#cannot decide. turns into ash and dissipates into the wind

[shivroy]

I personally see kendall's kids as not biologically being his, especially with roman's comments in the last ep. but also, could be interesting if Iverson were biologically his, especially because of how logan treats iverson being autistic(?) and too sensitive/ weak and how (to him) that would reflect badly on his "bloodline." cus he's that kinda guy. much to think about...

I KNOW that's why it's so hard for me to decide aggghhhh... i personally view kendall as autistic and like obviously iverson could be as well without being bio related to him but if ive was biologically related the way logan views the both of them is more interesting to me

[minuteminx]

Revolutionary

[NEW FIC ALERT!!]

Pairing: Preston Garvey/ Female Sole Survivor

Summary: In the aftermath of personal tragedies, Preston and Charlie both seek to make a difference in the Commonwealth and those around them. They could never anticipate the impact that they will have on eachother in the process.

[AO3 Link]

Chapter One: Paul Revere

“You cannot buy the revolution. You cannot make the revolution. You can only be the revolution. It is in your spirit, or it is nowhere.” ― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed

Qunicy Ruins, June 2288

When Preston was a kid, he’d sit with his dad on their tattered rug as the man picked lackadaisically at the strings of an ancient guitar.  He’d wax all sorts of poetic about the past, the times before the war, before the bombs fell, before everything was rads and raiders and running from bands of ferals.  It was that Great Commonwealth Myth of a pre-war paradise, of big ideals, and boundless opportunity.  A myth that one would hear refuted if they listened closely enough to grumbles from ghouls who’d managed to keep their sanity over the two centuries since the end of the world.

The myth was a lie, for sure, one Preston had clung to for most of his life.  But he couldn’t anymore, not as he stood staring at the massive pile of ashes that used to be his comrades and the settlers they attempted to protect.  The bastards who murdered all of those people were direct descendents from the monsters who made weapons with enough power to wipe entire regions off the map.  There was no paradise; it was just a prettier picture.

The Quincy settlement, if he could still call it that, looked a lot different since the last time he’d seen it, surrounded by junk fences and lined with barbed wire at the top.  Buildings were tagged with Gunner graffiti, and the streets were quiet as the mass grave that the settlement had turned out to be. It really didn’t make much sense.  Shouldn’t it have been some sort of bustling Gunner stronghold after Clint and his buddies went to all that trouble to claim it?

“I don’t like this,” Charlie remarked suddenly, her raspy voice a quick reminder that he wasn’t alone, hadn’t been alone for over eight months now.  He turned to face her, eyes flicking around the ruins to the seven other Minutemen who’d come along.  Millie was the only one who noticed him, and she gave him the least reassuring smile he’d ever seen.

“Neither do I,” he agreed as he returned his gaze to Charlie.  “Not one bit.”

“It wasn’t like this when I got away,” Millie added, glancing around the square, “I know that there had been mention of disagreements between Clint and the other bosses, probably because he has the leadership ability of a bloatfly.”

Preston smirked. “Now, Millie, I think that’s giving him too much credit.”

She laughed and opened her mouth to reply to him, but an explosion rang out instead as a launched projectile crashed into one of the buildings just ahead of them.  She eyed the area frantically before locking onto the rooftop of the church. “Shit. It’s Baker.”

“Baker?” He snapped his gaze up to the walkway, catching a glimpse of a figure clad in power armor and wielding a goddamned fat man.

“He’s one of the other bosses… and it looks like he found himself a new toy.”

Preston sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, running through the list of possible strategies in his head.  “We need to fall back,” he muttered under his breath decisively, then looked up to make the suggestion to Charlie, to the general, “We need to fall b--”

She’d already taken off toward the church, a pistol in either hand, without giving a single order to him or the others.  He wanted to drop everything and chase after her, to stop her from running directly into danger, just once. But someone had to give some kind of instruction before Baker launched a nuke directly on top of them.   He waved his hand over his head and back toward the gates, motioning for the others to head back out of the middle of town. “Fall back.  Head up to the walkways if you can.  We can’t win this from the ground.”

Millie remained where she stood as the others fled to safety.  “I’ll get these guys into position,” she stated, then nodded in the direction Charlie had run, “You go fetch your general.”

“But--” Another mini nuke exploded, in the distance this time, and his stomach lurched.  

“Go.”  She flicked her wrist in a shooing motion. “You’re not gonna be any use back here worried about her out there trying to pistol whip Baker to death.”

He snorted out a laugh despite the gravity of the situation, the image of the rail thin red-head successfully tackling him down, power armor and all, and smacking the butt of her favorite 10mm into his nose.  Honestly, he’d seen her get away with wilder things.  He tipped his hat at his long time friend, gave his musket a quick crank, and ran off after his wildcard general.

He faced little resistance on his way to the church, only a couple of Gunner conscripts crossed his path, and he was able to take them out easily.  It looked like a lot of their efforts were focused on Millie and the others at the gates and climbing up the walkways. It was for the best, but it didn’t make him worry any less for their safety.

When he finally reached the church, it was too quiet, especially for somewhere Charlie was supposed to be.  There was no gunfire, no talking, nothing.  Just silence.  Preston scanned the area, heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest.  After everything Charlie had been through, all she’d survived, she couldn’t be dead now, not while doing a favor for him, not with all that unfinished business between them. She couldn’t.

Several moments passed, and there were still no signs of life in the area.  He decided to head inside the church, figure out how to get up to the roof for a better view.  Just as he moved toward the door, a loud clank of metal sounded behind him and he spun on his heels, weapon readied.  

It was the traitor himself that he turned to face, Clint, in his hulking suit of stolen power armor, a militia hat perched disrespectfully atop his buzz cut head.  He still wore sunglasses that were so reflective that Preston could see his own furious face in the lenses. Clint let out an arrogant chuckle, and stomped up closer.

“Well, well, well,” he mocked, “What do we have here? Paul Revere himself?”

“Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen.”  He didn’t know why he felt the need to correct a man he intended to kill, but the words slipped out.

“I know who you are.  Read all about you in Ol’ Ezra’s holotapes.” Clint laughed again. “And the Minutemen don’t exist anymore.  I got rid of the last of ‘em, myself.

“You missed one,” Preston remarked, dryly.

“What? You? Ha!.” Clint shook his head. “And that merry band of farmers you marched in through the front gate with?  Kind of a rookie move, there, son.”

“ Don’t call me son,” Preston spat, venom filling his mouth.  

Before he could react, Clint’s armored fist slammed into his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him flying back against the rusty skeleton of an old car.  Preston’s head crashed against the metal, and pain pulsed out from the point of impact throughout his whole head.  His vision spun around him, creating a double of the man who towered over him.  He felt sick to his stomach, and couldn’t quite figure out how to get back to his feet or where his weapon went.  Darkness crept in at the corners of his vision.

“I hate mouthy punks,” Clint growled.

Preston attempted to speak, but couldn’t find words in the chaos of his head.  He mumbled something even he couldn’t interpret.

“Oh man,” Clint exclaimed, smirk twisting on his face, “You’re really making this easy, Garvey.  Can’t say you live up to Ezra’s praise. What in the goddamned wasteland made you think you could rebuild the Minutemen?  You can’t even take a punch.  Pathetic.”

As Clint spoke, Preston noticed a blur of movement behind the other man.  He knew his eyes must have been playing tricks on him because it looked as if the air vibrated like it sometimes did in highly irradiated areas.  Quincy wasn’t one of those places.  The only other thing it could be was a--

Just as he thought the word stealth boy , the wobble in the air dissipated, and Charlie stood no more than ten feet behind Clint.  She slowly raised a finger to her lips in a shushing motion, and readied her weapon to aim.  Preston couldn’t keep the relief washing over his face, mouth twitching at the corners. She was alive, and not only that, she’d come to save him once again. Mama Murphy really did hit the nail on the head all those months ago.

“Why are you smiling,” Clint asked abruptly, lifting his laser rifle, locking it straight in the direction of Preston’s chest.  “What’s so fucking funny, huh?”

“Nothing, man,” Preston managed, words slurring, “Nothing at all.”

At that moment, Charlie unleashed a terrifying barrage of shots into Clint’s armor, damaging the legs so severely that they locked in place, and Clint had to jump out.  “What the--” he began, and turned around, to face his attacker.  “You little bitch .”

He attempted to raise his weapon and aim at her, but before he could get there, she’d pulled her trigger.  Preston couldn’t make out where she’d shot Clint, but the man dropped his gun and fell to his knees, before falling to his face.  Charlie holstered her pistols, and stared down at the man she’d just killed, expression as flat as he’d ever seen it.

“I’m not a bitch,” she muttered, shaking her head before setting her gaze on Preston, worry knitting her brows as soon as their eyes met.  She rushed over to where he sat, up against the car he’d been thrown into, and knelt down, cupping his face with a gloved hand on either side and turning his head to the left and then the right, clearly examining him for injury.  She flipped a switch on her PipBoy, flashing a bright beam of light into each of his eyes.  He squinted and shook his head, causing her to giggle, but he could hear the tears and sniffling between laughs.  

“You’re okay,” she assured him, pressing an unexpected kiss to his forehead, “Looks like you might have a concussion, but you’re safe.  I’m here.”

“You’re really scary sometimes, you know that,” he stated, words still stumbling out of his mouth clumsily.  

She laughed nervously and glanced away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.  “I’m sorry, I just… I’d just watched Clint knock you into this car, and he was about to kill you and I just--.”

“No,”  he corrected her, grin spreading across his face, “It’s kinda hot.”

She snorted and a tear rolled down her cheek, dripping off her chin.  “Jesus, you hit your head harder than I thought.”

“It’s still the truth,” he admitted weakly, vision closing in entirely.  The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness entirely, was her voice calling his name.  

“Preston?”

[theharellan]

To Feel Another’s Woe

Set in early Inquisition, in the heart of the Mage-Templar War. Featuring Thora Cadash from @ourdawncomes​. Content warning for gore, descriptions of battle, and mild illness.

Now available to read on AO3!

He counts the battle in heartbeats. Every rush of blood through his veins is another spell from his fingertips, every sixty seconds counted it another sixty seconds survived. Minutes count more in this Veilless world, where the tide may turn in an instant.

Everything is different, even war.

Bowstrings slap the air, signalling a fresh volley of arrows. “Shield yourselves!” the Seeker cries. Solas blinks to Varric, stopping short of his shadow to draw a barrier over them both. His magic resists his dwarven companion, drawing more mana from his fingers before the spell completes, and with little time to spare. Arrows skirt by them, falling harmlessly to the earth, cutting only magic upon their descent. Varric wastes no words thanking him, vanishing in a cloud of smoke to retreat to a safer distance.

Tangled in the midst of half a dozen Templars, their Herald draws every last eye on the battlefield to her. Every blow is preceded by a shout, often followed by another torn from their enemies’ throats. Swords point towards her back, posed to pierce the gaps in her armour. Their wielders hesitate to join the fray, uneven grips a telltale mark of fresh recruits, but they will not wait forever. He seizes upon the moment, hand gripping his staff and grinding it into the dirt, its focus drawing his intent into the world. A thin orange line burns in the grass, smoke heralds flame which bursts to life at Thora’s heel, a harsh curtain drawn between her and half her enemies.

She does not flinch, nor shrink from the flame. Solas watches as her leg hooks around a rogue Templar’s ankle and trips him. He falls headfirst into the fire, inhuman shrieks silenced by a killing blow to the head. As she lifts her hammer from the bloody pulp of a skull, another soldier lunges. Solas slams his staff against the earth, calling winter to a warm August day. Ice crawls up his target’s leg, erupting from the damp grass stamped down by war. In an instant it claims him, sword aimed at their Herald’s heart now suspended harmlessly in ice. Cassandra arrives, blade red with archers’ blood, and slams the tapered end of her shield against a weakness in the ice. It shatters, the boy’s body falling limp in the grass, joining his fellows.

The hairs along the nape of his neck stand on end, an uneasy premonition answered by an unseen force reaching across the Veil. It parts the fire, reducing it to a ribbon of smoke that coils in blue Fereldan skies, and through the ashes steps a Templar, his shield held aloft. Spells glance off him, rolling ineffectively over his armour. Thora’s hammer fares better, shield straining against its face as they come crashing together. Sparks fly from where their edges scrape together, forcing his guard down for an instant. Long enough for the Herald to find her advantage.

She strikes her with the heel of her hammer and he staggers, stumbling forward with the grace of a drunkard on his sixth tankard of ale. “Now, Solas!” she shouts. He stops, stares. There are only seconds to discern her meaning, no wisdom floats to him from across the Fade to deliver her meaning. Visions of a war long since finished return to him, memories of dwarves that cleaved dreams. He decides, then acts. Solas stretches across the Veil to find his own truth, a different reality than the one these Templars seek to reinforce. The air around the Templar expands with dreams, then dissipates.

The effect is instant. Beneath his helmet he heaves, lungs flooded with magic like water in the lungs of a drowned rat. Thora brings down her hammer on his breastplate. Metal made brittle by magic crumbles at the impact, leaving a hollow crater in the center of his chest.

From a distance his eyes meet Thora’s, her head nodding in his direction. Behind her, the remaining Templars gather their strength and prepare their onslaught, but her attention remains divided. Her gaze darts to his left. Brown eyes widen in their sockets, alerting him before she can cry out: “Look out, Solas!”

He catches the greedy glint of steel against sunlight from the corner of his eye, thrusting towards him. In the space of a breath he surges backwards, Fade carrying him from the Templar’s reach. All the air rushes from him, back crashing against the trunk of a tree, stealing the air from his lungs. Skull cracks against the bark, vision blurring as the Templar advances. Dark words seethe from bloodied lips, cursing him in the name of her fallen brothers and sisters.

Solas��� grip tightens around empty air, realising only then that his staff was lost in his retreat. It matters not. Energy pools into his palm as easily as through a focus, but stutters in the presence of the cleansing aura. Sparks fly, grazing the Templar’s breastplate, earning him nothing but seconds. Once the task of dispatching her would be as trivial as crushing an ant beneath his thumb. Now, his magic wanes, flying further from his reach with every step the Templar takes. What a cruel joke his life would be if this is its final note.

But he has been backed into tighter corners than this by worthier foes. Undeterred by the fear which lays claim to his heart, he grasps desperately for more power, summoning every last scrap of ambient magic in the air. A hopeless thought eats at him as he wonders how it came to this, shooting cinders from his fingertips like a child conjuring their first flame. They fly from his hands, aimed at the dull human eyes which blink out at him from behind a helm.

Every muscle in his body tenses, unsure if he had missed. A shout of pain tears from her throat, and he has his answer. Gloved hands yank her visor back to reveal red-rimmed eyes, tears already streaming down her face to fight the ashes suspended in her eyelashes. “You’ll regret that,” she spits. The glow that wreaths her sword bursts, and he braces against the tree. Blinding light tears the colour from the grass and magic flies from the Veil to places beyond his reach. She purges the song from the sky, all the weight of the world seems to fall around his shoulders. He grips the bark at his back with white knuckles, until the grooves bore into his skin. If not for it, he might have collapsed. His lungs ache as though they are new, throat closing around unyielding reality.

The Templar sloughs off the dispel from her blade, now trained to kill. Somewhere beyond his field of view, Solas hears a shout. “You wasted precious time taunting me,” he says, words straining against empty lungs. Amusement flickers in his eyes, lips too tired to form any semblance of a smile. “I would be dead were it not for your pride. Now it is too late.”

He sees the question in the soldier’s eyes. Solas counts the seconds. He hears his rescue upon the wind.

Bones crack with a sickening crunch as the Templar’s knees snap backwards, crumbling from the force of Thora’s hammer. She falls like lead weight at Solas’ feet, legs bent at an unnatural angle. A feral cry chokes her, whimpering like a wounded animal which has not yet accepted its end. “Mercy,” she moans, the plated hand which moments ago reached out with violence now stretches imploringly towards his feet, desperate for the healing touch of magic. “Please.”

It isn’t Solas’ mercy, but Varric’s, which ends her life. The bolt pierces her helmet, puncturing it like paper, killing her instantly. “Poor bastard,” he hears the dwarf say, but in the heat of the moment Solas cannot find his pity. His heart hardens as the Templar’s life oozes onto the grass, and he thinks to himself that her blood and bones will do the world more good than her deeds ever had. The bitter thought goes unspoken, Varric’s remark remains unacknowledged.

In an instant, the chaos of battle is over. As he recovers his breath, he looks out over the field to see it riddled with fresh corpses, all of their making. Cassandra stoops in the dirt, wiping her blade in the grass as Varric retrieves his ammo from the bodies of their enemies. Thora’s hammer stands alone by the Templar’s body, its face crusted with a thick layer of blood, its handler nowhere in sight. In the grass beside it lies his discarded staff, its crystal focus shining dully, unaware the danger has passed. Solas bends to claim it, magic coaxing it the rest of the way to his fingers. The exertion proves more taxing than he envisions, the back of his head throbbing with the memory of his collision with the tree. He winces, nursing the back of his head, capping his fingertips with ice to soothe the growing ache.

“You alright there, Chuckles?” Varric asks, concern overshadowed by the hint of amusement which laces his question. “You hit that tree pretty hard.”

“I will manage, thank you,” he says. “Were it not for our Herald’s intervention, however…” He looks for her again, eyes darting around the area. This time he sights her in the shadow of a tree, one arm supporting her against its trunk. “Excuse me a moment.”

