.”

   With a sigh large enough to set sail to an armada, Remus rolled onto his side and looked up at Sirius with wide eyes. A faint pink dusted his pale skin, growing darker the longer he stared. Suddenly, Sirius wished he’d never taken his shirt off.

   “I can–I’m sorry, I just–” He reached for his shirt only to be stopped by one of Remus’ hands on his wrist. While the grip was loose and shaky, it made Sirius stop dead, his eyes falling to the bed in embarrassment.

   Already he was awful at this.

   “‘S not you.” Remus mumbled, and while Sirius couldn’t see him, he was almost positive he wasn’t the only one looking at the bed. “Sorry.”

   “Sorry? You didn’t do anything! I’m the one just… just stripping, and assuming, and–Merlin, Moony! I… I only, you know, because I thought, but we don’t have to-to, you know, we don’t! We don’t ever!”

   “…”

   Oh, wonderful. Now Remus thought he didn’t want to, which wasn’t the case at all. There was just a lot to consider, and Sirius was nervous, and Remus probably knew all about this stuff from his books and just because it’s Remus and Remus just knows things.

   He looked up, determined to explain, but once he saw Remus’ face–his expression–Sirius realised what the problem was. It was obvious, or should have been so close to the Moon, and he felt stupid for not realising it immediately.

   “Show me.”

   Remus looked up at Sirius with an expression of panic, a thousand excuses tumbling out his mouth all at once. They’d known each other long enough now for Sirius to know the difference between Remus-not-wanting-to and Remus-wanting-to-but-there’s-the-whole-werewolf-thing, so he frowned his usual who-cares-if-you’re-a-werewolf-you-idiot frown in return.

   “Please?” His hand moved to the hem of Remus’ shirt and tugged at the hem, causing the grip Remus had on his wrist to tighten. “We don’t have to do anything, I just… I want to see. Please?”

   There was no verbal answer, but Sirius knew Remus was considering it. They’d seen each other nude before, and this was just a shirt. Maybe it was different now, but… it was just a shirt.

   Remus’ throat bobbed, and a moment of scrunched eyes and deep breaths later, his shirt came off.

   Sirius only managed to catch a glimpse of the newly mangled arms and horribly scarred stomach before Remus folded in on himself, his knees pressed to his chest as he tried to shrink himself as much as possible.

   While Sirius had been prepared for scarring (and had seen some before), the sheer amount almost took his breath away. He didn’t find it ugly, and he didn’t feel any differently for Remus, but a horrible pang of agony rocked through his core. Each scar was heavy and thick, sliced painfully through Remus’ otherwise soft skin. Each mark was a reminder of what Remus was once a month, and they’d never be healed.

   Worse still, each scar was a howl of pain Sirius couldn’t stand to hear. Another limp, another wince, another nightmare.

   Merlin, how he wished he could take the pain away forever. How cruel it was to not only be in agony, but to have permanent reminders? To never be healed? It wasn’t fair, no matter how you looked at it.

   “S-Sorry, it–”

   “Don’t.” Sirius snapped, earning himself a wince from Remus for his quick temper. “No–Remus, it’s–don’t apologise. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

   “…”

   “I want to see, if you’ll let me look.”

   The room was silent as Remus debated, but he finally nodded and stretched himself out. His shoulders were still hunched, but it was a start, Sirius thought.

   But then, Remus unzipped his trousers and pushed them down his now naked legs, exposing almost all his skin save for what his pants covered.

   This hadn’t been something Sirius had expected, but he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Remus, for all the secrets he kept, was terrible at keeping secrets. He always seemed to feel so guilty and, as Sirius had asked to see, had shown everything.

   Once the trousers had been kicked to the bottom of the bed, Sirius felt over dressed. He contemplated taking his own off to even things out, but felt as though it would be an awful idea. This, he knew, wasn’t sexual. This was so much more.

   Remus was trusting him with something precious, and he couldn’t muddy it.