Solas steps out of the reach of his would-be killer’s corpse, winding towards the battlefield’s outskirts where their intrepid Herald lingers. “You fare better with a hammer than a sword,” he remarks as he nears her. Thora’s shoulders tense at the sound of his voice so close, and he stops short, uncertainty tinges his words. “After Haven I was unsure what experience you had in battle. I see now I was too quick to judge.” She had been clumsy in the snow, swinging at demons as though she had never held a sword in her life, and maybe that was the case. What she’d lacked in skill she more than made up with strength. The demons fell, though she made quicker work of the Templars today. 

Thora doesn’t answer, and for an instant he wonders if she’d taken offense. Dwarves of old were proud warriors, it may be that not everything he remembers of them has been bled from them by the Blight. She turns her face an inch towards him, the rest cast in the shadow of the tree. “I—” One hand flies to her face, fingers pressing against her mouth in anticipation. He watches, uneasy, as she swallows thickly and fights back whatever had threatened to escape. “Sorry.”

Before he has a chance to reassure her, Cassandra’s voice rings out behind them: “We should press on if we want to reach Redcliffe Farm by nightfall.” She stands where he last saw her, sword sheathed and shield shining, bearing no mark of the battle that came before. He does not linger on her, eyes returning to Thora whose attention has shifted as his had, allowing him a glimpse of her face. An ill look haunts her, grey tinges her usual warm complexion with dark lines drawn beneath her eyes.

A sharp intake of breath pierces the air as Thora readies her answer. He reaches out, hand brushing her shoulder before he interjects. “Another moment, Seeker,” he says. “I believe it best I examine the Anchor first. There is no telling what influence a Templar’s abilities have on it.”

The Seeker looks at him, her mood impossible to discern from beneath a dark, drawn brow. A small sigh that sounds like frustration escapes her lips. “Very well. Do what you must.”

“Thank you,” he says, inclining his head towards her. As he turns to the Herald, he sees emotion shining in her eyes as she looks up at him, perhaps trying to decide what to make of his diversion. Solas is not certain what to make of it himself. The easy answer is that it is in his best interest to protect her image, even if only from their companions, but it would be a lie to insist it’s the only answer. In her discomfort he saw a glimpse of the familiar, recognition of a feeling he had once grappled with himself— or so it seemed. He did not know. The Veil mutes all emotion, from the most fervent passions to the most tender sentiments. It may be a reflection he sees in her eyes, his own hopes and fears echoed back to him.

Whatever he sees in her he pushes aside for the sake of their present problem. Cassandra could not be held off forever. Lowering himself to one knee to accommodate her height, Solas extends one hand towards hers. “Give me your hand, please.”

She peels the glove from her left hand, offering it forward to Solas as she did on the day they first met. This time it lands in his waiting reach, rather than being yanked forcibly towards a Rift. He’d studied it well while she lay motionless in her cell, and then again in bed, but conscious it is a different creature. Her fingers flex and bend, clearly unaccustomed to the careful attention afforded to them. He strokes his thumb across her palm, smoothing them back to allow him an unobstructed view of the Anchor. It runs like a fissure in the earth across her skin, an otherworldly green occasionally flashes in the center, and through it he catches a glimpse of the infinite. “Does it pain you?” he asks. This examination is a façade to buy them a moment’s respite, but there is no telling what effect the Mark will have on her in the coming weeks. Already he fears there will come a day where his knowledge of it will fail him, powerless as he is now.

“No. At least not since you last looked at it. I... don’t think the Templars could touch it if they’d tried.”

“Curious.” Although he ought not be surprised, the Anchor and the Templars share more than a few similarities, tied together by a Titan’s heart and blood. “Regardless, I would advise caution. This may have been an anomaly.”

“I’ll be careful. I’ve had it described to me by mages before, doesn’t sound like something I’d want to invite on myself.”

Her comment sparks a question, one which has plagued him since she called out to him in the midst of battle. “You’ve fought alongside mages before, have you not?”

“Yeah,” her response is strained, and punctuated by a second heavy swallow, “how’d you guess?”

“You signalled for my intervention when handling the marksman. The uninitiated would not have thought to ask.”

The observation catches her off-guard, eyes darting from his face to her hand before she remembers who she’s addressing. “The Carta’s been known to hire apostates. Some jobs just needed that magic touch, you know?” A small smile turns her lips, weary eyes shining with a hint of mischief. “I’ve, uh, been known to smuggle a mage or two out of the Circle, too. Back in Kirkwall. Don’t... don’t tell Cassandra.”

He blinks, surprise registers upon his face as no more than a mild arch of his brow. “You believe she would be displeased?” Solas asks, working a barrier into the surface of her skin. It accepts the magic more readily than Varric, the Anchor glittering like an uncut peridot, recognising the spellcaster.

Thora shrugs. “They’ve got enough to deal with from me being Carta.”

“True, but there is more than the Chantry to consider,” he says. From his perspective (and in his experience) there will be little pleasing them, presenting an obstacle to be worked around rather than through. Even Cassandra seems to realise that. “The rebel mages may look favourably upon someone who has helped them in the past.”

“Maybe.” 

A frown tugs at his lips, her dismissal rankles despite telling himself she is not at her best. “If I may ask, how did you find yourself in their employ?” He imagines the children of families blessed with the fortune to be born into money and magic, with coin enough to make the Carta think it was worth the Templar’s scrutiny. “I cannot imagine it is work you find yourself in by chance.”

“It’s not. I volunteered. I ran the same tunnels as the Mage Underground, and it— well, it seemed like the right thing to do.” She pauses. “It was the right thing to do.” 

“I see.” He doesn’t see, at least not entirely. Like the many lies he has told since walking into the Inquisition’s midst, it is woven with truth. Solas knows well the impulse to do good, or try to, whatever the cost to oneself may be, and he’d seen it in Thora before. Thanks to her, the people of the Crossroads will sleep with full bellies and warm blankets, but the world will thank her for helping them. The same cannot be said of the mages. Suddenly the promise made to him in Haven does not seem so empty. Her oath to guard his freedom from those who sought to take it no longer rings as a hollow platitude. “Whatever Seeker Pentaghast may think, I believe your conviction is admirable.”

She shifts self-consciously, the hand in his grasp straining against his gentle grip. “I’m glad you think so.” The simple effort it takes her to accept his praise seems a laborious undertaking, he wonders to himself if the sweat on her brow now shines fresh from the endeavour. Her acceptance is punctuated by a sharp inhale. “Listen. I… I wanted to thank you, you know, for this.” She looks pointedly at their joined hands. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. It’s…”

“A natural reaction.” Their eyes meet, but it’s her gaze which falters first. “They were our enemies, but where we saw a threat to be eliminated others would have seen friends, family.” He does not look back, but his mind returns to the felled Templar behind him. No pity nor guilt moves his heart at the thought of her passing, she laid in a pool of her own violent choices. Still, he spares a thought for the woman her family will mourn. A woman who undoubtedly bore little resemblance to the one Solas briefly knew. “Our duty to ourselves and Redcliffe’s people demanded we face them, but it is not weakness to be affected by their deaths.”

A weak smile spreads over Thora’s lips, thin and touched by lingering unease, but it shines true in her eyes. “Thanks,” she says for the second time. “For understanding, I mean.”

He acknowledges it with a mild bow of his head. “Does it bother you, knowing that I have seen how this affected you?”

“A little,” she admits. “Better you than—” Her head nods towards the others, brow arched in their direction.

Solas looks towards them, catching sight of Cassandra as she paces aimlessly around the field, throwing glances towards their destination, always mindful of their journey’s end. Varric shows no such concern, reclining upon a rock, an unfamiliar tune whistling from his lips. He turns back to Thora with a question upon his. “And what have I done to earn the distinction?”

“Nothing.” The confession is quick, as though speaking it without hesitation will spare her his offense. “Cassandra’s put such faith in me, I’m just counting the breaths until I let her down somehow, and Varric…” She pulls a face, nose wrinkling. “I’ve read one or two of his books. I’m not sure I like the thought of making into one of them.” Thora at last looks up at him again, searching for something in his face. What quality she seeks, he’s unsure, though he is reluctant to grant it. Every piece he surrenders is a piece he cannot get back. “You? You’re just… odd.”

A surprised laugh chokes him. He does not need to look behind them to feel the Seeker’s head whip in their direction, discerning eyes measuring their progress. “An honest assessment, and perhaps well-deserved,” he says, amusement wrinkling the corners of his eyes. “Should I take offense?”

She fixes him with a challenging stare and smiles, though this time the gesture spreads her lips wide, revealing two rows of white teeth. “I suppose that depends on if you think being normal is something to be proud of.”

To his surprise, he feels himself smiling back, her playful grin reflecting in his own. “I suppose it does.” He looks down at her hand, ears angling back as he realises any pretence of examination had since been forgotten. Seconds counted for more in this world, true, yet it remains remarkably easy to become lost in conversation. “Do you feel ready to move on?” Solas tries to discern the answer for himself from her expression. The long, drawn-out look has faded, forgotten as the excuse which kept them here a moment more. Recognising that settles uneasy in his stomach, raising questions better left for dreams.

“I think so.” She takes her hand back from him, flexing her fingers before she fits them into her glove. “I don’t know how much longer Cassandra will buy that excuse of yours, anyway.”

“You underestimate me.” There is a humour in his remark that surprises him, a wry twist to his words which he did not expect to find in the company he keeps. “Were I less adept at wasting the Seeker’s time, I would not be stood before you now. Still—” He rises, mindful of the wet patches of mud which now darken his knees. “We would not want to keep her waiting.”

She gives him a knowing look, the faint smile creasing the corners of her eyes fades as she turns back to the rest of their party. Varric is the first to notice their business concluded, or the first to acknowledge it, behind him he hears his voice call out, “Hand treating you any better?”

“Never better, actually,” she replies in a chipper tone, a friendly veneer which masks the unpleasantness of a moment ago, but Solas notes how she averts her gaze from the carnage they left in their wake. The shadows of war still seem to haunt her steps. She tilts her head towards Cassandra, deference clear even from behind. “Sorry for the hold up. I’m ready to go now.” Deference aside, it is at Thora’s word that their party picks up and moves, mere moments passing between her signal and the resumption of their journey. Solas alone trails behind, forgetting his feet beneath him. Only his eyes follow her, mind wandering, wondering, doubting if the Mark upon her hand is the most remarkable thing about her. She senses his absence, looking over her shoulder with a question upon her brow, saying nothing, but somehow he hears. Questions pile like snowflakes on a rooftop, building around him with no easy remedy to relieve their mounting pressure, but he picks up his feet and follows the answer into Ferelden’s hills.

Surrounded by the voices of his companions in the thick of conversation, the seconds lose their urgency, the minutes slip by without notice. As a joke in the air draws a new smile to his face, sixty seconds starts to resemble not another minute survived, but rather another minute lived.

[undermounts]

Bound―Chapter 9: The Past

AO3 | Masterlist 

Summary: Diana delves into the past.

Pairing: Gaius Augustine/Diana Leigh (BB MC)

Chapter warnings: blood and violence

                                 Bergen, Norway, 2042

Diana stared down at the amphora, partially hidden by clothes in the back of the closet. Her chest was heaving as she glared at the item, her head pulsing with pressure. You wanted my attention so badly? she thought, kneeling down. You have it.

“Diana, wait—” Gaius protested and Diana was distantly aware of sheets rustling and the thud of his feet hitting the ground as she reached forward and grabbed the amphora.

She is back in Rome, but not the Rome she knows.

She stands in a grand chamber, surrounded by marble pillars. Fires burn in sconces, the only source of light in the otherwise dark room. Through the skylights in the vaulted ceiling, she can see thousands of stars, glittering in their full glory in the absence of light pollution. At the front of the room sits a throne carved of the same white marble as the pillars, detailed with gold leaf. 

At the base of the stairs that lead to the throne’s platform are three kneeling figures, their dark hair long and unbound, laced through with feathers and bits of bone. Diana moves towards them, studying the hides they wear for clothing, the white paint that embellishes their troubled faces. An old man, a middle-aged woman, and a younger woman. Somehow, she knows three generations kneel before her, made obvious by the resemblance between their features. Honeyed skin, high cheekbones, and eyes as dark as the night.

A sudden bang draws Diana’s attention to the other side of the hall in the direction from whence she came. Double doors swing open, moonlight pooling on the floor as two men and a  boy of about fourteen stride in, the eldest and youngest wearing cloaks of the richest red over their togas, while a river of deep Tyrian flows behind the third man. The three men cross to the throne, passing through Diana as if she were nothing. She supposed she is. This is only a vision.

The eldest and youngest Romans take their place on the sides of the throne, hands clasped before them as the man in purple sits, setting his elbow on the marble arm and resting his pointed chin atop his fist. He gazes down his aquiline nose at the three figures that kneel before him, eyes assessing.

“Emperor Aurelius,” the oldest man says, bowing his head in deference, touching his finger to his brow. Beside him, the two women do the same, averting their gazes to the floor. “The followers of Elah-Gabal are at your service.”

Judging by the way his words do not match the movements of his mouth, Diana knows they are speaking some other language—probably Latin—but her powers are translating for her.

The emperor holds his stare for a few moments more, studying each of the kneeling individuals, silently relishing their recognition of his power. Then he nods, reclining in his throne. “Rise, Samas of Clan Emesa. Tell me. What news have you of the Vessel of Gabal?”

Samas stands, leaning against a weathered staff. “The Vessel is nearly complete, Sacratissime imperator.” Most Sacred Emperor. 

“Good. After this, Clan Emesa will never go wanting for anything. A token of my gratitude,” Aurelius remarks, glancing at the young man cloaked in crimson on his left. “I still have much to teach Severus Alexander before he is ready to rule.”

“Yes,” Samas agrees, nodding to the young man who Aurelius had marked as his heir. “I am certain that with your guidance, Imperial Heir Alexander will make a fine ruler. However,” he adds, drawing the sharp attention of Aurelius once more. “There are some risks you must understand before the Vessel is completed. I do not pretend to know the intricacies of its creation, but my daughter does.”

Aurelius follows Samas’s hand, eyes falling on the women kneeling beside Samas. His lips thin. “Rise and present yourselves. Both of you.”

At his behest, the two women stand, touching two fingers to their brows again. The eldest of the two speaks, “Imperator Aurelius. I am Atargatis, and this is my daughter, Astarte.”

Aurelius merely nods, then waves his hand towards her. “Speak freely, Atargatis. What risks do you speak of?”

“The Vessel of  Gabal,” she begins, voice grave. “It requires a sacrifice before it can truly be used.”

“A sacrifice of what?”

“Souls,” Atargatis answers, her tan skin pale, even in the firelight. “The souls of forty innocents in exchange for one. Once their blood is spilled, the Vessel will be complete—”

Atargatis cuts herself off as the Emperor begins to violently cough, covering his mouth with his white sleeve as his body convulses. His coughs echo throughout the stone hall as the others avert their gaze to the floor out of respect. When the Emperor pulls his arm away, Diana sees that the sleeve of his robe is speckled with blood.

“So be it,” Aurelius barks, his voice gruff, eyes burning anew with conviction and desperation. Beside him, the young Heir, Alexander, pales, clearly disturbed. “My men will do it. Magistrate Cicero here will coordinate with you,” the Emperor waves his hand again, indicating the older man robed in crimson on his other side. “Cicero, see to it that the Emesa have everything they need.”

“As you wish, Sacratissime Imperator,” Magistrate Cicero replied, bowing his head just as the scene begins to shift, the figures of the Emperor’s ensemble dissipating like mist in the wind.

Darkness and blurs of color whirl around Diana, faces coming in and out of focus. Terrified screams echo in the distance, the sound mixing with whispered words she can’t make out, even in their urgency.

When the colors and shadows coalesce into something stable, Diana finds herself in a network of underground tunnels carved from dirt and stone. With a start, she realizes she is in the same one she traveled through with Gaius during their search for the amphora.

She glances around her. Behind her, there is only darkness and the sound of the underground river. Ahead, she can see a distant, golden light, and decides to go in that direction when she hears voices.

“This is wrong, Astarte,” someone whispers, the voice low and distinctly male. “We must stop this.”

“I agree, but how?” another voice, a woman’s, replies. “The Magistrate would never let your father’s ashes out of sight.”

Diana follows the conversation to the mouth of the tunnel, right where it meets the large cavern the river runs through. There, she sees Alexander, the Imperial Heir, a few years older than he was in the last vision Diana saw. In front of him is the young Emesa woman, Astarte, holding a torch. Both look tense. Troubled.

“Then we must destroy it,” Alexander dictates, voice filled with fervor. “The Vessel cannot bring him back. It is unnatural—”

“No,” Astarte interrupts, shaking her head. “We cannot. If we destroy the Vessel, then all that was done for it will have been for nothing. The lives lost. My mother’s life—”

“You suggest we keep it then? For something else?” Alexander snaps, clearly repulsed at the notion.

“I don’t know, Alexander,” Astarte winces, taking a step back. “But we can’t destroy it. It’s too powerful. If we stop this, you will be Emperor. It may be useful to you one day.”

“I will never use such dark and twisted magic,” he hisses, lip curled in disgust. 

“Our magic is not dark and twisted,” Astarte snarls, equally frustrated now. “These are the manipulations of your father.” She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Regardless. Too much has been sacrificed for this. I do not want the Vessel to be used, but I will not let you destroy it.”

“And what if it falls into the wrong hands? Into those who wish to use it for evil?” Alexander begins to pace, brows drawn and lips a thin line. “I have heard things. Horrible things. There are dark creatures, Astarte, that feed on blood and thrive on death. Some of them whisper of their maker, someone they call the First. They talk of bringing her back.”

“Then must take precautions to ensure that does not happen,” Astarte whispers, then shakes her head, at a loss. “Bloodthirsty creatures are not so uncommon in the world of men, either.” As she speaks, she draws her fur cloak aside, revealing the blades strapped to her belt. “And we will deal with them tonight.”

Alexander’s brown eyes widen, his own hand resting atop the hilt of his gladius. “You mean to kill them. Even your grandfather.”

Astarte nods, her dark eyes gleaming with sorrow and rage. “I mean to stop them, by whatever means necessary. Even if it means bringing death upon them.” She lets her cloak fall, covering her weapons. “I will do what I must to make up for not stopping this sooner. For my mother.”

Diana watches in silence as Alexander assesses the young woman before him, his eyes searching her face. Then he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as if drawing up all of his courage inside of him, and nods. “Then I will stand beside you. We will stop Cicero and your grandfather’s ritual. My father will not cheat death tonight. And Atargatis, Astarte, will be avenged. The rest, we will figure out later.”

“Thank you, Alexander,” Astarte breathes, before kneeling, touching two fingers to her brow. “Sacratissime Imperator.”

Alexander startles, clearly moved by her gesture. Then, he drops to a knee, reaching out a hand to cup the back of Astarte’s neck, and presses his forehead to hers. Diana turned away and closed her eyes, knowing this is a memory but still feeling as if she was intruding on something private as Alexander whispers, “You are my equal, Astarte. Do not kneel before me.”

Diana’s own cheeks flush at the sentiment and she keeps her eyes closed until the sounds of their voices and the river fade to nothingness.

When she opens her eyes, the underground river has disappeared and she finds herself in the ritual room where she and Gaius had discovered the amphora. Dozens of candles light the room, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Incense burns beside small clusters of bone in the offering holes that are carved into the walls. At the center of the room is the marble platform with stone men carved into the sides. On top sits a small wooden box and beside it, the amphora.

No, Diana realizes, inhaling sharply. The Vessel of Gabal. 

Stationed at the chamber’s entrance are four soldiers in Roman armor, each armed to the teeth. Several more guards, including a few members of the Emesa clan, are stationed around the room. Diana takes note of Alexander and Astarte, who stand together against a wall on the fair side of the room, their faces carefully neutral. Magistrate Cicero stands in the corner, looking far too eager, and Samas stands beside the platform, eyes closed as he murmurs something in a lost language that isn’t automatically translated for Diana.

Diana watches as Samas undoes the latch of the wooden box and opens it, revealing a pile of ashes inside. The ashes of Emperor Aurelius. 

As Samas removes the lid of the Vessel and prepares to pour the ashes in, Diana notices Alexander and Astarte glance at each other, their hands moving to the weapons concealed beneath their clothes, preparing to strike when—

Screams shatter the silence and everyone in the chamber, Diana included, instantly turns towards the entrance where the guards are being torn apart.

Samas sets the box and lid down, backing away in horror as each of the four guards are quickly silenced, their bodies dropping to the floor, and several other figures step into the room, hands dripping blood.

Diana’s heart races as she takes in their fangs. Their red eyes. Vampires.

The lead vampire, a woman with long golden hair, steps forward, eyes flicking from the Vessel, to Aurelius’s ashes, to Samas. “Sorry to interrupt, witch,” she croons, slowly striding towards the old man as he backs away. “But you have something we need. Thanks to your magic, the First will walk again.”

Alexander draws his gladius, lips drawn into a snarl. “Demons.”

The blonde vampire turns her gaze to him, tilting her head curiously. Slowly, a chilling smile spreads across her lips, fangs glinting in the firelight. “The young Alexander,” she hums, adjusting her trajectory to stalk towards him as more vampires file into the chamber. “My condolences for your late father.”

Diana watches with baited breath as Astarte draws her own blades, stepping forward. “Do not come any closer.”

The vampire pauses, gaze shifting between Astarte and Alexander. Then she bends at the hip, arm sweeping out and long hair brushing the ground in a mocking bow. She looks up at Alexander, eyes narrowing as her smile turns vicious. “Long live the Emperor.”

Then she lunges, swift as a shadow, a stake suddenly appearing in her pale hand. Astarte counters her, bringing up one of her own daggers as the rest of the vampires lunge into the fight. 

Samas is among the first to die. Then most of the soldiers. A good deal of the vampires. Magistrate Cicero, as well, although he did not go down without a fight.

After a while, only Alexander, Astarte, the lead vampire, and a few other vampires are left.

The two humans are a whirlwind of steel, fighting with a fury that is admirable in the face of their opposition. In one move, Astarte plunges a dagger through the eye of one vampire, kicks another, then rips her dagger free from the eye socket of the first and flings it with deadly accuracy into the chest of a third.

Alexander battles the lead vampire, who is clearly far more experienced and risky than any of the others. She meets him blow for blow, taunting him all the way, but he does not waver.

“You impress me, Alexander,” the vampire grins, ducking a blow that was meant to sever her head. “Perhaps, instead of killing you, I’ll Turn you instead. Then we will resurrect our Goddess and you will see the might of the First. And you will know, Emperor, how powerless you truly are.”

Her metal stake meets his sword and she rolls her wrist, twirling the gladius out of his hand. It clangs to the floor and she rushes forward, wrapping her hand around Alexander’s neck and slamming against the wall. She bares her fangs, holding them over his neck as she whispers in his ear. “Are you ready, Sacratissime Imperator? To become a god?”

“Is that what you think you are?” Alexander hisses. “Gods?”

“Yes. Wolves amongst sheep.”

To her surprise, Alexander laughs, the sound hoarse and strained beneath her bruising grip. “The First was your Goddess, was she not? And yet she died.” His eyes narrow and he bares his own teeth in a snarl, fingers dipping beneath his cloak. “As will you.”

He whips his hand up, revealing a small knife that was concealed by his clothes, and plunges it into the vampire’s chest, piercing her heart. 

As she dissolves into ash, Alexander gasps for air, stumbling forward. The room is now silent, the fighting over. Diana watches as he crosses to the marble platform, shoving the box containing Aurelius’s ashes to the ground. The ashes spill onto the floor, mixing with that of the vampires and the blood of men. 

It is over.

Alexander straightens, breathing hard. “It is done, Astarte. We did it.”

There is no reply.

Diana realizes at the same time Alexander does that the room is silent and he is the only one left alive.

Alexander finds Astarte’s body in the corner of the room surrounded by fallen blades and stakes. She had taken out the last of the vampire hoard, several at a time, and died in the process. 

Alexander doesn’t cry for Astarte, for they were not lovers, even though perhaps they could have been when all of this was over. Diana feels his pain, waves of it, and gasps from the intensity. Distantly, she is reminded of the last time she felt a pain so acute. She had been in a different memory, on a different sort of battlefield, surrounded by the dead, watching herself bleed out.

The next few events happen in a blur. Diana watches as the remaining bodies are removed from the chamber and burned, given their proper funeral rites, and then their ashes are scattered on the wind. She watches as Alexander leaves the Vessel of  Gabal on the marble platform and orders the chamber to be bricked off and constantly guarded. 

She watches as shadows pick themselves up off the ground inside the sealed chamber, their red eyes gleaming. Lemures. Not yet fully corporeal, they slide through the cracks of the brick wall, strangling the guards and tearing into their flesh, spawning more creatures. Diana watches as Alexander rules, the Roman Empire falls and others rise. Rome modernizes, an underground subway system is built.

Finally, Diana watches as a woman and a man whose hand is wreathed in cobalt flame tear down the brick wall and enter the chamber, removing the Vessel of Gabal from where it sat hidden for two thousand years. 

                                Diana opened her eyes and wretched all over her shirt.

“My god, Diana,” someone breathed and she could sense waves of relief and concern roll over her. As she coughed and spluttered, she became aware of the body pressed behind her back, the arms around her waist, the legs that framed her own.

“Gaius?” she wheezed, placing her hand over his on her stomach.

“Hold on,” he murmured, his voice close to her ear and she felt him shift, one of his arms slipping away as he yanked a towel off the back of a nearby chair. “Here,” he said, wiping her mouth. “I—ah, there’s not much I can do for your shirt.”

Diana’s whole body felt weak and her mind was still spinning. But the scent of bile all over her shirt made her stomach roil. “Can you…” she swallowed, mouth dry and throat hoarse. “Can you hand me another shirt? There’s a pile of clothes at the bottom of the closet. Used it to hide the…” She glanced over at the amphora, the Vessel of Gabal, where it sat on its side by her feet.

“I got it,” Gaius responded, shifting her gently to reach forward and grab one of her sweaters from the closet. He handed it to her and Diana struggled to pull her shirt off, the task made more difficult by her weak limbs and her attempts to avoid touching any of the soiled sections of fabric. “Diana. Let me help.”

Diana struggled for a few moments more before she gave up, sagging and out of breath. She had never felt so weak, so out of sorts, so miserable. It made her want to cry in frustration and even fear. This had never happened before.

“It’s okay, Diana. You’re okay.” Gaius’s voice was soft as he gently guided her out of her shirt, fingertips barely brushing her bare skin as if he were cautious to cross that boundary given the vulnerable state she was in. He tossed her ruined shirt into the nearest trash bin and helped her into her sweater, tugging it all the way down before he sat back, letting her catch her breath.

They sat there on the ground for a while, Gaius leaning against the foot of the bed and Diana leaning against his chest, mind reeling. In addition to everything she felt after diving into that vision, she was also starting to feel embarrassed. She had just vomited all over herself, then needed Gaius’s help to change. God, how pathetic could she be?

“Hey…” Gaius chided softly as if he heard her thoughts. He probably had. 

Adding fuel to the fire, Diana promptly began to cry.

“Alright, let’s get you into bed, Diana,” Gaius decided, rearranging their bodies so he could stand with her in his arms. Diana didn’t resist as he carried her towards her bed and set her down, drawing the blankets around her. “You need some time to recover.”

“Wait,” Diana croaked as he drew away, about to retreat. She grabbed his hand, hating that she was asking this, hating that she needed this, hating the way her voice quivered slightly as she asked, “Can you stay? Here. Just for… just for a while.”

Diana saw him hesitate, eyes darting to the side for a moment before he nodded. As Gaius gingerly laid himself down beside her, pointedly staying on top of the covers, she tried not to think that his expression resembled that of a man who was climbing into a lion’s den. Diana held his hand between both of hers as she willed her tears to stop flowing and her breath to slow until she had finally collected herself enough to ask, “Can I show you? It won’t have the same effect on you as it did on me since it will be my memory of a vision. Not the real thing.”

Gaius’s blue eyes were steady as he nodded against the pillow. “Alright.”

Diana nodded and closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling of his hand between hers, the warmth that radiated off his body due their close proximity. She channeled everything she saw through their bond, hearing his breath hitch and pick up as he began to see. 

Several minutes later, the memory was over and Gaius let out a long breath. “The Vessel of Gabal. The amphora can resurrect the dead with their ashes. I never knew of this.”

“Yeah,” Diana breathed, staring absently at the wall. “Gaius,” she swallowed the lump in her throat. She was really laying it all out there today. “I’m scared.”

“Diana…” he frowned, eyes sincere, and for a second, he looked as if he were going to hold her again. But he stayed where he was, opting to swipe his thumb over the back of her hand instead. 

“I don’t know what any of this means,” she admitted, her frustration clear. “I don’t know why I was meant to find something that can bring the dead back to life, or what this is supposed to mean in relation to Demetrius’s influence.” She squeezed her eyes shut, resisting the urge to scream, to cry, to do something in her frustration. “things are getting bad again.”

“What was the phone call about?” Gaius questioned, a crease forming between his brows. “Before your vision, when you were talking to Jax Matsuo.”

That phone call felt like forever ago. “He said that Demetrius’s influence has spread. Entire communities on distant islands went Feral because of it. I told Jax that he, Kamilah, and Adrian need to evacuate people nearby.”

“That was a wise choice. It will save many lives, Diana,” Gaius murmured and Diana tried to take comfort in his words.

She squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth. “For now. I don’t know what any of this means, and I hate it. It’s like every time I take a step forward in unraveling this, I’m set back two more. The more I learn, the less I understand. And now lives are at stake. I didn’t leave New York for this. I just wanted…” She lowered her head, throat tightening.

“Why did you leave New York, Diana?” His voice was gentle, the caress she felt against her mind even more so. It made her want to give in. To what, exactly, she didn’t know.

“I needed space,” Diana whispered, too exhausted to hold any of this in anymore. She was tired of not talking about things, of pretending she knew what she was doing, of pretending some part of her wasn’t mourning the loss of the life she knew. “These past few years, Adrian and I have grown apart. We were busy doing our own thing. He was so invested in human-vampire relations and I was doing my own work with dream therapy. Like what I do with you,” Diana explained, her gaze briefly flicking to his. 

Gaius was watching her carefully, eyes so intense she felt as if he were seeing right through her. She felt her skin flush and looked away before continuing.

“We were so deep in our own work, we didn’t even notice how little we even saw each other. What was worse was when I realized that it didn’t really bother me. I loved Adrian. I still do. I know that I always will,” she admitted, tears burning her eyes again. “But we don’t fit together the way that we used to. Once we realized how little time we spent together, we tried to remedy it, but that only made me realize how little I knew about what I wanted anymore. I don’t know who I am apart from him. I’ve been with Adrian for about as long as I have lived as a mortal. I know to you, twenty years is nothing, but it still is to me.”

Gaius opened his mouth to protest, but she continued on.

“So, when the dreams started coming, I took it as an opportunity to get away from everything and think,” Diana breathed, absently tracing shapes on the inside of Gaius’s wrist. “I told Adrian that I wanted to take some time and figure out who I am apart from him. And if that person is someone who still wants to try and work things out.”

“And is it?” Gaius whispered.

“I don’t know,” Diana confessed, and her chest positively ached at her admission. “And part of me worries that the fact that I don’t miss him as much as I thought I would or that I haven’t decided yet is an answer in itself.”

Gaius’s expression was tender, eyes understanding. Somehow, that only made her feel worse. “Diana, I think—”

“Please,” she uttered, shaking her head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

She felt his eyes on her, sensed his uncertainty on whether or not to push the matter. But ultimately, Gaius nodded. “Alright.”

Neither of them spoke after that, and after a while, Diana felt herself drift off into a deep and dreamless sleep, her hands still holding his. 

                                Tagging: @bachelorettebound14, @somin-yin, @bigmemesplz, @mkamra2355, @dorkylittleweirdo, @xbobbatea, @mindlesschicca, @vesselsynths, @mikewawazoski, @choicesplayer101

[helaintoloki]

Season of the Witch | Michael Langdon

chapter thirteen: Lost

masterlist

pairing: Michael Langdon x witch!reader

warnings: language, angst, violence, graphic descriptions, adult content, deception, toxic relationships, abuse, death, witchcraft, satanism and all that other good ahs stuff

notes: mostly a filler chapter, slight angst

“Y/N?” A gentle knock to the door, then the silent creak of the hinges as it’s forced open. “Dear, it’s time to eat. You need your strength.”

There is no reply from the lump hidden under the covers, and if Cordelia wasn’t so connected to her daughter she might have never known someone was still inhabiting the room. She hadn’t moved from the spot in days, hadn’t uttered a word to anyone, hadn’t so much as slept. A part of her had died forever, and y/n would never be the same again.

She had felt it, screamed in agony at the sudden emptiness in her heart. Her baby was gone, never to be seen again, and there was nothing she could do.

Cordelia silently sets the silver platter on the bedside table before carefully sitting on the edge of the bed. Y/N doesn’t move or shift her gaze, and instead continues to stare at the wall. Frowning, her mother gently combs her fingers through the girl’s greasy hair. She hadn’t showered since after the birth, and Cordelia tried not to notice.

“Y/N?” No response. Myrtle had told Cordelia not to meddle, to let the young girl heal in her own time. But the coven didn’t have time. They had to act quick in order to to prevent the antichrist from obtaining power over the coven.

“Sleep,” Cordelia murmured, and as she waved a hand over her daughter’s face, y/n’s eyes fluttered shut and she sunk into a peaceful sleep, the only good sleep she’d have since the event.

And as she slept, Cordelia was quick to remove the pain and the bad memories, so that when y/n woke she would remember almost nothing. Just her mother’s loving embrace, her sisters’ warmth, and Michael. Cold, cruel, evil Michael.

~~~

When he felt the first heartbeat dissipate Michael gave no hesitation and paid no heed to its absence. He wasn’t worried, he knew it was her. And he knew she’d be back, and in a matter of seconds she was.

However, it was the fading of the second heartbeat that brought him to his knees and knocked the wind out of his lungs. His child, his creation, his son.

He was there now, could see it all so clearly. His bouncing baby boy swaddled in blankets and cradled in the arms of a blonde woman dressed in black. Cordelia. His blood boils and fists clench at his sides as he watches the scene unfold with utter helplessness. She whispers for the baby to sleep, enchants the child with a spell Michael can’t quite make out, then sets him adrift in the stream.

Tears fall silently down Michael’s face. Tears of anger for Cordelia, tears of anguish for the loss of his son, tears of sympathy for his beloved. He can feel her sorrow as if it’s his own, and in a way it is. But at the same time Michael knows there is a special bond between mother and child that cannot be experienced by anyone else, and he sobs for her. For them.

Michael was mean, and Michael could be cruel, and Michael was known to be harsh, but with a child in the picture he would have loved her until his dying breath. What he felt for her now was not exactly love, not by definition. Y/N was a nuisance to his schemes and an obstacle, but he admired her power and her strength, her courage. Delivering the spawn of the antichrist in itself was no easy feat, and he adored her as the mother of his child. She was weak in spirit at times, rolling over constantly in hopes of pleasing her mother the supreme, but that was nothing Michael couldn’t have fixed. He would have helped her, remolded her into someone new. Someone worthy of the title as Queen of the Underworld.

But all of that was snatched away from him, and Michael now had nothing. His plans were ruined, hopes for the future destroyed, and chances of y/n joining his side slim to none.

Michael would find Cordelia. He’d find her and hurt her in every way possible, make her suffer for as long as he could before he finally killed her. He’d get his baby back, sweep y/n off of her feet, and carry them away somewhere safe, somewhere no other threat would ever find them.

And they’d be happy.