   Finally, he let his eyes wander away from Remus’ face and down his body. A mixture of scars of varying ages swam in his skin, making strange but not unattractive patterns. Light and dark colours swirled along his arms, becoming more faded the higher they rose up his arms.

   A nasty bruise and a nearly healed mark on his stomach (likely from where Moony had thrown himself down the stairs and onto the bannister) mottled the somehow paler skin, but was overshadowed by the large mark on his left side. The Bite.

  He swallowed a shudder as his eyes moved further and further down, tracing the darkening scars that traveled down his hips and to his legs where some of the worst were located. They were raw, even if they were old, and the sharp intake of Sirius’ breath did not go unnoticed by Remus.

   Immediately, he folded in on himself, hiding as much of his body as possible.

   “I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

   “‘s fine.”

   “It’s not fine, Remus–Remus, look at me.”

   Remus shook his head, and a wave of guilt flooded Sirius so quickly he felt he might drown in it. Words wouldn’t help, and even if they could, Sirius didn’t trust himself to say the right ones. Instead, he decided the only thing that could help were actions. Actions he could do, and he thought he might even do them well.

   He moved away from Remus, ignoring the flinch, and crawled to the foot of the bed. Remus had pulled his knees back to his chest and seemed to be shaking, but Sirius ignored that as well. Instead, he leaned forward and put his arms on the mattress to steady himself, then lowered his face to Remus’ feet. Gently, he placed a small kiss to the back of each foot, so light he worried he mustn’t have touched it at all.

   But Remus made a very soft noise, and that was enough encouragement to continue. His face moved higher, planting small kisses on the worst scars along his shins, then pause at his knees. Huge, confused eyes stared out at him from behind the arms and legs covering Remus’ face, and he made sure to keep his own open as he placed sturdier kisses to each of Remus’ knees.

   “Lie down.”

   “…”

   “Please, Remus.”

   Another small nod from Remus was followed by him laying awkwardly on the bed, his chest heaving and arms shaking. Sirius smiled as reassuringly as possible and ducked his head down, placing another small kiss on Remus’ stomach. The skin quivered beneath his lips and he huffed out a small laugh at Remus’ squeak of indignation, then placed another along the worst of the bite on his side.

   Not because he liked it–no, he hated it, and everything it represented–but because it was Remus, and he loved Remus. The bite wasn’t a part of him, not the way Remus thought at least, but the torn skin was. And so, Sirius thought, it was beautiful.

   His hands reached for Remus’ wrists as he placed another, firmer, more confident kiss against the centre of his chest. He pulled them up lightly as he sat on Remus’ thighs (not higher, because that wasn’t what this was), then dragged his left hand to his lips.

   Though his own face was certainly as pink as Remus’, Sirius made sure to keep their eyes locked as he kissed the tips of each finger. It felt almost silly, really, but he tried to hide his own insecurities by brushing his lips against the captured palm instead, then up to the wrist itself.

   His breathing was coming quickly now, and while he felt another stab of panic that he might be making Remus uncomfortable, he tried to pay it no mind. With the look on Remus’ face, he doubted very much he felt uncomfortable, and wouldn’t he say so if he was? He knew he’d need to, didn’t he?

   Carefully, he placed that arm back to the bed and pulled the other to his lips, leaving a series of small pecks from Remus’ knuckles, over the back of his palm, up his forearm, and to his elbow. That, Sirius realised, might be a favourite place to touch, given how very soft it was and the awkward wriggle he received in return for his affections.

   “I love you.” He whispered into the skin of Remus’ bicep as his lips moved higher and higher, over his shoulder and to his neck. “I love you, all of you.”

   He mumbled it into Remus’ neck, smiling happily as his face was smooshed by a shrug. His lips grazed over Remus’ cheek, planting far messier and wetter kisses over the now very pink skin, then over his forehead. It wasn’t until he heard what might have been a very sweet laugh that he pulled back, resting his forehead against Remus’ as their fingers linked.