~~~

It seemed as if that so called god up in the sky had finally decided to punish Michael. First his son, and now his beloved Miss Mead reduced to nothing but a pile of ash. He collapsed to his knees, screaming in agony because he did not know what else he could do.

Michael felt sick to his stomach, body hunching over as he sobbed. Why them? Why now? When he was so close to success, so close to achieving his goals. He could feel the power, taste it on his tongue as it caressed his fingertips. The tears ran hot from his baby blues and he’d never felt more alone in his life than he did now.

“It’s over.” That damned voice. Her mere presence sends his fight or flight responses into overdrive, blood boiling and stomach churning in disgust. Cordelia Goode.

She stands there, tall and proud and smug, and Michael doesn’t think he can hate her any more than he does now. How could y/n love this woman? Call her a mother? Could she not see who the real monster was?

“We know who you are. Your allies are all dead.”

“An innocent baby,” Michael snarls, but his voice falters with pain and sorrow, “a child.”

“I did what had to be done,” Cordelia says, and there was no hint of regret or remorse in her tone. Nothing. She wasn’t sorry. Not in the slightest.

“I’ve already proven to you that I can defy death,” he scowled through his tears, “I’ll bring my son and my Miss Mead back. I’ll take y/n, and together we’ll watch you die.”

“You can go to hell, but you won’t find either of them there,” Cordelia affirms. Michael falters.

“What have you done?” He asks weakly. His throat feels raw and sore from the screams and the tears, he’s weak.

“Their souls are hidden by a spell only I can break.”

With her words Michael is instantly brought back to the river stream. He sees her lips pressed closely to his child’s ear, whispering sweet nothings that become words of Latin. And he understands the gravity of the situation, realizes his child is gone forever.

Cordelia watches as he sinks to his knees, legs giving out underneath the weight of his failure. Not so powerful now without his allies, not so strong and intimidating. Alone he is able to show his true colors, his true identity. To Cordelia he is nothing but a child, a lost soul with no one else to turn to now.

“You’re alone. But you don’t have to be,” she comforts, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to follow the path your father has made for you. If you come with me, I can help you. Y/N sees humanity in you, I see humanity in you. Maybe together we can find it.”

He watches through teary eyes as she extends a comforting hand towards him, opening a new door of opportunity, a second chance. All he has to do is take it. And he does.

Cordelia smiles, helps the boy to his feet, but doesn’t anticipate the way he harshly tugs her closer, an iron grip on her wrist and a fire in his eyes fueled by his hatred for her and her coven.

“Somehow, someway I am going to bring her back,” he swears hoarsely. “And then I’m going to slaughter each and every one of you witches. But you know what else I’m going to do? I’m going to take y/n from you, make you watch as I corrupt her and turn her against you so you’ll know what it’s like to lose. You think you know what’s best, Miss Supreme? You never should have touched my son.”

Tears fall down his face but the promise of his words ring strong in Cordelia’s ears, and she can only feel fear and unrest as he walks away. His figure disappears until he’s nothing but an outline in the distant, but he’ll always be lurking around every corner waiting to strike.

And she won’t be ready when he does.

~~~

It’s been four days. Four days without water, without nourishment, without rest. He’s fading, growing smaller. He has nothing left, but he has everything to offer. Why hasn’t my father come?

Michael pushes the hallucinations away: the children, the angels, even Miss Mead. But the sight of her, glowing and happy as she coos to the small child in her arms... Michael couldn’t keep her away even if he tried.

“You’ve got to get up, Michael,” she chastises, “what example are you setting for your son?”

“M-My son?” Michael croaks, trembling fingers reaching out to touch the baby. His feet are so tiny, untouched by the world and its sin. Michael lets out a shaky breath and shuts his eyes, body leaning forward until his face is nestled against her stomach. He stains the white fabric of her dress but she says nothing.

“Are you really giving up now? Have you given up on us?”

“I-I’m trying,” he insists, fingers bunching up the fabric of her dress in fistfuls. The dress is cool against his hot tears, she’s a breath of fresh air. “I promise I am.”

“I love you,” she whispers into his hair, “but you’re not strong enough.”

“I am,” he begs, “please don’t go. You’re all I have left now, don’t leave.”

“Be stronger. I love you.”

“God loves you,” a voice echoes, and Michael stumbles back with wide eyes. She’s gone, and in her place is an angel. His bright wings are the color of her dress before it was tainted by his touch. But perhaps she has always been tainted. Perhaps she just couldn’t see it until Michael.

Be stronger, her voice echoes, I love you. Be stronger, I love you. Be stronger.

“What do you want from me?!” He shrieks into the void, and his screams echo in reply.

~~~

It’s almost been a month since the birth of her grandson and Michael’s disappearance, and Cordelia feels hope and happiness blossom in her chest. Her girls are growing stronger each day, but y/n? Well, there’s no doubt as to who the next supreme is.

It took a few days for the side effects of Cordelia’s spell to wear off, but once they did she was a brand new witch. She held no recollection of the child she once carried in her womb or the sorrow of her loss, but she remembered Michael. And she knew he was bad, and in her newly improved mind she held no love towards him. Only the fear and hatred planted there by her mother.

“She’s doing much better,” Myrtle comments, breaking Cordelia out of her haze. The two women watch as y/n frolics out in the gardens with Binx in tow, reviving the decaying flowers and plants so that they bloom once again. “But she seems different.”

“Stronger,” Cordelia figures

“Delia, I know what you did,” Myrtle sighs. “It won’t last forever, especially not on such a powerful witch.”

“Then I can do it again,” Cordelia argues. “Until it lasts forever.”

But the effects were already fading, and as y/n’s roses grew so did the love in her heart for the boy with the blond curls and blue eyes.

And with the love came the emptiness, and with the emptiness came the resentment towards her mother.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

tag list: @ticklish-leafy-plant @touchoflangdon @anacerta @bluebirdbts @heda-mikaelson @redlovett @fuck-yeah-bruno-buccerati @ateliefloresdaprimavera @quechulitaaa @theeonlyroman @hecohansen31 @frenchzodiacgirl @michaelsapostle @hoeposey @spider-stud @frozenhuntress67 @jokingarthur @brookethompsonownsme @enigma-xlii @thederpyllamaoflove

[lil-purplebird]

What is a King to His Men? (one-shot)

Fandom: Godzilla (Legendary)

Rating: T

Genre: General/Friendship

Words: 8,438

Summary: Man is a fickle creature. But so are the gods. Godzilla-centic, mild Mothzilla.

Can also be read here.

"Lushalmat ibri."

That was the last sentence uttered to the King by the sole-surviving worshiper, who was a ruler among his people, before his passing. The generations beneath him, already wavering in their belief due to their upbringing during peace, promptly feared him, even forgetting his work he did for them. Being feared wasn't much different from being revered, but they chased him away with weapons that, although non-life-threatening, were irritating and disrespectful. He was their king, their god, and they denied him for their own personal interests.

He wanted to give them a piece of his mind and wipe them out for their insolence, but his comrades wouldn't have it, Mosura and Anguirus especially. They still saw some good in them and pointed out other humans across the world who might still see him for who he is and what he represents. There wasn't just the one temple solely dedicated to him, there were multiple, and most of them worshiped multiple Titans.

So Gojira gave the human race another chance, brushing off the one clan as a fluke. Just because he was more close to them didn't mean he wasn't well-known elsewhere. They'll all come to, eventually.

But the Titans were steadily falling into hibernation thanks to the change in the earth's climate, and the increase in human intelligence and will meant they wanted gods to be more human or to disappear entirely. Some weakened enough that even humans were beginning to cause them harm and drove them from their homes, their temples. As puny as the creatures were, they were ferocious. No Titan feared Man, but no Titan liked what had become of them.

Gojira was the only one with enough strength to rebel and bring havoc and fear to the coastal civilizations. Anguirus and Mosura were not pleased with his actions, and that rift in their opinions caused them to butt heads than ever before. The other Titans flip-flopped and would ally or go against Gojira depending on the year, or even their mood. It happened enough that it wasn't long before he felt everyone, even his own kind, was against him.

"You've gone mad!" they cried as they attempted to hold him back from land. The ocean, being his domain, was a difficult terrain for many Titans to go head-on with the King.

Gojira's rage was nearing its apex, and had brought down nearly all but a few to their knees. His bloodlust had yet to be quenched, all it would take was to stomp some humans flat, yet the spiked quadruped and delicate moth were who stood in his way. His equals hadn't yet gone through the rejection he had, only in due time would their people also turn their hearts away from them. Although they were close friends, they had unusual human qualities that made them his worst foes in his view.

Anguirus was worn down and bleeding profusely, but his eyes still shone in determination. One of Mosura's wings had a large tear in it to ground her and she was missing a limb, yet she stood tall on his armored back. Their stances told him they were fighting to the death for their livelihoods, to prove themselves worthy of their godlike statuses. Not that the other Titans didn't fight valiantly, but even as an army they were no match for the King. The two were true fools to think they stood a chance, and merely resorted to words than their strength to strike back.

"The False King fed you lies in your final battle!" Anguirus said, teeth bared at the thought of the three-headed demon. "How could you believe them?"

"I didn't until the people turned their backs on me as prophesied!" he snarled, his plates pulsing in time to his heartbeat. "I didn't want to believe they were right all along about the human race until then!"

"There have always been a few detractors," Mosura reminded him. Her body trembled in sadness and anger, overtaking her pain. "Humans are quick to forget and stray."

Gojira huffed hard enough for a spray of atomic particles to pass through his nose and even his gills. "And you are allowing this to go on?"

"A great ruler leads with patience and loving guidance," she continued. "They are living beings with desires like you and I. Ultimately, we cannot decide their fate."

"To hell with that!" he snapped, his tail slapping the water's surface hard enough to trigger tidal waves that washed away some of the bodies. "They are disrupting the natural order's balance! This cannot be allowed to continue!"

"That is the earth's will," the horned dinosaur asserted, positioning himself to charge. "They need to prove themselves worthy to be rulers themselves. We are teaching them to take our place for when we're gone."

He had been accused of letting power get to his head, but he couldn't deny he liked the gratification he had over a large crowd of humans submitting themselves to him. He was their protector, and he had no qualms with it as long as it meant showing off his strength. Taking the time out to get to their level as somewhat-equals didn't appeal to him, though he had allowed some human leaders to converse with him in song and dance, or just to talk. They were... interesting creatures of lower abilities, although they were quickly growing.

Being small, it was only natural for them to multiply and progress as a species. Much like the Titans, his kind reproduced much slower, yet as few in numbers as they were, they were fierce predators. Born leaders, he was predestined to take up his sire's torch and continue the legacy. And he thought he was doing a swell job as their king.

"...Traitors, the lot of you."

The eavesdropping surviving Titans flinched at Gojira's low growl, and Mosura's antennae perked in shock. Anguirus' solemn expression didn't falter as he watched the King's spines light up, silently cursing the three-headed dragon for poisoning his friend in their final attempt to posthumously claim victory. He closed his eyes with a deep breath, accepting his fate as he charged forward. The moth's forelegs dug into his neck in a futile effort to brace herself for impact, and he couldn't help smiling a little at her gift of rebirth. As long as she lives on, Gojira, his old friend, would always have a chance at redemption.

Blind with fury to notice the multiple witnesses, the King burned down his life and scattered the ashes.

*~*~*

The world managed to keep turning as if to spite Gojira. Humans continued to advance as a race, scattering throughout the globe and refurbishing the face of the earth as they saw fit. As their civilizations prospered, their weapons improved, but they were still nothing more than a nuisance to the Titans.

However, the earth made it clear she was tired of the in-fighting, and punished both sides. She'd give the humans a hard time, even wiping out some clans, and they still persevered. The old-guard Titans that were left felt the change get to them, and either went into hibernation away from prying eyes or perished for being unable to adapt. Gojira was a fighter, for although he was the last to succumb to sleep, his will made sure it was temporary. Dreams of his past were violent enough that he'd stir himself awake every few centuries or so to patrol what became of his world and continue his mission.

Humans, being such fickle creatures, changed so rapidly that the King was no longer a king to them, but a monster to be destroyed or chased off. They had forgotten what made him akin to a god, and developed bigger, stronger weapons to be used against him after being used against each other. Gojira's hate boiled over, and he, too, forgot why the earth begat humans to begin with. Their activities, however, were slowly waking the other Titans from their slumbers, but many still avoided the humans, or found isolated clans who still remembered the gods of old.

Mosura had chosen to remain on her island after her rebirth, grieving for the loss of Anguirus and being scared for Gojira's future. She wouldn't see him for many centuries and went through the cycle many more times, but in her sleep, she had heard whispers from the earth herself about his antics. Her fear would gradually turn to fury that he incited the war, but she was not willing to expose her people's existence to the outside world. It took a frequent number of explorers disturbing the peace to force her to reveal herself to the world that had forgotten her, and the reunion with Gojira was nothing more than a nightmare.

She almost couldn't recognize him, he had aged and was scarred so much from his grudge and forcing himself to fight off hibernation. Her heart went out to him, but old wounds reopened, and Gojira lashed out at her for interfering. She tried for years to get through to him without success. They fought numerous battles each to exhaustion, and sometimes she would perish. Humans who hadn't known of her started seeing her as their savior for saving lives, and at the very least, her presence would slow down his rampages. Progress, she thought.

A night after a rough battle that had decimated a mountain range, Mosura couldn't sleep and had recovered enough to go out for a flight to calm her nerves. When she left her territory, there came a sudden prompt to track him down, and she searched the area where he had retreated to find shelter. She was successful in coming across him in a deep canyon licking his wounds, and he went on the defense upon spotting her.

"Didn't you take the hint? Your damn naiveté will be the death of you," he snarled in warning.

The wind dissipated upon her landing in the river. His face scrunched as he looked her over, hating that her beauty and grace hadn't changed in eons while his appearance did. He had lost track of the number of times she had reincarnated from mortal wounds or old age, a unique trait for a Titan, but rarely did she ever look different. Titans for the most part never experience death until Nature herself declares it, yet her cycle meant she was close to being a human while still remaining a goddess. Her open secret was her egg, but she was either lucky, or her enemies were too stupid or stupidly honorable to go after her weakness to kill her for good. For him, it was the latter, but more because he provoked her wrath enough times to not tempt making her even more scorned and potentially kill him for stepping foot on her island. And losing his life to her didn't sound appealing in the slightest.

However, he never would admit it out loud that ever since he started brawling with Mosura, he found her to be a surprisingly formidable opponent. She held her own rather well against the False King, but he measured power better when he was receiving blows than by observation. Her fragile physique led to creative combos to take him down while still remaining on the defensive side, and it wasn't just because of her advantage of flight.

She overlooked his lack of manners to study the damage she had dealt to him, now that she got a better look. She hated the act of shedding blood, but she was secretly proud of her work for giving him new scars. "You're unable to kill another Titan," she softly said.

He recoiled at her statement, but kept his composure. "Who said it would be I to deal the final blow?"

"You need to move on while you still can."

"But if it wasn't for the damn humans rejecting us—!"

"That didn't mean you had to turn your back on them," she sternly interrupted, wings fluttering irritably. "Anguirus didn't want you to take the path of no return."

Gojira rose to his feet with a deadly glare, eyes pulsing with blue light. "How dare you say his name to me," he hissed. His dorsal plates flickered in warning, a hum steadily growing. "Don't you dare drag his memory into this."

Mosura didn't back down, though her antennae began making short, sharp twitches from the waves of radiation rolling off of him. "You've changed ever since imprisoning the False King," she continued, her voice remaining firm but gentle. "Everyone could see it that you haven't been quite the same, and that's why humans feared you so."

"They no longer remember that day."

"Which is why your ridiculous war has to stop. This is an innocent generation that has had nothing to do with that battle."

Gojira harshly laughed, puffs of atomic fumes expelling from his mouth. "You have been stuck on your island for too long, Mosura! Humans have always been bloodthirsty, they hate each other just as much as they hate us!"

"So how does that make you any different from them that you must persecute them?"

"Are you accusing me of being as hateful as those parasites?!" The surge increased, small blue flames licking his teeth as his lips curled over his gums.

"Your hatred will be your destruction, the both of you!" Mosura declared, puffing out her thorax and stomping the ground with her forelegs. "You cannot die by your own hand, so you're trying to invoke Nature's wrath against her wishes by going after your people!"

The lights climbed up his back, and with a deep inhale, Gojira released his atomic breath, yet the moth remained rooted as it arched directly over to blast a crater into the canyon's walls, the heat singeing the tips of her hairs and antennae. Seismic waves made her, the water, and the trees sway as the cliffs collapsed, but her azure eyes remained locked onto his leer. The beam fizzled out with a huff, his nostrils flaring.

"That is your only warning, Mosura," he growled, steam rising past his fangs. "Your head is next."

Through the dust cover, bioluminescence raced through her wings as it flickered between blue and red. Usually a calm Titan, she struggled to get her emotions under wraps after watching the hurt cross her old friend's face. With a hitch in her breath, she stepped forward for the mountainous reptile. Annoyed by her persistence, adrenaline pumped through Gojira's veins and his temples throbbed hard enough for him to scrunch his eyes shut. Heat started to replenish itself again for his recharge, teeth gritting so hard he thought he heard a molar crack.