   “Thank you.” He smiled, placing a quick peck to the end of Remus’ nose. “For showing me.”

   “Pad–”

   Before Remus could say anything, Sirius closed the distance between them and pressed their lips together. It stole the breath right from his lungs and while he might have made an embarrassing noise, he didn’t mind too much.

   The kiss itself was chaste, but it meant more than he could express in words. He suddenly felt ridiculous for ever worrying about their physical future together, and could feel in his heart that, when the time came, it would all be all right.

   After another quiet shared smile, Sirius shifted back onto the bed. Remus wriggled closer and laid his head on his shoulder, and the rest of the world ceased to exist.

   Truly, Sirius thought, he’d never tire of these moments. There would never be a day he wouldn’t love Remus–all of Remus–and he hoped he wasn’t the only one who realised it.

Kiss on the forehead: Parental/Familial loveKiss on the nose: You make me happyKiss on the cheek: Platonic love/Friendship/AttractionKiss on the lips: Romantic love/AttractionKiss on the neck: I want you/You are mineKiss over the heart: I am connected to youKiss over the wrist: I think you are beautiful/I find you attractiveKiss over the back of the hand:Respect/Admiration/ReverenceKiss on the palm of the hand: I am yours/I know you have meKiss on the knuckles: ProtectivenessKiss on the fingertips: I care about youKiss on the stomach: Sexual attraction/DesireKiss on the knees: I want to support youKiss on the feet: Fealty/Loyalty/Servitude/Submission

[hazandholland]

Spiders and Zucchinis

Written by Christina

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 1989

Requested by anntol2001: Can I please have long imagine where the reader dies during the civil war fight( cpr,fire, whatever) and peter brings her back. And then they just kiss and a lot of fluff. 

A/N: Sorry it has taken so long for another original fic! Danielle and I have been incredibly busy with school and stuff. I hope this is good! Let us know if you have any feedback!

You sighed, pressing your lips between your teeth in impatience. Tony was rambling, for the millionth time, about how you were only there to apprehend Captain America and his band of rogue super humans. You were not to kill them. You tossed your head back into the luxury plush leather seat of Tony’s jet as he turned to Natasha, his voice lowering. You stared at him, whispering something expressively to the redhead. The girl simply sat and listened, not saying a word. You desperately wished you could read lips, but your not-so-discreet staring caught the attention of the Russian, earning you a smirk. You felt your heart lurch a bit, feeling you’ve been caught doing something wrong, even though you hadn’t. You licked your lips and shifted in your seat, turning your gaze to the window. Grey, black and white buildings cluttered the ground below you. Leipzig.

Tony Stark was apparently unable to solve his problems with Captain America, and somehow, the United States Government got involved. You didn’t know the whole story, as you eventually tuned out Tony’s voice. All you got out of his lectures was that Captain America and his team disagreed with some sort of international law that stated that all humans with abnormal abilities were going to under the United Nations panel’s control. You had mixed feelings on it, able to see the pros and cons of being against the registration and for the registration. But since Tony Stark decided your abilities were used to help Tony and his team apprehend Cap, as well as his team, meant a lot to you. There was no way you would turn down an offer from the world-renowned genius billionaire playboy philanthropist.

“H-hey,” A voice squeaked behind you. You jumped a little, the voice slamming you back into reality. You whipped around in your chair to see who talked to you. A boy around your age with brown hair and a pair of brown eyes that would make any girl’s insides turn to mush was standing behind your chair, crouched down slightly so he was eye-level with you, arms folded over the back of the seat. He looked a little startled when you turned around so suddenly and his cheeks flushed as bright as a fire engine. You released a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you fought to regain your composure.

“Yes?” You asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. The boy’s eyes widened and he backed away, suddenly intimidated. His eyes shifted from yours to the floor, licking his lips in silence. He must be the other new recruit. You smirked in amusement at his obvious discomfort. You turned back around in your seat, curling your legs toward you.