Mosura always knew how to get under his scales, her silver tongue being her most powerful weapon, and it was what had typically kept them all in line, even her king. With her adopted title as Queen, it was something he used to get teased about much to his chagrin, though just about every Titan had their tails verbally handed to them by her. Yet he was known to have a short temper compared to even the hot-headed Rodan, and so to help him get his act together, that's what she took the most advantage of to make up for her cutesy, non-intimidating appearance. He recalled Anguirus always liked that about her on top of her undying love for the human race, which was why they got along so well, and it balanced out their friendship as a trio.

He had almost forgotten his death by his own hands hit her just as hard. She just must've coped differently.

Gojira almost stumbled over his feet flinching from a pair of legs wrapping around his waist, her furry head buried into his abdomen. Dropping the charge, he peered at the glowing wings, taking in the snaking paths of light and texture of the colorful patterns. He noticed the edges were tattered from their brawl earlier, which he thought her healing abilities would've mended by now.

Snorting, he hung his head to stare down at the moth. He still wanted her to leave, whether by herself or by him blasting her over the horizon, but he could feel himself calming down and his power waning. Her drooping antennae and some fur were thin enough to skim between his smooth scales, which left a prickle with each gentle stroke from his breathing. The warmth was a little alien to him, he hadn't experienced touch (that weren't claws and teeth) in many centuries.

"Come back with me to the island, my King," she whispered like the breeze. His insides flipped at her utterance of his title more than her strange request. "My people still know of you through my songs."

Mosura's signature sincereness cooled him down, though he made an easy attempt to get around it. "They're just going to run screaming when they see me. They all do."

"Not while I'm around, they won't. It will be just like old times."

A slight smirk quirked on his mouth as his eyes glazed over in reminiscence. "I've become infamous as a threat. Your island will become a war zone, but I will not be the one to start it."

She went quiet, but didn't pull away. Her wings slowly rose and fell, small patches of shimmering dust sprinkling the ground and the water's surface.

"You're not ignorant of the human condition, Mosura," he then pointed out, "so don't even think about endangering your island to that curse. Besides, I have made my mark on this earth, and I will be sticking with it to my deathbed. And settling down on a small island with my size will just sink it into the ocean given my growth spurts. Wouldn't be the first time."

The dark, self-depreciating humor lightened the mood a little thanks to her stifling a giggle. Mosura lifted her forehead from his body, but took a few moments to regain her composure before meeting his gaze. "Then I'll stay."

He blinked, not liking where she was going with her proposal. "Forsaking your people is not your forte like it is mine."

She shook her head. "I'm not. Even though they've been discovered by outsiders, there's no harm to them. But they're slowly changing."

Gojira frowned. He hadn't heard about its geography in ages, but he was so sure her island was quite far away from any main continents. Humans traveled over water quite often, but its distance and isolation made it virtually impossible for worldly influences to touchdown on its shores. "How so?"

Her demeanor wilted as her grip loosened. "I'll soon be unable to live in harmony with my people."

The vagueness didn't strike a chord in him since all Titans for the most part were no longer in harmony with humans. "So what was with the invitation?"

She flustered a bit and pulled away to tap her hooked limbs together. "If your presence were to slow it down, perhaps it can still accommodate for the both of us..."

He snorted. "Naïve as always. I already refused, you can't change my mind."

"It still won't change my mind about your loneliness."

"I am not lonely, don't change the subject."

Mosura's eyes flickered gray with emotion for a split second. "Ever since you isolated yourself from us, the earth has wept in your stead. She's just as upset with the humans for forgetting us as you are, but she's been really upset with you."

Because the moth was the most in-tune with the life-force of the earth, she was deemed by the Titans as a mouthpiece for the spirit of Gaia. Gojira used to sense Nature in a similar fashion, but he had lost that ability ever since he rampaged. He was always at her mercy, yet Mosura's words were the opposite of what he expected. "Then why hasn't Nature offed me, yet?" he grumbled, not really meaning for it to be ominous.

"Because you haven't wiped out the human race."

He shot her a look of disbelief. "Seriously?"

"You've been trying her patience with this death wish of yours, anyway."

The accusation was too close for comfort. He thought he had bottled up his disposition and desires ages ago so he wouldn't dwell on them. He tried to brush it off to poke some more holes in her offer, "So is that why you're trying to get me to live with you? Nature sent you to give me a talk?"

Mosura's wings flushed pink for a second, which was an unusual sight. "Maybe?"

Rolling his eyes to the heavens, Gojira shook his head. "That is not going to happen, so drop it."

"I'm still serious about staying with you, though," she muttered a little too hastily, her mandibles clicking.

"Why, to keep me in line?"

She sighed and made eye-contact, suddenly shuddering to fluff up her fur and fan some dust in the air. "I want to help you reverse what the False King did to you. They were hoping to use you to do the work for them in their absence, so they said those horrible, nasty lies to you. We were trying to help... but I fear we were too late."

Mosura's eyes started pooling over, which astonished Gojira. Titans never cried, least not around each other if they did. Even the females, who were a bit more sentimental and nurturing, never shed a tear. But as he thought about it and her words about the earth, the changes may have done some irreversible damage that was worth mourning over, and so perhaps she learned to cry over time. And if so, that was why Anguirus' memory affected her so much—a better alternative than laying waste to civilizations to numb the pain.

"I'm just tried of you fighting the humans for something they haven't even done," she hiccuped, rubbing her cheek with a leg. "Please, let go of this stupid grudge. Leave them alone, and let them work things out. If they get out of hand, then you can give them a scare, or something. But you're disrupting them, and they're letting their fears and anger get to them. They're hurting the earth just so they could try to hurt you."

Gojira shouldn't have been so surprised that she knew all of that when they hadn't seen each other in centuries. As her voice faded, her works sank in, making him wonder—no, realize that everyone had to have been aware of his actions. They had to have known who it was stirring them from their slumbers, had to have followed every sound of his footsteps and explosions.

No wonder Nature was pissed off at him. Literally the entire planet could hear him.

Silence hung in the air long enough for Mosura to timidly, yet bluntly ask, "What did they tell you so many years ago?"

It took him a moment to comprehend that by "they", she was referring to them, the One Who is Many. Their searing three pairs of eyes were permanently burned into his skull, evilly grinning at his anger and anguish. Even before his vendetta against the human race, the three-headed demon was the most hated being he ever had the displeasure of meeting. Putting an end to their tyranny was the happiest day (well, night) of his life, he had never slept like that before or since.

But their venomous words seeped into his dreams and thoughts before he knew it. Mosura and Anguirus may have been there, but somehow the False King's presence didn't leave much of an effect on them. They went out of their way to try to slaughter his comrades, and there was great damage that nearly crippled his friend and put the goddess back into her cycle. However, none of them mentioned anything about nightmares, and they didn't hide secrets from each other back then.

Recalling how they cackled in his ear during the battle, Gojira flexed his claws in discomfort. The moth watched patiently as he finally was able to string together what he was willing to say, "They claimed I was protecting monsters who would be the death of us. They said humans would come to outsmart us, think of us as nothing more than dumb animals, and then destroy the world. I didn't believe them at first because the worshiping was stronger than ever at that point."

Mosura frowned deeply, her wings giving away her unhappiness with how the demon played him. "But... we should celebrate their intelligence—"

"Until they build a weapon to kill us," he suddenly snapped. "Maybe you're right about the earth being angry with me. This has to be her way of getting back at me for my actions."

She shook her head and hopped onto the canyon's walls to be at eye-level with him. "Gojira, did you forget that you weren't the only one whose people disowned them? They were all sad with the change, but instead of being vengeful, they respected their people's wishes. Anguirus was right when he said we're just guardians showing them the way to prosperity."

His gaze averted at the mention of their old friend, which was the stinging reaction she expected. She raised her eyes to the stars above, humming a little as she reviewed the memory archives of distrusting humans. "Perhaps... when they stopped looking up to us for protection, it meant they were ready to live on their own. Like when offspring leave the nest."

Gojira glanced back over with a stern look. She stared back in wonder until a thought pricked her mind: Says the Titan who coddles her people.

Mosura bristled in embarrassment, surprise, and displeasure, the fur puffing up on her face the most. "My people are a good people! They can take care of themselves!"

He growled out a chuckle. "Was just making sure our connection still works."

"Oh, you!" She jabbed his temple repeatedly with a foreleg in a playful manner, unable to help a smile.

The tapping was close to driving him mad, so he stepped back out of her reach and opened his mouth to speak—but words failed him. She curiously tilted her head, which he wish she'd stop looking at him like that. Mentally checking over his vitals, he was calmer than earlier, except his chest felt too heavy for some odd reason. He shifted his weight to see if he needed to stretch, but nothing helped.

"Are you alright, my King?" Mosura asked worriedly, and he somehow didn't like being called by his title at that moment.

With a snort, Gojira started lumbering off for the canyon's exit. "I need to be alone," he said starkly, sweeping aside the mess he had made.

"Where to?" she inquired, hopping into the air to soar above him.

He swatted her away as gently as possible. "Someplace private, so don't follow. Give me a week or so to sleep on it; I'll have your answer then."

She let him go without another word, but stayed behind on the cliffs to watch him enter the ocean and dive into its depths. He swam leisurely even when entering a tunnel deep down in a trench, following its winding path through instinct. In some turns, he could sense a passing presence of unseen Titans, either traveling or in their nearby dens, but ignored them just as quickly. He didn't need more confrontations in his state of mind.

The spike in radiation was his cue that he was nearing his destination. He passed by intricate statues and pillars when he exited the tunnels, barely stealing a glance at the carved murals as he squeezed through an opening. He slowed when he neared a bleached skeleton resting by his lair's entrance, gazing directly into its empty eye sockets. It could've just been his imagination, but every time he'd return, Gojira was certain he could hear him say, clear as day:

"Welcome back, brother."

Anguirus would only drop the formalities whenever they were alone, since it was such a lifelong habit that he could never bring himself to see him as anything more than a blood brother. If Mosura had ever caught wind of it, she probably would've thought it was a beautiful bond. And since the King had long given up on beating it into his head, he had to silently agree with that sentiment. (But he'd still swear her into secrecy, and she might counter that it was obvious and everyone knew about it. Damn, he knew her way too well.)

He had lost track of the number of years that had passed, but that day still haunted him. The aftermath didn't hit him until days later when enough of his rage had depleted and he wondered what was taking Anguirus so long to recover. The Titans were about to cremate the body when he came across them surrounding the pit, and they attempted to chase him off thinking he was coming back for seconds. In his grief, he caused more destruction before he was able to take Anguirus with him to his abandoned temple where the radiation could preserve him for a bit longer or maybe revive him—or so he thought.

His body decomposed so cleanly while under the sea even though no normal lifeforms could survive in close proximity. Flesh had to have been boiled away as the heat from the radiation rivaled the magma pools and hydrothermal vents. It was quiet and peaceful down in these depths, the risk of damage was limited only to the occasional seaquakes and himself if he wasn't careful. It wasn't that he didn't trust the earth to care for his ashes or the remains if buried, he didn't feel he could atone if anyone else handled the burial, and in a place that had potential of being disturbed by human activity. The Titans had meant well, they all respected him and were scared of what he was going to do.

With a slow sigh in the form of air bubbles, he pondered to himself, trying to figure out what Anguirus would say if he could talk again. What exactly did you and Mosura see in those humans? What did you see throughout your travels and your reign? Did you ever worry about them chasing you out? Would you have allowed it, or fought back like I did?

Those were the few out of many questions he had that stuck out to him, knowing now his people have long since forgotten him. Whether they knew what happened to him or not, or if they grieved or craved for his presence again, it was no different from what happened with his people after the young generations took over. Perhaps instead of haughtiness, they forgot out of surrender or necessity. They just gave up waiting for his return, thought he didn't have need for them anymore or just abandoned them to the mercies of the world. If that was the case, they would've been more angry or frightened at the King's visit instead of just studying him. Perhaps his showing up concerned them, and that's why the clan split afterwards.

After enough silence between him and the skeleton passed, Gojira entered his chamber for a nap. The lava falls made for soothing white noise, and sometimes the radiation hissed, which reminded him of how voices and footsteps used to echo through the halls. It kept him sane during his long slumbers, and it was an excellent way to remind him he was still drawing breath.

GOJIRA! Answer me!

He jerked where he lay at Mosura's chirp in his head, perturbed at her interruption, and he heard a sigh of relief. Why're you in my head? How are you in my head?

She was just as baffled as he, which he was ashamed to realize he must've made her think he had forgotten about their connection. Um... we're able to communicate? Anyway, I thought I heard you were in distress, but I couldn't reach you. Or, maybe the proper word is I couldn't find you.

Which was the point, he thought the reception couldn't penetrate through all that mantle. Apparently that explained why she screamed to be able to be heard wherever she was at. What makes you think that?

He preferred the silence that followed so he could get to sleep, but he could sense her working out her next sentence. Well... you were talking to Anguirus.

Gojira deeply frowned as he reviewed over his thoughts. Was he really that loud? Are you saying that makes me crazy? he directed at her.

She fumbled on her words; he could just see her shaking her head and waving her forelegs about. No, I get that. But it sounded like you were... actually talking to him.

He decided to be straightforward about it. I'm at his grave site.

Oh. It was such a quiet sound, it was a wonder it reached him so deep.

Do not bother to ask for directions, it is very deep underwater.

A pause. It was a pleasant pause, and he took that time to flip over to get comfortable again.

So that's what happened to your temple?

He sneered to himself—he thought he was being vague about his whereabouts. Perhaps the earth snitched to her or something. It happened when I was away. The entire city just fell into the ocean with the coast.

I'm sorry.

Whatever, it's been years, and it's still intact. I just had to dig myself a tunnel to get to it.

Oh, that's fascinating, but wonderful.

"Can you leave me in peace now?" he growled out loud, getting a headache.

Mosura's giggle pealed like bells in his head, and then the connection broke.

He leered at a corner of the temple for a while before he would sleep it off, wondering how much she had heard and why she even cared so much. It wasn't as if his dreams were hurting him, they were nothing but past memories that had already landed a blow.

In the midst of such a memory, while the False King droned on for the hundredth time about the evils of Man, he happened to look down at the spectators foolish enough to stay in the area. They were in awe at the sight of a war between gods, yet there was hope and determination present on their faces. Although powerless in strength against them, they had other ways that would bring aid to their ally.

For Man was more cunning than both Nature and Chaos had even planned.

*~*~*

The morning sun and breeze tickled her wings as Mosura scanned the ocean waves, watching as a pod of whales congregated near the horizon. They had been doing that since sunrise, it was odd behavior being close to land, suggesting something was on its way over. She used that as a visual cue to get herself ready, not wanting to make it look like she was waiting around. A sly smirk in her eyes, she flitted over to munch on the greenery (except when she checked for nests), trying to keep herself looking "distracted" while peeking past her wings every few minutes.

The whales suddenly scattered with surprised clicks and howls, and she nearly choked on a trunk at the sound of water breaking over a certain someone's back. She still smiled to herself while cleaning off the leaves and bark from her fur, her antennae fluttering as a shadow fell over her. Crooning in thought, she leaned her head back to meet Gojira in the eye.

The King and Queen stared each other down with little movement. He was not all that happy to see her, but he was looking better, and he even felt a little better. She briefly cocked her head to the side, and nodded to silently as if to say, "Go on?"

Working his jaw, he picked at his blood-coated teeth with a claw and turned away. Standing on all fours, Mosura curled her forelegs close in worry, unable to feel his thoughts running through her head. He didn't walk too far from the cliffside when he let out a rumbling sigh, his tail swaying above the waves. "If I'm to see your point," he started, cricking his neck, "I'll have to observe them from afar."

She nodded, stretching her wings. "That's right. That's the safest way for them to not see you as a threat."

He snorted when he looked back at her. "This isn't just about the humans' safety. It's also for my sanity to not get them worked up and strike."

Mosura soared on the wind to reach his shoulder. "You'll see they're not so bad. They never were."

"If they keep multiplying like that, they will be," he grunted, storming back into the open sea. "Soon you won't be able to see the ground they're walking on."

"Gojira," she whispered in a warning tone.

"And must you say my name out in the open?" he rebuked with a huff.

She leaned against his neck with a thoughtful croon. "Only if you'll let me keep you company more. Like old times."

Gojira bared his teeth for a moment, unsure if that was a good idea.

Like she knew his thoughts, she added still in a sing-song tone, "A king's going to need a healthy way to redirect his frustrations to avoid declaring war on his people out of boredom."

He raised a brow, unsure if he understood what she meant. "What're you implying? You're not threatening your king, are you?"

She trilled, shaking her body. "Call me your queen, and I'll respect your title."

Gojira snapped at her, but not in a serious manner when his snout bumped her side. She leaped off with a giggle and continued to hover around his head humming one of her little tunes. He shook his head, then had a thought that Anguirus, if he were still with them, would've thought it was about time they started acting like they were king and queen.

Watching his moth companion twirl around in circles, for a moment there, it felt like old times.

*~*~*

They kept their word: Gojira stayed his distance from the humans when out on his hunts. Mosura continued to watch the skies, but she was noted by her people for hovering around his cluster of spines when she was visited. Time was hardly a blip on their radars, but to stave off boredom when they were not in the same area, they'd communicate across distances their reports or thoughts, or just to see how the other was doing. The humans were rarely brought up, even though the King knew she always had them on her mind.

After some months pass by, he'd retreat to his sunken temple for sleep that'd last years. The ocean floor was not always a quiet place, however. There were occasions an underwater quake or eruption would disturb him prematurely, and he'd groggily make his way to the surface where Mosura would appear with a gleeful "Happy new year, sleepyhead!" Such a statement irked him a few times, feeling as if she was teasing him for his long absences, but she would tell him stories of the earth's accomplishments to catch him up while he patrolled. The planet was always busy, always changing, and Mosura was the historian.

During one of his naps, she went through her cycle, and showed off her wings to direct his gaze to the change in her appearance: the eye spots turned gold with a highlight. As she explained, it was her personal reminder of their promise for renewing their companionship. Gojira, not wanting to feel one-upped, clawed on his shoulder where she loved to perch three sets of four grooves to leave a permanent mark. After the shock of his self-maiming wore off, she laughed, yet adored the thought since it looked a lot like her people's symbol. It was a pain for him since he had to will his regeneration to not heal it, but it was worth it to see her freak out. Not so whenever a Titan would appear whether they were together or not, for they would take one look at their markings and then gambled losing their tongues when they smiled and teased, "Took the coronation long enough."

He had a suspicious feeling Mosura had spread the news about it.

The day eventually came when she told him her people were scattering, the last of the ancient clans to do so, but they did not vanish completely. Their history was important enough for families to pass it down to each generation, even if they no longer worshiped her. The twin priestesses, by genetics or by will, always had twins to prove their lineage, and maintained their psychic link to their goddess. She remained close-by to her birth island, but she was becoming more of a vagabond as the years went on, and she had to find a new place to lay her egg. All he knew about the new nest was it was someplace he was prohibited from entering.

So she got the better end of the deal out of all the Titans, Gojira had thought, and it was for the best. Their absence from the world meant the existence of Titans became nothing more than myth or nearly forgotten in worst cases, and although humans have risen to the top of the food chain, the earth had remained calm, and balance seemed to be in order. He'd still slink around in the ocean's trenches and look in on them, but he was getting bored and slept more often. He snorted to himself once upon thinking jokingly that the way to kill a god was by boredom, but by also stripping away every power they had, thereby effectively erasing them from existence. Perhaps that was the humans' plan from the start, but they'd deny it if approached about it, of course.

"Boredom" was his personal explanation for why Mosura was steadily extending her rebirth each time she passed on, for mostly it was from natural causes than from battle, which were scarce. He didn't like the thought of her dying from old age, but he never heard of Titans falling ill or of anything mortal like that. She'd return to her egg, but he wouldn't know how long she'd be in hibernation for. The last time the cycle took place, one of her last words she had said to him was "We'll be needed when Nature's balance is skewed", but the "when" part was never specified.

He never saw himself as a patient Titan, but if sleep made time move faster, he could handle boredom. His radiated den remained as the last sanctuary in the ever-changing world, and that's where he remained undisturbed when he wasn't out hunting. It was a bit of a lonely existence, but Anguirus' skeleton, all that remained of his memory, kept him from going mad in his solitude.

Then suddenly, mankind learned how nuclear fission and radiation worked, thousands of years after they forgot why it was they weren't meant to be in charge of harnessing its power.

The bombs had left some scarring from contact, but the radiation gave Gojira a boost of power he hadn't seen before in thousands, maybe millions of years. The surge meant they returned to fearing him, but curiously, some humans tailed him for observation purposes instead. He could just imagine Mosura thinking it was amusing.

It also stirred some old Titans out of hiding—the real nasty ones, too—and in the current earth's state, it meant disaster. He had to shake off sleep and work out some kinks to go after them, and he hadn't wanted to admit he was out of practice. He ached everywhere, felt too slow for his liking, and he used up much of his energy to defeat them each time, but at least balance was being restored. And the humans, who were as irritating and impulsive as ever, for a moment had remembered their King.

But so did the monster sealed in ice.

Gojira couldn't return to his slumber after he went after the parasitic Titans because Nature bugged him about it. Yes, balance was returning, but it was never to be thanks to the land-destructive incident where humans got involved. He had an unshakable feeling there was more to come, and he started to sense them coming into contact with human activity. He thought they were dead and forgotten, but humans are nosy troublemakers, and the False King rose again.

They hadn't aged a day from the looks of it, and as old as he was, he couldn't slack off on his defense or else the world was going to die thanks to the humans making a mess. Again. His years of indifference beginning to heat up with anger was what cost him the fight, although he would've won had the humans not intervened with a brand new weapon.

What was it, exactly? A bomb that sucked and dissolved oxygen in water with the power of a nuclear fission?

...Well, he had to give them props for creativity. Even gods couldn't breathe without oxygen.

While he had managed to drag himself into his den, Gojira wondered if his time had finally come. The False King had usurped and started wrecking havoc on the world, and his body was practically deprived of oxygen. Even if he could recover, there would be nothing left for him to salvage. Taking in the architecture, the reptilian Titan replayed ancient memories of a crowd waiting outside of the temple with offerings, and prayers of gratitude and guidance in a language no human alive knows how to speak. Mosura's song echoed in the room as the throng smiled and sang along. He found himself crooning to the tune as well, the King and Queen having themselves a duet that promised a lifetime of loyalty and devotion to their followers and each other.

It's funny how he never appreciated those times before now...

So real was his memory that a light touch to his snout manifested itself, and he slowly opened his eyes while his ears still echoed.

A human had made his way inside the den, a solemn, reverent look in his dark eyes. Gojira didn't know his name, didn't know of his life outside of the temple up in the surface, and yet there was a connection between the two. Some form of understanding that he swore was lost to time. And when the human spoke, it wasn't of the old tongue, but it was still universal, and it carried with it rejuvenating strength:

"Saraba, tomo yo."

*~*~*

Gojira's figure popped with aches when he stretched out from his curled state. His mouth felt dry, his stomach empty, and he wondered how long he was asleep for. A shame, too, he was just thinking back to the best part when he burned that yellow bastard to a crisp.

A couple of light jabs poked the back of his neck, and he snorted in amusement. He didn't mean to disrupt Mosura's sleep, but she had to insist on laying on top of him. Her reason for it was that it would be easier for her to get up and avoid being squished when he was not the one known for tossing and turning. Getting tangled up in his plates apparently was appealing to her.

"My King, you're awake again," she mumbled, which was very uncharacteristic of her, but she had exhausted herself laying her egg, thereby postponing their reunion. "Need something?"

He smirked to himself. "A back rub."

Another jab. "Your back popped back into place last month."

"Okay, then just the shoulders this time."

He felt her rolling over, and for a moment he thought she was going to do it. Then she drowsily leaned her head in sight before flopping back down. "Was it another nightmare, my King?"

A low rumble in his throat, Gojira just shook his head and lay back down. "I just got to thinking, is all."

"Hm?"

The faces of humans he had brief interactions with flashed through his mental eye, noticing something they had in common. They were in awe that he even so much as gave them the time of day, but they were sympathetic to his fight. Although he had of yet to see signs of gratitude with them, compared to days of old where they just were tired of looking at him, they were like younglings looking up to their guardian.

Noticing her antennae drooping in her need for sleep, Gojira mused out loud, "Humans and Titans are polar opposites, yet both have a balancing act that keeps this world from spinning out of control."

Mosura's head lightly bumped against his cheekbone. "Like how Nature intended?"

Carefully so as to not poke out an eye or knock her off, he turned to face her, making sure she noticed his gaze before saying, "Were we in the wrong to hide away when we did?"

Her wings feebly lifted like a shrug, biting back a yawn. "Maybe we were asleep a little too long. But... they needed their space—oh. A shooting star."

Gojira lifted his eyes to the night sky, scanning the twinkling pinpoints of light for the fallen star, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"Too slow," she whispered, chuckling under her breath.

Dirt blew yards away when he dropped his head back to the ground. "I still think they were in the wrong to chase us off," he muttered, although he didn't sound like he really meant it.

"And they survived just fine. Don't worry about it." She nibbled his skin in a comforting manner. "Relax, my King. You need your beauty sleep, for once."

He briefly rolled his eyes, but was more than happy to take her up on that offer.

[ladyshandioftheendless]

Shandi’s KISSteria drabbles 31!

Part 2 of the BIG FIGHT!! Enjoy!

~Shandi

The battle of KISSteria: The Necromancer has more tricks up his sleeves..

ONE SMALL LIFE Part 17

"I hear ya, kiddo. I don't like any of this either." Mick held Ayesha close and cradled her when she started to fuss. Even high up in the Tower the battle could still be heard raging on below. She saw Demon fly by the window and stretched her tiny arms out. "...ba..!" 

Mick chuckled softly at her. “Tryin to talk, huh? You’ll get there someday. Try to get some sleep, and hopefully when you wake up your parents will be here.”

Ayesha kept looking with big eyes out the window, reaching out to where she’d seen Demon. She started wriggling and whimpering. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Mick awkwardly rocked her, though it was more like bobbing her up and down. “C’mon, kiddo, just go to sleep.” Ayesha fussed, kicking her feet and whining. Then suddenly the room was awash in a purple hue as the Rock gave a pulse of light. Mick, and everyone else in the room, looked up just in time for the Rock to give a soft, crooning note. Then the light faded back to its usual glow, and the note dissipated. “Huh..” Mick looked back down at Ayesha, and was surprised to see she had fallen still, in the middle of yawning and closing her eyes. Then she settled in his arms to sleep. “Weird…” 

The Elder frowned. “Strange. I have never seen the Rock do that before.” 

“Curious indeed.” Radames observed. Watching both closely, he realized that the Rock was pulsing dimly in sync with Ayesha’s breathing. “It seems they are linked together.” 

“It is hardly surprising.” Red Lotus said as she entered the room from where she stood in the hallway. “The Rock was instrumental in ridding the poor child of the curse. Part of its energy is within her now, bonded to her. And strengthened by the essence of one of its Guardians that now resides within her. When she comes of age, perhaps she will be chosen as a Guardian herself~” Mick looked down at Ayesha sleeping peacefully with her head resting against his shoulder. “So she’s a special kid. I’m not a bit surprised~” 

“It is exactly why the Necromancer will stop at nothing to possess her..” Red Lotus said with a frown. “..and why we must stop him at all costs.” The Elder stood by the window. “I have faith in my son. He will not fail.” Mick looked up with raised eyebrows. “Hang on… Star Prince is your son???”

On the battlefield, StarChild and Black Dahlia found themselves fighting the form of the Crimson Witch; as in, the Crimson Witch was forcing them to dodge her attacks as she swooped around them and cackled loudly. 

“It’s no use,” StarChild growled. “She can hurt us, but we can’t hurt her.”

“Our best chance of defeating her, and weakening the Necromancer at the same time, is by destroying that crystal ball,” Black Dahlia summoned a shield to avoid the Witch. “I will distract her. You go after the Necromancer.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. We cannot let him win.” 

StarChild turned to the Necromancer, who was in the middle of taking out more soldiers with red lightning bolts shooting from his crystal ball. The bolts easily knocked the soldiers to the ground, and they screamed out in agony the entire way. Eyes narrowing, StarChild shot forward and tackled the Necromancer to the ground, landing a few feet away. 

“You want to fight someone?” he clenched his fists as the Necromancer picked himself up. “Fight me!” 

The Necromancer snarled at him. “I will kill you, you insolent boy!” 

His entire body glowing bright purple, StarChild shot back, “I’d like to see you try.” Then he let his Starbeams explode from his eye. 

A crimson beam shot forth from the crystal ball and collided with StarChild’s beams, knocking them both back. The Necromancer cackled. “You cannot hope to best me, boy. I can match your power with my own!!” 

“Very well..” StarChild stood up straight and cracked his knuckles. “Let’s see how well you can fight, old man.” 

“F-fight..?”

“Yes..fight. You do know how to fight, don’t you?” StarChild stepped closer, his Star Eye glowing brightly. “Or have you become so dependent on your magic that your body is frail and weak. Are you afraid to fall apart? Are you afraid to die?” He didn’t have to answer. StarChild could see the fear in his eyes. “You are finished. I will send you to join your Mistress.” 

“No...no!! I will not..allow a spoiled Royal bastard to defeat me!!” The Necromancer reached into his robes and pulled out a dagger. Strange symbols were etched into the blade. “You want a fight?! I WILL GIVE YOU ONE!!” 

With his crystal ball floating above his head, he loudly chanted a spell as he slashed his wrists. The blood that splattered onto the ground began to bubble and spread, forming grotesque shapeless creatures with black eyes. They solidified their arms to form blades. “My Blood Pawns will be happy to fight you..isn’t that right, my lovelies~?” The Pawns snarled and held up their blades, stalking forward slowly. As StarChild backed away the Necromancer let out a mocking laugh. “Not so confident now are you, Star brat?!” 

“I may not know much about blood..but I know someone who does.”  StarChild looked up toward the sky, shaking the ground with his call.

“DEMON!!”

In a burst of flames Demon appeared beside him, wings spread and eyes burning red. “What do we have here..someone who thinks he has mastered the power of blood? Well..allow me to prove him dead wrong~” 

The Blood Pawns gave unearthly screeches and flung themselves at Demon and StarChild. As they were beating them back, StarChild suddenly noticed the Necromancer’s crystal ball was still floating above his head. “DAHLIA!”

From where she was fighting the Crimson Witch’s form, Black Dahlia summoned a shield and looked over. “WHAT?”

“KEEP YOUR HEAD UP!”

Black Dahlia’s brow furrowed. “WHAT DO YOU—” her eyes glanced up and saw the crystal ball. “Oh…” 

The Crimson Witch’s form snarled at her. “My servants will get that child. And I will personally slaughter you.”

Black Dahlia simply waved her staff and chanted. “Neo-chomasachadh mo nàmhaid!” 

She slammed it on the ground, and purple lightning crackled along the ground towards the red form. The Crimson Witch gave a shriek as she was covered head to toe in buzzing lightning. 

“NOW, STARCHILD!” She turned and tossed her staff at him. StarChild caught it and leapt up into the air… and brought it down directly onto the crystal ball. 

Red cracks appeared, webbing over the crystal ball. And then a gust of wind tore through the battlefield as the crystal ball shattered. With one final screech, the red mist form of the Crimson Witch dissipated. For a moment, the four stood frozen. 

“No… NOOOO!!” the Necromancer whirled around with a murderous glare as StarChild landed on the ground. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

“I’ve destroyed your biggest weapon,” StarChild replied as Demon and Black Dahlia surrounded the Necromancer. “This is your last chance to surrender, and to have your Cult stand down. If not…” 

“Can I tear him to shreds~?” Demon asked, baring his claws and fangs at the Necromancer. 

“Whatever the Elder decides for him.” 

The Necromancer snarled. “I will never bow down to you and your godless rule. I will resurrect my Mistress, and all of you will die screaming!”

He raised his hands in the air and began to rapidly chant. He suddenly began to glow red, until in a flash of intense red light he was gone. 

StarChild uncovered his eyes. “Where did he…” Terror suddenly jolted through him. “Oh Gods… what if he’s gone for Ayesha? Or the Rock?”

Demon snarled. “If he puts even a hand on her I will incinerate him to ash.”

“We have more present problems to worry about,” Black Dahlia chimed in as she took back her staff from StarChild. As if to prove her statement a growling Blood Pawn lunged at her, and she knocked it away with her staff. “Let the High Priestess and the others handle the Necromancer. He doesn’t stand a chance against all of them at once.” 

StarChild sighed. “You’re right.” He cracked his neck and turned to the rest of the Blood Pawns, who were literally crawling over each other to get to the three of them. “Winning this battle is all that matters now.”

Without another word, he flew towards the Blood Pawns, with Demon and Black Dahlia following. And the battle raged on..

To be Continued!!

[talldarkandroguesome]

29th of Morning Star, Tirdas

Just when you think nothing more dramatic could occur, it does.

The Earl would not send me back to the city without my explaining my visit. It was hardly a surprise. I did show up with my own corpse and that of another. I explained about Amilion and the thrall and the dying, though I did not mention Tel having come back as well.

We discussed just why it might be. The Earl frightened me with talk of daedra, though he did assure me that I had not become a daedra, simply that I seemed to have some of the same properties of daedra. I thanked him for his insight. After our conversation, I believe that I need to find a daedrologist.

Tel and I argued when I returned about how best to go after Amilion. They didn’t like the idea of putting Ulyn in temporary danger in order to keep everyone else at the inn from harm. We finally agreed to have Ulyn deliver a message to the inn and wait for an answer. The letter the innkeeper was to take to Amilion said that I had been killed in a drunken argument and had a number of effects left to him if he would agree to where he would like to have them delivered.

The fetcher sent back a message saying he would not accept the items and that they should be sent with any other of my effects to my next of kin.

Well, what that did mean, was that he was still at the inn. So Tel and I dressed in disguise to head back over there. I put on a corset and wig and began to make myself up. Tel agreed they also wanted the same treatment, so we got into dresses and jewelry. I nearly painted Tel’s lips in a color with poisonous properties, before remembering to ask if they had starting taking their daily supplements. Seems they still do not, so I had to switch. I should really start preparing some for them so they don’t need to worry so much about poison.

The plan Tel forced me to agree upon was that I would go in and throw Amilion out the bloody window into the then rising sunlight. As if it is a simple task to pick up a vampire and throw them out the window. As if a vampire will just hold still and let you turn them into dust.

Needless to say, I played my part of slipping invisibly up to the door. I picked the simple lock easily and crept soundlessly into the room. Amilion was easy to find, asleep on the bed, not a care in the world, safe in his knowledge that both the person who knew his secret and the vampire hunter had been killed.

I locked the door softly behind me, not wanting to make it easy for him to escape should he manage to break away from me. I thought of how to lure him to the window. There was no way. And he was taller than me, so harder to carry without him catching on to my scheme. And opening the curtain would wake him immediately.