“I-I’m Peter,” The boy stammered, making you glance back over your shoulder. The boy looked startled again when you made eye contact again, his gaze almost immediately switching to his hands, his slender fingers twiddling and tapping against one another. You scoffed a little at the boy’s awkwardness.

“Well, hi, Peter,” You responded, flashing a bright smile and holding your hand up to his to shake. “I’m (Y/N).” The boy, Peter, stared at your hand as if the gesture was foreign, his hands not moving to greet yours. You bit back a middle-school-like giggle and wiggled your hand between his fidgeting ones. His hand was larger than yours, and way warmer. Your hands had a tendency to be slightly cold, so when Peter’s palm met yours, the warmth sent a wave of comfort over you, easing your heartbeat even though you didn’t know it increased its pace. Peter just stood behind your chair, frozen as a statue, a look of awestruck wonder plastered on his face. You felt yourself getting lost in his eyes right when you heard a beep and Tony yelling orders.

“We have arrived! Landing’s in one. Everybody suit up once we’re down!” Your gaze flew to Tony as you swung your legs off the chair, your feet planted on the floor, waiting to get up when the plane landed. Tony’s eyes wandered around the jet, meeting eyes with Natasha, Rhodes, Vision, T’Challa, then you and Peter. You saw his lips curl up slightly in amusement as he noticed Peter lurking behind your chair.

“Don’t play hide the zucchini on the field, got it?” Tony stated flatly, giving Peter a glare. You felt heat rise in your cheeks and a small laugh burst from your lips as Tony turned his back to you and Peter, taking his seat at the front of the jet, leaving his comment hanging in the air.

“Don’t worry, Spider-boy. I’m not interested,” You shot over your shoulder at the boy. A ding sounded throughout the plane as Tony’s AI, FRIDAY, made an announcement.

“We are lowering in altitude. Please be seated and fasten your seatbelts.” The AI stated as the signature seat belt logo flashed on the console above your head. You began fastening your seat belt as you felt a small lurch as the plane descended.

“B-but…” Peter said quietly, leaning close to your ear. His breath gently tickled the side of your neck, causing chills to run down your spine. “I-I do-don’t have a zucchini.” Peter’s comment made you turn your head toward him. He looked like he let someone down. HIs innocence made you giggle in shock and shake your head. You felt the pressure build in your eyes. The plane was going to touch down soon.

“I’m not in the mood to give you an anatomy lesson, Peter,” You said coyly. “Maybe later.” You smirked after your last comment, focusing your attention on the seat in front of you.

“I heard that!” Tony shouted, making at least two of the other people chuckle in response.

“What?” Peter whispered, most likely to himself, his confusion evident. “I don’t-” At that moment, the plane touched down onto the tarmac. The jolt rattled that plane and you heard a thump and a small groan behind you. You glanced behind you and saw no Peter. You giggled as the plane slowed down, coming to a halt. Another ding let everyone know that they can get up. You unclipped the seat belt and propped your knees on the seat, resting your elbows on the back of the chair, glancing behind the chair.

A crumpled Peter laid on the floor, smashed between the seats, eyes crinkled shut in slight agony. You shook your head, not knowing if you felt amused, annoyed, shocked or all three.

“You better get your act together, Peter. We are going toe-to-toe with Captain America.” You turned, walking to the back of the plane to get your battle suit.

You felt every single vertebrae of your spine hit the floor as Hawkeye’s knee buried into your chest, holding you against the cold cement. You gasped for air as you flung an elbow to his side, hoping to distract him. Your fist collided with his skin and he groaned, the weight on you shifting. It was enough for you to wiggle out of his grasp and throw him onto his stomach, fighting to gain control. A mad scramble ensued between you and the former assassin. At one point, Hawkeye had a handful of your hair, and one time you were aiming a kick between his legs. You saw a flash of red out of the corner of your eye and Spider-Man landed behind Hawkeye. Hawkeye raised his bow and drew his arm back, ready to fire an arrow. You crouched low, waiting to dodge it. Spider-Man flung his hand out, the webbing locking onto Hawkeye’s back, making him fall backward. You felt slight irritation swell inside you as you glared at Spider-Man, hands on your hips.