I decided it was best to try slitting his throat to slow him down. Then when he was distracted, I could systematically take out his arms and legs and then inflict some pain on him for all he did to so many others, myself included.

I pounced on him from above, bringing my blade down at his neck. He was disoriented, but fast, just missing my knife. I drove one, into his shoulder and he struggled below me, not quite able to shake me.  I planted a poisoned blade deep into the cartilage of his other shoulder, trying to incapacitate that side of his body.

This time he managed to roll, he tried to get us onto the floor. I pushed off him, landing back on the mattress as he looked around, unsure of his attacker. I landed on him again, trying to gouge out his eyes.

It didn’t work.

I put blades into his cheeks, but still, it did not seem to phase he. He only grew angrier. He thrashed below me. I went to try to get him in the lungs, surely that would slow him down. But he was moving so much I only managed to graze his sides. I was using all my thigh strength to stay atop him so that I could drive my weapons into him.

But he got the better of me, arms knocking mine out of the way as he grabbed my throat and pinned me to the wood floor.

I called my shades, sent them to the curtains, ripping them down. I had to weaken the bastard. I started slamming my knees up into his stomach, hoping to distract him or get him off me.

I caught him right in the center, something that should have knocked the wind out of him, but it had no effect.

The curtains came down with a snap of the wooden rod holding them and Amilion screamed, a horrible monstrous sound. He hissed and tried to pull me backwards with him, but I pulled against his thumbs and slipped free as he ran towards the closet, slamming the door shut.

I wasn’t about to risk getting pulled into a closet where he could close the door, so I pressed my hands to the door and called upon my flames. The door caught immediately and I watched as it splintered and crackled below my touch.

As soon as there was a hole in the door, an arm grabbed me by the throat and ripped me clean through the weakened door. The force of the wood boards breaking against my body stunned me. It was a second, but enough for me to feel my body pulled against Amilion and then that sharp pain of four blade like teeth puncturing my throat.

I slashed wildly at his back. If I could just severe his spine maybe I could stop him.

His hands found my wrists and threw up up against the closet wall. I could feel myself bring put to his mercy. If I did not try something soon, that would be it. I would die all over again. I could not stand the thought. Not again. I did not want that.

As a last desperate option, I drew a flame cloak around me.

Amilion recoiled, screeching, and dropped me. I backed up to the doorway of the closet. I did not want him to be able to escape, but I needed to be in the light. I sent the shades to attack him in my stead, not wanting to risk direct contact, I had a health and magicka potion tucked in my skirts, if I could just distract him enough to take it.

I cried out. one of my own daggers hit me in the thigh as I reached under my dress. I knew that between the vampire’s blood and my own poison, I did not have much more time left in this fight. I had to try and end things quickly or it would mean I may not survive.

I reached out and touched my shades, giving them both flamecloaks of their own. I needed them to take care of things. I needed them to inflict some damage. I could feel myself weakening. The strength was starting to fade from exertion. 

The shades jumped on Amilion, clinging to him to scorch his body. He swatted one away, it dissipated into the shadows, but did not manage to dislodge the other.

I was running out of time and I knew that Amilion was going to come out of the closet. He had to. Getting rid of me was his only chance of survival.

I pulled my sword from my back and told Amilion I was never going to let him kill me or anyone I cared about ever again. I saw the look of recognition finally flash across Amilion’s face. I swung with all the strength I had left in me.

Amilion’s head came off and rolled along the closet floor, his body crumbling to the ground. I scooped up his head, just in case it might try and reattach or something equally as horrible.

There was a noise outside the door. I spoke in a soft feminine voice, hoping I would not have to kill some innocent person in the hall.

I did not. It was Tel, asking what was going on.

I unlocked the door, telling them to be quiet and get inside quickly and to drag Amilion’s body into the sunlight. I wanted to make sure he could not come back to life. That he could not hurt anyone else. That he would not be able to make me doing anything else horrible to anyone.

He disintegrated into dust. And Tel came to look me over. I immediately showed him the bit and told them that they had better cure me of vamperism before the whole thing took hold.

Tel worked silently, but kept giving me a nasty, disapproving look, even as they were looking over my dagger wound. 

I told them not to give me that look. I had managed it.

Well, that set Tel and I into an argument about how it was supposed to be us “doing this together” and I was arguing that you cannot simply throw a vampire out a fetching window and expect them to simply hold still and take it.

Eventually Tel dropped it and finished healing me. I kissed their cheek and looked at Amilion’s face one last time before I let it fall away into dust. Then I carefully gathered his ashes. I am going to put him to some good in this world. I’m going to use him in my alchemy. All sorts of good uses for vampire dust.

We got rid of Amilion’s things in the woods and headed back home. I was exhausted. I slept, in bouts. I keep tossing and turning though. The memories of Tel’s face, the look on Amilion’s as he sent me to kill us both, how he smirked as I slit my own throat. I cannot help but wake to it over and over. Killing Amilion has not made these feelings fade enough.

[turnaboutwriter]

Safe Travels Preview 2/4

Hi, all! Happy Ikarishipping Day, once again! As I promised, I am posting the rest of the previews for Safe Travels, Part 1 that I shared in the Ikarishipping Discord a while back. Preview 1 is actually in the first chapter of Part 1. You also can find the other previews here. Enjoy!

Safe Travels: Part 1, In Abundant Relations 

(Dawn sees mega evolution for the first time.)

The two Pokémon clash forward, both equal in the physical power of their respective moves. Their collide causes a bright flash, and the impact is strong enough to cover the field in dust clouds. All is silent for a moment until the dust clears, and only one silhouette can be seen standing.

“Metagross!” the man with the many rings on his fingers cries out.

Hariyama still stands, though breathes heavily, as it has taken a lot of damage from the Zen Headbutt, since it is extremely weak to Psychic-type moves.

Revenge is a move Dawn learned from Conway, back in the Hearthome City Tag Battle Competition. It is a more effective and efficient version of Bide that will inflict double the damage taken by the user; so, it’s no surprise to see Metagross collapse.

The referee waves a hand at the collapsed Pokémon. “Metagross is unable to ba – Huh?”

But, unlike Dawn thought, Metagross doesn’t faint. After it twitches a few times, it steadily picks itself back up, regains composure, and turns to nod encouragingly at his trainer.

“W-What!?” The shorter boy with the board shorts is taken aback. “My Hariyama’s Revenge should have been enough to wipe out Metagross!”

The taller man grins. “You underestimate the power of my Pokémon, my friend. Now, Metagross, use Hammer arm!”

“Low Kick!”

The Metagross attacks the other Pokémon, and though it cannot doge Hariyama’s kick, it does not appear to have taken much damage. Dawn is taken aback by how the heavy Pokémon was able to avoid taking damage from an attack that specifically targeted its weight.

Before she can comment on it, Paul, standing next to her, informs her, “It’s Metagross’s hidden ability, Light Metal. It halves the Pokémon’s weight and can especially be useful when being attacked with moves such as Low Kick.” He looks on pensively.

“Wow!” She leans forward. “Who are these people anyway?”

“So strong,” Paul murmurs to himself, his eyes on the tall individual with the rings.

“Of course, they’re strong,” a redhead boy speaks up from Dawn’s left. She and Paul turn to face the stranger. “They’re Brawly and Steven Stone! Not a lot of people know this, but they’ve been best friends for a long time!” The onlooker is haughty, and appears to be taking pride in himself for knowing information about the two trainers that others may not know.

Dawn’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Who is Brawly?”

Without turning to her, Paul simply responds, “Brawly is the gym leader, but I don’t know who Steven Stone is.” His voice is breathless, as if the battle is knocking the wind out of him.

The boy’s eyes widen and his jaw drops comically. “Whaaaaaat!? Are you serious? You don’t know who the Steven Stone is?” Dawn nearly holds back a laugh at the onlooker’s behavior. His zeal slightly reminds her of Barry, and this causes a twinge in her chest – she really misses Sinnoh.

She frowns slightly. “Uh, no. I don’t know.”

“Well, he beat the Ever Grande Conference and the Elite Four, and is planning on challenging Wallace very soon!”

She gasps, recognizing the name. “Wallace!? But he’s the Champion!”

Paul’s eyes widen in astonishment, and then he gapes at the powerful trainer. He is both truly amazed and confounded by the meager-looking trainer’s strength. “He beat the Elite Four?”

“Steven Stone . . . he must be such a powerful trainer.” Dawn looks at Paul, who appears to be lost in thought. She sees that his eyes are hard with determination, and his hands, at his sides, are clenched into fists.

She’s seen that very same determination within Ash before.

“Sparkling stone, give our bond form!”

Dawn is broken out of her thoughts as her eyes catch the bright light casting from the pin that Steven grasps in his hand – she recalls it was pinned onto his suit earlier. She was so invested into her thoughts that she didn’t realize he took it off.

In response to his words, the shiny Metagross radiates an enveloping light that comes from what appears to be a stone on its right leg.

“Metagross, mega evolve!” he commands, causing the crowd to cheer and shout wildly. Dawn fights back a wince from the loud noise as she tries to decipher the meaning of his words.

Mega . . . evolve?

With widened eyes, Dawn looks around at the enthusiastic onlookers in confusion – she has never heard of such a thing. “What? Evolve?!” she exclaims to herself. “Is that even possible?” Evolve? But, how? Metagross is at its final evolution stage already. There is no way it can evolve any further than now.

Paul’s eyes widen. “Mega evolution?” he chokes out.

Dawn and Piplup watch in awe as Metagross begins to double in size, and sprout out two more arms and spikes around its torso. As the encapsulating, warm light around the now-levitating Pokémon begins to fade, she sees that his coloring has slightly changed as well, the most prominent being the ‘X’ across its face turning from yellow to blue.

“Mega evolution!?” she screeches, though it drowns in the crowd’s roars. “You’re telling me Metagross just evolved?”

Paul grits his teeth. “Arceus, how . . . how did he get a hold of that key stone? And the mega stone for Metagross?”

Dawn does not know Paul that well, but if she didn’t know any better, she would say that he looks a little overwhelmed by the battle unfolding in front of him. It’s an unfamiliar to see such an expression cross his face.

“This is really a common thing?! How come I’ve never heard of it?” she demands, releasing one arm off Piplup to put a hand on her hip.

“It’s a relatively new discovery,” he says simply, before he goes back to watching the mega evolved Metagross conquer Brawly’s Hariyama with Psychic. Whatever the case may be, Dawn decides she will grill him on it later.

“Hariyama is unable to battle,” the referee announces soon after, “Metagross is the winner! And, so, the victory goes to Steven Stone of Mossdeep City.”

Metagross is captured in a glow that casts a blue light, and quickly reverts to its original form.

Steven walks toward his Pokémon and rubs it affectionately, a Pokéball in hand. “Thank you, Metagross. Return.”

Brawly, who is on the ground with his Hariyama, also thanks it before recalling it to its Pokéball. “That was quite a splash you made there, Steven.”

Steven raises an eyebrow. “Just a splash?” he teases. “I remember you called it a high tide just not too long ago, Brawly.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Brag on, hotshot.”

Some of the crowd dissipates, while others – trainers, fan girls, and fan boys, alike – gather around the pair of friends to ask for autographs, compliment them on their battle, or to talk to Steven.

Dawn and Paul wait for these onlookers to leave before Paul, without warning, walks up to Brawly and Steve to introduce himself. Dawn immediately follows behind him, trying to keep up.

The two trainers engage in conversation, shoving each other playfully, as Dawn and Paul approach them.

Paul clears his throat as he comes forth. “Excuse me, Brawly.”

[youngster-monster]

To love is to destroy

Read on AO3

Illidan faces Maiev’s forces with Kael’thas at his side.

It changes nothing.

Well, maybe it does. It’s notably harder to vanquish the demon hunter when every hit, every spell is met by an arcane shield or Kael’thas blade; the two fight like one, always one step ahead of their enemies as they move around wings and fireballs with an ease that spokes of many battles fought side by side.

But there is only so much two fighters can do, no matter how formidable. They slip; they stumble; slowly, they are worn down by a conflict with no respite in sight. Whenever they strike a soldier down another takes their place, whereas they only have each other to rely on. This, in the end, is their undoing — not the disadvantage of their number, but their reliance on each other.

Because exhaustion makes them reckless, makes them prone to taking risks, because in their desperate efforts to save each other they show a weakness that Maiev won’t hesitate to take advantage of.

“Target Kael’thas first,” She tells the group of mages to her left, the metallic echo of her helmet hiding the faint disgust their art inspires her. “Give it everything you have — without him, Illidan will be defenseless..”

Earlier in the battle she would be wrong, but now, as her two adversaries at starting to feel the drain of such a drawn-out fight, her plan is sound. Misinformed, but only in semantics: it’s not that Illidan can’t face all of them alone, it’s that he won’t

Magic crackles at the mages fingers as they intone together a spell sure to destroy the obstacle that Kael’thas represents. His death is sure to anger the blood elves, but she doesn’t care about those things. The only thing she sees is the fulfilling of her quest: killing Illidan once and for all.

A crack in their defense, a slight opening in their battle dance— there. The mages were all trained by the battlefield as much as they were trained for it, and they see the opportunity at the same time as she does. The spell goes in a flash of light, too bright to describe in colors— she can feel its warmth on her skin even through her armor. Without, it must be scorching hot.

Kael’thas sees it too late to summon a shield, and he can only look with grim acceptance as the magical flames surge toward him. At least, he thinks, he dies fighting: there are worse ways to go. It’s not quite peace, the way he is ready to meet his fate, but it’s close enough.

Of course the spell doesn’t hit him. That would be too easy, now, wouldn’t it?

No, instead, Illidan turns his head just in time— maybe he feels the heat, the arcane energy, maybe he wonders why Kael’thas wasn’t where he expected him to be just then. Whatever the case, he sees the spell and Illidan, perhaps for the first time since he saw the rampage of the Legion and swore to take it down, doesn’t think it through. He doesn’t plan, doesn’t wonder what the consequences will be— no, he reacts on pure instincts and flings himself forward, putting himself between Kael’thas and everyone else.

The spell collides with his back in a flash of too-bright fire before Kael’thas has the time to swear.

(It’s a little known fact that Kael’thas, when stressed, swear like a sailor: it’s an habit he got from Rommath and it definitely hasn’t gotten better with his time passed amongst orcs and demon hunters.)

Great, dark wings curl around him as the flames roar around them, and all Kael’thas can feel is their faint warmth through his strange shelter and Illidan’s arms around his shoulders. Some part of him notes every detail, every wound smearing hot blood on his skin, as it does each time Illidan touches him— as if it were the last time he ever would.

This time, it might.

The last of the fire dissipates into shimmering smoke and, ever so slowly, Illidan lets his wings fall, but it’s less of a conscious thought than a slow fall forward, and Kael’thas wounds his arms around Illidan’s chest to keep him upright. Smaller as he is, it’s mostly useless: Illidan falls to his knees, and Kael’thas now bears most of his weight as he seems to lose the strenght to do so himself. His hands rests on something wet and still hot— blood, raw flesh, what might be bare bones at the tip of his fingers. This is not the kind of wound you recover from, not even for a demon hunter as formidable as Illidan Stormrage.

Illidan flinches at the touch. Kael’thas shushes him soothingly and lets what little healing magic he knows imbues his hands. It’s useless, and he’s well are of it, but Illidan nonetheless relaxes slightly in his hold.

“Why?” He asks, too low for any of the stunnen warriors to hear. “Your plans, the Legion— why me? Why now?”

Illidan looks at Kael’thas, too calm and too peaceful for someone so fierce, usually a breath away from feral. He smirks despite the fel-green blood that runs down his chin and says, not quite an answer, “Don’t worry, Kael. It’ll be alright.”

He repeats it— don’t worry, it’s alright, please, don’t cry, in a voice so low it’s a whisper, his clawed fingers trailing lightly down Kael’thas face and leaving a smudge of dark green blood there. It’s the only thing he says, as if it were Kael’thas who was in need of reassurance, until he runs out of breath to say it and his eyes dim.

Kael’thas’s hands curl where they rest on his shoulders. His fingers dig into Illidan’s skin, blood already drying under his nails. For a long moment, he doesn’t move.

By then the soldiers have had all the time in the world to wonder what happened, as well as to decide that Kael’thas would be better taken alive— something the few blood elves scattered through the band of adventurers strongly advocated for.

They expect him to come quietly. They expect him to cry. They don’t know what they expect, only that it isn’t what they get.

Kael’thas gently rests Illidan on the scorched ground before he rises. There’s blood on his face, on his tongue, dripping down his chin, green and red war paint circling his burning eyes. Felo’melorn glows golden-red in his hand.

The blood elves stop, take a step back as one; a few of them have fought at his side before, and they fear this look more than the Legion itself.

(There’s a common thing between all natural disaster — they are greater than themselves, announced by the way things bend around their coming. The sea retreats in front of a tidal wave; the wind stops before a thunderstorm. For a second, everything is still: this, more than anything, should have warned them.)

He doesn’t say a word — there is no warning, except the slight itch in his breathing, the twitch of his bloody fingers.

But suddenly flames surround them, the roar deafening, scorching heat that reduces a champion to ashes before he can take a step away from the edge of the battlefield. Hell awakes and Kael’thas stands at its heart, embers trailing in his steps, blood dripping from his fingers. It dissipates as it its the ground, hissing like water on a hot pan.

(The Sunstrider dynasty has chosen a phoenix as emblem — it is no mere coincidence. Few things burn hotter than they do, and none in quite the same destructive fashion.)

The flames cast his shadow on the smoke in wavering edges and sharp corners, a crown of molten gold upon his brow and blade sharper than the shards of his broken heart. Things like him shouldn’t grieve; they are, after all, the kind who take the world down with them, fire and ash and the acrid taste of burning flesh.

They didn’t know that but it doesn’t matter. Knowledge couldn’t have saved them; nothing will.

They killed Illidan and Kael’thas Sunstrider stands above his body, burning in the way only volcanoes burn  — smoke and ashes and fire, burning your breath out of the cage of your charred ribs.

(The battle will be carved into the minds of all those fighting here, but none will ever talk about it; if asked, they will speak of fire and screams and the visceral terror of waking horros that are better left sleeping, and they will not shiver but it will be a close thing.)

They don’t kill him, but it’s not a mercy.

The only thing keeping him upright is the instinctual knowledge that he’ll die if he falls, and it’s the only thing he can understand through the rage. If he stops, he dies, and then Illidan’s sacrifice will have been for nothing.

His robes snaps around him, blacked and torn; the air smells of copper and sulfur; when he breathes in, one of his ribs dig into his lung, and the roar of his flames cannot entirely hide the way his chest rattles like a bone chimes. He’s on his last leg and they know it, those few soldiers still alive and figthing more for their lives than the fate of their world.

Deep down, at the heart of the inferno, the only thing he remembers are a few words carried on a dying breat.

Don’t worry. It will be alright. Please don’t cry. He lost himself except for those words, and he clings to them like a lifeline.

This, in the end, is his undoing.

Maiev doesn’t quite manage to dodge his sword and the tip of the blade catch her helmet, leaving a long, bloody trail on its path. It goes flying, rolling on the crumbling floor until it hits a body and stops. Immediately, Kael’thas’s eyes are drawn to her; the source of the hatred burning like kindling in his chest.

Here, he is a beast; a wild thing, carried forward by a remembered voice and little else. Pushed beyond his limits, he knows — better than he knows his own name, now — that he won’t last much longer, and the part of him that rages and rampages throw him toward the warden like a storm of gold and fire, sword shining barely brighter than his eyes.

That’s the opening they were waiting for. Maiev dodges; she’s faster, less tired — although not by much — and he crashes in the empty space she left. The remaining soldiers jump on him, ready a the killing blow that they hold off for one inexplicable, breathless second.

Kael’thas looks oddly small, bloodied and ragged, panting on the ground with his fingers curled like claws in a puddle of Maiev’s blood. He turns toward them, teeth barred like he’s still bigger than himself, but his arms aren’t strong enough to bear his weight anymore and he falls to the ground, too weak to do much more than growl.

Maiev wants to kill him on the spot; stab him in the heart and be done with the whole thing once and for all. She should; no one would blame her for it. But blood elves are loyal to the death, even to those who would harm them; they drag their surviving companions to their feet, bloodied and beaten, and then Kael’thas as well. He doesn’t fight them. The fight has gone out of his eyes, nothing remaining of his previous rage but smoke and slow-burning flames scattered on the dark stone. He blinks slowly, face expressionless, and only moves to keep Illidan’s body in his sight — but even then, his movements are weak, and he simply goes limp in their hold when they drag him away from it.

Many died on that day. Whether Kael’thas is one of them is anyone’s guess.

--

Some would have him hanged. Some want the Alliance to judge him, or the people of Silvermoon — no one wants to be responsible for his acts or those of his master, but all want the right to put him on trial for whichever crimes they accuse him of.

The Kirin Tor want to judge him as one of their; Maiev doesn’t trust them to punish him as she see fit; the Silvermoon triumvirate fears either one would give their prince the death penalty, despite the fact that the Sunstrider are supposed to live and die for and by their people and no one else.

They reach a compromise, eventually. Kael’thas is sent under Silvermoon, deep under their streets, and locked in a cell designed by the Kirin Tor — there is so much magic in his chains alone it burns his skin. Two of Maiev’s wardens guard the doors; their sight is the only thing that can drag a reaction out of their prisoner, although it is only the faint sharpening of his gaze as he follows their movements until they disappear from view.

Apart from that, nothing. He isn’t peaceful as much as he’s devoid of anything beyond sheer apathy, as if he was only alive in body and not in mind.

He sits crosslegged in the middle of  the circular stone chamber that is his cell, his shackled hands resting between his legs, his dim eyes lost in the distance. There is nothing dignified or noble about the way he acts, no trace of his royalty. His shoulders are low, his head bent, his once-bright golden hair fall over his face. He barely eats or sleeps: like this, he is more alike to a ghost than a prisoner and, were he in any other state, he would be horrified by himself.

It’s as if Illidan’s death had broken something in him. Rommath brings him books and scrolls, anything that could interest him, bring back some kind of light to his features, but they pile up next to the doors, collecting dust. When he and Lor’themar manage to coax words out of him, Kael’thas sounds hollow and tired, and his answers are few and far in-between.

Sylvanas comes to visit, sometimes, mostly to rant about how pathetic he looks and how awful everything is. She appears more irate each time, perhaps annoyed at his lack of reaction. He barely looks at her when she comes, uncaring of the familiar disdain and annoyance in her eyes, and never replies to her biting comments like he used to.

“Don’t you have better things to do than mope?” She aks, the fourth of fifth time, curling her lips in distaste.

He shrugs. It’s more than she usually gets, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy her.

He thinks she enjoys his silence, a bit, if only because it gives her a reason to rant at lenght about how little she likes the idea of making peace with the Alliance.

“The Alliance has taken everything from me,” He explains to Lor’themar when the regent asks him about the ceasefire, in this odd way of his, slow and devoid of feelings, although he does make a small pause before saying everything, as if he wants to put emphasis on the word but doesn’t find the will in himself to do so. “Yet I cannot find it in myself to hate them for it.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but Lor’themar hears it as: do what you must. So he shakes Varian’s hand, and doesn’t ask Malfurion why he isn’t the one grieving for his fallen brother.

--

And then, one day, Lor’themar says ‘enough’. He has watched his friend fade away for years now. No more.

To hell with the wardens, the mages, the factions, whoever thought this was a kinder fate than death. He opens the door and says, “Come with me.”

Kael’thas doesn’t argue. He hasn’t uttered a word in weeks; his grief has only worsened with time, the loss still a raw wound after a decade in the dark. All he does is hold up his hands, for Lor’themar to free or take to help him stand. He does both.

They make their way through the twisting corridors of the castle in silence and Lor’themar doesn’t stop once to reconsider his plan. He marches forward, nods to Rommath, and drags Kael’thas through the portal the achmage summoned without thinking, because this— this spectre, this empty shell of a man — isn’t the prince he has served for so long, isn’t the friend he has fought with.

There is no fire to fear there, nothing of the threat Maiev painted him at. All he is is nothing but a whispered voice in a dark cell that says, I miss him, and hollow eyes that can’t even cry anymore.

So he has no qualms manhandling Kael’thas through a rather rough teleportation that takes them Light-knows-where. The destination doesn’t matter all that much and, for all he knows, it might as well be Stormwind or Argus, for the difference it makes.

(Either way, inhabitants want Kael’thas’s head on a plate; just not enough to cut it themselves.)

Maybe it’s the familiar magic running over his skin that wakes him enough to look around, or maybe it’s some distant knowledge, some primal instinct that tells him to look up. Kael’thas, whatever his reason may be, lets his head tilts sideways, enough that the strands of hair that usually shadow his face fall out of his eyes.

Green meets green as, not too far away that he should have been able to feel him were he in any other state, Illidan meets his gaze.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Then the silence snaps like a rubber band stretched thin, and both surge forward without a glance at those assemble around them.

They meet somewhere halfway, Illidan’s arms curling around Kael’thas too-thin frame as he lets himself falls forward and into the hold. Kael’thas lets his shackled hands fall between them and rests his forehead in the crook between Illidan’s neck and shoulder, feeling like he’s been holding his breath for a decade and, finally, has breatherdout.

“It’s okay,” Illidan whispers next to his hear, grinning almost despite himself. “I’m back.”

“I’ve missed you,” Kael’thas replies, and his smile echoes Illidan’s own.

Embers swirl around their feet as, deep in his chest, fire burns once again.

[isedonsdndgame]

Game Night 2019-08-17

The party moves on to explore upper western side of temple after their short rest. Moving cautiously down the hallway, first door on their left appeared to be a potion storage room, but the contents of all the vials are no longer viable, missing, or evaporated. Ignys gives a thorough check around the room and locates a hidden door that opens to a stairwell and another door that seems to line up with the next door in the hallway.They open the door to a 20' by 10' room with nothing inside, some of the party step in to investigate but are immediately hit with a wall of flame the engulfs the room, burning them before they step out. Not descending the stairs for the time being, they move to the next room down the hallway, Ignys picking up some transmutative magic from the room.  The party cautiously enters and find a replica of the castle Driscoll saw in his vision, the castle Ravenloft. Ignys moves to investigate the magical aura he is sensing and is directed to an old wooden chest. Its rusty hinges complain loudly as it opens, revealing an empty chest. The aura seems to be coming from below a false bottom, easily removed when aware of it, and Ignys finds a magnificent red leather bound tome embossed with the visage of bearded sage. Moving down to the next room at the end of the hall, Ignys senses the auras of illusion, necromancy, and a bit of transmutation from beyond the door. Preparing from some trick, they open the door to the sights and smells of a grand banquet in a well lit room, necromantic energies come from the walls and the transmutation coming from a single wine ewer on the table. Ignys conjures a spectral hand to try to lift the ewer and as it rises off the table, twelve specters appear and converge around the hand, following its movements until Ignys has it placed back on the table. When the Ewer is replaced, the specters all dissipate once more. Passing through this room undisturbed for now, Ignys and Iskafar step through doors on the east of the room and onto a damaged section of balcony. Unfortunately, the balcony is unable to support the weight of both of them together and begins to crumble. Ignys quickly jumps back through the door but Iskafar tumbles down 30 feet to the floor below, catching himself with a hastily cast levitation spell. Ignys is able to clear the gap with a misty step and appears in the door across the way. Iskafar in the mean time uses his levitate to ferry the rest of the party safely down from one door and up to the other. Vilnius remains behind so as not to touch anyone with his contagion and indicates he will wait back where the party took a short rest earlier. In the newly opened room, Ignys sees a statue on the western side and feels an enchantment try to take hold of his mind. He struggles for a moment but is able to shake off whatever effect it was. Noticing several skeletons around the statue, he fires several fire bolts into it, weakening the stonework, and then shatters it with the force of a magic missile, stone shards from the statue scattering everywhere. With the statue destroyed, the enchantment fades and Ignys declares it safe for the rest of the party to enter the room. Noticing the symmetry of the temple, the party decide to look for another secret door in this room in the space matching the other side of the temple. Iltharian is able to easily pick out the door and how to open it. Stepping inside 10' by 10' square room, he sees another door on the other side of the room, and a chest on the ceiling 20' up with something written on it. Driscoll, understanding the language, sees something written in Celestial. Fearing a trap, he has everyone clear the room and has Iskafar levitate him closer to read it clearly. The words on the chest read "Greed has no place in the heart of the scholar, for the truest treasure is knowledge." Fighting against their curiosity, they decide the chest should probably not be opened and float back down. Ignys joins Iltharian to open the next door and view a lit chamber with fine furnishings, decorations, art, and books. In the middle of all of that, they see a skeletal figure dressed in a fine robe with burning red points of light in its eye sockets. It floats towards and asks "Do you know me? Do you know who I am?" Holding off on hostilities to evaluate the situation, they talk with the lich that does not know its name. It warns them against doing anything with the amber pillars in the rooms as they contain imprisoned powerful and evil entities, and also offers the party in their quest for knowledge. The lich also explains that he once knew Strahd 400 years ago, before he was corrupted by the entity known as Vampyr that was contained in this temple and released it. He explains how he was an noble, ambitious man doing the best he could to better his realm at the time, but unfortunately fell to Vampyrs influence, murdered his brother Sergei out of jealousy over Tatyana, then was slain himself and arose a Vampire, and ceased his visits to the amber temple. The lich then repeats the warning previously given and appears to forget recent events, and the more conversation proceeds, the more obvious this trait becomes. After the warning, Ignys shares that he has been seemingly communicating with one of the entities, its presence has been guiding and pulling him to a place beneath where they stand. The lich eyes Ignys warily and advises that he break any connection to the entity as soon as he can, and should he attempt to free it, he would become the target of the liches wrath. Ignys sits down and turns his mind towards the burning sigils in his head. The entity, having traced Ignys lines of thought begins the conversation: 

"One cannot deny that fire is the purest element. The fire that burns within us all can roar brightly, if you only fuel it." Release us champion, that we may bring justice/purification/flame to this land with the purifying flame. Scour the tyrants/oppressors/villains from this place beginning with Strahd. From the ashes, a new and just kingdom will arise/flourish/unfold. Fear not your bloodlines doom/destruction/fate, our mastery of the flame is total/supreme/inviolate. Together we will incinerate any who oppose our ideals, the flame/heat/star will reign. We are Xelthanon/Burning Judges/Trifold Star, release us from our unjust/wrongful/insulting prison, and burn brightly as our true champion.

Ignys, incensed at the entities use of his families creed to try and coerce his allegiance, redoubles his intended communication and firmly rejects the presence of the entity and any powers it might bestow. The entity replies with nothing more than "So be it." It tears itself from Ignys mind, wounding him as its fiery tendrils extricate themselves from his thoughts, his magic, and his identity, leaving him exhausted and collapsed on the floor, his spells depleted. As the warmth the entity brought leaves him, his previously flushed skin becomes pale and cold, and the pressing chill of the mountains bites into him.

Iskafar helps Ignys up and they ask if there is any place to recuperate. The lich indicates there is and then shows them to the the library beyond a pair of doors off of his room. Entering the library, the party lay eyes upon 6 massive bookshelves that seem to travel upwards beyond sight in mists far above. Floating lights move around the room and there are enchanted ladders that respond to commands to carry anyone searching for books around the room. As Iskafar gets Ignys settled to rest, Driscoll, remember Vilnius  asks the lich if they have any remedies for disease, to which the lich replies that he does not believe so but he could examine the individual. They describe where Vilnius is and the lich floats off. Realizing it might not be best for Vilnius to be alone and a lich appears with them all of a sudden, Driscoll takes off running, trailed by Iltharian and Iskafar walking behind at a more sedate pace. Watching the lich float easily past the fallen balcony, Driscoll lowers himself to the floor below and dashes across the large entry chamber to the stairs in an attempt to meet up with it. Halfway across the chamber however, Iskafar and Iltharian watch as a bolt of crackling blue electricity shoots out of the statue on the north of the chamber and strikes Driscoll to the ground, unmoving and smoking from the blast. Iskafar jumps down and quickly runs to Driscoll, uncorking a healing potion and pouring it down his throat. Driscoll stands up and continues running partway up the stairs to the south, Iskafar following close behind. The two of them are struck from behind by another bolt of lightning coming from the statue, Driscoll falling once more. Iskafar picks up Driscoll and teleports to the safe room that they rested in before, then is able to stabilize his condition, leaving him breathing shallowly, his clothes still stinking of electricity. He looks up to see the lich confronting Vilnius, accusing him of trying to release one of the sealed powers below. Iskafar sensing that Vilnius is trying to quickly think up another lie makes an intimidating show of power that compels him to cower and truthfully reveal that he was only going to release the dark power because he was promised his disease would be cured, and that he deserves to be cured because he spread the plague he carries to so many villages and killed so many in Fekres name. The lich pulls the amulet off from around Vilnius neck, examines it, and then crushes it to powder in one hand, declaring it to be a key to unlock and shatter one of the amber pillars. They both then banish Vilnius from the temple, to return on pain of death. Vilnius hastily retreats to the howling winds outside and Iskafar watches as he disappears from view down the mountainside. The party then returns to the library via the path they originally took to get there, the lich casting a spell to carry them back across the gap. Iskafar lays Driscolls unconscious form down comfortably and they settle in for a long rest. They sleep soundly in the still cold air of the library without incident, Ignys feeling a little better in the morning, but not fully recovered, and Driscoll making a full recovery from his injuries. After resting they, decide to examine some of the books, Ignys and Driscoll looking for topics relating to the curse that plagues Ignys family lines, Iltharian looking for some information on repeating lines of reincarnation and memories, and Iskafar looking over the histories of the Amber temple and anything regarding the creation and alterations of ancient elven Mythals, thinking to repair or enhance the forgotten temple they discovered before entering Barovia. After several hours of research, they decide to look at the area beneath the library and find a few amber pillars, one if which is shattered, likely belonging to Vampyr that was freed by Strahd so long ago. They also see a three foot crack in one of the walls to the south. Sticking his snout in to see better, Iskafar looks into a chamber filled with vast wealth, six piles of coins and statues and carvings and old chests, all watched over by another amber golem. Driscoll comes down to see what all the quiet is about, not having heard anything from Iltharian and Iskafar, who has been ogling all the treasure. After seeing the bounty in the room beyond the cleft in the wall, Driscoll decides that asking the lich if there is anything it would take offence at if they removed the treasure for themselves. The lich advises that it does not want for anything and the treasure in the vault is from the mages who maintained the temple long ago.

Taking that as tacit permission to begin looting, they first eliminate the golem easily as it is far too large to fit through the crack and they have enough ability to attacking it to bring it down before it can widen the crack large enough to pass through. With the golem removed, they begin to comb through the piles of treasure and recovery nothing magical, but several thousands of coins are recovered, as are valuable jewelry, art, and even some gems and preserved incenses that would work Driscolls spells.

Game ends as the party loads the bag of holding with anything valuable that fits inside.