“I could have handled him,” You snapped, sounding more out of breath than you wanted. Spider-Man scoffed, shaking his head.

“Yeah, because it looks like you had it all under control,” Spider-Man quipped. You glared at him harder.

“Look, I may not have any superpowers, but Tony let me come for a reason. I obviously have skill. I can take care of myself.” You decided to prove Peter wrong as you turned, your back facing your opponent for a brief second. As you jogged away, looking for a new fight, you heard a “No!”. You turned around, still jogging. You were greeted by an arrow flying toward your face. You dodged it just in time, the head of the arrow so close you felt the breeze tickle your cheek. You glanced at Peter, who was now webbing Hawkeye to the ground, his bow flung to the side. Peter’s white masked eyes greeted yours as you heard a loud BOOM and you felt an invisible hand push you forward, the force making you hit the concrete with a heavy thud.

“Oh my gosh! Please be all right!” You heard someone shout in the distance. Why was it black? Your head throbbed. Your hands stung. Your heart was pounding. What was going on? You groaned and tried to stand up, your palms pressed into the bumpy concrete. You didn’t have the energy to push yourself up, let alone move. You sighed and tried to take in deep breathes, doing your best to ignore the sharp, stinging pain in your ribs as you breathed. You felt tears well in your eyes from the confusion and pain, but you somehow managed to keep them at bay.

“(Y/N)?!” Someone shouted again, a little louder this time. You heard more people this time. Whispering. Why were they whispering? You focused on your hearing, straining to catch everything.

“You said we weren’t going to hurt anyone,” A man said, slightly angry. You knew that voice; strong and firm. Your mind wasn’t working properly; you couldn’t form anything other than the American flag in your mind when you tried to connect the voice to a face.

“Look,” another male voice answered, their tone indicating that they were going to explain something. “I just launched on explosive arrow past her. I knew she was going to dodge. It wasn’t my fault Rhodes was going to fly back and launch another missile at it!” The man’s voice raised in defense at the end of his story.

“Hey,” A third male demanded, “It wasn’t my fault. Shut up and stop blaming me, Barton.”

“Knock it off,” The first man said, thoroughly annoyed.

“(Y/N)...” A voice said. It was softer than all the others. You felt something cold and rubbery on your forehead, the sensation sending chills down your spine. “Please come back… Please don’t be gone.” The voice sounded weak and heartbroken. Images of red, spiders, black and zucchinis flashed in your mind. Peter. Peter was there. You felt a mischievous idea pop up in your mind. You fought back the wide smile that tugged on your lips as you opened your eyes, ignoring the brightness, throwing your arms forward and shouting “boo!” at the top of your lungs.

It was in that moment that you wished you had video evidence that an assassin and two military-hardened men, as well as a teenage superhero screamed like five-year-old girls. You felt tears streaming down your face as laughter ripped through you, so hard your abdomen muscles ached and you were wheezing for breath. You wiped tears from your eyes as you closed them, the daylight too bright for them.

“Good gosh,” Peter mumbled as Barton muttered curses under his breath. “I thought you were dead!” You smiled as you laid back down, the concrete not as cold anymore.

“Relax, Peter,” You said, taking in deep breathes to calm your thumping heart. “I’m just fine.”

There was a moment of silence before Peter squeaked out “W-W-well, th-that’s good!”. You smiled a little wider at his comment when you heard a whooshing sound and the clang of metal on stone.

“I told you, don’t play hide the zucchini!” A voice shouted, annoyed.

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